I heard Mom and Dad argue. It was a lot louder than their other fights. They were worried about getting caught and they didn’t know what to do with me. I felt bad because I never wanted to hurt Mom and Dad.

His name was Cleveland, by the way. He was a St. Bernard, like Cujo. Dad let me watch Cujo when I was six, but I think I was too young to watch that movie. A policeman died.

Cleveland is in my backyard now. He’s in the spot with no grass. There are three other spots. Cleveland is behind the porch.

After we buried him, I went to school. Mom made me. She kept crying in the car. Maybe she noticed that Dad didn’t cry and wanted to make up for it. Her face was red. That’s my favorite color. Her face made me sad, though.

I sat in the car like a good boy. The radio was loud. I asked Mom why she didn’t make my lunch and why she gave me a hundred dollar bill instead. I thought it was a mistake, but she said no. She told me to buy milk and a sandwich. I said that milk and a sandwich was a dollar and a half, not a hundred dollars. She didn’t hear me. She told me I was sitting in the car like a good boy. I like when she notices.

I wanted her to turn down the radio, but she didn’t. So I did. I sat too far away and couldn’t reach the button with my fingers, so I changed the station with my foot. Mom yelled at me to stop. I should use my hands, like a normal person. She was mad, but she said she was sorry for yelling. Next time, I will use my hands.

We got to my school. It’s big and has a lot of students, even sixth graders. The science fair is in three weeks. I already knew I was going to use bugs.

I told Mom good-bye, but she stopped me with her hand. She said I love you and she kissed me on the forehead. Her face was wet. She said I love you a bunch of times. I was almost late to class.

Mrs. Nelson is my teacher. She’s tall. Ronny said that sometimes he can see up her skirt. I think he’s lying and I think he’s gross.

I sat next to Julie W. and Tom. Tom’s funny and gets to watch TV late at night. I said hello to Tom and he said hi. He smiles a lot. I think he will need braces when he’s bigger.

When class started, we learned about old stuff, like history and slaves. Mrs. Nelson said it was really bad to be a slave and they had to work in the fields a lot digging up grass and stuff. They couldn’t be with their families or their cousins. They could only work all the time and sometimes sing songs. I didn’t understand. There were lots of them and they had shovels and pitchforks and I’m sure they were angry. Why couldn’t they just fight back and not be slaves? Why couldn’t they just hurt the other people and say we don’t want to be slaves? I asked Mrs. Nelson that, but she said it was more complicated. I don’t think it was complicated at all. They had pitchforks.

I stood up and argued with Mrs. Nelson because she was acting stupid. She told me to sit down and I did, but only because everyone was watching. Sometimes, I don’t really listen to what Mrs. Nelson says. She’s not my mom.

Julie W. touched my shoulder with her fingers and told me to be quiet. She didn’t want me to get in trouble. She smiled. I like Julie W. a lot better than Mrs. Nelson sometimes.

At recess time, I played on the jungle gym. I made up this game where the ground is lava and if you touch the ground you burn. It was fun. I explained the game to Ronny, but he thought it was stupid, so when he wasn’t looking I made his nose bleed. Then I played jump rope.

After recess, we learned math stuff. That was when I talked to Tom. He told me a joke about black people. He heard it from his dad. Tom is kind of poor.

Mrs. Nelson stopped the math lesson early. She said we needed to focus, so she pulled out cards and we played math bingo instead. I like focusing.

Lunch was weird. I tried to buy a sandwich and milk, but the lunch lady got surprised by my hundred dollar bill and sent me to the principal. She didn’t tell me why. I didn’t like her because her eyes looked kind of mean. She’s only the lunch lady, so why should I listen to her? Before I left, she had an accident and she burned her hand off.

When I saw Principal Miller, I was real hungry. I told him and he gave me a sucker. I tried to say that the sucker was bad. We learned about the food pyramid once. He said eat the sucker and I ate it. I like green apple. It makes my mouth get small. Mr. Miller asked me where I got my hundred dollars, and I told him that my mom gave it to me and she was crying. Mr. Miller tried to call Dad at work, but he wasn’t there. He tried calling Mom and she wasn’t there either. Mr. Miller was confused. He gave me another sucker.

An ambulance came and Mr. Miller heard the news from the secretary and left. The secretary took me back to class. She said Mr. Miller was busy. Mr. Miller gets busy real fast.

When I got back to class, all the other kids were walking through the door. They had to leave the cafeteria early. Some of them were really scared or really sad, and I think it was my fault. Mrs. Nelson let us play heads-up-seven-up for a while until the buses took us home. It was a half day, I guess.

My bus smells like chocolate. It’s bus #3.

When I got home, no one was there. I rang the bell three or four or maybe even seven times, but no one was home. My face felt like summertime and I got real worried. Mom can always tell when I’m worried because I bite my lip and I play with my shirt. But Mom wasn’t there and I was very alone. I stood on the porch with my backpack and a thermos.

I jiggled the doorknob but it was locked. Dad always leaves a key under a rubber rock, mostly for Uncle Christian but sometimes for Mom when she forgets things. No one is supposed to know that the rock is fake, so I try to be a secret agent when I use it. I waited till the neighbor lady finished her watering, then I scooped it up and twisted the key and ran inside. I was proud. No one saw.

The lights were still on in the TV room. There’s a light on the ceiling fan and a lamp too and they were both on. I knew in my insides that Mom wasn’t home. I guess the principal never got to talk to her.

I felt weird because I knew I was too young to be alone. I was doing a bad thing and Mom and Dad would fight again. I don’t like doing bad things, because Mom and Dad always get disappointed.

I’m not supposed to watch TV without Mom in the room, so I sat on the couch and colored. I waited for a long time. I finished coloring all the animals and I went pee two times, that’s how long I waited.

I wanted Mom and I started crying again. I don’t like being home alone because I need supervision. Things break.

Usually when I have nothing to do, I play with Cleveland. But I couldn’t anymore. He died in the morning. I wish I hadn’t played so hard.

I went to the kitchen and made cereal. I remembered what Mom said in the car, so I used my hands to pour the cereal. That way, I was normal. It was tough for me, because the milk was heavy. My hands aren’t very strong. I’m kind of small for my age.

It got darker and I called 9-1-1. I told the lady that my parents never came home. She sent some people to get me.

Soon, a lot of grown-ups knocked on the door. A fat old woman asked me a bunch of questions. She wore bright colors. She asked if my parents had any weird people come to visit and I said no. She asked if they argued and I said yes, but only after I did something bad. I didn’t tell her about the babysitters that Mom and Dad buried under the grass. Dad always said that they were our secret and if people found out that I was special and that I could make bad stuff happen, I would get in big trouble. The old lady was nice and stayed with me in a new house for the night.

The policemen found Mom and Dad the next day. They were running away and staying at a motel in Arizona. I’m going to see them again at the courthouse. They probably don’t want to see me. They probably were running away from me because I’m bad.

Mom and Dad made me angry. At the courthouse, I think I will be bad again.

He flipped the coin high. His reflexes were slowed by the half-dozen beers he’d drunk, one at each bar between the mail sorting station where he worked and his Hell’s Kitchen home. The coin glanced off his hand and bounced away before falling down a sewer grating.

Bill stared at the grating momentarily. “Tails,” he murmured, and went inside.

As he climbed from the third floor to the fourth, he prayed that, despite the demon’s words last evening and despite its nightly presence, it simply wouldn’t be there tonight. That it would have left as suddenly as it had arrived.

The door edged open and his hopes crumbled. He could smell it there, smoke and lavender and dead things. Even after coming home to this for weeks it made him ill. The smell wafted into the hall along with low sounds from the radio. The Great Gildersleeve, Bill realized dully. He opened the door the rest of the way and went inside.

“Evening, Bill,” said the demon, reaching with a clawed hand to silence the radio. “I’ve been waiting quite a while. Thought maybe you got it in your head you could ditch me.”

“No,” Bill said. “Nothing like that. Just…” He waved a hand before letting loose an incongruous laugh. “Just getting drunk.”

The demon eyed him. “Not too drunk, I hope. You know what I expect.”

Bill nodded. He reached under his jacket and felt the envelope tucked in there. “You’ll get it. But I’m going to have a drink of water first.” He nodded goofily and wondered if it maybe had been seven or eight bars, seven or eight beers. “Wet the old whistle, you know.”

The demon arched an eyebrow. “Quite.” It settled itself deeper into Bill’s armchair. “Don’t be long. I’m already tired.”

Bill filled a tumbler with water, lukewarm from the tap. Why couldn’t the demon be happy with the stories all around, in the libraries, the bookstores? “I know all them,” it had told Bill that first night. “Ever since I destroyed Alexandria, I’ve known every catalogued word of man.”

“Why me?” Bill had asked.

The demon had just given a hideous smile. “Why not?” was its only reply.

Bill tried creating his own stories but he wasn’t an imaginative man and the demon quickly grew tired of these. “Maybe I should just kill you now,” it had said last night. “I could find someone more clever.”

He begged for one more chance, one more night, and the demon granted it to him. All morning long, on the way to work, as he sorted the mail, Bill tried to come up with a story which would satisfy his tormentor. No ideas came to him except ones which even he knew would be hopeless.

Desperation bubbled up inside of him as his shift continued. Running wouldn’t help. He’d tried that once before and the demon had just shown up, as always, at Bill’s new apartment.

Walking across the sorting floor he noticed a long box stuffed full of large envelopes. They triggered a memory in him, deliveries he had made once when another carrier had been sick. He walked over and just a glance at the addresses confirmed his memory. Bill grabbed one from the box and hid it away. The rest of the day he expected someone to come up to him and demand it back. No one did.

But the later the hour got and the longer the shadows got, the less confident Bill was in his plan. So he stayed out and drank like there was no tomorrow. For him, there just might not be.

Now, he’d stalled as long as he could manage. He had an empty water glass and the sealed envelope.

“I’m waiting,” called the demon.

Bill went back into the other room. He sat down, the envelope on his lap.

A moment later he tore it open. He tossed the smaller envelope aside along with the cover letter addressed to Mr. Carson, editor at Colossal Science Fiction.

Bill cleared his throat.

“The rocket ship to Venus sliced through the solar system,” he began. “Rick Judson piloted it with a steady hand, knowing the settlers on Earth’s twin anxiously awaited his delivery of supplies.”

Bill glanced up. The demon’s head was tipped back, its eyes closed, and maybe there was even the hint of a smile on its face.

One eye cracked open. “Go on,” it said.

Bill turned back to the page. “The war had been tough on those settlers. The Martian rebels had blown up three supply ships just like Rick’s in the past month.”

He read through to the end, even when the demon’s slow snores began halfway through the story.

Bill walked unsteadily back to his bedroom. In the morning, the demon wouldn’t be there, gone with the sun. But it would be back tomorrow night and the next.

He looked at the pages before sliding them back into their envelope. A new envelope tomorrow, fresh postage, and the mail would be back on its way.

As Bill was drifting off to sleep he realized it was Friday morning now. Saturday was his day off so he’d have to make sure to grab three envelopes tomorrow to get him and the demon through the weekend.

His stomach clenched. He’d gotten away with this today, but how many times would he be so lucky?

He couldn’t dare to think about that. For now, he had a way to stay alive and that was what mattered. And as long as he didn’t get caught, he was sure there’d be no shortage of material; there was always someone out there with a story to tell.

“Come in, Miss Victoria.  Don’t be shy.  They won’t peck you.”

Victoria managed a weak smile as the stepped into the parlour of the once-famous, long-reclusive violinist Cesaro Russo.  She tried not to look at the paintings of anguished angels in hell that adorned the walls, nor the stuffed birds perched on nearly every available surface in the room.

She straightened her shoulders and made eye contact with the wizened man, who squinted at her in mild complacence.  “Let me thank you very much for your time today, Mr Russo.  I’m sure I speak for myself and my colleagues when I say how excited I am to have this talk with you today.”

“Pah! You flatter an old man.  Will you have wine?”

“Er, no, thank you,” Victoria said, conscious she was still standing, yet every seat contained a bird, perched as if they were the observers and she, the exhibit.

Russo swiped a goldfinch off the chair across from him, then patted the seat with his gnarled hands.  With a yellow crusty nail navigating, he pointed to the violin that had been laid out haughtily in a pool of red silk on the sofa to his left, nearly the only thing in the room that was bird-free.   “Did you know, my dear, that this beauty of mine was not always black?”

Victoria sat on the edge of the chair, her body yearning toward the door.   “No.   Did you paint it?”

Russo chuckled, which turned into a hacking cough.   She winced as spittle splattered from his mouth, and landed less than an inch from her shoe.  She edged away, and her chair scraped the polished wood floor.

He wiped his mouth with a tatted handkerchief and tutted.   “Ah, Miss Victoria.   Your emotions are splayed across your face like a wanton woman on a satin-covered bed.   You are a journalist?  Find your mask, and wear it at all times.   Don’t let on so easily what you feel.   It could be your doom.”

She cringed.  Was that a threat? “Um, thank you for the advice.  Can you tell me a little about how you first became interested in the violin, Mr Russo?”

He held up his twisted hand.   “Patience.   Please.   I must confess, I agreed to this interview for one reason only.   You have a list of prepared questions to ask me, no doubt, and you would record my answers on your little machine.   But I care not for that.   I will not demand, for I am a gentleman, but I will request you listen to me, Miss Victoria.  No prepared questions, no easily digestible answers for the printed page.  Will you listen?”

Victoria sank back against the chair.   She forced a smile.  “Of course, sir.” She supposed an eccentric man’s ravings could be more interesting than questions about his childhood, or his favourite ice cream flavour (suggested to her by an intern).

She wouldn’t ask him about the birds.

Russo smiled, revealing wine-stained teeth.   “I thank you.”  He cleared his throat.

Victoria steadied her face against the squelching sound.

He smirked at her knowingly.  “My love has been lost to me for years.   Decades.   And the fault is all mine.   For she was a proud little bird, and I, so weak, that I clipped her wings.   And on the day she spilled her own blood, my violin, which I had played for her so many times in hopes of soothing her frenzied soul, turned black.”

Victoria frowned.   “Are you saying it turned black on its own?”

He chuckled.   “Not on its own.   Of course not.   Her agony, her pain, her fury caused it.  She had an iron will, my little bird.   She was an enchantress.   Magic wove through her very being, and with that magic she has kept herself away from me.”

He fiddled with the signet ring on his pinkie finger.  “I see her island in the distance.   But I can get no closer, no matter how fast or hard I swim or row.   I will never reach her.” He took a long drink of wine, and set the glass next to a stuffed owl.  “Unless, that is, I do as she wishes.   And I have made peace with this.  I know what I deserve.  Justice will come to me.”

Icy spiders crawled across Victoria’s skin.   “W-what do you mean?” she stammered.  Her tablet began to slide out of her hands, and she thrust it back into her lap, her heart sliding as well.

He grinned and shook his head.   “Miss Victoria, your simplicity touches my soul, truly.   You need not even ponder it.   Only witness.”

He eased himself from the chair, and took hold of the violin.   She watched as he gripped it by the neck, then slashed the strings with a knife.   A gut-piercing screech ripped the air, and he threw back his head and laughed, before collapsing.  Blood spattered from his mouth as his head hit the floor.  “I am coming to her at last,” he whispered, and his eyes rolled back, showing only whiteness.

“Mr Russo?” Victoria broke from her stupor and hurried over to him.  She put her head to his chest, praying to hear his heartbeat.

Nothing.

She let out a shuddering sigh, and sank back onto her knees.  She dug out her phone from her pocket, and dialled 999.

As she stammered out what had happened, she heard a slow rumble, which turned into a frantic, massive fluttering as all the birds began to flap their wings.

Victoria scrambled up from the floor, and choked in horror as ravens began to peck at Russo’s face.  She fled from the room before she could watch the birds enact their grim justice.

The move had been anything but smooth.  Her two friends bailed on her, so she had done it all on her own, with her trusty Toyota Corolla.  Originally she planned on riding the bus or her bike to and from work, but eighteen blocks stood between her and the bus line and her bike was stolen the second night she moved in.  The super had told her it was safe to leave her bike in the downstairs hallway, but he’d been wrong.

Thanks, asshole.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the thief broke the bell she’d had on every bike since she was five.  Why was that necessary?  She’d put the pieces in a sandwich bag and stowed it in one of the kitchen drawers missing a handle.  Taylor wasn’t sure what she was going to do with them exactly.  It wasn’t like she was going to be able to fix it.  They were beyond any amount of duct tape or super glue, but she couldn’t leave them all over the hallway.

Walking up the steps, making yet another trip between her car and the apartment, she heard someone cussing on the landing.

“Morning Taylor,” her neighbor, Mr. Eastland said as he fumbled with his keys.

“Mr. Eastland, how are you today?” she asked, wondering if she should help him with his key.

“Be better if I could get this damn lock to open.”

She didn’t think the lock was the problem.  His hands had bad tremors and his key kept skittering around the faceplate.

“Can I give you a hand?” she asked, adjusting her back pack on her shoulder.

He paused for a moment, before turning to her and saying, “Yes, please.  My hands aren’t so good anymore.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to get them to open even for me, Mr. Eastland.”

“Thanks for saying that, but I know my hands are for shit these days.  Thanks Taylor.”

“No problem.  Talk to you later,” she said, as she unlocked her apartment and went inside.

It was still an incredible feeling when she walked into her apartment.  It was hers, all of it.  Well, not really hers, she was just renting it, but it felt like it was.

Taking stock of her apartment, her eyes looked at the chipped paint of the wall, showing four different colors.  It made her wonder how many years were behind that paint.  The cracks in the ceiling looked like spider webs, branching and stretching outward to every corner.  Bits of peeling paint tried to escape, but still held fast.

The stove only had one burner that worked, which was perfectly fine with her and the dishwasher door had to be held closed with a bungie cord, but at least it worked.  She liked to think of this has her starter apartment.  Some people bought starter homes, why couldn’t this be a starter apartment?

Her phone rang.  Picking it up, she realized it was her mother.

Great.

“Hello?”

“Hi sweetie.”

She wandered over to the window, but quickly turned away when she realized that Rubio was across the courtyard, just like he always was, staring at her.  When he found out she’d moved in, he immediately tried inviting himself over for any number of stupid reasons.  She knew he just wanted to get in her pants and that wasn’t happening.

“Are you still there?” her mom asked.

“Yes, mom.  Sorry, I was putting some things away.”

“Oh.  Do you have everything you need?”

Taylor sighed loudly.

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Mom, I’m perfectly capable of surviving on my own.  You know like buy my own food and pay bills and even cook the food.  I’m not an invalid.”

She could hear her mom shift the phone to her other ear.

“I know you’re a very capable young lady.”

Lady?  What was this the 1950’s?

“Then don’t worry so much, okay?”

“It’s a mother’s right to worry about her kids.  I don’t want you to get into any trouble.  You’re living in a pretty rough neighborhood.  Why just last night they reported a big drug bust and your father said he’d read about a murder just a block away from you.”

Her fingers traced the outline of the tattoo on the outside of her calf, the skin still a little raised and inflamed.  It was a small bird breaking free of a bramble bush.  She’d gotten it when she moved out to celebrate.

Wonder what mom would think of that?

“Murders happen everywhere mom.  Remember Mrs. Rowan tried to kill Mr. Rowan just three doors down, mom.”

“That was the alcohol.  She’s much better now.”

Good for her.

“I’m going to get off here, mom.”

Apparently not hearing her, she listened as her mom said, “Your dad wants me to remind you about having the super check the furnace.  He’s worried about it giving off too much carbon monoxide.  He’s picked up one of those sensor things for-.”

“Mom.”

“-you.  It just runs off of a 9 volt battery.”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“I already have one.  I picked it up yesterday.”

“Did you al-?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well dad was just worried about it,” her mom said.

Someone knocked on her door.  She didn’t want to go answer it.  Taylor knew who it was.  She grabbed a handful of hair and tugged a bit.  It was a childhood habit.

“Was that your door?”

She closed her eyes and answered, “Yes, mom.”

“Well, aren’t you going to answer it?”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Why not?”

“Mom, please.  I’m old enough to decide when to answer the door.”

“Okay, okay.  Don’t forget about the furnace.”

“I won’t.  I have to go, mom.”

There was silence filled with judgment.

“Okay.  Love you.  Bye.”

“Bye.”

She carefully walked up to the peephole and looked through it.  Rubio was there, just like she knew he would be, leaning against the wall in front of her door.  He had an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, and toothpick dancing around in his mouth, his long hair looked unwashed and greasy.

Taylor had no intention of opening the door.

The door was locked and she wasn’t worried about him getting in, but she couldn’t stay inside all day.  Taylor had to be at work in a couple of hours, which reminded her she needed to shower.

The blessed shower.

That was the one thing that did work and one thing she was forever thankful for.  It was always hot and had tons of water pressure.  She loved taking long showers, letting the heat soothe her aches away, filling the bathroom with the smell of cherry blossoms.  It had become a little bit of a sanctuary.  She was able to close out most of the sounds from the passing trains and all of the noise from her neighbors.

Reaching behind the curtain, she turned on the water.  A small squeak sounded as the water started to flow.  She let it run for a few moments as she undressed, clothes falling to the floor.

Stepping into the shower, she dipped her head into the water and smiled.  She lingered for quite a while letting the water spill over her as she shed the grimy layers the day coated her with.  Scented suds and hot water made her whole again.  After a few moments, she turned off the water.  The shower head dripped a few times just like it always did and she realized she was standing in water.  It was just above her ankle.

The tub wasn’t draining.

She first thought the loofah had fallen from the cute little shelf she hung over the shower head and blocked the drain.  It was still in its place.  Grabbing the towel off the rack, she dabbed her face dry and squeezed handfuls of her hair with it for a few moments before putting it back.  She bent over and ran her fingers, beneath the sudsy water, obscuring the drain.

Dragging her fingers across the drain, she felt something come free in her grasp and then heard the water begin to drain.  She looked at her hand and realized there was some of her hair and what looked like fingernail sized white shavings.  They were curled and, as she pinched them between her fingers, they were pliant and flexed.

What the heck were these things?

They must’ve come from somewhere.  As she looked at her feet, another one fell into the tub startling her.  She looked up and frowned.  Across the ceiling, hanging down from some of the cracks were bits of peeling paint.  The steam must’ve loosened them.

What next?

She got herself as together as she could.  And, although she wasn’t altogether happy with what looked back at her from the mirror, she headed out.  Twice she had to come back up the stairs, once for her sunglasses—there was no way she was able to drive in the bright sunshine without them—and once for her car keys.  Thankfully, she didn’t see Rubio either time, which was a minor miracle.

She saw that as a good sign.

However, as she got in her car, almost blistering her hand on the seatbelt as she buckled up, she noticed the note under her windshield wiper.  She wasn’t about to get out of the car, so instead, she turned on the wipers.  It lifted it up to the edge of the windshield and she reached out the window and plucked it from under the wiper.

She was so bad ass.

The almost nonexistent air conditioning flowed through the car as she unfolded the paper and read the single sentence.

Don’t talk to my man no more.

She turned the note over, thinking there was more.  There had to be, right?  But, there wasn’t.  What the hell was this?

Since she’d moved in a little more than a month ago, Taylor had talked to exactly four men.  The super, who was practically handicapped, her neighbor across the hall, who was always smoking dope out on his balcony and unconscious most of the time, the elderly Mr. Leland, and that winner, Rubio.  She knew Rubio didn’t have a girl.  He was always hanging out with a few rough looking guys that drove low riders.  She didn’t think Mr. Leland was married and probably lived alone.  The pot head never had girls over, just the same group of skeezy looking guys.  The super was divorced, his wife lived in New Mexico or something with her sister.

Who would’ve left that crazy note?

—✤—

Her eyes snapped open, the room dark.  Something made her wake up, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.  Looking at her clock, sighing at the time, she listened carefully.  A random thought that Rubio was at her door, trying to get in, bubbled up in her mind, but she quickly dismissed that idea.  He wasn’t that stupid.  Besides that wasn’t his style.

Then the rumble sounded, gentle thunder sorting the clouds in the night sky.  To her, it sounded so strange.  It wasn’t like any thunder she’d heard before.  Taylor’s hand was on the way to the lamp, when the lick of lightning behind her makeshift towel curtain warned of the approaching storm.  Dancing drops started to hit her window, the sound soothing.  More thunder rumbled, this time sounding much closer, as the rain picked up its tapping against the glass.  Even with the thunder, Taylor drifted off to sleep with the smattering of drops a cadence to her dreams.

—✤—

Stretching, as her iPhone woke her, she realized the sun wasn’t very bright.  She wondered if it was still raining.  Taylor yawned as she pulled the covers aside, hearing something ratting in the folds of the comforter.  Drawing it back across the bed, she realized there were more of the paint flecks dotting the comforter just like in the bathroom.

Weird.

This time there was no steam to loosen the bits of paint from the ceiling.  Taylor wondered if the thunder had shaken the building enough to knock them free.  Looking up, she noticed a few more still hanging from the ceiling, along the cracks.  She’d have to call the super and ask him to paint it.  A fresh coat of paint would do wonders to brighten the apartment.

After taking her shower and picking another half dozen of the paint shavings from the drain again, she headed to work.  She dialed the super’s number as she walked to her car.

“Hey, girl.”

Oh, no.  She quickly disconnected the call.

“Hey, Rubio.  How are you?”

“So much better now that I’m talking to this angel I know.  I haven’t seen you around much.”

“I’ve been really busy.”

He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, blowing smoke upward, away from her face.

How sweet.

“Really?  I’ve seen your car in the lot quite a bit.”

That made an icicle fall from the ceiling of her heart.

“Are you stalking me?” she asked, frowning at him, trying to give him her best bitch face.  It didn’t work.

“There isn’t much to look at here to keep my attention, you know, except you.  So, was I watching for you?  Yes.  Was I watching you?  Yes.  Am I stalking you?  Hell no girl.  I just want to get with you.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “What I’m doing, and when, is none of your business.  I’m not interested in you, Rubio.  Not interested at all.  Got it?”

He tilted his head and nodded.  She didn’t much like the way he was looking at her, and she definitely didn’t like the way the sunlight seemed lost in his eyes.  They were no longer the blue of clear skies, but rather the gray of pressed steel.  Unlocking her car, she climbed in, tossing her purse to the passenger seat and left Rubio standing in the parking lot watching her leave.  Her hands didn’t stop shaking until she pulled into work.

—✤—

“Oh, come on girl, no matter how creepy he seems, you have to be digging the attention.  I know you are.”

Tracey had been her closest friend since fifth grade.  She always had the knack for cutting through the bullshit and spelling it out.  They’d worked together at the Furniture World for almost four years.  The job didn’t pay well at all, but the hours worked out for her and she got to work with her best friend.

“I’m not like you, ya ho,” Tracey said, smiling as she sat on the stool behind the counter of the

“Ho?”

“Well, which one of us has had a weekend with four different guys on four separate dates?”

“I love that you call them dates.  You’re so cute,” Tracey said, teasing her and poking her in the arm.  “They were just hook ups.  Not dates.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Taylor said, laughing, still hugging her legs as she sat on the couch of the furniture store.  In all her time working here, she’d only sold one.  Tracey hadn’t fared much better.

“Nothing wrong with having sex,” Tracey said.

“Okay, Dr. Ruth.”

“Oh that old woman is nasty,” her friend said, wrinkling up her nose.  “Wonder how did she did her research?”

“Wow, that’s gross,” Taylor managed as they laughed together.  “I don’t have a problem with sex.”

“Other than you’re not having any.”

Responding with her middle finger, and a sarcastic sneer, Taylor said, “That aside, I’m not hooking up with Rubio.  That’s not even in the realm of possibility.  I’m pretty sure his hair is overdue for an oil change, which makes me wonder what else on him needs an oil change if you know what I mean.”

“One too many times at the free clinic kind of change?”

“Bingo,” she said, tapping the tip of her nose.

“Say no more.”

“I could get his number for you,” Taylor said, smiling, “I’m sure he’d be interested.”

“I’m not interested in your discard pile,” Tracey said, sticking her tongue, “thank you very much.”

Two customers came in, one looking for end tables and the other looking for a loveseat.  Although they didn’t buy anything it did help the last hour of the day go by quickly.

After her shift was over she had back to her apartment.  Driving up the street, she looked at her apartment complex parking lot, hoping to come in under Rubio’s radar.  Taylor didn’t want to waste what little energy she had left on him.  She managed to park and run up the steps without seeing any sign of the fair Rubio.

Locking the door behind her, Taylor tossed her keys down on the table and kicked off her shoes.  She didn’t even eat anything.  Instead, she threw off her clothes and walked into the shower.  Letting it run, steam wiping a damp hand across the mirror, the curtain billowing outward, she stepped into the hot water.

As she dipped her head backward, she heard a low rumble.  She didn’t care if it was raining or not.  She was staying in for the night and she liked the sound of rain against the windows.  Another few rumbles sounded and it brought up the memory of something her mom told her as a child.  Her mom had said you shouldn’t shower in a thunderstorm because you could be struck by lightning.  Even when she was little, Taylor thought it was a ridiculous superstition. If her mom knew she was in the shower while it was thundering outside, she’d have a fit.

The drain backed up again.  She reached down to fish out the pieces of paint that had flaked off again.  Looking up, she noticed that there were far more pronounced cracks than she remembered, and quite a bit more paint peeling along the edges of the cracks.  It made her wonder if the roof was leaking into the attic area above her.  Maybe that’s why they cracks were getting worse.

Walking into the bedroom, wrapping the towel around her, she noticed the cracks seemed worse in here too.  As she picked up the flakes on her bed, she stopped, seeing the bright sunshine through the bedroom window.

Where was the storm?

Taylor walked to her front window and looked at the sky, wondering where the storm clouds were.  She’d heard thunder, but the sky was filled with puffy bits of clouds and blue sky.  Something caught her eye, someone standing near her car.

It was Rubio.

He waved to her and smiled.  A skanky looking girl walked up and put an arm around his waist, her free hand giving he a one finger salute.

Perfect.

The rumble sounded again, causing more flakes to fall from the ceiling.  One of them landed on her bare shoulder, a pinprick of ice.  It was so cold.  Picking it off of her skin, she looked at it.  Something about it wasn’t the same as the ones from the shower.

Another rumble made her look up and she froze.  The ceiling cracks were moving in sea of motion, swirling and sweeping into one another.  She stared, a scream caught in her throat, as the movement spun across the ceiling again.

The cracks weren’t cracks after all.

Taylor realized they were folds of skin.  A flat serpent like creature was curling itself across the ocean of her ceiling, knocking off bits of its skin with the motion.

The flakes were scales.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was already too late.  The thing dropped from above, thin and nearly transparent, it unhinged its jaw and hungrily fumbled its way around her head and then along the length of her body, until she was completely devoured.  With a few gurgles and several snaps, the thing flattened her body out with sickening precision before carefully returning to its lair across the ceiling.

The knock on the door was followed by a voice asking, “Taylor?  I know you’re there.  Look, that girl don’t mean nothing to me.  I saw you wave to me.  You know you look fine girl.  Come on now.  Are you really gonna make me stay out here and not even answer your door?  Come on girl.”

He kept knocking

And knocking.

She was two-thirds of the way through the report when she froze at “…subject then proceeded to systematically break its ribs away from its sternum (see diagram link here) following by using its left hand to remove its heart (see video segment link here).” She had no intention of biasing her mind with video prior to finishing the report. She turned away a moment to flip through the hanging white lab coats, making sure she retrieved the correct one. Ah. She glanced at the embossed name, ‘Junka Sato,’ just below the name and logo of her employer: Neuroi Company, just outside of Sapporo, in the northern island of Hokkaido, Japan.

She looked to read the next line. Her lab coat fell from her hand. “… at which point the subject consumed its own heart. Repeated viewings of the video (link here) have not conclusively determined if the subject was laughing or crying at the time.”

Her thumb hit the message tab. ‘On my way,’ she sent to Ito. She picked up her coat and walked quickly out the door and down the hall. She skimmed the rest of the report as she did. So, once the alarms started going off, the night-shift monitors did nothing; that’s about all they were good for, she thought. It wasn’t until her deputy, Ito, got there thirty minutes ago that the subject was restrained – although she did not put up any resistance – and attempted to make . . . repairs. During which he dictated this report to her.

‘Images follow.’ She slowed for just a moment, but sped up again as she scrolled down. The first two were from the file: the body of the girl in her early teens they’d recovered from the hospital. Long typically black Japanese hair. Her eyes, taped open for the shot, were a light gray; obviously someone interesting up her family tree.

The next was from a few days after the installation of the SymCom unit, the symbiotic quantum processor. There were often physiological changes when the unit began to integrate and take control of a body. In the case, the hair turned white in a matter of hours. The eyes of this one, though, had remained the same. She kept scrolling, recalling what unfolded over the next three days.

The unit showed basic motor-reflexes, but only animal intelligence. They already had two other of these idiot monkeys under observation, so she had made the decision to take the next step: the implantation of a macrobe. She recalled watching the Shinto priests through the glass, Ito standing next to her. He called it magic; she called it Clarke’s Third Law. He called it a spirit; she thought macrobe more keeping with scientific terminology. After the priests left and the room cleared, Ito pressed the button the released the restraints.

The change was obvious: the subject immediately sat up, looking about curiously. It looked at the through the glass. What the…? Had the SymCom unit just now gotten to the eyes? They were red.

It smiled. She’d felt Ito shudder next to her. The subject moved: swinging its legs off the table and standing. It moved to the door. Noting there was no handle, it ran its hands over the metal for a moment, then turned and walked to the window.

“Awwwk! Kek… raaah!” It tried to speak. It seemed as surprised as they were by the sounds that came out of its mouth.

“Your processor has not yet mastered your vocal cords,” Junka Sato had said, toggling the microphone. “Do you understand?”

It smiled again, its red eyes oddly flat. It returned to the table and lay down and was still.

“That’s it?” Ito had asked.

“Maybe it’s tired?” Ventured one of the techs.

“Who knows,” Sato replied, shaking her head. She looked at Ito. “Call me if there are any problems.”

She shook her head, remembering her last statement from yesterday. What the hell had gone wrong? She badged herself into the lab.

The three techs and two other researchers jumped as they turned to see who came in. Their relief was obvious. “Situation?” She asked. Doctor Suzuki pointed at the glass window.

The subject was on the table. Arm, leg, and neck restraints in place. Over it, in a hardened isolation suit, stood Ito. He was using sterile sheets to wipe off the last of the blood still on the torso. Sato stared at the subject’s chest . . . what in the world . . . ?

“Are those staples?” She asked, toggling the microphone. Ito held up an industrial stapler just to his left.

“Seemed to be the quickest way,” he replied.

“Kah, kah, kah!” It was the voice of a young girl, with an odd, guttural undertone. The subject?

“Can you speak, now?” Sato asked.

“Release us!” Ito took a step back.

Call that a ‘yes,’ she thought.

“I think not. You’ve badly damaged my test subject,” she looked at Ito, “and more importantly, I’ve my people in there with you.” She saw his shoulders drop slightly.

“We are a weak, little girl! No harm! Release us!” The voice grated. She flicked the mic off and held up her tablet. She scrolled back to where the links for the videos were. She tapped it.

She almost dropped her tablet. The subject sat up and looked down at itself. It tore through the skin just to the left of the sternum. Pulling the flesh aside, it systematically began tearing its ribs from its breastbone.

If it can do that to itself, it can do it to one of mine. She was aware of the gorge rising in her throat, but she kept watching.

With a wrench of its left arm, several of the ribs were broken. As blood sprayed everywhere, it forced its left hand into the chest cavity. With a sudden ninety degree twist of its wrist, it pulled the heart out . . . Sato’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the tablet . . . and raised it to its mouth –

Mic back on. “Ito! Get out of there. Now.” He moved towards the door as tech hit the button for the door release. Sato lifted the cover of the failsafe –

“Gyaaaarrrkkk!” The thing strained madly at the restraints. The door opened.

There was a crack. Its left arm was free. There was a blur as it grabbed the neck restraint. Ito was half through the door.

“Close the – !” She shouted. Another crack. It sat up. It stared its red eyes right into hers.

“We will have you, Junka Sato!” With a jerk, instead of ripping the right restraint off, it simply tore its arm loose, leaving the hand behind.

“Clear!” She heard Ito yell.

She pressed the failsafe button.

It must have known about the chaingun directly above the table as it heaved itself off to the right, tearing its feet off in the process. The bullets missed. As the gas flooded into the room, it crawled to the window. Out of their line of sight for just a second, then it suddenly stood, a hand and bloody stump pressed to the reinforced glass.

“We will!” The face was spasming and the flesh starting to melt as the gas did its work. But the red eyes never wavered from her.

“Who are you?” Sato asked, shaking. Its face almost just a skull now.

“We are Legion.”

Its head fell forward onto the glass. The red faded. For just a moment, the eyes were gray again.

“Help me…?” A tiny voice cried.

The subject collapsed to the floor as the last of its flesh melted.

There was utter silence for more than a minute. They jumped again as Ito stepped out of the antechamber into the control room. Sato took a deep breath.

“Alright. We’ve learned quite a bit from this experiment,” she said brusquely. “Once everything is cleaned up, we’ll – “

“Director?” Ito said, looking into the cloudy test chamber.

“Yes?”

“I quit.”

She stared at him as he walked past her and out the door. No one else moved.

“Well, then. Doctor Suzuki?” The doctor flinched slightly at hearing her name. “You said we’ve another subject for the next test?”

“Y… yes.” Suzuki, too, just stared at the test chamber.

“Good. We’ll start again, tomorrow. I’ll go write the report.”

“There must be something new.” Hope fluttered her ginger eyes.

“I’d kill for something new.” Charity narrowed her amber eyes.

Weary of sameness, the three decided to seek diversion this autumn evening, so they retreated up the back staircase to their dressing rooms to prepare for their outing.

Faith wore the blue dress with the suns scattered across the bodice.

Hope wore the bluer dress with the moons scattered across the shoulders.

Charity wore the bluest dress with the stars scattered across the skirt.

Faith selected the pink rouge and shaded her lips.

Hope selected the pinker rouge and shaded her lips and cheeks.

Charity selected the pinkest rouge and shaded her lips, cheeks and eyes.

They gathered in the upstairs hall, in front of the antique mirror, to inspect and be inspected. It was observed that the three looked just as fine as it was possible to look. They descended the front staircase to begin their outing.

Faith chose the red cloak.

Hope chose the redder cloak.

Charity chose the reddest cloak.

All the cloaks fastened with a clasp of a sleek, black cat with deep, green eyes.

The three floated down the porch stairs, out into the smoky fall night and stepped onto the path through the woods. The sun had set, a chill bit the air and the haze of wood fires shrouded the moonlight. They drifted silently along the misty path, anticipating what they would find.

Pretty pictures enticed them through the stark branches of the black trees, but nothing piqued their interest until they saw a large red barn, alive with laughing people and glittering lights. The three stepped out of the woods to get a better view of this spectacle. When all the cat’s green eyes glowed intensely, the three nodded and followed the rich, emerald light illuminating the path to their journey’s end.

Faith, Hope, and Charity sat against the wall of the barn, watching the square dancers mill around, the vibrant colours of their costumes bright against the dark wood of the room. The musicians tuned their instruments, calling the dancers to attention.

“I wish they would get to dancing,” Faith yearned.

“They’re here to dance so it can’t be long,” Hope implored.

“I crave to see them up there dancing,” Charity sighed.

The caller took his place, gathered the dancers to the floor and sang out the opening steps.

“I like this piece of music.” Faith nodded her head to the music.

“It’s a nice, happy tune.” Hope patted her fingers to the music.

“I wish they’d liven it up, though.” Charity clicked her tongue faster than the music.

The music sped up and the dancers followed.

“Well that’s snapped it up nicely,” Faith approved.

“They’re dancing a little livelier now,” Hope admired.

“The dancers are stepping along right sprightly,” Charity confirmed.

The dancers twirled faster and clogged harder – the fiddle sang ardently and the caller shouted frenziedly. Their skirts spun, their feet swung and they whirled gaily past the three watchers.

“This is turning into something pretty.” Faith smiled at the music.

“Now it’s becoming a dance.” Hope hummed with the music.

“They’re still too earthbound. I wish they would go faster.” Charity bounced faster than the music.

As feet tapped and hands clapped, the dancers circled swiftly around the barn, smiling and laughing at their fun.

“I wish the music would play ‘Washboard Hannah’ – that’s a nice, pretty tune.” Faith hummed a few bars, and the music changed as if it agreed with her.

“I wish the music would play ‘Bee Talk’ – that’s a nice, bouncy tune.” Hope swung her head and the fiddle sped up as if it agreed with her.

“I wish the music would play ‘Steppin’ On’ – that’s a nice, brisk tune.” Charity mimicked a few steps and the dancers copied them as if they agreed with her.

“But they’re just not fast enough,” Faith whined.

“It’s so much prettier when they’re faster,” Hope fretted.

“I know they can go faster,” Charity protested.

The dancers wheeled around the barn, skirts swirling out, feet flying, smiles frozen in place.

“Well now that’s a little better.” Faith tapped her foot.

“It’s an improvement.” Hope snapped her fingers.

“It could yet be a bit faster.” Charity clapped her hands.

The dancers flew around the barn faster and faster, their frozen smiles now rictuses, their eyes frantic, their feet blurred.

“Well there, that’s faster,” Faith approved.

“Yes, that is faster,” Hope nodded.

“Now that is dancing,” Charity smiled.

“Maybe it’s time to move on,” Faith wondered.

“I think it might be time to head elsewhere,” Hope suggested.

“I believe it is time to try something new,” Charity conjectured.

“They look like they’ll dance all night,” Faith observed.

“They look like they’ll dance together,” Hope peered.

“They look like they’ll dance forever,” Charity noted.

The three gave a long, satisfied look at the dancers. They rose and floated to the barn door, out into the early fall morning and found the path through the woods. The sun was rising, a wind was biting the air and the haze of cook stove fires coloured the dawn. They stepped lightly along the path, anticipating what they would find.

“I want something new.” Faith blinked her golden eyes.

“There must be something new.” Hope fluttered her ginger eyes.

“I’d kill for something new.” Charity narrowed her amber eyes.