Susan Shultz's Blog, page 10

Fifteen

 

We took the bus home, sat in regular spots

Walked home cutting through the local graveyard

We’d wave our way through the family plots

Picking up the pace as the sky grew dark

We never noticed the names on the stones, or the ages

Of those who were under our feet.

Not a thought that the pathway we took was through bones

Our chatter was light — our laughter sweet.

By the park in the trees

A waterfall splashed and we’d stop to watch

As if it were new.

We’d lean over as far as we possibly could

To hold spitting contests

To spoil the view.

 

A cold day in March, as winter held on

The shock was like lightning as a false hope of dawn.

You were gone.

 

My childhood,

innocence,

irreparably torn.

 

And then I would notice

The names on the stones.

And the ages of those resting under my feet.

Every day, I would lie six feet over your bones

And imagine I could still hear your heart beat.

 

And every March brings,

Though it’s been many years —

 

Your laughter

Your memory

 

My waterfall tears.

Dreams

“I’ve got one,” the old woman says.

She rocks in the corner, cramping my style, her knitting casting battling sabers of shadows in the firelight.

My friends mutter and chuckle to themselves.

I wish my mother had told me she was going out. I had planned this sleepover for weeks, only to have my weird old grandmother invade our space. When my mother is home, at least she keeps her occupied.

At 14, I was barely able to stay above the surface of cool. I figured a Halloween-themed sleepover was something that could make or break me.

So far, things had gone well. Scarlet, the queen of my freshman class, seemed amenable. Thus endorsing it for the rest of the girls. We’d planned to watch a horror movie, and I was going to show off my inherited Jiffy Pop skills from my mom — one of her quirky obsessions.

The one thing I had going for me for Halloween was my mom was a Halloween fanatic. Our Halloween crap was unmatched. It drew suitable sighs of admiration from my friends. We had a vast selection of vintage horror movies at our fingertips.

But first, we decided to share true horror stories around the table over our pizza, to get in the mood. Each of us got a turn with the flashlight. Poetic license was encouraged.

That’s when my grandmother steps in.

“I’ve got a story,” she says, her gnarled, aged fingers resting upon her knitting her lap. Her rocking chair drew to a dramatic pause.

I try to subtly eye-roll to my friends, and realize my mom’s absence at the moment could actually benefit. Grandma usually hit the sack early. Let’s entertain her for the moment and my mom’s liquor cabinet would be unsupervised shortly. I’d be the most popular freshman my school had ever seen.

“Ok, Grandma,” I say, “let’s hear it.”

She reaches out her wrinkly hand.

“Well, Elizabeth?” she says.

Ugh, don’t call me that, I think.

“It’s LIZZIE, Grandma,” I say, getting up in my cat costume, little more than a bodysuit and ears, and handing her the flashlight.

Her eyes are curiously flat in the firelight as she hunches to take it from me — her smile was cold. Her long white braids, ever present, are luminous in the spotlight. The view makes her shadowy eyes more cavernous, her empty mouth more drawn.

I feel a chill down my spine.

Grandma begins.

“It started with my dreams,” she says, resuming her rhythmic rocking.

“I’d always been interested in the after-life, in spirits, in darkness,” she says.

“One night, I had the most vivid dream — that I was possessed by something other than myself,” she whispers, looking out the window.

The room has grown silent — while our previous stories were to be our own experiences, most of them had been humorous retellings of urban legends.

This was different.

The only sound is the creak of the rocking chair, and Grandma’s ancient voice.

“I could feel my face changing, my body changing, lifting off the bed,” she says.

“And thought I knew it was a dream — I was paralyzed with fear,” Grandma says.

“I reached out for help in my dream, but there was no one there. I felt emotions I knew didn’t belong to me. Power that transcended me,” she says.

I feel Scarlet’s hand reach out for mine under the table.

“What dreams have you all? Probably of some young boy, or some empty-headed music group?” Grandma says, pointing at us with her knitting needle.

None of us answer.

A log cracks in the fireplace causing all of us to jump.

Grandma cackles.

“I could feel the presence within me, strangling my insides, until I was unable to breathe,” she says.

“I could hear words in my head in a language I didn’t recognize but strangely understood,” she says.

“And then I realized, all I had to do was …..give in,” she whispers.

Scarlet’s hand tightens on mine, her witch hat less whimsy.

“Still, at the moment I was to surrender, in the darkness, I panicked,” Grandma whispers.

“The evil was too strong,” she says.

“Luckily, at that moment, I felt something jar me awake — small hands on my pale cheeks, looking for me,” she says.

The thought of my mother as a small child immediately brings me some relief and normalcy.

I smile.

“’Wake up,’ a small voice whispered,” she say.

“’I need you,’ it said,” she say.

Grandma continues rocking in the silence.

The tense breathing gets to me. I had to break the silence.

“So Mama saved the day?” I says, getting up to put another log on the fire.

Nervous, relieved laughter ripples among my friends.

“Oh…no,” Grandma says, reaching out to turn my chin toward hers.

“This dream was before I had children. I lived alone,” she whispers, smiling.

The chills returns three-fold and the pregnant silence and the weighted stare was again broken.

The keys turns in the front door and my mother ushers her way in with her boyfriend behind her.

“Lizzie,” she says, reaching out to me.

I am just as happy to see her, and run to her, not caring about my coolness factor. My friends also seem to welcome the disruption.

She hugs me tightly.

“Oh, Lizzie,” she says, her faint smell of perfume a familiar comfort. I realize she was sobbing.

I pull back.

“Mama, what is it?” I say.

She ruffles her fingers through my hair, looking in my eyes.

“Didn’t you get my message, Lizzie?” she whispers.

“You grandmother died this afternoon,” she says.

“What….?” I say.

“But?” I catch myself, looking back at the rocking chair, now empty.

My friends and I share glances and without speaking, come to a mutual agreement.

“She fell asleep — and never woke up,” my mother says.

It began with a dream.

“I’m so sorry, Mama,” I say, hugging her.

“I guess if she had to go, it’s better she went in peace,” she says.

In peace.

My friends quietly offer their condolences and make phone calls, ending my sleepover before it begins.

After, in the quiet — I stared into the fire.

What do you dream, Lizzie?

Something tells me, tonight, I am going to find out.

#journalism

I have done it.

I have worked meetings that lasted until 1 a.m.

I have worked five meetings a week.

I have not eaten for several hours.

I have talked on the phone with people that have yelled at me, wasted my time or not produced a story.

I have gotten a story assignment that I thought was stupid or a waste of time.

I have done that story on time, and did my best.

I have written a 20 inch story in 20 minutes.

I have made every deadline and then some.

I have taken the bullets for my editor.

I have gotten my colleagues’ back.

I have been loyal to my paper.

I have defended the integrity of journalism.

I have been broke on account of that defense.

I have not taken the easy way out.

I have not betrayed my sources.

I have worked hard.

I have cried.

I have triumphed.

I have earned trust.

I have been disrespected.

I have been respected.

I have been angry.

I have been blissful.

I have been proud.

I have done good work.

I have sacrificed for my job.

I have taught.

I have not sold out.

I have not written for web hits or the popular audience.

I have not given up my integrity.

I have tried to be a good editor.

Because I have done it.

Even if you think I have not.

So you do it.

Because I’m the editor.

That’s why.

The Race

Bang.

The starting gun

Wakes me from my sleep

Slowly I begin to run,

Breathing slow and deep.

Sleeping, I was safe and warm,

But a runner breathes alone.

I try to look beyond the storm

And catch a glimpse of home.

Turn my head, see a face,

Eyes straight, head held high —

Struggles, tries to keep the pace.

She’s not as strong as I.

I pause a moment, slow my gait —

She says, “Go on, I’m all right.

If only I can look straight ahead,

I’ll make it through the night.”

Hours ago, I made my start.

Night stretches silky black.

Light footsteps thunder behind my heart.

I keep on looking back.

Now we reach a steep dark hill.

I know that if she makes the top,

She’ll make it all the way — she will!

Then the footsteps behind my stop.

Turning, I see a crumpled heap,

She, who held her head high.

She whispers, “The hill is too damn steep.”

I answer, “You must try.”

Pour some water on her face,

Help her stand, her body arching.

Slowly, we resume the race,

Side by side, the rules forsaken.

Strong wind comes, she falls with a cry,

and says, “Just leave me here.”

Lift her up, point to the sky,

“See the sun? We’re almost there.”

Smile down, the storm is calm,

Her body still as the ocean deep,

Speak softly, lightly touch her arm,

Try to wake her from her sleep.

Her eyes don’t flutter.

No wind blows.

So the silence tells what I already know.

The sun burns my face

And I long to erase

All the times and moments before.

In exchange for a minute —

Oh, what I’d say in it!

For an hour or two hours more.

But the moment is gone —

And I am alone.

Still miles to go until I reach home.

I’ll continue to run,

Caring not who has won.

Only remembering the sound of the gun.

Bang.

Love’s labor

This love’s labor is not lost

Despite the use of acid tongue

Every reasoned thought is tossed

Any tears, from my heart wrung

Shakespeare’s caught the lovers, torn

In his words, they’re always burning

We are poets, newly born

On this altar, writhing, turning

Labor, love, when love is labor

Slay my dragons; tower, scale,

Self imprisoned in my dungeon

Forgive me when darkness prevails

A poet wrote your name

Across my heart

And there it’s kept

When eye to eye

You’ll see your soul

I’ve not committed theft

I hold your hand

I wrote our love

Even the playwright wept

Wheels

“What the hell?” Mona said to herself.

She’d just gotten Nathan to a restless sleep. The two-year-old was having a tough time getting adjusted to his new room after the move, and lack of sleep and the stress of the move had made her irritable.

The loud creaking and squeaking coming from the hallway was sure to wake him up.

Mona stomped out of the room as quietly as possible to snap at her husband, Frank, for once again being clueless of the sleeping baby and grouchy wife he lived with.

“Frank!” she hissed. But Frank wasn’t there.

That’s weird, she thought.

Boxes of their unpacked shit lined the hallway and Mona suddenly thought she’d never felt more exhausted in her life. Anything in those boxes could have settled and made a strange sound. Despite their labeling, toward the end, Mona had just started throwing stuff into random boxes just to finish.

She leaned her head against the door jam and looked at Nathan, her boy, sleeping. He’d finally stopped tossing and turning and looked to be settled into a fine dream.

“Sleep well, angel,” she whispered.

Mona dreaded going downstairs and joining her husband. The downsizing of their home had been a result of him losing his job. In the current economy, it wasn’t entirely his fault, but she also knew Frank. She knew his tendency to be lazy.

Just look at the unpacked boxes all over the house while he sat on the computer playing his latest video game as evidence of that, she thought.

Mona had had Nathan later in life. It made her a little more exhausted by the trials and tribulations of an infant and toddler. Combined with Frank’s job stresses, she’d found herself growing more sullen and resentful of him.

She tried to make it work though — for Nathan. She owed her miracle baby that much.

Mona walked around their cluttered, shared bedroom and piled random items of dirty clothing into a laundry basket.

“What else could I possibly want to do with my free evening time besides laundry,” she mumbled to herself as she walked down the stairs.

Again, that strange squeaking and creaking came from somewhere within the house.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and listened.

“Honey, is that you?” Frank said loudly.

“Shhhh,” she hissed.

“The baby is finally sleeping,” she said to him as he sat in front of his laptop.

“Sorry!” he said quickly, but never looked away from the screen.

“What was that noise, babe?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But maybe if you shut your laptop for five minutes you might be able to go and look for it. I hope it isn’t a leaking pipe or something,” she said.

Frank internally rolled his eyes. Maybe if she wasn’t such a bitch all the time, he thought, I might be more likely to close my laptop for five minutes.

But he only thought it. He had no interest in elevating their minor tension to an all out blowout, despite her obvious desire to do so. He knew the last few months had been hard on her. Frank figured he’d just ride it out — and if it meant entertaining himself with games, and some other distractions, online in the meantime, well, that wasn’t hurting anyone, right?

“Don’t worry. This house had a full inspection before we closed. Not a leaky pipe to be found,” he said. “But I’ll take a look.”

“Well it is a million years old. Maybe it is just the dinosaur bones settling,” Mona said.

Frank laughed.

“It was built in 1910, darlin. I think that was a bit late for dinosaurs. Besides, I like old houses. They have charm,” he said.

“Yes, Frank, I know you do. I find them pretty creepy,” Mona said.

“For instance, that basement. You need to go down there first with a flashlight,” she said.

Mona had not gone down into the house’s stone walled basement alone yet. It was a small house. The basement had drips and cobwebs. The stairs were more like a ladder from hell. Forget about trying to balance a laundry basket.

Frank closed the laptop. He didn’t mind doing it for her. She’d seemed to need for so little these days.

He grabbed the laundry basket from her and switched on the basement light. He had to admit, the basement also made him feel uneasy. It just felt dark and somber.

He turned around and went down the stairs face first, like a ladder, until he got to the bottom and dropped the laundry basket for her. He looked around. It was still.

“All clear,” he said. And Mona followed him down. She rubbed her forearms quickly when she got to the bottom, arms crossed.

“This basement gives me the creeps. Can’t we move the washer/dryer upstairs?” she asked.

“Where, babe? There’s no room,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, irritably.

The phone rang somewhere upstairs, and Frank headed up the stairs as Mona started separating and loading laundry.

“You’re leaving me alone down here?” she said.

“Just to get the phone. I’ll be right back,” he said.

Mona glanced nervously around the dark, chilly basement — such a far cry from her finished cozy basement they had before. Cobwebs seemed to be everywhere. A spider the size of her thumb scampered away from the light under the dryer.

Mona gasped and leaped backwards. She hated spiders.

She poured some detergent in and set the wash for delay till the morning. There was no way she’d be venturing down there again that evening.

As she put her foot on the bottom step, again, she heard that creaking sound. It sounded like it was coming from the living room above her, but she could hear Frank talking in there. Wouldn’t he have noticed?

She paused again, listening. A violent chill went through her just as she clearly heard the words, “Oh….no.”

Her heart stopped. Where had that come from? Frank continued to talk on the phone upstairs. She put her hand over her heart that was pounding. Mona echoed the voice in her head. It sounded…female? But an older, deeper female voice. Almost like that of her own grandmother in later years.

And the sadness in it — the …fear? Yes. The fear.

Shivering, Mona carefully walked up the remaining steps and shut off the basement light, bolting it behind her. She always triple checked the bolt. Nathan falling down those stairs would mean more than a broken limb, she though imagining the small child hitting the rocks below.

It would mean much, much worse.

Frank hung up the phone.

“Honey, are you ok?” he said. “You look so pale.”

“I am never going down into that basement alone again,” she said, seriously.

“Ok, ok,” Frank said.

“Frank, did you hear that squeaking, creaky noise while you were on the phone?” she asked.

Frank looked puzzled.

“No, I didn’t hear anything?” he said.

“I’ve heard it twice now,” she said.

But Frank was already dialed back into his laptop by then.

Mona walked away in frustration and fell asleep long before Frank shut his system down and went to bed. He could feel her coldness even in her sleep.

++++++

The next few days Mona was so busy unpacking and taking care of Nathan she couldn’t think about disembodied voices or creaking sounds.

One tired coffee break she looked out the kitchen window as Nathan slept.

Suddenly, Mona heard a noise from the monitor. It was the sound of a child crying. She ran to the monitor that had both sound and audio.

The audio’s green light flickered with the child’s distress.

As Nathan slept soundly in the monitor window.

Mona’s logical mind couldn’t register for a moment. Then she realized whatever it was was in the room with her son. She ran up the stairs two at a time to Nathan’s room — but by the time she got there, all was silent.

She let Nathan sleep and sat in the rocking chair slowly coming to grips with the knowledge that either she was losing her mind, or her house was haunted.

She wasn’t sure which was a more appealing choice.

+++++

“Frank, I think this house is haunted,” Mona said, as she finished washing the dishes after dinner.

Frank was playing with Nathan on the floor.

“Mona, come on. This house is old. It makes noises. Don’t be silly. You know I don’t believe in that crap,” he said.

“Neither do I, Frank. Or neither did I. Until now,” she said.

“The squeaking noises, the voice in the basement. And ….” Mona paused before telling him about the baby monitor.

His face was skeptical.

She threw the dishrag in the sink.

“Just forget it,” she said.

Frank stood up and went to her.

“Mona, you’ve been under a lot of….stress. You need a break. This move, taking care of Nathan. Our financial stress,” he said.

She looked up at him and realized he was trying to be comforting, and she was too tired to be angry. He hugged her and realized it was the first time she’d let him do that in a while.

“Why don’t you go out for the afternoon tomorrow. Get Janie to come over or something,” Frank said.

Janie was Frank’s niece who lived one town over. A bit of an air-head as many 17-year-old girls can be, but still, she could handle Nathan for two hours.

“Ok Frank. Maybe you’re right,” she said.

Later that night, Mona did some poking around on the Internet. She decided what she’d do with her two hours.

Janie showed up ten minutes late, or “on time” for Janie, and Mona, dressed in her red coat, with her auburn hair in a twist, headed out into the fall afternoon. She stopped to get a manicure and pedicure first, but then headed to her next stop — the toy store.

“Excuse me, where is your game aisle?” she asked a disinterested young man behind the customer service counter.

“Aisle 13,” he said, not looking up from his texting.

Mona hurried along and poked through the games until she found what she wanted. She tucked it under her arm and on the way to the register, she stopped and grabbed a light up game for Nathan.

“That will be $25.59,” her cashier said. Mona hurriedly paid and rushed to get home, excited to try out her new toy.

+++++++

“Ohhhhhh, is that a Ouija board?” Janie asked animatedly.

“Yes, it is!” Mona said.

“Do you know how to work them?” she asked the teen.

“Definitely! It was major sleepover activity for years!” Janie said.

Mona opened Nathan’s game and set the toddler up in his toy area. He laughed delightedly at the sounds and lights.

“Can you show me?” Mona said.

“Of course! But I’m curious …why did you buy it?” Janie asked, running her fingers through her long blonde hair.

“Honestly, your uncle thinks I’m crazy, but I think this house is haunted,” Mona said.

“Cooool!” Janie said.

“Ok, so lets sit on the floor. Cross your legs,” Janie said, mimicking the pose. They were knee to knee.

“Now we put the board on our knees. And we put this plastic thing between us. See there’s a ‘Yes’ and a ‘No’? and then the thing moves and can spell things out with the letters on the board,” Janie said

Mona was skeptical.

“What do you mean, it moves?” she said.

“Watch, you’ll see,” Janie said.

“Now just rest your fingers gently on your side. And I’ll rest mine on my side,” she said.

Other than Nathan’s happy sounds playing with his new game, the house was quiet.

“Ok, now close your eyes, clear your mind,” Janie said.

Feeling rather silly at this point, Mona followed instructions.

“Is there anyone here, with us?” Janie said.

Nothing. Silence.

“We welcome you to speak with us. Do you want to speak with Mona?” Janie said.

“ME? Why me?” Mona said.

“Aunt Mona, if there is a presence here it is reaching out to you. So we want to offer the spirit the chance to talk to you,” Janie said.

“Ok,” Mona said, but it made her nervous despite her skepticism.

Nothing was happening.

“Janie, maybe this was a stupid…,” she started.

“Aunt Mona,” Janie whispered.

“Listen,” she said. Her eyes were wide.

“What is it, Janie?” Mona whispered back.

“I hear a noise upstairs,” Janie said.

Silence again. Then, the squeaking noise again.

“That’s the noise I keep hearing,” Mona whispered.

“Ok, well we woke something up then. Let’s try again,” Janie said.

“Do you want to speak with Mona?” Janie asked.

Slowly, the plastic indicator started to tremble under their fingers. It started to make slow circles.

“Janie, are you doing that? Really?” Mona whispered.

The pretty girl shook her head.

They both watched the board.

The indicator continued to move in circles, wider and faster.

“Are you here?” Janie whispered.

Now moving firmly, strongly, the indicator pointed to the ‘Yes.’

Mona felt a chill.

“Did you live here?” Janie asked.

YES

“What is your name?” Janie asked.

C

O

R

A

“Do you want to talk to Mona, Cora?”

YES

“What did you want to say to Mona?”

Now, the indicator moved from the ‘Yes and started to spin.

It spun once and landed on the H.

Then the I.

Then the M.

“Him?” Janie asked.

YES

“Frank?” Mona whispered.

NO

“Then who?” Janie whispered.

H

I

M

“What about him?” Janie whispered.

F

E

A

R

Again, Mona felt the shiver run through her.

“What are you afraid of?” Janie asked.

W

H

E

E

L

S

“Wheels? What wheels?” Janie asked.

WHEELS

WHEELS

Over and over, the board spelled it.

“Wait, wait. Where is he? Is he here now?” Janie asked.

“No, Janie…” Mona whispered.

YES

They both looked up, fearfully looking around.

“Don’t ask anything else,” Mona said, trembling.

“Cora, where is he?” Janie whispered.

Again, the indicator did circle after circle, until it came to rest, teetering on the edge of the board.

Pointing toward the stairs to the second floor.

“Ok, I’ve had enough for today Janie,” Mona said

She moved to get up.

“Wait, you have to close the session,” Janie whispered.

“Cora, we have to go now,” Janie said.

NO

“Yes, we will come back to talk with you soon,” Janie said comfortingly.

NO

WHEELS

“Goodbye, Cora,” Janie said, and forced the board to run across the GOODBYE at the bottom.

With shaking hands, Mona put the board and indicator away.

“Thanks Janie. That might be my first and last Ouija board experience,” Mona said, laughing shakily.

“Aren’t you curious, though?” Janie said.

“I wonder about the history of this house,” Janie said, eyeing around herself cautiously.

“I don’t. Remember, I have to be the one to sleep here,” Mona said.

+++++

The next week, Mona was shopping with Nathan at the local grocery store. As she was checking out, Mona chatted up the old lady who worked the register as she flipped through the local newspaper.

“What’s your name, little one?” the older lady said.

“This is Nathan. My name is Mona,” she said, enjoying the small town friendliness.

“Hello Mona, I’m Joan. New in town?” she asked.

“Is it that obvious?” Mona said, laughing.

“No, no, I just know everyone in town and your face isn’t familiar,” she said, carefully packing up Mona’s eggs.

“Whereabouts do y’all live,” Joan said.

“We bought the house up on the hill, behind the saw mill? Brownstone Way?” Mona said.

“The one with the old graveyard in the back?” Joan said.

“Is there?” Mona said, again feeling that chill.

“I haven’t seen it,” she said. “And no one told us about it.”

“Ah, well, no one oughta, I guess. Most of the stones are gone or broken. No one probably even knows it’s there, anymore, I guess,” Joan said.

“When we were young, we’d play in those woods back there and scare each other, saying the house was haunted,” Joan said.

“Haunted?” Mona said, trying to sound neutral.

“Why is that?” she said.

“Well, of course you know the story,” Joan said, whispering like conspirator.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Mona said.

She handed Nathan his juice cup.

“Well you know those STAIRS, the stairs to the basement,” Joan said.

“Yes, I know them quite well,” Mona said.

“There was a tragedy many many years ago on those stairs,” Joan said.

Mona felt her face go pale.

“What kind of tragedy?” she said.

“A little boy, was it? No wait — Ellen?” Joan called out.

Another little old lady popped up from the office area.

“Yah?” she said, knitting in hand.

“The old Brownstone house, was it a little boy or little girl…,” Joan asked.

“On the stairs?” Ellen answered, her accent thick as New England clam chowder.

“It was a little girl. Cora, was her name, if I recall,” Ellen said.

“Right, right,” Ellen said.

“That’s right, little Cora Brown fell down those stairs and that was the end of her,” Ellen said, making the sign of the cross.

“God rest her soul,” she said.

Mona was afraid to move.

“Well her mother found her and died of a broken heart not long-after,” the old lady said.

Oh…..noooooo….echoed through Mona’s head.

“And there was always talk about the father, old Duncan — right up until he died and was buried next to his wife and Cora in that old boneyard behind your house,” Ellen added.

“Not that I like to gossip, of course. Honey, are you all right?” Ellen said.

“You look awful pale,” she said.

“I’m fine,” Mona whispered.

“What kind of talk?” she asked.

“Well, that he was involved. Talk was that Cora always ended up with cuts and bruises more than the other girls her age…and maybe some other injuries you couldn’t see,” Joan whispered.

“Tales were that old Duncan Brown had quite the temper, so when Cora fell, some suspected it might not have been a fall at all,” Ellen said.

Joan nodded in agreement.

“Although I’m not sure how he would have managed it given his condition,” Ellen said.

“His….his condition? What condition?” Mona said.

“Oh, Duncan…he was a cripple, honey,” Joan said.

Mona knew what was coming before the old ladies said it.

“He could only get around in a wheelchair — and quite the old one too. Legend has it the thing creaked somethin’ awful…honey, hey honey!,” Ellen said, startled.

“Jim! Hey, help us here! This lady’s gone and fainted!”

The End.

Angry

By the time I was 25, here’s what happened:

— There was rarely a time someone wasn’t sitting outside my house in their car in Staten Island when I got home. Not one person. More than one.

— Someone cut my name into their arms with a knife to say I love you. Hallmark is overrated.

— Someone threatened to kill my parents. In writing.

— Someone wrote me a note/curse in blood. And left it on my car.

— Someone called my private phone line so many times with obscene threats I finally had to go to the police.

What did I hear? Poor guy. Yeah, jeez I hope Susan doesn’t come to whatever because it upsets whoever. Granted there were many friends that supported me and I appreciate them to this day, but there’s  a certain element of “MY FAULT” that i still carry now.

But you know what? Today,  I contemplate life situations in my profession and it isn’t my fault. I come from a family of strong women. I am torn by conflicting emotions of sometimes feeling broken vs. being tough. Even today when I get treated that way  I worry it is my fault.

Why?

Bottom line is I do the best I can. But I stand strong behind the women in my family and the amazing strong women I am lucky to call friends.

Don’t put up with shit. At all. Ever.

Ever.

Mad

Cole was already having a great day when he got the news that Madeline was about to kill herself.

“Finally,” he thought.

He pulled out of the train station parking lot in his new wheels – a bright blue BMW convertible. The text message had come through as he was putting the key into the ignition on a beautiful Friday in June.

The two beers he had in Metro North’s bar car made him feel perfectly light-headed for the summer evening. The New England sky was still bright blue.

But Madeline was on her way into the dark.

“I can’t take you ignoring me anymore, Cole. I can’t take it. I have nothing left to live for, so there is no reason to continue to. But you’ll pay for this. Goodbye – Mad.”

Mad. What once was affectionate had become the perfect nickname for her.

As he turned onto the New England thruway, just around the corner from the Greenwich train station, he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over, and she was finally out of his life.

Cole turned up his car’s awesome stereo system that was currently blasting The Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.”

Cole had met Madeline about 15 years earlier – and 15 years younger, when her neuroses were more tolerable in light of her physical attributes.

Cole had been 35, married at the time, with one young daughter. Madeline was 23 and worked at Cole’s law office as a paralegal. She had a steady boyfriend.

Mad was beautiful, no question. Shoulder-length auburn hair, light brown eyes. Not too fat, not too skinny. And she was a good audience. Sometimes in the lunch area of the office, he’d catch her staring at him. She’d blush. And he’d laugh on the way back to his office.

Cole wasn’t at all new to female attention. Although he’d married his wife, Fran, in college, he wasn’t exactly what one called monogamous.

He was tall and thin, with grey eyes, and a muscular build from any sport he could get into his schedule, but mainly racquetball.

Women seemed to take to Cole. And he did some taking back. Not too much, but when opportunities would present themselves. A model/waitress on a business trip to L.A. A younger female lawyer who left the firm shortly after the one-nighter in an emotional tornado. That was a bad one.

Lucky for him, the prospect of getting together with Cole again kept her quiet. She still called once in a while, and it had been decades.

He had told her it was not going to mean anything, but she didn’t believe him. After that, he said no more mixing sex and work.

Until he saw Madeline.

After the work flirtations, the two found themselves alone at a work cocktail hour downtown. People had filtered out, and they were off in the corner, alone.

Cole convinced Madeline to go back up to the office saying he forgot something he needed. At the bar, he had convinced Madeline she had what it took to become an attorney someday. And truth be told, she did. She was smart and thorough.

Madeline was not hard to seduce once she was upstairs in the dark office, alone with Cole. And afterward, he told her they could never be more than friends.

After all, he said, he loved his wife and daughter.

However, there was something special about Madeline. Unlike previous women Cole had cheated on Fran with, Mad never asked for anything. She was very giving, in fact.

She made sure to look out for Cole’s special projects. She made sure that he had some food when he was working many hours.

Madeline started putting those hours into her job as well, and Cole, one late evening, finally asked her how her boyfriend tolerated never seeing her.

“We broke up,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said you were going to marry him?” Cole asked.

“Well, I fell in love with someone else,” she said, coyly.

Cole should have been annoyed, or freaked out. Instead, he kind of felt good about it.

So things progressed with Mad. He set her up in an apartment in Manhattan not far from the office. He often legitimately did have to work many late nights, so Fran was none the wiser or just didn’t care. His daughter was getting older and wanted less to do with him.

Years went by, and while Madeline was still interesting to him, and almost everyone knew and accepted their side relationship, Cole started to get bored.

He began eyeing that latest young thing to join the firm. And he couldn’t have Madeline there for that. She knew him well, and was extremely jealous.

Cole arranged for Madeline to get fired over a misunderstanding, despite her years of service at the law firm.

He dutifully held her in his arms, sobbing, that night at the apartment. He told her she’d have more time to take care of him now, and he’d in turn take care of her.

“You don’t need a job, Mad, you were too good for that paralegal job anyway. This will give you time to figure out what you want to do,” he said.

And she looked into his eyes and was comforted.

At work, Cole was free now to flirt as he chose. Madeline spent most of her time at home. She began to put on some weight and often told Cole she was depressed having lost her job and not being with him all day, every day. She missed him.

It didn’t help that Cole was starting to see someone else from work, a little number named Diane. She was a little trashy and more than a little dumb, but sometimes having to actually talk things out with Mad got on his nerves.

It was nice to have someone who was not interested in talk.

So he started spending a little less time with Madeline. She cried, and he told her she needed to do something with herself. He wanted to recommend a gym, but that really wouldn’t have gone over well.

This past year, with his daughter safely tucked away at college, and both Cole and Fran approaching fifty, he was unexpectedly, and pleasantly, surprised by Fran leaving him.

In all her spare time without Cole, she had met someone, someone richer than him, and fallen in love. She wanted to get married, so she dumped Cole without looking back.

Cole was free and best of all, financially clear.

Madeline, who had taken Cole’s advice and joined a class on horror and occult literature, was overjoyed.

All the years she’d put in waiting for Cole, and sacrificing herself and her future, not getting married. The hopes of a baby put on hold, and as she was now in her late thirties, the hopes were getting slimmer.

Mad’s long wait had taken its toll. She had gained weight. She didn’t go out of her way to take care of herself, with no job to get up for. She rarely knew when Cole would be by, and he was now giving her the same excuses for not showing up as she recalled him giving Fran.

The divorce couldn’t come at a better time. She felt like she was losing Cole. This would give them a new start.

Her occult classes had kept her interested. Her classmates were interesting people, with many spiritual experiences, and she learned about vampires and witches and voodoo.

She decided to dye her hair a dark black, feeling it suited her, and dressing a little more eclectically.

Six months before Cole got Mad’s text, he had broken the news.

He arrived at the apartment unannounced, about a month after the divorce was final.

Mad’s new look was getting weirder by the day. Now she had her nose pierced.

Cole inwardly grimaced. He had just gotten used to the new tattoo on her back.

“Listen,, Mad, we need to talk,” he said.

Madeline inwardly jumped for joy. This would be it. The proposal she had been waiting for.

“It isn’t going to work out for us,” he said.

The floor under Madeline started to shake.

Cole tried his hardest to look emotional.

“Listen, sweetheart, it’s been great. But you’re going in a different (and he gestured to her new look) direction, and I, well, I’m free for the first time in my adult life. I need to explore who I am,” he said.

The floor really started to shake now.

Madeline had gone white.

“And frankly, babe, I’ve been selfish to you, keeping you here all these years. You need to get out and find your own way,” he said.

Mad felt the floor starting to fall…

With what he hoped were convincing tears in his eyes, Cole told Madeline a clean break would be best.

She got whiter, and Cole started to get a little freaked out.

“So listen, babe, I’m going to go. I know you’ve got a lot to think about. Thanks for everything sweetie. You know I’ll always love you,” he said.

The ground dislodged completely.

“Oh,” he said, as he was walking out the door, “I’m going to need this apartment now, so can you be out by the end of the month? Thanks babe.”

And the ground dropped out of sight as Madeline collapsed behind the closing door.

Cole stopped for a minute, listened to the racking sobs, and left, shuddering.

What a mess, he thought.

She moved her stuff out to a friend from her class temporarily. It was easy, as all her belongings fit in a duffle bag. Everything else was Coles.

Madeline’s texts were no longer returned, though she could see he opened them. She stood outside the apartment to see Cole come and go with a different 20something every week.

Cole would see her texts, and see her. But frankly, it was over. He didn’t want to deal with it. No one told her to sacrifice her life for him. She chose to do it. And now he was choosing to end it. People make choices.

However, the constant texts were agitating, and he was trying to find a way to change his cell number with the least inconvenience.

That was, until, the text tonight that freed him from further dealings with his rejected former mistress.

She was killing herself. And that was music to his ears.

Cole drove along the thruway, wondering how she was going to do it. Probably pills. Or now that she had that Goth thing going on, maybe something bloody, like razor blades.

Anyway, he hoped she would do it effectively. And what was this stuff about punishing him?

Did the poor creature think he’d be so broken up by her untimely death?

Oh well. If it made her feel better on the way out, fine with him.

He pulled into driveway of his luxury home on the water in Westport as dusk was settling in the sky.

Man, his new car was a sweet ride.

Cole fixed himself a drink in his spotless kitchen and brought it out onto his back deck to watch the summer sun fade away.

What a life, my boy, he thought to himself.

A crash snapped him out of his reverie.

He put his drink down to investigate.

A clean hole in his front window had been made, with glass all over the place.

“Shit!” Cole said.

After sweeping up the glass and taping newspaper over the hole, he made a mental note to call to get it fixed in the morning.

“Must have been a bird,” he thought. Then thinking again about the hole, thought, “Must’ve been a BIG bird.”

Cole went back out to his drink and relaxed in the Adirondack chair, letting the anxiety of the breaking window roll away.

The dawn was giving into night and some birdcalls were rolling across the Saugatuck River. They sounded a littler eerier than usual.

Bats started to circle over his backyard. He never liked bats. They were just rats with wings.

He decided after slapping away a mosquito on his arm that he had had enough wildlife for the evening.

Cole picked up his empty glass and went back into his lush bachelor pad. It was more old fashioned than the modern home he had shared with Fran, a home that reflected his own classic taste.

The home dated back to the 1800’s and came with all the creaks and groans one would expect.

Though, normally the groans and creaks were not quite as loud as they were tonight. The wind had picked up, which usually made them worse.

Cole cranked up the Yankee game on his plasma television and settled into his leather couch with a Heineken. He couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt stressed out after his relaxing drive home.

The stupid creaks and groans were grating his nerves.

At one point, he heard a loud thump upstairs and his breath caught in his throat. He paused the Yankee game and walked toward the stairs, looking up into the darkness cautiously.

Cole flicked on the hall light and slowly walked up the stairs.

“It’s gotta be an animal that got in…” he told himself.

When he got to the stairs, he checked each room, including his bedroom. There was no activity anywhere, and he thought it must have been a branch against the outside of the house in the wind.

Until he saw the dirt.

There, by his bedroom window, which would have made a thump as it opened and shut, was some dirt on the carpet. The window was on the second floor, at least 15 feet off the ground.

So how could the dirt on the hardwood floor look like a footprint?

Cole let the concept sink in, and then his rational mind took over. It has to be a burglar. He looked out the window.

No ladder.

Cole’s heart started to beat a little faster, and he hated the fear he was feeling.

In the silence, with his blood pumping through his ears, the sound of the Yankees echoed from downstairs.

Didn’t he pause that game?

He was starting to feel confused.

Slowly, Cole began to walk down his stairs, heading to the lighted media room where the Yankees had picked up where they had left off in the third inning.

Shadows moved in the hall, movement across the television light. Movement in that room that was empty when he left it.

“Who’s there?” Cole said.

“Hello?” he asked again, trying to sound threatening, when in fact he was scared shitless.

A giggle came from the room. A feminine giggle.

He turned the corner, and there was Madeline.

Madeline looked different.

Her body looked incredible, better than it had fifteen years ago. She was wearing a tight turtleneck black dress, one of his favorites. She wore high-heeled boots, and her hair, which had become straggly in its various incarnations of black dye, was a shiny mahogany up to her chin.

“Mad….I thought ….?” Cole said.

Her eyes were ..different? Darker brown.

She laughed.

“You thought I was dead, baby?” she asked, lounging in his spot on the couch, holding his Heineken suggestively between her shapely knees.

“Uh…yeah…,” Cole stuttered, “Thank goodness you’re all right!”

Mad laughed, loud and humorlessly.

“Oh, SPARE me, Cole, you insensitive prick,” Madeline said.

“No, honestly, babe, I was just going to call you to see if you were all right…!” Cole stammered as Madeline rose from the couch, and began to move toward Cole with the predatory steps of a cat.

“Well, Cole, I’m all right. I’m more than all right. I’m DEAD, in fact,” Madeline hissed at him.

She still looked sexy, and was turning him on despite that it was obvious she had gone off the deep end.

“Baby, how can you be dead..you look so….so….,” he stopped as she coiled herself around him.

His arms crept around her.

“I look so alive?,” she whispered in his ear.

“Yyyyyes,” Cole responded as her tongue slipped into his ear.

Madeline pulled back from Cole’s ear, and his eyes were closed when she spoke next.

“Well, Cole, I am most certainly dead, I assure you. I killed myself, but not in the way you thought…” she said, and her words had gotten muffled.

Cole opened his eyes to see Madeline’s mouth filled with wet sharp teeth.

“But I promise you…I am still most certainly…yours,” Madeline said with a vicious sneer, and sank her teeth into Cole’s athletic neck.

He bled into her mouth, almost totally. She left him just enough.

As Madeline stood over his unconscious body, she viewed the home, the car, and the possessions around her that would now be hers.

She looked down at Cole, who would now also be at her disposal, and nudged him with her heel. Crouching down, she lifted his head to hers by his hair, she looked at the face that she once lived for, and now died for.

“And I am still…most certainly…MAD,” she snarled.

Passed Away

Ingrid had grown to hate those two words in the 20 years she had been writing obituaries for the Berkeley Bugle. When would these relatives get a grip, she thought. The dead didn’t “pass away.” They didn’t “drift peacefully to sleep.”

They died. Croaked. Expired. Ceased to breathe. Choked on their own vomit. Or drowned mercilessly in a boating accident. They died painful deaths due to cancer and left loved ones to pay the bills. Gasped for their last breath in the dying throes of emphysema. But none of them “passed away.”

Each day, Ingrid Fowler received at least one or two obituaries to process. By process, it meant she had to parse down to the facts. The bare facts. It was a newspaper, after all. The fluffy stuff could be reserved for the funeral speeches. And with every year that had gone by, the chopping got harsher. And so did the feedback. But Ingrid didn’t care. Tough luck, she said.

At first, Ingrid had been enthusiastic about writing obituaries. Just out of college, she was an eager 21 year old who couldn’t wait to begin her promising career in the newspaper business. Visions of Pulitzers danced in her head. She carefully wrote and edited each obituary as if it were her own memorial. References like “She brought laughter to all who knew her” and “His grandchildren brought him much joy” were placed in thoughtful ways within the piece.

But in 20 years, Ingrid had learned that Pulitzers were not the norm, and that the newspaper company for which she worked rarely promoted women, and in fact few stayed after the first few years. Most of her peers had left The Berkeley Bugle to get married, raise families, and write some freelance articles when they had time.

Ingrid had never married. A fact she couldn’t explain specifically despite questioning glances from her few married friends, and disappointed looks from her mother. The men she had dated were unsuitable. Irritatingly simple and ceaselessly happy in a moronic sort of way. She couldn’t take someone who was happy all the time.

Ingrid wasn’t by nature an uplifting person. That could be why she had been deigned official obituary writer for the Bugle. Writing obituaries for 20 years might have been depressing for another sort of person.

See, they just get keep coming. No matter what. People just keep dying. And just when you think you’ve got this week’s obituaries all sorted away, a 40-year-old father of three comes through after he drops dead of a heart attack jogging on a hot day.

For another sort of person, it might get to be too much. But Ingrid was perfect. She found writing obituaries comforting in a sort of way. As long as she was writing them, she had one up on the dead. Those cold fish were suckers. Losers. Unable to further control their fate, which was now held in Ingrid’s hands, poised at the computer key board. She smiled at that thought.

Currently, she was working on the obituary of one Paul V. Warren, III. Age 71 at the time of his death, which of course was “blissful” and “peaceful” and surrounded by loved ones.

“Yeah, right, he was probably a drunk who died of liver failure,” Ingrid said to herself. She was alone in the small Bugle office and talked to her obituaries out loud frequently.

She preferred to process her obituaries in the evening, as it was quieter without all the young reporters chattering excitedly about the latest unimportant story. This way, she also could avoid her editor, Dan, who probably preferred it this way as well.

In her earlier years at the Bugle, Dan Southers had been a managing editor and had shown a great interest in Ingrid’s career. He suggested they meet regularly after work, and that he could become a mentor. Despite his marriage and two young boys, Ingrid thought nothing of accepting the offer. It was a professional relationship, she thought.

For the first few months, that was how their relationship remained. Dan would give Ingrid specific assignments or journalistic exercises outside of her normal job duties, and at their weekly meetings at Duffy’s Pub around the corner, he would go over the corrections and provide her the next week’s assignment. Ingrid had been grateful for her mentor’s assistance, and tried to convince herself that she wasn’t just a little more than professionally excited on Duffy’s day.

See, Dan, especially 15 years ago, was hot.

Not in the Robert Redford kind of way. But in that powerful, intense, experienced, blue eyed, sandy brown haired way. He was not very tall, but tall enough. He ran every morning and his body was in perfect shape. He had a way of talking to Ingrid that made her feel like he cared about more than her Associated Press style and her lead.

But Ingrid, who at the time was no slouch either, had pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on her exercises. She had channeled her physical and emotional attraction for Dan into doing the best work she could to curry his professional favor. But as the weeks went by, Ingrid had found herself dressing a certain way on the night that she and Dan were to meet. Sixty pounds lighter at the time, with her hair past her shoulders, unlike her severe cut she sported now, Ingrid would pick out a stylish miniskirt, or a buttoned blouse with just one button too many open.

She’d catch Dan’s eye on her cleavage, or he’d brush his hand across her knee reaching for his wallet or keys at the end of their mentor session.

One night, they stayed at the pub after they finished their exercises. Dan had been particularly pleased with Ingrid’s work on the week’s assignment and had said she almost didn’t need his mentoring anymore. That thought had shot fear into Ingrid, who had basically shaped her life around these sessions for the last several months.

They had continued to drink beer after beer. After a while, funny stories about the office led to talking about personal life. Ingrid had asked Dan about how he met his wife and how long they had been married.

“We were college sweethearts,” he said, beginning to slur a little, “been married almost 17 years, but she…you know…things, they change.”

“Change how,” Ingrid asked.

“Well, you know, more interested in shopping and the kids than me….my work, foolin’ around,” Dan said. And laughed at himself.

Seeing her move, Ingrid leaned in, snakelike, and put her hand on Dan’s knee.

“That’s a real waste,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, he was fucking her on the copyeditor’s desk in the darkness of the Bugle’s office. Ingrid was ecstatic as she fumbled to find the front of her miniskirt by spinning it around her waist and digging her bra out from the recycling bin.

Dan, however, was not ecstatic. In a somber discussion the following day, he explained that what had happened was a mistake, and he apologized. Ingrid had just sat silently and listened, until Dan told her that the mentoring sessions could not continue.

“But why not?” she had asked, fighting tears.

“Our relationship is just no longer appropriate to continue outside the office,” a business-like Dan that she didn’t know said.

“If you need anything in the office, or have a professional question, see me any time but only during office hours,” he said.

Ingrid left his office, and part of her passed away.

Through the years, their relationship remained cordial. Dan became the paper’s editor and always treated Ingrid with cold respect. She thought it had been easier for him to avoid her as her looks went to shit. She gained weight, went gray, and didn’t care what she wore. When she asked Dan via e-mail if it was all right that she worked nights, the response came as quickly as a poisoned dart.

“Absolutely.”

Snapping herself out of the twisted visit down memory lane, Ingrid took to Paul V. Warren’s obituary to make herself feel better.

“Well, Paulie, I may be an old spinster, but at least I’m not dead,” she said to the computer screen. And giggled.

Reading through the information supplied by the family, Ingrid grew increasing irritated.

“Who do they think this guy is? Elvis?” she said. The notes included every job the man had held since he was old enough to walk, including a paper route, every degree and school he had attended including middle school, every club he had belonged to and every volunteer position he had ever held.

“You’ve to be kidding me. Who the hell cares about all this shit? Maybe Paul V. Warren deserves an entire paper to himself to properly lament his passing,” Ingrid said. The standard obituary took up about eight inches in the paper. Paul V. Warren’s was 25 inches.

After listing that Paul V. Warren was survived by his wife, ex-wife, three kids, four step kids, nieces, nephews, hedgehogs and canaries, the memorial donations were listed as to be made to the Friends of Zohoro.

“That’s rich. Are they Zoro-worshippers?” Ingrid snorted. She also laughed to herself at the cryptic phrase at the bottom of the obituary.

Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.

“Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker somewhere?” she asked Paul V. Warren, as she cut the saying from the end of the obituary.

She set to slicing and dicing the rest. After a few quick moves of the keyboard, Paul V. Warren’s obituary was neatly in the eight inch category with barely a drop of blood lost. Granted, he lost all of his volunteer positions, half of his surviving relatives, and his master’s degree in archeology, but who cares. Ingrid certainly didn’t. And Paul V. Warren didn’t. He was a dead loser.

In the world of the living, Ingrid had the last word.

“Later, Paul V. Warren,” Ingrid said as she shut down her computer for the night.

She let herself into her studio apartment, which was stuffy and windowless for the most part, and dropped her purse on the side table.

“I hate this apartment,” Ingrid said to no one. She listened to her one answering machine message, which was the weekly somber call from her mother asking why Ingrid never comes to see her.

The next message was almost unintelligible. Barely a whisper. Ingrid played it back. Still, she couldn’t hear it. It sounded like a man but with a severe case of laryngitis. She flipped through the caller ID but the number was unavailable. Oh well, she thought.

Must be a wrong number.

Still, Ingrid felt uneasy. Her mind kept drifting to Paul V. Warren and the Friends of Zohoro. Why was she thinking about that loser?

“Come on, Ingrid, that’s your billionth obituary – since when do they get to you?” she asked.

She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat in front of the television. Maybe some boob tube would take her mind off obituaries and whispering voicemails. Normally, Ingrid didn’t watch television. She did not enjoy comedies so sit-coms were out, and the rest was just shallow celebrities that people used to fill up their own empty lives.

“I notice no one ever includes how much television they watched in their obituaries,” she said, “now, that would be an accurate statement for a change.”

Ingrid flipped through the remote control until she came upon the black and white version of Night of the Living Dead. Ingrid wasn’t frightened by horror movies. She just thought they were stupid.

But now, she found herself transfixed by the people trapped inside the old farmhouse. And the shambling, starving corpses after their flesh. Ingrid found herself wondering if Paul V. Warren looked like any of those corpses right now. And she got a chill throughout her.

“Jesus, Ingrid, get a grip!” she said, pouring more wine.

As she continued to watch the movie, Ingrid started to feel like her job very much mirrored the plight of the living trapped in the farmhouse. Like them, she dealt with each dead person as they came at her, and like them, the dead just kept coming.

No matter how many Ingrid processed, sliced, diced and published, the dead would keep on coming until she herself was dead.

What was that phrase at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary? She couldn’t remember now.

Ingrid decided to look up Friends of Zohoro on the internet. There was no official website, but there were news articles.

“Friends of Zohoro banned from Orange County”

The controversial Friends of Zohoro, a group that traces its origins to Voodoo, black magic and other ancient mystical religions, has been banned from meeting in the area after several animals have been found ritualistically sacrificed.

Estella Warren, spokesperson and leader of the local chapter, has not denied the sacrifices but says that it is ignorance and fear that oppress her group.

“You refuse to learn from us, we can guide you and protect you, we bring you justice,” Warren said.

Warren. Ingrid wondered if this Warren was related to the infamous Paul V.

The next piece she found was a police report describing the gory sacrificial remains.

“A rabbit and a coyote were dismembered alive. Those responsible used their bare hands to perform the dismemberment. After the limbs were removed, the animals were disembowled one organ at a time, and the organs were neatly placed by their sides.”

The police report also concluded that the sacrifice may have been performed in the rites of fertility as it appeared an orgy followed.

Ingrid shut the computer off and went back to the television. She had learned all she wanted of the Friends of Zohoro. Stupid freaks. No wonder Paul V. Warren the loser was associated with them.

She dreamed that night that she was buried alive and felt animals chewing on her ankles. At least, Ingrid though that they were animals. She felt the dirt start to shift above her. Someone was going to rescue her! She pounded at the coffin lid and screamed, scratching her nails to blood.

Finally, the lid shook and opened and Ingrid looked up into the night above her hole.

There was a group standing around the open grave. A thin woman with long white blond braids and colorful gown. Others faded into the dark.

“Rise,” the thin woman said. And Ingrid listened. She was helped out of the hole and stood by it. This must be the Friends of Zohoro. Of course I’m dreaming about them, Ingrid said. How could I not have? Freaks.

“Circle,” the woman said.

The forms around Ingrid formed a hand held circle. They began to mumble. It grew louder.

“Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.” Over, and over. And over.

This is the phrase that was at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary, Ingrid thought. Makes sense that I dream that too. But she was beginning to get really creeped out. The night air felt too real on her pajama clad body.

In the distance, behind the circle around her, Ingrid saw a form. Barely distinguishable in the dark, but there all the same. Then another. Then three more.

Ingrid started to panic when it looked like there were increasing numbers approaching, and getting closer.

The chanting stopped.

“You know them,” the thin woman said, pointing in the distance.

“N-n-no, I don’t,” Ingrid stammered.

“You know them. It is time,” the thin woman said.

The faceless members took Ingrid’s arms and legs and held her down flat to the ground, easily overcoming her struggling.

As the approaching shapes got closer, in the moonlight, Ingrid could see that they resembled the corpses in the horror movie she had watched earlier, and laughed.

“This is a dream,” she shrieked over the resumed chanting of the crowd.

The first corpse approached and in dirt choked, disintegrated vocal chord way said:

James T. Scarpelli

Ingrid’s mind raced. What the hell? It was only as the creature leaned over and took a bite out of her calf that she remembered faintly that was an obituary she had cut in a half. She screamed in pain and fear. Her calf was bleeding from the open wound.

Ingrid struggled. Dream or no dream she’d had enough.

A teenage girl’s corpse approached her next, not too badly decayed, but milky white eyes and razor blade wounds glaring against her pale skin.

Alice Stedman

Ingrid screamed again as Alice bit off her right ear.

“Who fucking cares that you were valedictorian in eighth grade!” Ingrid said, remembering and screaming.

As they kept coming, Ingrid calculated in her head and realized that there had to be thousands of obituaries out there that she had dismembered. Thousands of ….

And she screamed and screamed.

The last corpse she saw before passing out was an older gentleman who hardly looked like a corpse at all. By now, Ingrid was almost eaten to death and was moaning in agony and hysteria.

The white haired man almost looked kindly upon her face as he leaned in to deliver his name.

Paul V. Warren, III

Then he smiled, and bit off her face.

The next morning, the landlady noticed that Ingrid’s apartment door was open and knocked cautiously. Ingrid didn’t like interruptions.

“Ms. Fowler, are you all right?” she asked.

The old woman made her way into the apartment and heard nothing. It wasn’t until she entered the bedroom that she realized Ingrid was definitely not all right.

Her five minute long scream ended in a blind faint.

The police had never seen anything like it, and the only clue was a mysterious message on the voicemail. After many replays, the message was finally understandable. It sounded like a warning.

Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.

All that was left of Ingrid fit about eight inches nicely.

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The End

Cicadas — the drumbeat of change

It’s that time of year again..the cusp of summer, the almost fall. Tomorrow is the first day of school for my children, and while it is sad, there’s a certain comfort in getting back to a routine.

And then, in then in the evenings, I hear that familiar sound. That late summer chorus of fall cicadas, shaking their tiny maracas repeatedly. Apparently after a brief youtube search to find that link, many people find this sound a nuisance, or annoying. Not me. That sound is the drumbeat of freedom for me — the drumbeat of change.

Most feel a sadness when summer ends — especially in the northeast where it seems so fleeting compared to the freezing long months of winter. But when I hear that sound in the twilight which seems to be creeping slowly earlier, it reminds me of late summers past. Probably the most influential late summer/early fall for me was the one between high school graduation and college.

So many changes — so many ends and beginnings. I went from never being allowed out of the house to working a summer internship in New York City. I approached my freshman year at Wagner College with excitement and nervousness. My first year of school in 12 years without a uniform laid out for me — I could pick my clothes out! What? My first schedule of classes where I was expected to get myself there — and truth be told I often failed at that. (Sorry mom.) The end of August 1988 meant saying goodbye to many old friends from my high school years as they headed off to other states and regions — until Thanksgiving break. The summer of 1988 included first kisses, last kisses, and some were both at the same time. The end of summer 1988 was a goodbye to a certain innocence — the fall of that year would mean my first cut class, my first alcoholic drink, my first….a lot of things.

The beginning of my college years would mean meeting some of the most influential friendships and relationships I have to this day. It would mean the birth of a confidence in myself when it came to schoolwork, to English literature and to writing I never thought possible. It would mean the growth that comes from the first true love I’d ever experienced and the joy and pain that go with it.

That’s the sound of cicadas. The drumbeat – change….change…change. But more than that, the sound of cicadas is the sound of possibility. Of a new year. A new return to routine. I am not without such changes, 25 years later. I work in a business that resets in September after many return from summer vacations. Back to School and election season are the busiest time of year for community journalism.

And tomorrow, my youngest child will be entering kindergarten. My baby leaving the nest. My full day freedom that I’ll be sorry for tomorrow morning at 8:20 when both my girls board the school bus and it pulls away — my first empty house of this sort in five years. I’ll be sorry then, and I’ll be crying, but still, I know — its opportunity. It’s possibility. For all of us.

So let my friends, the cicadas, beat on. I’m ready to sing that song. It’s going to be an emotional week of change. Lucy and Annabelle heading back to school. My close friend and colleague will say goodbye to me after two years tightly together in the trenches. But its change — its change he needs and will be the better for.

I’ve learned that letting go is the song of the cicadas. It’s taken me a long time. Letting go and understanding the universe has its way of setting things right, even if it takes a long time to do so. I’m lucky to have the family and friends I have — both old, and new, and some both.

That summer of 1988 stays with me whenever I hear those cicadas — they give me that drumbeat of strength to accept change, and look forward to life’s possibilities for all of us. It’s the soundtrack to first kisses, first wine coolers, and the apex of change that would alter my life forever. It makes me feel free. it makes me feel invincible.

And most of all, it makes me smile.