It’s after midnight when he finally gets home. Again. He throws his overcoat over the back of the worn couch and turns on the television. While he waits for the ancient tube to warm to life he pours himself a drink — three inches of Jack Daniels in a rocks glass without the rocks.
The glass is half-empty by the time the picture stops wavering and settles into focus.
He’s tuned to the late news — murder, rape, rising health-care costs and unemployment, government scandal. Nothing new. And, as usual these days, nothing about him.
Everything was ashes in the end—at least if you planned it right. And this time, she was going to get it right. Nicole stirred the fire, watching as the clothbound cover inside the trash barrel finally caught. Despite her commitment to her wife Angie and to this weekend, regrets swirled like smoke as the book’s pages flared. Nicole would never use it again, not in praise to the Old Ones nor in sacrifice.
Though really, the two were often the same.
The dust came quietly, as it always did.
It came without warning, rolling over the red earth in thin, white sheets. It slipped through open windows and under crooked doors. It settled in hair, on tongues, inside the eyes of children not yet asleep. The elders said it was the ancestors' breath. That the harmattan wind came every year to sweep the world clean of noise and sin.
But that night, the dust came with something else.
“They’re not pets, Lily.” Richard rubbed his temples. “I understand why you’re upset. But this isn’t safe.”
“Isn’t it?” Lily perched on the edge of the sofa, hands wrapped around her knees as she pulled herself into a ball. “I’ve lived here for years. Nothing bad has happened.”
Richard gave a concerned frown. “And I’m very glad nothing’s happened. But that doesn’t mean it’s safe. Please tell me you understand.”
In August, Sonny Gebhardt inherited an apple orchard.
The call from the lawyer and a letterhead confirmed it. His great-uncle had no other kin to give it to. When the deed came, Sonny almost crumpled it up.
But ten acres might cover a year's rent, and pizza rolls to boot. So without even seeing the property, he searched for a way to sell it.
My great-great-great-great-great granddaughter's at it again with the Bad Dragon Lil' Vibe.
“Do you see what she's doing, Sissy?” thinks Rue.
“I'm your cousin, not your sister, and I don't see anything,” I think back for literally the millionth time. “Stop psychically spying on her. Give the girl some privacy.”
When you're an immortal brain in a jar, precision is vital.
I rubbed the rough surface of the ancient ring that clung to my finger and felt it bite deeper into my flesh, the pain reminding me of Its impending visit. The wall clock ticked and ticked, its hands spinning mercilessly, begging for my gaze. I refused the call, but the message was crystal clear.
Midnight was approaching.
Emilia tapped the cover of the book I was holding, startling me.
“And then, Mommy?” she asked, her breathing labored but steadier than it had been in months.
From the bench, they could see the children littering.
Candy wrappers were undone, divested of their contents, and discarded in quick succession. Sticks that had proffered sugary baubles dropped into the grass like tiny javelins. One particularly betrayed looking whelp discovered that their baked goods had lured them in with the promise of chocolate only to reward them with dried fruit, and subsequently the stack was dashed against the dirt in a violent rage.
Rose’s cheeks were the embodiment of her name: pinkish, graceful, plumb as fresh strawberries. I trembled at the mere thought of approaching her. I mean, what would I even say?
“Just tell her you’re yummy for her cunny,” Jason said. “If her panties soil afterwards, you’ll know she’s down.”
“Gross. No way I’m saying that. I’d rather die.”
“Hilarious,” he said, rolling his eyes.
It all started when my Grandma was cremated. Her ashes came home in an ornate red urn that Father placed on the living room coffee table, and my Grandpa began to speak to her. “Wife, what will happen to our ashes when I die?” Grandpa murmured, staring at the silent urn. “Who will care for our spirits? Andrew or Benny or Carol?”
My mother caught me staring and told me to give Grandpa his privacy. But eight-year-old me had never seen anyone talk to ghosts before, and it fascinated me to no end. Later on, I asked Father about it.