“Ahhhh, Miyagi son!” Jimbo hopped around Frankie, patted him on the back then blew smoke in his direction from the punk they were using to light fireworks.

Frankie choked. “Bro, chill! You know I have asthma!”

Jimbo bent down to examine the last smoke bomb. “Yeah, this one’s a dud! There’s always that one,” he turned to Frankie who was sipping on a bottled water, still trying to quiet his cough.

“Put it back on the ground! Do you know how many people have lost a limb dealing with those things?” Frankie spit the last bit of water to the ground. “For instance…..” he stood silently staring down the street. After a moments time, he pointed towards a rickety wood-sided, two-story home that sat nearly abandoned on the corner. “Haven’t you heard about Len Shun? The old man that lives in that house.”

Jimbo put his elbow on his buddy’s shoulder. “I’ve heard, but it sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me,” he nodded in the opposite direction. “Let’s go.”

Jimbo stuck the last, unexploded firework in his pocket. “Wanna have some fun – remind Mr. Shun what happened to his arm?” he took off skipping towards the man’s house.

“Jimbo, have you lost your mind? Why on earth would you want to remind someone of such a terrible accident?” Frankie shook his head.

Jimbo pushed forward on a mission to destroy.

“Nah man, I’m not going!” Frankie said.

Seconds later, a loud pop traveled through the air – along with Jimbo’s fingers. “I’ve been shot!” Jimbo screamed. “Mom! Mom!”

“You’re not shot! You’re mean, probably the reason that firecracker just exploded! You’ll think twice about harassing old people next time.”

A friend, indeed…. Frankie went home to get a bag of ice, hoping he could save at least one of Jimbo’s fingers.

Image source: https://pixabay.com/photos/house-fantasy-place-dark-gate-4917063/

She spun through the foyer, her long black dress carried away what little dust it gathered from the floor. Her dark brown hair, cut into a bob, held tightly to her pale white skin. The keys from the organ created a powerful noise that echoed through the brick walled home – no one sat at its bench. 

The hazy room allowed shadows of spiders to form from the unique patterned window designs. She danced across each, sashaying as she avoided contact with their make-believe legs. She gazed out into the garden, and raised her crimson drink to the perfectly grown red roses, outlining her property. 

Her dark persona reflected in her over-sized pupils – her eye color was void. Her heart was void. “If I ever loved at all, it was you that I loved,” she horrifically belted out the lyrics to what she referred to as a masterpiece, a song that she had written during a drunken fit. An emotion filled rant created minutes after Javier presented her with an engagement ring. She requested a large ruby, he obliged. 

Seven months had passed since she chanted her evil, casting Javier into torment. If he wanted her, it would be on her terms. “Sophie,” he would call out to her on occasion, hoping the two could reunite, if only for a moment. 

The organ released a note; smoke filled the air. “Javier,” Sophie ran to him. Her bright red lips turned upwards, her eyelids flickered in adoration. “Missed you,” she said.

He leaned to place a kiss upon her cheek, she quickly turned – his mouth connected with hers. Their passionate energy drained every living thing, the roses withered, rotted and fell limp, only to rejuvenate when Javier was placed back into the sacred place that Sophie had wished for him.

She rolled over, stared at the clock, and screamed into a pillow. The clapping thunder kept her awake – She had to be at work in less than four hours.

Finally, her eyes got heavy, she dozed off.

The whirling fan came to a halt, the television shut off. She jumped from bed. Feeling her way down the pitch-black hall, she tried to find a candle. “Dang-it!” her toe collided with a chair.

The chain bounced off the facing, she turned the deadbolt and opened the front door, falsely thinking an outside source would provide light. She stepped out into the breezeway. Patrick, from across the hall, opened his door. They ran smack-dab into one-another. “Fionna?” he said, bopping his flashlight against the palm of his hand. Finally, a beam of light made Fionna, in her sheer pink nightgown, visible. “Hellacious storm!” He stuttered. The wind picked up, wet leaves and rain attacked them. “Get in here,” he pulled Fionna back into her apartment. He canvassed the room, then coaxed her towards the sofa. “You okay?” He wiped the rain from her forehead, moving her hair from her face.

“My hero,” she chuckled. Patrick’s shirtless chest revealed his muscular physique, she wondered if he could see her blushing.

“Mmmm,” his thought – audible. “Sorry,” he said while handing her the flashlight. “Keep it. I have another one.”

Fionna stopped him as he got up to leave. “Apology – unnecessary.” They moved closer to one-another, their lips locked, bouncing from wall to wall, they stumbled into her room. Patrick guided her backwards onto the bed.

The lights flickered, the fan begin to spin, the alarm clock blinked, the television rebooted. The neighborhood lit up like it was Christmas! They sighed in disappointment, if it had only been a weekend.

She stood emotionless, gazing through the streams of water, frozen in a time which she would never be able to explain. Her arms hung down by her side, blood dripped onto the concrete from the tips of her sprawled out fingers. Her hair, wet and matted, part of which covered more than half of her sliced up face. A fine silk gown clung hopelessly to her frail and bony body.

What had she escaped?

Many whispered and hurried by, afraid of what her presence confirmed. Being careful not to wake a human response to a mysterious being, as if she were from outer space. The unknown never calls the weak, only strength-filled beings are prepared to fight treacherous battles for the most delicate of souls.

She remained alone.

Her mouth opened wide as silent screams of horror failed to exit.

Draped in fine clothing, his identity hidden behind a costume – his suit, tie, and…. degree. He represented the evil at an extravagant price. His movements, swift. A document fell from the manilla folder that swung back and forth with his every step. DISCOVERY, typed as a header, stared from the ground up – towards the woman.

She pulled from the bottom of her foot, a broken piece of glass that had pressed itself into her sole. It stuck with her every moment of every day since her womanhood had been violated by a violent rapist who had inserted himself into her….. life. She vertically slit her wrists, exclaiming victory in the case that came before the judge minutes before the eleventh-hour docket. She fell into the pool underneath the courthouse fountains, her body cleansed by the crystal clear flow as she took her last breath.

The busy room redirected from the outside mission to respectfully remove her corpse from the premises.

The gavel slammed against the hardwood.

Order in the court was gained.

“Top window, to the right.” Joana pointed. “He’s in there, I swear it. We were walking through the courtyard and out of nowhere, two men appeared, hooked their arms under his and carried him off. There was nothing I could do.”

“What’d they look like?” The policeman held a small pad and pencil, preparing to take notes.

“Tall, skinny, they had on black leotard suites, their faces were fully covered by ski masks,” she wiped her sweaty palms across her pants as she moved nervously in place. “Can’t you call for back up and just go get him?” She pleaded. “Martin!” She screamed her boyfriend’s name.

The officer had yet to write anything down.

“You’re wasting precious time!” Her quivering voice got louder.

“Am I?” He asked.

The cop’s sarcasm was too much for the woman. She sat down on the concrete and bowed her head. The ground soaked up her tears.

A soft instrumental began to play. The beautiful tune caught her off guard. The policeman reached down to help her back to her feet. Digital photos of Martin in different and extravagant poses began to project off the building’s columns. The music paused. Martin’s voice echoed from a loud speaker. “Darling, I’m on the roof.”

He parachuted down carrying a dozen long stem roses. Safely landing, he removed his gear and began to sing along with the melody. The romantic words, written for her, by him, acted as a marriage proposal. He held the last note long enough for her to realize his need to be seen was far too tiring and a bit embarrassing.

“No.” Her answer, simple. She walked away from the theatrics. “I’ll take a back seat to this performance.”    

THE END

He resembled a skeleton as he sat in front of a folding table, under a small tent. The ground was soggy from an earlier rain but the metal legs of his chair held him above ground just fine. He wore a black suit – a tie to match hung around his collar. His silver-framed glasses sat atop his pointy-nose, a mask, inappropriately, covered his mouth. He still feared Covid years after the pandemic had ended. It made sense, afterall, he was a funeral director.

A giant speaker blared “Oh come all ye faithful”, as the sun began to set. The cold winter’s wind blew violently, he pulled his stocking cap down over his ears, making his appearance even funnier.

A line of cars tailgated one another trying to make their way into the cemetery for this year’s Christmas Eve candlelight vigil, a simple way to remember loved ones on such a special holiday. The funeral home supplied the pre-lit candles in fancy wooden holders, the least they could do after all the stolen money taken from the weary during their most vulnerable times. He figured what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He handed out steaming cups of cocoa to those who wished for a taste.

He opened the metal lid to his prefilled thermos and plopped in a few giant marshmallows from a plastic sandwich baggie he had placed in his coat pocket. The scalding drink splashed, sending him quickly backwards. His feet became entangled in an extension cord that fed electricity to the outside. He grabbed on to the table to prevent a fall but instead brought it down with him. Hot chocolate ran through the grass and onto the power supply, the combination lit up the graveyard and sent Mr. What’s-his-name to his own grave.

“He’s home!” Tranya waved down to the street below. She followed his movement, to the second window, third, and then fourth. Her voice squealed with excitement. “He’s home! He’s home!” She jumped up and down, her pigtails followed.

“Tranya, come here,” her mother reached out, missing the girl as she slipped through her arms. Her pink patent leather shoes clicked against the rock steps as she ran to greet him. She stopped at the door, turning to look at her mom. “I’m sure he’s brought me something! Whenever he carries his case, there’s always a present in it for me.”

Her mother took a deep breath and waited.

The man, wearing a long black trench coat, kept his head down. The brim of his hat covered much of his eyes and some of his face.

He sat his bag down on the sidewalk. The child ran, jumping into his arms, she gushed. “Daddy!”

His smile, familiar though not the one she longed to see, made her heart sink. “Uncle Fin, you’re not my daddy. Where is he?” Her eyes scanned the busy road as tears filled her mother’s eyes.

“Come, sweetie. Me and your uncle need to talk to you.”

The couple lagged behind as Tranya led the way back inside.

“Is everything taken care of?” Her mom whispered to her uncle.

“Yes, I have the policies with me,” he patted his case. “The only way he returns is to haunt us,” he laughed, reaching for the woman’s hand.

“Not funny,” she refused his gesture.

Once inside, the three sat down at the kitchen table.

“Tranya,” her uncle spoke. “Your father is de…..”

“Daddy!” Tranya exited her seat and bolted towards her father as he entered from the patio.

“As you were saying, brother…”

Cloyd Berkeley drew his knees up under his chin. His bare back scraped painfully against the tree as he nervously rocked like a boy. He realized, as a man, he could’ve used a mother.

They were coming……

Earlier in the evening, he watched his long-time neighbor, Mr. Fenty, try and ward off at least a dozen of the creatures with his shotgun, the one he used to murder Hill Gentry for joyriding in his ’40 Ford Coupe years ago – Wasn’t enough proof to convict him. Each head he blew off beckoned two more. They looked human, only difference was their rotting and bloody flesh, symptoms of what newscasters called the alive deceased.

Two weeks ago, Marvin Gilcrest dumped the bodies of his wife and twin daughters into Lake Billings, referred to as Lake Killings by locals. It was no secret how many bodies lay at the bottom, though exact numbers were impossible to come by. The muddy bed acted like a magnet, drawing each corpse beneath whatever held the water. Marvin didn’t know that his girls were still alive. Their adolescent energy turned those deceased, back into the living – called to the surface like chum. Finally, set free, making it clear vengeance wasn’t the Lord’s, not this time. Marvin Gilcrest couldn’t be identified by his features, everyone just assumed.

Cloyd’s pity party peeked about the time a group of sopping wet female monsters, sat a lantern on the tree right above his head, peering down on his weak, puny body. He’d convinced himself as a teen that his mother never wanted him, she couldn’t give him a father, and that he’d practically raised himself. He always felt like he’d done her a favor by sweetening her coffee with antifreeze, until now. He didn’t know if this was karma or just a plain ole’ B….!

Drenched with fear, I wobbled across fifty-two snow-covered, rickety wooden posts, I know because I counted them. They say this is where heaven meets earth. A slip to the right and I would be frozen in the knee-deep waters of Lake Onega, a slip to the left and……

My arms fiercely fought to keep me afloat, my head bobbed in and out of the water, I could hear my every breath, gurgling, trying to escape the panic. Would I fall victim to what is deemed the second worse death known to man? Strangely, I yearned to feel the heat from a raging blaze, drowning had become, for me, the worst way to die. I recollected on better days, a campfire, friends united, I allowed songs of unity to repeat in my head. What had been my purpose? Why had I come here? My search of the truth ultimately led to my untimely death. My lifeless body bounced violently against the wooden pillars, and…. as time passed, we became one.

The shantyman led the crew in song, synchronizing their labor as they hoisted me up to the front of the ship. I didn’t feel any pain as nails pierced through my now carved out features. They attached me to the bow. I would lead many excursions through the same waters that took me and protect many men from the unknown dangers of life off the peaceful shore. The boat, they named after me, Cimantern fifty-two, a myth, a legend. As a man, I was unable to find the heavens though I searched in the most dangerous of places, unafraid and steadfast. My role quickly turned, still unafraid and steadfast… I am the guardian of the vessel at sea.

She scurried across the crowded ground, snagging her habit on a few dead branches as she neared the abandoned chapel in the woods. The cross, symbolically missing from the triangled roof, confirmed her mischief. Devoted to her convent, at twenty-six, she believed the Lord was tempting her.

She had seen him many times, performing maintenance throughout the monastery. She kept her head down, shying away from eye-contact – until one day, he dropped his keys. She bent to retrieve them, the two bumped heads. From that day on, he apologized to the lady every-time their paths crossed, most recently, in the flower garden.

She slipped him a note amidst the baby’s breath.

Quickly ducking into seclusion, she peeked out the circular window, making sure she hadn’t been followed. She placed both hands upon the red bars that covered the opening. She sighed in disappointment, wondering if he read her letter.

She could feel his heavy breath from behind her, and then a slight tickle from his tongue as it gently caressed her neck. Chills crossed her entire body, sensation in places she’d never felt before. Her initial thought was to run, hide, repent for inviting him into her life. She froze. God couldn’t possibly disapprove of such pleasure. His lips followed his hands as they made their way across her shoulders. His nails, unmanicured, dug into the delicate curve of her back. She moaned. He spun her around, whispering her name. The beautiful creature’s eyes lit up like fire, two tiny horns grew perfectly from his brow, he pleaded with her to stay. His grip, powerful and convincing, caused her to fall to her knees. The walls around them crumbled, day turned to night. Weak in every sense of the word, she made a choice to weep for eternity.