Moiré

Wendell peered through the swirling branches jutting out from the large Podocarpus tree above him and determined that he was, at long last, drunk. He and Alice usually didn't hit the red wine so hard during their Sunday afternoon picnics in Tenroot Park, but they had started drinking early and the overcast weather had warned off the judgmental families that tended to swarm around the park on nicer days. The low, grey clouds spun above the bushy trees' limbs in Wendell's vision as Alice, also lying face up on the large, plaid blanket, softly sang "Lido Shuffle".

After a joining her for a few "whoa oh oh ohs", Wendell sat up and topped off their red plastic cups with the remaining wine from the fourth (and final) bottle. He turned away from Alice, sitting on his side, and admired the distance between the real world and their quiet green spot on the far northwest corner of Tenroot. These afternoons had become something of a ritual when they had relocated back to Tulsa, just after that rocky year in Salt Lake City. The wine was a welcomed late edition, and Wendell was beginning to think that Alice would rather keep these afternoons than ever consider having a baby - not that he was sure they were ever headed in that direction. He envisioned a near future where this Sunday afternoon activity would bleed outwards, spreading its warmth into Saturday nights and Monday mornings.

Through glassy eyes, Wendell glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Alice's side of the blanket was sinking into the ground. He wondered if he was having a rare drunken hallucination, or perhaps it was some odd optical illusion gained from his vantage point. Then the ground beneath Alice completely gave way and pulled her and the entire blanket underground, causing Wendell to spin/roll onto the cold grass. Alice, the blanket, and the picnic basket full of empty wine bottles had all disappeared into a hole in the earth; Wendell had spilled red wine all over himself in the process of losing them.

Wendell stared at the hole, dumbfounded, and finally called for Alice. No response, nothing but a new chill in the air causing gooseflesh to cover his arms. He shivered and, without thinking, was about to crawl into the hole himself when Alice's arm launched out from the void and she dragged herself to the surface. Disheveled and out of breath, she stood up for a moment before plopping back down at the side of the hole. In one of her hands, Wendell saw that she was clutching a fresh bottle of red wine.

"Sorry, lost the blanket and the basket. Couldn't get them back up. Got this, though," she said, giving Wendell a closer look at the bottle. The label wasn't a brand he knew and appeared to be written with an alphabet he had never seen before. He struggled to speak, to make sense of the moment. Alice wiped some sweat from her brow, smearing some dirt across her forehead as she did so. After a moment, Wendell silently pulled the wine key from his pocket, opened the new bottle, and poured.

Wichita Cafe

After over thirty minutes of driving around, searching for something special, Mark saw the sign. Wichita Cafe, it read, absent of any visible irony. Mark cocked his head and glanced at the car's GPS, just in case he had accidentally driven through a wormhole during his quest.

Still in Santa Rosa, which is - I'm pretty sure - nowhere near Wichita.

He smiled as he pulled into the tiny, poorly-lit parking lot. "I think this counts, Sandra," he said to the empty Honda Civic.

"You should get out of the car every once in a while, try to soak up some local color," Sandra had told him the night before he set off for the cross-country trip to Phoenix. "I did a similar trip back in college with some friends. We hit half a dozen diners and met some really cool people along the way."

"Oh, and are you still in touch with all of them?" Mark's dry delivery caught her off guard. Sandra began to speak, but he cut her off with, "How is Big Bertha from Little Rock these days?" She answered him with an arched eyebrow as he took a sip of the fruity cider she had offered to him in lieu of any real alcohol.

However, Sandra's advice had tapped him on his shoulder earlier that night as Paula, the gothy front desk clerk at the Villager Inn, offered him the easiest and most convenient options for dinner during his stop in Santa Rosa.

"There's a Frizzy Frog, a Topper's, and a Pyro-Burger this way," she said pointing a black fingernail to the left. "You could also go to Bistro Bonaventure down this way, if they're still open this late," she said pointing to the right.

One never-quite-desperate search later, Mark had found his place: the Wichita Cafe, which was (according to the GPS) a good eight hours outside of Wichita, Kansas.

Mark walked inside and was immediately glad for his choice. Valentine's Day decorations hung from ceiling fans, which would have been more appropriate in February. A older woman in jeans stood behind a host station and discussed marinara with a nearby bald man.

"If it's right for spaghetti, it's right for cheese sticks."

"I don't agree," the bald man said as he noticed Mark, offering then a weak smile as a greeting. The woman turned her attention to their new guest. Mark felt a moment of judgment and was about to ask if they were still open, but she welcomed him with a simple question.

"Just one?"

He nodded and she led Mark to a booth along the front of the diner. In a nearby booth, he noticed a youngish couple sitting side-by-side, both facing toward him. Mark had never really thought about it before, but it made sense that the proper seating tactic when dining alone would be to face away from them. After all, he figured, it would be awkward to face the couple as he ate. Plus, as judgmental as the assessment made him feel, these weren't the "really cool" people from Sandra's storied trip. They seemed sad and quiet for their years; their clothes were drab, as were the expressions on their faces.

Trying to seem natural about it, Mark quickly sat with his back to the couple and asked for a Coke. The jeans woman told him his waitress would be out in a minute before returning to Marinara Talk with the bald man.

Mark took out his phone and enabled data usage so that he could find something to read from the internet. As he searched his bookmarks, the guy behind him exploding into a fit of coughing and Mark could hear his girlfriend pat him on the back.

It might be his sister. Probably not, but maybe.

A little while later the waitress appeared and set a menu down in front of Mark.

"Hiya, how are ya?" she asked. She wore a dress that looked more like what a cleaning woman would wear, though Mark struggled to pinpoint the distinction.

"I'm good," he said. His mind struggled for the good opener that would lead to a bit of conversation. That was, after all, the entire reason why he'd come here to the Wichita Cafe rather than Pyro-Burger or Topper's, whatever a Topper's was. However nothing arrived and he was left with only, "Could I get a Coke?"

"We have Pepsi. That okay?"

Mark nodded and the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. He saw that the menu was generic and was disappointed that it didn't have the name of the diner on the front. He'd have to remember to use his phone to get a picture of the sign out front. With that thought, another wet storm of phlegm erupted from the drab fellow facing his back. Trying his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds, Mark opened the menu and checked out the dinner entrees.

The waitress reemerged from the kitchen and set a glass of Pepsi in front of Mark. He instantly noticed that there was only three or four ice cubes, slivers really, floating near the top of the glass. Mark had heard about this phenomenon before, that of withholding ice in favor of more beverage, but had never seen it in practice. In that moment, he was glad that he'd found the Wichita Cafe.

"Do you know what you want?"

Mark asked the waitress about a few items on the entree list, but settled on her recommendation of pot roast with mashed potatoes. She walked over to the couple behind him and Mark pretended to read an article he had pulled up on his phone.

"Did you decide on something?" she asked them.

"No, we're still looking," the drab girl replied. Mark could hear the waitress walk back into the kitchen.

"Chili would be nice," the guy told his girlfriend. His tone was low, but borderline whiny all the same.

"I don't feel like chili," she said, scolding.

Sharing a meal? I hope that's because they're not very hungry. If not...well, it's not like I can just offer to buy dinner for strangers unprovoked, can I?

The waitress returned from the kitchen and the girl called for her.

"Miss? I was wondering something. See, we're heading south, but it's getting late and, well, do you know where we could get a cheap place for the night? All we need is a warm room with a bed."

Mark felt like he knew what was coming next.

"Well, the Villager Inn, just off I-40 is probably what you're looking for," the waitress told them.

Bad call, Flo. First of all, the Drab Twins obviously want a mo-tel and the Villager is a ho-tel. Big price difference. Also, Gothy Paula made it sound like I snagged the last available room.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." The guy exploded into another coughing fit.

"Sure thing, sweetie." The waitress then appeared next to Mark with his pot roast and mashed potatoes, no doubt likely covered in spittle and germs courtesy of the coughing dude.

Nice flight pattern, taking my food right by intensive care.

"Thanks! Could I get some extra napkins and a little more ice in my Coke?"

"It's Pepsi."

"Right."

Mark quietly ate his dinner and checked out a few more websites on his phone. The pot roast was chewy, but tasted fine. After a few minutes, the drab couple quietly left the diner. Despite their sullen demeanor, Mark felt bad for them and hoped they would find the warm bed they were looking for. He made a few attempts at small talk with the waitress, but she seemed uninterested in chatting so close to the end of an undoubtedly long shift at the Wichita.

When Mark returned to the Villager Inn, he saw the couple again as they stormed out of the front entrance. The girl's eyes were fiery from a recent argument, very likely with Gothy Paula. She turned her intense gaze toward Mark and he surprised himself.

"Hey, Wichita Cafe, right? I thought I heard that you were looking for a place to crash. I know it's not ideal, but I've got an extra bed in my room." The couple looked to each other and saw exhaustion mirrored on their faces. Mark hastily added, "No charge, of course. Just a little company would be nice."

Back in the hotel room, they sat on the queen-sized beds and chatted for a while. Mark offered them snacks from his travel bag, which the couple greedily accepted. The sullen pair perked up a bit with food in their stomachs, but Mark's concerns grew. Gaping holes appeared in their stories they told him, inconsistent in such aspects as where they were from and where they were going. Mark, hoping to not cause anger in point out such things, played it cool and didn't appear suspicious. They eventually took turns getting ready for bed. While the guy was in the bathroom, the girl made a sexual pass at Mark. It took effort, but Mark handled the situation perfectly and spared her of any residual embarrassment. As they lied down to sleep, the guy's coughing fits returned. Hours and hours passed before Mark could sleep, finally finding solace during the early hours of the morning. The next day, the couple sheepishly asked Mark if they could have another night in the room on his credit card, a gift. Mark quickly devised a lie, telling them that he was using his company's expense account to travel and could only put one single night on it. After he left the hotel, however, the couple managed to get back into the room and stayed another two full days. When Mark received the itemized bill two weeks later, it was clear that the couple had wrecked the place and had stolen several items from the room, including the TV and several pieces of furniture. Mark found himself truly angry for the first time in his life. He spent weeks trying to locate the couple, unrelenting obsession always tapping at his shoulder. The trail went cold from time to time, but then he'd suddenly find a trace again, getting close. And forever on this chase toward rightful justice, he was finding out things about them that he never wanted to know.

But they'd win in the end. Even if theirs was no sort of life to be lived, they'd win. Of course they would.

Mark was still lost in this elaborate story as the couple walked around him outside the Villager Inn. The girl either didn't recognize him from the diner or simply didn't care. Mark didn't turn back to watch them get in their car and drive away, though he did briefly wonder where "next" would be for them.

Soon after, he was in his room looking at the picture he had taken of the Wichita Cafe's sign. It looked smaller on his cellphone, as did the cafe itself. He decided he'd wait and send the picture to Sandra when he got to Phoenix, maybe with a few others he'd take along the way.

The Award

I'm not sure if it still exists today, but my elementary and middle schools (first Mountain Gap, then Challenger) had an advanced academics program called SPACE*. The so-called gifted kids in the program spent about a fifth of their class time with special teachers doing fun and educational projects while learning at an accelerated rate. In high school, these students would be automatic candidates for advanced placement classes, earning college credit before even stepping foot on a university campus.

I didn't actually know any of this stuff when my 2nd grade teacher recommended that I be tested to see if I qualified for SPACE. But like much of my adult life, I was eager to be accepted regardless of the consequences. There's something extremely attractive about exclusivity. However, the test proved to be too difficult and my teacher notified my mother that I wasn't right for the program. This was a huge disappointment at the time, though my mom consoled me with the fact that the recommendation itself was an intrinsic honor.

The next year, I was recommended by another teacher to take the 3rd grade version of the test. The ideas behind the questions and challenges were basically the same: spacial reasoning, problem solving, etc. Even though this was decades ago, I can still remember one puzzle from it now, and only because I'm certain that I got it wrong. I was asked to piece together silhouetted sections of a cardboard horse in a set amount of time, but I placed a part of its body where the horse's neck should have gone. Poor little pony. Regardless, I apparently did better than I had the first time and was given the SPACE seal of approval, which was a note to my teacher and a phone call to my mom. Soon after that, I was ushered into a gleaming world of magic and wonder.

Well, not exactly.

Twice a week, the other SPACE kids and I would go to a classroom with a special teacher and spend the full second part of the day there. The teacher, Mrs. K, was a fun and slightly eccentric woman in her thirties. She kept us busy for much of the time with logic problems, the kind where you have to figure out what fictional characters did and had based on given clues. For instance one of the clues might be "Bobby hates sledding and one of the girls brought a baseball glove." So, then we'd go to the grid and mark an X at the cross section of "Bobby" and "sledding", along with all of the boys and "baseball glove". You can imagine how quickly the charm of these little gems faded.

But there was one large, month-long project that I'll never forget. One day Mrs. K announced to the class that we'd be divided into teams and tasked with building model bridges out of toothpicks. Even the thought of it now fills me with an existential dread. Mrs. K told us that each team would present their model after four weeks and she would judge the results based on certain qualities, the most important naturally being how much weight the bridges could carry. But she hinted that other attributes like best design and most creative features would also be considered. It sounded like fun at the time and, more importantly, a long break from the world of stupid logic problems.

I was placed in a normal team (that qualifier, "normal", will make sense soon) and we began talking about ideas for structure and the benefits of glue over other binding agents, such as Scotch tape or bubble gum. I wasn't as much interested in these conversations as I was interested in doodling on graph paper and making jokes, which Mrs. K took notice of pretty quickly. This lack of focus continued and, at the end of the second week, I found myself heading up a new team. Mrs. K had rounded up all of the "dead weight kids" from each team, put us all in a group, and named me their leader.

I was a little offended to be singled out as a shiftless layabout at first, but I quickly embraced my role as king of the too-cool-for-bridges squad and announced to my lazy cohorts, Mrs. K, and all of the normal teams that we would continue goofing off. I reasoned that we'd only need a couple of days at most to build the toothpick bridges. After all, these weren't real bridges and no lives were at risk if our bridge was the worst. And yes, our team was destined to lose by the very nature of our origin story - this inherent limitation was not lost on me at the time.

As the following days and weeks went by, Mrs. K would occasionally check in on my group's progress. Having nothing to show in terms of actual work, I would shield from her whatever funny cartoon I was working on and report that we were still in the planning stage, but that everything was perfectly on schedule. Then she'd walk off and I would nervously look around the room to the normal teams, all of them hard at work on mostly-completed, perfect little toothpick bridges. Then I'd shrug and go back to my hilarious doodles.

Reality set in on the day before the competition. I'd practically trained the rest of my team to blow off any notion of work, so I found myself alone on an island of panic. I quickly learned that toothpicks are a tricky building material and my very rudimentary sketch of a bridge was a poor blueprint. I spent the last hours of class time in failure mode, but I held my brave smile anytime Mrs. K walked by with her left eyebrow arched. I told her that I'd be finishing the model myself at home that night.

I don't remember much from that evening. I probably begged my mom and sister for help, but I think I was left to go at it solo, one glue-drenched toothpick at a time. I stayed up past my bedtime constructing the world's worst model bridge. It was the kind of work that's both sloppy and slow, done neither fast nor correctly. At the end of the night, I sat back and marveled at the slight, precarious embodiment of procrastination that I had created. It couldn't support an ant. Right now you might be thinking two things: 1) that building a bridge out of toothpicks doesn't sound so hard (you're wrong and probably not a nine-year-old kid), and 2) that my bridge probably wasn't as bad as I'm describing it (you're right - it was much worse).

The next day's grand finale competition went about as well as anybody could have expected. Mrs. K elected my team to go first, just to get us out of the way, really. She added a series of floppy disks suspended by string to test the strength of the bridge and, surprisingly, my sad model didn't break or fall apart. It just kind of leaned in until it touched its cardboard base...and stayed leaned in once Mrs. K removed the weights. Regardless, I counted the weak demonstration as a major victory, though any bravado that I might have exhibited that day was there purely to mask embarrassment. I'll spare you the details of the awesome designs and constructions that the other teams presented, as their victory is not what this story is about.

After each of the bridges was tested and judged, Mrs. K began handing out awards. They were certificates that she had created and printed out herself, each with 1980's-era clip art and titles such as "Strongest Design" and "Best Teamwork". I clapped along with the others, occasionally pretending to be shocked when we failed to win a category. After all of the awards had been handed out, Mrs. K gave a short speech about the importance of leadership. I sunk in my chair, thinking that the hammer would surely fall my way once the moral of the story kicked in.

She looked at me and smiled; I cringed. Then Mrs. K surprised me. She told everyone that I had shown a special quality in leadership and that I deserved a special award for what I had done. Her smile grew as she handed me - not my group, but just me - a certificate with my name on it. The picture displayed a man treading water, so that only his head was visible. Surrounding him, fins peaked through the surface of the water, alluding to the deadly sharks circling him below. Atop the certificate read, "Coolness Under Pressure". It was my very own award, and believe me when I tell you that I earned it.


* For the life of me, I can't remember what the SPACE acronym stood for. I've tried searching for mentions of it online to no avail, which leads me to believe that it was a local program for Huntsville, AL. It makes perfect sense that the powers-that-were would choose a term to reflect our civic Rocket City, USA identity. However, the fact that I also couldn't remember what SPACE stood for when I was still in the program tells me that I probably wasn't the best candidate for it.

Counterfeit Captivity

Kirby Bresling had almost served his first year at Belew Correctional before he pieced together that he wasn't being held in a real prison. His first hint was that he hadn't received any visitors since he'd arrived, nor did any of his phone calls ever reach friends or family. The guards, wearing their mismatched uniforms - perhaps another clue that the prison wasn't official - would tell Kirby that nobody loved a convict and that he should just stop thinking about the outside world. The other 27 inmates at Belew seemed to have accepted this sad philosophy, though Kirby never stopped thinking that the outside world cared...and also that 28 total inmates was a shockingly low population for a prison.

Meals consisted of either name brand microwaveable dinners or takeout food from one of the neighboring town's many chain restaurants. On holidays, the prisoners were treated to home-cooked meals courtesy of the warden's wife, Erika Eleniak of Baywatch fame. However, Kirby detected a certain ingredient in everything they were served, regardless of the meal's origin. Mozzarella Geoff, a large inmate known for his love of stuffed crust pizza, told Kirby that the kitchen staff added elderberry to every food item so that specially-bred dogs could easily locate convicts if they tried to escape.

Escape. The word kept circling in Kirby's mind. The prison's many oddities, coupled with the fact that he hadn't committed a crime or faced any sort of trial, convinced Kirby that he needed to escape if he was ever going to breathe free air again. He asked around and was told to seek the help of Greater Than James, a medium-sized inmate known for his love of comparison symbols. Greater Than James told Kirby that he'd need to hide out for a few weeks in one of the many unused cell blocks, staying out of sight there until any search parties or "find 'em soirees" would pass. He'd also need to avoid any food laced with elderberry, since the dog kennel was right next to the shortest fence in the prison yard. If Kirby could pull this off, Greater Than James assured him, he'd get his real chance to leave Belew Correctional for good.

And, well, that's what Kirby did.

After the final search had come back empty-handed, the dogs' heads lowered in shameful defeat, Kirby waited until prisoner nap time and took off on foot. He crawled right past three guards who were playing poker with some of the we're-not-sleepy inmates. Avoiding the dog kennel completely (even though he'd heard that one of the females had just had puppies), Kirby scaled the second tallest fence surrounding the fake prison and he skipped off into the late evening. Unfortunately, skipping caused him to twist an ankle so he limped the rest of the way to town, making it to a bus stop just in time to catch a bus without having to wait another ten minutes for the next one. He took the bus all the way to the end of its line in north Cincinnati, where he stole a car and drove it to his home in nearby Columbus.

In the years that followed, Kirby anonymously stayed in touch with his friends still held in counterfeit captivity through social media and disguised personal visits. He would regale them with tales of his life in the free world, which they would pretend to be impressed to hear about. Kirby also became a fan of Baywatch re-runs, and had to resist the urge to send fan letters to the warden's wife. And even though it wasn't something he ever would have imagined that he'd do in freedom back in the days when he was still holed up at Belew Correctional, Kirby added elderberry to every meal that he ate for the rest of his life.

Roller Coaster

Clyde awoke at dawn and went to the refrigerator. He felt compelled to check on a turkey sandwich that he had made the previous night. Due to the elongated surface area of the bread he had bought the week before, the sandwich was very large, too big to fit into one Ziploc bag. Clyde had been forced to seal the two halves separately.

Sitting side-by-side on the top shelf, Clyde saw that both halves were still sealed in their separate zipper storage baggies, but only one half of the sandwich had been preserved. The other half, the part laying on the right-hand side of the shelf, had visibly spoiled overnight. He began to think of what possible variables could have caused the strange inconsistency when he heard Gresham and Nell take their posts at the roller coaster next door.

"Hey, Nell!" Gresham called out to the tall, surly girl across the platform. "What'd you get into last night? I heard you let Shawn Decker get to home plate." Gresham wheezed out a harsh laugh as he crossed his thin, pale arms. He was wearing another punk-looking, sleeveless shirt. Clyde had never heard of anybody named Gresham before, but knew his name from overhearing many conversations between the two college dropouts during their daily shifts at the roller coaster.

Nell lowered her sunglasses and extended a middle finger in Gresham's direction. Still holding it up, she walked over to a large, lectern-sized control panel and pressed the offending finger onto a red button. Grinding clicks and mechanical groans sounded as the roller coaster roared to life. Nell flipped her hair from one side of her head to the other. Clyde had observed that, on weekends, she liked to dye it dark red and spike it up, Mohawk-style. However, it hung in a pinkish blonde, limp cascade on this Tuesday morning, the red not entirely washed out from the previous weekend.

Clyde stared at the vulgar young people through his kitchen window and thought back to the days when the lot next to his house was nothing more than a pile of wreckage. He missed the chirping of birds and the gentle spraying sounds of lawn sprinklers the most. All of his neighbors had moved away once they heard that a single-standing roller coaster would take the place of the demolished Blockbuster Video, but Clyde had opted to stick around and see just how bad it would be before deciding if he would leave or not.

Three short months later, he had to admit that it was pretty bad. The kinetic vibrations from the coaster's first large drop tended to rattle Clyde's wine glasses and often knocked picture frames off of the walls. Also, the loop-the-loop was right next to his bedroom, so the screams of elated passengers would keep him up until the roller coaster closed for the night, usually around midnight.

Taking a deep breath, Clyde lifted the window and called out to the lone-ride carnival employees.

"Morning, gang!" he called to them in his most chipper voice. The ornery teens glared up at him. Clyde cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Hi. I'm not sure if you got my letter last week, but would it be possible for you to ask your guests to not litter or, you know, urinate upon my lawn?"

"I'm sorry?" Nell asked him, cupping her ear. She was standing further away from his house than Gresham, but Clyde suspected that she had heard him just fine.

"It's just...the noise is bad enough, but the litter and, you know, urine smell is just getting intolerable."

Nell locked eyes with Clyde and began to walk toward his kitchen window. One of the long roller coaster trains rushed along the rails, grinding to a halt in the platform's passenger loading station. Without stopping or even looking down, Nell skipped up onto one of the cars and glided across it, glided as if it had been there for her all along. She pushed by Gresham, passing by him without taking her eyes off of Clyde. She then stopped and rested her forearms on the platform's railing, which stood less than three feet away from Clyde's window.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you," she said to Clyde. Her voice was low and sexy. Clyde knew it wasn't genuine, but it gave him a chill all the same. She batted her eyes. "Is there some sort of problem, Clyde Brinkman?"

"Well, it's just..." Clyde looked to Gresham, who now was wearing a merciless smirk across his pimply face. The punk had thrown his arms around a metal rod that was resting on his shoulders and Clyde could see reddish underarm hair sprouting from the sleeveless section of his shirt. Nell reached over the railing and grabbed Clyde by the chin, forcing his lips into a sloppy pucker. He sputtered a bit and finally said, "No, it's just...I was just saying 'good morning'."

Nell leaned in close to Clyde, close enough so that he could smell her passion fruit lip gloss. "Well, good morning, neighbor." She quickly released his chin and smacked his forehead hard, pushing him back into his kitchen a bit. Gresham howled with laughter as Nell sauntered back to her post at the control panel.

From over a block away, Clyde could hear the first wave of thrill seekers arriving. Just like any other day, their yells and cries would attempt to dominate the the noise of the roller coaster, eventually settling for second place. A deafeningly close second place.

"Time for a test run," Nell announced. Gresham hopped into the first car of the train as Nell started the ride. As the roller coaster rose up into meet its first summit, Gresham pumped both of his middle fingers into the air and sneered at the world. Clyde could only stand and watch.

Flashing a smile at their reluctant voyeur, Nell called out, "Let us know if you ever want a ride, Clyde!" She then laughed at the rhyme as though it was the funniest thing she'd ever said or heard.

Clyde closed the window, along with the blinds. He backed up into the darkness of his kitchen, listening to the swooshing noise of the roller coaster outside. His fists clenched, he walked back to the refrigerator and peered into it again. Clyde saw that one half of the sandwich was still good and the other was still bad. However, the spoiled one, its elongated bread covered in a thin layer of blue-green mold, was now on the left-hand side.

"How about that," he said to himself, loud enough so that he could hear his voice over the noise of the roller coaster next door.

9pm - ?

According to the invitation, 9pm was the official start time of Dave and Sally's annual Halloween party. However, Ben immediately felt foolish for arriving right on time when Dave answered the door wearing plain jeans and a t-shirt. He looked at Ben, confused.

"Oh. Hey, Ben. Wow, I didn't think people would start showing up until around ten or so."

"I guess I'm a little early," Ben muttered. Dave's porch was still dark, but Ben had thought it was a part of the decor. Now he realized that 9pm meant...well, not 9pm. "So, uh. Need any help setting up?"

"Nah, it's cool. Come on in. Sally's still getting ready and I haven't even started." As he led Ben into his living room, Dave could better see Ben's homemade costume, which included a Medieval-looking tunic with red markings. Dave studied it for two seconds before asking, "What are you supposed to be anyway, some sorta Star Wars thing?"

"Nope. Not even close," Ben replied. "I have a prize for whoever guesses it correctly." He patted a leather satchel that was strapped to his belt.

As the couple finished getting ready upstairs, Ben sat in the living room, sipping on pumpkin ale and watching some horror movie scenes that someone had edited together. He didn't know most of the films, but the visuals went well with the spooky ambient music playing over it.

Eventually, other guests started arriving. Dave and Sally's small house and backyard was soon filled with brooding vampires, sexy witches, and movie monsters galore. Sally instructed all zombies to keep their fake dirt and blood off of her furniture. There were also a few guests in pun-related costumes, as well as the expected assortment of cultural references from the year.

"My roommate is Wander Woman, like, as in 'wandering the desert', and I'm Molasses Cat," a fur-clad girl informed Ben as she held up an emptied mason jar that was affixed to her hand. Ben nodded and decided he would need stronger inebriation than pumpkin ale could offer. He excused himself to get some hunch punch, Sally's diabolical specialty, from the back porch. That's where he met Kimberly.

"I know who you are," she said from behind him. Ben turned toward her voice and almost spilled hunch punch on himself. Even through her creepy banshee costume, he could tell that she was the most beautiful girl at the party, maybe any party ever.

"Really?" he said. "That can't be possible. I'd remember you." He was smiling, but completely serious and beyond confused.

"No," Kimberly said, laughing. "I know who you're dressed as. You're Darek Alger from the Signal Dagger series."

Ben was taken aback. "You know the Signal Dagger books?"

"Please. I practically turned my whole dorm onto them back in college."

"That's awesome. And impressive. The only think I turned my dorm onto was the idea to wear shower shoes in the bathroom."

She smiled and Ben took a deep sip of hunch punch. As the night and party progressed, they continued talking and flirting. Ben looked around and saw Dave, now dressed as a hippie, pull his peace symbol sunglasses down to wink at him. He walked by Ben and joked, "Don't worry, buddy. I'm sure you'll find a pretty girl somewhere around here." Ben blushed and smiled at Kimberly, who smiled back.

There were plenty of other guests, but Ben and Kimberly might as well have been alone together. They only wanted to talk to each other and ignored the other guests, except when the conversation would lull a bit and they needed something to joke about.

"What about this guy?" Ben said, gesturing toward a large man in a plaid shirt and wool cap who was double-fisting hunch punch and a beer. He had tucked a plastic chainsaw under one of his arms as he loudly talked to a girl dressed as Snow White about the Denver Broncos. "He gets my vote for drunkest lumberjack I've seen all week."

"Yeah," Kimberly said, giggling as she shot off, "Someone should be around to yell 'timber' when he goes down."

Eventually, the party got quieter as guests began to filter out. Sally had begun blowing out candles and turning on some normal lights. Dave had taken his hippie costume to heart and was smoking a joint with a small group of friends in the backyard. Ben knew that meant Dave would be kicking people out soon so that he could go to bed.

"I guess we've hit 'question mark', huh?" Ben said to Kimberly.

"Question mark?" she asked.

"Like on the invitation."

"Oh, right." Kimberly nodded and looked around Dave and Sally's empty living room. "Wow, I can't remember the last time I stayed up till question mark."

"Well, can I walk you to your car?"

"I actually grabbed a ride here with friends."

"Oh, okay..." Ben said. He looked around.

"They're gone."

"They left you? That sucks."

"Yeah. You know, it kinda does."

"I mean," Ben started with a mock grim expression. "Don't they realize that banshees are legendary for getting revenge?"

"You're right," Kimberly said, a smile spreading across her face. "I guess they decided to risk it."

"Well, I could...you know, give you a lift home," Ben said, hoping to sound more helpful than lecherous.

"That'd be great!" Kimberly said, nearly jumping in excitement.

They left without even thinking to say goodbye to their hosts. The few remaining guests exited soon after Ben and Kimberly had gone.

After ushering out the last of them, Sally turned the porch light off. Dave stood in the living room, visibly high and barely standing. Sally was no more sober than he was, but she handled it better.

"Something about tie-dye and bell bottoms turns you into an idiot every time you wear them," Sally said as she downed the last of her punch and walked toward the kitchen.

"C'mon, I thought all you vampires loved hippies." Dave wrapped his arms around Sally's waist. "We taste like pot and junk food."

"Whatever. You should go as a caveman next year. It's an evolutionary step up from a hippie." She smirked and gave Dave a kiss, then looked around. "God, this place is a mess."

Dave dragged the garbage can into the living room and began tossing in empty cups and bottles. Sally plucked a red scarf that she had draped over a lampshade and switched off the light.

"Hey, what was with your weird friend?" Sally asked.

"Ben? Yeah, I don't know."

"He was just standing off to the side by himself, talking to nobody."

"Maybe it was part of his costume." Dave sat on the couch and turned on the TV. "Game of Thrones?"

"Okay." Still dressed in her red cape and tight black dress, Sally cuddled next to Dave on the couch and put her head on his shoulder. "Well, I think Ben is one creepy guy."

"I know. I hoped he would be more social and maybe meet a girl or something. I really don't get him." He hit play on the HBO Go menu.

Sally yawned. "Okay, just one episode and then bedtime," she said.

A few miles away, Ben drove up to Kimberly's apartment. They had talked and laughed most of the ride to her neighborhood, but had gotten quiet as they neared the end of the ride. Ben was unsure if he should turn off the car or if he was just dropping Kimberly off. He pulled up to her curb and let the car idle. He started to say something, but Kimberly cut him off.

"I'm glad you're not presumptuous," she said. "However, I'm totally going to ask you to come in. I mean, if you want."

"Yeah, yeah," Ben said. "I mean...yeah." He smiled crookedly and shook his head. Kimberly laughed.

Kimberly's apartment was on the second floor. They both giggled as they climbed the stairs, trying - and failing - to be quiet. Kimberly opened her door and let Ben in. Before she could even turn on a light, he leaned in to kiss her. She backed away.

"Hold on," she said. "Let me put some music on or something. Do you want a drink?"

"No, I'm good," he said, his eyes still adjusting to the dark room.

"Okay," she said. And then softly, she leaned in and whispered, "Hey, Ben. Do you want to see my body?"

A rush of heat leaped to his face. "Um, yeah. Sure."

Through the faint light coming in through the windows, Ben could barely see Kimberly. But he could see that she was smiling.

"Give me one minute," she said. She disappeared into a hallway. Nervous excitement flooded over Ben. He heard her voice one more time. "Hey, could you get the light?"

"Sure," Ben called to her. He turned to find the switch and then remembered. "Oh, hey - I almost forgot! I have something for you. A prize for guessing my costume."

Ben reached into the leather satchel on his belt and pulled out a glass key with "S.D." engraved on it, a trinket from the Signal Dagger books. It felt like a piece of it had broken off.

"Oh, c'mon," he muttered to himself.

He grazed his hand across the wall and found the light switch. When he turned and saw the illuminated room, Ben's heart dropped into his stomach and the glass key fell to the floor.

The apartment looked like it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned. Torn books and broken dishes littered the floor. Kimberly's picture frames had been ripped from the walls and smashed. Her television was lying face down in front of a coffee table, which was littered with cigarette butts and food so rotted that Ben couldn't tell what it had once been.

"Oh, my god," he said. The smell had finally registered, a disgustingly stale odor of ash and decay. "Kimberly? I think somebody broke in."

He waited for a response. Nothing.

"Kimberly? Are you alright?"

Nothing. Then fear arose, hitting him in the gut. Maybe whoever had wrecked the place was still in the apartment.

"Kimberly, we need to get out of here!"

Ben stood there, dumbly. Something was obviously wrong, but he was afraid to go look for her. He looked at the door behind him. Black and dark brown smudges covered it, but Ben didn't really see the filth. He just saw a way out. His feet felt like they were glued to the floor. He couldn't leave. He had to find Kimberly. She was... Well, she was...

Gone. Ben closed his eyes. He knew where Kimberly was. There wasn't an intruder. Whatever had happened in this apartment had happened weeks, maybe months ago. Slowly, he turned toward the dismantled room and walked down the shadowy hallway. From the light in the living room he could only register more filth, more chaos along the walls and on the floor. There was a door at the end of the hallway. He slowly opened it and walked into Kimberly's bedroom.

There she was. His posture slumped, but Ben wasn't surprised to find that he didn't have the energy to yell out or even gasp. Kimberly's dead body was on the bed. Much of the skin on her face had been rotted off to reveal sections of skull underneath. Her clothes looked to be covered in mold, spread there from her decaying body.

Ben wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He saw several pill bottles on the bed next to her and on the nightstand. The story was becoming clearer, but he didn't know why she had come to him. Nothing in the room would answer that. Kimberly's head was tilted toward him, staring with two empty eye sockets. Her cheekbones jutted out from around her distended jaw. To Ben, it looked like she was smiling at him.

"Happy Halloween," he said to her, just before losing consciousness.

Underworld Callers

"Hey, che diavolo! Turn off the overheads, Rory." Angelo said, rubbing his already bloodshot eyes. Rory noted that the oldest Boticello brother's Sicilian accent was getting thicker, and that meant bad times awaited. Angelo continued, "We gotta do this thing in candlelight or is no gonna work."

Standing tall behind Villa Palermo’s oak bar counter, big Rory Sears sighed and flipped the switch by the daily specials chalkboard. The dining room went dark, save for some light spilling in from Huntington’s Main Street, which glowed soft and pink through the restaurant’s dirty front window.

Angelo struck a match and began to light the red glass candles on the two-tops, which were positioned at the five points of the pentagram he’d drawn on the ground. His younger brother, Maximillian Boticello, sat on a booth tabletop in the corner of the dining room, his short legs dangling off the edge as he combed his hair

"Hey, you know those ain't real candles, Angie," Max said. "They's the refillable kind, I think. Whatcha call 'em?"

"Sterno," Rory answered in his low, flat voice.

Max nodded. "Yeah, that."

"Don’t matter," Angelo said, dipping the match into a red globe. "Bright overhead lights are no good, a capisce?" He blew out the match and lit another.

"I just don't wanna piss off whatever we got coming, alright?" Max said, running his comb through his hair once more before returning the cheap piece of plastic to his inside coat pocket. The ancient book, its leather binding cracked and dusty, laid on the tabletop beside him.

Rory poured himself a shot of warm grappa. Being associated with the Boticello family used to hold clout in Long Island circles, but the past year had been one bad beat after another. He had been at their side through it all, especially during the kicker of it all - Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello's grand larceny trial. Rory had done his best to help keep the head of the family out of the slammer, had even attempted to bribe two jurors who later went mysteriously missing (though they were replaced by assholes of equal morality). However, nothing seemed to stick, meaning that everything did. All done, Knuckles ended up with a 25-year sentence at Fishkill Correctional, leaving a power vacuum wide open for certain interested parties around the neighborhood.

However, Rory felt that the Angelo and Max’s new tactic was faced entirely in the wrong direction, somewhere south of desperation.

Angelo finished lighting the points around the pentagram. Rory shook his head for the hundredth time that day and slammed the grappa into his mouth. If the liquor was supposed to have a numbing effect, Rory didn’t feel it.

Angelo surveyed the space around the pentagram, craning his neck around the room to make sure no detail was botched. According to the old book, the lights had to allow shadows and the room had to be mostly quiet, which is why they were starting after midnight. Most importantly, the ancient text specified that the circle outlining the star of the pentagram must be unbroken. However, the piece of chalk he'd used to draw it on the floor was just a nub, left over from when Villa Palermo’s was still open for business and had daily specials to advertise.

"Hey, Maxie," Angelo said, squinting to see if he’d missed a section. "Get down. Wanna you make sure this outside line is no smudged and it’s got to be no gaps."

Max hopped down from the corner booth, grabbing the ancient book. When he got to the circle on the ground, he gingerly stepped over the outside line. The balletic maneuver caused Rory to roll his eyes. Max carefully laid the book down on the makeshift, three-sided altar at the center of the pentagram and inspected Angelo’s chalk lines.

"Okay, now Rory," Angelo said. "Need you to bring over some of that salt. And quit being such a stronzo, tu mi capisci?"

Rory understood the message, if not the exact translation. He grabbed the large cylindrical container with the umbrella girl logo and suppressed the urge to mock Max’s awkward grace as he walked inside the pentagram. Rory handed Angelo the salt.

"Lines look good, Angie," Max said. "Just like the book said. You want I should find the words now?"

"Yeah, do that." Angelo sprinkled some salt into his hands and tossed it on the floor inside and out the chalky circle of the pentagram.

The binding of the ancient book creaked as Max opened it to the section he and Angelo had bookmarked the previous week. They had grown up with the old tome, a winking gift by way of a great aunt from the old country, but never had it been more than a curious joke until the past year. Now it was the Boticello's secret weapon, maybe the only weapon left in their arsenal. Max carefully ran his finger down a partially-rotted page until he found the passage in question.

"Yeah, this is it. You ready?"

Angelo nodded. Max turned to Rory who signaled with a slight nod. They each took their place standing around the altar.

"Do we gotta hold hands or something?" Rory asked.

"Nah, nah. We only gotta stay inside the circle," Angelo said. He lifted his shoulders a couple of times and rolled his head in a circular motion, like a boxer who had just stepped into the ring. Closing his eyes and nodding feverishly, he said, "Okay. Hit it, Maxie."

Max removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. The evening street noise had subsided for the night and every creak on the floor beneath them was audible in the echo of the dining room. Phonetically, Max began to read aloud the strange, foreign words from the ancient text.

"Flavus ama ferox...tracto aevum gusto..."

Max continued as Angelo impatiently bounced on the front balls of his feet, though his eyes were still closed tight. Rory saw that the dark circles had returned to their familiar home on his face. He couldn't say for sure that Angelo had started using again just yet, but he made a note to sweep the older Boticello's coat pockets later for dope. Angelo’s head tilted forward a bit as Max carried on, syllable by syllable.

"...suavis terni orior..."

Rory's thoughts wandered to the first time he had met the brothers, years earlier at a beach party in Montauk. They seemed like royalty to him then, holding court in a lush cabana, surrounded by beautiful women - not girls from the neighborhood, but real women. To Rory, the Boticellos lent the entire evening a feeling of importance, just by simply being present. Their confidence then, along with their solid leadership later, carried Rory through nearly a decade of loyal service.

However, those young princes were gone, replaced by two desperate primates that stood before Rory now. Of all the lines they had asked him to cross over the years, he never imagined the unsteady, chalky lines that outlined the pentagram at his feet. He looked at the rickety altar between himself and the brothers and imagined the discarded wooden crates from the alley behind the restaurant that they must have scavenged to build it. How could a royal family stoop so low so fast?

"...precor osculum linea tracto..."

Rory saw Angelo open one bloodshot eye to peer into the restaurant's shadowy dining room. His eyebrows furrowed in disappointment, as though he had expected the ceiling to be ripped off, or perhaps the floor to open up beneath them. Getting more agitated, Angelo opened both eyes and looked to his brother as Max finished reading the final words of the incantation.

"...ab perca gravis."

Max tensed as he stumbled to the end of the spell, like a marathon runner reaching an uncertain finish line. He tensed his shoulders, as though bracing for a cataclysmic event. But nothing changed and nothing arrived. After a moment, he relaxed and looked around. He popped the toothpick back into the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, well." he said, shrugging. "We had to give it a shot, ya know?"

"Yeah," Rory said. "Yeah, sure."

Angelo spun as he surveyed the room around them. He got on his hands and knees to inspect the pentagram's lines beneath them.

"No, no, no!" His voice cracked into a higher octave. "This ain't gonna do! We gotta get this right, guys." He stood up and Rory could see Angelo's eyes begging for a second attempt, perhaps a third and a fourth after that. But Max just yawned.

"I dunno, Angie," he said. "Maybe we've been looking at this thing from the wrong side of it, ya know? Maybe we need to reach out to the old country or something." Max took out his comb and ran it through his hair. He shrugged again and stepped away from the altar. "I could use a drink," he said and began walking toward the bar.

"Hey, Maxie," Rory said. "Hold on a second."

"Huh?" Max said, surprised to hear Rory call him Maxie. He was about to correct the misplaced familiarity as his foot crossed over the edge of the pentagram's outer circle. But before any of them could register the moment, Max was ripped from Villa Palermo’s, New York, and the dimension he had called home for thirty six years.

"Holy hell!" Rory screamed as he lost his footing and knocked over the altar. He quickly steadied himself and, in his mind, the boundaries of the pentagram became as concrete as prison walls.

"Maxie?" Angelo said. He walked to the edge of the circle where Max had last been Max. "Where'd you go, paisano?"

"Careful," Rory warned, his stomach fighting a violent wave of nausea "It got him. It got Max."

"Whatta you mean 'it'?" Angelo's eyes narrowed.

"Something took Max. We gotta stay in the circle now."

Angelo digested this information slowly. He walked along the borders of their symbolic cage. Finally, the corners of his mouth bent upwards into a nasty grin. He looked up to the restaurant's ceiling.

"You think you got Maxie, eh pally?" he asked the thing in the restaurant. "Well, listen up! You can give him back now, or give him back later, eh? But we got some things to discuss, you and me."

The world outside the circle did not respond.

"I said, capisce?" Angelo spun around to face all sides of the threat, letting it know that he wasn’t used to backing down. Rory, as frightened as he was, was almost inspired by Angelo’s defiant attitude. He’d seen a thousand tiny retreats over the past year, including the closure of the very building in which they were standing. It was almost nice to see the Boticello fire burning again. Almost.

Despite the token return of his general, Rory lowered himself onto the ground, fearful that Angelo might try to shove him outside the circle, Sumo-style, to prove some kind of point to their demon visitor. As Angelo shouted, the room outside the pentagram began to look less like itself and more like a suggestion of an Italian restaurant, and Rory shifted as close to the center of the circle as he could.

"First, we gotta get some rules going. I ain't gonna live inside this, what you call it, this thing on the floor, so first thing is that you no gonna grab me if I walk outside it."

Rory saw that Villa Palermo’s had completely faded away, and that they were surrounded by pitch black emptiness now. The cylinder of salt rolled back and forth on the ground, as if they were adrift on a dark ocean. As if to underline the sensation, Rory saw that the little umbrella girl on the logo had disposed of her umbrella and was now aiming a jagged harpoon at a severed foot. She smiled at Rory with shark’s teeth. He looked to Angelo, who seemed to not notice any of this as he ticked off more demands.

"Now, we get down to business. The Boticellos run Huntington, we run the northside of the island. Che diavolo? We run the whole damn thing from now on. Capos grande, that be us!" Angelo was now pacing, though he seemed very aware of his path. "Them other families are gonna stop harassing me and Maxie. And they gonna pay for not keeping papa out the joint – that’s the place from where you gonna bust him out."

Rory watched as Angelo continued to threaten the thing they had summoned, his accent becoming even thicker as his voice went shrill. Rory figured that Angelo might have lost his mind, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn't gone off the deep end himself.

If I am, he thought, at least I'm aware of it.

In this clarity, Rory stood up, grabbing the altar as he steadied his feet.

"Hey, Angie," he said. Angelo turned to face him. Rory shook his head. "This was a terrible plan."

He threw the wooden structure hard at Angelo, completed the move with a hard, clumsy kick to the chest, which caused Angelo to crash through the invisible wall of the circle.

In the inky ether around the pentagram's boarders, Rory saw Angelo land on what appeared to be solid ground. He tried to crawl back in, but his body blurred and distorted when he pressed himself against the invisible edge. He began to scream.

Behind Angelo, Max emerged from the dark. The skin on his face sagged unevenly around his eyes, which were now a putrid cream color. The old toothpick was back in his mouth, but his teeth were much sharper. Angelo turned to see his new baby brother. After that, his screams turned into short shrieking bursts.

Rory closed his eyes and covered his ears as he again lowered himself onto the safety of the pentagram. He kept his eyes closed for a very long time, even after a dull white noise had replaced Angelo’s screaming inside his skull.

He opened them much later, after he realized that he might miss an opportunity for escape if he kept them shut any longer.

When Rory did open his eyes, the restaurant was back. Everything seemed normal, albeit wrecked from weeks of disuse and the Boticellos last ditch attempt to reach out for help. The altar Rory had thrown at Angelo had knocked over one of the two-tops, but was very much still there. He even saw Max's plastic comb on the floor by the bar. He knew Angelo and Max were gone for good though, changed forever by the thing they’d called.

Rory stood up, walked to the edge of the circle, and stopped. Sunshine pressed firm against the dirt on Villa Palermo’s front window. It was daytime on Main Street, though the caked filth on the outside glass obscured all but shadows of street lamps and a pair of city-planned sidewalk trees.

That can’t be right, Rory thought. Max read those words from the book maybe five or six minutes ago, and…

"Where's the book?" Rory asked the empty restaurant.

And then something else occurred to him, there in the silence of the morning.

Rory remembered the first time he every walked inside Villa Palermo’s. It was ten in the morning and Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello was sitting in the corner booth. Angelo and Max were behind the bar arguing about the restaurant's location. Max said it was great for foot traffic, but Angelo countered that there was never any peace from dawn till dusk on Main Street, that if it wasn't the big trucks roaring by, it was all the assholes shouting at each other. And Angelo was right. Both brothers had to yell at each other to fight the street noise.

So, why is it that don't I hear one person, one car, some trace of anything on Main Street now?

"You won’t hear until after you see," a dissonant group of voices said behind Rory, easing their way into the circle.