Entry # A13

The Brookhaven Exchange

By

James Hatch

Gilded letters above manicured flowerbeds belie the purpose of the “Brookhaven Facility.” No place on Earth could be more peaceful on the outside, yet chaos-filled within.

Evaluating the criminally insane isn’t my forté, but I have the least seniority of any Social Services psychologist on staff. Therefore, I am the one staring into the security camera at the facility’s ominous wrought iron gate as a static-laden New York accent intones over the loudspeaker, “Name and purpose of visit?”

I place my department badge on the reader and smile politely. “Jeremy Walker – Vic Demint interview.”

A short delay precedes the whir of motors and screeching hinges as the gate opens, and the crackling voice adds, “See the Building Six guard.” Odd – Vic is normally in Building One.

The Building Six guard checks the roster of expected visitors, requests additional picture identification, records my arrival time, and briefs me on security procedures – Vic is now in isolation, separated from all others by a Plexiglas wall. “What’d he do this time?”

The guard shrugs and leads me to a cell in the basement – if he knows, he isn’t saying. The hardback visitors chair screeches across the raw concrete floor, as I drag it near the plastic wall. Vic is strapped to steel chair on the other side but ignores me completely. It’s part of our monthly ritual – he pretends to be in his own little world, and I pretend to give a shit. I casually pull out my pad and pen before beginning. “Hello, Vic. How’d you score a private room?”

His eyes dart nervously around his cell, as if expecting something terrifying to leap from the padded wall or slip into his body through his electronic monitor, but they eventually target me, waiting patiently for a reply. “If I’d known the horror here, I wouldn’t have let my fucking lawyer plead me insane!”

I can’t imagine why the bastard puts on this show. He requested his death sentence be carried out, but the court considered him too unstable to make the decision for himself. That’s why I’m here, but it’s all smoking mirrors – they never kill anyone. In time they’ll forget about him and he’ll die of old age here, or they’ll set him free.

I shudder at the thought, but all I can do is file monthly reports. I know him better than he knows himself – there’ll be no recommendation of leniency from me. “What’s the matter, Vic, no flat screen? No filets? No virgins to ravage?”

A bead of drool slips from the edge of his contorted mouth and oozes down his chin. He doesn’t like me any more than I like him and he strains against his restraints to get at me. Blood vessels swell across his forehead, until he finally shouts through saliva froth gathering on his lips. “Fuck you asshole! You think you know everything but don’t know shit. They told me what to do but won’t leave me alone!”

Despite the Plexiglas, I instinctively wince back from his spittle spray, and then jot “volatile and animated” in my log before looking up with indifference. “The apparitions?”

Tears momentarily well in his eyes, but his manipulative antics don’t fool me. “I can’t talk about them – they’ll tear my throat out!”

“Like they did to Charlie Watson, your high school chum?” I let the word “chum” linger, fishing for a reaction. When the police finally responded to the screams, they found Vic chewing on Charlie’s larynx.

“He knew them! I saw fear in his eyes, smelled its rancid odor in his sweat.”

Being near this creep would make me sweat fear, too. He’s a damn convincing actor, but I don’t believe he’s crazy – just mean as hell. Too bad the judge bought into his load of crap, or he’d be long dead and I wouldn’t be making these stupid reports.

Vic’s eyes resume darting about the room like those of a trapped animal; his demons must be appearing, or so he’d have me believe. I sigh loudly to mock his performance, and add, “Are they visiting now?”

Even in the basement’s deathly quiet, I can barely hear his reply. “They’re whispering messages of the damned – they want you to hear.”

He’s so goddamned convincing I strain against the silence, finally shrugging and apathetically shaking my head, but Vic becomes even more agitated. “Listen, fool! Listen!”

He glares menacingly, and I scowl back, annoyed that I’ve been suckered and prepared for a barrage of expletives. Instead, his eyes roll slowly upward until two white orbs stare at me, and a chorus of voices drift from his throat. “Beautiful women will serve you. Fulfill your desires! Find strength in their suffering!”

The message makes me nauseous. Vic’s prey were forced to serve him painfully before he violently slaughtered them, and that fleeting thought slithers down my spine, causing goose bumps to ripple across my skin. Revisiting mental imagery of his sacrifices, I suppress the urge to gag, but my breath is ripped from my lungs before I can erase them from my mind, as if a powerful vacuum covers my mouth.

I struggle to breathe, fighting impending unconsciousness, when, in my enveloping darkness, I notice several apparitions circling Vic. The moment I spot them they stop dead in their tracks, turn in unison, and rush at me with blazing speed.

A spot of urine seeps through my jeans, but a distant shriek terminates my paralysis before I totally wet myself. I lurch hard against the back of the chair, gasping for breath. Did I see dark blotches during an anxiety attack … or apparitions? Was there a scream … or just Vic’s monitor, now droning a steady tone of death?

My eyes rivet on Vic – he’s no longer fighting his restraints. His head has fallen to one side and his bluish lips are distorted into an evil oval. My chair slams to the floor as I leap for the emergency call button, but a chorus of raspy voices stop me cold, “Now, Jeremy, you are ours!”

Entry # A12

50 Shades from the Grave – Zombie Love

By

Kelsey Rae Keating

Everyone always joked about the Zombie Apocalypse. I even said a few things about making sure I had my dad's axe on hand. I didn't ever actually think it would happen. It's like mortality - everyone knows death exists, but no one thinks it'll happen to them. This is the same, only with...well...the undead.

I'd never thought about how the sickness would change my life. One day I dragged my younger sister Debi out the door as what used to be our mother tried to feast upon our brains.

Debi was so young, so impressionable - I knew I had to get us somewhere safe.  Together with my friends Candy and Honey, we set out for a new life in a strange world.  We thought we would be fine from the zombpocalypse on the reservation.

I’d heard about the reservation being a safe haven for all souls, but I was still surprised when they allowed us in.

I’ll be honest; if you’d told me my life was about to change – that I was about to meet my love everlasting and learn the meaning of the word ecstasy…well, I doubt I would have believed you.   I was just twenty-four year old Ambrosia Sweedy, a total nobody who worked as a cashier at one of the local paint stores.

I could taste the desert dust as I hopped out of the driver’s seat, my father’s axe in my hand for protection.  A crowd of people approached our vehicle, and the men carried shotguns.  All but one.

He walked with a stilted gait as the sun shone behind him, blurring his obviously Greek god features.  His dark skin seemed lighter than some of his fellows, but his strong jaw and low slung lip called out to me from afar.  I heard myself gasp as he drew closer and I saw how masculine and tall he was, with his long – if thin – dark hair blowing in the wind.  I wanted to throw aside my axe, leap into his arms, and have him carry me away to do whatever he wanted.  My cheeks immediately flushed red, embarrassed by the very idea.

Perhaps now you’re thinking I was right – I was right to believe we’d be free from zombies on the reservation.  Well, let me tell you…I couldn’t have been more wrong.

And wrong had never felt so right.

The group of men stopped ten feet from us, their guns still pointed.  The dashing stranger limped a step further before being pulled back by a rugged man who gripped his chain.  The men questioned us, and Honey spoke on our behalf, but I heard none of the conversation.  I was too busy staring into the eyes of my soul mate.  He must have known, because he stared right back.

Once we were settled among the tribe, I set off at once to find the man who made my heart patter.  I found him in the community center chained to a pool table and grunting to a living man.  The live one introduced himself as Buck and told me the name of my heart’s captor was Sequoia Wood. 

Up close he was even more beautiful.  Sequoia groaned a greeting and shuffled towards me, leaning down in an attempt to bite my neck.

Buck stopped him, snapping his leash and apologizing for Sequoia trying to make me dinner.

But I knew by the look in Sequoia’s eyes – it wasn’t food he was after.  It was passion.

I learned of the dead from Buck, who told me the zombie’s petrified bodies kept them from falling apart, and families kept the zombies out of respect.  The love for those gone never fades.

That night after all had gone to sleep I could no longer wait.  The desire within me sent me out through my window and broke into the home I had seen Sequoia enter earlier.  Zombies don’t sleep, but to keep others safe, they were chained to their beds at night to keep from roaming.  I crept into his room and found him sitting on his bed; the look and low moan let me know he’d expected me.  Without much care to the danger – or maybe because of it – I went to him.

Butterflies swirled around in my stomach and I thought I might faint before I even reached him.  Luckily, he reached out a hand, the muscle creeping out through the severed skin, and I gratefully took it.

At first, I kept my distance.  I wasn’t exactly sure if I could trust myself – let alone him- without supervision.  I could see that part of him wanted to kill me, to devour me whole, but in his eyes I also saw something I’m sure others didn’t – the ability to care for another.  I bit my lip and sat hesitantly beside him.  He kept my hand and brought it up to his mouth so he could lick it.  The salt from my sweat must have made me a sweet treat, because he made a sound of delight.  Oh, how I wished he could speak to me – to tell me what he was feeling.

Sequoia released my hand and bent double at the waist.  I heard a snap and thought he might’ve broken a vertebrae, several of which poked out, the white bone showing, but instead he pulled upright again and I tumbled sideways.  He had my foot in his hand, my leg outstretched before him.  He stoked my calf and leaned down towards my heel.  I felt a tickling sensation and started to giggle, but he made a shushing sound so I covered my mouth.  Twisting to get a better view of what he was doing, I watched him nibble at the dead skin on my heel.  My heart soared – a pedicure! How many men would give a woman a pedicure?  I used to love them before the zombpocalypse.  I didn’t know how, but somehow Sequoia knew.

When he’d finished ridding my heels of dead skin they felt silky smooth.  I wanted to give him something in return, though I knew he did benefit from munching on my foot skin.

Straddling across his lap, I kissed his rotting lips like I’d never kissed any living man, and I felt his jaw unhinge as he slipped his tongue into my mouth.  I gave him a helpful hand to re-hinge it without stopping.  He moaned, and at first I didn’t know if it was pleasure or conversation, but I figured I could count it as either and be in the clear.  What did it matter? I was in love.  I spent the rest of the night with him, sneaking out first thing in the morning so as not to be caught.

After the first night, I returned as soon as darkness fell each evening.  Every night was as delicious as the first, and I even planned ahead by bringing my toenail clippings to feed to Sequoia like I read about Romans doing with grapes.  He gave me regular pedicures, manicures, and even licked the oils off my hair when I hadn’t showered.   I couldn’t remember being so happy – not even when all my friends and family were still alive and un-zombified.

I thought we were safe and secret.  I knew no one would understand what we had together. When I discovered I was pregnant, I finally decided it was time to tell everyone about our love.

Life wasn’t easy for us, as some viewed our love as an abomination.  We fought like any couple would. We argued, like when he ate Candy’s brains and she didn’t survive or when his bite turned Debi.  But our love was stronger than our troubles.

I have every happiness and no regrets.  I named our child Runs-from-death, and he grows stronger every day.  I know our love is a testament to the new world.  When Runs-from-death is old enough, Sequoia will bite me. We will live (forever) happily, ever after.

Entry #A11

The Fog Cemetery

By

Matthew C. Nelson

The fire was the first thing built when the Tallow's finished setting up camp. Having heard about the campfires that got out of hand several years back encouraged them to even take a class the week prior instructed by one of the rangers. Before the class ended, Mr. and Mrs. Herb and Willow Tallow, along with their daughter, Jasmin, all knew the proper ways of fire construction, as well as the proper way to put it out.

The Tallow's had been looking forward to this weekend camping outing for about three months. The plan had been originally to go during the summer, but rethought that after they factored in mosquitoes and erratic weather fronts. After one night's discussion around dinner, they all agreed to go the first weekend in Autumn. They had originally planned on camping down by the river, but were told about a campsite through a friend of theirs. The campsite, called Fort of the Forest, lay about a day's journey up the side of Blackburn Mountain, one of the smaller peaks found within the Rockies.

With the fire made, the tents were set, and dinner eaten, they all decided to go on a small nature hike around the area, to familiarize themselves with the terrain. They'd heard that in the late 1800's, the area had been frequented by man a person hoping to strike it rich on gold. In fact, the ranger told them that quite a few gold mining shacks dotted the park, all of which, sadly enough, were off limits mainly due to the fact that they were probably no longer structurally sound.

As they made their way though the wooded path, they came across a small brook that grew deeper as they followed the trail. By the time they'd come across one of the gold-mining shacks, the river was about waist deep. They were a bit startled when they came up to a burly-looking man crouching over the ground with his back to new-comers. "I can hear you behind me. If you knew what's best for you, you will leave this mountain," the old man hoarsely called over his shoulder. "We appreciate the warning", Herb offered up hesitantly, "but my family and I are camping up here. We don't mean any harm." "You may not 'mean any harm', I don't care...leave now or suffer the consequences!" the man snapped. Quickly gathering his family together, they pushed onward down the trail. At the slightest word from either his wife or daughter, he hushed them.

About an hour later, the incident had been forgotten as the family began to see more and more signs of animal life. It was especially beautiful, definitely the kind of place they were looking to find. Time passed quickly by and daylight began to slowly descend over the trees, with the setting sun steeping the land in a golden glow. As they began to make their way back to their camp, a thick fog had rolled in from out of nowhere. As the fog thickened, everything became covered in dew. As it grew darker, it got increasingly cold, so cold they could begin to make out the outlines of their breath. Realizing that up ahead is where they'd ran into that rude man, they all stuck together.

Coming into the clearing, the man wasn't there. "So much the better" was the general consensus by the family as they pressed on. All of a sudden, some of the fog revealed grave stones all around them. There must have been well-over fifty of them. "Daddy", Jasmin whimpered, "I'm scared. I want to go back to camp...now." "We are honey. Daddy won't let anything happen to you. We're not that far. One we get there, we'll make some popcorn and play some games. Isn't that right?" She turned to look at her husband, but he had vanished.

Welling up with a tightness in her chest, Willow cried out,"Herb? Where are you?" She and Jasmin screamed this as they scanned the area. Stepping out of a tree, one hand behind his back and displaying an odd smile, Herb spoke," Dear....you really should have listened to the man." He pulled a hand axe from behind his back.

"Now relax, this will be painless. The both of you should be feeling quite sleepy right...about...."

Mother and daughter dropped to the forest floor.

"...now."

Entry #A10

The Voice Beckons

by

Erik Gustafson

Stacie had lived with voices inside her head for her whole life and it was exhausting.  A shrill, echoing voice that didn’t command her to hurt herself, or even to kill her friends as one might assume is the nature of auditory hallucinations. This eerie murmur deep inside her core beckoned to be found, begging Stacie to rescue her, to save her.

When she was a child and quite a literal person still, she searched for this imaginary person high and low.  Instead of being afraid of closets and dark spaces like under her bed, she always checked for the mystery person calling out to her. She peered down into storm drains—whenever she could get close enough to one without her mom flipping out, that is. The darkness seeped out from the opening, but there was, of course, never anyone down there.  Once she about had a heart attack when a family of raccoons—a mother and three tiny babies—came scurrying out and hurried across the street. She stopped checking gutters after that.

An overweight, bald therapist had once tried to help.  Even gave her pills. Not a bit of relief.

As a teenager, she was embarrassed by the voice and did her best to pretend she didn’t hear the woman. She was sure it was a female voice but regardless of who it was, her little follower had no business in her active social life. There was no way she was going to let on to her real friends that she had an imaginary friend. She would be mortified and everyone would surely avoid her just as sure as they avoided the girl who picks her nose and eats the gooey snacks that she pulls out. So Stacie became fairly adept at snubbing the inner turmoil.

Ignoring the voice did nothing to ease her burden. In fact, it probably made life more stressful. Made her feel crazier than she probably already was.

She went off to college, not with a career goal in mind or to pursue higher learning but with the hopes that moving far away might quell the demon screaming to be saved. It didn’t, but she made friends and managed to cope. Managed to pass her classes and squeak by. The availability of alcohol in the dormitory helped a great deal, much more so than the anti-psychotic medication she used to take.

Stacie was pretty loaded on energy drinks and vodka, in fact, on the night she went with her new friends to a haunted house located clear on the other side of the city, on the outskirts of town. An abandoned farmhouse.

The haunted house started at the side of the house, descending concrete steps into a pitch black cellar that looked like a angry mouth. There were plenty of twists, turns, and other frights. Stacie heart was racing from the spirits jumping out at her and her head was spinning from the spirits she had drunk earlier. Happily, the voice was silent.

Until the end.

Somehow, the journey had led them into a large barn. The expansive structure reeked of old hay.  At the final turn, they had to run through chickens were hanging from the ceiling. The chickens were wet and somehow kept warm, which grossed out the girls as they pushed the dangling birds out of their way to get to the exit.  As she pushed away the final rows of chickens, she was confronted with a large mirror that someone had written in red lipstick-looking paint: “What does fear look like?”

People were staring at themselves and making faces and giggling, then exiting.

When it was Stacie’s turn, however, she stopped cold and her chest felt like her heart stopped. There in the reflection, stood an emaciated figure in tattered clothes that hung off bony limbs, pressed up to Stacie’s  side, stroking her hair, as if she were a lover. The figure had thin messy hair and wide yellow eyes.

“Why won’t you help me?” The haggard form in the mirror shrieked out. Stacie felt spittle on her cheeks from the creature’s coarse words, as if it came through the mirror. Its eyes were not glaring out at her; they were burrowing into the eyes of Stacie’s mirror image.

Her skin went cold and drained of color.

Stacie bolted from the barn, past her chuckling friends.

“Did you guys see that?” She asked when they finally caught up to her.

“See what? You running in a panic?” One girl said and they all roared in laughter.

Stacie tried to ignore them, but her face burned with shame. She would never be free of the voice, free to be herself and enjoy life.  It just wasn’t meant to be. Her shoulders drooped like dead flowers and she turned toward the car. Her stomach lurched and she vomited on the gravel.

She wiped the hot liquid off her chin and stood. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the years of only hearing the voice and never actually seeing the speaker that drover her, but Stacie took a deep breath, pulled her hair back, and marched past her friends into the barn.

Someone in dark overalls tried to tell her that this was the exit, that she had to go around, but Stacie ignored him and pushed through the door into the gloom.

Eyes tightly closed, she faced the mirror. Deep down, she knew it had been her imagination and when she opened her eyes she would only be staring at a pathetic loser.

But she wrong.

The poltergeist waited in the reflection, grinning. What teeth weren’t missing were brown and cracked. “Save me, Stacie!” Its words drifted from the mirror like an icy breeze.

“What do you want from me?” Stacie shouted. People around her were keeping their distance, avoiding her by walking in a huge arc. Stacie figured they probably thought she was part of the haunted house.

The woman’s arms reached out for her.

Stacie found herself reaching back, but her efforts were blocked by the surface of the mirror. She half expected her hands to pass through.

“Save me!”

“Shut up!” She screamed, making fists.

She pounded the mirror and the entire wall wavered briefly and then everything shattered. Silver shards of mirror exploded, showering her feet.  She was crying, staring at a brown plywood wall. She looked at her hands, blood coated them. She could feel the stings of glass embedded in her face and legs; could feel the soft tickle of blood.

People around her were gasping and fleeing for the exit.

She continued staring at her hands as fingers became blurry. She saw two sets of hands, oscillating from her wrists.  She felt sick and knew she was about to vomit again.

The double image of her hands solidified and an extra set of arms extended down from the extra hands. She fell to her knees, barely aware of the glass tearing into her.

A ghostly image was yanking its way out of her.

The hands clasped around Stacie’s wrists and pulled.  She sat helpless on the broken glass, feeling the stretching and struggling of this thing jerking its way out of her body. When it was completely out of Stacie, it continued to clench her wrists.

It was the woman from the mirror.

“Hey, sis,” she chortled. It was the voice from her head coming from person standing before her.

The woman stank of putrid flesh. Her eyes widened and her shoulders rose as she pulled on Stacie’s wrists. Hard. Stacie spilled forward, tumbling inside the woman.

Stacie vanished.

People rushed past the old lady in the torn garments as she shuffled out of the haunted house, smiling. She heard a few of them calling for Stacie and chuckled at the irony. She savored the crisp night air and headed for the fields.

*

I wrote this down for all those who continue to search for Stacie. She is safely tucked away deep inside me. I hear her screaming sometimes, begging me to let her out.  I love the sound of her voice.

Entry # A9

Linda Vista Hospital…In Memoriam

By 

Martin Reaves

Beyond the door, in shadowed hallways where paint slowly peels itself from the walls to expose what never should have been hidden, dust motes almost form something recognizable as shredded curtains stir in the absence of breeze.  On the memory of my skin sensations prickle, invisible breath stirs unseen hairs on my neck, calling forth phantom gooseflesh. 

They are in the hall, at the far end, their heavy footfalls and artificial light shattering the calm. 

Abandoned here in a time that was but is no more; once comatose, then awake, then away again.  And later the straps—restraints, they said, for my own good, for my safety and the safety of others.  But that was then, long before the doctors fled and the others begin to scream their pain into the plaster walls and ceilings, those screams turning to pathetic cries of grief and finally to pleading whimpers that someone, anyone, if there’s a God, please let it end. 

For some it did end, a flame extinguished, a final exhale, release.  And for some of us that flame sputtered but did not die; we found ourselves suspended in the space between breaths, just past some cruel tipping point, over-balanced and falling but never landing.  Lodged between a life of horror and a deferred eternity. 

Out there…whispers in the dark, calling for reply, like a hesitant liturgy, their call at once hoping for and fearing response…the probing voices, scuffling shoes, jittery bouncing lights stabbing into darkened rooms.  Their queries shatter the silence, becoming more insistent with each step: Is someone here?  Anyone?  Can you hear us?  Please make yourself known if you can hear us.  Two doors down now, shambling closer, their ragged breath propelling a cushion of distress ahead of them, that terror they push forward like a desperate barrier that will keep them safe or somehow prepare them if their entreaties should be answered…closer now, nervous giggles jagging on the air. 

In the dusty murk, long ago hidden away from hurting hands, away from dirty needles and barbed straps, away from the taunting scalpels, safe in my small shadowed corner—apart from it all, I crouch, but no longer cower.  Huddled into myself, I wait.  

They are closer now, closer to my space, my sanctuary.  One door away, the dread clear in their childish words of bravado, Come out, come out, wherever you are. 

I will not disappoint them. 

Entry #A8

The Bystander

by

S. Daniel Flynt

The convenience store was busy. As I waited for my deli order to come up, another patron entered and walked by me. Normally, I wouldn’t have looked twice. I try to keep to myself. He was probably in his late twenties and tall, wearing a motorcycle jacket. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. No. It was the black outline of a teardrop under his left eye and the sideways glance he gave me along with a strangely knowing smile. Like he knew something that I didn’t.

He was gone by the time I received my order. I hadn’t even seen him leave. As I walked out to the car, my hands full with my purchases, I breathed in the fresh autumn air. Crisp and clean, a contrast to the eerie feeling I had gotten from the guy with the ex-con look.

I suddenly stopped dead when I heard a strange noise. It sounded like cats fighting at first and I almost ignored it. When I looked around the parking lot, it was like a frozen still from a movie. Nothing was moving. An older woman stood poised at her car door looking toward the street. A green SUV was at the exit of the parking lot, but not pulling onto the road, though there was no traffic. Its brake lights glowed bright, ominous red in the darkness. A silver car behind the SUV waited for its turn to leave. The sound still permeated the air.

As if someone had pressed play on the film again, the silver car started reversing, the driver impatient with the owner of the SUV. I started to walk forward. Shrill screams resounded. The terror of a woman in mortal danger. Coming closer to the green SUV, still paused at the exit, I realized the shrieks were emanating from inside. My first thought was that the driver had been playing a Halloween soundtrack at full volume. Irrational, I know. But the mind works in peculiar ways when it’s not sure how to process a situation. Just as I caught sight of the passenger side window, a bloody palm smacked against the glass, a wide-eyed, blonde girl struggling against her captor. The raw sounds of her screams shredding her throat as she tried desperately to get herself free.

Just as suddenly as the scene had caught my attention, the sounds stopped. I could see the face of the driver in the side mirror then. The man with the teardrop tattoo, the same knowing grin on his lips as his eyes met mine. The SUV pulled out onto the road and disappeared. Shaken, I got into my own car and made my way home, just like the other bystanders in the convenience store parking lot. No one had said a word or thought to write down the plate number. Like me, they didn’t want to get involved.

Later that night, as I lay in bed wondering about the girl, I heard a sound in my backyard. I didn’t think much of it until light momentarily illuminated the inside of my room. I reluctantly got up and looked out the window, barely able to make out the shape of a bundle lying on the damp grass. Slipping into a pair of boots, I grabbed a jacket and went out into the chill air. The bundle was long and thin, a piece of paper attached to the rope holding it together. It was a note, typewritten.

“You know what to do.”

That was it. But the message was clear to me.

I pealed the tarp away from where I knew the head would be. Blonde hair spilled out. Her eyes were still wide, but already clouded over and lacking their tearful glassiness. Her skin was sallow, cheeks sunken in. Lips drew back tautly, baring her teeth in a death grimace. The deep gash in her throat was caked with dried blood and revealed her severed trachea. I gently wrapped her back up, shoving the note into my pocket.

It was nearly dawn when I packed down the last bit of dirt. If I had only done something earlier. Paid more attention to the license plate. After all, he did. I should have called the police and told them what I knew. But I chose to be a bystander.

I think I’ll plant rose bushes here.

Entry #A7

Grandfather Clock

by

Cypher Lx

The cushion felt like concrete as she sat, her legs dangling off the edge of the sofa, feet several inches from the oriental carpet. The black velvet dress was scratching against her skin. White ankle socks with lace trim made the black patent leather Mary Janes pinch her toes and rubbed the backs of her ankles raw. The matching ribbon to the dress pulled individual strands of her blonde hair so tight she thought her skull would begin to show. Her tears had dried up hours ago, but she wished for a scissors to make her clothes look as shredded as she felt. The pendulum swung quietly as she watched the minutes tick by at an all too quick pace.

The rest of the house was silent as a tomb save for the light clinking of silverware and bone China coming from the formal dining room and the classical music sounding like a dirge on the record player. She glanced up at the large mirror above the fireplace. Usually reflecting the expanse of the library, it was now shrouded in heavy, dark material. It was the one thing that gave her some comfort. Not only did she not want to see herself, but she also feared what might be staring back at her. Taking deep breaths, her nose was filled with the ever present scents of old books, lingering pipe smoke, and Old Spice. She wanted to scream, knowing that two of those would be lost to her like the perfume of flowers after they had withered and been tossed out.

Clang! The sound nearly made her jump out of her skin. It was the first chime of the Big Ben tune that always marked the top of the hour. Copper mallets like bony knuckles rapping hard against skeletal brass tubes, the song becoming a death knell. The grandfather clock loomed over her like the Grim Reaper. Once an adored object, it now reminded her that she was about to face a horror worse than what she had already endured.

She closed her eyes and imagined that if the clock was laid down, it would look very much like a Maple wood coffin with a glass top, a grotesque display of what it held inside. As the last chime sounded, it echoed ominously. She heard the harsh whisper of satin skirts and the padding of leather soled shoes approach her seat. Opening her eyes she saw her mother standing before her and her father just within the doorway. They wore the same inky color that now decorated everything. The stern expressions on their faces and dead look of their eyes ordered her to behave as the respectful young lady she was forced to dress like. A lifeless porcelain doll who was seen and not heard. Any other behavior would not be tolerated. A pale, cold hand was held out to her.

"It's time," her mother said.