Five Tales of Ancient Evil: Ol’ Bones, The God Tongue & Other Dark Legends

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Old bones by Joe Solmo Old bones is what my grandpa used to call him back in the days of black and white TVs. I've never seen him myself, but I was sure he existed. Nothing scared my grandfather. Nothing, but old bones that is. Most of the local folk will tell you they seen old bones here or there, but most of them are full of shit. For a while one of them TV crews came and and filmed the town telling stories, but that's all they were.

Shit, even farmer Kendrick over on Route 70 had a story and that son of a bitch never left his house. His fields were all overgrown like 70's bush. Our family, and the neighbors next door, we had a special deal my grandfather said. Our lands butted up with the state forest, but Papi called that his territory. He told us we could hunt in there, but we had to leave the first kill for old bones.

Kind of a sacrifice of sorts, and offering so we would leave us alone when we were out there as long as we didn't cross the markings along the creek. We would shoot a nice buck and have to leave it in the clearing. It pissed me off, but not enough to cross old bones. Usually a day or so later we'd find the carcass, most of the meat gone, strung up in the damned trees of all places.

Could it be a mountain lion? They are around, but rare, and I've never seen one in these parts, but I have seen the tracks of old bones left under the tree. I would ask my grandfather all the time what old bones looks like. He'd always say if I ever saw him, I was sure to shit my pants and run if I was lucky. Not very descriptive, I know. I pressed him once, when he took me hunting on my 16th birthday.

He had gotten me a nice 30-8-6, and we had sided it in the night before. He had gone hunting without me two days prior and gave up and offering to old bones, so my kill would be ours. We reached the tree where he had laying our buck, and we saw the tracks come into the clearing, as fresh as this morning. Big tracks, looking like a giant moose's print. We get moose now and again in northern New York, but I've never seen a bull that big.

The tracks were over a foot long. Twice as big as I've ever seen myself in these here would. His old bones just a big moose, is that what you're afraid of? I asked him, don't be simple boy. They're in a moose side run from when I got a loaded rifle, was his reply as I studied those tracks. The left track had a bit of a crack in it, like the foot had an old injury.

The right one dragged just a bit in the dirt. Then it hit me. There were only two legs. He stands up like we do. I asked looking at the circular hole in the ground and inch or so deep. There seemed to be one every 20 feet or so. Sometimes there was a little bit of a drag there as well. What could it be? Never mind how he stands. Just give him no reason to come looking for you, and you'll be just fine.

He told me as he placed his hand on my shoulder. He had lost a foot a long time ago and the artificial one never quite was comfortable for him. But it wasn't an inconvenience enough for him to keep from taking care of the deal with old bones. I kept my eyes peeled that trip, but never got a peek at old bones, even though I got the feeling something was peeping on me.

But then again I always got that feeling when I was in those woods. The deeper in the darker the forest got. One of those trees were hundred feet taller more. The old growth forest kept out all but the most persistent sunlight. It was the best hunting ground most of the time, but once in a while there wouldn't be a damn thing around. No birds, no game, nothing. Just dead silence in the forest.

On those trips we learned to give up early and come home. We'd have better luck another time. My uncle Jim once said he caught a glimpse of what had to be old bones. It was a foggy morning and he said the forest just got real quiet like. He stood still as the hair raised on the back of his neck. He said he knew old bones was near because the rest of the animals had the good sense to fuck off somewhere else.

He stood there peering into the forest and he said standing next to a large pine tree was old bones about 50 yards out. Barely perceptible in the fog. He said it slid through the forest. Its great limbs having no problem as it traversed the uneven forest floor. He was too scared to get a closer look. He said it stopped between the trees and sniffed the air for a moment. Two large sniffs before turning to face my uncle.

He said its eyes smoldered even in the fog, cutting through. It stared a hole into him for about 10 seconds or so, before nodding and moving on through the forest. Uncle Jim said he sat there waiting for old bones to go on about his business. Whether he was too scared or was playing at smart was anyone's guess. He listened as the thing moved through the forest, creaking branches and heavy footfalls fading into the distance.

He told me old bones was tall, like really tall. And if he didn't move he would have mistaken him for a tree at that distance. I asked him if he saw a big foot and he told me it was nothing like that. He said it was something older, much older. Now I must tell you, Uncle Jim was a drinker, but we'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt since he doesn't usually drink in the AM.

He died about a month after that, so we can't ask him now. The neighbor boy Neal saw him once. We didn't believe him at first on account of the kid as slow in the head, but I guess his eyes worked just fine. His daddy came running over all excited to talk to my father about it. I watched him from the doorway to my room because it was past my bedtime. It was the second week of deer season, but neither family had managed to get out there yet.

He said Neal was out back of the house, putting away his toys because a foggy rolled in, and his mother was worried he would get lost out there. Said it was standing there. Next to the barn. Looking at him. Its eyes burning straight into his soul. Neal pissed himself and started to cry. I listened as he described old bones to my dad from Neal's account. It was almost as tall as the gable roof on the old two-story barn they had.

Said it just stared at him until his mom came out of the screen door looking for him. That thing hadn't been oiled in ages. The creek probably scared him off if you ask me. Anyway, they said it took long strides and moved off into the woods past the field behind the barn, taking one of their sheep with it. All that in one large hand. That was the last time one of our families didn't get old bones some meat on opening day.

Let me tell you. It didn't hurt to offer up some other times as well. It never went to waste. Old bones always found what we left for him. Was it a creature or a man? I may never find out myself and I think I'm okay with that. I was fascinated as a kid. But after everyone's stories, I think I'm good. You know? As an adult I really don't want nothing to do with it.

But that's not always my choice now, is it? I wanted to let you know that about 10 or so years ago there was a couple of campers that went out there and went too far. Crossed an old bones creek without any regard or offering. They really didn't know any better mind you. Like they say, ignorance is no excuse. The search party never found them, but we sure did. Can you guess where?

No? Up in the goddamn trees. I just wanted to let you know that you ain't the first. I looked over at the unlucky camper. He came to my door an hour ago seeking help because something got his friend out in the woods. I knew what it was. Old bones. I almost felt bad for the guy until he told me his story. You cross the creek, your fair game. But even that wasn't enough for this guy.

You see, there are these totems out there. They kind of mark old bones, sacred grounds. This guy comes to my door seeking help and says they burned some weird carved wood for warmth last night. It had to be one of the totems for sure. These dumb pricks. Now I got to march this asshole back into the woods at gunpoint because there's no reasoning with him. Got to get him to the clearing and let old bones take him.

You got a second gear there? You're awfully slow, I said. I don't understand what you're doing this. If you didn't want to help me, I could have gone somewhere else. The camper said to me, you got to learn. That's not an option. You know what got your buddy? It was old bones. And old bones has a certain way of doing things. And damn, if I'm going to be the one to cross him.

I've heard too many stories about what happens. I explained what's old bones the camper asked. It's everything. It's older than the forest. It is the forest. It's an inescapable hunger that roams these here woods. I told him. Yeah, but what is it? The annoying fuck asked. Around here, we say it's a God. We revere it. We take care of its needs and it lets us hunt his land to feed our families.

It really ain't nothing personal. I got to make it right with old bones. I don't hate you or nothing. I said to the guy, don't hate me. You're bringing me out into the woods. It gunpoint to feed me to something you call a forest God. Don't hate me, but you're going to just kill me the camper yelled. First of all, I don't like that tone. And second of all, I don't have no choice in the matter.

Old bones will want the trespassers who entered his sacred groves and disturbed his totem. You sealed your own fate when you crossed the creek. I said, just let me go. I got $800 in cash in my wallet. It's yours if you just let me go. The camper said, I shook my head at his stupidity. That money is already mine. Old bones has no use for it. Hand it over. I said, pointing the barrel of that 30-out six I got so long ago at him.

He sighed and handed over the cash. What did we learn here today? I asked. He just stared back at me with anger. We learned to keep our mouths shut. I finished for him. We walked further down the path my grandpa walked all those years ago. I knew it pretty well, but he knew it inside out. It's a shame he's gone. He would have gotten a kick out of this camper's predicament. I could hear the sound of the creek now.

We were close. Once we reached it, the path followed its south for about a mile or so. Then comes the clearing. What's going to happen to me? The camper asked now that he had calmed down. Well, old bones will take you and open you up. Gobble up the bits he wants and whatever's left till toss into the trees. Why he does that? I don't know. Maybe to feed the birds. They got a two, you know.

I explained matter of factly to the camper whose eyes grew larger with every word. You're joking, right? He asked me. I stopped on the trail and gave him a look. What did old bones do to your friend? I asked him. He, it pulled him right out of our tent. It was dark. I just heard the screaming. By the time I found the flashlight, there was nothing but a blood trail. I followed it for a bit, but then it just ended.

The camper said, forlorn, did you look up in the trees? I asked him, why the fuck would I do that? He queried. I bet that's where old bones stuck him. Had his fill and tossed him to the clouds, like the early season stags we leave for him. Your friend is up in the branches. I'd bet you. Well, I'll bet you $800. I joked with the camper. You're demented. You know that, right?

There's something off in your brain. The camper said, I smacked him with the barrel of the rifle and pointed it down the trail. For a second, I thought he was going to try something, but he gave up and started walking off. Why should I keep going? He said defiantly and stopped in the path a moment later. I'm gonna die either way and rather get shot than rip to part. He reasoned. No, it ain't your choice, son.

I explained and pointed yonder with the barrel of my gun. The clearing was just ahead. He looked like he was going to make a run for it, but I kept the barrel pointing right between his eyes. I figured he was bluffing anyway. I took him for a coward and $800 bucks. Get on in there by that stump. I commanded him. He waited a second or so before following his orders. I took the rope from my pocket and followed him over.

I tied him up against the stump, eyeing the carvings on it. Grandpa said it was the natives that lived here a long time ago that carved into the stump. It sure was weathered enough. Grandpa said the carvings tell how to leave offerings for old bones. It's how our family figured it all out. Live food gets tied up, but the dead won't run away. I've never left live food before. There's always a first time.

I remember my grandpa telling my father how to do it when we came across a stag with a broken leg. It was crazy to try to grab the thing. But it had to have been struggling for days and was just tuckered out. We got it to the clearing then they told me to leave. To go home and tell mom they'd be back soon. I can still see my grandpa pointing to this very stump and explaining to my dad what to do.

I first made the camper tie up his own feet at gunpoint. I didn't want him to kick me after all. That's what my kin did with the stag so many years ago. Then I tied his arms around the stump with his chin resting on top and a little groove facing deeper into the forest. I made sure he was good and tight before I stepped back and gave the clearing a look over.

Only one more step left. I drew my knife and came up behind the hiker. You're just going to leave me here with that thing in the woods. The camper asked, yeah, that's the plan. Haven't you been paying attention? Look man, I told you it's nothing personal. If I don't get the transgressor to old bones, then my family will pay and I can't have that. I said as I sliced into his flesh.

Not too deep. Not in a vital spot mind you. Just enough to make him bleed to get the scent out into the air. To let old bones know we were ready. You're a murderer! The camper yelled out, I ain't gonna murder you. That's for old bones to do. I explained. Leaving me here is murdering me. I ain't arguing semantics with a person that got himself tied up. I told him. All you're saying is what you ain't going to do.

Well, what are you going to do then? The camper asked me followed by an exasperated sigh. Just then old bones made himself known with a cry out in the forest followed by the boom of a large football. I moved in front of the camper. I'm gonna take my leave. Give my regards to old bones. I said and turn towards the trail back home. Don't fucking leave me! He yelled as I left the clearing.

I stopped and turned around. The footfalls from old bones were getting closer. Really quick. I got myself an idea and ducked down in the small bushes that lined the clearing. Peaking through it my offering. This might be a good chance to finally see what old bones looks like. I listened to the sound of the trees creaking as if they were making way for old bones to walk among them. In the distance he could see the branches swaying.

He could be here any moment. The hair on the back of my neck stood as a wave of chills ran through me. The camper started to scream as the primordial aura of old bones took over the clearing. All those years of wondering. All the stories from the townsfolk, even the bits and pieces of information I got from my own family, couldn't prepare me for what I saw step into the clearing. It stood almost 20 feet tall.

Standing like a person would, thick muscles adorned its body. There were parts where white bone was exposed and holes in the flesh. Its huge feet were cloven just like the prince I had saw so long ago. The long arms were thin but strong. The left pushed off the trunk of a pine tree. The right clutched a narrowed walking staff made from some ancient wood. Resting on top of its shoulders was a huge head.

A moose's head, scarred and scraped with countless years of existence. The large antlers had stains and scrapes as well. I tried to take it all in, but my eyes kept focusing on its gaze. The fires of promethius burned in the orbs as it looked down on the offering before it. It was like looking at a whacked out moose version of a minitar. Old bones had a smell about him, like fresh turned dirt, just an earthy smell about him.

It was like he was part of the forest. He blended in so well, except for those eyes, currently focused on the camper. It cocked its large head like a dog and raised the staff in the air. Old bones poked the camper with the weathered end. When the camper screamed out in terror, old bones raised an eyebrow. He seemed pleased by the live offering. Even from my position I could smell the piss on the camper.

How disrespectful. With a large hand, old bones grabbed the camper and raised him into the air, snapping my ropes like they were nothing. He opened his large moose jaw inside weren't the teeth of a moose, but sharp fangs of a carnivore. Bit off the camper's head in a snap, and I nearly lost my lunch. I would have been sad, too. My wife makes a mean chicken salad. I watched his blood poured out the side of his mouth.

He chewed on the head for a few seconds and swallowed. He huffed twice into the air. With a pointed finger he dug into the chest and ate the organs by dumping the chest out all over his head into his mouth. A lung missed and splattered on the ground. It exploded like a water balloon. I wretched and tried to keep it down. Old bones must have heard me. Our eyes met for a second.

The eons of burning earth before it had cooled, branded my brain. I felt the ebb and flow of the magma below the crust. I thought I was going to die, that old bones was going to kill me. My own stupid need to see him was going to do me in. He tossed the camper's corpse into the air. It landed in the branches of the large pine trees. He picked up his staff and took a step towards me.

I didn't have it in me to move. I was just trying not to break down. He took a massive step and was now in front of me. Mortel, old bones muttered. He commanded my attention. His voice came from nowhere, but from everywhere at the same time, the ember stare burned into my head. I thank you for the offering. It has been some time since I have had flesh of a man. I think I would like some more.

I forgot the taste of the arrogance of the young race. We need to amend the deal. It spoke into my brain. No. Humans are hard to get a hold of and it's wrong. I replied. I can't do it. Shame. Mortel. If I do not receive a live offering of man flesh by the longest day of the year. Then I shall take my payment from the farms. Anything else? Please. Don't ask this of me.

I begged. I have spoken. Old bones said and turned from me. He walked into the woods without another word. I looked at the camper in the trees. Almost envying him, if I was being honest. Now I had to go home and explain to our families the new terms. We dare not go against old bones. Not if we want to protect our loved ones. At least now I know what old bones looks like.

If only I had left the clearing. I never would have seen old bones, or interacted with them. Everyone that has seen old bones has had to pay a price. In mine will be paid in man flesh. The Last Days of Jimmy Flavor by David O’Hanlon. Jimmy Flavor stood in the shower, letting the water scold his back. He took a drag off the cigarette and watched the smoke disappear into the steam. The same way the water hid the tears.

Through the gap in the plastic shower curtain he could barely see the revolver, sitting on the chipped countertop through the man-made fog. The water pressure was shit in the sleazy motel, but it got hot. Hot enough to scour her away the last three days. Jimmy tried to ignore the knuckles wrapping against the flimsy motel door. The television was blaring with an old war movie. The knocking turned to pounding. Jimmy listened to the rattle of the machine gunfire through the TV's busted speakers.

He leaned his head against the wall and took another long pull off the smoke. Before dropping it into the blood-titched water pulling around his feet, it twisted and danced its way to the drain behind him. The boot hit the door and he heard the frame shatter. His $50 deposit wasn't going to cover the damages. He bunched the shower curtain in his fist and stared at that damn gun. Flavio Jimenez wouldn't have reached for it.

The Flavio was a charcoal perket in the trunk of a firebomb car sitting in an abandoned lot. Jimmy Flavio felt the first, cheap plastic ring snap off the curtain rod, as he made his decision. The more lives a man lives, the more death she dies. Three days ago. Flavio Jimenez tightened the tiny screws into place. One after the other in the cramped cell phone repair kiosk located around the corner from the mall's food court.

He shifted uncomfortably on the cracked vinyl stool as the aroma of hamburger hamlets kitchen, wafted around him like a malicious spirit, leaving in its wake a slime trail of grease that Flavio could feel oozing through the pores of his skin. He powered on the tablet, unlocked the screen and turned it off again before sliding it into the envelope with the customer's contact information on it and placing it in the service completed drawer beneath the counter.

Steve's space nine was the premier cell phone and tablet repair service provider for Eastern Oklahoma. At least, that's what the science said. Flavio opened another oversized plastic bag and removed the archaic Nokia 8210. The customers were celebrating their 20 year anniversary and wanted to recover their first text messages. He pressed the power button for no result and, of course, there was no charger included. He swiveled on the stool and pulled open the drawer for antique accessories.

The cords were organized in a tangled ball wrapped in duct tape inside of a grocery sack. Flavio sighed and dropped the bag on the counter. It would be worth noting that he hated his job if he liked any facet of his life at all. He did not. Flavio didn't live so much as he existed. In school his grade stayed just high enough to graduate and he didn't participate in any extracurriculars. Since no one was offering an attendant scholarship he went to work at Dewebspace 9 and continued to stay there for the next seven years.

He lived with his mother and sister and helped with the cleaning because he couldn't cook anything that didn't come with instructions on the box. His father was the risk taker and they lived comfortably on the life insurance as a result. It taught Flavio at an early age not to do more than absolutely necessary. The deity-ocrity was a lifestyle he was born to. With a slight build and an average face which he kept hidden behind a shaggy mop of black hair and perpetual five o'clock shadow, Flavio hated his hair because it reminded him of how stupid his name was.

He was not yellow-haired, not that anyone in itawa-okalhoma knew what it meant. Flavio was the butt of his own inside joke. It was a name that led everyone to believe he spoke Spanish, which caused him both irritation and shame since he did not. The worst part, however, was his friend C.K. Since their first meeting in sixth grade C.K. insisted that Flavio must be Spanish for, yo, Flavio! C.K. shouted as he jogged to the kiosk.

No matter how many times he said it or how many Spanish dictionaries he was given, Chandler C.K. Kuzinski insisted that Flavio meant Flavio and he refused to call him anything else. What you supposed to be at work? Flavio asked, jobs are for people who don't like making money. C.K. waived at the DS9 sign. Case and point. You got fired again. Flavio prodded the Nokia's charging port with one unidentified cord after another.

Just find something that doesn't suck and stick with it. Or, C.K. leaned on the counter and glanced around before continuing. We could do one night's work and make enough money to buy this kiosk and make a living off dumbass high school kids. Or guys would absolutely know Ford momentum. Like yourself. That's the worst motivational speech ever. Ha! Got it! Flavio said about freeing the correct cord from the tangle. What is this one night's work?

I told my priest about my side gig at the confession. C.K. said. Feeling copper isn't a side gig. It's a felony. But please continue. So is stealing news off those phones. But I know you got a collection. It's a service fee for all the dick pics I have to see. Flavio looked up from his work with a sour expression. Did you know people are putting domino pieces in their dick now? Why is that a thing?

C.K. C.K. Coctashead and scowled. I never realized how happy I was not knowing a thing until I learned that was a thing I didn't know. Can I get back to the fucking point flavor? Flavio rolled his hand in an exaggerated call for C.K. to continue. C.K. looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear him. So, father Roland came to me the other day and said someone robbed the church and he wants to hire a couple of guys to go get it back.

He asked if I knew any hard core stick up men and I told him I had the perfect guy, a real fucking professional thief. C.K. snapped his fingers and pointed a finger gun right between Flavio's eyes. You told your priest that I was a thief? Flavio pinched the bridge of his nose inside. Kind of, C.K. scratched at his platinum go-t. I told him about a guy named Jimmy Flavio. I said he was this hot shot bank robber from Texas.

Look, it's an easy job but Roland won't hire me unless I bring in someone with experience. You want me to lie to a priest so will hire us to steal some shit? That's the most Catholic thing you've ever said C.K. Six figures flavor, that's what he's offering. Flavio's face ruined any faint dissentress. Get cleaned up. C.K. slapped some folded 20s on the counter. Cut your hair, shave that the pressure off your face, put on your club clothes and meet me at the church in the morning.

This is the kind of opportunity that could change your life, bro. One night of taking a fucking chance for a change and then you can go back to stagnating in normalcy. Jimmy Flavio, huh? Flavio tried not to smile as he said it. That was a much better name than Flavio he men is. His gut twisted with a feeling he didn't recognize at first. Then it hit him. He was excited. What time?

Flavio slept in a succession of short naps, a victim at the mercy of his own excitement and anxiety. He was already up and looking at the stranger in the mirror when the alarm went off behind him. His shaggy mane was replaced with a short cropped fade and the scruff on his face was nothing but a tidy soul patch below his lip. He smoothed the collar of his red flame adorned over shirt and shut off the alarm before heading outside.

Flavio's car was the only extraordinary thing about him. The 1953 Bel Air his grandfather bought new and his father restored before his death was Flavio's only love. He cruised across town, ringing the steering wheel the entire drive. When he pulled up to the curb outside of St. Anthony of Thieves Catholic Church, C.K. was already waiting. He sat on the hood of his Kia Optima and talked to an elderly priest. Flavio watched them in the mirror for a moment, looked at himself and took a deep breath.

You're not Flavio he men as anymore. You're a hardcore animal. Act like it. He got out of the car and strolled over to the other men with a false confidence he hoped hid the shaking of his knees. He nodded to C.K. This is the guy I was telling you about, father. C.K. Slid off the chipped dented hood. Meet Jimmy Flavio. Flavio eyed the priest suspiciously. You don't look like a criminal mastermind.

I'm father Roland. The priest didn't offer his hand which was busy manipulating the beads of a rosary. What I'm hiring you for is hardly criminal. You'll be acting with the full blessing of the Vatican. Flavio looked to C.K. then back to the priest and scoffed. Don't dip shit and sugar and call it a cookie Padre. You asked for a thief because you want theevery. Things that don't belong to you now are going to by the morning.

That's what you need now. How about you cut the mission from Godline and get to the part where you tell me what I need to know to make that happen? C.K. Zeyes were wide with disbelief and Flavio hoped his didn't match. He wasn't brash or disrespectful, but apparently Jimmy Flavio was. Even his voice sounded different. It was deeper with an edge that made Flavio uncomfortable. The priest nodded and smacked his lips.

Well, I was told you were the real deal so I shouldn't be taken aback by such pointed speech. Roland said. The Vatican was in possession of certain artifacts linked to a hithite cult, worshipers of an unsavory deity of disease called Jari. They entrusted the collection with an explorer in the 16th century who was instructed to bury them far within the new world. Jimmy Flavio shrugged. You don't need a stick up man for grave robbery.

Some of the artifacts have been found, Roland said. The cult was revived at the beginning of the 20th century as seen with the arrival of the Spanish flu. The church has been trying to suppress these men and their machinations for some time. We recovered an idol in 1921 and a grimoire, a spell book in 33. Both items were interred in the Catecomes beneath your feet. Jimmy Flavio looked at the sidewalk, then back up at the venerable cathedral.

You know who jacked you? A businessman named Earl Price's high cleric of the Jari cult. Roland flicked his wrist, wrapping the rosary around his fist in a deft movement. They're rolling the infernal dice of damn nation and a gamble to seize power beyond earthly comprehension. COVID wildfires rising hatefulness, they're all signs of the cult's meddling. Soon they'll decipher more of the grimoire. We need it back before that happens. Sounds like a fucking D&D campaign.

Jimmy turned to CK. This is what you're wasting my time for. You want me to steal a book from some rich cocksucker for the absent-minded priest over here? The fuck was you thinking? The Vatican is paying a 20% finders fee. Roland shrugged with this interest. The book alone would be worth $100,000 for you. Retrieve it and the idle, and you could triple that number. However, the grimoire is the priority. They're not fighters, Mr Flavio.

This city is overrun with gang bangers that would jump at the opportunity. I would prefer a professional get back our belongings. Cleanly. That does not mean I won't send an army of amateurs to butcher them all. Take it or leave it, the deal is on the table for another 30 seconds. He took it. The day passed much differently. Jimmy Flavio didn't want to let go and Flavio found himself along for the ride.

He spent money and anticipation of the small fortune coming his way, investing in a new outfit and an eight ball of cocaine before hitting the biggest club in the city just after dark. Flavio could count the amount of times he got high on one hand, but Jimmy Flavio was railing in Coke like an 80 stock broker. By the time his savings were gone he was popular enough to drink for free until he found other pursuits more worth his time.

At 3am his cell phone lit up with a text message from C.K. telling him, it was time to meet. He pushed away the hand on his thigh to a dissatisfied groan from the woman beside him. Jimmy got dressed quickly and stepped into the bathroom. The other barfly was still in the shower and he wiped the steam away to check his appearance in the mirror. Flavio hadn't been with two women in the last year, but Jimmy took two back to the hotel at a time with ease.

Jimmy Flavio was supposed to be a figment of his imagination, a character to play for a night. But he was more than that. Flavio stared deep into the dilated pupils of Jimmy Flavio and saw himself cowering inside. The thief lived life so fully that he was birthing himself into the void of Flavio's empty husk. Jimmy he had been the imaginary one all along. Jimmy's eyes flick to the blurred naked form through the translucent shower curtain.

There was no way he could ever go back to the droning zombie he'd always been. He was Jimmy Flavio. C.K. screamed as he plummeted from the top of the 12-foot concrete wall that surrounded Earl prices a state. Jimmy turned and went back for his friend. The barking of the dobermins was full of hate and frustration as they tried clawing their way up the wall and pursuit of the thieves. Shouting cultists drew nearer, followed by the mechanical groaning of the gates motor.

The barking changed directions as they bolted to the opening portal. Jimmy dragged C.K. to his feet which produced another scream. He looked down and grimaced at the angle of C.K. shin. The protruding bone tented the pant leg. Being a pussy it's just a sprain. Jimmy glanced over his shoulder to the moving outline of the gate. We have to go before the dogs get out. Too late. The duo shambled along another 20 feet before Jimmy let go.

C.K. landed in the wet grass face first and stared up at his friend in shock. The dogs were closing the distance faster than they could hobble. C.K. would get some stitches but, father Roland promised the Vatican would keep them out of prison. Jimmy mumbled in apology and dashed away before the first dog dug into C.K.'s broken leg. The others circled their prey in pinned him in place, foregoing further pursuit of Jimmy.

He stopped running at the end of the drive and heaved breathlessly in awkward silence. No one was chasing him. The robbery went smooth. For a moment. A single shot into the ceiling sent 20 odd cultists cowering. Then things got weird. The lights flickered. The room got cold. Then there were the words. In the darkness. The wallpaper peeled away in strips with whispers from within. Jimmy grabbed the book and pistol with the guy in the fanciest robes before they bolted through the front door.

The dogs were on them in an instant. And those damnable words followed them across the yard like buzzing insects. In the glaring floodlights, Jimmy could see robed silhouettes hoisting C.K. from the ground. Then came the screams. It was a demented shadow puppet theater from his vantage point as he saw the faceless shaped stringing C.K.'s intestines from his writhing figure, lightening crackled overhead. And C.K. went quiet. Jimmy watched the body fall limp and the figures turn his way.

More whispers came from all around him. He didn't understand the language, but he knew the meaning. He knew. It was time to start running again. Jimmy climbed through the bedroom window and shook off the rain. C.K. had the idol when he fell, but Jimmy still had the grimoire. He tossed the book on Flavio's bed and stripped off his wet clothes. He heard his mother, always an early riser, banging around in the kitchen.

The red numerals on the alarm clock showed him a future that wouldn't happen. The shrieking buzz of the alarm and the drool routine of getting ready to stagnate in the deweeb space-nine kiosk. Never again. He was a professional thief now. Jimmy dressed quickly. He would sleep when he got to the church and collected his payment from Roland. A glass shattered down the hall and Jimmy froze in place. His revolver was sitting on the bed next to the book.

He stared at it trying to will it across the room into his hand. His mother moved like a ballet dancer in the kitchen. He'd never seen her drop anything. His gut tightened any tiptoed to the weapon, slipping it into his waistband and dropping the book into an old backpack that he slung across his torso. The screaming started and he found himself in wet pants once again. Flavio wasn't gone completely, it turned out.

His bedroom door flew open, crashing against the wall. Maury's face was streaked with tears. His sister's mouth opened to cry out when the visceral tentacle twisted around her neck, pulling her to the floor. Jimmy watched as the mound of slithering entrails converged on her body, smearing bile and blood across her satin pajamas. The puckered orifice of the disembodied stomach slid across her cheek like a snail, leaving a sizzling trail of digestive juices burning through the flesh.

The small intestines jirated across the carpet, securing Maury in their embrace. The organ positioned itself over her and forced its contents into her mouth with a wet squeal. Jimmy jumped through the window and a crash that did little to cover his sister's agonized screams. He rolled through the mud and sprinted down the sidewalk to his car. The engine rumbled in the tires fought for traction as he pressed the accelerator all the way down.

Flavio didn't believe in anything he couldn't see, but he still wouldn't have believed what Jimmy had seen. Those sick bastards gutted his friend and somehow animated his guts into a grotesque pound to track him. Everything the priest said was true, the cult of jari was real, the things they could do were real and if the magic was real, then so was their depraved God. That meant the world was up-shit creek if he let them have the book.

They already killed everyone foviour cared about, soon they'd find him and he'd be just as dead. He rubbed the tears away from his cheeks. Jimmy flavor wouldn't be so easily killed. He would get the book to Roland, collect his money, and disappear. He still had five shots in the revolver and only an hour until dawn. He whipped the car around a corner and slid across the lanes before straightening it out. Jimmy took a deep breath and eased off the pedal.

In his rear view all he saw was wet asphalt reflecting the streetlights. The monster wasn't back there and he let the breath out softly. Then he saw something else. The man lumbered down the sidewalk and soggy clothes, his wet shaggy hair clung to his face. Jimmy pulled up to the curb and let the headlights fall on him. They were about the same size. Jimmy stepped out of the car with the pistol hidden behind the open door.

The man's clothes were raggedy and dirty and a soggy cardboard sign was folded in the outside pocket of his backpack. You need a lift? Jimmy called out through the downpour? The man turned and jogged over to him. Jimmy's thumb cocked back the hammer when he realized they were about the same age too. The man rested his hands on his hips and smiled at toothy grin. Thank you. I thought I'd catch my death out here.

He said, you have. Jimmy raised the gun and fired a single shot into the man's front teeth. Jimmy loaded the body into the trunk and drove to the abandoned camart where he worked on removing the rest of the teeth. The empty-digass can over the body and tossed a hastily made-maltov cocktail at his beloved car. The last piece of Flavio ignited with the shattering of a beer bottle. A fireball tore through the sky as the fuel tank exploded and the sirens of rushing fire trucks became the soundtrack for Jimmy's long walk to the church.

A head of him, the sun was rising on a new day. St. Anthony's was empty and unlocked. Jimmy drew his weapon and called out for father Roland. The priest did not answer. Jimmy continued his search eventually coming to the open door of the rectory on the second floor. The smell burned as nostrils and he held his shirt tight over his face to combat the fumes which grew stronger as he explored deeper into the apartment and turned into the bedroom.

A figure stretched across the soil bedding. Above the white priest's collar strips of smoking flesh clung to his exposed skull, he jerked the shirt away and vomited across the foot of the bed. He scanned the room for the creature and found a smoldering slime trail lingering across a window sill and down the wall outside. Jimmy calmed himself and went back to the bed. A fanny pack sat on the nightstand with tightly rolled cash inside.

Jimmy stuffed it into his backpack with the grimoire. His fingers caressed the ancient leather tone. He pulled the book out and flipped through the milledude pages. The TV chimed in announcement of breaking news, the police were looking for 25-year-old Flavio Jimenez in connection with the murders of his mother and sister. Jimenez was suspected of strangling the women and trying to dissolve their bodies and acid. Tears welled up in Jimmy's eyes. He sniffled and cleared his aching throat.

The cops would find his car soon and call off the search. He had to disappear before they realized it wasn't his body in the ruins. He slammed the book closed and put it in his bag. The Vatican still wanted it and didn't know he'd already been paid. Vatican City was its own country with no extradition treaties. He could hide out there until he got fake papers and then slip into some Indian village with enough money to never have to work again.

He made his way out of the church. The clouds were parting and the rain was just a light drizzle shimmering in the sunlight. Things were going to be okay. He just needed to lay low and contact the diocese. Jimmy enjoyed the moment of calm. The cult of Jari must have taken the bait and assumed he was dead. That's why the intestinal creature wasn't waiting for him. He was free and clear until he idied the body in the bell air.

That gave him a day or two. Jimmy smiled. It would all be over with a phone call. The black Chrysler eased to the curb. Jimmy's face fell. He recognized Earl Price behind the steering wheel. The passenger door opened. And another man stepped out. Jimmy drew the revolver and put two in the man's chest before he could finish telling him they just wanted to talk. Then he ran. He ran until his lungs hurt until he thought his legs would break away and continue without him.

The cult would be on his trail again. He was running out of time and bullets and he pushed himself faster down the sidewalks and alleys never looking over shoulder to see who was chasing it. He just ran. The phone call went well. The bishop said he would send someone to collect him and the book. Everything was falling into place until the five o'clock news showed the world, the face of spree killer.

Flavio Jimenez. Footage from a traffic camera showed him gunning down prices goon in high definition. They were also blaming him for Roland's murder. The Atawa acid killer was suspected to be at large. Armed and dangerous. And completely fucked. Jimmy dumped the cartridges out of the revolver and tossed the spent casings into the waste bin. One after the other, flinching as they clinked off the metal side. He pushed the two remaining bullets into the cylinder and snapped it shut.

Two bullets. And maybe 20 minutes to go. He changed the channel to some war movie before heading to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and peeled away his clothes. The cultists, the police, and the Vatican were all coming to get him. There was nothing left to do but wait and see who got there first. He tapped a cigarette from the pack and lit it before stepping into the shower. He took a long pull and let the water skulled his back.

The movie was blaring in the other room, but he could hear the knocking over it. It was urgent, frenzyed pounding. Someone was shouting. Jimmy looked through the gap at the revolver sitting on the counter. He spat the cigarette into the water, watching it twist as it drifted away behind him. There was blood in the water. But he didn't remember being injured. The door shattered with a brutal kick. Jimmy bunched the shower curtain in his fist.

It definitely wasn't the church. He ripped the curtain down and stepped out retrieving his pistol and aiming it at the back of the door. He could hear the men yelling more clearly. State police. He cocked the revolver. Jimmy flavor would not be taken alive. The cops would lock the book away safely. The Vatican could collect it from them after the dust settled. At least then the cult of Jari would never have it.

A smell stung his nose and he thought about the blood in the shower. He turned his head upward. Slowly. Through the steam he could see the dripping pink mass swarming across the ceiling. The stomach shifted through the writhing intestines overhead. The sphincter puckered and blew in a citric kiss that splattered Jimmy's bare feet. The bathroom door burst inward. Jimmy's fingers tightened on the trigger while the intestines tightened on his throat. He heard two shots.

He thought they might have been his until he felt the damp tile press against his cheek. He stared at the thing slithering across the ceiling. His head lulled over. A chunk of brain matter oozed down the side of the bathtub. He was sure it was supposed to hurt, but he didn't feel anything. Anymore. The room got dimmer. The voice has got quieter. And Jimmy's flavor died just as quickly as he had lived.

The end. The God Tongue by Dan Wilder. Born without a tongue to grant him the power of speech, Ezra had long been the target of division by his peers. So much so that when his beloved mother had breathed her last, he abandoned the home in which he was raised and took to the hills and forests that bordered the microcosm of the world's backwards notions that was the town of Jaden's Cross. Once there Ezra built himself a modest cabin financed with his meager inheritance where he could find solace away from the chorus of mocking voices.

Even off the land Ezra killed only that which he could consume. And his growling stomach, coupled with his barren icebox, had told him it was high time to venture out into the crisp, automal evening. After long, fruitless hours Ezra had seen an area hint of prey. And though the moon hung swollen in the sky, a mist had begun to encroach upon the landscape of stoic pines that pointed like accusing fingers at the heavens.

Ezra exhaled weirly and sat down at the base of the nearest pine. The miasma played seductively at his neck and chin, causing his skin to turn to goose flesh as the fog was a great deal cooler than the air that surrounded it. Ezra closed his eyes for a moment and let the symphony of the forest fill his ears. And for minutes it did just that until his placid repose was shattered by the sound of a twig breaking that echoed through the cool air, like the report of a shotgun being discharged.

Ezra's eyes snapped open, and, as his gaze furatively darted to and fro, he spied majestic antlers rising from the fog. In a fluid motion he rose to his feet and brought the sight of his Remington rifle to bear on the dark shape that stood just below the mist. Ezra squeezed the trigger sending fire and thunder forth into the night, and as soon as they appeared, the antlers fell. He bolted forward through the swirling gray which seemed to recoil from his advancing form as a fearful of his presence to his quarry.

As he approached, the fog had now parted and refused to trespass where the beast lay, and while Ezra was unable to give voice to his shock, his slack jaw and bulging eyes more than conveyed his emotions. For while he expected to find a stag, he instead found a caricature of a man, albeit, a man with antlers. Ezra kneeled and rolled the creature on its back. Its lifeless eyes were large, dark, and set wide upon a face covered in course fur.

It wore little in the way of clothing, just a simple robe from which extended limbs that resembled a dog's leg that ended in long, tapered fingers tipped with crimson nails. It was in one such appendage that the creature clutched what it first appeared to Ezra to be a smooth, ebony stone. He reached for the object and found it malleable and warm. More flesh than mineral. As he turned the artifact over and over and his palm the mist began to slowly creep back, and with it came the inhuman wailing.

Ezra panicked as the mist around him produced its litany of grief, which resulted in a mad flight through the dense pines. As he ran asra could feel the myasmus strike his legs as it began to solidify into long, lashing tendrils. As if that wasn't disconcerting enough, the wailing had now transformed into protracted screams of pure rage. Onward he flew, tripping and struggling as the fog continued its battery. Finally he saw the familiar outline of his cabin in the clearing just beyond the forest.

He threw his weight against the unlocked front door and exploded into his domain. In an instant he slammed shut the door through the bolt into place and collapsed to the floor and a crumpled mass of pure exhaustion. He sat for minutes as hot tears ran down as cheeks and his heart beat so fast and hard that at any other time he would have been sure he was having a heart attack. Indeed, his hammering pulse was all he could hear, and it was that fact that made him realize that whatever outray abominations he had left behind in the woods, they had decided not to stray from that realm.

Finally he gained control of his faculties, moving his hands to his face to rub the last vestiges of tears from his eyes. As we're realized he still clutched that preternatural stone. And where once it was merely matte black, now a glowed a brilliant gold from a thousand hairline cracks that crossed its surface like arteries no wider than a human hair. Ezra was entranced by the artifact, so entranced he failed to notice the mist that had crept ever closer along the floorboards as it issued forth from the small wood burning stove behind him.

Ever onward it came, crawling up his back until finally, it plunged deep into his brain via his left ear canal. Ezra's brain exploded with a thousand images of a history, not his own. He saw an endless array of beings, more beast than man, heinous and beautiful and equal measure. He floated onward through a great city beneath the forest floor. Finally he saw a diaphon a stag, over 20 feet high, it's head dorned with seven sets of antlers.

The image swirled and rippled as the sight of that ebony edifice he held filled his field of vision. Ezra felt his arm move of its own accord, and while he struggled to make it remain at rest, he was powerless to stop its assent or the action which followed. His hand simply placed the glowing midnight hewed object into his mouth, which had mechanically open to accept it. For the briefest of seconds he could taste infinity, and with that he could feel a new organ grow inside him, a tongue which pulsed and throbbed within his mouth.

His first words were a scream, then came blackness. You murdered the historian. You must take his place. The voice echoed so loud in his mind that it snapped him awake. Ezra found himself lying on the cold floor of his cabin. Historian, he said involuntarily, his eyes grew wide as the memory of the dark tongue which had replaced his own missing organ flowed into his head. With a start he lifted himself from the floor and sped to the bathroom.

Examining himself in the mirror he opened his mouth to view that demon tissue, which he seemed to know by some arcane intuition was connected to that ancient stack. There sat the obsidian stone like mass of the previous night, but now it pulsed and throbbed with an unearthly power which flowed through those golden veins which now had spread throughout the interior of his mouth. Ezra began clawing at the offending member, but, to no avail, the flesh, though supple was completely unyielding.

His thoughts locked upon its removal, as were ran to the kitchen to procure a large stake knife, as he steeled his nerves as restuck out his tongue and brought the blade into place for the amputation. The air split with static before he could begin that dreaded surgery. The small, shortwave radio, his one mechanical distraction which provided for him a chance to voyeuristically listen to the voices of others, without being pressed to respond in kind, had come to life from its home a top his rough, humed dining room table.

As he dashed into the room his eyes beheld yet another incomprehensible sight. The mist now solidified into the contours of a vaguely humanoid shape, saved for the long horns protruding from its incorporeal forehead, it hunched over the device and exhaled streams of vapor directly into the microphone, from somewhere that sounded both close and at the opposite end of the galaxy came a sound that at first was not unlike the purring of a large cat, but quickly turned into a low, gutter-roll growl before finally becoming words that simply could not have been formed by human lips.

Pass on old friend, we are coming. As were reached for the figure which dissipated into the ether at his touch accompanied by a chorus of melodic laughter. He grabbed for the microphone in one hand and with the other tried furiously to find the proper channel to connect him with the one agency he felt would be able to help him fend off whatever malevolence was creeping his way. The town militia of Jaden's cross.

Finally he arrived at the proper frequency and parted his dry lips to do that which had eluded him, low, these many years. Pressing the button which would allow his voice to travel the waves, Ezra began to speak. What followed was not one voice, but Legion. Somewhere mere growls, others came like gently chirping birds and a few were close to human yet still possessing a preternatural timber, but above all rang the impossibly deep tones of their God.

For the stag did speak. The great animal whose voice was known when the universe was a mere speck of dust hanging like a moat in the eye of infinity. With that, the radio exploded in a shower of a crad smoke and sparks that knocked Ezra to the floor. Ezra began to weep, yet the sound of crying that issued from his mouth was again the product of that unholy throng. Being able to retain his tenuous grasp on sanity, he was determined to rip the organ from his mouth with his bare hands, hands that he noticed were covered in rooms and gliffs carved deep upon the surface of his skin.

Furiously he flew again to the bathroom where he exhaled in shock at the face that met his gaze within the mirror. Like his hands and every other scrap of visible flesh, he was covered in those strange markings. Ezra clawed at the skin which gave way in thin sheets to reveal layers of fresh dermis below marked the same as the skin above. He attempted to scream, but what came instead was the shouting of every supernatural being that had ever or will ever walk the earth all proclaiming their name to the midnight that lie just beyond the cabin's roof.

Ezra ran towards the door of the cabin, the ancient instinct to flee that which we do not or simply cannot understand overtaking him. But suddenly he could move forward no more. As that demon mist once more held him firm, where it issued from between the floorboards of the cabin to solidify into its humanoid form, the shifting arms of which wrapped tightly around its panic stricken prey. It whispered, seductively. Now you shall walk eternally into that resplendent Ebony with your brethren.

Ezra struggled for a moment until a sound distant at first yet growing ever nearer began to fill the room. The pounding of hooves upon cold ground, the front door exploded in a maulstrom of splinters as a menagerie appeared that was equal parts animal and man, and the worst of both Ezra once again succumbed to the Ebony darkness. Over the next hours Ezra would occasionally regain consciousness, and while the moonlight illuminated only endless miles of forest, it also revealed the talent-tipped hands that held him aloft, as well as the nightmares they belonged to.

Finally he came too, the group had stopped before a long forgotten farmhouse, even in the waning moonlight the house looked impossibly ancient and beyond any hope of her pair. One of the creatures to his left loathe forward, and through open the large storm doors, whose hinges creaked and protested and led Ezra down into the darkness. They walked for what seemed several minutes through the inky blackness, occasionally Ezra could swear that he felt hot breath on the back of his neck, or a gentle touch of something inhuman reaching toward him, from the darkness.

Soon in the distance a faint light could be seen which grew brighter and brighter until Ezra could make out the lie silhouette of his guide. They arrived in a large circular room which was carved from the earth itself, a multitude of doorways dotted the walls, and in the darkness of each, Ezra could see in describable shapes moving ever closer in the light. Finally all revealed as creatures which may have been constructed of wild daydreams, absent visions and children's chalk drawings gathered in the chamber.

Ezra shrunk under their gaze, for here, as in the world above, he felt the outsider. Say hello to your new family. Something croaked from the assemblage. A being more owl than man stepped from the crowd and stared at Ezra for what seemed like days. As it looked, it would crane its head from side to side and snap its great beak open and shut. Ezra stood, stock still, suddenly, it dawned on him that the beast wasn't figuring out the best way to pluck out his eyes, rather it was reading the glyphs that adorned his face.

He gasped, as the owl spoke. You, you tell the story of my family. Ezra could only stare at the being, dumbfounded. No, came of voice from the throng. He tells the tale of the fleet clause, I can read it even from here, and the moon race. Came of response from the crowd. No, he tells the story of us all. Look! Ezra looked down at his hands, which had started to unravel into long flesh scrolls which were soon picked up by the discolored fingers, talons, and tentacles.

The owners of which read aloud and babbled excitedly of the stories contained therein of their sacred lineage, as well as their futures. Soon Ezra was unraveling from every piece of exposed skin, some of which drifted to the ground as torn pages from an ancient tomb. More creatures arrived and picked up the pages, laughing as they celebrated all that made them. Onward and onward the pages and scrolls fell, until finally all that was left of Ezra, where the pages themselves.

Each tribesman held a page or scroll of their own, and each cherished the sacred words they contained. The stranger came to speak to us all, and what words he has brought us. The chain of time, by Killian Crane. Andrew Leeds felt like a freshly poured fountain drink, from his blonde curls to his puggie-12-year-old belly. He absolutely fizzed. He was blind to the children enjoying recess around him on the playground of Pine Mill Middle School.

His entire world was a bridge of grass, to Claire Ellis. Claire sat in the front corner of his class, Andrew, who would never admit it to anyone, found himself looking at her more often than the whiteboard. She faced away from him, staring into the expansive forest behind the school. He had brown hair held up in a long ponytail by a pink ribbon. He knew he had no business talking to a girl like her, but he decided that morning that he would ask her if she'd like to go to the gumbo festival with him.

He just couldn't seem to move his feet. He finessed past several crinkling snack wrappers and drew his brass pocket watch. Fliped open, it showed there were still 15 minutes of recess. As he tried to put the watch away, the chain went taught and flew from his hand. Be wilted, Andrew turned to see Thomas Daniels. Thomas jiggled the watch, making it glint wildly. What you do in Chubber, Thomas asked, Andrew's fist clenched.

Thomas, please, just give it back. Oh, I will, Thomas jir'd. He swung the watch evenly. If you can catch me, Andrew saw Claire still staring into the woods. And then focused on Thomas. He made a clumsy lunge and Thomas pulled it tight, palming the watch, then letting it fall free again as if he was walking the dog with a yo-yo. Try again, fatty. Andrew did, but Thomas still held the watch. Cut it out, Thomas.

The metal grazed Andrews fingers before it was pulled free a third time. Children gathered around to watch the spectacle. Thomas, the circus master, led Andrew in a wide circle, like a prize animal. Uh-uh, he teased. Andrew's face grew blood red with anger and effort. He charged, head low, Thomas dodged and stuck his foot out to catch Andrew in an embarrassing trap. The crowd roared with approval as he thudded to the ground.

He struggled to his feet, his heart limping in his chest. He put his hands over his head, fighting the knee-depuke. Look at those fat titties, one kid squealed. Andrew instantly shamed, covered his chest with his hands. Who said that? He squeaked, spinning around, trying not to jossle himself. No one answered. They simply pointed and laughed. Thomas spun the pocket watch high above his head, cocking his arm to throw it, when an adult voice cut through the laughs of the children.

What is going on here? Miss Minner demanded. The circle fell instantly silent, her eyes locked onto Thomas. Office, Mr. Daniels, everyone else back inside recess is over. There was a collective groan as the crowd headed for class. Thomas flung the watch hard into Andrew's chest. Once the watch was safe, Andrew searched the crowd for Claire. He didn't see her pink bow anywhere. The tree line, like a storm on the horizon, loomed, silent, and empty.

Ten minutes into class, Claire still wasn't in her seat in the front corner. When he saw that Miss Minner still hadn't noticed, Andrew raised his hand. In the five weeks after Claire's disappearance, Andrew gained 20 pounds. He sat at the dinner table of his mother's small apartment watching a man who claimed to be an expert on the occult. The man waved his hands excitedly. In fact, people back then always kept precious metals on their person.

Certain metals were believed to ward off the evil eye. Andrew's mother changed the channel to the news. The oven chimed and soon abaking she packed end to end with French toast, lay before Andrew. Crispy crusts, buttery middles, and the perfect amount of cinnamon. It was Andrew's favorite dessert. Thank you, Mama. Andrew said as he dug in, she tussled his hair. Love you, gummy bear. The lead family hadn't always lived in a small apartment.

Once upon a time, the leads were the proud owners of a successful restaurant. Andrew's father ran the business and his mother was head chef. Andrew was the professional taste tester. If he finished his homework. Monday nights when business was usually slow, they watched Westerns at the bar. Despite great business, Andrew's father had made many mistakes with the money. The last thing Andrew ever heard his father say was, it's getting where we can't even afford to feed him.

The next morning, his father was gone. Andrew's mother sold the restaurant, their house, traded in her car, and moved them into an apartment. Despite their tight budget, she always made sure their son was fed. She cooked three hearty meals every day, with plenty of snacks in between. Shortly after his father left, Andrew began to gain weight. The telephone rang, and she quickly answered it. She looked over her shoulder before going out of the room to take the call and private.

Andrew wiped his fingers clean and down the last of his chocolate milk. On the television, the window over the reporters shoulder faded into a picture of Claire, sheepishly smiling. A piece of ice lodged itself in his heart, and the reporters' words drove the ice home. The search for Claire Ellis, 12-year-old daughter of James and Olivia Ellis, has been discontinued by authorities. Claire was last seen wandering into the woods behind Pine Hill Middle School.

The Ellis family asks that anyone with information involving Claire's disappearance, call the number below. Feet padded from down the hall back into the living room. A candlelight vigil will be held Saturday at 6 p.m. at the Pine Hill Middle School. On behalf of all of us here at Channel 6 News, the channel abruptly changed to cartoons. Andrew's mother held out the remote, letting out a sharp breath as she replaced the phone.

I'm sorry you saw that gummy bear. Let's not think about that tonight, okay? But Andrew had thought of Claire every night. As far as the police had learned, Andrew was the last one to see Claire. Despite being full, he wanted something to snack on. He flipped open his brass pocket watch. It was only seven. His mother sounded like a crack China cup as she spoke. Did you watch say cowboy? The previous year Andrew and his mother went to the movies and saw of Integi Western.

When the hero strode into town, two bad guys leveled their guns. The hero pulled out a brass pocket watch from his duster and said, will you look at that? It's high time things changed around here. He pulled his gun and shot them and down. Andrew had been overjoyed, clapping loud enough to draw shhh. From somewhere in the dark. When Christmas day Andrew had an exact replica of the watch. Seven, it's getting late, he told her, whole-staring the watch.

Though he truly loved the watch, it reminded him of times with his father, watching Westerns. They had been a family then, and Andrew, whether he meant to or not, had ruined that. He was the reason his father left. The more he thought about his failures, to his family, to Claire. The more he wanted to eat, and forget. He rose and gave his mother a gentle hug. I'm going to go to bed, Mama.

I feel really tired. She hugged him back, and Andrew remembered a time when she had been able to wrap her arms all the way around him. Good night, Gummy Bear. I'll have a big breakfast for you in the morning. Sounds good, Mama. Love you. Love you, too. He drifted to his room, closing the door behind him. He no longer felt nice and full and sleepy. He felt fat. If he hadn't been fat, he wouldn't have been picked on by Thomas.

He wouldn't have had a problem asking Claire to go to the Gumbo festival with him. Claire wouldn't have disappeared. The large bag of pretzels he kept in his nightstand lay in his lap. Open. He sat on his bed, watching the pocket watch tick away the seconds, silently eating the pretzels, until they were gone. The next day the children were allowed on the playground for the first time since the disappearance. Andrew sat at the edge of the forest eating from a plastic sleeve of mini donuts, watching the other kids play.

Thomas was occupied humiliating another target. Behind Andrew the new fence poles stood, but no fence barred the forest. During a lonely lunch two days before, Andrew heard coach Bart say to another teacher, those guys building the fence are really dragon but. In the distance Thomas gave some poor soul in atomic wedgie, pulling him off the ground, feet kicking. A wish I could help you kid, Andrew said, around a mouth full of donut.

A familiar voice hissed behind him. You could help me, Andrew. He turned wide eye to see the back of Claire Ellis. She looked exactly the same as the day she disappeared, down to her long ponytail tied with a pink bow. Claire? She laughed. There was a scream from the playground, making Andrew wheel around. Coach Bart, who had taken Miss Minner's place as Andrew's teacher, had Thomas by the ear marching him towards the school.

A crowd of kids followed, cheering and laughing. When Andrew turned back to the forest. Claire? The smallest crescent of Claire's face peaked from behind a tree deep inside. Claire, people have been worried about you. Where have you been? She grinned, saying nothing. The wrapper crinkled in his trembling hand. You want a donut? With a laugh, she turned and fled deeper into the woods. Claire, what wait? He called out as he breached the tree line.

She darted tree to tree far ahead of him. Her giggles seemed echo. When Andrew slowed she stopped and watched him struggle to catch up. Claire, please, he wanted to go back to the playground and get an adult. But he pressed on, heaving and walking when he could no longer run, weasing please for her to stop. She laughed in response and ran aimlessly deeper into the forest. His heart pumped madly, screaming at him to stop and turned back, but he couldn't.

It was his fault that she got lost and he wanted to make it right. Paul endanced in low orange rays between branches. Andrew was nervous to see the time. Bekaboo, Claire said, disappearing behind a tree. He leaned on his knees crushing the empty plastic sleeve. He had lost all the donuts running through the forest. Claire, I don't know what you're doing but we have to go back now. Your parents miss you.

She back in, in a low voice. Save me Andrew. Apprehensively, he rounded the tree. He peaked, not seeing anyone. He called out to her but only as echo answered. The dancing rays dimmed, as the sky, continued to redden. Andrew searched for his trail of donuts. First calling for Claire, then for anyone. In night fell the forest stirred with sounds of things unseen. Andrew didn't dare call out. A stray branch Andrew couldn't see gouged him deeply into his arm, the pain and the fear and the sheer exhaustion forced him to his knees.

The harvest mooned large and orange in the sky was swallowed by an inky sea of clouds. Andrew huddled against a tree sobbing, as total darkness fell. The creatures of the night reveled in the cold void. He curled inward on the itchy forest floor shivering. Somewhere in his tears, time slowed to the pace of a bad nightmare. Then, as suddenly as the forest came alive, it went, definitely silent. There was a click in the dark, followed instantly by blinding light.

He put his hands to his face and cried out, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was a flashlight held by an unseen figure. Hello? Andrew called out, still shielding his eyes. There was nothing. A cute panic filled his spine and his voice. Are you here to help me? The forest floor crunched as the light approached. Andrew pressed against the tree. He turned it. An angel, gently placed her hand on his head.

Her golden hair fell and strands around her white dress. Feeling her hand on his head. His muddy brown eyes locking with her emerald greens. His fear melted away. My goodness, she said, as she knelt. What are you doing here? Andrew sunk into the angel's shoulder, trying to speak between loud sobs. I'm lost, miss. I followed my friend and I can't find her to help please help me. She rocked him in her arms, shushing him.

The angel held his face in her hands and wiped streaming tears from his cheeks. What's her name, sweetie? He sniffled. I'm Andrew, ma'am. She helped him to his feet and shine the light under her face, illuminating a wide grin. My name is Agatha. He forced him to lock fingers with her. I heard someone crying in the dark. Children are always getting lost out here. Andrew wiped his nose on his sleeve. You live around here?

Agatha leveled her face with his. Not far at all. Let's get you in the house and warm up. They walked hand in hand, led by the flashlight. Ma'am, Andrew inquired, apprehensively. You said a lot of kids get lost in these woods. I'm looking for my friend Claire. She went missing a few weeks ago. You haven't seen her have you? Nope. Sorry, sweetie. And declaring ahead of them was a small house. Warm electric light peaked from behind a curtain window, as well as a familiar cinnamon smell.

He brightened. What is that? Agatha smiled warmly. I like to have a late night treat sometimes. She led him up to the porch steps and opened the door. After you. The inside of the house was cozy and warm. In the center of the small room was the dining table with tall back chairs. The corner had a small reading nook topped with a lamp that dimly lit the room. Several large volumes lay on the table.

Across from the entrance was another door, closed, androor assumed that was her bedroom. The kitchen dominated the room. Everything appeared to be commercial grade reminding Andrew of his parents' restaurant. The deep double sink lay in a marble counter. On the counters at spices of all kind and a large wooden knife block, the refrigerator and freezer combo was old, but well maintained. The oven, the biggest Andrew had ever seen, was a source of warmth and the cinnamon.

Agatha locked the door and guided him by the shoulder to the dining table. Make yourself at home. Exhausted, he sank into a chair and settled comfortably like a mound of pudding. She sat at the corner next to him, elbows on the table, hands concealing a smile. Thank you for helping me, Andrew said, do you think my friend is okay out there? Agatha's hands fell, revealing a white, perfect smile. You have a little something, she said, as she wiped the last bit of glistening blood from the cut in his arm.

She stuck the sanguine tip of her thumb into her mouth, and sucked it clean. The oven timer dinged, and she glided into the kitchen, she moved like his mother, he thought. She pulled a single glass from the wooden cabinet, then swung open the fridge and found a curtain of chocolate milk. She held the fridge door open with one foot as she poured the milk, fainting lost balance for Andrew's amusement. Once poured she replaced the bottle and let the fridge close itself.

With much showmanship, she dawned two oven mitts that went to her elbows, then she swung a locking latch above the oven's door before pulling it open. She fan the heat like an angry goose. Andrew didn't remember a latch like that on his parents' oven. She spun, closed the door with her heel and marched, chocolate milk in the crook of her arm, and a baking sheet in her mitts. She placed both squarely in front of Andrew.

What do you think? She asked. It was a baking sheet packed, end to end, with French toast, crispy crusts, buttery mittles, and the perfect amount of cinnamon. The smell made the fear and the shock and the pain of the night's events settle on Andrew's shoulders. She realized in his soul that he was hungry. Eat up, she pleaded. He had wanted to say something, but before he knew it, the bread was eviscerated, staining his fingers with delicious stickiness.

He devoured each slice like a starving beast, only stopping long enough to take big gulps of chocolate milk. She grinned it him. Sorry, he said, I'm so rude. You made this for you. Oh no, she whispered, please eat up. She rose with his empty glass in hand and refilled it. The oven dinged as she adjusted the temperature. Sitting back down she slid the glass to him, just in time for another big gulp.

I really do like it, man. It's actually my favorite. Wonderful, Agatha said, Iing him, up and down. Not long after his third glass of milk, Andrew had finished the entire baking sheet. He sat back feeling his stomach expand with milk and bread. The tharge of his side. Thank you, I think I needed that. She leaned over the table, a glint in her eye. I'll say, she whispered, as she playfully pinched his belly.

He flinched away from her hand gently swatting it away. Please don't do that, he said. Smiling she stood slowly. Let me prep your room. I'll be right back. She unlocked the back door and stepped into total darkness, slamming the door behind her. Andrew went to the sink to wash his sticky fingers. Clean, he checked his watch. To his amazement, the brass vibrated in his hand. It had never done that before. He put it away hoping it wasn't broken when something at the reading nook caught his eye.

His steps echoed as he moved towards it. The cover of the top volume was rough. Andrew could tell that the book was very old. Everything colorful marked the ancient pages. He opened the book and saw. It was a pink ribbon. The barest edge of one loop was stained with the trace of red. The book was written in a language and didn't recognize, but there was a graphic drawing that he immediately understood.

It detailed how to strip the meat from a human arm. The door to the bedroom popped open. It creaked on its hinges as a Norrled hand let it open. A hunched creature padded barefoot into the room. It's back to Andrew. It drew a wicked looking blade from the knife block. Andrew ran for the door, trying for the knob only to find it missing. The window latch was also gone, like neither was ever there.

In the kitchen, something that might have once been a woman stood in the dim light facing him. It knows was too large for its face and long whispers of hair grew in sparse, golden patches. Pale skin covered in moles, boils and blisters, sagged and creased from its ancient body. Like its skin, it's once white dress hung, bedrangled. Its eyes glistened like wet, green mold. Agatha's dry voice strangled Andrew to panic. I like to have a late night treat.

Gummy bear. He pounded the window as hard as he could, his fist bouncing, and effectively, the witch stalked him slowly. He rounded the table, keeping it between them. Help me, Andrew cried to no one. Someone, please! Agatha cackled. No one is coming for you. Andrew fought back the urge to faint. He tried to call out again, but it jumbled into a garbled mess. The witch seemed barely able to contain her excitement.

I've seasoned you. She said proudly, not that you need it. My little well marbled chubber. Now clear, she needed seasoning. Andrew thought he could feel his heart fall out of his chest at the mention of clear. You know, Agatha confided. I couldn't eat her right away. She was all skin and bones. Had to feed her for weeks. Make her ripe. But you, she trailed off, licking her cracked lips. So plump and juicy already.

She flashed a saw toothed grin, showing off every inch of her yellowed gums. Andrew's fear had been replaced by something primal. If he hadn't been so fat, Thomas wouldn't have picked on him. He could have gotten to her in time. He would have had the courage to ask. Even if she said no, she'd still be alive. That primal heat filled his entire being and spewed from his mouth like fire. You killed her!

With all of his strength, he shoved the table into Agatha. Surprise flashed across her face and she stumbled against the blow. She caught herself, then shoved back twice as hard. Struck, Andrew, creamed into the oven with a clank. The hot door stinging his cut arm. The latch caught on his ear, slicing him as it unclassed. He pulled himself up with the oven handle, dropping it open with a clank as he stood.

The table flew across the room no longer a barrier. Andrew shuffled backwards holding his bleeding ear. She cackled as her vice-like grip seized him by his blood so shoulder and hauled him into the darkness of the back room. Andrew ducked out of his shirt and tripped over a overturn chair. He was on his back just in time to see Agatha descending. Knife streaking towards him. He jerked his head away just before the blade could sink into his eye.

As the knife thunked into the floor, the blade bent and shattered. She pinned his arms, her face against his, her hot breath bathed his senses, making him wretch. His little piggy went to market. She whispered into his wounded ear. She licked the length of the bleeding gash. Then bit down hard. Andrew screamed at the white hot pain. She suckled at the pouring blood, moaning with satisfaction. Tears stung his eyes as her jagged teeth sawed and pulled, fighting to remove his ear.

In her moment of delight he was able to pull his hand free from her grasp. Something hot found its way into the palm of his hand. He held up the humming body of his brass pocket watch, the metal glowed with an inner light. Instinctively he knew what to do. Like butter on a hot skillet the watch sizzled into her shoulder. She flew back, red dribbling down her chin, screaming and surprise and pain.

Andrew held his mangled ear, trying to petdle backwards. The glowing metal spread through her putrid skin and deep, jagged forks. Her arm eaten through fell away from her and thudded, sickly on the floor. Her wailing reached a pitch that forced Andrew to cover both of his ears as best he could, and the front window exploded outward. The witch fell to the ground sobbing heavily over her lost arm like a child over spilled ice creep.

You horrible child, she wind, the brass still spreading along her back. Black sludge dripped from behind her teeth as she coughed. You've mangled me, you wretched nasty boy. Andrew stood above her, the glowing inwards of the open oven reflecting in his eyes. What are you doing? She demanded, she felt frail and powerless as he lifted her. She resisted, pleading with him to stop, he slung her hunched frame head first into the oven.

Her cry was guttural and other worldly, has her face sagged and blistered, he lifted her the rest of the way in, and closed the door. She kicked almost breaking free, but Andrew held the door fast, burning his palms. He swung the bloody latch closed. The oven dinged madly as he mashed the buttons to its maximum temperature. The witch was a blaze inside of the oven kicking violently, Andrew backed away from the building heat.

Dark, stinking smoke flooded the room, she wailed in an unknown, unholy language, objects inside of the house began to float, her hands struck the oven window desperately. There was a sucking noise as the flesh of her palm stayed behind as she pulled away. Her skeletal hands struck again, cracking the oven window, Andrew'd seen enough. He jumped out of the front window, falling hard enough to knock the breath out of him. On will alone, he ran into the night.

The house quickly became a roaring inferno, flashing out and striking trees igniting the rest of the forest. He ran as fast as he could manage and so did the hungry flames. Animals big and small fled in all directions, they easily passed him in their stampede, when Andrew couldn't see through the spots in his vision, he collapsed to the ground. Deadly warmth danced towards him, but Andrew was far removed from the heat.

All he could think about was his father, and how angry he was at him for leaving. It had never been Andrew's fault, he realized. All this time, he had chained himself to his feelings, glancing at them, but never facing them. Between heavy weasers, he managed to laugh. He hadn't been a perfect person, but he had done the best that he could. At the very least, he had slain a monster and avenged a fair maiden.

In the end, he had been brave, content with that he sighed. I got her clear, I got her, as the heat closed in, darkness, mercifully overtook him. A thin droplet of water fell into Andrew's mouth, and he coughed awake. More light rain fell into his open eyes. The early morning sun hid behind thick gray clouds. He shook suit from his hair, as three men and heavy yellow jackets and hard hats rushed to him.

As far as the eye could see in the smoke and dust the forest had burned to cinders, charred remains of trees stuck to finally upward like great bones. The wind whipped ash and dust in violent swirls. Some of the tall-skillies will remain fell prey to the winds and toppled, shattering on the ground, creating more upheaval. Far behind the men. A guardian angel was smiling, thankfully, to Andrew. She had long-round hair, held up by a pink bow.

The dead ocean stirred into a frenzy and she faded into the furious tide, just as heavy rain began to fall. Andrew's ear was treated by an EMT in front of Pine Hill Middle School. His mother, eyes red with exhaustion and tears ran to him. He jumped from the back of the ambulance and met her halfway. They sank to the concrete, crying in each other's arms. She held him tightly, careful not to bump the fresh bandages over his ear.

The police questioned Andrew about the fire and who attacked him. He told them about Agatha, what she had planned to do with him, and how she admitted to kidnapping Claire. He did not tell them what Agatha was, or how the fire had started. He told them he couldn't remember. When asked how he survived being in the middle of a forest fire, he told them the truth. It was an angel, he said.

She gave me a second chance. Andrew didn't have to go back to school right away. For two days he mostly slept, the pain killers made him drowsy. He only woke long enough to eat small bowls of soup. As he ate, he looked up diet plans on his laptop. On the third day he woke late in the afternoon, just before time for supper. He walked into the living room, a small stack of papers in hand to see his mother watching the news.

Her reporter was talking about his story. Authorities are still combing the burned remains for signs of the mysterious Agatha and her house in the woods so far they have found nothing. His mother noticed him and turned the television off. Good morning, she said, crossing the room and giving him a gentle hug. You ready for supper? How about a plate of French toast and chocolate milk? Andrew barely hid a dry heave. He held out the papers in his hands.

Actually, Mama, I'd like to try one of these. She flipped through the recipes for chicken salad, quinoa chili and cauliflower rice and chicken. She cocked her head puzzled. You okay, gummy bear? He mined drawing a brass pocket watch from his imaginary duster and flipped it open. Well, you look at that. He said with a smile. It's high time things changed around here. Careful what you wish by David O’Hanlon. Pen reached for the doorbell.

His finger hovered over the button as it had the last two times he tried to bring himself to ring. He sighed and jabbed the button. His face pressed against the glass of the nearest window. Pen chuckled at the side of the freckled buck tooth face, smiling excitedly at him. The door opened and Pen was greeted by a far less enthusiastic individual. Pen shifted uncomfortably. He didn't look like an ex-con in his new jeans and custom polo shirt, but he felt the same way he did every time he was pulled in for a police lineup.

His mother, Janet, held an obese chocolate-point-siamese cat against her chest and stroked it like a movie villain while she eyed the man on her doorstep. Janet slipped her robe up over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Your Ed's friend? Pen shifted the brown paper bag into his left hand and extended the right. Yes, man. I'm Pen. And you've been in a few two would be my guess. She waved him inside. You're gonna let the other cats out.

Pen stepped inside and glanced around the restored brownstone. Three tabbies lounged on the furniture, a main coon lifted its head from the arm of the recliner to survey a new arrival to its domain. The cat was seemingly unimpressed by Pen and went back to sleep. Pen turned to Janet. Ed had told him his mom used to be a famous model, but the horrible marriage and subsequent vodka and valium-based diet hid the fact now.

Pen had looked like she would be bummed and smokes outside a 7-Eleven. Pen felt a tinge of guilt. He knew better than anyone not to judge a person by their circumstances. She dumped the siamese onto the love seat and straightened her pajamas before pulling her robe closed and tying the belt tightly around her slender waist. Don't you think it's weird hanging out with a ten-year-old boy? Janet snapped the elastic from her bun and let her brown hair fall as she walked past him and into the kitchen.

He grabbed a glass from the disstrainer and banged it onto the countertop. You're like 30 after all. Pen shrugged. So are you? Thanks for rubbing salt in that wound. Janet poured orange juice into a glass and reached for the pop-off bottle atop the fridge. You can have something to drink if you like. Lactose-free milk, sugar-free cool-aid, caffeine-free tea. We even have that shitty soda that lacks all of the above. I've got a water bottle in the truck, but thanks.

Cut the shit, pen. Janet sipped from the bottle before pouring a splash into the juice. The boy's allergic to everything. No one hangs out with him because they want to. The last date I had was four years ago when Ed broke out in highs because of the guy's colon. He has to wear a desk mask to walk through the living room because of the cat hair. The inhaler, the epipen, anxiety meds, and a leg rifer signuses, seizures at the movies, motion sickness at the fair, panic attacks at the mall.

There's nothing you can do with him. He should even go to the park, or wherever it is that he spends his time. What do you really want with him? Ed sneezed around the corner. Pen wasn't sure where the boy was, but knew he was within your shot. Janet's eyes flick toward the noise and back to pen, calling her son a loser clearly wasn't outside of the norm. Pen's fist tightened crumbling the paper sack, noisily.

Health wise, there's a lot of things wrong with that. Anyone else sees those conditions as things that make him weak. I see them as the reasons he's got such a big goddamn heart. Pen stepped closer to Janet and took the glass from the counter before she could drink it. Their Ed's conditions. But you're right. They do interfere with your life. You have to take the extra precautions, and I bet that's exhausting.

Don't you patronize me? I'm not. Honestly, I can't imagine what you've had to sacrifice to protect him, but that doesn't change the fact that Ed doesn't get to be a kid. Pen chugged the screwdriver and scowled at the aftertaste. He cleared his throat. What I want is to take him for the weekend so he can experience a sleep over watch cheesy horror flicks play too many video games and he'd a fuck ton of red and green gummy worms with his friend the way regular kids get to.

When you can go to the spa or the mall or on a date or at least to a liquor store for some better vodka, you're one ballsy son of a bitch. Janet Huffton put her hands on her hips. Thank you for noticing, but let's keep this professional. Janet's face slipped into a smile for a brief moment. Then the serious judgmental glare returned. You want to know what's in it for me? Pen's shrugged.

It's the only person that's ever seen anything good in me. I want to return the favor. I want to give him the experiences he should be having and as an extra bonus I'm giving you the weekend off. He's got school Monday. Janet took the glass from Pen and jabbed the rim into his chest. You have him home by seven Sunday night or you'll be the one with medical conditions. Woohoo! Ed shouted excitedly from around the corner.

Ed climbed into the unmarked moving truck and clicked his seat belt. Pen handed him the brown paper bag. I don't think your mom likes me. He said, to be fair, mom doesn't get enough guests to know how to like people at all. Ed uncirled the lip of the bag. What's this? A present, obviously. Presents don't usually come and brown grocery bags, pen. Ed giggled and pulled out a black polo shirt. Hey, it's like yours.

It's exactly like mine. Pen said as he tapped his own embroidered pocket. Ed found the chest pocket was identical and featured a stitched moving truck and green thread and gold letters surrounded it. Ed and Pen moving services. Ed reached into the bag once more and pulled out a lunchbox. He opened it and found a bag of gummy worms, a sandwich, two juice boxes and a protein bar. Ed smiled sadly. What's wrong?

I'm too weak to help you move things. People have little things to move. Pen tussled Ed's shaggy hair. Besides, you don't get stronger by not trying. I used to be scrawny. Really? Really? And look at me now, Pen flexed straining the sleeve of a shirt. How do you think I got this strong? Because you had nothing to do but work out when you were in prison? Ed answered, chipperly. That's entirely true and also not my point.

Ed perst his lips. Even if you can't help with the physical part all the time, I'm going to need someone to help me with all the business stuff. They don't teach bookkeeping in the joint and you have to help me paint the truck. Ed sat up quickly. Any color? Of course. Ready for our first job? Pen held out his fist. Ed bump knuckles against Pen's hand. Absolutely partner. Crumbs rolled down Ed's shirt and joined the others in his lap while Pen lugged the mattress up the loading ramp and into the back of the truck.

Pen was right and the couple had lots of little things for Ed to load. Still, he felt bad leaving the heaviest stuff for his friend. He shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. Is there more? He asked between bites. Yeah, but not much. Pen pointed to one wall of the truck. Think he could move those boxes over in front of the dresser. There's a big curio cabinet and two foot lockers that I think would be more stable there.

Sure thing. Alia padded Pen's shoulder as he hopped out of the truck and rested her hands on the bumper. You're a good helper. Thanks. Ed said, you have a lot of cool old stuff. Dahlia laughed. Oh, love. This isn't ours. My grandfather was a bit of an adventurer once upon a time. That's so cool. Ed scooped up a box and set it on top of the dresser. So this is all his treasures.

Some of it, after my grandmother passed away, Papa Hart became a hermit and most of it just stayed here, collecting dust. My daddy used to tell me all his stories. I'm sad to say I never got to meet them and myself. That does kind of suck. Kind of. Dahlia tugged at a violet braid and twisted it around her fingers. Not knowing him means I get to hold onto the hope that some of the magic in those stories might actually be real.

Oh, magic is very real. Ed smiled knowingly, where is all this going? I'm sending it all over to a colleague. They're going to sort it out and sell it for me. Why not keep it? Dahlia laughed sweetly. Oh, I'd love to, but there's just too much of it. The hubby and I are moving to New York. We found us a cute little townhouse, the operative word being little. That's too bad. Ed lifted an ornate bottle from one of the boxes.

This stuff is really nifty. I'd love to hear the stories about each one. Maybe you will love. I've got a book deal with a big publisher up north. I'm going to write all about Papa Hart and his adventures. I can't wait to read them. I'll send a sign copy to you in your dad. Dahlia said with a smile, oh, pens not my dad. He's just my best friend. Ed's face sowered by default.

Dahlia cocked her head. How's that? He's my only friend. So I guess he has to be the best one. Ed stared at the bottle in his tiny hands. Well, now you've got to Ed. Dahlia smiled at him. I got to pack up a couple more boxes that I think would fit perfectly right where you're working. I'll be back in a tick. Ed leaned on the dresser and turned the bottle in his hands.

Carefully. Raised figures around the vessel were carved from the green glass itself. Ed stepped toward the back of the truck and viewed it in the sun. Nifty. He gasped as the glass changed to brilliant red in the direct sunlight. Figures bound to one another formed an unending chain near the base of the bottle above a silver cap cut to resemble flames that engulfed them. A cutout figure towered over them with a staff in his hand and the neck of the bottle was shrouded in a silver sleeve with intricate engravings of stars over the man.

On the opposite side of the bottle was another figure bound by a giant snake with a hood over his head. He turned the bottle upside and felt the weight shift, then held it up to light to discover. It was empty. He shook it again feeling the invisible contents bouncing about. No freaking way. He rubbed his thumb over the constricting body of the serpent and tucked the bottle away in its box as he heard the dolly bounce off the front porch.

This is so cool. It took another 40 minutes to load the rest of the things and say goodbye to Dahlia and her husband. She got pens mailing addressed to send the book like she said and tipped both of them in cash for their hard work. They were cruising down the back roads to avoid the rush hour traffic. Ed turned up the radio and bobbed in his seat to Iggy Pop's butt town.

Then laughed at the boy and threw up his horns before head banging along with the music. Ed exploded with laughter. Neither of them was aware of the happenings in the back of the truck. They couldn't hear the glass snake's body fizzuring or the tiny pieces falling away from the hooded figure now free of its reptilian restraints. They couldn't smell the accurate semi-sweet fumes spilling over the lip of the bottle as the building smoke forced the cork up.

Penn checked the time on the dashboard clock and grunted. What's wrong, Ed asked? I was hoping we'd have all this dropped off before dark so we could go to the park and get those hot dogs you like so much for dinner. If I'd help more we might have been done faster. Don't do that. It's not your fault. It's our first gig. We'll get faster. He shrugged. Besides, there's a place nearby that has these huge co-needs with every topping imaginable.

Like, they've got one called the gut buster where the dog is inside onion rings in a cheese toasted bun and drowned in chili. Sweet. I think I'll have two of those. They both laughed. Can we go to the mall? Ed rubbed dolly as $20 tip between this fingers. Sure. We can do whatever you want, kid. He squeezed Ed's shoulder reassuringly. But I thought you didn't like the mall. I'll take an extra anxiety pill.

Ed hung his head. I want to find mom a perfume. I'm not allergic to something thumped in the back of the truck. Shit. Penn slapped the steering wheel. I forgot to strap the mattress down. Penn pulled over and unbuckled. Ed's eyes grew wide as he realized the source. Don't go Penn. It's not much further. It'll only take a second, kid. Penn winked and stepped out, scurting the side of the truck in case of passing cars.

Ed clamored out of the truck and watched his Penn rolled the door up. Penn sniffed the air and, fan-d his hand in front of his face. Why is it smell like a fucking opium den? He asked no one in particular. The orny bottle clattered along the metal floor of the truck and rolled off the end. Penn caught it before he could hit the ground. He sighed and held it up for Ed to see.

The mattress must have knocked over a box, probably some old time he cologne that stinks. He said, how many years have I been captive? The set of glowing eyes shined in the darkness. Penn knelt next to Ed. I thought magic had to have a battery. What do you think you're holding, Ed whispered? What is the price of my emancipation, Master? The thing in the back of the truck's voice was a rumbling hiss like steam through rusted pipes.

What is old of Babak? Master? Penn looked at the bottle quizzically and snickered. Is that what I think it is? Yes and no, Ed gulped. The speaker came forward. His body adorned in a silk cloak with strands of gold that shimmered in the setting sun. Wrinkled hands curled at the ends of the flowing sleeves before reaching up and pulling the hood away from his face. A sweeping gray mustache covered his entire lip and swept out in grandiose curls.

Do you free me without obligation? You're a fucking genie! Penn exclaimed, and ifrit, Ed corrected, the master is learned. Babak said, speak quickly, I have been gone too long. Not until you grant us three wishes, though. The law of sullumane binds me to one. Babak held up a single finger. I am free of my glass prison, and now bound only by the hesitation of the mass of the master's words. I have seen enough horror movies to know how this turns out.

I wish you were back in the bottle. Penn said, it was the boy who set me free. He must make the wish. Wishing back in the bottle kid, it's not worth the risk. I wish I wasn't a burden, Ed blerided. Fuck! Penn waved his hands in the air. Nope, that doesn't count. He's just a kid. He doesn't know what he's saying. Babak twisted one side of his mustache, and grinned menacingly. It is done.

Ed doubled over with a screech and collapsed to the gravel shoulder. Penn dropped to his knees and hugged him close. Ed's fever was growing fast enough that Penn could feel the heat rising off it. What the fuck did you do to him? He will be a burden, no longer. Babak shrugged. The infant burst into flames and flashed overhead, streaking upward and flying above the city like a comet. Penn lifted Ed and hurriedly put him in the cab of the truck, shut the back and climb behind the wheel.

Don't worry, Ed. Penn pulled onto the road in a wide, you turn across traffic. I'm going to get you to the hospital and then I'm going to beat the shit out of that genie. Ifrit Ed said weekly, the hospitals can't help me. Hospitals can fix anything. Penn lied. The ifrit were created from the first flame in the universe. How do you know this shit? I read a lot. You should be reading Dr.

Suce or something. Not, I don't know, Penn waved his hands. Not whatever the hell you're reading. Dad didn't leave me any of those. He left me books on magic. Thought you said your dad was some scumbag talent agent. He left because he wasn't my real dad. Mom had too much to drink and told me it was my fault, too. No, that doesn't make it your fault. Your real dad is probably much cooler than that guy who was just a chicken shit, but not the point right now.

Penn shook his head. If not the hospital, then what do I do to save you? Get Bobbick back into the bottle. Easy enough. Penn grabbed his phone out of the console and pulled up the internet app. He steered with his wrist so he could type faster in the search bar. Where are we going, Ed weeased? He called the bottle a prison. Getting out of prison is something I know a lot about.

And someone gets released. They want one thing. A woman? No, Penn looked at Ed incredulously. That's the second thing. First comes real food. There's only one place that serves Middle Eastern cuisine in this part of Oklahoma. Get him back in the bottle. Ed broke into a coughing fit, spattering blood across the glove box. He laid over and put his head on Penn's leg. It's not your fault if you don't save me.

Penn. Penn stroked Ed's hair. Strands came loose and clung to his fingers. He pressed the accelerator down to the floor. The truck crashed through the front of Safron Palace, sending patrons of the restaurant fleeing in all directions. Penn stepped out of the cab and slammed the door, pointing the bottle at Babak, who sat at his table completely unbothered by the destructive entrance. You can get back in the bottle, or I'm going to jam it up your ass.

Penn warned him. You've worked so hard. Please, Babak jestered to the seat across from him. Join me for my first meal. I'm not asking. Penn sat the vessel down. You in the bottle, or the bottle in you. Babak comb back his white hair and shook his head. You cannot threaten me any more than a loused threatens a camel. Penn's slug Bobc square in the nose shattering it and tipping him over in his chair.

I figured that magic lamp is like solitary confinement. The guys in solitary get soft. They can't take a punch. Penn kicked the effort in the ribs. Now get in the fucking bang. Babak's mustache smoldered. The bitter sweet smell of opium trailed from the glowing ends as he rose to his feet. Penn backed away slowly. The threads of Babak's roe ignited and the garment fell away from his naked body as ash. Penn lifted a chair over his shoulder.

Babak's mouth stretched open until his jaw unhinged and continued to stretch wider still. His voice emanated from deep within him. I am which was created before all else. From the first flame I took my life. You child of the mud are born in my shadow," he said. You suck at talking shit. Penn lunged forward swinging the chair Babak's face. A fiery cloud launched from Babak's mind and gulfed the furniture. Penn let go and jump back gasping at the remains already scorched to a cinder between him and the effort.

The creature laughed smoke oozed from his pores. Yellow brown perspiration dripped from the wierry hairs of his broad chest. The glow returned to his eyes and his skin combusted. Bobcaclutched Penn's arms, searing his flesh and tossing him effortlessly across the restaurant. The fiery figures stalked the room leaving burning footprints in his wake. The ceiling tiles darkened overhead. Penn crawled under a table only for a fireball to set it ablaze. He shot from beneath it and ran to the kitchen as more flaming orbs streaked past him and ignited the furnishings.

Penn pulled his shirt over his head to examine his wounds. The creature's handprints were black spots of charred flesh. Jesus, I look like a fucking wapper. The plastic swinging doors melted into a puddle as the effort pushed through them, Bobc turned slowly to face Penn. Where is your bravado now, little louse? He growled. You know what the hardest thing about getting out of prison is? Penn asked, looking around the kitchen for a weapon, he grabbed a large curved knife and pointed it at Bobc.

In lighten me. The effort touched the point of the knife. The blade glowed intensely until the tang cooked through the handle and Penn tossed it aside with a shriek. He continued moving away from the walking inferno. The hardest part is knowing the whole fucking world went on without you. Everyone lived their lives, moved on and did their own thing. The creature paused and cocked its head. This is true. Everything changes when you're locked up, no one gives a shit that you're gone and the world isn't the same when you come back.

So much shit has been invented that you can't keep up, but you never even heard of Ansel. Penn grabbed a pot and slung the boiling oil at the effort. The liquid flared to life burning everything in its path. Secondary fires flashed around the kitchen. Bobc's laughter boomed. He stepped toward Penn and raised in a accusatory finger, a gout of flames speared outward and contorted into a flame sword that stopped inches from Penn's face.

Penn, the Ansel fire suppression system engaged. First came the high pressure blast of chemicals that extinguished everything. Followed by the blanket of heavy foam that knocked both combatants to the floor. Penn pushed himself up and slipped about until he got his footing. He spat the non-toxic but nontasty foam from his mouth. Bobc sobbed on the floor and equivering mass beneath the white sudsy blanket. His flesh was charred from the fire suppressing agents.

Let's get you back in the bottle. Penn grabbed Bobc's arm and the burnt flesh stripped away in his hands. Ew! The effort curled into a fetal position as his cooling skin crumbled in broke away leaving a human-shaped perket on the floor. Fuck! Penn kicked the corpse and it shattered into soggy ash. You weren't supposed to die, I need you to fix ed! Something stirred among the debris that used to be Bobc's rib cage.

What the shit? Penn melt to inspect the movement. He dug his fingers through the slog revealing a green fist-sized orb stretching open within the efforts body. The red poppy petals pushed through and twisted open. The petals shuddered and the oversized flower moved shakily across the ravaged organs beneath it. Penn touched the petals. The flower twisted violently in the four vice-like fangs buried deep into Penn's hand. He jumped back howling and pain.

The fake flower lost petals as Penn shook his arm violently revealing the creature who's back at Gruan. It's spindly legs fought for purchase as it was slung back and forth. Penn banged it against a countertop, freeing himself from its bite. At a cost, he grimaced at the exposed bone before reaching for a towel to wrap around the wound. A cowering cook ran past Penn into the wreck dining room. The picnic Nordam and followed the monster's tracks through the foam and out the service entrance to the alley beyond.

He groaned. The overhead lights left pools of piss yellow between the restaurants in the nearby buildings. Come out, Babak. He called. The ifrit did not oblige. Thin digits caressed Penn's bear shoulder and squeezed the tense muscle sending a ripple of goose bumps up his spine as he world around. The creature wasn't there. Just the cook. The diminutive Iranian man glared at Penn for behind thick lenses that occupied entirely too much of his dark face.

The man held up the magic bottle. You forgot this. He said softly. It seems to be missing the cork. Shit. And thought of that. Penn took the bottle. The man reached into his white smock and produced a cork of his own. He held it up showing Penn the burned in hexagram on its wide top. I think you'll find this one fits perfectly. The man scampered away. Fuck am I supposed to do with the bottle?

The cook stopped at the door. Put the ifrit back inside. Do you know nothing? As a matter of fact, I don't. The cook rolled his eyes inside. Ifrit's don't like light. Flush it out, nail it to the earth, invoke the name of sulliman and return it to its vessel at once to undo any wish it is granted. It's not that difficult. The man disappeared inside and slammed the door. Penn's shoulder is sagged.

He put the cork between his teeth and pulled out his phone flipping on the flashlight. Okay, I got light and a bottle. Where do I get nails? I don't see a hardware store. Oh mother fucker. Penn cast the light down and found the source of the sudden pain. He lifted his foot and with it the broken slat of a pallet. He slid down the brick wall and pride the board loose. The rusted nails squeaked as they passed through the rubber sole of his boot.

Oh good. Now I have nails. He paned the light around. Nothing moved. He tilted the phone under the dumpster beside him. The monster screeched and lunged from its cover attacking the phone and knocking it to the ground. It's scurry to weigh and Penn crawled after it until he could get his feet under him and run. The things ten lakes carried it much faster than Penn could hobble. It cleared the alley and found itself in the glare of a streetlight.

The effort screamed again and bolted around the building. Penn rounded the corner and searched for the thing. Then he saw the back of his truck sticking out of the side of the building. Ed was slumped against the tires his clothes saturated with sweat and his face void of color except for the explosion of freckles. A clump of hair blew away from his head on the breeze. Bloody spittle dripped down his chin as his body spasmed with weak hacks.

Penn slid to the ground beside him. He hugged the boy and stroked his cheek. The fever was gone but Ed's skin was deathly cold and its wake. Come on kid, you saved me. Stay alive long enough to let me pay you back. It's okay, Ed moaned. At least I'm with my friend. Penn wept as the boy fell limp against him. The effort shimmed out from under the truck and stared at the two humans with its beady red eyes.

His fangs spread in a clicking hiss that sounded like perverse laughter. The monster moved forward slowly crawling across Ed's wilted form. It watched Penn cry but the man didn't move. Bobic trick tenical steps onto his thigh and then stood tall and repeated the evil cackling. What was it you called me, Kazam? Penn sniffled. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand still clutching the broken board. Uh, child of the mud.

Wasn't that it? Bobic blinked each of his six eyes. Guess that makes me part of the earth. The board met Penn's thigh with a sharp wet smack. Bobic squealed beneath the wood with nails pinning him in place. Penn pressed the board down harder and spat the cork into his freehand. He placed the hexagram against Bobc's face. Smoke roiled at the contact of the divine symbol and infernal flesh. In Sula Mains name.

Get the fuck in the bottle. The creature's flesh vibrated, shifted and burst into a cloud of brackish smoke that swirled around the neck of the ornate glass vessel. Penn stuffed the cork into the top, sealing the effort within. His head thumped against the tire and he hugged Ed close. I'm sorry I was late. Kid. Janet adjusted the flowers in their vases. Her hands shook as much from stress and heartache as from the lack of a drink.

She hadn't had a drop since Penn returned without her son. She wouldn't touch it ever again. Ed only ever had one friend, but the flowers seemed to come from everywhere. Even some lady in New York sent some. It seemed all the time Janet spent in a bottle. Her son spent, touching the lives of others. None of them were his friends. Just Penn. The rest sent cards explaining how Ed helped them. How the words and smile he shared touched them.

He reared the cards and broke down in tears again. Penn placed a hand on her shoulder. She slapped it away. I never knew what he was doing when I'd send him away. She said holding up the cards. Penn took them and flipped through the stack. He'd read all of them several times. Ed told me magic is just a toy. Without a battery. He set the cards next to the flowers and took a bag of gummy worms from his pocket.

He'd picked all the other colors out to leave only Ed's favorite red and green ones. He'd put one between his teeth and slurped it up before offering them to Janet. She smiled softly and plucked one from the bag. What's that even mean? She asked. Ed shared his magic with people that needed it. He got that from somewhere. Maybe you fucked up in how you showed it, but you still loved him. Or you wouldn't be crying in a bag of gummy worms with me.

That was the battery to his magic. Love. They still don't know what happened. Janet said. Saviota logic reaction. A small middleleaster man said from behind oversized glasses. He stepped into the room and slapped the iPad against his palm. Possibly something found in the second-hand moving blanket since I'd missed her pennington's truck. Pennington? Janet glanced up at Penn. Penn pointed at the man. Here the cook. Obviously not since I am clearly the doctor.

He nodded happily. And you are Casper Marion Pennington. Are you not? Wow. Your parents hated you. Janet said. Yeah. Penn pinched the bridge of his nose. I am. You should be more careful of the things you allow a boy to play with. The doctor scolded him. Ed turned away from the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescence with a grown. Mom? Penn? About damn time you woke up, kid. Penn rubbed Ed's shaved head.

How are you feeling? Like I was in a car crash. The doctor cleared his throat. Penn squinted Ed and then turned his attention back to Ed. Janet shoved him out of the way and snuggled her son. Penn sat on the corner of the bed and dug in his pockets with a grown. The skin grafts were tight and pinched. Ed pushed his mother's hair out of his face. Mom, you're smothering me. I'm sorry, baby.

She kissed his cheek. For so much. Penn put his hand on her shoulder again in this time. She let it stay. Good thing you woke up when you did. Penn said. Why is that? Ed asked as excitedly as the recently resuscitated could. Because you almost missed the coolest most fun holiday there is. He handed Ed a narrow box with a ribbon around it. Ed opened the box and smiled holding up the prize inside.

I can't believe I forgot. That's right, kid. It's National Kazoo Day. The End.