“Those girls have no couth! Half dressed, screaming in public! This vacation stinks, Roger!” Carol said.

Our get-a-way location was also the video spot for the band my wife passionately hated for no reason. The release of their Christmas album, Stayin’ Warm was coming up, heard about it on the radio. I liked them. I’ll admit I was jealous of their flowing hair, and all three sang tenor, unique for sure.

   They strolled out to the castle’s front veranda followed by a group of cameramen, and a mob of fans, nearly crushing anyone in their paths. 

The performers wore the biggest fur coats I had ever seen, caught myself staring. Carol brought me back to reality with a swift punch to the arm. I rubbed the pain away and followed her to the elevator. I noticed the lead singer gawking at my woman’s behind, I grunted and kept moving.

   We reached our floor, the doors slid open, and we walked down the long corridor to our room. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ahhhh, stayin’ warm, stayin’ warm…..Ah, ah, ah, ahhhh….” They sang loudly. The music disturbed our peace. Carol kicked her shoes off, screamed, jumped in bed and covered her head with a pillow.

I laid back and watched the local news. Carol dozed off.

Later that day, Carol suggested dinner at the hotel restaurant seeing as our options were slim, stuck on this snowy mountain.

Once in the hall, we passed the group again. The lead singer abruptly stopped. “Carol, I thought that was you!” He said.

She nodded, handing me her purse. “Let’s go, Roger!”

“How do you know the lead singer of the Cee Dee’s?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, only blushed.

The singer turned back towards me. “She’s more than a woman.” He winked.

I often wondered if I played a part in her death. I didn’t know he was abusive; I did know they were together and shared a child.

 

When both of our black sports cars met at a red light, I gave him my number after he yelled across the white line and asked for it. No big deal: he calls me, I call her, we all meet. She’ll realize what a creeper he is, freeing herself from a life of infidelity; my foolish young thoughts.

She showed up with the baby, he showed up minutes later….. unexpectedly with a gun. He demanded his child, I demanded she give her to him…. sparing my own life, I suppose. He left with the baby, she sat on my sofa weeping. I didn’t know how to comfort her, crying it out was her best option.

I didn’t speak to either of them again, lost track of their where abouts, heard rumors they married and had another child, all true by the way.

Years later, a breaking news story showed her picture and his. I wouldn’t have recognized them if it weren’t for the large Owl tattoo on his neck, the creature had horns and four legs. Man kills wife, mother-in-law, before turning gun on self.

I hushed the room, turned up the volume and held in my tears when the reporter explained two teens witnessed everything. I went back to preparing Thanksgiving dinner. I felt a little guilty watching my own family laugh and play, my house full of joy.

I learned a long time ago; a person’s heart can’t be persuaded in and out of love by an outsider. I wish the lesson would’ve come sooner.

“Dinner time!” My husband called our kids to the table.

The Ice Queen was off limits to Trundivar; the snow maker, who stayed hidden, conforming to the illustrious white mountains. Still, she called out to him nightly as she sang her people to sleep. She taunted him with hidden words meant to lure him closer to her perch, flirting with that which was prohibited among the Drifter Kingdom. Should Trundivar become heated with desire, the caps would melt, and life would no longer exist for any of their world. 

“La-la-la-la……. Sleep my drifter loves. Trundivar is far from you, living amongst the stars.” At a higher pitch, she added lines that her people couldn’t hear, summoning Trundivar. 

And….. finally, he appeared. 

She wanted him to want her. 

“Why do you play with me, you silly girl?” His magnificent length and stature had surely taken her aback. But she laughed and stroked his mighty beak with the palm of her hand. 

“Trundivar, you know you cannot eat me as you do the others who wander to close to your nest. My flesh is deadly to you.”

He nipped at her hand. 

She giggled.

His nostrils flared as he moved in a bit closer, inhaling her beauty. 

“A tiny nibble, please.” He requested having never tasted royalty in all his centuries. “You taunt me with your beautiful voice and allow me to take in your sweet aroma. You must want to pleasure me in some way.” He held back no thought. 

The Queen blushed melting her own eye lashes. Trundivar’s tongue reached out and grabbed the liquified treasure. He groaned from delight, waking the kingdom. 

“Trundivar has our Queen!” The town’s people rushed out with weapons aimed to kill the beast. 

Trundivar quickly gobbled her up, having no regret. 

The caps instantaneously thawed bringing extinction to himself and the entire frigid nation.

“This is what you call a 16^th century thinking cap.”

“A what?”

“Put it on and reflect.”

“I will do no such.”

“You will because I’m your father and I say so.”

“I don’t know whose head this thing has been on.”

“You go out every Friday night and do God knows what with your friends, now you’re worried about who has worn this piece of metal armor I want you to try so, you can free yourself – mentally. I’ve heard stories and watched you stumble through the door in the wee hours of the morning, upsetting your mother. Tell me, please, how this could hurt you!”

“Let me count the ways; lice, spiders, germs – that we can’t even see. You’re a fool, old man.” The teenage boy chuckled as he turned his back to his father in an attempt to walk away.

A loud ding echoed from the helmet; the child tumbled to the ground.

The elder male looked down upon his son. “Are you seeing birds, Cinderella?” He gazed seriously at him.

   The boy sat up from the dirt and rubbed his head as he mindlessly stared back at his father. 

“Let’s get one thing straight. While your mother thinks we should spend outrageous amounts of money on therapists trying to figure out why you do the things you do, I have taken it upon myself to purchase this little beauty, here.” He held the head gear in the air, smiled and gave it a kiss, adding sound effects. “Mwah!”

“Next time you and those little hooligans you run around with decide to upset your mother, you’re going to experience this thinking cap again. If it makes you feel better and more prominent, we can just call it SHOCK TREATMENT!”

“Yes sir.” A faint whisper exited the boy’s mouth.

Dandy, they called him Dandy because he dressed up for every occasion, and his new wife Rochelle decided to honeymoon in Transylvania.

He allowed Rochelle to book the flights, make the hotel reservations and schedule tours of every fortress and castle in the region that was somehow affiliated with Dracula. Dandy was a bit of a horror freak.

It was odd that he didn’t handle those things himself, his obsessive compulsive disorder normally went untreated, nonetheless he was tickled to finally make the journey to Romania.

Dandy had quite a few drinks before boarding the plane, a cure for his nerves. He didn’t realize he wasn’t asked for his passport.

The plane landed a little over seven hours later giving Dandy a clue something was wrong.

“Rochelle, where are we?” Dandy asked

Rochelle all dolled up, wearing her bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow along with her flashy fake lashes, smacked on some Hubba Bubba. She blew a bubble, let it pop and planted a kiss on Dandy’s cheek.

“Transylvania, Louisiana.” She said with pride. And…. we’re hiking to a castle.

Dandy gritted his teeth, summoned the stewardess and inhaled as much alcohol as allowed before disembarking.

He tried to let it go though his tolerance for stupidity was low. After the night they spent in sleeping bags somewhere in a secluded giant family mausoleum, during a thunderstorm, near Bienville Parish, he brought their marriage to an abrupt end.

He chopped Rochelle’s head off with the machete they used to clear a path up the hill. She didn’t feel or expect a thing.

It wasn’t hard to dispose of a corpse in those parts, he made it even easier by purchasing the land and telling his folks his bride ran off with a smooth talking Cajun.

It was clear to those who lived in the underworld what it meant when the white dove appeared. It was all they spoke about. The dove answered dreams.

She fell victim to a mysterious illness, paralyzing her as a teen. Undiagnosed, she was tossed into the sea with the others who baffled doctors in every field.

Her legs were replaced with a magnificent gold and emerald fish tail. She swam through the ocean, experiencing its beauty. Good days followed bad ones; she believed her years with a troubled heart would lead to a life of happiness.

Her hair blew in the squalls carrying the bird to her side. The sky darkened, waves crashed, the sea creatures retreated to their hidden habitats. The dove’s coo soothed her worry, unsure, though she wanted to receive her promise, a gratifying love from a husband and a child. A family is what all below dreamt of.

And…. so it was written in the stars.

The dove hovered over the beautiful woman, opening its wings, gently placing its feathers over her eyes, tickling her nose.

She fell fast asleep.

“Momma!” Awakened by a smaller version of herself. “Can I put eyeshadow on you?” The child asked. A man appeared in the doorway, walked over and kissed the woman on the forehead. He took the child’s hand.

“Let your mother sleep. You can play later.” He whispered, leaving the room.

     In the corner sat a wheelchair. 

She lifted the covers to again see her legs, wondering if she’d been asleep during this journey. Suddenly the dove reappeared with a gold band in its beak, sliding it on her finger, she understood the promise was fulfilled.

The wheelchair was hers as was the family.

Her life, meant to live. It wasn’t just a fish tale.

“He went back into our home to retrieve a porcelain doll.” She quietly wept. The detectives insisted Mrs. Harris answer a few questions about why her husband burned to death in a house fire.

     “He risked his life for a doll?” They asked.

     “He’s a respected collector.” The classy older woman spoke, her nose pressed into a silky handkerchief.

     “Why was this one special and where is it now?” They continued. 

     She paused before answering. “The doll belonged to his late mother, and I don’t know where it is.”

     Rumor was that Mrs. Harris was schizophrenic. She swore on occasion her husband conversed with his favorite doll whom he referred to as mother.

     “Thanks for your time.” Detective Midley instructed his partner, Theo, to give her a lift home. Upon arrival, Theo opened the door, Mrs. Harris stepped out, stood amidst the rubble, and watched him leave from the corner of her eye.

     Suspicious, Theo parked the police cruiser down the road and snuck back, hiding behind the shell of a scorched tree. Mrs. Harris kneeled, digging through the scarred land. Searching for the doll that held the spirit of her mother-in-law, fearful it had escaped the grave she buried it in. 

A porcelain doll wearing a purple dress holding the hand of another in a black tuxedo skipped up behind her. “Looking for us?” Giggling, they opened their mouths releasing a fury of black vapors, spiraling until they found their way into Theo’s nostrils.

     Theo’s laugh came alive, possessed by mother and son. “You thought you’d kill us!” Their voices echoed. 

     Mr. Harris’ smile appeared on Theo’s face. He wrapped his hands around Mrs. Harris’ neck. Theo would be charged with murder. 

Mrs. Harris wasn’t crazy, her husband held a profound passion for the dead, especially his mother.

“Hey, why are you here? Aren’t you grounded for a week after our last adventure?” I walked up to Brady sitting on the side steps of the church. His arms wrapped around his knees. His feet rested on the third step. He kept his head down, reaching his hand out far enough to run a small twig through the concrete’s grooves.

“Mom’s in there talking to the Priest.” He said, cutting his eyes up towards me.

     “Crap!  Again?” I asked. 

     “Yeah.” He looked back at the ground. 

The last time his mom was here, we followed her for fun. We wanted to hear what she was guilty of, seeing how she always acted so perfect and stuff. Instead, we watched her sin, right there in the little wooden booth with the Priest. I still can’t figure out how they both fit in that thing. Brady screamed and got us caught. He’s still on punishment.

     “Scoot over.” I gave him a nudge and sat down. 

     “What’d she tell your dad this time?” I shouldn’t have asked but I did.

“Same as always, she needed to confess her sins.” He let out a fake laugh and slowly reached over, placing his hand on top of mine. “Mary Kate, do you have any sins you need to confess?” He asked.

     I jumped up, wiggled and shook my hands. “You perv!” I screamed. 

     “Calm down! I’m joking!” He continued to pout. 

     “Why are you here?” Brady asked. 

I pointed towards our car. Mom was applying her ruby red lipstick in the rearview. “She’s here for confession.” I said.

     Brady raised his eyebrows – My eyes widened. “No!” I shouted. 

“I don’t feel so bad, now.” Brady said as he kicked a rock towards the parking lot. “Don’t worry, I believe they’re all going to hell.”

Rarely was the old man well enough to open up shop but today he turned the sign and let the red letters speak to the passerby’s. A small frail boy opened the door peeking his head in only to ask Mr. Howard if he sold candy. “Oh, come on in. You must not be from around here, child.” He hadn’t any treats to sell but he did keep lollipops behind the counter.

He held out the white stick topped with hard yellow sugar. The kid snatched it from his hand and headed back towards the door. “So…. Are you from around here?” The shopkeeper asked once more. 

“No, I’m visiting my Aunt Sue Claiborne, and my mother told me not to talk to strangers.” 

“You don’t talk to strangers, but you take candy from them, is that right?” The boy ripped the wrapper off, tossed it to the floor and popped the candy in his mouth.

Suddenly the gramophone began to play, stopping the child in his tracks. He turned slowly around. “What is that?” He asked.

“Come here, let me show you. My name is Harold by the way, Harold Howard.” The boy snickered as H.H. took him by the wrist and guided him to the two chairs placed beside the music player. “Have a seat.” He gave the boy a nudge. “What’s your name, son?” He asked. 

“Phillip, my friends call me Pete.” 

“P.P., then?” H.H. said, finding his turn to laugh.

“Kids like you are the reason I never had any children of my own.” The boy, drugged by sweetness, fell to the side. H.H. Cranked the Gramophone, lifted him up and placed him in the horn. The device crushed and stirred until the boy was mush.

H.H. hooked his IV to the needle on the handle and injected himself with the youthfulness he needed to keep the store open as a front. The antique of a man needed his own candy to survive.

“You – in the plaid pajama bottoms, get back over the ropes!” The guard startled me as he reprimanded a visitor for not following museum rules. Everyone knew not to cross the blockade. It was one thing to blatantly disrespect the posthumous King of Rock n’ Roll, but to invade his mother’s personal space was savage. The tour guide told how she would curl up in one of the pink chairs her son purchased for her and play his records. She would only listen at midnight and swore to her husband that the born-deceased twin of their musician child would sit next to her, listening to the tunes.

“Who is he talking to?” I whispered to my friend, Shell. We made the trip to HOPELAND, yearly. The name of the place was perfect because we hoped we could catch a glimpse of the only talked about ghost in town. The spirit of REVIS!

     “I don’t see a soul!” She laughed.

“Move away from the Gramophone!” We still had no clue who security was yapping at. The arm raised and gently placed itself onto the vinyl left to personalize the public’s viewing of Revis’ home. Crackling ensued and then the sweet sound of Revis flowed from the speaker.

     “Who did that?…. Shell!!!!” I screamed. “Look, it’s the ghost of Revis!!!” Coming in and out of a hazy view, wearing his pj’s, he sat down in one of the chairs and raised a peanut butter and banana sandwich towards his perfectly shaped, ruby lips. I felt faint but fought it. I grabbed my camera, turned on the flash and took as many photos as my little Nikon could.

     “No camera’s allowed in Hopeland!” The guard jumped on my back, pushing me to the floor.

I slid the camera to Shell. “Run! We can’t lose that footage!” I shouted.