Precision chiseled blows disclose
the sculptor’s vision clear;
They chip away the rock like clay
And form and shape appear.

A mass of marble, cut and hewn,
becomes a sight to see:
A figure wondrous as the moon—
A mighty majesty.

From this cold slab, sweet life has grown,
Discovered, blow by blow.
Would my heart were made of stone
to be transfigured so.

The townsfolk sing, “If the mist be slitherin’, open yer skin, spill yer red, and pray the old one back to bed.”

You’d think we lived in a Bram Stoker tale. Now, it’s true we do live in Brașov which is in the Transylvania region of Romania and ringed by the Carpathian Mountains, but the scariest thing I’d experienced thus far was my private prep-school fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Skitterman who looked like she might roast and eat you if you got your multiplication homework wrong. I still find it ironic, considering how she terrified me, that I ended up becoming a teacher.

But that did, indeed, become my vocation and it was in that capacity that my reputation must have blossomed enough to get the attention of a Mr. Castigroff who had asked if I would consider trading in my crowded classroom for an exclusive, one-on-one tutor position for his son. The timing proved fortuitous as I now found myself sadly unattached since my most recent, short-lived romantic entanglement ended in an unexpected and unpleasant manner I’d rather not relive or relate. A second strong motivator was the absurd amount of money offered. Castigroff explained it meant to remunerate for their living so remotely, off the grid; that I would either have a horrifically long commute or need to live with them for the duration of my employ.

In short, I agreed to accept the role of private live-in tutor.

I was glad of my decision to live at Castigroff’s home, because the drive there proved more arduous than the map suggested: the longest stretch of the trip wound up treacherous, curving mountain road and the entire route one way took nearly three hours. I could never have lasted long, doing that every day—especially with the dense morning fog in autumn and winter.

While it took some time to adjust to the oddness of the entire arrangement, I eventually settled into a routine and most of my original awe at my new surroundings receded. Castigroff had given me a tour of his expansive estate and all its self-sustaining features: he had refashioned its guts to accommodate running on energy from solar panels, two perpendicular windmills, a water wheel in the adjacent rushing river and several batteries for storage, backup and other uses. My room was comfortable with a nice alcove housing a writing desk and the chef made every meal a gastronomic event.

The highlight, though, was little Killian, Castigroff’s six-year-old son who was my charge. Shy at first, his naturally precocious and playful personality perked up quickly and I found myself thoroughly enjoying our time together. He was eager to learn and made for a teacher’s dream pupil: attentive, engaged and able to pick things up with remarkable speed and proficiency.

There were a few others in the house besides the Castigroffs and chef Dorsett: housekeeper Agatha, grounds caretaker Mr. Gorshuen and doctor/athletic advisor Xander Hollinsworth who took care of Killian’s physical activities, diet, and was on hand for general medical emergencies, etc. I only saw any of them in passing, due to our schedules and tasks—not even at meals as our breaks were so scattered. But, living alone most of my adult life, dining solo felt quite comfortable. The standout break from that familiarity lay in Dorsett’s mouth-watering offerings which continued to surpass anything I had ever prepared for myself.

Always an early riser, I took my morning walks before most of the household awoke. Though I never made it downstairs before Agatha and Dorsett. I joked to myself that they never slept.

Outside, the autumn fog hung thick and heavy as ever, making my passage through the grounds dreamlike. I had grown up in this region my whole life, so it didn’t bother me in the least. Visitors romanticized the mist to no end, finding it either lyrical and magical or haunting and eerie; the latter enhanced and popularized by Stoker’s famous novel. You could hardly go anywhere in this part of Romania without finding a shop hawking novelty nonsense that exploited some element of Dracula.

In fact, a friend of mine had been commissioned to do art for a picture book of Castle Bran (the believed inspiration for the home of Stoker’s undead brute) as well as all things Carpathian and Dracula adjacent. Knowing my writer goals, he had asked me to do some short poems—haiku and such—to go underneath his drawings. This despite knowing I professed myself a devout non-believer in all things mystical.

Spooks, I called the lot of it.

But, to finally have something of mine published, I had gladly agreed. So, he had given me copies of the drawings his editor had decided would comprise the book and I had made it a habit, at the end of my walks, to sit on a bench and write something for each.

On this one particular day, I was trying to come up with something for his evocative depiction of the mysterious carriage arriving out of the mist to pick up a nervous-looking Jonathan Harker. I looked around the fog that surrounded me and tried to imagine what it might feel like to have such a carriage appear, here and now. What would Jonathan have heard? What mythos would the reader be aware of and awaiting? I came up with:

Hooves clitter-clatter
Through thick Carpathian mist
Ancient hungers stir

I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I felt I wanted something more; I just didn’t know what. It irked me because I so often felt this way about my writing. It never seemed good enough. Finished was not the same as complete. One was done; one was whole. And I felt this poem was missing something. But what?

And that’s when I heard it. The random occasional bird calls had stopped, without my noticing, but the mad beating of wings, furiously flapping away, startled me out of my thoughts. And the ensuing silence that remained felt wholly unnatural. For the first time, I felt that creepy sense of dread that people always tried to sell about the fog. That idea that it moved insidiously, hiding things from view. Unknown things. Dangerous things.

Spooks.

No. Nonsense! But something was out there.

I recalled that the region was famous for brown bears, wolves, lynx and other predatory wildlife. We never saw them the city, but up here? Had I foolishly imagined I bore some sort of immunity? Something had clearly scared the birds off; the only logical answer I could surmise left me feeling vulnerable to a carnivore that could not only outrun but outclimb me. I sat on the bench, paralyzed with paranoia, my heart beating in my chest.

Could I make into the house? I tried to recall exactly how far away it was. How many steps it would take to get there. To open and close the door.

I listened, straining my ears to hear anything over my pounding heart. Some ridiculous voice in my head wondered if I’d suddenly hear horse hooves and carriage wheels.

Snap!

A twig cracked. Stepped on? To the right!

I peered as hard as I could into the mist. Nothing but sinister swirls of nebulous, eerie ether. Unless…

There! A pair of shining, yellow spots, like eyes glowing through the mist!

I gasped. Held my breath. Frozen in fear.

The eyes disappeared.

I stared intently. Where had they gone? Were they ever there? Had I imagined them?

Chills shivered over me in rippling gooseflesh.

A horrible scream erupted as wild arms wrapped around me! I screamed as well, lurching up, whipping around to face whatever foe I might.

Killian fell to the ground in a fit of laughter.

My whole body relaxed as I caught my breath—amused, angered, and thoroughly embarrassed.

“You realize you’re going to get the hardest math quiz I can come up with this afternoon.”

Killian jumped up, instantly contrite and whining: “No, no, no! Please! I’ll never do it again! I promise!”

“Well…I’ll think about it,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”

I gave his shoulder a guiding pat and we headed for the house. But I did look back to see if anything was following us. Of course, I could see nothing in the fog. Even so, my gut told me something lurked out there. Something hungry. With horrible yellow eyes. I just hoped I’d never find out what.

My own words echoed in my mind:

Through thick Carpathian mist
Ancient hungers stir

Authors Note:

I feel like there is so much more to explore than I have time for in a single Substack post. So many mysterious things going on:

Why this insanely remote, off grid location? Why are the employees all on different schedules? Is there something in the fog? What is it? How is it connected to the rest of the elements of the story?

Maybe this is just the beginning of a much larger tale…

If you read this far, what do you think? Would you want to know more?

This story was created as part of the Sunday Scaries curated by , and .

What happened last:

Cindy’s missing, Scott’s come to A.J.’s place to comfort her, Alex heard something outside his bedroom window, and Mr. Malbourne woke from another blackout

Robert came over earlier to check in on Randy. And to give him one of the two copies of the new Playboy that he had ripped off from the liquor store. He figured the guy could use it, being sick and all. He wrapped it inside an “X Sports” magazine without catching the irony. And, more than the gift of the magazine, he had wanted to tell Randy the tale of the mysterious fainting Mr. Malbourne.

Randy always made a great audience. He listened wide-eyed and appreciatively as Robert regaled the whole drama in hyperbolic detail. And he even remembered to cough a few times, just for good measure.

“Now we definitely have a pattern,” Scott said as he and A.J. sat on her bed. “That’s two disappearances.”

***

A.J. considered his words. “So, you think Bennie and Mrs. Curson aren’t related?”

Scott shook his head a bit. “Doesn’t seem like it. Bennie had an accident and Mrs. Curson looks like a suicide.”

“You don’t think she was pushed?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think maybe it was just a coincidence that those things happened right before the rest. But Denise and Cindy are both high school girls and they’re both missing. And they both disappeared at night.”

“Oh, my god!”

“What?”

A.J. stood up. “Hold on.” She ran to the window and stuck her head out.

Scott stood up as well. “A.J.?”

She turned around, her brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Scott wondered.

“Hang on.” She moved to her desk. Scott came closer as A.J. stared at something on the other side of her computer. He came closer and found she stood before a wall calendar. She pointed at the black circle in the upper right-hand corner of the day Cindy went missing.

“No moon,” she muttered, softly.

“Sorry?” Scott tried. She turned to him.

“Denise and Cindy both disappeared on a Dark Moon.”

They looked in each other’s eyes, very afraid. Scott wanted to throw his arms around her—partly to protect her and make her feel safe, partly to make himself feel safe. As if they were one, A.J. threw her arms around him and held him tight. He brought his arms around her, and it felt so good, he was overwhelmed. He began to kiss her neck. She kissed his. They pulled back long enough to look at each other. Then, they came forward and brought their lips together in a kiss—a mounting passion unlike any they had ever known engulfing them. Scott felt himself getting instantly hard with a furious rush of heat. His shaft throbbed, bent down in his shorts. He felt it aching and tingling—aroused like a live wire. He worried if he let it out he’d come right there. But he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted her. And she wanted him. And so what if they weren’t married—

The very word jerked Scott out of his erotic hypnosis. He pulled back and looked at A.J. She looked at him, her eyes shifting from his right eye to his left. She was beautiful. He loved her so much. And he knew he couldn’t let this crazy moment ruin a promise they had made to each other. He owed her that. And she looked at him as if she knew his every thought. And she loved him even more for it.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

Steered back on track, Scott cleared his throat.

“I have an idea…”

***

Robert had left a while ago and Randy had eaten dinner and now sat in his room, hungrily flipping through the magazine. He didn’t know if Robert had looked at it or not, but his heart stopped when he got to page thirty-two.

There, looking sultry and very available reclined a woman who looked remarkably like Lucy Malbourne. Not an exact clone, but a little imagination and Randy could easily imagine it was the barber of his dreams…in all her glory. He got an instant, aching erection and his mouth went dry. Those inviting eyes, those luscious curves, and the dark secret place she was revealing just for him—suddenly attainable and all his. And she looked like she wanted him.

Randy didn’t leave his bedroom the rest of the night.

***

With his father at work, Robert had all the time he needed to search for what he wanted. He knew it had to be somewhere. He paid close attention to each move he made, careful to put everything back as he found it while he rummaged through his father’s den. He went into the master bedroom and sifted through the closet. He came close to giving up. Then he found himself staring at his father’s “Business Owner of the Year” award. The one he’d gotten forever ago. The little gold man sat up on the top shelf of the wall unit, sporting that little gold victory cup—a little cup just large enough to hold something out of the reach of children.

But Robert was hardly a child anymore. He got a chair and reached for the trophy. He brought it down and looked inside the cup.

He smiled.

***

“I don’t know,” A.J. said. “I know you guys were all suspicious about them when they were new in town; especially with the timing of everything. But now … after all this … you don’t really think Mrs. Malbourne’s anything but the best, do you? She’s so sweet and … and I work for her, for godssake! I can’t believe … I won’t believe anything bad about her!”

“I agree with you,” Scott said. “But Mr. Malbourne is a really spooky guy.”

“You said he was a helpless, migraine-stricken man.”

“I said he acted like that. Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe he just faked me out. Maybe he’s got Mrs. Malbourne faked out, too.”

“Maybe we’ve all just gotten ourselves all hyped up over nothing. Maybe there’s just a crazy kidnapper on the loose. Isn’t that scary enough? Or do we have to demonize the Malbournes somehow and make it worse? Make it all some sort of evil plot?”

Scott looked at her. She was so damned smart, sometimes. He knew she was making sense … or at least asking valid questions.

“Okay,” he said. “If you’re right, then there’s nothing for us to do. And that’s okay. I’d be very okay with that.”

He took a breath.

“But what if you’re wrong? What if Mr. Malbourne is a killer? What if he’s hiding bodies in the cellar? How will we feel if we’ve done nothing and another person disappears?”

A.J. looked away, thinking.

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

She turned back to Scott. “I was just thinking it through. The whole Dark Moon theory doesn’t hold.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if Mr. Malbourne was a Satashan, like Mrs. Griffin was, he wouldn’t kill other people: only Mrs. Malbourne.”

“Okay. So maybe he’s not a Satashan. Maybe he’s just a regular old, non-cult-following psychopath.”

A.J. purse her lips, unconvinced. Or maybe she didn’t want to be convinced. But Scott didn’t want her to be scared, no matter what awful thing might be going on. And that’s when it occurred to him.

“Okay. We don’t know anything for sure. Except that two people are missing and two are dead. They may or may not be related to the Malbournes, but they did all start happening at the same time. Right?”

“Right. Circumstantial, but not untrue.”

“And we know that Mr. Malbourne had the cellar re-done.”

“The cellar door. We still don’t know if they did anything else.”

“True. And we know he had someone from out of town do it.”

“So?”

“So why use someone from out of town? You’re new to the area. Wouldn’t you open up the yellow pages and look for the closest guy?”

“Maybe he got a better price.”

“Robert’s dad said the guy didn’t even consult him for an estimate.”

“So, what’s your point, Scott?”

“My point is: it seems possible that he has something to hide. That he didn’t want anyone in town in his cellar. Or knowing what he was doing to it. Or something. There’s something suspicious there. I don’t know what it is. Maybe he keeps his private porno collection in there. I don’t know. If that’s all it is, I’ll be thrilled. But if it isn’t, I’d never forgive myself for not taking action. And I think we owe it to ourselves to try to find out if we have the right suspect. And I think we owe it to Denise and Cindy, too.”

The mere mention of Cindy’s name made A.J.’s eyes react. She looked away, fighting the sudden lump in her throat. She still didn’t like the whole scenario, but she didn’t want to feel helpless; she wanted to feel like she was doing something to end the ugliness that hung over Brook’s End.

She turned back to Scott. “What do you want me to do?”

***

Robert’s heart pounded loudly in his head as he slipped the key in the lock and turned it. The latch opened. He pulled the key out and backed away. The cabinet door remained flush—as if it were still locked. Robert grabbed the knob and opened the door. It swung out, silent. He reached in and touched the forbidden container inside. He slipped it gingerly out of the cabinet and set it on the desk. He took a breath and then opened the container and looked at the shiny metal object laying inside. He reached out with his fingers and picked the object up. It felt icy cold. He lifted it closer to his face for a better inspection as he turned it a bit, admiring it. He felt a rush—his heart pounding even faster. He set the object down on the desk, closed the container, put it back in the cabinet, closed and locked the cabinet and returned the key to its hiding place. No one would ever know. He lifted his prize from the desk and flipped the gun’s chamber open. The polished ends of a full round of bullets shone in his face.

He snapped the chamber closed. Now, he was ready.

Thank you for reading! I’ll be adding new installments every Saturday, so use the following link to the home page to navigate to the latest chapter:

THE RITUAL - Home Page

Thought I’d have fun with a poem,
So started one all about silver,
But there isn’t a rhyme for silver.

So, I started a new poem instead;
One all about a great wolf.
But there also are no rhymes for wolf.

So, I started a poem about purple.
And son of a bitch, guess what?

I switched to a poem about orange.

Fuck.

I hate poetry.

The shrieking of the giant blood-sucking worm lizards still haunted me—despite the fact we had narrowly escaped them a few days ago. But Tobias and I had recovered enough to be ready to try the next combination on the EPD (Ephlemuos Portal Device).

I set the dials on the right, Tobias set the ones on the left, and the giant ring came to life with a thunderous grinding and a whoosh as it spun and glowed around the perimeter before the whirlpool of plasma ether filled the central area in a crashing rush.

“No bloody worms, please,” Tobias muttered, giving me the smallest chuckle. Though, frankly, I thoroughly agreed.

The ether settled and dissipated, revealing a dozen or so floating islands on the other side. Each island bore a small city of towers linked by architecturally impossible curving bridges—all shining as if made by some glass-like substance. The air between teamed with bizarre airships and people riding on the backs of great winged beasts that looked like feathered dolphins with legs.

We saw that the portal opened up onto its typical landing extension; this time, the extension reached all the way to the nearest island. So, after a few minutes of reviewing the landscape with our usual tools, checking the oxygen levels and other safety factors, Tobias and I ventured forth and stepped through the portal.

As we came toward the island, looking about at the wonders around us, we discovered a somewhat frazzled looking fellow rushing toward us.

“Please, sirs, if I may,” the man sputtered. “I beg you to come with me immediately!”

Tobias and I shared furrowed brows of confusion.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! Many!” the little man said. “Please come with me at once!”

As we had no idea where to begin our exploration and, with the hope that this person might lead us to someone who could give us more knowledge regarding this unfamiliar world and its “many” problems, we acquiesced with agreeable nods and followed the frazzled fellow toward one of the towers.

Once inside, our guide led us down a long hall that opened to a massive throne room bearing eleven impressive chairs forming a crescent moon shape at the far end. We passed rows of empty pew-like seating, all colored by the stunning stained-glass windows stretching up the gaping room’s walls on either side.

Ten of the thrones supported figures of various ages and genders; one remained empty.

“Pardon the intrusion, Chancellors” our little escort said as we arrived before the seated ones. “But these gentlemen just arrived through the Great Portal.”

That statement sent the ten before us to look and whisper to each other briefly before they all nodded to the one that appeared to be eldest who summarily cleared their throat.

“My goodly visitors. We welcome you. You have come, we assume, to fix Egonia’s gravity issue?”

Tobias looked at me and gave me the smallest shrug.

“I’m afraid, we are mere travelers, here,” I offered. “We are utterly unfamiliar with your entire world and are, therefore, most unlikely to be of much assistance. However, we are more than happy to hear your troubles and see if we can offer assistance.”

The lead Chancellor went on to explain the situation. That the altitude band from the highest to lowest points of the island chain of Hoverland, through its unique design by nature, provided the perfect factors for safe inter-island travel as well as the ideal gravity on each island. But Egonia’s island had begun to sink and, if it were not stopped, it would eventually fall into the unknown: a most certainly fatal event for its inhabitants.

I asked: “Are there any factors that have revealed themselves regarding this lowering of the island? Something happening on Egonia that is not happening on the other islands?”

Tobias and I watched as the Chancellors looked oddly at each other; they clearly had some idea and were struggling to decide whether to share their thoughts. Finally, the eldest returned his gaze to regard Tobais and me.

“Hoverland is a communal collective: sharing ideas, resources, responsibilities, laws and values. But, since their new Chancellor took over nearly a decade ago, Egonia has slowly become significantly more separatist. It started as island pride, perhaps because they are one of the smaller islands. Though we have never considered land mass or population size to be a factor that would negate equality. Still, they began to desire to become self-sufficient; to turn way from our inclusion and rely only on their own crops, their own resources, their own people. They began adopting disincentives to any economic or cultural offerings from the other islands. Created tariffs, sanctions and even more stringent penalties for any intercourse with the other islands. The last few non-Egonians who left (travelers, ambassadors, etc.) gave us the sad news that the Egonians had adopted slurs for anyone who was not of their “higher race” as they now considered themselves. It wasn’t until they had completely shut themselves off that we started to notice the island sinking. It seemed almost as if it was weighed down by the loss of community, of connection, of brotherhood. That may seem a lofty metaphor, but when your world is literally aloft, one tends to think in mystical terms.”

Tobias and I looked at each other, shaking our heads at a complete loss.

“It sounds like a terrible tragedy,” I admitted. “But sadly, I don’t think there is anything we can do. We have yet to master the destructive instinct of the “us versus them” mentality in our own world. You see Egonia’s sinking as metaphorical, but it is undeniably, literal as well; while in our world, it truly is only metaphoric; but I assure you it is just as deadly.”

A burgeoning rush of cries drew our attention to the windows at the right. We all made our way to the wall of glass to see a small island, lower than the others, suddenly descending faster and faster as people screamed in terror from every island. The sinking island fell downward and disappeared into the clouds below.

No one moved. I turned to Tobias and saw he shared my pale look of horror.

The Lead Chancellor lowered his head. I saw a tear slip down his cheek.

Softly, he muttered, “Egonia is gone.”

I don’t think Tobias or I will ever forget the events of that day: the day we understood that easily recognized monsters like worm lizards were less insidious and universal than the monsters in man’s own nature.

And there was no portal to escape that.

This story was created for ’s prompt: the City Above the Clouds.

Earth slipping into the ethereal,
Shucking off the musky husk of day,
On the cusp of some crepuscular liminality
In the dusky evanescence when the night is nigh
But not yet.

There, in the air of the fleeting in between,
Where the fairies flit and frolic, ever silent and unseen,
And woes and worries melt away,
With the disappearing day,
Imagination comes alive
To bloom and blossom,
Thrill and thrive.

And if you listen, let it fly,
Magic happens, by and by.

So relish in the momentary gloaming’s gauzy gift
And let the twilight tuck you in
the evening dream anon.

For, in a blink, the sun will sink;
The night shade will be drawn;
The sweet betwixt will come unfixed
And, hushaway, be gone.

They call it Potato Lake.

A silly, amusing name for such a still, serene, peaceful place.

Some say it’s because of its shape. And sure, if you look at it from above, it has a sort of oblong perimeter one could say is reminiscent of a potato.

But that’s not the real reason.

Others say the lake got its name because they used to grow potatoes in the fields nearby. And the use of the neighboring land, historically, could certainly support that theory.

But that’s not the real reason.

I know the truth.

It’s because death lurks in the darkest depths and we call it Potato Lake because its eyes are always watching.

And, in case you want to know how I know, it’s because I was lured here long ago and have haunted the shores ever since, warning people like you to stay away.

So, run and tell everyone the truth about the name.

Potato Lake isn’t silly or amusing.

It’s patient Death.

Waiting.

Still.

Created for ’s Prompts from The Valley Nis

to make you laugh
or cry
feel fear

understanding

compassion
empathy
symbiosis

hope
joy
wonder

life
mystery
magic

to let you journey
to places
foreign yet familiar

to touch your mind
your heart
your soul

to let you know me
to let you know you’re not alone
to connect

through words
ideas
and the endless
wonder and power
of imagination

let’s fly
you and I
as one

for so we are

even if only recognized
in this moment
as you read
my tiny
poem

Created for the final day of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

What happened last:

Robert and the police collected Scott from his strange encounter with Mr. Malbourne, Alex is still being stalked by the man with the sideburns, and Cindy and Julie planned to break curfew.

Julie Pratt waited at the counter of the bowling alley as usual. Invariably first, she always ordered their regular drinks so that Cindy’s lay waiting when she arrived. Robert DeNiro handed her the two root beers like he always did. He wasn’t really Robert DeNiro, of course, but the long-time soda jerk at the bowling alley looked like a tired version of DeNiro and that’s what everyone called him. And, frankly, he didn’t mind.

“Thanks, DeNiro,” Julie said.

“Sure thing,” he returned, leering.

Normally that leer would irritate her more, but she previously noticed she’d received less than friendly looks from several patrons, most likely because they wondered who gave her the right to break curfew. Nobody bothered her, though, knowing DeNiro hovered nearby and he would’ve taken out anybody who tried. For once, she felt grateful he was there. Sort of.

Since Cindy always wandered in between five or ten minutes late, Julie just tried to ignore the eyes that kept darting at her every so often. But when twenty minutes had gone by, Julie felt impatient. Impatient and a little annoyed. Anything over fifteen minutes was just plain rude. Moreover, she had made a point of telling Cindy not to be late for once. Her agitation increased with every passing minute and every one of the occasional, disapproving glances aimed at her.

When thirty minutes had gone by, Julie’s anger had sunk into concern, and she made her way over to the pay phone and dialed Cindy’s home. Her parents checked Cindy’s room. She wasn’t there. They immediately called the police.

***

“Hold on,” A.J. said. She took the phone away from her ear and turned to her father.

“What?”

“Got a call on the other line,” Mr. Tyler said. “Cindy Tanaka may be missing.” He pointed at A.J. with serious, but loving intent. “Stay put, all right?”

A.J. nodded, stunned.

“Sure.”

Her father gave her a nod and disappeared. A.J. felt her entire body prickle over with chills. She had just talked to Cindy. She had just seen her. It was too close. Way too close. It was as if the killer had touched A.J. on the shoulder.

Stop it! A.J. admonished herself. There is no killer. No one knows that any of the missing kids are even dead! No one knows anything!! She knew in her mind all that was true, but in her soul, she still felt afraid and somehow violated—as if there was someone … someone evil very close, maybe right behind her. Someone who would suddenly call out her name…

“A.J.”

A.J snapped out of her thoughts, startled by the voice.

“A.J.?”

She looked at the phone in her hand and recalled her conversation with Scott. She brought the phone back up to her ear.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m here.”

“Is everything okay?”

No, she thought. Everything is not okay.

“Scott?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come over?”

The tone of her voice hit Scott hard in the stomach. He didn’t even ask a thing.

“I’m on my way.”

***

He lurked in the shadows. He waited, watching. The police car passed him by. He remained unseen. He followed the car with his eye until he saw it turn the corner and disappear. He exhaled. Scott hated feeling like a criminal, but he didn’t want to get caught breaking curfew. After the experience with the police this afternoon, he had no interest in another encounter.

He continued his way to A.J.’s house. They hadn’t discussed it, but he planned to tap on her window and sneak in that way. Any other time, it would have seemed giddy and romantic. Now, it seemed merely necessary.

Only a little farther to go.

***

Tyler and Hearn questioned the distraught parents of Cindy Tanaka when, elsewhere, Alex heard a sound outside his bedroom window. He had been keeping it closed and locked ever since Denise had disappeared. And he kept the curtains drawn as well: something he never bothered with before, since his window faced the woods out in the distance.

He looked across the room at his window as if it were something horrible. And maybe it was. Maybe it was a fragile nothing hiding but not protecting him from a crazed killer—a killer with long sideburns.

And maybe he was just being a pussy. He thought to himself: I may be gay, but I’m not a pussy. But another voice in his head chimed in with: You can’t even catch a friggin’ baseball. You’re a pussy all right.

Alex stood up from his chair and put his book down. He looked at the window. He told himself he might have imagined it. Or it could have been any one of several perfectly harmless things. He walked over to the window. Who knew it took exactly seven steps to get there? He knew now. He just had to open the curtains.

He reached forward. Took a hold of the center-most folds.

He froze.

Pussy! the voice yelled.

With defiant courage, he threw open the curtains and found himself staring face to face with—

—nothing. The woods were far off in the distance as always.

Alex felt relieved … and a little angry at himself. He reached his hand forward again and opened the window. He heard nothing. Slowly, he stuck his head out.

He looked right. Then left.

Nothing.

He pulled his head back in and took a nice, big breath. He wasn’t a pussy. He might lean a little to the neurotic, but he was definitely one brave sonuvabitch. He closed the window.

***

Mr. Malbourne woke from his nap. He had gotten another headache after dinner and lay down. But his head felt much better now. He looked at the clock and saw, without much surprise, he’d been unconscious for almost two hours. It happened like that often enough; he no longer questioned it.

Time flies when you’re out of your mind.

***

Scott tapped on the window as planned. A.J. appeared, a little startled. Then, she realized they hadn’t discussed that her father was gone and Scott could have used the front door. But with the current curfew, using her window was a smart idea, since it didn’t face the street and thereby decreased the chance of getting caught.

She opened the window and he hoisted himself up and into her room. He kicked the sill a bit, swinging his leg in.

“Sorry,” he said, apologizing for the noise.

“It’s okay. My dad’s not home.”

My dad’s not home. Scott heard the echo of a seduction scene; his hyper-drive crotch even stirred a bit—ever ready for a chance. But then he realized her dad’s absence likely meant he’d been called in on duty because something bad had happened.

“What is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

(to be continued)

Thank you for reading! I’ll be adding new installments every Saturday, so use the following link to the home page to navigate to the latest chapter:

THE RITUAL - Home Page

I had a good run.

I touched a lot of people. Inspired them. Gave them reasons to laugh. To feel. To connect. Opened myself and let some truly magical things happen. Surprises even I didn’t see coming.

I’ve been so blessed to have been here. To have been a part of this swirling, staggering splendor.

But all things have their time.

And mine has come.

And, even though I leave, I know my halls will echo onward.

Farewell, my friends.

I go.

But Pandemonium lives forever.

A slow, exhale of sweet, peaceful release…

Created for Day 30 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

Help me…

Pain... unbearable… screaming…

~ ~ ~

Cold. Wet. Shivering. So dark. Where am I? I peel my eyes open with effort: something sticky seems to have sealed them slightly. I ache everywhere.

I look around. It’s a small, claustrophobic space. Mostly in shadow. But a trapezoid of light falls on the floor. I pull myself toward it. I can see smears of blood on the floorboards as I get closer.

I drag myself into the light. I’m covered in blood! Mine? Oh, god! What happened?

I try to think…

~ ~ ~

Sevine. Her lips are like cotton candy and I’m a kid at the county fair. She presses against me as we kiss and feeling the warmth of her body against mine and the open wetness of her mouth makes me start to get hard.

Maybe she senses it. Maybe she doesn’t. But she pulls away, grinning and says “Let’s play a game!”

~ ~ ~

I search my icy, naked body with my fingers and eyes and can find no wounds. No cuts. No damage. So where is all this blood from?

I look around the room, my eyes adjusting a bit better. I can make out several shapes in the half-light. Furniture? A small bed maybe? A clump of clothes on the floor? And a door…

~ ~ ~

She’s guiding me by the hand through the woods. I’m reeling in a surreal giddiness: that awful attack only a few weeks back, and here I was with barely a scratch, being led by a beautiful woman to some very private, secret place. Life sure came in twists and turns.

She looks over her shoulder at me, her grin wider than ever. She giggles. I’m dopey putty in her hands.

~ ~ ~

I drag myself to the door. Reach the handle. Pull it down and shove the door open.

Sunlight spills into the room.

My breath catches in my throat.

The clump of clothes on the floor? It’s a body.

Or what’s left of one…

~ ~ ~

I see now she’s brought me to a long-deserted cabin in the tiniest of clearings. It all shimmers with the gold of the evolving sunset. She looks at me and says: “My sanctuary.” She leads me to the front door as dusk falls and my heartbeat rises.

~ ~ ~

I’m pulling myself across the floor to the body. Part of me just wants to flee, but part of me needs to see.

Blood drenched candles lie on the floor in the surrounding muck. I get closer and the acrid smell invades my nostrils. I fight the instinct to vomit.

~ ~ ~

Clothes discarded on the floor. She and I writhe naked on the bed. I’m inside her. The candlelight makes her skin glow and the moonlight from the giant, silver orb in the window shines in her eyes.

I’m crazed. Lust and passion surging through my veins. More than I’ve ever felt. I’m overcome. I lift my head as I thrust furiously.

Suddenly, my body feels wrong. My vision alters. Pain... unbearable… I see my face elongate, my jaw jutting out, becoming… a snout!?!

~ ~ ~

I stare at the wreckage of a body. A mass of ripped flesh, blood and bone.

Sevine.

I breakdown in wracking sobs.

~ ~ ~

Screaming… stringy sinews snap… a hand, fingers bent wrong… horrible ripping… tearing… growling or chomping or…

~ ~ ~

Crumpled on the floor, I wail like an animal, my anguish ripping out of me as the tears drench my blood stained cheeks.

What have I become?

And my poor Sevine!

Oh, god…

Help me…

Created for Day 29 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

"You only like the dialogue?
"But that's but half the fun!"
             "Except when writers carry on:
             description overdone."

"But how are you to get a sense
of where you are, or tone?"
             "Well, all of that is made quite clear
             If speeches are well sewn."

"But what about what isn’t said?
How does that get across?"
             "What isn't said is wasted lead;
             Deleting it's no loss."

"I don't agree at all, my friend!
I tender your view poor."
             "To each his own, you logophile,
             I find that less is more."

"I weep for you and what you miss,
Dismissing languid prose."
             "Oh, please! This poem proves my point;
             So shove your smugness up your nose!"

Created for Day 28 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

We all came afixin’ to be fighting with our might:
The call to be mixin’ and igniting up the light.
We all took up arms with our words and tales
A squall of alarms met with parchment sails.

And the Beast kept acomin’
leg by leg by leg.

Forays of fairytales, salvos of song,
Sorties of stories, both microshort and long;
All these did we force on the many-legged fiend,
That, in full due course, both caterwauled and keened.

But the Beast kept acomin’
leg by leg by leg.

Our words cut like sabers, slashing through meat,
Fiction foils flashing till we’ve earned a defeat.
We chopped off its legs, one by one by one,
As we’d pray for the day when we’ll finally be done.

For the Beast kept acomin’
leg by leg by leg.

And now, as it lays, how the ending is nigh,
But a matter of days, ere the Beast or we die.
So remember our fight, win or lose, this I beg
And sing, you, this song as you empty that keg.

For the Beast kept acomin’
leg by leg by leg.
Yes, the Beast kept acomin’
leg by leg by leg.

A ballad for Leg 28 of ’s Third Eye Horror Microfiction Challenge

“Flying dreams are very common, Joel.”

She says this in her perfectly practiced tone that aims for comfort and reassurance, but my ear always hears a hint—intended or not—of conciliatory patronization.

By this, you can tell I’m not overly fond of my new therapist. She’s a picture of professionalism, but one that feels AI generated; it’s just good enough to not have any easy tells like extra fingers or eyeballs. Still, something about her unnerves me. I can’t say what it is: it’s nothing specific; just a feeling. One I’m working on.

“I know,” I admit, begrudgingly. “But mine are weird.”

“How so?” Dr. Pisker asks—questions clearly being her ubiquitous go-to tool. Classic therapist style. You don’t need predictive tech to see that coming.

“I don’t soar through air at any expected velocity. It’s like the air around me is a really thick, invisible gelatin and I sort of swim through it. It takes effort to get anywhere.”

“I see,” Dr. Prisker says. “How does it make you feel?”

Shoulda seen that one coming, too.

“I don’t know. It’s…hard, but that’s not really the problem. Or the real…uh…”

I take a beat. Take a breath. I didn’t realize this was going to be as hard as it is.

“I’m always doing it to get away from something. Or someone.”

“Do you know who or what it is you’re trying to get away from?”

I shake my head.

“No. I never see who or what it is. I just know it’s there and it’s bad and it’s coming to get me. So, I start flying…or swimming as hard as I can. And I get into the air, but it’s painfully slow. And I’m afraid that whoever or whatever is chasing me is able to go faster. So, I just keep swimming harder, flying higher, knowing they’re after me.’

I exhale.

“And then I wake up.”

“So, you never see who or what is pursuing you?”

“No.”

“But you’re certain they’re there?”

“Yes. It’s…it’s just a feeling, I guess.”

“Well, we don’t discount feelings, here,” she says, her lips lifting with a kind smile. Prescribed or genuine; I can’t tell. “What do you think the dream means?”

“Oh, come, Doc! You’re the dream expert! You’re really gonna make me give my clueless opinions?

“Client-specific insights are extremely important, Joel.”

I roll my eyes at the on-cue, textbook tactic. Can’t help but huff a little.

“I don’t know,” I say, still a little too hot. “Fear of the unknown, I guess. Fear of not being able to escape my problems. Fear of failure. Death. Running out of Oreos? I don’t know, okay?!”

Dr. Prisker sits patiently. Waits for me to notice and calm down. It works. And I hate it.

“What would you like do? If you could do anything? Would you want to be able to fly faster? Be able to see what you think is chasing you? Face the fear and vanquish it? What would be the best-case scenario outcome for this dream of yours?”

Now it was my turn to sit quietly. I had to think about that. They all sounded like good outcomes.

“Do I have to pick one?”

“Well, my idea is, if you’re willing, we can try hypnotherapy and try to get you to have the dream but guide you to the outcome of your choice.”

I purse my lips, thinking about it. But it sounds good. So I nod.

Dr. Prisker explains it all as I lay down and close my eyes. She’d put me under and guide me to try to make the dream happen, but with the intention of facing whatever I was afraid of. Then, she basically just starts talking about feeling relaxed and stuff. My breathing, Blah, blah, blah.

I’m starting to feel like maybe it just isn’t gonna work, because I don’t feel anything.

Then, all at once, I sit up. Like I can’t control it.

“What is it, Joel?” she asks.

“It’s here,” I say.

“What’s here?”

My heart races. Chills shiver across my skin.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just a feeling. But I know it’s here!”

“Okay,” she says. “Open your eyes”.

Didn’t realize I still had them closed! I open them and see her looking at me.

“Do you see it, Joel?”

I turn my head, my whole body, as I look around the office.

“No…”

“Keep looking.”

I turn back to her.

“I can’t see it. But I know it’s here!”

“Keep looking!”

“Why do you keep saying that!?!”

And then I do see it. I see why it looked wrong. The Dr. Prisker facade is dissolving away, revealing…Yellow eyes? Fangs? Talons? What the fuck!?!

I stand, feel my arms scooping at the air, trying to get away.

The thing in the room with me watches, forked tongues slithering out its nostrils.

I’m lifting off the ground, my arms swimming as hard as they can. But it’s so slow! It’s so damned slow!!!

The thing’s taloned forearm grabs my ankle.

I flap my arms harder and harder…

“Oh, god! Oh, god, Oh, god….!”

***

“Hi, honey! How’d it go?”

I should probably give him a minute, but I’m so anxious to hear how his therapy session went. But he gets his seatbelt on and smiles at me.

“It went great, Mom.”

I smile back at him. “Oh, Joel. I’m so glad, sweetie!”

I start the car and drive us homeward.

I’m still smiling. But underneath it, I have a strange sensation I can’t quite place. Can’t reconcile. That…that something about Joel’s smile seemed…off. Like he was hiding something.

Just a feeling, I guess.

I shrug it off.

Created for Day 27 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

General babble had erupted in the house.

“Ladies, please!” granddame Plumeria called out.

The ladies settled.

“We must remember she is one of us. One of our breed and class. And we should take that into consideration.”

“She is nothing like us!” Broody brayed. “She may have started out like the rest of us, but once she started feathering out, everything changed. The way she struts with those ghastly stubs and that frightful frizzle she flaunts. It’s just raises my hackles, I’ll tell you that!”

“And the way she’s always tidbitting with her crumbles and mash and waddling her wattles in front of the younger males,” Bitty chirped. “Utterly scandalous!”

“And the endless molting, just to have a new look all the time,” added Beaks. “It’s outrageous!”

“Indeed!” Broody clucked. “She doesn’t respect the peck order at all!”

“Ladies, please!” Plumeria tried. “She is certainly unique and does occasionally act unseemly or step out of line. But none of that does any of you serious harm.”

“You want to talk about harm? Then, let’s get to the real issue,” Snotty squawked. “That dreadful heat she is constantly effusing. Raising the temperature wherever she goes. I tell you I refuse to sit next to her another summer. It’s insufferable!”

“Yes,” her twin, Totty, peeped up. “Her infernal hotness completely stifles the rest of us. Just thinking about another day with that creature makes me clench my cloaca!”

The babble erupted again. Outcries of “Awful!”, “Horrible!”, and “So offensively hot!”

“Ladies, please!” Plumeria crowed loudly.

The ladies settled once more.

“I understand your concerns,” she continued. “But you who were born in her time: surely you remember how that very warmth was welcome in your early days.”

“It was fine when we were young,” Snotty hissed. “But it is an utterly unwanted and unwelcome, flagrant flouting at this stage in life. And we in the coop are united; we want her gone.”

Silence.

Plumeria stared at the feathered wall of intransigence before her; the ladies were one in their fowl adamance.

“Very well,” Plumeria acquiesced, bowing her head. “I shall let her know. Meeting adjourned.”

So, Flouncy was banned from the coop forever more.

And the moral of the story is: Hot chicks can get burned.

Created for Leg 27 of ’s Third Eye Horror Microfiction Challenge

We had had it out.

All of it.

And here we were, my muse and I, quietly sharing space together, in the gentle acceptance of what we both knew was meant to be.

“I know I’ve been hard on you,” he said.

I shrugged.

“Ditto. In my own way,” I offered. Then: “Reciprocity is double-edged.”

“I fed you that line,” he wisecracked.

“I know,” I replied, smiling.

It was soft. Subdued. The suggestion of our breakup lingered; the ache of it still hung in the air like a phantom.

Our separation. A permanent one.

A final goodbye.

But we knew, despite the friction in the face of my fiction, we were never going to be able to do it. That neither of us were ever going to want to be without the other. That I was never gonna give him up. We were never gonna say “goodbye”. He was never gonna turn around and desert me.

Yes … you have been officially Rickrolled!

Storm studied me, his green eyes framed in furry black, as I stared at the flames in the fireplace that echoed my burning anger.

How dare she betray me? Desecrate our home? And with that oaf?

My eyes fell to the poker, and I had a flash of wielding it. Saw my arms reach for it. My fingers wrap around it.

My god! Had I completely lost my moral compass?!

No. Revenge was a lie that led you to villainy.

Storm purred, rubbing my legs. I lifted him and left the hearth, cooler already, my arms full of faithful love.

A story in 100 words, created for Day 23 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.

I and several brave others have been fighting this Beast for a while now.

Foisting our furious forays of fiction,
We aim to dismantle the fiend with our diction

We are a mighty band of diverse wordsmiths, united as one in our goal of defeating the Beast.

Wildly wielding our weapons of words
We poets and novelists, cool cats and nerds

Each piece we author, we hurl at our foe; the work of our pens hitting their marks and crippling the Beast, leg by leg, as each one is severed by our scribbled sorcery.

We fashion our phrases in powerful prose
To butcher the Beast wherever he goes

We have done well. The Beast is impaired. In pain. But the fight is not over. And so, we must carry on and not stop pitching our pens until the Beast is destroyed.

So, onward with words, this foe we shall fell
And fling the foul Beast, straight back into hell.

This prosimetrum* was created for Leg 25 of ’s Third Eye Horror Microfiction Challenge.

*A prosimetrum is a poetic composition combining prose and verse; in particular, it is a text composed in alternating segments of prose and verse.

We do not.
We are that rare exception:
a creature that is truly
one of a kind.

We belong to the bottom-feeding,
ray-finned loach species,
but
our genus is unique.
Unmatched.
Singular.
Exceptional.

We are the Theriodes sandakanensis.

In all the world,
we live only in Borneo,
in freshwater rivers and creeks.

Barely the size of your pinkie.

A tiny, quiet part of the world
you never knew.
Till now.

Hello.

Discovered for Day 24 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event via this page: https://wikiroulette.co/?p=Theriodes

What happened last:

Alex and A.J. crossed paths, Robert and the police have headed for the woods, and Scott has been forced to help Mr. Malbourne into his house. Is it a trap?

Inside Information
(Part 2)

A siren cried out in the distance. Alex heard it but couldn’t move. He knew proper haircut customer protocol. And Mrs. Malbourne must have been so focused she didn’t hear it at all, because her hands didn’t falter a beat as she toiled with the locks on the boy’s head.

“So how come you haven’t been in here, before? Almost all the boys came in before the last school dance, and I don’t remember seeing you.”

“I didn’t go.”

“You didn’t go? Now, why on earth not?”

Alex shrugged. He didn’t really know what to say.

“Don’t tell me a handsome boy like you doesn’t have a girl.”

Alex blushed.

“I … uh …” he babbled.

“Worry not,” she said. “I’ll bet there’s someone who has their eye on you and they’re just too shy to come out and ask you out. So, I tell you what. We’ll make you look extra sharp and see if we can’t help speed things along.”

Alex hoped she could do it. After all, he did, once again, have a date...

***

The ambulance sped along, tailing the police car, their sirens blaring. Robert sat in the front seat with Deputy Hearn to guide them to the scene; Officer Phillips sulked in the back, still a little pissed at being yelled at.

“There!” Robert said, pointing.

The cars careened to the edge of the woods and skidded to a halt.

“All right, son,” Deputy Hearn said hastily. “Lead the way.”

***

Scott had helped Mr. Malbourne to the nearest couch and now he stood, not knowing what to do. Mr. Malbourne had bent forward, put his head in his hands, and begun deep breathing. The door remained open, so Scott knew he could bolt if he needed to. But Mr. Malbourne’s pain seemed so real. And Scott knew it was rude for him to leave the door open. And he didn’t know what else to do. So, he went to the door and, hating to see the escape route disappear, slowly closed it.

He turned back to look at Mr. Malbourne. The man had lifted his head and met his eyes. Scott froze in his tracks.

***

“Oh, my god!”

“What is it?!”

“Oh, my GOD!” Robert was getting crazed—chills creeping across his flesh.

“Son, what is it?!?” Deputy Hearn repeated.

Robert pointed at the empty forest floor.

“They were right here! I left them right here!”

“Are you sure?” Officer Phillips tried.

“Of course, I’m sure!” Robert barked. He looked around. Eyes searching madly. Then they flew open wide. “Oh, Jesus! He’s got him! The son of a bitch has got him!”

“Who’s got him?”

“Mr. Malbourne!” Robert cried as he bolted in the direction of the Malbourne home.

“ROBERT!” Hearn called out. But the boy flew off, leaving the two cops abandoned.

“Shit,” Hearn said.

“What do we do?” Phillips queried.

“We follow him. And for his sake there had better be something to this!”

They charged off, on the chase.

***

A.J. didn’t feel in the least like she had sold anything. She hadn’t told anyone to come into Pops; that would have felt like selling. But with Mrs. Malbourne, it was different. It was so natural to want to help her. And the more girls that came into the shop, she told herself, the more customers I’ll have eventually, too.

She entered the barber shop with her two full cups of ice cream.

“Hey, A.J.” Alex said from the chair.

“Hey, Alex.”

“You two know each other?” Mrs. Malbourne quizzed.

“Everybody knows A.J.” Alex said.

“That’s what I was hoping!” Mrs. Malbourne returned, giving A.J. a quick wink.

“I got Chocolate Fudge Fantasy and Macadamia Nut Madness.”

“They both sound good. You start on one and I’ll have the other when I finish with this handsome young man.”

Alex blushed again. Maybe he was handsome. Maybe John thought so, too. Maybe things were going to get better.

***

Scott retrieved a bottle of pills from the bathroom per Mr. Malbourne’s instructions. Then he entered the kitchen to get a glass of water. The kitchen. He hadn’t been here for what seemed a century. And as he walked to the sink, he stepped over the rug that had been placed over the trap door to the cellar and whatever lay below.

Denise, are you down there? he wondered, fleetingly. Then, he recalled the plan he wanted to discuss with A.J. But first things first. First, he had to get out of this house.

He found a glass, filled it with water, and returned to the front room.

“Here you go,” he said, handing the water and the pills to Mr. Malbourne. The man took them with a word of gratitude that expressed pain more than anything else. Scott watched him take two pills and swallow them down with water.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Malbourne replied, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I just need to rest. Thank you.”

“Okay, then. I’ll shut the door on the way out.” He was almost out the door when Mr. Malbourne called out.

“What was your name, again?”

Scott stopped, caught. He turned back. The idea of lying crossed his mind for a moment. But it felt wrong. And he remembered he’d already told him earlier.

“Scott,” he offered. Mr. Malbourne looked at him without responding. As if waiting for more. Scott caved. “Benedict. Scott Benedict,” he finished.

Mr. Malbourne’s look didn’t change. Then, he blinked and seemed to nod his head the slightest. He curled his lips in something resembling a weak smile.

“Thank you, Scott Benedict.”

Scott nodded. Then, he turned, scooted out the door and closed it behind him. He stood on the porch, a wave of relief and regret hitting him at once. Relief to be out of that house. Regret because—

Now he knows my name!

***

Alex left the barber shop in a great state of excitement. He started to run the minute he came out the door. He almost smacked right into Cindy Tanaka.

“Sorry,” he said as he ran on.

“Uh…sure,” she replied, a little ruffled. Then, she stepped into the shop.

“Cindy! What are you doing here?!” a surprised A.J. said.

“I just got off work,” Cindy replied. “And I want a haircut!”

***

The man with the sideburns sat in the coffee house across the way, staring out the window at the barbershop for some time. But he had gone to get a refill and when he returned to his table, he remained standing for a moment to make sense of what he saw. Alex had left and some new girl had arrived to take his place. And he had not seen which direction the boy had gone. Slowly, he sat back down, pensive and brooding. He stared at his coffee, watching the steam evaporate. A part of him wished he could do the same.

***

Robert charged out the woods and across the grass to the house. The policemen and paramedics followed fifty or so yards behind. As Robert rounded the corner of the house, he saw Scott closing the front door behind him.

“Scott!”

Scott turned and put his finger to his lips and said “Sssshhhh!”

Robert stopped, panting and looking confused.

“What happened?”

“He woke up.”

Scott started down the porch steps. The police came around the corner. Scott stopped. The paramedics came around the corner.

“Jesus,” Scott said, a little overwhelmed.

“Where’s the injured man?” a paramedic asked.

Scott came forward. “There isn’t one.”

“What?!” Officer Phillips looked a little ticked off. Turned to glare at Robert.

“Please lower your voices,” Scott said. “Mr. Malbourne is fine. He had a bad migraine and he fainted. That’s all. He woke up and I helped him get home and take his medicine. He’s resting. That’s it. I’m sorry we bothered you. But Robert and I didn’t know what else to do but get help in case…”

Deputy Hearn took over. “You did the right thing, boys. It’s just … well we’re all a little on edge after all we’ve had going on here the past month or so.”

Then he continued with a more serious tone: “Now we do need to be alert for real emergencies, so if you boys can try to keep out of trouble, we’d appreciate it.”

“But we were—” Robert started.

“Keeping out of the woods would do for a start,” Hearn added, cutting him off. Both boys knew the issue of the woods was a lost argument.

“Yes, sir,” Scott said.

“All right, then. Let’s get you boys home.”

***

While the police escorted Scott and Robert home, Alex checked out his new hair in the mirror, wondering if it helped him look a little more mature—maybe even handsome. Suddenly, something about his reflection caught him off guard. He had focused so much on his hair, he didn’t really see how the new cut framed his face. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something seemed different. Had the shorter cut with sharp clean edges done some magic, or had he only noticed this moment how his jawline seemed a little firmer, a little squarer? Either way, he realized he could finally see he no longer looked like a boy. He looked like a young man. His cheeks involuntarily pulled his lips up into a wide smile.

Finally, he thought.

***

Scott called A.J. when she got home from work and relayed in detail what had transpired with Mr. Malbourne. Then they arranged a meeting to talk about Scott’s idea regarding the cellar.

***

Cindy went home sporting her new haircut and called her friend Julie to sneak out and meet at the bowling alley.

“Are you crazy?” Julie asked. “What about the curfew?”

“Screw it,” Cindy said. “I just had my hair done. You think I wanna sit at home? Come on. Don’t be a chicken. Seven-thirty.”

“Okay,” Julie agreed. “But don’t be late like you always are. Robert DeNiro’s got a thing for me, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Cindy replied. “I’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

***

It would not be okay.

Thank you for reading! I’ll be adding new installments every Saturday, so use the following link to the home page to navigate to the latest chapter:

THE RITUAL - Home Page