Mascara-filled tears streaked her wrinkled cheeks as Elaine Sutherland nervously tapped the steering wheel of her car. Tapping turned into pounding as she thought about what she was driving from–and the uncertainty of what she was driving to. Starting over was never easy.

Elaine glanced around the interior of her loaded vehicle. A hasty exit caused her to cram her belongings haphazardly into the car she’d grown to detest. She hated the model. She hated the color. More than anything, she hated Catherine Gates for buying it for her before she so viciously turned on her. 

Friends don’t turn on each other. I can’t think about that right now, though. I have too much to do to wallow in my pain.

Too much to do was questionable. Now that she was on the road, the only thing she could do was focus on the yellow lines whizzing past her. Too much time to think on the journey brought waves of anger and fear, but mainly musings on how to turn her sudden misfortune into a positive.

While she loved driving, the recent hurricane complicated her travels. Three nights stuck in a hotel dug into her pocketbook and gave her far too much time to dwell on the lifetime of poor decisions she’d made. Never one to fixate on her own shortcomings, however, her mind drifted to the countless times others had let her down.

How did I end up like this? A homeless vagabond with nothing to show for an otherwise wonderful life. There was a time when I was somebody.

Where did it all begin? As any good psychologist would tell his client, it began in her childhood. Vivian and Roarke Sutherland doted on their darling Elaine, but that didn’t stop them from ruining her life. Who were they to decide what their little princess should be? Who were they to lie to her about family secrets? Who were they to leave her, well, destitute?

She slapped her phone down hard onto the seat next to her. She liked the feel of slamming it. It gave her a sense of power and released pent up frustration.

The miles droned on as she thought about her failed marriage and the wasted time and energy spent on men who never followed through. There had been many. Once youthful and beautiful, Elaine captured the attention of many dashing men. Still none of them, in the end, were what she needed. Was it her lot in life to always be alone? She hoped not. At her age, however, it was a growing possibility, and the aged face she saw in the mirror angered her more than the past hurts she’d received from a cheating husband and erroneous boyfriends. Appearances meant more than they should to Elaine.

She straightened her back and raised her chin. Now was no time to entertain the idea that life had passed her by. She was better than her current conditions. She had to come up with a plan.

The rebuilding of her persona began far before Catherine rudely cast her out of her house. Elaine carefully wove a tale of her host’s shortcomings to everyone she knew. It was a defense tactic she had perfected for decades. 

If this doesn’t work out, at least I will still look like the good person I am.

That mindset saw her through one backstabbing after another. Subtle comments, and others not so subtle, to strangers, friends, and family members, highlighting the downtrodden nature of her existence, maintained a level of sympathy for her that worked like a charm time and again. She was careful to be discreet. 

Yes, discretion was important. She kicked herself for letting herself slip. Catherine was never supposed to see those messages. After all, it was nothing that true friends shouldn’t forgive. A mere slip from anger and nothing more. Catherine was the cruel, heartless one.

It didn’t help matters when people revealed to Catherine the whispered complaints Elaine made to them.

Why can’t people keep private conversations private?

The idea that her carefully placed comments came to light dismayed her.

What’s wrong with people these days?

It was meaningless now. Just a blip on the radar. Catherine had served her purpose. Three years ago she faced possible trouble with the law and had escaped to the godforsaken boonies thanks to Catherine’s offer to let her stay with her. There truly is one born every minute.

She was nothing to me, really. Convenience. Now I must focus on what’s ahead. I’m almost to Eloise’s house and a fresh start. Chin up!

At that moment, she was brought back to the present by the “Road Closed” sign blocking her way. Sand blown into towering dunes by the hurricane made this route impossible. 

Damn. More bad luck.

She must think of what to do next. Gas was low in her car, and she really hadn’t wanted to spend another precious dime of the money Gerald kindly sent her for her escape. Someday she’d find a way to repay him. Or not. That was immaterial at the moment. 

She’d been in tight situations before and had always landed on her feet. This time would be no different.

The chiming of her phone caused her to jump.

“Yes, Sharon, I’m doing fine. Thank you so much for checking on me.” She checked her dye job in the mirror to see if she’d covered all the grey.

“Yes, I know. I’m hoping Eloise isn’t expecting me to care for her too. I’ve told you how demanding she can be. Frankly, I’m staying there as a favor to her. It seems to be my calling in life, helping people who can’t take care of themselves.”

The conversation continued for a few moments. Subtle hints that this may not be a permanent situation, of how she was dubious of Eloise’s mental state and what that might mean for Elaine, were expertly sprinkled throughout the conversation.

It’s always good to have a backup plan. After all, I’m a good person.

At the moment, Elaine Sutherland was able to relax her guard. She was at that place in between her last con job and her next.

The winter of 1945 warmed with a jubilance no bitter frost could touch. We had won the war, and our boys returned from the battlefront, eager to regain a normal life. War brides returned with some soldiers, while childhood sweethearts wed in simple ceremonies back home. No one felt the need for folderol. After all, the dark days of the Great Depression were still fresh in the minds of everyone. Instead of postponing nuptials for elaborate public displays, many couples preferred to embrace the simplicity and excitement of a new era. Such was the case for Ellie and Emmett Fields, the newlyweds who moved into 1472 North Sycamore Lane on a brisk December morning. Their short honeymoon to the coastal Carolinas was over, and now Mr. and Mrs. Fields were content to settle into their new life.

Their life together was new, but their surroundings were not. I had known Ellie since she was a newborn. Her parents moved into the family home, built by the Caster side of the clan just after the Civil War. Always a bright and cheerful child, she could be found picking daisies in the backyard or playing hide and seek with her friends in the expansive rooms of her beloved home. 

“I’m never leaving this house,” she told her mother at breakfast one morning when she was a mere five years old.

“Oh, really, young miss? What happens when Prince Charming arrives on his white horse to take you to his castle?” Her mother, Sarah Caster, smiled at her determined little girl.

“I won’t go.”

“You won’t go if Prince Charming wants to marry you?”

“No. He will have to live with me here on Sycamore Lane.”

Sarah gave her daughter a peck on the cheek and tousled her hair. “You know this house stays in the family, and heaven knows your brother has no interest in living here after he finishes school, so you are welcome to this castle.”

Ellie grinned, and her missing front tooth revealed a pink tongue. She was delighted at the idea of making this her castle, and she never let go of that dream.

Ellie spent her childhood days imagining she was a character inside the elaborate, imaginative tales she spun as she played or sat watching the fire in the living room. She read books by the hour and whiled away sunny afternoons in the woods found just past the boundary of the backyard. Don’t get me wrong. She was social, too. Friends were numerous, and Ellie was invited to her fair share of parties. That’s how she met Emmett.

He was a fine-looking young man, two years older than she was. He attended school in the neighboring town of Alton, which was why they hadn’t met sooner. In those days, young people didn’t travel any great distance from home. Jake Olsen’s 18th birthday party brought them together one April evening. It was love at first sight, as the saying goes, and those two were inseparable until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and Emmett answered the call to defend our country. Emmett Fields was a good man.

After the war ended, Ellie’s parents moved to Chicago to be closer to her brother, Dale, his wife, Laura, and their two young children. The war had separated them, too, and now that Dale attended the university under the G.I. Bill, and Laura was already expecting their third child, Ellie’s parents, Sarah and Henry, decided it was time to be closer to the grandchildren. Sarah and Henry had tired of the same routine and believed a change of scenery would be good for them. Dale, who was always Henry’s favorite, appreciated their help around his place. Ellie didn’t take offense to her parent’s departure. It meant, after all, that her castle awaited her and her prince.

Years passed as Ellie and Emmett settled into a life of their own. Children came. First, little Raymond arrived, followed closely by blonde-haired Lucy. Emmett opened a lumber and hardware business to accommodate the booming housing market, while Ellie maintained the home and raised the children. She volunteered generously at the veterans’ hospital, always thankful that Emmett had returned from the war unscathed. Ellie also chartered the town’s first Garden Club.

The yard smelled divine throughout most of the year. Jasmine, clematis, honeysuckle, as well as several varieties of flowering trees and shrubs, decorated 1472 North Sycamore Lane. Ellie was known for her exquisite rose bushes, and she grew a vegetable garden that could have fed a dozen families. The extra produce she shared with the wives who lost their providers during the war. Unfortunately, that number was high in our little town. Platoons were made up of young men from the same community, so when a platoon took a hard hit, say at Iwo Jima or the Battle of the Bulge, a generation of young men was wiped out all at once in a small town. The names of all the boys we lost will forever dwell with me. War is hell. 

Ellie and Emmett had normal ups and downs. Some years were happy ones; others were sad. They celebrated birthdays, Christmases, and other happy occasions. There was sadness, too, as they lamented the passing of both of Ellie’s parents. The children grew, and while they brought much joy, they also brought stress and anxiety to Emmett and Ellie. When Raymond left to go to Vietnam, I thought Ellie’s heart was going to break. She stopped eating, and Emmett even took her to see Doc Harris. Those were some tense days as we waited for Raymond’s return, but return he did. Life moved forward with time.

Grandchildren arrived. Lucy gave Ellie and Emmett a brood of youngsters to dote over. Her husband, Hal, an electrical engineer, provided an ample living for her and their six children. They lived a few blocks away on Hyacinth Street, and most days were filled with the children’s laughter and play. Raymond added three more to the mix. He lived nearby as well. 

Oh, how Ellie enjoyed the sound of little feet running through her expansive three-story home. Her favorite place to spend time with them was the living room with its fireplace. She spent hours reading to her grandchildren. Ellie was a good storyteller herself. She spun yarns of faraway places with castles and dragons. The fire crackled, and the children’s eyes widened as Ellie concocted one tale after another. 

Sometimes, she couldn’t believe her good fortune.

“Who would have thought?” she said one night as she nestled into bed next to Emmett.

“Who’d have thought what?”

“All those years ago when we met at Jake’s party… Who’d have thought that today we’d be where we are.”

“I don’t know, El. It seems to me you always knew you were going to be here.” Emmett winked. 

Ellie gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “You know what I mean. Of course, I always wanted to live in this house. I mean, who would have thought we’d have built such a fine life with a house full of beautiful grandchildren always running in and out? Our children are happy and successful, and sometimes our good fortune just brings tears to my eyes.”

“I knew what you meant, Dear. Yes, the Lord has truly blessed us. Now let’s get some rest. We have that big day of shopping and checkups at the doc’s tomorrow.”

A quick hug and kiss, and the lovebirds were sound asleep.

Many good memories were made on Sycamore Lane, but not all were happy. Sometimes heartache hits even the most joyful of homes. I loved Emmett as much as I loved Ellie, even though I’d known her since the day she was born. The news Emmett received that next day at the doctor was worse than any of us could have imagined. He passed before the next Christmas came. Ellie was devastated. 

Raymond and Lucy both asked her to stay with them.

“Mom, it’s not good for you to stay in that drafty old house alone. What if something happens to you?”

“I’m not leaving my home. I miss your father terribly, but that house has been my heart since I was a child. I’m not leaving it. I never feel alone as long as I’m there.”

Persistent requests for her move were ignored.

“What if you fall, or what if the weather turns bad and the power goes out, leaving you without any heat?”

“I’ll be fine. There’s wood on the back porch, and I have my fireplace. I won’t go cold. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Ellie proved them right. She had frequent company and was never alone. Members of the Garden Club visited, and her kindnesses to the war widows were never forgotten. Someone was always checking on her, making sure she wanted for nothing. The grandchildren continued to visit, and young Elisa was as fond of the old house as Ellie had been as a child.

“Grandma, I want to live here someday.”

“I’ll tell you what, little one–”

“Grams,” she interrupted. “I’m fifteen. I’m not that little.”

“Well, you’ll always be my little Punkin’.” Ellie and Elisa exchanged a hug. “Since none of the other children have any interest in living here, I’ll make sure you get it when it’s my time to go.”

“Let’s hope that’s not for a long time, Grandma.”

“I’ll go when the good Lord wants to call me to his home, Elisa. Until then, you focus on your studies and become that nurse you’ve always said you wanted to be.”

Elisa and the other grandchildren beat a steady path to 1472 North Sycamore Lane. Even as they grew up, moved away, and began their own lives, they never stayed away from their grandmother for long. Ellie’s home was where everyone went to feel safe and relaxed.

Time passed, and slowly Ellie’s health declined. 

“Mom, it’s time you move in with us or go to a nursing home,” Lucy told her.

Stubborn as always, she refused to leave the place she loved on Sycamore Lane. “I’m not going to leave my home. Just stop that nonsense.”

During Elisa’s last year of nursing school, Ellie passed peacefully in the night.

Now, here I am, alone. Elisa isn’t moving in until May, and I sit empty for the first time in decades. Some of you may have heard that expression, “If this old house could talk, what would it say?”
Now you know.

The subtle breeze blew the fragrance of honeysuckle across the open field. In the distance, the soft hooting of an owl floated on the wind. Farther away, a pair of whippoorwills called, one mate to the other. The warmth of summer faded into the velvet blackness of the night, and nothing compared to this time and place. The still of the world soothed even the most tortured soul, and the perfect combination of darkness and earthy fragrance made it easy to believe that all was right with the world.

After this long, with so many memories, Sid smiled to himself. Who would have believed that, given his boisterous youth, he would be content in a field during the peaceful midnight hour? He knew, however, that this was where he needed to be. A quiet field in the middle of nowhere provided the solitude he needed to connect with what mattered most.

Mary would have understood. She always understood, even when he didn’t know what motivated his own impetuous behavior. The honeysuckle wafting in the air reminded him so much of her. The sweetness. The persistence. Like his Mary, honeysuckle took root in difficult conditions and thrived, sharing beauty in a harsh world. She was the strength of their relationship. His once fierce physique hid a fragile ego that she had more than once put back together. Her adventurous and pure heart took them far in life.

It was her idea to come here in the first place. Red crept up his flushed cheeks as he remembered his indecisiveness–cowardice, really–when she first suggested that they pull up stakes, leave their families behind, and move off on their own. Pioneers. That’s how Mary described them. It fit them. How many others throughout history had loaded the most essential items, taking only a few keepsakes, and mustered the courage to set off on quests? Some sought adventure. Some sought independence. Some sought wealth. Some merely fled that which they could no longer face in hopes of a better life. Mary wanted the first two. Sid sought the latter.

Time has a funny way of changing our perceptions. Looking back, those problems he thought he had to run from weren’t that bad after all. Sid recognized that he would have followed Mary anywhere—for any reason or for no reason. He’d simply wanted to be wherever she was. He had been, too, until her light faded and he found himself here alone.

How long had it been? Sid had to add up the years to come to a final answer. It seemed like an eternity, but he knew better. Eternity would be spent with his beloved wife. All that stood in his way was waiting for the inevitable: death. 

That brought him to tonight, in this place, as he stared up at the stars on this perfect summer night. He focused on a pinpoint of light. Most people in rural America wouldn’t even notice it in the cluster of stars to the right of Orion. Sid knew it was there. His Mary had returned home when her light faded from this world. Eternity awaited him on his home planet.

Excitement coursed through him. He’d been lonely for so long. He and Mary were the only ectoplasmic nymphs on Earth. It hadn’t mattered when she was with him, but life was as lonely as this desolate field once she was gone. His release from these bonds would only happen when his death freed him.

A warm surge pulsed over his body as the pinpoint of light twinkled and beckoned to him. Mary’s voice whispered in his mind. Her sweet, soothing chords reminded him of all that he missed and had longed for. In one bright spark, he felt the joy of flight as he shot towards his forever home.

***

A passing motorist blinked his eyes as he halted in the middle of the lane. He shook his head in disbelief. 

I’ve seen shooting stars before, but never one that traveled from Earth to the sky. No one would believe me. Was it a sign from God?

He pulled out his phone. His estranged wife’s number lit up the screen as he waited for her to answer.

A groggy voice on the other end said, “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Mary, I miss you. I want to come home. I felt so lonely tonight that I drove out in the country to that field where we used to picnic. The one where we swore we’d always love each other. Mary, I was going to kill myself, but something told me to try one more time. I’ll stop all of my stupid ways. Please take me back”

Tears rolled down Mary’s face. “I’ll put some coffee on. Come home, Sid.”

The dripping water from the cracked ceiling in Cell 234 created a rhythmic monotony that could either lull someone to sleep or cause him to go insane. Arthur Cranston had too much rage within him to do either.

Ten years into his sentence, Arthur thought he’d seen a lot. His transfer to the Carmichael Correctional Center lowered the bar. He’d been here three months, and the conditions were worse than anywhere he’d been held captive before. All inmates tend to complain about bad food and uncaring or cruel staff, but there was something more to this place. 

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something…unnatural…about Carmichael.

The physical conditions of the rundown facility were remarkable on their own. Lead-based paint peeled off walls, and cracks large enough for rats to crawl through, which they did, were everywhere. The cold dampness, an oppressive clammy shadow, that permeated the structure created a chill that settled into Arthur’s soul. That was only partially responsible for his rage, however.

Never had Arthur encountered a staff, from entry-level corrections officers to warden, that seemed to bask in the inhumanity of his condition like the ones at Carmichael. It wasn’t just Arthur, either. He’d seen glee in the eyes of staff members who beat inmates mercilessly or who mocked, baited, and framed inmates only to throw them into the hole. 

Back at the Armstrong Correctional Center, in his younger days, Art Cranston spent a few stints in the hole. It happened, and Art knew he’d deserved it. The fights he’d gotten into back then had been worth it, though, He was young, just barely twenty, at the time, and fighting was the only way to keep from becoming someone else’s sexual property. Going to the hole in Armstrong had definitely been worth it. Armstrong was bad, but it wasn’t like this place. 

No, Carmichael was an entirely different beast. The level of savagery—the unadulterated evil—he witnessed daily troubled him. In one week, Art saw more violence toward inmates than he’d seen in years at Armstrong. But who could he tell? No one cared about inmates, and the system had done everything it could to break family ties with anyone on the outside. Art knew that whatever happened inside Carmichael would not be stopped. That hopelessness fueled his rage too. 

However, it was the rape and beating of poor old man Murphy this morning that accentuated Art’s rage today. In front of everyone, almost as sport, three guards beat and assaulted a man who was too old to defend himself against one, let alone three. Art’s rage reached the boiling point today. It had been festering since the first day he stepped foot in Carmichael. 

These guards are monsters.

Officer Dick Martin led the brutality Cranston and everyone else in Cell Block C witnessed that morning. A stocky man with black eyes and a blacker heart, Martin seemed to always be on duty.

I haven’t met a good one here yet, but Martin is the ringleader. Whatever he does, the other guards fall in line with. I even overheard him telling the warden what to do.

Martin rejoiced in making life hell for those on the other side of the bars. Society expected a certain level of revenge on those convicted, but even the most hardened of career employees at Armstrong would have been shocked by Martin’s ruthlessness. He loved inflicting agony, and then, when he had his fill of fun with the man unlucky enough to be his target, he’d laugh and say, “You need some cell time.”

“Cell time” meant a trip to the hole or solitary confinement for those unfamiliar with prison. Art hadn’t been to the hole at Carmichael himself, yet. It was located in the dark basement area that other men referred to as “The Dungeon.” 

New to the prison camp, Art heard stories from men who had been there for a while. Mankind has always tried to make sense of his surroundings. Prison was no exception. The men at Carmichael grasped for explanations to satisfy a need to understand. Why was life so hellish there? How could the staff be so cruel? What was it about this dilapidated stone building, oozing water from its pores day and night, that brought out the worst in humanity?

One day, not long after Art’s arrival at the camp, Asher Adams glanced over his shoulder and spoke in a whisper. “Man, I’ve heard it’s haunted down there.”

“Where?”

“Down in The Dungeon.”

Art chuckled. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Asher. Try that story on some young kid. I’m not buying it.”

“It ain’t a joke. I hope neither one of us finds out for sure. Those ghosts torment the men down there. You just watch. No one comes out of the hole the same. Look at Proctor’s eyes, man. The dude’s not right now. And that asshole Martin just laughs when he sends people to The Dungeon. He loves telling guys they need “some cell time.”

Martin loved using his favorite catchphrase every chance he got. He became antsy if he couldn’t send a man to The Dungeon. His eyes snapped with anticipation as he narrowed in on his next victim. Men avoided him as much as possible, but it was impossible once he set his sights on someone. 

What kind of a sick man is he?

Ty Williams, a man Art worked with at the chow hall, independently warned him of the same fears Asher Adams shared. “If you listen late at night, you can hear things moving in the walls.”

“Those are rats, Ty. You’ve seen them, and I’ve seen them.”

“No. Not rats. Whatever it is scares the hell out of the rats. They quit their squeaking and scurrying when those other noises start.”

Art paused. There was a ferociousness of sincerity in Ty’s face that couldn’t be denied. 

“You just listen some night, Art. Late at night when nothing should be stirring. You’ll hear what I’m talking about.”

Ty was a formidable man. He stood a foot taller than Art and weighed no less than 280 pounds. Whatever it was he heard, it had this mountain of a man spooked. 

Art did listen, and he did hear. At first, it sounded like the soft rustling of papers in a breeze. Then an almost imperceptible sound—a voice of sorts—could be heard humming through the walls and floors. The more he listened, it became a mournful, whistling howl that caused even a hardened man like himself to shiver. Goosebumps covered his arms, and he pulled his one blanket up under his chin, tightly closing his eyes to try to block out the sound—and the sensation that ghosts were filling the midnight air. 

That was a month ago. Since then, Art meticulously observed every move made by everyone, staff, and inmate alike. Asher Adams was correct. Men who returned from the hole were changed. Their eyes were vacant, and even in the few weeks Art had taken notice, those men wasted away. He barely recognized some who were strapping young men when he’d arrived at Carmichael. 

The stress of this prison took a toll on Art Cranston. Today’s rage was a conflagration of disgust over the inhumanity of his captors and the growing fear welling up inside him. 

I don’t believe in ghosts, but what in the hell is going on here? I’m about to blow, and I know that won’t help me. I need to keep my head together, but my nerves are shot. I can’t take one more episode like what happened to Murphy. No man should go through what those bastards did to him in the middle of the bay.

Art’s blood boiled, and the sounds of Murphy’s screams pierced his mind. He held his head in his hands, rocking himself on his bunk, begging for the visions to go away. 

Then he heard it. Not the rustling of papers in the wind nor the dripping of water from a clammy ceiling. He heard Martin’s laugh. 

“Adams, you and me are going to have a little discussion.”

Art stepped out of his cell to watch Asher Adams nervously step to the door of his cell. Martin motioned for him to come closer. Art knew the fear on Asher’s face wasn’t simply because of Martin. No, Asher was compulsively afraid of heights, and Martin stood near the railing. 

Why would they force a man so deathly afraid of heights to live on the top walk? Why he hugs the wall every time he comes up here.

Art had wondered that a thousand times. Now his heart rate quickened as he watched Asher slowly emerge onto the walk and edge toward the railing. Martin smiled so sweetly that a casual observer might think Martin was offering Asher a cigarette or a piece of chocolate. Art Cranston knew better. 

He wanted to scream, “No!” Before the word could escape him, however, it was done. In a viciously smooth movement, Martin threw Asher Adams over the railing. The sickening sound of his skull cracking on the cement floor below brought the entire housing unit to a standstill. 

The rage could be contained no more. Art rushed toward Martin, screaming in a fury. Just as he reached for Martin’s throat, four guards appeared out of nowhere and took him to the ground, beating him with their blackjacks and billy clubs. 

“Get him to his feet!” Martin ordered.

A bleeding and battered Art was lifted to his feet, but the bloodletting hadn’t eased his rage. 

“You son of a bitch! You just killed that man! You killed him for no reason. You’re going to rot in hell!”

Martin flashed his standard grin and said, “Looks like you need some cell time. I’ll take you down myself.”

The other guards chuckled and tightly shackled Art Cranston. His arms were handcuffed behind his back, and his feet could only inch along in a shuffle. Martin grasped his left arm as two guards grabbed him at the handcuffs. 

I don’t care what they do to me down there. They won’t break me.

Progress was slow. The Dungeon was far below the regular prison complex, and it lived up to its name. Water trickled down the walls of the stone as Art clumsily took the endless rock stairs leading forever downward. The light was poor, and the guards turned on headlamps, much like those used by underground miners. Art blinked to see while blood from a gash on his scalp tricked down into his eyes.

As the light hit the darkness down below, Art realized The Dungeon was part of a cave. As a boy, he’d spelunked with his uncle in the caves of Kentucky, so he knew what he was looking at. A small stream trickled down the manmade hallway leading to what looked like catacombs lining its sides. The smell was dank, and moisture clouded the air. 

This must be what death smells like.

Art’s shoes and socks were drenched as he sloshed through the water. A pair of rats chattered, almost mocking him, as his slow march to a dark cell continued. Finally, he reached his destination. 

“I’ll take it from here, boys,” Martin barked. 

The two guards dropped their hold on Art and quietly retreated down the darkened corridor. 

Martin shoved a door open with his foot, unlocked the handcuffs and shackles, and tossed Art through the doorway. In the dark, he stumbled on something in the cell that clanged. It was a metal bucket that served as a toilet. 

“How can you get away with treating people this way?”

“You know why. You’ve been down long enough to figure out no one cares.”

The truth in Martin’s statement couldn’t be argued. Art stood silently in the darkness. 

Martin pushed him toward one side of the cell. “Have a seat on your bunk. I’d like to have a little talk with you.”

“Like the one you just had with Adams?”

Art braced for the blows he expected to follow. Instead, Martin sat next to him on the bunk. 

Doesn’t he know I’d like to kill him with my bare hands? Why is he sitting next to me?

“I’m thinking you’re smart enough to figure out a lot of things, Cranston, so I want to have a little talk to fill in some of the blanks for you. I’ve seen you watching. I’m going to tell you a few secrets.”

Art sat silently. 

“Tell me what stories you’ve been told about The Dungeon.”

“Some of the guys say it’s haunted.”

Martin let out a low chuckle. “No, it’s not haunted. At least not in the way you people think. It’s more complicated than that, yet oh, so simple really.”

“I don’t follow you. If you’re done, just leave me here. You’ve had your fun for today.”

“Yes, today has been quite eventful. It’s almost nighttime. You know what that means.”

A slight breeze blew into the cell, and Art heard the rustling of papers. Subconsciously, goosebumps rose on his forearm. He could swear he heard a low whistling sound leave Martin’s lips. Cranston pressed himself against the wall to put distance between himself and Martin. 

“We’ve lived here for centuries, you know. At first, my people were angry that your kind built this prison on top of our lair. Then we saw the great benefits.”

Martin uttered a low whistling howl, which was answered by excited howls outside the cell. 

“Man, if you’re trying to screw with my head, it’s not going to work. You’ve had your fun, now go.”

Martin leaned into him. “Oh, this part of the plan has nothing to do with fun. Eating is serious business.”

A chill ran down Cranston’s spine. 

“You see, my people are an ancient society. Few of you know about us, but we’ve been called “shapeshifters” and other names throughout the years. We’ve lived here longer than you have.”

For a moment, it seemed that Martin’s body wavered. It was more than the trickery of darkness. Something had changed about Martin, and Art Cranston pushed himself further against the damp wall. Fear replaced rage. 

“I love a good turn of phrase, don’t you Cranston? When you hear the word ‘cell,’ you think of your cage. When we think of a cell, we think of nourishment.”

Cold dread consumed Art Cranston. 

“My people need you and your ilk. You’re an intelligent, observant man. I’ve watched you. You’ve seen the demise of men who return from The Dungeon—how they wither before your eyes.”

Cranston nodded. He could think of nothing else to do. There was nowhere to run as the howls increased outside the door. 

“My people are hungry. We feed on your cells. They give us the energy we crave. You’ve noticed we staff work as a team. We masquerade as humans, but our job is to provide the meals our people need. Your ‘justice system’ provides us a steady supply. Unlike you humans, we value our people. No one goes uncared for in our society.”

Leaping to his feet, Art tried to flee. In a split second, Martin had him pinned against the wall. His feet dangled in the air. A low hum reverberated from Martin’s being. 

“It will be uncomfortable for you at first. My loved one will enter your body and begin to feed. We prefer the brain first. All the electrical synapses are like carbohydrates to you. We leave it operational for basic functions, but your ability to be cognizant will fade rapidly.”

A wind gushed into the door. Martin forced Art Cranston’s mouth open. 

A moan escaped Art, and he fought a valiant fight, to no avail. It was “cell time.”

Milwaukee, Wisconsin languished under a brutal cold snap, not uncommon for the Midwest in wintertime. Icicles hung from rooftops, and mounds of gray snow piled on the sides of streets while busy commuters wound their way through the city and on the freeways. Shoppers braved the brutal sub-zero weather to buy necessities, and children huddled against each other at bus stops since school districts in Wisconsin seldom believed in canceling school.

Towering above the downtown area were numerous skyscrapers filled with financial planners, architects, corporate executives, city government offices, and more than one news outlet. The movers and shakers of the Milwaukee economy had made their way to their offices and were already at work building dreams and orchestrating hostile takeovers. In other words, it was an average Tuesday. A haze of pollution hung in the air, and no refreshing breezes blew on this frigid morning to offer relief. A drab aura surrounded the day, and it wouldn’t be farfetched to say a cloak hung over the city. 

In one of those massive skyscrapers, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall numbed Jason Phelps into a near hypnotic state. Stacks of papers covered his busy newsroom desk, and nothing but caffeine, adrenaline, and frankly, fear, kept him awake. How many days had he gone without sleep? He’d forgotten.

His muddled mind tried to make sense of what he’d uncovered in recent weeks. Just where had it begun?

It began in my bathroom mirror.

What a crazy thought that was. Jason focused on the ticking clock as he tried desperately to drown out the sounds ringing through his skull. 

Jason was right, in a sense. It began for him in his bathroom mirror. One morning as he shaved, a dizzying rush took over his body. He fought it, but in that moment, he knew. He knew as certainly as if he’d witnessed it on his television station’s nightly news or had been an eyewitness at some spectacular event of history. No one would ever believe him, but a world had opened up to him that others were blinded to, and more than anything, he wished he could put the proverbial genie back into its bottle. 

It’s my job to tell the world about “Breaking News.” What an overused term. We’ve beaten that one into the ground. I’d be hounded out of my career if I reported something like this.

His concerns weren’t unfounded. He’d tried to talk to his mother, but she suggested that he see a psychiatrist.

Yes, a psychiatrist will make this all better. For the first time in days, Jason Phelps let out a chuckle.

Blaring sirens broke Jason from his trance. Two fire trucks sped past on the street below, forcing their way to an inferno. Somewhere the bitter cold was at war with searing heat as some structure burned in a fury. 

What was that he had read in Dante’s Inferno years before as a college sophomore? According to Dante, hell was a frozen wasteland, not the burning pit of damnation we envision it as. With no offense meant to the Italian great, Jason Phelps had to agree with popular opinion. Those flames burning in the distance were real representations of the hell he learned about as a young boy in his Baptist grandfather’s church so many years ago. Remembering those sermons, he could smell the brimstone. No, the arctic blast that assaulted every Milwaukee resident this morning was a stark contrast to hell.

Suddenly, the clamor of activity around him brought him to his senses. Just like every other morning at Channel 10 News, the newsroom was abuzz with activity. Phones rang, and people shouted information to each other. For the first time that morning, Jason was aware of his surroundings in a real way. 

“Hey, dreamer! I said, ‘Do you have the name of the victim in the shooting?’ Or do I need to call Channel 3 for that information?” Ed Tinsley stood impatiently over Jason. Not a small man by any means, Ed was a formidable figure. 

“Uh, yeah. Just a sec.” Jason flipped through his notebook. 

“You know, you haven’t been yourself lately. Normally you’d know it off the top of your head. Are you having relationship problems or something? You better come alive soon, Jase. The bosses won’t like you daydreaming like that.”

Jason shook his head. “No, they won’t like a lot of things. Here it is. His name was Michael D’Angelo. He’d just moved to the city a month ago. No suspects have been caught. No leads on the killing either.”

“Thanks, Bub.” Ed slapped him on the shoulder with the papers he held in his hand before racing across the newsroom to talk with Claire Henson, the morning anchor. Her auburn hair was perfectly coiffed, and she wore one of those dresses that fit just right. 

If I was going to have any relationship issues, I wish it was with her. So much for that now.

It took only a moment for Jason to be pulled back into his own thoughts, blocking out the bustle of the newsroom.

My bathroom mirror. Did it really have something to do with this? Or was I just the unlucky son-of-a-bitch who would have seen this anyway? 

Jason’s mind wandered back to the morning he first saw it in the mirror. The spinning, the flames, the faces. The faces scared him the most. Even though his grandfather preached a thousand sermons about the threat of hell, part of Jason always thought it might be some sort of fairytale. Heaven and hell were stories parents told their children to make them behave. 

“Don’t fight with your sister, or Santa won’t bring you any presents.” 

“Don’t fight with your sister, or God will send you to hell.”

Jason, however, now knew it was no fairytale. His mirror didn’t lie. The first time he saw the visions in it, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe the pharmacist had mixed up his blood pressure medicine with some sort of psychotropic drug. However, the other times he stared into his mirror, he not only saw glimpses into hell, but he smelled the brimstone and heard the voices.

“We’re coming, Jason Phelps. You can see us, but you are powerless to stop us. Your mirror is our portal, and there is nothing you can do now.” The demon’s eyes glowed red, and the hatred exhaled in his putrid breath singed the hair of Jason’s beard.

In subsequent days, he’d watched, helplessly, as demons flowed out of hell through his mirror and into the world around him. Knowing his impotence against them, the demons laughed as they shared visions with Jason of the impending end to Earth. 

Jason knew that today was the day. He knew. They’d told him. 

Quietly, without drawing attention from his coworkers, Jason stepped into his boss’s office. He’d always been jealous of Ted Reagan’s office space. A sliding glass door opened to a small balcony that looked out across the city. What Jason would have given to have a view like that. For a few moments, he had it all to himself.

His breathing slowed as he calmed himself. He placed his jacket onto the back of Ted’s chair and loosened his tie. He slipped his patent leather shoes off, leaving them just inside the glass door which he stepped through. It was cold, yes, but strangely peaceful. He could smell the smoke. It wasn’t the fire from earlier. This smoke came from much farther away, and the sulfuric taste of brimstone filled his nostrils and mouth. 

It has begun.

Knowing that neither good nor bad mattered now, Jason stepped to the edge of the balcony. He marveled at the gray haze that enveloped his city. It wasn’t typical pollution. It had escaped from the pits of hell itself. Jason now considered himself lucky because he could end his misery before the coming onslaught. Taking one last breath, he held it as he plummeted to the pavement below.

A deep rumble followed by a howling roar escaped from the cracked sidewalk where he made impact. A demon hovered for a moment above Jason’s body, then flew to the balcony and enjoyed the view.

The hot summer sun beat down on the Little League field. Parents sat on metal bleachers, cheering for six-year-olds donning Ava Lumber jerseys and ball caps. Out in leftfield, a blond kid kicked at an anthill. The shortstop hiked up his pants and wiped dripping sweat from his eyes. They only needed two more outs to stop the ten-run surge of their opponents.

“Look alive, boys!” An anxious father paced back and forth outside the chain-link fence. “Billy, throw those strikes like I taught you.” 

Given his physical appearance, a few parents doubted the athletic abilities of the man demanding excellence from a first-grader. Those vicarious expectations were as much a part of the summer baseball experience, however, as the grimaces made when foul balls bounced off the hoods of vehicles unfortunate enough to be parked in range. 

A hot breeze blew, and younger children begged their parents for another snow cone. 

Mercifully, the inning came to an end, and so did the final three quick outs that added to the defeat. 

“It’s okay, boys. You win some, and you lose some. Practice is Tuesday at three.” The coach gave high fives to his little warriors.

Parents collected their sons, and pep talks filled the night air as their footsteps kicked up dust in the parking lot. 

Young Luke wanted nothing more than to be an outfielder, or a pitcher, or a third baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals. He really didn’t care which position he played. He just knew his heart would never be content until he held a bat under the mighty arches encircling Busch Stadium.

Every day, from morning until dark, he either played baseball, thought about baseball, or watched baseball. At night, he dreamed about baseball. The Cardinals were the only team that occupied his nightly slumbers. As the years went by, his teammate heroes in those dreams changed, whether it was Bob Gibson, Ozzy Smith, or Tommy Herr. He imagined sitting in the dugout joking with his buddies while the cameras caught their antics. Or he stood on deck, waiting for his chance at bat. In the really good dreams, he felt the crack of the bat and heard the roar of the crowd as he rounded the bases—a grand slam. 

During his waking hours, the voices of Jack Buck and Mike Shannon reverberated in his head. Some days he spent hours tossing the ball up, over and over and over, perfecting his prowess at snagging pop flies. He squinted as the sun blinded him, but it was just preparation for when stadium lights battled him for his focus and the ball arched then descended while fans inside Busch Stadium held their breaths.

Baseball was loved by everyone he knew, but Luke was certain no one had the burning in his heart for it like he did. Still, it helped that everyone else was enthusiastic. He couldn’t get to the majors throwing his own pop flies forever. 

The neighborhood children gathered to play Wiffle ball. Some were even pretty good at it. Luke appreciated the opportunity to hone his skills against adept players. Others, well, they were place keepers he tolerated so he could field enough for a game.

Luke’s sisters played catch and 500 with him day after day and year after year. It wasn’t as good as if he’d had brothers, but the girls usually filled in well enough for him to perfect his curveball, or to throw endless pop flies on the side lawn. He liked teaching them how to slide (though neither of them was keen on trying Pete Rose’s face-first belly flops), but his little sister mastered the art of tucking one leg under the other as she slid into base, avoiding the tag. He also made her learn how to switch hit so he could practice pitching against lefties. 

Playing for the Cardinals was all he ever wanted. If he just tried hard enough, practiced long enough, and dreamed big enough, he could do it. He had faith. 

Dreams are tough things to see dashed in a little boy. Mononucleosis struck in sixth grade. Everyone on his school’s basketball team came down with it, but Luke’s case was severe. The high fever that raged for days leveled the boy. He lost all coordination, and he struggled to tie his own shoes. 

“He won’t be able to play sports.” Those grim words came from the neurologist at the University of Missouri Medical Center in Columbia. “If you let him play, he will just hurt himself.”

That possibility was too devastating. Simply too much to take away from a little boy. So his mother allowed him to play.

“He will never get better if he doesn’t have something to fight for. I can’t take his only chance away from him.”

He fell running the bases. He misjudged those pop flies. But he played. Practice was more than a love of baseball. It was the only hope he had to regain a normal life.

Slowly, his coordination returned. The dream continued. 

Little League became a memory as he entered high school. Those hours of using his little sister as a batter’s box guinea pig paid off as he became a starting pitcher for the hometown team. 

Harsh realities set in when he knew he’d never be good enough to catch the eye of a big-league scout, so he changed direction. He could still be on the field at Busch Stadium, but this time it would be in a different uniform—that of a professional umpire. A new passion caught fire as he studied those big-league figures, crouched in blue, leaning over the catcher’s shoulder or running the baselines to call fouls and outs. The big leagues awaited him yet. 

Hot summers were spent umping Babe Ruth League ball at the city fields. Hard work, determination, and ferocity to make it happen fueled him day and night. 

But it wasn’t to be. Instead of leaving for umpire training school, more harsh realities drove him to the military. Years passed, and he found himself at Scott Air Force Base, as close to his beloved Cardinals as he could get. He even splurged on one of those personalized license plates to go on his red Chevy truck. “9Cdnls”—the exact number it took to make a team—made it clear to all fellow travelers where his heart resided. 

A few decades of ball games, scorecard in hand, kept the bittersweet fire alive. The pain never entirely left his eyes. The thought of not stepping foot in the stadium as more than a fan broke his heart. 

Then cancer destroyed all dreams. On a cold October night, he lost the biggest game he’d played. 

On opening day of the next season, light crept into the hallowed arches of Busch Stadium. Crowds hadn’t entered the stands, and groundskeepers scurried across the infield, raking the dirt into pregame perfection. 

The voices of Jack Buck and Mike Shannon whispered through the empty field if one listened carefully. Glenn Brummer stealing home, Lou Brock stealing second, and the scowling grunts of the Mad Hungarian could be found as the memories of a storied team blew through the arches and past the scoreboard. 

A lone red bird softly fluttered to a landing on the dugout railing. His eyes burned bright, and his chest puffed ever so slightly. He then flew to the grassy area just past second base. The Cardinal had finally taken the field.

The pinks, purples, and golds of an early October sunrise filtered their way through scattered clouds. Autumn was Mylah Kennedy’s favorite time of year, and this year was special. After dreaming of becoming an art teacher since junior high, Mylah finally had a position at Highland Hills Elementary. For the area, this was a plum job. How she was hired over teachers with years more experience, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to question her good fortune.

“It’s obvious, honey, that your positive attitude and enthusiasm won them over,” her mother told her. 

“Mom, you’ve always been my biggest cheerleader. I just hope I’m good enough and don’t let the school down.”

Her mother took Mylah by the elbows and leaned in, her green eyes on fire with love. “You listen here. You are the best teacher for this job. You’ve lived for this moment. Everyone loves your spunk. Now go make the world a brighter place for those children.”

With her mother’s pep talk in mind, Mylah poured herself into the school year. Teaching kindergarten through fifth-grade art kept her on her toes, but she loved every second of her job. Each grade brought its own challenges, but she did her best to instill the fundamentals and to inspire a love for art. 

“Children, look at the world around you,” she would say. “Everything you see can become art if you view it that way. Did you see something today that you think is art?”

Jimmy Martin raised his hand as twenty other first graders raised theirs. 

“Yes, Jimmy.”

“I saw a bird this morning. A bluebird. It sat on an old wooden fence. It was pretty.”

“Very good! Who else?”

Liza Gantry spoke next. “My grandmother has a rose bush in her front yard. It’s yellow. Yellow is my mom’s favorite color.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful.” 

Liza wriggled and smiled a shy little grin, pleased that her answer was correct. 

Around the class, Mylah, or Ms. Kennedy as her students knew her, called on each child. 

“My brother’s new truck.”

“The red barn at the Clouse’s farm.”

“My dog, Pixie.”

Each child had a piece of real-world art to talk about. 

Every day, Mylah Kennedy asked her students to think of something they could see that they considered art. It could be as simple as the pencil on their desk, or as exotic as a peacock. After a month or so, she asked her students to picture art objects in their minds. 

“Close your eyes. Imagine what it would look like if you drew it on a piece of sketch paper.”

She could tell by the expressions on their faces that her eager students visualized their art. This was what she’d always wanted. Art became a part of her students’ daily lives. 

One day, Mr. Reynolds, the principal, stopped her in the hallway. 

“I’m not sure what magic you’re casting in your classes, Ms. Kennedy, but the students love your room. Parents have even told me that when they’re driving in the car or taking a walk, their children point out the art they see. Keep it up!”

Mylah blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll do my best.”

“We’re glad to have you here.” With that, Reynolds, always a man on the move, strode down the hallway. 

His encouraging words fueled Mylah to think of innovative ways to teach her young students the fundamentals of art. They’d begun the year with hands-on clay sculptures. The children loved feeling the medium in their little hands. Now she needed another engaging project. One idea had tickled her brain for a few months, and she decided the time had come to try it. 

“Today, class, we are going to put art we see down on paper. Peter, will you pass out the charcoal pencils for me? Lydia, will you give one sheet of sketch paper to each student?”

Smiling, she patiently stood at the front of the room as the supplies were handed out. 

“What I want you to do is close your eyes and imagine something that is in this room that you would like to draw. Imagine it as a piece of art, just like we’ve been practicing.”

She gave the squirming students a moment to focus on what they envisioned drawing. 

“Now, open your eyes and draw what you could see.”

“But, Ms. Kennedy.”

“Yes, Hannah?”

“We don’t have any colors. Just black.”

“That’s right. I want us to practice the basics first. Later this year, we will add color to our drawings. For now, we are going to work on getting the shapes down. Make sure you give your drawing a title, too. We will be practicing these same drawings every day for the next two weeks, improving on the idea you come up with today.”

Her students loved her, so they set to work, doing their best to please her. At the end of class, a few students rushed to put the finishing touches on their creations. As she’d taught them, when the bell rang, they carefully turned their work into their hour’s slot in the wooden cabinet next to Mylah’s desk. They placed the charcoal pencils back in the supply box. With smiles on their faces, they filed out of the room. It was the end of the day, and the students hurried off to their homeroom. 

Eager to see what her students drew, Mylah pulled the papers from the cabinet and flipped through them. She was puzzled. 

Hmmm. The children did as I asked. They gave their drawings titles, but these are all of the same thing—people. But these aren’t people who were in our room. 

One boy’s drawing was entitled “Gregor.” A little girl’s was named “Jano.” Another named his “Belzor.” Each child’s drawing was a version of either Gregor, Jano, or Belzor.

Perplexed, the next day, she addressed her class. “Yesterday, students, we were supposed to draw pictures of something in this room. All of you drew figures of people. You named them all the same three names. I’d asked you to draw something in this room.”

“But we did, Ms. Kennedy.” Lydia looked at her with wide blue eyes. 

“You asked us to close our eyes and draw what we saw.” Peter shifted in his chair and looked around the room at his classmates for support. They all nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I did.” 

“We always have our friends with us, Ms. Kennedy.”

“You do, Billy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”. 

She stood in thought for a moment before she realized what her first-graders meant. 

“Of course! Are these your imaginary friends?”

Peter looked to his left and whispered something to no one in particular. He paused, then nodded.

“Yes, Ms. Kennedy. Gregor says he’s our imaginary friend, and he’s right here next to me. He’s in this room, so can we still draw him?”

Having imaginary friends was natural for children. Mylah didn’t want to dash the creativity of her students. This world would have enough chances to destroy their imaginations, and there was no reason for it to start today in her classroom. 

“I did say we’d practice these same drawings for two weeks, and this is what you chose to draw, so yes. You can continue to draw them.”

Sighs of relief swept through the classroom. Jimmy said, “Jano says, thank you.”

Mylah chuckled and said, “Tell Jano he’s welcome. Now for our lesson.”

On the board, she modeled how to draw a body, legs, arms, and a head. The students went to work. Following her lead, they created new versions of their previous drawings. 

Each day a new aspect was practiced. At the end of the week, Mylah was amazed by how much their drawings had improved. They became more detailed and less rudimentary. For being first graders, they showed a great deal of talent. 

She marveled at how the children’s depictions of their imaginary friends were so similar. Mylah assumed they’d told each other so many stories about these imaginary figures that they had a common description in mind. 

She didn’t want to brag, but the children were rapidly learning the drawing techniques she modeled for them. She left work on Friday, feeling invigorated. Her project was coming along better than she had hoped. 

The air was crisp, and the sky was clear as she walked to her car. Mylah pulled her coat closed against her chest as the wind whipped past her. The crimson of the maples mixed with the golden cottonwood trees. How could an artist not love autumn? A palette of colors was laid out across the countryside, and Mylah took the long way home so that she could enjoy the sights a little longer. 

The next Monday, Mylah picked up her lessons where she left off. Again, the children’s work was better than the time before. 

“Children, I’m so proud of you! Your artwork is really improving, and I am very impressed.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kennedy!” Shouts of joy erupted in the classroom. 

“Gregor says he’s glad you like what you see.” Peter smiled and nodded to the air beside him as he passed out the charcoal pencils to his classmates. 

By Wednesday, however, an unusual change in the drawings took Mylah by surprise. A darkness enveloped the drawings. The details had improved yet again, but there was an unsettling look in the eyes of Gregor, Jano, and Belzor. These imaginary friends looked downright.. well, evil. 

Only two more days to the unit remained, and Mylah looked forward to moving onto a happier project. Next week they would create Halloween decorations for the school hallway. 

On Thursday, Mylah’s mind played tricks on her. As she looked over her students’ work, she could have sworn the eyes of the figures watched her. She heard someone whisper in the back of the room as she reached the end of the stack of drawings. She jumped, and a sound akin to laughter behind her made her turn. Of course, nothing was there. 

She gathered her purse and coat, looked back into her classroom, then shut and locked the door. This project was no longer fun. 

Friday, of course, brought even more vivid images from the children. Nervously, she paced around the room, checking their work as they furiously drew to finish their masterpieces. Mylah was eager for the week and that project to be over. She was exhausted as she made her rounds. 

Was she losing her mind? Surely Jimmy’s eyes didn’t flicker black for an instant? No, that couldn’t be. 

Then a deep voice behind her said, “Ms. Kennedy, what do you think? It looks real, doesn’t it?”

Startled, she spun around. Peter held his picture up for her to see. She forced a smile and said, “Yes. Yes, it does.” And it did. 

The bell rang, but the students didn’t place their drawings in the cabinet. Instead, they left them sitting on their tables and rushed out the door, laughing. 

“Well, I guess on Monday I will have to remind them what our end of class procedures are,” she muttered to herself as she reached to pick up the first drawing. 

The piercing glare of Gregor made her blood run cold. Before she could pick up the paper, a clawed black hand came out of the drawing and grasped her wrist. Gregor cackled. Mylah struggled to free herself.

A rush of air swept through the room, and the papers swirled into the air, spinning frantically in a blur. Gregor continued his hold on her wrist. 

“You cannot escape my hold, Mylah. Can I call you Mylah? Ms. Kennedy seems so formal. After all, we’re friends. Not-so-imaginary friends. Isn’t that right, my sweet?” His other clawed hand reached out and caressed her face. 

“What’s happening? This can’t be real!”

“Oh, but we are real. We just needed your help.” Two voices spoke in unison. Mylah turned around to see the incarnations of Jano and Belzor. 

“My help? What do you mean, my help? You can’t be real.”

“We are real now, Mylah. We’ve waited for so long to be given form, and with your help, here we are. The children and their drawings brought us into this world. Now our work can be done.” Jano’s eyes sparkled. 

The three beings hissed hideous laughs. 

“No! You’re nothing more than imaginary friends. I’m dreaming that I see you.”

Gregor’s razor-sharp claw slid down Mylah’s forearm, and a thin stream of blood flowed. He placed the tip of his finger in his mouth. “This is all real, and ah, yes, you are indeed my sweet.”

Mylah shuddered and struggled to free his grasp. “What are you? You’re no childhood imaginary friend.”

Belzor took a step forward. “You’re a smart one, Mylah Kennedy. No, we are not imaginary friends.”

“What are you then?”

Jano and Belzor grinned and gave a nod toward Gregor, who pulled her close to him. She smelled the putrid stench of his breath and the odor of singed hair. 

“My sweet, we are demons. We have waited a long time for a means to cross over. We have hovered in this school for decades. The children were right. We were in this room, and you told them to draw what was in this room. You gave us our avenue to materialize in this dimension.”

“What are you going to do? Why are you here? Let go of me!” Mylah tugged her arm, but Gregor only tightened his grip. 

“Do? We are only the first. Others will follow. My sweet, we are going to conquer this world.”

In a flash, he entered her body. 

On Monday, it was second grade’s turn to draw what was in the room.

For several years, I’ve prided myself as being a collector of the unusual. My idea of unusual doesn’t always match what others deem it to be. People bring all sorts of things into my shop, but most items are commonplace. Sure, an antique teapot or Grandpa’s WWII sidearm might have great sentimental value to the individual person, but as a category, those are typical artifacts that can be found just about anywhere. I’m not discounting the importance of memorabilia. I simply have more discerning tastes. 

Two days ago, I heard the jingling of the bell on my shop door. Medium-height with short brown hair, wearing a thin brown coat, I wouldn’t have given the man a second glance on the street. 

“Excuse me, are you Stanley Perkins?” He set a chest on my countertop. 

“Yes, I am. What can I do for you today?”

“I understand you dabble in the unusual. I may have something that would interest you.”

I hear that fifty times a week. 

Skeptically, I sized up the chest and saw nothing spectacular about it. 

“I don’t have any use for an old chest, Mr.—“

“Smith.”

Oh boy, another anonymous peddler of the unimpressive.

“Looks can be deceiving. The chest itself isn’t of importance. It’s the contents that you may find interesting.”

I stared at the chest, and I’m afraid I didn’t hide my doubts well. 

“You don’t have to make a decision now. I’ll leave this here for you to go through. All I ask is that you keep the contents in the same order they are now.”

“Sounds fair enough. How much do you want for it—if I decide I want it?”

“We can discuss the terms once you’ve taken a look. I’ll come back on Friday. I’ve only let a few people, those with an interest in the unusual and the unexpected, see what’s inside. Remember, go through every item, then we will close the deal.”

Apparently, no one else wants to buy it. What the hell, though? Business is slow, and I’ve got some time to go through it.

“Okay, I’ll give it a gander. No promises, though.”

“I assure you, we will strike a deal.”

I turned to unclasp the latch to the chest, and when I turned around, Mr. Smith was gone. The jingling of the bell on my door was my only indication he had left. 

Truthfully, I didn’t think there’d be anything worthwhile in it, but I opened the lid to find stacks of papers. The parchment was yellowed and brittle. Old paper like that requires special handling or the oil on our hands will ruin them, so I found my box of latex gloves and put a pair on. I had to protect the documents, not only out of respect for the current owner, but because I wanted to get top dollar for them if they turned out to be something special and I chose to strike a deal.

I picked up a few stacks and set them on the counter. Then I remembered Smith’s request to keep everything in order, so I carefully placed them back together and hoisted the chest to the floor. I pulled up my comfy chair, refilled my coffee cup, and took a look at the first paper in the chest. 

A letter. An old one. Dated May 4, 1864. Hmmm. What do we have here?

Dear Jimmy,

I have been by your side since you were a small boy. I’ve accompanied you on many adventures, and I have so many fond memories of you. Do you remember the time when you and your brother dove off Steeple Rock into the river, but the current had moved the location of the pool? Or the time Old Man Gentry mistook you for a burglar and barely missed you with that shotgun blast? Those were some close calls, but you made it through. 

Tonight you are sleeping on the ground, dreaming of home and of those loved ones you have left behind. Tomorrow is a big day. The enemy has advanced farther, and you are going into dangerous territory. 

Know I am standing beside you and will not leave you my good friend. 

Sincerely yours, 

G.R.

A second page accompanied the letter. An obituary for Jimmy Thompson from a small town newspaper gave the details of his passing. Age 17, son of Edith and Ezra Thompson, he died May 5, 1864 in the Battle of the Wilderness. 

Why, he died the day after that letter was written. 

Always a softy for Civil War memorabilia, I began to think the chest might have potential. 

I carefully set Jimmy’s letter and obituary on the counter and read one after the other. So many were written to Civil War soldiers on both sides of the fight. Others were to farmers, doctors, school teachers, and people of all ages and walks of life. Filling up my cup of coffee, I pondered the fact that each letter was written the day before the death listed in the obituary. I  picked up the next letter, dated November 18, 1904.  

Dear Maude,

You are a remarkable woman, my dear. You have come so far from being that scrawny little girl who caught frogs and climbed trees with her brother. I smile now thinking of the time you filled Mabel Hammond’s lunch bucket with lizards just to hear her squeal at the church picnic. Mabel never could take a joke, and you endured the whipping from your daddy like a champion. Your spunk and determination got you far. 

You survived the Yankees raiding your home and leaving your family near starvation. You and Harmon Mackey raised six mischievous boys without a moment of outward frustration. You’ve seen births, deaths, cholera outbreaks, and most recently a World’s Fair. You became a grandma and a great-grandma, and your family adores you. 

I have enjoyed every moment we have spent together. I will be seeing you soon. 

Sincerely yours,

G.R.

As with the other letters, an obituary for Maude Mackey accompanied it. 

I read through several more, and the dates moved progressively forward. The letters were personal and touching, and I felt as though I peered into a crystal ball and could see these people come to life. 

One letter to Conrad Milton gave me pause. It was written the day before he died in the Battle of the Bulge. Why would Conrad’s letter hit me emotionally? Because he was my father’s best friend. They joined the Army the day after Pearl Harbor happened and, like all small towns back then, the hometown recruits were put in the same unit. My father was with him when the mortar shell landed smack dab on Connie. I’d grown up listening to stories about Conrad Milton. The letter included a few I’d never heard, like the time he and his little sister almost died from scarlet fever. 

Something bothers me, though. Just who is this writing these letters? Who is G.R.? Because of the span of years, there’s no way it’s the same person. Also, these people lived all across the country. How can this be?

Over the course of the next few days, I continued reading, letter after letter and obituary after obituary. They always recalled poignant moments of the person’s life. They were always signed by G.R. 

If these are fiction, I have no use for them. I’m not sure what Mr. Smith thinks he’s trying to sell me here. 

On Friday morning, I finally reached the bottom of the chest. One final letter remained, but unlike the others, there was no obituary. 

That’s odd. 

I carefully opened the last letter written on bright white paper. I checked the date, which couldn’t be right. September 14 of this year—why that was yesterday. I shrugged and began reading. 

Dear Stanley,

You’ve been one of my favorites since you were a young boy living on South Orchard Street. Always curious and always drawn to people and things that were different or unique, you’ve lived quite the life. For your senior trip, you chose to go to exotic New Guinea just so you could see real head hunters. Most people your age went to Paris or Barcelona, but you aren’t like other people. By the way, I didn’t know for sure if we were going to get off New Guinea with your head still attached, but fate had it that you would survive. 

Because I’ve enjoyed following you for so long, I wanted to give you this one last treat. No one else has been privy to the private collection of letters I’ve written  to those I have treasured above all others. This chest was my gift to you. I’m so glad I was able to meet you in person before we embark on our journey. I will see you soon. 

Sincerely yours, 

G.R. 

Who would know about New Guinea? What kind of trick is this?

Just then the bell on my door jingled. At first, I didn’t recognize the person who interrupted my thoughts. Instead of an old brown jacket, Mr. Smith wore a hooded robe and carried a scythe. 

“Hello, Stanley. I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift. Now it’s time for us to finalize our deal and leave.”

He reached his hand out to me, and in that moment I clearly recognized the Grim Reaper. Tomorrow’s paper would hold the obituary he’d add to his collection.

Daylight peeked through the looming storm clouds as Anderson Whitley finished his last shift as a train conductor. Thirty-three years had flown by. It hardly seemed possible that in a flash, a brief moment in the scheme of things, he had married, raised a family, and had a career that was mainly a good one. Not everyone could say that, and Anderson took pride in knowing he’d completed a job well done. 

Thoughts drifted back through the years. The scene played out before him as he remembered the nervous sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he interviewed with the railroad for his first job. Old man Zeb Haskins had arranged the interview for him. He had always taken a liking to young Anderson. Partly out of respect for Anderson’s father, Isaiah, who died in the war, and partly because Zeb raised five lovely daughters, but no sons, Anderson held a special place in the life of Zeb Haskins.

“Andy, I see my job at the railroad as a heritage. My father worked for them, and now I’m nearing retirement age. I have no son to pass my heirloom onto, but I have you. I’d be honored if you’d consider it.”

Anderson smiled a reminiscent smile. Zeb never did call him by his full name. To him, he was always Andy. 

“Zeb, I’m more than happy to interview for the job, but there must be two hundred people vying for that spot. You know times are tough. Don’t be too disappointed in me if I don’t get it.”

The old man blinked a few times and shifted his weight from side-to-side as he stared off into the distance before fixing his gaze back on the young man. “Andy, don’t you worry about that. You could never disappoint me. Just promise me you’ll do your best. And I mean do your best as an employee because I firmly believe the job is yours for the taking.”

That nervous kid in the sweat-drenched shirt sitting in front of Wilford Corning, the head of the railroad division in that region, wasn’t convinced he earned the spot on the crew. His voice shook. He nearly stumbled over the basic questions asked of him. Two days later, he received the call, however.

Of course, Zeb was the first person he told. “I can’t believe it. I got the job!”

Zeb seemed almost too confident when he replied, “I knew you would.”

Anderson had no doubt in that moment that Zeb had pulled strings and the job was his before the old man even asked him to apply. He didn’t care, however. It made Zeb happy, and it was a professional windfall a boy from a dirt poor family only dreamed of having. A career with the railroad would open many doors for Anderson. 

Within six months of starting his job, Anderson saved enough money for a down payment on a place he’d eyed for quite some time. The house had potential, and the land provided one of the prettiest views in the county. He dreamed of one day sitting on that front porch swing, holding the hand of a beautiful girl, and watching the sun go down. 

Anderson smiled. He always smiled when he thought of his Maryann. They had those sunset evenings, and after a whirlwind courtship, he brought her home as his wife. 

Oh, how she loved to cook. One of the first renovations Anderson made to the house was a custom kitchen for his aspiring gourmet chef. Maryann flipped through catalogs and scoured the aisles of home improvement stores until she found exactly what she wanted. His hefty paycheck with the railroad allowed Anderson the ability to pamper her. Any chance he had to dote on her, he did. 

On this last trip as a conductor, Anderson wondered what the future held for his darling wife and him. His family as a whole, really. 

Yes, his family. He had so many warm memories of the kids. His job kept him away from home more than he would have liked, but Anderson made every moment with his family count. He was driven to make sure they had wonderful experiences and a solid foundation to build their lives upon. The loss of his own father when he was a toddler compelled Anderson to be the best father he possibly could be. All six of his children assured him he had succeeded, and now he had grandchildren to help raise. Because of his position, and with tonight being his last trip down the tracks, Anderson hoped for many more days with his growing family.

“Hey, Mr. Whitley. Excuse me, sir, but how much longer before we get there?” A young employee interrupted his thoughts. 

“Gates, you know as well as I do that it’s another thirty minutes before we reach the station.”

“I know. I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s all right. This is a big night.”

“Thank you. Sorry for bothering you sir.”

“It’s okay, Gates. Now go back to your position.”

Tonight was an unusual night, that was for sure. The sun had been all but lost in the gathering storm clouds. Lightning flashed ahead of the train, and the rays through the clouds cast an odd yellow hue to everything around the train as it barreled to its final destination.

This was not an ordinary trip, not simply because of his upcoming retirement. Anderson tried to soak in every sight along the way. He wanted these images burned into his memory forever.

He recalled the first time he’d heard the news. It wasn’t broadcast on the television or radio. No, he learned of it when he’d been called into a corporate meeting in Chicago. Over the years, his personable disposition and flawless work ethic earned him friends in high places in the company. It paid off for Anderson. His connections led to him having the privilege of this night. They allowed him to have hope for tomorrow as well. Not everyone—in fact, not most—were as lucky. 

Guilt swept over the conductor. He tried not to think of what tomorrow would bring for those less fortunate than his family. It wasn’t their fault to be on the losing end of this hand, nor was it Anderson’s fault for being dealt a better one. It was fate and luck. Nothing more. 

Anderson shook his head in silence. He wasn’t sure how lucky any of them were. Not anymore. 

Deep in thought, he’d lost track of time. He was surprised to see the lights of the station entrance tucked into the side of the mountain. The Rockies had been one of his most scenic routes. He’d taken Maryann and the kids on vacations there many times. His family, and soon the other passengers on this last train, would see the mountains from a different perspective: from the inside.

Anderson had been given a tour of the facility, or at least part of it. The gargantuan structure buried deep inside the range was too large for one man to walk in the course of a day. Then again, there were portions of the facility that regular citizens, like himself, would never have access to. Those were reserved for government employees and the military.

As they approached the entrance, a sophisticated gate slid open, allowing the train to be swallowed by the mountain. The tracks were empty, and the station was desolate, as Anderson guided the last train into the stop. Everyone else sheltered a few stories below, awaiting what tomorrow would bring.

As the gate slid closed behind the train, the last vestiges of daylight fell behind the clouds as rain pelted the ground outside. 

Anderson watched as the passengers disembarked, waiting eagerly for Maryann, his children, and his grandchildren to join him. He was thankful they were with him for his final day as a conductor. 

The train, nicknamed “The Ark” by many, carried the last of mankind to be saved from the cataclysmic asteroid impact that would happen at 5:17 the next morning.

Last June, the world was supposed to come to an end when an asteroid hurtled through space on a collision course with our planet. Mankind had never faced a graver threat. Riots erupted, governments collapsed, and anarchy reigned on the streets. Things were so simple then. We faced unstoppable annihilation, and that truth couldn’t be changed, until it was.

We had two months of warning as the asteroid approached. Two months was plenty of time for us to tear ourselves to shreds. At a time when altruisms like peace and brotherhood would have made our deaths seem somehow noble, old wounds, barely covered hatreds, and primal fears wreaked havoc on civilization. Race against race, country against country, and religion against religion tore nations and allegiances apart. Neighbors and family members killed one another over bunkers and bread. Utter mayhem ruled the land for two months. Until we were surprised by what initially was considered good news.

Two days before impact, the asteroid slowed to a stop. No, it’s not possible for an asteroid to come to a halt. Nor is it possible for it to break up into smaller parts which then began separate orbits around Earth. Baffled, scientists scrambled to find answers.

The mystery was solved when one of those pieces crashed in a remote part of New Mexico in Rio Arriba County not far from Farmington. Teams of researchers raced to the area. There they found a badly disabled alien craft, no bigger than a Volkswagen in size. The asteroid was no asteroid at all. It was an alien craft sent as an expeditionary force to our planet.

Inside the damaged craft, scientists found the remains of five aliens, mutilated by the crash. Top researchers whisked the bodies off to government labs for study. While hideous from our perspective, the aliens were not so different from humans when it came to the basics. They breathed oxygen. Their bodies were 70% water. They had a well-developed brain and nervous system. Perhaps they were curious about their Earth cousins.

Two days after the crash, however, their intentions proved less than peaceful. They began by blowing up the International Space Station, then methodically took out one satellite after another. Earth’s enemies, the United States, Russia, and China, quickly pooled their abilities and scrambled a space force to neutralize our hostile visitors. 

A battle blazed across the sky, and losses were heavy for the international forces. They did prevail, however. Every alien craft, save for one, was destroyed. The lone craft made its way, damaged but still functioning, out of our solar system.

We breathed a sigh of relief, and our leaders vowed to spare no expense to take the fight to the aliens. In a joint statement, world leaders announced a plan.

“We will work tirelessly to use our latest technology to destroy our enemy. With the use of our space telescopes, we have located the alien planet. We have a plan in place to end the threat.”

A top secret project was launched that spanned the globe. For decades, robotics engineers had perfected nanotechnology. The joint military effort of Earth’s developed nations created an army of nano soldiers. Millions of tiny robots the size of grains of sand would be placed on a deep space rocket. Once landed, the micro force would spill out across the enemy land, destroying everything it encountered.

Backup scenarios were in place. In the event of a crash or even the destruction of the rocket, the tiny soldiers would jettison their way to the planet. If the project had to abort, the nano troops would self-destruct and become inoperable. This fail-safe method insured security while handling the force and allowed for contingencies.

Researchers who studied the dead aliens in New Mexico months earlier provided vital information for helping the nanotechnology target the life forms. No oxygen-breathing organisms would escape alive once the kill command was activated. 

As the project reached the end phase prior to launch, the public was informed of the plans. After so much grief, the citizens of Earth needed to know what mankind was doing to save itself. 

Top scientists from around the world worked day and night on Operation Hourglass. A Cal-Tech graduate, Edward Filmore was a perfect fit to work as a top technician on this vital project. Edward was a genius. He had a mad scientist look about him and, fortunately for him, his wife was attracted to his brilliance. It certainly wasn’t his looks or athletic ability that caught her eye. Edward had been known to trip over his own shoe laces, and handsome was never a word used to describe him. Edward was a klutz, but he was a good man. His worst attributes were his lack of common sense or social skills. Get him started talking about science and mathematics, however, and the man came to life.

Edward’s job wasn’t to develop nanotechnology. No, his team was tasked with guiding the rocket carrying the precious weaponized cargo into space. Many worked on his team, but he played a vital role in the success of the mission. While much of the flight would be controlled by computers, Edward’s job was to man the control panel, adjusting on the fly, so to speak, as necessary. It was the type of intellectual job he was geared for. 

Two weeks prior to launch, Edward and his team were invited into the containment facility where the nano force was stored awaiting its mission. The tiny grains of sand designed to prevail in Operation Hourglass were part of a Show-and-Tell presentation given by the lab.

“Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, these robots are inert at the moment. Dip your fingers into this Petri dish to feel the tiny granules that will save our planet from any future alien attacks.” The head of the lab, Michael Fitzgerald, held a dish out for each of the technicians to take a close look at the tiny warriors.

Each technician pinched a portion between their thumbs and index fingers and examined the mechanical heroes. Inert was a good way to describe them, thought Edward. It was hard to believe that mankind’s future depended upon this metallic dust. Edward nearly dropped his pinch of nanotechnology, but he managed to catch himself just in time.

The project leaders gave short speeches, refreshments were served, and dignitaries thanked every member of the operation for their dedication and diligence. 

“No time in our history has relied so heavily on the know-how of our brilliant scientists. Thank you for coming on today’s tour. Now back to work! The clock for Operation Hourglass—and mankind—is ticking.”

Edward and his team returned to their stations. With only two weeks before launch, rest came in short breaks. Naps replaced full-fledged sleep. 

Unlike the time of chaos during the asteroid crisis, now that the world had a plan to end the alien threat once and for all, peace reigned on Earth. In our communities and on our streets there were marches of solidarity. People linked arms with one another, helped their neighbors, and began to act…humanely. 

There was hope. Maybe, just maybe, mankind had learned its lesson.

On the day of the launch, the world tuned in and held its collective breath. Bands played. Speeches were broadcast. Mainly, however, everyone watched the countdown clock. 

As the final seconds ticked away, the rocket’s engines flared to life. Millions—billions—of people roared with the thrust of the engines. 

Edward Filmore and his team pored over the controls. All systems were go. Until they weren’t. 

The rocket, ignoring all commands, toppled to its side, spilling its precious cargo of heroic warriors. Frantic, the scientists scrambled to regain control.

In the nano lab command center, panic erupted. Instead of self-destructing, the tiny robots weaponized and began spreading out across the grounds, intent on destroying all oxygen-dependent life in their path.

There was no stopping them.

Machines have no emotions. Or do they? 

The tiny robot that had jostled its way onto Edward Filmore’s shirt sleeve two weeks ago when he nearly dropped his sample during Show-and-Tell now rejoiced in a job well-done. Covertly slipping into Edward’s keyboard, it had worked hard in recent days reprogramming the rocket circuitry and activating the kill command.

A new day had dawned, and the world lay before his comrades.