He flicked Genghis Kahn on the nose. He gently massaged Cleopatra’s breast. He even traveled across the red plains of Mars without a protective suit.

Each night Harold Westcott did the same boring routine. The night watch duty at the museum was one of the dullest occupations he had ever subjected himself to. He had taken nearly every bottom rung job the city had to offer, but the solitude of working at the museum was almost enough to drive him mad.

In order to prevent actually dying of boredom, Harold moved around artifacts in the backroom that were not yet on display. He could only imagine the near panicked state the day shift staff worked themselves into while searching for misplaced items.

The thought about taking something valuable out the back door, placing it in his car until his shift was over, and then hocking it at the local pawnshop was tempting. Harold knew that he would be the first person to pop up on the radar should something go missing. He knew that he could probably alter the security recordings and leave no solid evidence to his deception, but he wasn’t ready to start job-hunting just yet. The gig was easy. All he had to do was make hourly rounds by triggering sensors throughout the museum that recorded each security check. The museum coordinator was pretty smart about putting in control boxes that had to be triggered certain times during each security shift. Otherwise Harold would find a comfortable chair, prop his feet up and sleep through his entire shift until he heard the morning staff clocking in.

Besides moving items around, Harold had one other thing that got him through most nights, and that was inspecting new items that came in.

A few nights ago, a meteorite that was retrieved from Utah came in the door. Before the meteorite came the bones of a pharaoh, and before that came a sword from ancient Greece.

Harold heard the news as soon as he clocked in that a spell book had been brought in. It was said that a recently deceased collector of unusual artifacts had placed in his will that the book would be donated to the local museum. The museum experts were still speculating the book’s authenticity, but they were quite certain that the book was once owned by one of the women who were hanged during the Salem witch trials.

Harold had patiently waited for the evening staff to exit the building. He locked the doors, made his first rounds through each wing of the museum and then headed directly for the back room in which new museum exhibits were held before being placed on display.

“Well, well, so this is where you’re hiding,” he said as he observed the tattered book under the protective Plexiglas. “It looks like you’ve been beat to shit, left in a sewer for the last two hundred years and then been baking under a sun lamp for the last week. But yet you’ve got some possibilities still left in you, I think,” Harold said.

Even though he was aware that the museum was empty, Harold looked over both shoulders to confirm he was alone. He unfastened the latch and flipped open the lid. Carefully he reached inside and stroked the backside of his forefinger against the brown leather cover. With the same finger he slowly opened the book and touched the yellowed pages. The paper was incredibly dry, brittle and made a crackling noise as he flipped through the pages.

The writing was badly faded and illegible in some parts. Whoever had taken quill to paper had an exquisite penmanship. The elegance of the words was certainly done with the gracefulness of a woman’s hand.

Harold gently pulled the book from the case, placed it on one of the cloth-covered tables and sat.

As he spent the next hour reading, Harold thought the book seemed more like a documentation of experimental herbal remedies instead of a spell book. There were many areas where the woman mentioned a combination of plants and minerals being mixed together to soothe achy muscles, stop headaches, to have regular bowel movements and other stuff that Harold cared little about.

“Come on. I can find any of these remedies at the supermarket. Give me the good stuff. Christ, if they hung you because you helped someone get rid of the shits, then gratitude was once a cruel son of a bitch,” he said.

When Harold reached the last dozen pages, he realized that what he found printed was worth its weight in gold. There were sections titled: Rotten Breath, English Death Dance, Pandora’s Secret and even Hell’s Fury. Beneath each title was a type of rhyme that sent an odd shiver creeping up his spine.

“Well, now we’re talking,” he said and began reading.

_________________

Finding a mark to work the spells on was no easy task. Harold wanted to cast a spell on someone who definitely deserved it. On Wednesday morning the mark had found him.

When the museum coordinator, Kenneth Stanton, asked Harold to join him in the office just after he clocked out, Harold knew from experience that bad news was rapidly on the way.

“I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Westcott, that the museum takes great pleasure in showing rare items to the public like they’ve never seen before.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Mr. Westcott, hiring you was certainly more for your benefit than mine. I’m sure that you’re aware that I had done a background check on you before my commitment to bring you into our little family. I knew about your past and the trouble you’ve had with the law. Of course these offenses were minor, and that’s why I overlooked your criminal record. During our interview, you struck me as a man who wanted and even needed a second chance to find his place in society.”

“Yes, sir. I greatly appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me. I do enjoy working here.”

Kenneth Stanton leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk and studied Harold for a long uncomfortable minute and then said, “I wonder if you really do, Mr. Westcott.”

“Yes, sir. The hours are perfect. The job is rewarding. I love having the responsibility of looking after priceless artifacts that have a long story behind them.”

Mr. Stanton retrieved the remote control from the desktop, swiveled in his chair and pressed the PLAY button. The television centered in the mass of bookshelves behind Mr. Stanton began to play a video.

“This is what I will refer to as your greatest hits,” Mr. Stanton said.

Harold felt his face flush as he watched a video of himself handling items in the backroom and shuffling them around. He hid a set of Roman coins in a small crate on second shelf of inventoried items that were most likely not going on display anytime soon. He juggled delicate clay pots discovered in the Andes that dated back nearly a thousand years. He even removed a fragile mummy from a casket, placed it on the floor, and morbidly took an hour-long nap inside the mummy’s resting place. One clipped followed another until the video reached yesterday. Harold saw himself removing the witch book from the case and reading the material. The video ended a few seconds after Harold had torn twelve pages from the back of the book.

“I would say that it’s hardly inspirational material to watch. In fact, I would title it as a complete lack of gratitude and respect for what it is we do here, Mr. Westcott.”

“I’m not sure what to say,” Harold said as he stared at the desk.

Mr. Stanton leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his large belly and watched Harold with distaste.

“You must believe that I’m a complete fool. Did you honestly think that you could screw with my museum and I would simply look the other way? Did you think that you could hide and even ruin my artifacts and get away with it? I gave you a great opportunity to become a member of the family at this facility. I have to say that I’m greatly disappointed. I could have you arrested, you know? The book you destroyed was priceless. It’s worth more than a pathetic twerp like you could earn in your entire lifetime. I want those twelve pages back, and I want them back right now.”

“There’s no excuse for what I’ve done here. I don’t know, maybe it was out of boredom. Maybe disrespect because I feel I’ve never gotten the chance I deserved.”

“Oh, you got the chance. I gave it to you. Give me the pages you took.”

“I don’t have them. I mean that they’re not here. I have them at my apartment.”

“Get them, bring them back to me within the next hour or the police will be informed of the destructive nature in which you live, Mr. Westcott. You have one hour. I recommend you start moving now.”

What was it? How did the curse go? Harold thought. It was titled: Rotten Breath.

Although he had only read the curse once, the strange words came tumbling back to his mind.

Harold looked up and caught Mr. Stanton’s eyes and said, “Of mouse paw and serpent spit, come germs of old which cannot stall. Each will decay to a blackened pit and with the next breath they’ll start to fall.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Stanton asked.

Harold could see Kenneth Stanton’s face twist a little. At first the look was one given when someone felt a mild discomfort. Then Harold could see Mr. Stanton working his tongue around the inside of his mouth, probing areas.

“Something wrong?” Harold asked with an amused grin.

“Look, Mr. Westcott—”

Something tumbled from Mr. Stanton’s mouth and landed on the 1st day of May on his desk calendar.

Their eyes broke off from each other and slowly traced down. The tooth, which had been bright white, was now rapidly shading to a dark yellow, to brown and then as black as night. Before their unblinking stares, the tooth crumbled to a fine black dust as if incinerated.

Mr. Stanton cupped his left hand over his gaping mouth.

Harold reeled out of the chair and hit the wall hard enough to jar a picture loose. Harold was already pulling the office door open when the picture frame hit the floor and shattered. He ran past the secretary and tore off down the corridor for the front entrance.

_______________

“Impossible. It’s just a stupid book. It can’t really do the things it says. There’s no such thing as curses,” Harold said after he slammed his apartment door and sank to the floor. He held his head in his hands and stared at the dirty area rug. “Were his teeth already decayed and it just happened to fall out at the right time and made me believe that I had actually preformed a genuine curse?”

If there’s one thing he knew, it was that Mr. Stanton had clean white teeth. The man was always smiling at the goddamn customers and employees like he was a jack-o-lantern.

“It was all you, Harold, old buddy. You just got back at the son of a bitch who fired you.”

Harold started laughing, and he didn’t stop until the neighbor began pounding on the thin wall and barking for him to keep it down.

“It’s not a crime to laugh, partner. Just keep pounding and watch what will happen to you,” he yelled.

Harold retrieved the twelve spell book pages from beneath his mattress and searched through them. He counted the total number of curses. There were thirty-two in all. He read through them again. Most of them seemed harmless, more of a nuisance than anything else to the cursed person, but a few of them seemed downright nasty.

There wasn’t an explanation for what each curse actually did to someone. It was simple formations of the words that made him believe which curses could possibly do the most damage. He decided to take a chance on someone unwilling, but fitting for such a cruel curse.

Harold walked to the apartment window that overlooked 5th Avenue. The street was bustling with people motoring along. Across the street was the basketball court where low rent people played their low rent games. Harold knew drug dealers and whores hung out there at all hours of the day and night. If anyone deserved to be tortured by ancient curses, it was those people.

Harold flipped through the pages until he found the proper curse for a proper situation. He memorized the lines and found one unwilling member of the park grounds. He was a shifty eyed black man with his pants hung low, and his legs tensed and ready to take flight should a black and white suddenly appear. Harold locked his eyes on the subject.

As the first word started coming out, a pounding fist hit his door with urgency.

Harold lowered the pages to his side, turned from the window and stared at the door. He knew exactly who it was. The landlord was relentless at receiving his monthly check on time. There had even been some months when the man would stand at Harold’s door and wait in the early hours until Harold got home from his shift at the museum.

While being cautious of the squeaking floorboards, Harold moved to the door and peered out the spy hole.

“You unbelievable prick,” Harold whispered as he realized who it was.

Mr. Stanton was staring at the door as if he could see through it. His fist raised and rattled the door again with a half dozen raps.

“I know you’re in there. Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you realize that you’ve passed the point of no return?” Mr. Stanton bellowed out. His voice was slurred, almost making him sound drunk, as the lack of teeth was probably going to take some getting used to.

Harold wanted to laugh. He wanted to mock the bastard that had cost him another job. He wanted to open the door, grab the man by the collar and release a hee-haw of delight in the man’s face. He wanted to do all this, but the gun in Mr. Stanton’s left hand prevented him from doing anything.

“I’ve got something for you, Mr. Westcott. Why don’t you come out and I can show you what I’ve brought.”

Mr. Stanton took a long moment to study the spy hole. Harold instantly crouched when he saw the man step back, raise his arm and place the barrel of the gun against the fish-eyed lens. Before a bullet could tear through the door, Harold heard a familiar voice calling from down the hallway.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing, mister?”

Harold could hear Mr. Stanton shift around on the other side of the door. Harold stood and looked through the glass again. He saw his landlord, Frank Tipps, standing on the platform at the bottom of the stairs. All Harold could see was the landlord’s head staring up at the museum coordinator at his front door.

“Are you his keeper? Are you his protector?” Mr. Stanton said.

“What the hell?” Mr. Tipps asked.

“Did you know that he’s a descendant of evil? Do you know that he’s the offspring of the witches and warlocks that should have been finished off centuries ago? Why have you been hiding him?” Mr. Stanton said and raised the gun.

“Now just wait a goddamn second,” Mr. Tipps said. He received his one-second just before the gun roared and the top half of his head splattered the cornflower wallpaper behind him.

Harold’s eyes were wide as he saw his landlord casually lean against the wall and slide down, almost as if taking a rest from extreme fatigue.

Mr. Stanton tapped the gun against the door and said, “It’s just the two of us again. Sorry we were so rudely interrupted. I want to tell you something before I blow the lock off the door. I want you know that I have a passion for the Salem witch trials. I’ve always had this passion, because it’s a place I come from. You see that my ancestors were part of the committee who passed judgment on those witches and had them executed. I know such evil could never really die. I suspect that perhaps some of them fled before capture and moved across the country. You must be a living relative of one of those evils. I want you to know that when the book first arrived at the museum I had tried the curses, too. I had read them out loud to several people who I disliked, but the results were nothing. However, you rattled off a curse and my fucking teeth fell right out. That means you’re one of them. That means you must die, Mr. Westcott.”

Before Harold could mutter a denial, the deadbolt exploded in a shower of metal. A brutal kick was delivered to the door and Harold was thrown back. His calves caught the coffee table and he crashed to the floor. His elbow smacked the table and a thunder of pain shot up his arm.

Mr. Stanton stepped in the apartment and focused the gun between Harold’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’ll by you dentures. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right,” Harold shouted as he held his arms in front of his face.

“Relax. I’m not going to shoot you. A simple bullet isn’t fitting enough for unholy crimes. You’re an abomination to mankind. I have something else planned for you,” he said and stepped back into the hallway. He retrieved a five-gallon gas can and held it out so that Harold would fully understand his intensions.

“Some of the witches were hanged, and some of them were burned. I can’t even imagine the kind of screams someone makes while they’re burning, but I’m confident people will hear you from blocks away,” Mr. Stanton said.

“This is insane. You can’t really believe I’m a warlock. I’m a goddamn security guard. I’m nothing. I never have been and I never will be,” Harold said and tried to stand.

“Stay where you are or I’m going to blow your kneecaps off.”

Mr. Stanton set the can down, unscrewed the cap, and then casually used his foot to tip the container. Gas gurgled out, covered the throw rug and soaked the left leg of Harold’s uniform pants. Kenneth Stanton’s eyes were gleaming with delight. His smile was broad and almost sadistic. His pink tongue slid out from that toothless mouth and slicked across his lips.

“Burn, Devil,” he said and removed a lighter from his trouser pocket.

“Police! Drop the gun!” someone called from down the hall.

“Help me! He’s crazy. You hear me? He’s crazy. He’s trying to burn me alive!” Harold screamed.

When Kenneth Stanton’s attention was directed toward the police, Harold rolled away from the puddle of gas and reached for the dropped pages. He quickly found the curse titled: Hell’s Fury.

Gunfire filled the incredibly small space. Large pieces of wood tore free from the door as the police returned fire. Mr. Stanton fired three quick rounds and kicked the door shut. When he turned around, he saw that Harold was holding battered, faded, and ancient pages written by the spawn of Satan. Harold was muttering something as his eyes were locked Kenneth Stanton.

“What’s that you say?” Mr. Stanton and fired a round that caught Harold in the right shoulder.

Harold screamed and grabbed the wound.

The door violently came open as two police officers charged inside.

“Drop the gun or we’re going to take you down. Do it now!” one of them shouted.

It wasn’t because of the order the police gave, but he dropped the gun out of sheer bewilderment. He held out his left hand and stared stupidly at the lighter. The metal collar of the lighter was growing incredibly hot, turning a cherry red, and the fuel inside began to bubble.

“What the hell is with this thing?” he asked just before the lighter exploded in his hand.

A torrent of fire shot up his arm like a fast moving serpent and quickly consumed his jacket before the blaze nearly blinded him. The fire moved with purpose across his clothing. Mr. Stanton spun and as he did he screamed loud enough that people could actually hear him from blocks away.

Harold felt a laugh rumble from him. I am a warlock! You knew it before I did, Mr. Stanton. You brought it out of me and I thank you for that. With these pages I’ll no longer be a pitiful doormat of society. I’m going to show people what I can really do. I feel sorry for all those who cross me from now on.

Harold collected the rest of the scattered pages and in a frantic shuffle he moved for the door.

The policemen only gave him a passing glance as he brushed by them. The burning man and his nearly hypnotic dance had seized their attention.

When Harold hit the hallway, his foot caught the running stream of gasoline that ran from the apartment. He went down painfully on his back and his head snapped back and bounced off the floor. With blurry eyes he looked back and saw Mr. Stanton collapse as death finally grabbed him. His body hit the pool of gas and with a whoosh the fuel caught. The policemen and the apartment beyond disappeared in a bright orange flash.

Harold opened his mouth and started screaming as the fire ran into the hallway after him.

_______________

“Is there a damn war going on?” an old man asked as he poked his head out his apartment door.

“Yeah, something like that. You should probably grab anything important, because the building is on fire,” Harold said as he headed for the front entrance.

Fire engines rolled up to the building with a vicious wail. People crowded the streets and watched with amazement as Harold’s third floor apartment windows blew out from the extreme heat.

Harold brushed off a dwindling flame on the cuff of his uniform jacket.

One of the onlookers watched him with curiosity as he came down the front steps. With his uniform partially burned and black soot covering his face, he figured he probably looked as if Hell had just spit him out.

“Hey, man, was that your place?” the kid asked.

“Was.”

“You’re lucky as hell you made it out of there with your skin, man.”

“Yeah. I never figured that particular curse would actually work. So you can bet that I doubted the counter curse would actually make me fireproof.”

“Huh?” the kid asked.

Harold was already on the move down the street.

As Harold began tucking the slightly scorched spell pages inside his jacket pocket, a large man crashed into him and nearly sent Harold pin-wheeling to the ground.

“Watch where you’re going, peckerhead,” the man said with a scowl.

The man stopped after a few paces and gazed up to the fire consuming Harold’s apartment.

I’ll show you who’s a peckerhead, Harold thought and began shuffling through the pages. You just keep standing there looking stupid and that will be the look to permanently mark your ignorant face.

Harold found and read the curse titled: Medusa’s Eyes. As the last words left his lips, something knocked against the café window in front of him. Whatever had struck the inside of the window Harold couldn’t be sure, because the windows were mirror tinted. As he looked up, he caught his reflection and his appearance was appalling.

I’m going to need a doctor to fix my bullet-holed shoulder. I damn well need a bath to clean all this grime off my face. Then I think I’ll sleep for a week. Performing curses is one exhausting trick in itself.

Harold’s sight captured his own tired brown eyes in the reflection.

He felt the pain start somewhere deep down in the core of his being. It spread like the fire that had consumed Mr. Stanton. He tried to turn from the window. He tried to put his sight anywhere else. He tried to open his mouth and call for help or scream, but all of the pedestrians were watching the apartment fire. They were watching with unblinking stares at an incredible curse he had performed, but now they were missing his greatest and final curse.

As the pages fell from his stiffening grip and blew away in the breeze, Harold thought he could hear Mr. Stanton’s blackened corpse gurgling with laughter.

Harold’s mind slowed like a dying clock. He thought of the witches and warlocks throughout history that had been defiantly and even nobly hung or burned. Now he thought of the only warlock who would turn to stone by mistakenly cursing his own reflection.

I live in a cage ten stories below Grand Central Station. My master used to lock the cage and disappear for days. He left no food or water. Now, each morning when I wake up, I find food and water and discover he’s left the cage unlocked. What shall I do? Perhaps, he’s poisoned the food and contaminated the water. But I’m starving to death. I must eat. And my thirst is unbearable. I must drink to survive. After I satisfy these needs, a distant voice inside my head whispers to me: “It’s time to leave.” I cringe and shrivel up and crawl to a corner of my dark home. I close my eyes and travel to another time and place where I’m human again.

Now, I wake up in a luxurious hotel suite with a mammoth bedroom with a king-size bed, a surreal circular living room with Dali paintings and work by an unknown artist obsessed with Manhattan, a long rectangular kitchen, and a gargantuan bathroom. Outside my red bedroom is a curtained terrace.
I wander through the suite. On the kitchen table, someone has left me breakfast. I devour an omelet with tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and peppers, white toast, and margarine and a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts hazelnut coffee. After breakfast, I notice the photos and paintings by an artist named Mark Sadler. One painting is entitled Hotel M and seems to be an expressionistic painting of the skyscraper I’m in. It reminds me of Munch’s The Scream. From within the walls of the hotel, a human beast screams endlessly into the barren universe beyond.
Soon, I turn on the TV and watch CNN. The human beast from the Hotel M speaks to me.
“Welcome, Mr. M to Hotel Mars. I hope your stay here is pleasurable. We’re thrilled to have you as our guest.”
The thing shrieks incessantly in my head. I turn off the TV.
I saunter to the terrace and open the curtains. I scream. I’m trapped inside a gargantuan cage with bars. Outside, they wave at me and cheer.
A captive beast on exhibit in a human zoo, I gaze at the gorilla-like creatures that captured me.
I run around the suite and search for an exit, a door or window to freedom. No exit. Inside the bathroom, I struggle to open the window. But it has bars too. Outside this window, the creatures gaze at me and laugh uproariously.
Between Scylla and Charybdis, I close my eyes and travel to another time and place. When I open my eyes, I’m back in my old cage. I shrink into a crumbled sphere of Hell.

I open the unlocked cage. Beyond, is a subterranean labyrinth I must travel through to be free. I leave my cage and follow a dimly lit path. In the distance, I hear the monsters howling. Yet I continue on.
As I slink across the maze and trudge north, my strength and courage return. But soon I will face the monsters.
My dark journey seems endless. Then suddenly, I hear the loud shrieks of the monsters coming from a cavernous room. I enter. Inside this eerie space, I hear their ghastly ululations. Yet I go deeper into the tomblike room. I’m surrounded by their horrific screams although I can’t see them.
Soon, I pass through a tiny space with mirrors. I gaze into the mirrors and shriek. My screams are endless and consuming. They swallow and transform me. Once more, I have power and strength.
I face the monsters and they are me, buried in the secret caverns of your mind. You must keep me in a cage, for if you give me a little freedom, I will rise to consciousness and destroy you.
Who am I? I am the Devil, the Shadow, pure evil, Darkness. You’ve kept me in a cage for eternity, it seems. Beware! I’m coming for you now.

Leon was on his way home late one night when he saw the bear sticking out of a snowdrift. It was a rotten bitch of a winter already and it wasn’t even winter yet – it was barely November and the streets were deep in dirty snow. It squeaked under his boots when he walked and under his tires when he drove. He had just dropped off Martha at her apartment building. She lived in a massive concrete monstrosity where yellow sodium lights illuminated endless echoing stairwells, a place of tribal violence and dirty little territorial wars, the kind of place Leon was not welcome. Leon was a cop. When he was ordered to he went to apartments just like Martha’s simply to bust women just like Martha who lived in filth and squalor not unlike Martha. She wasn’t dirty, so far as he knew, but she also a poor woman, and like everyone she got away with what she could get away with.

He’d been fighting with her. They’d been drinking heavily. The evening began when Martha arrived, given a lift from a friend, and Leon, who’d had a hard day, was happy to celebrate. Martha had brought two bottles of cheap vodka, and Leon had had a moment of doubt, looking at the two bottles, knowing it was only Tuesday, and both of them were fully capable of drinking a full bottle each when they got going, which would make Wednesday hell. But for a while they were happy. Martha even sang a song or two. She had a beautiful voice. She was a beautiful woman. But she was a poor drunk and not getting any younger. They drank more to forget the pain of not getting any younger. Martha got stupid, and Leon got angry, and pretty soon she was whacking him with the back of her hand and he couldn’t remember why. He slapped her a good one and then she started screaming, and Leon had to reign in the fun because he’d been warned by his own department that the cops were being called on his apartment a little too often for comfort. He apologized to Martha and she insisted he drive her home. He did this, despite having imbibed a good deal of a bottle of her rotten vodka, and when she slammed the car door and stamped up the steps he swore to put the bitch behind him once and for all.

The headlights of his car picked out the teddy bear buried in the snow in front of him as he pulled out of the parking lot. He put on the brakes because at first he thought it was an animal of some kind. Curiously he got out into the falling snow, and by the light of his headlamps excavated the stuffed toy. He cop instincts made him root around in the snow until he was certain there wasn’t a small child under it. It was not implausible, given the surroundings. Early last month, when the first heavy snow started falling, a woman had passed out from a heroin overdose while breastfeeding her child outside of this very apartment block. The baby had frozen to death. The evil woman had lived, though both her earlobes and her nose were frostbitten off. God moved in mysterious ways.

The teddy bear was an old one, threadbare in fact, and of a kind that seemed slightly unusual to Leon for reasons he couldn’t name. He had no children himself, so he had no illusions he was an expert in toys, but the bear seemed oddly proportioned to him somehow, which gave him the impression it might be old, from a time before these things were less codified. It wasn’t made of nylon, or whatever they used for children’s toys these days, he thought as he felt it in his cold and damp hands. It was some more basic substance, the like of which only the rich ever came into contact with – felt, perhaps, or some wool product. The bear itself was heavy and solid and hard, not squashy. Plastic, or some earlier form of plastic, like the Bakelite his old flat telephone was made of. The felt or whatever it was had worn through in places, exposing a dark grey form underneath. It was not a toy designed for cuddling, or if it was, children had once been used to much more stringent and strict childhoods.

Leon returned to his car and put the toy down in the passenger seat until recently occupied by Marta. The head and limbs of the bear were articulated on pivots, and the head of the bear was facing him. The eyes of the bear were black glass and as he looked in them, Leon felt a chill. “Someone walked over your grave,” his grandmother used to say when he was a boy. He turned the head of the bear away from him, so the hulking antique thing was looking out of the windscreen. It was wet from the snow. His grandmother had been a veritable hive of horror stories for a small boy – Baba Yaga, the old crone of the woods, her hut standing on its skinny chicken legs in the middle of the frozen aspens and birches, the woodsman who found the tree that cried, the great bear that smelled out small children and took their eyes…

The bear that…

A small chill crept up Leon’s back.

He’d had a bear, when he was a tiny child. His grandmother had given it to him when he was just five or six. A lumpy, uncomfortable bear, not the kind of thing that softened a child’s bed, but the kind of thing that sat on a shelf silently observing the room. It had never been his favorite. His favorite, Leon suddenly remembered, was a sock, nothing more than a sock, and it was stuffed with something, other socks perhaps, and it was warm when he held it and very furry, so it was probably wool, and it smelt absolutely like his childhood sock toy, there was no other smell in the world like it, and Leon had a momentary and completely clear memory of what that smell had been, un-nameable to anyone but him. You might as well ask him to describe the smell of his grandmother’s flower garden after she’d spent a Sunday weeding it.

He’d forgotten all about the flower garden. There was a particular wet smell that came off the stones she had used to create a little set of steps. Moss, and other things children noticed because their eyesight was keen and they were so close to the ground – slugs, and burrows made by mice and voles, and dead frogs spread-eagled and waiting for the crow to find them. The bear was there. The bear looked down from the window of his bedroom on the low-ceilinged upper floor of the house. His grandfather’s house. His grandfather had been an important man. So Leon was an important man now. But his grandfather had not been a happy man. He had been old and silent and very grave, as though after having seen what life entailed he had lost all use for kind words.

And the bear, looking at him from under the eaves of the low-ceilinged upper story. Slate tiled roof. Sometimes with snow. A white plastered building, deep set windows, and flowers all around him, great stinking flowers and the smells of moss and earth and slugs and the bear looking down at him from the window.

Why would the bear be looking at him from the window? He remembered the room. The shelf was nowhere near the window.

But it had been, hadn’t it? All the time. When he was in bed, the eyes of the bear winked blackly in the night, so shiny that he could almost see himself in them, like the eyes of a great bird. Playing in the garden, the bear could be seen through the window. But how could that be? Leon didn’t remember ever playing with the bear. He talked to it once or twice, but it was hard and uncomfortable and expensive and old looking, an antique perhaps. Just like this one.

Sitting in his cold, quiet car outside Martha’s apartment building, Leon could have sworn he had turned the bear’s head to look away from him. But now it was looking at him again. The streetlights reflected brightly in the old glass eyes.

“Is it you?” he asked the bear. “Have you come to find me?”

The bear did not respond, of course. Leon reached out to turn the bear’s head (again), but suddenly didn’t feel like touching it. He had a powerful urge to open the car door and toss the old thing out into the snow.

It must have been his grandmother, the thought came from nowhere. When he went out to play in the garden, she must have positioned the bear in the window to watch him. As a joke. Because she was proud of the expensive old antique she had given him. Because she didn’t like him. Besides, it hadn’t been all the time, had it? Probably only once had he been playing when he looked up, wondering what you could see through the window of his bedroom from the outside, and spotted the bear peering down at him. Not looking over where his bed was as it should have been, on the other side of the room. Right at the window. Probably only once, and that was why he remembered it. He was only a very small child at the time and his concept of days and years would have been very hazy. When you are a child a summer is a lifetime, and last summer is ancient history.

But, now that he thought about it, he’d never liked his grandmother’s garden. It was a place associated with feelings of loneliness, and fear, and misery. In fact, had he been playing at all? Didn’t grandma and grandpa send him out there regularly, when they did something else, never specified? Because his grandmother didn’t garden all that much after all, he suddenly remembered, and the garden was rank and overgrowing, and grandfather complained to her that it was a thicket and a disgrace, and they sent Leon out to pull vines, and the goddamn bear was looking down from the window at the small lonely boy.

Leon looked at the bear sitting across from him in the car which was getting colder by the minute. The temperature was plunging, and the roads would be icing up worse than ever. He should start the car and put the heat on.

It was the same goddamn bear.

It had to be. Powerful familiarity swept through him. Perhaps not the exact same one, but the same make, the same model, from the same cottage factory, the same era.

No. Wait. It couldn’t be the same exact bear he’d had as a child. Because that one was no more. And after he had done it, there’d been terrible trouble, and grandmother yelled at him and then slapped him on the cheeks, knocking him sideways, and grandfather was somewhere in the distance shaking his head, his disgust at the world complete it seemed. He hadn’t thought of that in forty years.

“Can’t be you,” said Leon to the bear. It looked back at him. “Unless someone put your eyes back on.”

He was nearly frozen. He reached for the ignition, but his key wasn’t it in. He felt his pockets with numb fingers, but his keys weren’t there either. He had gotten out of the car to retrieve the bear and look to see if there was a dead child under it, and the lights had been on, so his keys must have been there. Now the headlights were off. He lifted the bear and checked under it. Nothing. He looked out the windshield, which was nearly opaque with ice and condensation, and thought he saw a glimmer of metal in the snow.

Outside the cold hit him like the long ago slaps of his grandmother. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees while he was sitting there. He shuffled through the snow to the front of the car, but the thing that gleamed in the snow was not his keys. He picked the object up and looked at it in the streetlight. Will to act seemed to be leaving his body, the way a man’s life drains slowly away when he is shot in the stomach or the femoral artery of his leg. The object in his hands was a tiny pair of scissors, the kind a child might use.

He heard the car door lock click shut behind him.

Leon turned, and there the bear was, watching him through the glass, and its black eyes were as old as tar.

In ancient times, I watched the sunset at Mallory Square in Key West. While I gazed at the exquisite, surreal dreamscape that engulfed me, I felt the heat of the glorious sun, my spirit moved by its majestic beauty. But its red sunset drove me mad too. Couldn’t bear the pain and agony of its beauty; couldn’t witness its celestial metamorphosis without dreaming of G-d and eternity and my unknown mission on earth.

Now, I remember those unreal nights that fed my soul. I watched street vendors and performers fill Mallory Square with a magical and hypnotic ambience. Magicians amazed me with grand illusions. Circus people fascinated and freaked me out with lethal tricks. Fire eaters frightened me by swallowing mammoth flames. Acrobats risked their lives walking across tightropes by the Gulf of Mexico. A cornucopia of freaks entertained me. A Houdini wannabe freed himself from a straight jacket with forbidding multiple locks. A Cat Man with a crackling whip and half-a-dozen cats revealed an eerie sadomasochistic gift to control his beasts. I watched with hungry, desperate eyes.

Unfortunately, those dreamlike nights fed my dark soul. And it emerged one night just before I witnessed a gorgeous sunset. It saw the other, a man who had been stalking me since I left Brooklyn. He followed me to Key West. The cabal hired him to kill me. I know.

In ancient times, I meandered through Mallory Square with a small pocket knife taped to my hairy chest, hidden beneath a Key West T-shirt. I looked for my predator and found him. He had become my prey. About ten feet and a thick crowd separated us.

I drifted through the throng. As I approached the stranger, I staggered and reeled. The crowd I had penetrated seemed to push and pummel me. They surrounded and engulfed me. I almost fell to the ground.

Suddenly, I felt trapped and suffered a bout of claustrophobia. On this sultry August night, I began to sweat profusely. And I listened to my heart pound relentlessly. The thumping and palpitations triggered a full-fledged panic attack. I lost my balance and suffered unexpectedly from vertigo.

The anonymous people in the crowd encircled and lifted me high into the sky. I struggled to no avail. When I looked at a few members of this throng, I saw alien faces. I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself locked in a square cage tied to a long metal tightrope, hanging a few feet from the Gulf of Mexico. I screamed, but no one seemed to hear my cries for help. Or perhaps, they didn’t care.

I talked quietly to myself. I listened to my susurrations. Shriveled up inside my cage, I watched the monsters watching me. But soon, the darkness came. And then they sauntered off, leaving me alone in my cage hanging high over Mallory Square.

The cage swayed back and forth in the pitch-black darkness. I waited for the dawn and the monsters to return.

Detective Charles Ross, a rotund middle-aged man, went off duty at 11:30 P.M. He drove to Coney Island to get franks and fries at Nathan’s. He devoured them.

At 11:50 P.M., he heard about a robbery on his police radio. He headed north to Mermaid Avenue and then west on Mermaid. He caught up with the robber who was on foot and heading east. The fellow turned around, ran west and then south on West 27th Street. He flew across the street. But it was a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.

Detective Ross left his car on the corner and rushed into the cul-de-sac. The street was pitch-black except for a tiny area illuminated by a streetlamp. He couldn’t see the robber. Then he saw something move near the lamp.

“Stop, police!” he cried out.

The robber stopped, but pointed a gun at him.

“Put the gun down!” he shouted.

But the fellow lifted the weapon.

Detective Ross shot him three times. He fell to the ground.

Ross found a dead teenage boy, but no gun. He left to call for help. When he returned, the kid was gone.

“You killed a kid and the corpse vanished,” his partner said. “Impossible, Charlie!”

Ross returned to the cul-de-sac many times. Maybe it never happened. A corpse couldn’t vanish on that street. But his guilt was unbearable.

One day, he looked in the mirror and solved the puzzle. He never killed the boy. He murdered Ross.

The kid entered Ross’s precinct and gave himself up. Maybe the nightmares would stop. When they handcuffed him, he grew a big smile.

For years, I’ve heard rumors about the old monastery hidden in an antediluvian forest. The kids in my neighborhood know I’m a writer and collector of weird stories. Well, the tale about the old abandoned monastery is strange and creepy. It belongs in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Trust me.

Ensconced in a bleak, barren forest, the monastery is an invisible sanctuary, hidden from the outside world. Yet thrill seekers, especially teenagers, and other adventurers have found it throughout the past century.

Above the sinister forest, a bell tower looms. And sometimes perspicacious eyes find vultures sitting on the fragile structure.

Some pundits state the monastery exists in one of the five boroughs of New York City. Others argue it’s located outside New York and possibly, in another dimension.

Poets describe the monastery as vast but minuscule. It soars to the heavens and vanishes within a dark magical forest. It stretches across an infinite whirling wilderness, but spirals into a finite physical universe. The first few stories contain 30-50 sprawling and tiny claustrophobic rooms. Beneath the decrepit floor of its crumbling basement, a narrow staircase descends 30-60 stories underground.

At the turn of the 20th century, a group of monks lived in the monastery. They didn’t speak, for they had taken vows of silence. At night, they descended the creaking stairs that led to the bowels of the earth. They slept in small underground spaces.

Then suddenly, one night, a monk went berserk and butchered all the other monks. After the massacre, he hauled the corpses to a lower underground level.

Thrill seekers, who found and entered the old sanctuary and descended the dark stairs, have reported seeing ghosts in the underground stories beneath the monastery. I’ve often wondered if any of these tall tales are true.

This morning, when I woke up from a deep sleep, I found an ancient map on the night table next to my bed. Now, as I study the map, my body shakes uncontrollably. You see, I’m clenching a map of the old monastery. It also reveals a direct route to the sanctuary starting at Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn where I live.

What shall I do? Who left this map? How did the person enter my home? Is the map genuine?

I’m compelled to search for the old monastery. I must discover the truth.

Clutching a machete in my left hand and a flashlight in my right, I enter the dark forest. In the distance, the bell tower looms. I trudge toward the monastery.

Inside the ancient sanctuary, I descend the stairs and search for the remains of the dead monks.

As I climb down the stairs, my hands tremble and I almost drop my machete. My face twitches and my body jerks. But I continue on.

I descend five stories and stop. Trapped in an ominous labyrinth, I take a few deep breaths and descend farther into the darkness.

I stagger down the stairs and almost plummet into the abyss. Miraculously, I regain my balance. I descend ten stories, twenty stories, and stop. I’m suffering from vertigo. Perhaps, I should turn back. But I can’t. An alien voice commands me to find the monks’ remains.

I reel down the stairs, lurching violently into the monstrous Void. I descend thirty stories, forty stories. How much farther can I go?

I’ve stopped counting. I’m in Hell. Don’t see their remains. Yet I feel their presence.

My body shudders. I retch. I vomit.

Can’t find their bones. I slip and plunge into the abyss.

I’m still alive inside a tomblike room. And now, I see them-the monks’ ghosts surrounding me. It can’t be! These creatures look like me, especially the one in the far corner with a machete. He is me!

He stands up and kills his brothers. I watch. I wait. Almost time to die.

Every culture and religion in the world has a version of an evil deity. A vision of what is evil incarnate. The polar opposite of what is good in the world. In the English language, he is called the devil, Satan and countless other names. In Spanish, his name is translated to El Diablo, and on the island of San Marcos his name is Saint Pierre Humberto. In my childhood in North America, we called him the boogieman. When I was a small boy I remember being terrified of the boogieman. I was told by the older boys that the boogieman was the one who hid under your bed in the dead of night. Or on the other hand, maybe he waited in your dark closet until you were fast asleep, patiently plotting your demise or violation. When I grew up, I began to suspect that he took on more sinister and obvious roles as well, such as child molester, serial killer or ax murderer. I would come to find out later that things were no different in the high Caribbean, the boogie man resided in paradise as well, only there, he went by the name of Saint Pierre Humberto. Saint Pierre Humberto lives high in the mountains of San Marcos, a small island located in the West Indies. He lives far away from the tourists and the all-inclusive hotels, far from the cheap prostitutes that prowl the bars and discos, far from the alabaster beaches where the sun lives, and where his name is whispered only in the shadows. I had the extreme misfortune of crossing his path and I will never be the same. Nevertheless, before I continue his story, and how we came to meet, first a little about me. Two years ago was the first time that I visited the island of San Marcos on vacation. I was so taken with the relaxed way of life, and the natural beauty of the country that I knew that I had found home. I was tired of my miserable dead end job, and the sub-zero winters of New England. Sick of my lonely and empty life. After selling everything that I owned, I boarded a plane and left my former life behind. I didn’t have any family and few friends; I knew that I wouldn’t be missed.

Once I was back in San Marcos, I indulged in the usual distractions of a somewhat sedentary lifestyle. I amused myself with the cheap and predatory women that haunt the bars, discos and casinos. I became a fixture of the nightlife. I became the party, then ultimately the cliché of the rich gringo on permanent vacation. So one excruciatingly hung-over morning, I decided to make a change. I concluded that I wanted to leave the resort town behind and live and experience life the way that the native people did. Initially I began taking long day trips into the deep countryside. All I found out there however, was poverty and not much else. Undeterred, I next set my sights on the deep green mountains that had fascinated me since my arrival. The modes of transportation into the mountains were called Gua guas, battered mini vans that belched toxic exhaust fumes into the once pristine forest. The Gua guas were packed so full of people, that literally not an inch of space existed. The unlucky ones who boarded the Gua gua last, had to hang on outside the door as we raced on at suicidal speeds. It was during one of these tortuous mountain excursions, where I met Saint Pierre Humberto. It was toward the end of an especially tiring trek into the deep mountain ranges. I was half asleep when we came to a small village that felt somehow out of place. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the town made me anxious. As we entered the town proper, I saw a small sign that read: Las Moscas. Weird name for a town, I thought to myself as I looked out of my cracked window. I had observed that all of the other mountain towns which we passed that day and on previous trips had basically the same layout. A town square at the center, with all of the streets branching outward. Usually there was a church, small multi colored houses, and dozens of motorcycle taxis. However, the most noticeable difference in this town was the absence of noise. In all of the other towns that we passed, the decibel level was a sonic assault on the senses. There was blaring music, car horns, and cars and motorcycles without mufflers. If this wasn’t enough, you had dozens of men screaming from bullhorns selling produce. As I looked around, I noticed that the layout of the streets in this town were all wrong as well.

Las Moscas was designed like a grid without a center. This gave you the impression that there was only one way in and no way out, with long one way descending streets, leading seemingly nowhere. Despite my unease, I decided to exit the Gua gua. As I watched my only form of transportation recede into the approaching dusk, I experienced the strange sensation that I was very alone in the world. The streets were nearly deserted as I set out on foot. As I walked along I remembered a lecture a tour guide once gave me, “Never ever leave the resort unaccompanied!” What bullshit I thought to myself. Suddenly the unease and anxiety that I had experienced earlier, returned with a vengeance. A sense of unreality washed over me. The blazing sun overhead spiraled out of control. My bowels churned, and I broke out in a cold sweat on my face neck and back. Waves of nausea seemed to drown me, as I stumbled forward down the street. I was dizzy and short of breath, and felt a stabbing pain in my chest. As I fought for control, the dense tropical flora and fauna seemed to cast long and sinister shadows. Then as quickly as the attack had begun, the anxiety began to recede. Slowly regaining control, I took deep calming breaths and began to relax. My legs still felt a little shaky, but I had little choice but to continue. As I scanned the street, I experienced the disturbing perception that I was on a movie studio back –lot, and that if I looked around the back of the houses, there would be nothing there, just the façade in front. A block and a half later, I found myself standing in front of a non-descript three story house. The house was ordinary except for one bizarre feature. Above every window were ornately carved gables, and within each gable there were intricately detailed cherubs, but instead of the usual depictions of angels or cherubs smiling in heavenly bliss, each carving depicted the figures grimacing in fear or agony. My God that’s strange I thought as I felt a twinge of anxiety. Although I still felt a little shaky, my curiosity was sparked. I walked around to the side of the house and saw a crudely hand written sign that read: Open Welcome. Peering into the window I could see that there was a dimly lit bar inside.

Once I was inside I couldn’t believe how cold it was. Almost shivering, I surveyed my surroundings. The room was large but sparsely furnished with only a few domino tables at the front of the room, and five or so wooden tables at the back. The walls looked freshly white washed, and there was a faint smell of paint in the air. The ceiling was very low and painted a deep amber color, making the room feel squashed and claustrophobic. The bar itself was nothing more than an unpainted wooden plank with a few worn bar stools. No bartender was present. There was however, one patron seated at a table at the back of the room. In the dim light I didn’t see him at first, and could barely make him out now. “Hola” I said awkwardly. He just nodded his head slightly, hardly acknowledging me. As I turned back to the bar, something caught my eye that I still see in my nightmares. I saw that one large wall was covered from floor to ceiling with varying sizes of framed black and white photographs. Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that the photographs were all close up shots of seemingly terrified children. As I studied the photos, it became clear that pictures all shared one bizarre trait. Every child was missing teeth. In every sickening picture, their eyes were wide with terror, as they looked fearfully of camera. I could feel a bolt of anxiety creep up my spine as I stepped back. Just then, I was startled by a woman’s voice, “Can help you?” She said in English. I spun around to see the bartender smiling at me. Although she was smiling, I could sense other emotions just below the surface. “Yeah I’ll have a beer,” I stammered. At that point I needed a drink badly. She opened a small beer cooler and removed a green bottle. “My name is Nadine,” she said. Then wrapped a napkin around the bottle and set it down. Nadine was perhaps thirty five years old although it was hard to be sure. Plump with dark skin and large facial features, her hair was done up with large multi-colored curling rollers. She smiled slyly at me as I guzzled my beer. As I wiped my mouth with a napkin, I said, “What’s the story with those pictures on the wall over there?” She smiled and said, “Oh those are the special children of the Campo,” She winked at me then added, “If you would like to make a donation, or find out more information, the gentleman sitting over there can fill you in.”

As looked over at him, he was silhouetted by the last rays of sunlight, giving him a wraith-like appearance. “I think I would like to talk to him,” I said lighting a cigarette. “Wonderful!” Nadine replied with a grin that revealed two missing teeth. I watched from the bar as Nadine bent down and whispered into the seated man’s ear. Then she nodded her head, smiled and waved me over. “Have a seat,” she said still smiling. “I will be right back.” I could now see the man clearly. He possessed very dark skin, almost the color of coal, with large facial features and a long flat nose. His face was lined with wrinkles from age, and a lifetime beneath the Caribbean sun. The whites of his eyes were the color of egg yolks that contained large black pupils that seemed to float inside. He had thin lips that revealed perfectly porcelain like teeth. Although he was seated, I could see that he was very tall. His long arms ended with immense hands, and manicured nails on the ends of his thick fingers. He wore a dusty looking brown sport jacket, and on the table before him was a black stovepipe hat. “Hola papa,” he said, as the whiteness of his teeth almost blinded me. “Nadine tells me that you like our photos.” As he spoke, I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t born on this side of San Marcos. “Yeah, very different.” I replied, trying hard to keep the distaste I felt from my voice. He chuckled softly and said, “Well as they say papa, every picture tells a story.” “But first a drink on me!” Then he waved Nadine over with his long fingernails. She returned to our table with a bottle of rum and two crystal glasses. She cracked the seal on the bottle, poured a couple of drops onto the floor, and then filled our glasses with amber colored rum. Nadine smiled at me and sashayed back to the bar. As I returned my attention back to my drinking companion, he announced dramatically, “my name is Saint Pierre Humberto, and I will tell you a tale or two, then we will discuss my work here with the children of the campo.” I took a sip of rum, felt its warmth spread through me and relaxed. “Where to begin?” He said, as he sighed deeply and looked toward the ceiling.

“In some cultures the egg represents life,” he began slowly, “in other cultures blood is the life-force and posses great power, in my land however, the teeth are a reflection of prosperity and well being.” “In your home country you have many fables and myths that you tell to your children.” His voice took on a melodic and dreamy cadence, revealing the underlying rhythm of his native language as he spoke. He paused for a moment, and then continued. “One such fable that I find quite interesting is your story of the tooth fairy, in that story it is said that when a child loses a tooth it placed beneath the sleeping child’s pillow and the tooth is replaced with sweets or money.” “He took a deep swallow of rum then continued. “Here on this side of San Marcos the story is quite different, here, the child who loses the tooth throws it atop the roof of the house for the rats to carry away.” His face grew serious and there was bitterness in his voice as he went on. “I once heard a story that is sometimes told to naughty children on this side of San Marcos, their parents tell them that if they are disrespectful, a tall dark man from my side of San Marcos will carry you away in his chicken sack, and you will never see your family or friends again!”I laughed nervously as he poured more rum into my glass. “That’s pretty sick.” I said, and a little racist. His yellow eyes met mine as he said, “Racist, yes that is quite possibly true.” Then he shifted his gaze toward the ceiling and began, “He is the road walker in the dead of night, the unclean eater of flies who dances alone under the full harvest moon, the desolate one who sleeps among the coconut rats!” I was beginning to get the impression that my friend was either mentally ill or drunk, possibly both. There was an uncomfortable silence as his eyes glazed over and he said, “Many superstitions are somewhat based on fact papa.” He spoke through his gritted porcelain like teeth with his eyes ablaze, as I just sat there feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Just as I was about to thank him for his rum and get the hell out of there, he began to speak. “Before I came to this land I lived with my people on the other side of this island.” “I was raised by my abuela or grandmother in your tongue, I was but a boy then but she taught me many things papa, many things.”He paused and seemed to study his stovepipe hat, then continued.

“She taught me how pain can be pleasure and how agony can be bliss; and how fear is much more powerful than love!” As I listened to him I was becoming increasingly uneasy. Maybe I had made a big mistake coming into this place. Perhaps this man really was crazy, and quite possibly dangerous. I shifted in my chair but he just went on, oblivious to my obvious discomfort. “I have seen the rise and fall of empires; I have witnessed and committed atrocities!” His voice began to increase in volume as he became clearly hysterical. “I have ripped out the teeth of my enemies and sucked out the sweet and fragrant marrow, there are no special children of the campo papa, only children, Ahhhh the marrow of the children is the sweetest and most powerful of all!” I had heard enough, it was time to get the hell out of there! But before I got the chance, a blinding white light was suddenly switched on, causing me to shield my eyes. “Ahhh, another of god’s little miracles!” He screamed not an inch from my face, causing me to involuntarily jump. Just then Nadine reappeared. She half walked half danced across the room towards us. She no longer wore the curling rollers, and her long black hair fell to her bare shoulders. She continued to advance in our direction, and then she stopped in mid-stride. Nadine started to brutally shake her head from side to side. Her eyes rolled up into the lids so far, that only the whites were visible. Then she began to emit an ear piercing shriek. I quickly turned to see Saint Pierre mumbling incoherently. Only the whites of his eyes were visible as tears streamed down his face. “What the hell is going on here?” I screamed. “It is time for me to settle my accounts for the month papa!” Saint Pierre exclaimed. His voice had become very high pitched, almost comical under different circumstances. Meanwhile, Nadine resumed her dance, and then in a split second, she charged across the room. As she stood over me, she began to foam at the mouth, and her body shook as if she were having a seizure. I couldn’t believe what was happening, the room seemed to shrink and expand, I tried to move, but my arms and legs felt as though they were paralyzed. Suddenly there was a loud banging at the back door, Nadine walked slowly as if in a trance, and flung the door open wide.

There was a commotion, then yelling in a language that I didn’t understand. Then suddenly, three men burst into the room. I watched in disbelief as I saw that all three men were identical in every way to Saint Pierre, right down to the faded brown sport jackets, and black stovepipe hats. On each of their shoulders they carried large burlap sacks. Then all three men moved as one into the center of the room. They walked in a herky jerky pattern, almost like a dance. In my shocked and numb state, they reminded me of marionettes on strings. I felt as though I was in a nightmare, the kind that no matter how hard you try, it’s impossible to wake from. Everything seemed to move slowly. I turned to face Saint Pierre and he was smiling demonically. His teeth sparkled like polished sea-shells as he turned to face me. “What in the name of god is happening here?” I pleaded. “They are Santa’s little helpers!” Saint Pierre replied, and chuckled from deep within his throat. “And god has little to do with this!” “You are about to witness something no outsider has ever seen, unfortunately for you, you will never be able to speak of it!” He was no longer smiling as he said this, and his mouth was twisted into a sneer. He had risen from the table and was now wearing his stovepipe hat. From my seated point of view, he appeared to be twelve feet tall. I tried to stand but my legs wouldn’t move, glancing at the bottle of rum I figured maybe I’d been drugged. All I could do was sit there, and watch the horrifying scene unfold. Meanwhile Nadine had wheeled a small freight scale into the middle of the room. On top of the scale was a large green account ledger, and an old fashioned flash bulb camera. As Nadine adjusted the scale, the three helpers emptied that they had been carrying onto the floor. What I saw next truly convinced me that I was in the presence of true evil. Three filthy and emaciated children lay sprawled in a heap at Nadine’s feet. The children looked around wildly, their eyes wide with terror. In a pile next to them were hundreds of small blood encrusted teeth. Nadine scowled down at the children as she made entries into the account ledger.

Next, one of the helpers began taking pictures of the children from different angles. I moaned and began to scream. Nadine glared at me and shouted, “Shut your mouth gringo!” I sat there frozen to my chair as the demonic process unfolded. Saint Pierre laughed, and began to stalk around the room muttering to himself, as if he were making calculations. Then one by one, the children were put onto the scale, all the while kicking and screaming. They were weighed by one of the helpers, and then put roughly back onto the floor, as Saint Pierre supervised the operation. I watched as he went behind the bar and returned with a small wooden box. He opened the box and removed a pair of rusty looking pliers. He looked over at me and smiled as he waved the pliers in the air. I screamed, I must have lost consciousness, and when I came to, the group was huddled around the scale blocking my view. I became aware of a mild burning sensation in my legs, as I slowly came around. While they were occupied, I slowly tried to stand. It was difficult at first, but then I felt my head start to clear and my strength returning. Seeing me standing, one of the helpers yelled something unintelligible and then charged me. I waited until he was just about to grab me, and then swung the empty rum bottle with every ounce of strength I possessed. The bottle made a sickening crunch as it struck him directly against his ocular bone. He howled in agony as he fell over backwards onto the floor. Then I was up and running. I flew past Nadine, but she was fast enough to rake my face with her sharp and painted fingernails. The look of pure hatred that she gave me was beyond description. Behind me, I heard Saint Pierre scream in a language so guttural and foul, that only the devil himself would understand. Somehow I made it to the door and burst out into the tropical night. The town was pitch black. Not one light was on in the street, or in any of the houses. I ran down the dark and deserted street screaming for help, but there wasn’t a soul to help me. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw with dread that Saint Pierre and two of his helpers were not far behind; I could hear Saint Pierre shouting orders as they gave chase.

I figured that my only chance of escape was in the deep jungle that bordered the town. If I could make it to the edge, I might get out of there alive. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, but I wasn’t in the best shape, and was beginning to tire. Then I saw the tree line silhouetted against the moon, and this gave me the burst of adrenalin that I needed. As I broke through the trees, I could hear Saint Pierre bellowing in rage. They chased me all night. I heard the beating of drums, I could see torches, and all the while I heard the continual shouting and screaming of Saint Pierre. I fought my way through every inch of that jungle, with the knowledge that my pursuers were not far behind. All through that horrible night, I couldn’t shake the vision of those children from my subconscious. My clothes were in tatters, biting and stinging insects and things that crept and crawled added to my misery. At one point I had a narrow escape. I had stopped to rest, and as I was bent over gasping for air, I saw Saint Pierre stop dead in a clearing, and look right at where I was hiding. He sniffed the air and stood as still as a statue. In the moonlight I could see his yellow eyes ablaze with hatred. For what seemed like an eternity, I held my breath as he cocked his head listening. Then he screamed something into the night and moved on. I don’t remember much after that, at some point I must have succumbed to exhaustion, because I awoke to warm sunlight on my face. I found myself in a clearing beside a wide river. I felt miserable but I was alive, my body ached and my face stung like hell where Nadine had scratched me, but I was alive. I followed the river downstream, to a small fishing village by the sea. There I was hospitalized for one month, due to infection and exposure. When I recounted my story to the authorities it was met with disbelief or outright laughter. I would overhear “Gringo esta loco!” Many times during that month. Las Moscas did not exist I was told repeatedly. I was shown maps depicting the area, and no such town could be located. Over the years, I have tried to retrace my journey to Las Moscas, on foot, on Gua gua, even on horseback but to no avail. Nevertheless, I know that the town exists; I know it with every fiber of my soul.

Sometimes in the dead of night when I wake screaming and drenched in sweat, I can still see Nadine, the children, and Saint Pierre Humberto smiling a knowing smile.

I was nine years old when I had my first run in with Senior Conjuntavitis. Way back then, I lived with my family on a small island in the High Caribbean. There was myself, my mother and father, and my two brothers Ernesto and Papo. There we shared a bright yellow casita, in a beautiful village by the sea. Our lives weren’t always easy, but with the love and support of our friends and family, we were very happy. That all changed however, on the day that Senior Conjuntavitis returned. In my small village, just the mention of his name made people nervous. The folks of my town were very superstitious, so when senior Conjuntavitis was around three special rituals were observed. Number one: At night Cross two brooms against all the locked doors of your house. Number two: light three cucumber scented candles at midnight. Number three: Wash your hands and face eight and a half times a day, with fresh cucumber and lemon juice. Sometimes these steps seemed to work, and Senior Conjuntavitis stayed away, but most times they didn’t and he paid you a visit. During the heat of the day, the entire village would scrub and wash their casas with a mixture of soap, cucumber juice, and bleach. This was sometimes done twice a day, when Senior Conjuntavitis was suspected of being in the neighborhood. But Senior Conjuntavitis was very clever. He had been a nuisance around our village for as long as anybody could remember. Even the very old folks could recall his foul name and shameful deeds. So the people of my town weren’t at all surprised when he showed up again. It was a very breezy and sunny afternoon, without a cloud in the deep azul sky, on the day that Senior Conjuntavitis returned to our village.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. My friend Emilio and I were on our way home from school, when suddenly we heard the sound of very loud and very strange laughter. The bizarre laughter was coming from the direction of the neighborhood playground. Emilio and I exchanged puzzled looks as we went to investigate. As we entered the bright playground, we discovered the source of the laughter. Senior Conjuntavitis was seated on a yellow park bench surrounded by a group of loud and dirty children. The children were laughing and playing in the dirt at his bare and filthy feet. They played with candy wrappers, empty soda cans, fish heads, and old chicken bones. Senior Conjuntavitis laughed and applauded, clearly delighted with the loud and dirty children. Then suddenly he noticed Emilio and I watching him. A vile and dirty grin spread across his face as he waved Emilio and I over to join them. We were both afraid, but also very curious. Senior Conjuntavitis was just as my mother had described him. He was tall and very skinny. His eyes were deep red and almost swollen shut. Almost hidden by his thick lips and black moustache, were his green and crooked teeth. He wore a wide brimmed fedora, with a dirty yellow band atop his large head, and a soiled green poncho that smelled like cat pee pee. What I was most afraid of though, were his long fingers and dirt encrusted fingernails. “Well, well, well, muchachos!” Senior Conjuntavitis exclaimed with a sneer. “Sit down here in the dirt and play with us!” “Or are you afraid to get your school clothes dirty!”Then he laughed his sickening laugh, “He he he he!” I noticed with disgust that oily yellow fluid dripped from his eyes as he guffawed. Then the loud and dirty children joined in. “He he he he!”I was very afraid, but I didn’t want him to see it. I still remembered Senior Conjuntavitis dirty work. I could still see my little brother Papo’s red and swollen eyes, almost stuck shut one morning a few years before. So instead I boldly shouted, “Let’s go and get help Emilio, this guy is just a smelly old payaso!” Senior Conjuntavitis grew very angry as heard this. His smile vanished and his dirty fingers began to twitch. The loud and dirty children gasped. His blood red eyes met mine as he said very softly, I will visit you later muchacho!”I would never have spoken to a grown up with such disrespect, but with Senior Conjuntavitis I felt differently. I turned to look at Emilio, and to my surprise he was kneeling in the dirt with a dirty fish head in his hands!

“Emilio what do you think you are doing!” I yelled in disbelief. He just ignored me and began to play with the loud and dirty children. Emilio was clearly under the foul spell of Senior Conjuntavitis. Suddenly Senior Conjuntavitis quickly jumped to his feet. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and farted very long and very loudly. Then he burst out laughing. “He he he he!” Once again the loud and dirty children joined in. “He he he he!” Only this time Emilio was among them. “Take that home to your mama!” Senior Conjuntavitis said as he strutted towards me. All of my short life I had been told how vile Senior Conjuntavitis was, but it still surprised me how vulgar he really was. Almost in tears, I turned and ran. My face was hot as I heard the laughter of Senior Conjuntavitis and the loud and dirty children at my back. I ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. By the time I got home dinner was being served. Although I was close to panic, I still noticed what was on the dinner table. There was curried goat, yellow yams, corn bread, and sweet green peas served with bowls of fresh cucumber juice. Seated at the table were my mother and father, my older brother Ernesto, and my little brother Papo. As my father looked up from the table he exclaimed, “Well you are late once again, maybe next time we will have to feed your supper to the pigs!” Then he laughed and said, “Now go and wash up before we eat.” Rising from the table, my mother asked, “Are you alright you look a little ill?” Her face wrinkled with concern. In a weak voice I answered softly, “I just saw Senior Conjuntavitis in the park.” They all gasped in shock. My mother exclaimed, “Santo Dios!” And began to rapidly cross herself. My father’s jaw dropped open, my brother Ernesto gave the sign to ward off the evil eye, and my little brother Papo began to cry. When everyone had calmed down they began to ask questions. Where exactly was he? Who was he with? Did he touch you with his filthy fingers? After I explained my story the best that I could, I sat down exhausted. “Well it has begun again!” my father said through gritted teeth. He grabbed his machete as he walked out of the door, and along with my brother Ernesto, ran to get help. All of that late afternoon the men of my village searched for Senior Conjuntavitis, but he was nowhere to be found. When they found Emilio, he was sitting alone in the playground.

His eyes were red and almost swollen shut and he couldn’t remember a thing. He was home now with his family, his eyes being treated with cold cucumber juice. That night my mother barred all of the doors of our house with crossed brooms. At midnight she lit three cucumber scented candles in hopes of keeping the foul Senior Conjuntavitis away. All that night I had trouble sleeping. I could still hear Senior Conjuntavitis voice in my head. “I will visit you later muchacho!” I must have finally fallen asleep because the crowing of the roosters woke me. In the kitchen below, I could hear my father and brother Ernesto getting ready for another long day of work in the cucumber fields. After I got dressed and washed my hands and face eight and a half times, I went downstairs. My mother was busy at the stove when I entered the fragrant kitchen, and my little brother Papo was seated at the table, playing with his food. My father and brother were long gone. As my mother handed me my breakfast plate, she said, “Well you are up early today, sit down and eat.” I managed a weak smile and said, “Yeah I didn’t sleep all that well last night.” “Well eat your breakfast and you will feel better.” She replied. I noticed that she had made what I like to eat most that morning. There was salty fried cheese, buttery eggs with tortillas, corn biscuits with honey, and fresh cucumber juice to drink. After breakfast she wrapped a necklace of dried cucumber rinds around my neck. She explained that although Senior Conjuntavitis was around I still had to go to school that day, and that life had to go on. She told me to be careful going to and from school. As she handed me my lunch pail, she smiled a reassuring smile and said, “We have all dealt with Senior Conjuntavitis before as you know.” “He has tried many times to make our lives unhappy, but he will never succeed because we are a strong and naturally happy people.” As she kissed my forehead I felt a little better, then I left for school. I usually enjoyed my morning walk to school, but on that day I was wary of Senior Conjuntavitis. On most mornings the village streets were full of people buying supplies for that night’s dinner. They bought fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats from brightly colored carts that lined the malicon. Today however, there were very few people about. As I walked along lost in my thoughts, I came to the bright yellow cart of Jorge the coco man. “Stop right there!” Jorge the coco man yelled. “Don’t come any closer, Senior Conjuntavitis visited me yesterday and look what happened!”

Jorge the coco man was wearing dark black sunglasses. I watched as he took from his cart a small yellow box. He removed his sunglasses and carefully set them inside. I could now see that his eyes were deep red and almost swollen shut. Next he took out a small green cucumber from his shirt pocket and squeezed the juice into his upturned eyes. “Ahhhhh that’s much better!” he said smiling “Be very careful today, you don’t want this!” He exclaimed pointing to his bloodshot eyes. I assured Jorge that I would indeed be careful and continued on. When I reached my salmon colored school house, it was clear that no one was there. There were no bicycles or motorcycle taxis dropping off my classmates for the day. The only sound that could be heard was the sighing of the sea. I knocked on the school house door anyway, and was met by teacher Minerva. She glanced around warily then said, “I’m afraid school has been canceled until further notice.” “Senior Conjuntavitis was seen in the neighborhood earlier today.” “Go home and study yesterday’s lesson.” As she closed the door I could smell the faint scent of cucumber juice in the air. Feeling depressed and lonely, I walked on toward the direction of the sea. As I neared the beach the village was nearly deserted. The few people that I did pass wore dark black sunglasses just like Jorge the coco man wore. Rounding a corner I began to slowly walk home. Then from out of nowhere I was startled by a loud high pitched voice. “Well well well, muchacho, I told you I would visit you later!” I spun around and stood face to face with the foul Senior Conjuntavitis! Standing so close to him I saw that his eyes had become much worse than before. Giant yellow tears streamed from the corners of his eyes onto his already soiled poncho. His bloodshot eyes were filled with hatred as he exclaimed, “What’s the matter muchacho, no wise cracks today?”I was frozen with fear, my legs wouldn’t move. As I stared at him I felt a mixture of fear, disgust and surprisingly pity. Then he took a step toward me and the smell of cat pee pee was overwhelming. “Leave me alone!” I shouted as I looked around wildly for help. “No help here muchacho!” He said as he took another step toward me. A million thoughts raced though my head. I thought of poor Emilio, Jorge the coco man, and the countless others suffering that very minute. All due to the shameful deeds of Senior Conjuntavitis, then I was no longer afraid. “You get away from me you filthy old perro!” I screamed as loud as I could.

Senior Conjuntavitis face took on a look of mock offence, then anger as he screamed in my face, “not until I touch you with my nice and dirty fingers first!” Then he lunged at me surprising me with his speed, but I managed to dodge his filthy fingers. As I backpedaled, he continued to stab at me with his dirt encrusted fingernails. All the while laughing like a lunatic. I bobbed and weaved, I dodged and ducked, but Senior Conjuntavitis would not give up! Then seeing an opening, I made a break for it. I sidestepped his hand as he swung wide and ran faster than I ever had in my life. As I ran I could hear and smell him close behind me, but I refused to look back. I ran around the block and came back around to where Jorge the coco mans cart was parked. What I saw next was a remarkable sight. The entire village had assembled in the street. They all stood behind Jorge the coco mans cart cheering! Held high above their heads the villagers carried mops, brooms, and scrub brushes on long bamboo poles. The women and children were armed with buckets filled with cucumber and other juices. I was relieved to see my family standing at the front of the crowd, and standing next to them were Emilio and his family. With the last of my strength, I sprinted up to Jorge the coco man and hid behind him. Senior Conjuntavitis stopped dead in his tracks. A sly smirk crossed his face as he scanned the faces of the crowd. “Well well well” He began, “you campesinos think you can stop me with your brujeria and cucumber juice!?” Then he threw back his head and laughed his sickening laugh. As he laughed he began to dance. He pranced, he strutted, and he moved his head back and forth like a rooster. Then he shook his skinny bottom at the crowd and unleashed an incredibly long, loud, and toxic fart! The crowd watched the spectacle in stunned silence. Suddenly, Senior Conjuntavitis dance was interrupted when a very green, and very hard, coco bounced off his ridiculous head. A look of shock and disbelief covered his face, as Jorge the coco man prepared to launch another coco. Senior Conjuntavitis stumbled backward as the second coco struck him directly onto his greasy forehead. His fedora went sailing high into the wind as he fell onto his boney backside. The crowd cheered then went into action. First the women and children of the village dumped cucumber and other juices onto his filthy head and body. Next, the men of the village scrubbed him with mops, and hard plastic brushes while Senior Conjuntavitis howled like an animal, and begged for mercy.

Then he was dragged into the ocean for a final rinse. The villagers yelled and cheered, but in spite of myself I felt a little sorry for Senior Conjuntavitis. Finally he was sent running naked across pale white sand dunes. I noticed that his pimpled bottom was as white as the sand that he ran across. “Don’t you ever come back here!” The people of the village cheered, “Or you will get more of the same!”Senior Conjuntavitis said nothing as he continued running across the dunes. Then we all watched until he was just a speck on the horizon. The only things that were left behind were his wide brimmed fedora, and his soiled green and white poncho. Later, the fedora and poncho were soaked in a special cucumber juice mixture and burned in a big bonfire on the beach. Later that night there was a Grande fiesta under a full Caribbean moon. Emilio and I were seated at a special table surrounded by all of our friends and family. As we laughed and talked, I saw that Emilio’s eyes had returned to their natural bright green color. Jorge the coco man no longer wore his dark black sunglasses as his eyes had also returned to normal. Jorge smiled at us as he basted a fat curried goat with his secret coco juice recipe. My mouth watered as I inhaled the smoky aroma. For dinner the village feasted on all of our favorites. There was fried parrot fish, roasted chicken, curried goat with sweet yellow yams, and golden brown honey cakes. However, most important of all, there were barrels of fresh cold cucumber juice to drink. The fiesta went on long into the night with singing and dancing and loud domino games. We never did see Senior Conjuntavitis again, but we did meet his little brother Jose Conjuntavitis but that’s another story!

Every now and then he would go to the pond behind the office building and light one up. He didn’t have to go outside. There was a lounge just around the corner from his office, and it would be years before people would become hypersensitive about second hand smoke and the like. But it was peaceful, even serene, if such a term could exist in his world.

Every now and again he would meet her there at the pond. It was where they had first met, she weeping, he smoking. She was the bean counter upstairs near the VP’s office crying over a pregnancy that had gone bad. He was the peon down on the bottom floor in customer service whose tears had been dried up long before by the smoke. They were the perfect match.

Every once in a while he thinks he sees her face, like he saw it in the pond, just before he quit going down there for smoke breaks. He thought it was shadow at first, then thought he was just going mad. His employers agreed, and that’s why he sits at home now, still haunted by her face creeping up from the bath water, under the waves made by his big toe when he tests the water. Sometimes he thinks he sees her over his shoulder while he shaves. Once he awoke staring into the whites of her eyes, her pupils all rolled up into her head.

Every once in a blue moon, he thinks about the love making down at the pond, about that final day when she told him about the baby. He wonders if she tried to trap the other guy, the one she was crying over on the day they met, wonders if it was coincidence that she happened to be down at the pond, the one she could see from her office window. He is often curious about whether the other guy worked there too. Did she use the same kind of veiled threats with him?

Every so often he thinks that he may have been a little too rough with her, maybe he should have been a little more understanding like he was with the other baby, the one he helped pay to abort. He’s a thinking man, which has always been his downfall. Now he is wondering if her foot came untied again from the line like it did the first time, the time after which he quit going to the pond. He wonders if that is why the cops have just pulled up to his apartment building, if the steps he hears pounding up the stairwell are aimed at his door. He is amazed at how quickly the little white pill, the one he bought on the street, works, and he is curious about why he hadn’t thought of this sooner.

Janette’s lungs were beginning to fail her, her breathing was coming short and fast, and she’d long since lost the feeling in her legs. She had to stop, she just had to, how long had she been running now? Half an hour, forty-five minutes? To her, it felt like forever…She’d lost Tom what seemed like an age ago, and his shouts had died out shortly after…She didn’t want to think about him, she didn’t want to be distracted, but she couldn’t push him out of her mind; she’d loved him since she first met him, back when they were both at Oxford; they’d had so much fun in all those years since, she couldn’t bear to lose him now, not here in some unnamed forest to a pack of foul looking, evil beasts, he meant to much to h- Her mind reeled as she felt her legs fly out from under her, an intense pain shooting through the toes on her right foot and up through her leg as she smashed it into a rock that was hidden behind a soft fern. She saw the ground coming up to meet her, but she was going too fast to bring her arms up to protect her fragile face. She felt her nose crack as she hurtled face first into the forest floor, blood gushing down over her lips and into her mouth, the tangy metallic taste causing her to wince involuntarily and spit onto the ground. She tried to raise herself, and fell to the floor with a stifled cry of pain as she felt her shattered wrist scream under the pressure. She felt sick, a combination of pain and fear filling her with an unbearable nausea, as she listened intently to the forest around her, trying to pick up the tell-tale signs of approach. All she could hope for now, she shuddered to think, was that they’d given up the chase on her in favour of Toms bigger, meatier frame.

She never heard them come for her, their pads stalking silently towards the bloodstained patch of dirt where she lay, immobile; arm shattered, leg broken, muscles tired and atrophied from the long run. There was nothing she could do but scream in agony as the animals tore into her, ripping at her bloody carcass in a rabid frenzy.

One of the last things Janette saw in this world was the glint of a rare beam of dying sunlight streaking through the leafy treetops, reflected off a thick, studded leather collar.

* * *

Tom’s muscles ached, his legs were on fire and his tendons were beginning to seize up under the strain of the pursuit. He wanted to glance behind him, he couldn’t hear the beasts anymore, just the furious pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears but he couldn’t risk it. He knew how dangerous it would be to put a foot wrong in a forest this big, a situation this dire. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake now, if he did it’d only be a matter of time before the creatures caught up with him and ensured it was the last mistake he ever made…

He cut that train of thought off when the image of those muzzles, encrusted with the deep crimson-black of blood and ringed by that hideous, dark, dripping ooze came to his mind. He focused himself on running, the rhythmic pounding of foot on earth sounding so distant beyond the deafening sound of his own, living body. That helped, calmed him down and made him able to fight the pain harder. He began thinking about Janette, about how much he loved and admired her, how much he respected her and how much he wished he hadn’t convinced her to come up to fucking Scotland with him.

A scream cut through his reverie, shattering the trance like state he’d fallen into. His feet froze in place, but the momentum continued carrying his body forward and he fell, twisting as he went, hitting the earth with a dull thud. More screams pierced the dusk, and tears began to well in Tom’s eyes. He knew those screams, he’d heard them before but never so pained, so terrifying…; the animals had caught up with Janette, and she’d not been able to get away. Tom was conflicted, he was torn between self-preservation and a need to help his wife, he felt ill when he thought of those teeth tearing through her, pulling her apart and then, when they’d had their fill, coming straight after him like a bullet from a gun. After a time, the screams faded and stopped, and Tom knew that he had no choice now. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his legs, testing his muscles briefly to assess the damage the run had done to him.

He’d come back for her; he had to get out now, but he’d come back for her. And when he did, he’d bring the police, the army, the special fucking forces and he’d make sure they put down every single one of those mongrel animals, as slowly and painfully as possible. With that thought, he began to run again, slipping once more into the hypnotic rhythm of his footfalls…

It was dark before he reached the edge of the forest, the dusk had descended into deepest black and the beauty of the stars in the sky was a sight that Tom thought he would never see again. He could hardly breathe, his legs were in more pain than he could’ve possibly imagined and his mind still reeled from the loss of his wife; but he knew that it wasn’t over yet. He could see in the distance the ambient glow of electric lighting and he began to jog towards it. The fields around him were sodden and deceptively steep; descending into a valley that cupped what looked to be a small village, quaint and homely. Tom had to stop several times on his way down into the valley, and each time he did he turned to scan the tree line for any sign of the pursuing beasts. Every time he turned, Tom expected to see the pack of creatures flooding out of the tree-line, their slavering jaws dripping a mixture of spittle and coarse black goo on the grass, pads battering the earth as they come thundering towards him, but each time nothing came and he was allowed to resume his descent unmolested. After what seemed like an eternity of stopping and starting, he made it into the glow of the old fashioned, Victorian era streetlamps.

Tom quickly got his bearings; he remembered this village from the local ordinance survey map, it was Hornsley or Halsley, something with an H. He saw, in the centre of the village a pub, with a quaint old sign hanging over the door swinging slightly in the mild breeze that blew through the cold night air. Tom lifted his watch to check it, and found the screen cracked and broken; taking the fall on his side, he must’ve caught it on a rock and destroyed the mechanism because, as he lifted it to his ear for further inspection, he noticed he could no longer hear its tick.

The village was quiet, nothing sounded but the wind rifling the leaves in the nearby trees and the distant grumble of muted chatter coming from the pub. Tom looked around, up and down what served as a main street for the incredibly small settlement. There were no public phone boxes, not even the nostalgic tall red ones that seem to be the staple of quaint country hamlets all over England, so he decided that his best bet would be to go into the bar and get near some people, that might perhaps soothe away the feeling of unease that had crept over him since his arrival in the village.

The pub had a large door, made of a hardy, battered oak and painted a peeling green colour spotted with the odd smear of black dirt; the sign above it was too old and weathered to read clearly, but Tom could see that, around the edges it bore the same mottled green hue that covered the door. Tom hesitated; he knew it was foolish, but he’d heard too many stories and seen to many TV shows to not be unnerved by the situation. Maybe it was just shock, maybe he was still thinking like a caveman, but he couldn’t help but feel that he wouldn’t be welcome here, in this picturesque, alien environment, so far away from the city where he and Janette called home. He brushed his feelings away, remembering his wife’s last sounds as his face hardened into a grimace and he pushed at the door.

The light from the pub flooded out into the street as Tom opened the heavy door, temporarily blinding him as his eyes became accustomed to this dramatic change in illumination. He raised an arm to shield himself from the glare as he stepped into the warm building and shut the door behind him. The chatter in the bar began to peter away into silence as the locals turned to look at the stranger who had disturbed their nightly peace. Tom thought that he must’ve been a sight, covered in sweat and dirt, face lined with pain, limping slowly into the bar; but he didn’t care, and he didn’t stop moving until he was standing, face to face with the barman.

“I – I need to use your Telephone.” He said, startled by the weakness and strain in his own cracked voice, he leaned on the bar, letting it support his full weight and breathing a sigh at the temporary respite it offered his legs “I can pay you…”

“Here,” The barman, who must have been working down in the cellar before Tom came in, as his hands were covered in grimy oil, lifted an ancient rotary telephone up from underneath the bar “And don’t worry, it’s free. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Tom tried to make his call, pushing 999 into the old style, spinning mechanism but the phone wouldn’t respond; all he could hear through the ear-piece was the shrill dial tone and the harsh racks that were sent through the machine when the numbered dial was spun. The barman set down a glass of clear water on the worktop in front of Tom, who was still trying in vein to get a call through to the police.

“Not working?” Said the barkeep, tentatively

“No…No it’s just getting the dial tone…” Tom picked the glass of water up and raised it to his parched lips. He hadn’t realised just how thirsty he was until now, and he gulped down the water as if it was his first drink in weeks; it had a strange tinge to it, the kind you get when you drink the water in a foreign country.

“It…Well, it does that from time to time, I’m afraid.” The barman said, raising his greasy hands as if to say ‘Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do’

“I have to make a call,” Tom said urgently, his words beginning to slur dangerously, his breathing quickening in alarm “My wife…in the forest…” Tom’s vision was swimming, his sight blurred and his arms felt like lead. He couldn’t keep his eyes open as, with a thump, he fell to the boarded wooden floor unconscious.

* * *

“What do we do with him?” Tom was barely awake, slipping nauseatingly in and out of consciousness, but the voice, edged with a harsh Scottish accent, drifted to him clearly through the ambient noise of hooting owls, screeching insects and howling wind.

“We take him to the forest.” Said a second voice, this one much deeper and gruffer, with a wheeze that spoke of old age

“I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m not one for going into that place at night.” Said the first man

“Be that as it may, we take him there and we leave him, and we’ll say no more about it. Bill,” there were noises like the shuffling of heavy feet across loose dirt “Angus, take him to the Tree.”

Tom felt his arms and legs being lifted, and as he swung back and forth with the motions of his captors, he fell once more into blackness.

* * *

Tom awoke slowly, the sun peeking into his vision every time he dared to open his eyelids. He felt the pull of gravity on his body, and the pressure of thick ropes, binding his wrists and arms. His grogginess was replaced instantly by the pang of fear, and his eyes sprung open to reveal a canopy of earthen browns tinged by the heavy glare of the overhead sun, he saw soil, leaves and trees as far as his burning eyes could see. He couldn’t think, he was overcome by the sight of the forest he’d tried so hard to escape. He tested his restraints automatically, finding himself to be bound tightly to the trunk of a large old tree, bigger than any he’d seen whilst running through the densely packed countryside. He groaned audibly and, as if it were a signal, the forest began to move around him, the shadows of the trees falling apart, detaching, becoming a horde of cats, dogs, squirrels, mice and a variety of other, grotesquely macabre woodland animals, all with one thing in common: a ring of thick, sickening black ooze around their mouths dripping down, soaking their fur and clinging to their feathers. Tom noticed the smell of them, the smell of death, of decay, of fetid flesh and rotten skin. It was all he could do not to vomit as wave after wave of nauseating stench washed over him.

Tom expected to be jumped on, ravaged, and ripped to pieces by the deformed army of perversely befouled creatures, but rather they just stood there, watching him intently, their beady eyes brimming over with the viscous black substance, making it look as if they were crying, sad to see him in such a position.

“Hello Tom,” Said a sweet voice from the shadows of a tree bough, directly opposite the large oak to which Tom had been tied “I’m so glad you came back for me…”

“Janette! JANETTE!” Tom tore at his restraints, ripping the flesh on his wrists and ankles in his futile struggle to free himself “JANETTE!”

“Shhh baby, don’t worry,” She said, as she stepped forward out of the shadows and into the light of the clearing. Tom felt hot tears burning down his cheeks, as vomit rose from the pit of his stomach. His Janette was gone, her flesh stripped away, organs hanging from vicious open wounds, coated in that evil, cancerous black filth that ebbed from her body like lifeblood “Don’t worry, honey. It’ll all be over soon.” She cooed, advancing towards him her arms outstretched.

“No,” Tom cried, sobs wracking his chest “Please god no, not you Janette, please no.”

“Shhh Tom, shhh” She reached out her hand to him, stroking the side of his face with her greasy, blackened palm. Tom felt the grime move over his face, sliming its way to his mouth and nose, seeping in through every pore and infecting him with a disease that nothing but death could cure; he was part of it now, part of the creature, part of the forest, part of the earth…part of everything… “It’s all over now, Love…”