Face Value: An excerpt from a work in progress

In my current work in progress, we once again revisit the intrepid psychic detectives of Snowe Agency as they are launched on a third mysterious murder case, this one involving a well-liked elementary school teacher who was knifed to death while out jogging.  Unfortunately, the only witness is unable to identify the killer -- but there's no guarantee that this fact will keep him safe, once Seth, Bethany, Callista, and the other detectives start to uncover the clues and find out that this was more than just a random robbery/homicide.

Here's the first chapter of Face Value, the sequel to Poison the Well and The Dead Letter Office.

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            Callista Lee looked up from an open folder of papers on her desk, and said, “Come in,” at exactly the same time as a knock sounded on her office door.

            The doorknob turned, the door opened about a foot, and a head, adorned with a lavender and pine green striped silk scarf, poked in.  “Callista, dear, Mr. Snowe would like to see you for a moment.  Although I expect you already knew that, didn’t you?  Only if you’re not in the middle of something, he said to mention.”  Arabella Leidenfrost, the agency secretary, gave her a cheerful smile.  Arabella was one of the only people Callista knew that was entirely unfluttered in her presence.

            It was refreshing.

            “It’s no problem,” Callista said.  “I was just finishing up the documentation on the Perry case, and it can wait.”  She stood up, and shut the folder.  “That’s a lovely scarf,” she commented, as she followed Arabella out of her office and down the hall.  Bethany would think I was being sarcastic, Callista thought.  I always seem to come across that way, somehow.  And actually, that scarf does suit Arabella, although I can’t see myself wearing it.

            Callista’s own clothing ran more to colors with names like “taupe” and “fawn.”  She’d once heard someone call one of her dresses “a burlap sack with a belt,” which wasn’t very kind, although to be fair the individual hadn’t said it out loud.

            But Arabella, of course, didn’t take it that way.  She never did.  “Oh, thank you,” she said, tugging at the end of it.  “I do love this one.  My niece got it for me in Sri Lanka, in an outdoor market.  She apparently haggled for a half-hour to get it down to a price she was willing to pay.  When she finally settled on a price, the merchant shook her hand and said he’d never known an American who was that good at playing the game.”

            They reached the end of the hall, and Arabella knocked on Mr. Snowe’s door.  A cultured voice said, “Come.”  She opened the door for Callista, and said, “There you are, then, dear.”

            “Thanks,” Callista said, and went in.

            Mr. Parsifal Snowe was seated at his antique mahogany desk, and looked up at her with a paternal smile.  “Miss Lee, excellent, thank you for coming.  I trust we have not interrupted you in anything too pressing?”

            “Not at all,” Callista said, and looked over at the other person in the room with some curiosity.

            The other occupant was a man of about thirty years, slim and rather fragile-looking, with a narrow face and large, luminous pale blue-gray eyes.  He had a tousled mop of sandy blond hair, and was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans that were rather too large for him.

            But the oddest thing was the thoughts that Callista picked up from him.  Her telepathic sense was normally powerful and accurate; she could hear sentences of internal dialogue, a continuous stream of words that faded with distance but which was still clearly audible from ten feet away, or sometimes even twenty or more with particularly readable individuals.  This man, although his thoughts were detectable, was somehow different.  His mental monologue lacked the booming, amplified resonance that almost everyone else’s had.  His thinking was soft, rounded, full of images with blurred edges; like watching a television through frosted glass.  She could hear him thinking, It’s a girl, I’d better be cautious, as he looked at her, but the words had no volume, no impact.  And the image of her in his mind faded as soon as he turned back toward Mr. Snowe, who spoke again.

            “Miss Lee, this is Mr. Quentin Joyner.  He came here today because of a rather disturbing situation, and has requested our assistance.  I thought that you in particular should be here, so I have asked Mr. Joyner if he would be willing to have you present.  He has agreed.  I will now allow Mr. Joyner to explain what brings him here, circumstances that are most upsetting to him.”

            Quentin Joyner looked over at Callista, and again, she had the fleeting image of herself as a wavering image through fog.  But he spoke, in a slow, patient voice, and she turned her mind away from what he was thinking to what he was saying.

            “I witnessed a murder last week,” he said, so matter-of-factly that it took Callista a moment to be certain she’d heard him correctly.

            “Of whom?”

            “You probably heard about it.  Her name was Tess Ethridge.  She was killed while jogging, out near Carlisle Lake.  I was out walking my dog, and I saw it happen.”

            “I read about it in the newspaper,” Callista said.  “The police called it a robbery.”

            Quentin nodded.  “The killer took her wallet.  The credit cards were used later that evening at a convenience store, and the person who used them was identified from the security camera and arrested for the killing.  But he swears that he didn’t kill her, that he found the wallet by the side of the road in Colville and just decided to use the cards.  He said he didn’t realize that the owner of the cards had been murdered.”

            “Were you able to identify the killer?”

            Quentin gave a little smile, but she could hear a flutter, like a mental sigh, pass through his mind, and she caught the words, Here we go again.  “Well,” he said, “I can’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “I have a perceptual problem.  It’s called prosopagnosia.”

            Callista looked at him, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head.

            “I’m face blind.”

            “Oh,” she said.  “Then, you can’t…”  She hesitated, stopped.

            “It’s okay,” he said.  “I’ve been this way all my life.  You don’t have to act awkward.  But yes, it’s what it sounds like.  I can’t recognize anyone.  If you walked out, and then walked back in, I might not know who you were, although I have become pretty good at memorizing specific things and remembering them – like what a person is wearing.  But if you changed your clothes, or put your hair up – I wouldn’t have any idea it was you.”  He looked down.  “I wouldn’t recognize a photograph of my own mother.”

            “How do you do with voices?”

            He looked up and smiled, and the smile gave his face an almost ethereal beauty.  He looks like something from one of those paintings from mythology.  Like a woodland sprite or an elf.  But the smile was gone as quickly as it came.

            “I recognize voices very well,” he said.  “But the murderer didn’t speak.  Just stabbed that poor woman, grabbed her wallet, and ran.”

            “Do you know if the killer was a man or a woman?”

            Quentin shook his head.  “I’m not sure.  The murderer was wearing a cap and a heavy sweatshirt.  That was the first thing I noticed; it was a hot day.  I was in a t-shirt and shorts, and Tess Ethridge – the woman who was killed – she was running in shorts and a sports bra.”  He blushed a little.  “Like I said, I notice clothes.  It gives me an anchor if I need to remember someone later.  But the killer – he, or she, was wearing jeans and this bulky sweatshirt, and a cap pulled low.  And she – the victim – just came around a bend, near Willow Point, and I saw a figure jump out from behind some bushes.  I was about a hundred feet away or so.  My dog jerked to the end of his leash, and started barking.  By that time, she was already on the ground – it happened so fast.  I don’t think the killer knew I was there until then.  So the killer looked up, looked right at me, and then sprang up and ran, holding the knife in one hand and something he’d taken from her in his other hand.  I later found out that her wallet was stolen, so I guess that was what it was.”  He swallowed.  “It was horrible.  I shouted, and ran to see if I could help her, but she was unconscious.  I had my cellphone, and called 911, but she was dead by the time the paramedics arrived.  She never regained consciousness.”

            “The knife was later found, discarded, in the bushes further along the trail,” Mr. Snowe said.  “The killer was evidently either wearing gloves, or wiped it clean before it was tossed aside.”

            “I see,” Callista said.

            “The police questioned me,” Quentin said.  “I don’t think they believed me, that I had no way to identify even if the killer was male or female.  I tried to explain, but… you know, one thing I have found from having this disorder for 28 years is, it’s really easy to just think I’m making it up for attention, that I really do know who people are and that I just don’t want to admit it.  That’s what the police thought.  But then they caught the guy using her credit cards, and figured they had the murderer.  So case closed, right?”

            “And you don’t believe it.”

            “No.  For one thing, the guy who was caught with the credit cards was really heavy-set.  They showed me a photograph, still trying to get me to say that I recognized him.  I said that it couldn’t be him – that the person I saw ran really lightly, you know, with a spring in the step, a bouncy stride, someone who wasn’t overweight.  But then they said, ‘Do you recognize his face?’ and I said I didn’t, that I couldn’t say one way or the other for sure if that was the person I saw.  They didn’t get it, kept hounding me, harassing me.  Finally I had my doctor talk to them, and explain why I couldn’t say if I recognized the guy’s face, neither to rule it out or to support it – he said that if necessary, he’d come down to explain why my condition would prevent my either being a witness for the prosecution or for the defense.  So at that point they decided that I was useless and sort of left me alone.  But still – I kept thinking about that man in jail, and the more I thought about it, the more I was sure it couldn’t be him.  The way people move is something else I’ve trained myself to notice.”

            Callista nodded.

            “So that means that the actual killer is still out there,” Quentin said.

            “How did you find out about us?” Callista asked.

            Quentin gave a quick look at Mr. Snowe, who responded with an almost imperceptible nod.  “My sister is a friend of Marie Mackenzie’s,” Quentin said.  “I think you were on a case for Marie’s family last year.  Well, Marie apparently thinks you are the most amazing detectives in the world, and when my sister mentioned to her that I’d been a witness to Tess Ethridge’s murder, Marie told her that I should come to you.”

            A corner of Callista’s mouth twitched.  “Really?” she said.  “I was under the impression that Marie Mackenzie thought we were a bunch of bumbling incompetents.”

            “No,” Quentin said.  “The way she talked, she made you sound like magicians – like you could wave a wand and pull the guilty party out of a hat.”

            “Hardly that,” Callista said.  “I guess it’s good to know that she changed her opinion of us.  But in any case, I’m not sure we have a lot to go on, here.  Other than your feeling that the man the police arrested isn’t the actual killer, what more can you tell us?”

            Quentin Joyner blushed again, and shrugged.  “Nothing.  I know, it sounds ridiculous.  But it’s been bothering me.  I can’t sleep at night.”

            “So, you didn’t know the victim?”

            He shook his head.

            “Allow me to remind you, Miss Lee,” Mr. Snowe said, “that we have taken on cases far more hopeless-sounding than this.  If you’ll recall, in the Petrillo-Scanlon murder case, we didn’t even know the victim’s name for quite some time.  I have told Mr. Joyner that we are able to take this case on a provisional basis, and if we find other information that supports his conjecture that the murderer was not the man currently cooling his heels in the Colville Correctional Institute, we can pursue a full investigation at that time.”

            Callista shrugged.  “Okay, I’m game,” she said.

            “I suspected you would be,” Mr. Snowe said.  “And therefore, Mr. Joyner, I think at this point you may leave it in our hands.  You took the right course of action, coming to us, given your lack of success with the more conventional authorities.  If nothing else, for your own peace of mind.”

            Quentin nodded.  “Thank you.”  He looked at Mr. Snowe, his odd, pale eyes open wide.  “I can pay you for your work.”

            “I have no doubt that that is the case,” Mr. Snowe said.  “But let us discuss remuneration at another time, when I and my associates have confirmed that this case merits further inquiry.”  He gave Quentin Joyner a gentle smile.  “I will be in touch, Mr. Joyner.”

            It was clearly a dismissal, and Quentin stood up, fidgeting nervously and fishing in his pocket for his car keys.  “Thanks,” he said, and gave a quick, shy glance at Callista before leaving.  He shut the door quietly behind him.

            “Fascinating,” Callista said.  “I’ve never met anyone like him.  That’s a thinking pattern I’ve never run into before.”

            Mr. Snowe nodded.  “Prosopagnosia is, I believe, quite rare.  While some individuals have a lower than average ability at facial recognition, complete prosopagnosia is usually only found in the victims of strokes, where the damage has affected the fusiform gyrus and left the rest of the brain relatively intact.  It is extremely uncommon as a perceptual disorder suffered from since birth, as Mr. Joyner’s apparently is.”

            “I didn’t think you’d studied neurology, Mr. Snowe,” Callista said, smiling slightly.

            He turned his hands palm upwards.  “Call it a hobby,” he said.

            “One of many,” she responded.

            “It is essential to keep one’s brain occupied,” he said.  “But as far as Mr. Joyner, I feel certain that he is telling the truth.  I desired your presence because I thought that as a telepath, you would be in the best position to confirm that supposition.”

            Callista nodded thoughtfully.  “All I can say,” she responded, after thinking for a moment, “is that his thoughts aren’t like anything I’ve experienced before.  You remember the Garrick case, six years ago?  I was reminded immediately of Jason Garrick, not because Garrick and Joyner were similar, but because they were equally outside the norm.”

            Mr. Snowe nodded.  “Jason Garrick was an unfortunate young man.  Such a brilliant mind.”

            “He and Joyner are both difficult to read, but for differing reasons.  Garrick’s thoughts were disjointed, like turning a radio dial rapidly and catching bits of music and bits of talking, interspersed by bursts of static.”

            “Mr. Garrick was schizophrenic,” Mr. Snowe said.

            “Yes.  A vastly different illness.  And like I said, I didn’t get the same sense from Joyner – I only brought up Garrick because I was reminded of him by how unusual they both are.  Joyner’s thoughts were like… I don’t know.  As if they were wrapped in gauze.  Filmy.  You couldn’t hear or see them clearly.  Usually, it’s not hard to hear thoughts; in fact, I have more of a problem keeping them out when I don’t want them.”

            “The inevitable downside of being as sensitive a telepath as you are,” Mr. Snowe observed.

            “Yes.  But here… I kept losing him.  It was like, I don’t know – like his voice was so unobtrusive that I had to keep focusing on it, or I’d forget I was listening to him.  And the images – he really does see people as vague, faceless colored shapes.  They don’t stick at all in his mind.  I really do think that if he saw either of us on the street, he wouldn’t have any idea he’d ever seen us before.”

            “I’m quite sure that is the case.”

            “When he was describing the murder, primarily what I got was feelings – the breeze on his skin, the light of the setting sun on his back.  I could even feel what he’d experienced when his dog yanked on the leash.  He lives in a very tactile world – perhaps to make up for his lack of visual ability.  Feeling is everything to him.”

            “Witnessing a murder,” Mr. Snowe said, “was undoubtedly a dreadful experience for someone of Mr. Joyner’s temperament.”

            “Yes.  I picked up strong memories of his desperation to save the victim’s life.  It was weird – I could feel her blood on his hands.  The warmth, you know, the wetness – it was so real.  But then, I tried to fish around, get an image – and all I got were faint traces of bloody hands.  No emotion attached to the visual part of it.  It was like… I don’t know.  Like looking at a faded watercolor image, where you can barely even tell what you’re looking at.”

            “Do you think,” Mr. Snowe asked, “that Mr. Joyner was telling the truth about not knowing the victim?  I realize that he may seem an unlikely suspect, but it is worth considering.  After all, he was the only other person who has unequivocally been shown to be at the murder scene.”

            “No,” Callista said.  “No possibility that he was the murderer.  Like I said, I know that what he was telling us reflected true memories, because I could feel what he had experienced.  His dog pulling on the leash, barking.  Then the feeling of running, of feet striking the path.  Then lifting up the victim, the blood flowing, her weight in his arms.  The panic, the accelerating heartbeat.  There was nothing in any of that to indicate that he was lying.  I’d be willing to bet my next month’s salary on it.”

            “And no sense that he knew the victim?”

            “None.  Did you suspect he was lying about that?”

            “No.  I have just found that in practice it is always best to make as few ad hoc assumptions as possible.”

            “Understood.”

            “We therefore are left with something of a mystery.”

            “That’s putting it mildly.  A murder victim where the only witness can’t tell us anything about the murderer.”

            “You have more than once, Miss Lee, mentioned that you enjoy puzzles.” 

            What would have been sarcasm in anyone else came across merely as gentle encouragement.  He really has the demeanor of an eighteenth century gentleman-scholar, Callista thought, and then stopped herself; she had never been certain how much of her own mental voice her boss picked up.  Mr. Snowe’s paranormal skills, whatever they might be, were not something he shared with his employees.  The whole thing gave him an aura of omniscience.

            She regarded Mr. Snowe with a raised eyebrow.  “Well, it’s helpful to have at least a little information,” she said, watching his face carefully to see if it betrayed anything of what he was thinking.

            All he gave her was a beatific smile.  “Oh, there is always information, Miss Lee,” he said.  “It only remains to determine its location.  That, I believe, is the key.  The pieces are there.  What separates us from detectives who lack, shall we say, the rather unusual skill set that you and your associates have, is a unique ability to determine how to fit the available pieces together to make picture – a picture, in this case, of a person who knifed to death an innocent jogger.”

Guest post: Mocha, Moonlight, and Murder...

Hi all... Today, I've got a guest post from my friend and fellow writer, the amazing MaryAnn Kempher, who has just recently released her mystery/romance Mocha, Moonlight, and Murder.  Here's a little about her novel -- which sounds like brilliant fun.

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Mocha, Moonlight, and Murder is romantic suspense. It will appeal to romance lovers, because Scott and Katherine (eventually) have such a fantastic friendship, that blossoms into something more. They really like each other and the reader will really like them. It will also appeal to readers who love a good mystery; a woman is brutally murdered three blocks from Katherine’s. She sees the killer as he’s preparing to dispose of the women’s body, but manages to out run him. He finds out who she is and starts stalking her. 

Instead of feeding her late-night appetite, a midnight food run nearly gets 28-year-old Katherine O’Brian killed. She’s the only person to see the man who brutally murdered a local woman, and the killer is hell-bent on making sure she doesn’t talk.

Scott Mitchell left a broken engagement behind when he moved to Reno, and the last thing he needs is more melodrama. But when he and Katherine are paired for a college project, that’s exactly what he gets. It can be very distracting when someone is out to kill your lab partner. Together, they try to figure out what the police haven’t been able to—the identity of the murderer. Passion flares, but with Katherine’s life in danger, romance seems like more than a bad idea.

           

Scott and Katherine will face jealousy, misunderstandings, lust, and rivals, not to mention attempted murder—and all before their first real date.

Author MaryAnn Kempher:

My family moved to Reno NV, where Mocha, Moonlight, and Murder is set, when I was 15. I currently live in Florida with my husband, two children, two dogs and one cat. My favorite author is Jane Austen, but my writing is also influenced by Agatha Christie. I love her Hercule Poirot mysteries.

My Twitter handle is https://twitter.com/maryannkempher. You can find me on Facebook: Author Maryann Kempher, or at my website: http://mkempher.com

Here's my Amazon author's page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00CDNQ37Q

Mocha, Moonlight, and Murder is available in ebook format for only $2.99 at:

At http://amazon.com

At http://www.BarnesandNoble.com

Beneficiaries

Good luck sometimes isn't all it's cracked up to be.

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Beneficiaries

            “Scotch.  Double.  Neat.”

            Jim Quick, for twenty years the bartender at O’Donnell’s Irish Pub, wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it on the counter behind the bar, and turned to his newest patron with a smile.  “Do you have a favorite, then?  Single malt?  Blend?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” the man said, slumping a little on the barstool, and running his hand through hair still damp from the rain.  “Whatever’s handy.”

            Jim selected a bottle, and filled a glass with amber liquid.  “Here’s a Glenfiddich,” he said.  “Always a favorite.  Cheers, mate.”

            The man held up the glass to Jim, and took a sip.

            It was a quiet night – the only ones in O’Donnell’s were the regulars.  And this guy, who Jim had never seen before.  Despite having the downcast look of a dog that had been left alone in the back yard during a thunderstorm, and being just about as wet, there was something curiously compelling about him.  Jim leaned on the polished mahogany bar and said, “You look like you need some cheering up.”

            One corner of the man’s mouth twitched a little.  “I suppose,” he said.

            “Let me guess.  Problem with the ladies?”

            “Oh, no,” the man said.  “They beat down the door to my bedroom, honestly.”

            Jim looked at him, smiling and frowning at the same time.  The man in front of him was completely ordinary-looking, and in fact, the most striking thing about him was how nondescript he was.  If he’d had to describe this fellow to the police, Jim would have been hard-pressed to name one feature about him that didn’t begin with the word “average.”  But even so, there was no doubt in Jim’s mind that the man was speaking the truth.

            “Lucky you,” Jim said.

            “I suppose,” the man said again.

            “Hey, if you’ve got more than you want,” Jim said, grinning, “you could send one or two over to my place.  It’s been too long since I had a nice tumble.”

            The man shrugged.  “Okay.”

            “Come on, then,” Jim said, layering on all of the kindly reassurance that he’d learned from twenty years of dealing with despondent drinkers.  “Out with it.  What’s eating at you?”

            The man raised an eyebrow.  “Did I tell you that my name is Rush Limbaugh?”

            Jim’s eyes opened wide.  “Seriously?  As in the talk radio fellow?”  He shook his head.  “That must be a bit of a burden, having a famous name like that.”

            The guy slumped down even further.  “No, it’s not really,” he said, staring into the depths of his scotch.  “I lied.  My real name is Britney Spears.”

            Jim stared at him, and then burst into guffaws.  “Oh, mate, I’m sorry to have a laugh at your expense, but… oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, whatever can your parents have been thinking?”  Then he dissolved into helpless laughter again.

            The man put both hands over his face, and leaned into them, sitting motionless for nearly a minute.

            Jim finally got a hold of himself, and wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand, then reached out and thwacked the man on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry for laughing, mate,” he said.  “That was unkind of me.  Next round is on the house, to make up for my bad manners.”

            The man didn’t move.

            “Ah…” Jim said, frowning, and tapped the man’s shoulder.  “Are you all right?”  There was no response.  “I’m heartily sorry for laughing at you, um… Britney.”

            The man dropped one hand, and glared at Jim with the one exposed eye.  “My name is not Britney Spears,” he said.  “I was lying again.”

            Jim shook his head, and said, “You were just having me on?”
            “Yes,” the man said, one hand still covering half of his face.

            “Well, you’re the best liar I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few,” Jim said.

            Finally the other hand moved.  “No, I’m not,” the man said.  “I’m a terrible liar.  I just make stupid shit up.  It’s not even halfway to believable.”

            Jim shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”

            The man gave a harsh sigh.  “Look,” he said.  “I’m going to tell you something, and see if you believe that.  Tell you a story.  Okay?”

            Jim looked down the bar.  The other patrons seemed to be in no imminent need of refills, and no one new had come in since the conversation had begun, so he leaned on the bar, and said, “Sounds worth hearing.”

            “My uncle Harry died three months ago,” the man began.

            “A pity,” Jim said.  “My condolences.”

            “Thanks,” the man said.  “Uncle Harry was a bit of an oddball.  He was my mother’s brother, and was filthy rich.  He never married, and so when he died we inherited a good bit of his money, his house, and his stuff.”

            “Lucky,” Jim said.

            “Funny you should put it that way,” the man said.  “I’d always been jealous of Uncle Harry, because he had everything.  My mom and dad always just barely scraped by, but Uncle Harry made money without even trying.  My dad used to say that he could mint gold coins with his fingertips.  He always seemed to succeed at whatever he tried, and had a new girlfriend every week – and each one was always prettier than the last.  But even so, he never gave us anything while he was alive.  Not one cent.  I remember at one Christmas dinner, he came over, ate our food and drank our wine, and didn’t give a damn thing to anyone – not a single present to any of us.  He even told us that he had no reason to give away what was his, why should anyone expect a handout?  And the funny thing is – at the time, we all just sort of swallowed it.  ‘Harry’s a rogue,’ my mom said, in this kind of indulgent way.  And my dad said, ‘He’s a charmer, that’s for sure.’”

            “Bit of an asshole, sounds like,” Jim said.

            “Well, maybe it seems that way now,” the man said.  “But no one was saying it then.”  He nodded toward Jim, as if to point out how significant that was.  “He almost seemed to make a point of saying outrageous shit, just to see if anyone would challenge him.  Nobody ever did.”

            “And you inherited his money when he died,” Jim said.  “So you got the best of him, in the end.”

            “Yes and no,” the man said.  “Just from his bank balance, my parents will never want for anything again, and that’s a blessing.  But the kids… he specifically willed each of us something.  He gave my sister a silver ring, and my brother a suave-looking felt hat with a leather hatband.  Me… he gave me a necklace.”

            “A necklace?” Jim said.  He peered at the man’s neck, which was bare.  “Not your style, then?”

            The man gave a mirthless laugh.  “Actually, it was beautiful.  A gold Celtic cross on a thin gold chain.  When my mom gave it to me, said that Uncle Harry had wanted me in particular to have it, I though it was pretty cool.  But I don’t wear necklaces much, so I just put the box in my pocket and forgot about it.”

            Jim smiled.  “A nice keepsake of your uncle, still,” he said.

            “I got woken up by the telephone the morning after we got the gifts from Uncle Harry’s estate – it was a Saturday, I remember.  Seven o’clock.  It was my brother, calling me up to tell me he’d won the lottery.”

            “Your brother won the lottery?” Jim said, in awe.  “That’s stupendous!”

            “Yeah,” the man said, without much enthusiasm.  “But what I didn’t tell you is that he was on the verge of bankruptcy.  He’d gone out the night before with some friends, sort of as a last fling.  He was so embarrassed by his financial problems that he hadn’t wanted to ask any of us for help.  But he said that evening, he’d put Uncle Harry’s hat on, and suddenly had this feeling like… he couldn’t lose.  He bought one lottery ticket – just one – with the last dollar in his wallet.  And now he’s a millionaire.”

            “That’s quite a story.”

            Again there was that momentary twitch in the corner of the man’s mouth.  “Yeah,” he said.   “And my sister…  I didn’t tell you that my sister recently was diagnosed with ALS.  You know, Lou Gehrig’s.  She had the tremors, weakness, and all… she was pretty despondent about it.”

            “Isn’t that…” Jim stopped, bit his lip, and said, “Terminal?”

            The man nodded.  “Yeah.  Two years, they said.  Five, tops.  Most of it you’re bedridden.  One of the most horrible diseases around.”  He paused, took another sip of his scotch.  “Only, thing is – she went to the doctor two weeks ago, and he said that she’s cured.  No sign of illness.  In fact, they’re looking into whether she was misdiagnosed in the first place, because no one, he said, ever is cured of ALS.  If you get it, you die.”  The man looked up at Jim, his eyes intense.  “She was wearing Uncle Harry’s ring when she went in for the checkup – the one where they told her the disease was gone.”

            Jim stared at the man in astonishment.  “That’s… that’s fantastic.”

            “We were all thrilled about it.  First my brother strikes it rich while wearing Uncle Harry’s hat, and then my sister is cured of a fatal disease while wearing his ring.”  He looked at Jim, his eyebrows raised.

            “So… the necklace?” Jim prompted.

            “It went missing.”

            “No!” Jim said, aghast.

            “When I found out my sister had been cured while wearing his ring, I thought, ‘I wonder if there’s something about Uncle Harry’s stuff that’s making all this happen?’  So, I took the necklace out of the box, and put it on.  I slipped it inside my shirt, and wore it all day.  I didn’t notice anything different.  Then, that evening… I suddenly realized that it was gone.  I turned my apartment upside down – I looked inside the sofa, under chairs, everywhere I could think of.  It was gone.”

            “Well, that’s devastating,” Jim said with feeling.

            “Mmm-hmm,” the man said, not seeming particularly devastated.  “So, anyway, that night, I was in the bathroom, and getting ready for bed, and I took my shirt off.  And I saw this.”

            The man stood up, and lifted his shirt.  In the center of his upper chest was a small mark, shaped like a Celtic cross – a circle with a cross through it.

            “Tattoo?” Jim said.

            “Not one I asked for,” Jim said.  “But it’s the same shape as the design on the necklace pendant.  So I called my brother and sister, and we got together the next day for lunch.  And guess what I found out?”

            “I wouldn’t try,” Jim said.

            “Both the hat and the ring had had a Celtic cross design – it was on the hatband, and engraved into the band of the ring.  Both the hat and the ring had gone missing, too – the hat the day after my brother won the lottery, and the ring the day after my sister was given a clean bill of health. And then they told me the best part – my brother now has a tiny Celtic cross mark on his temple, right at his hairline – you have to look close to even see it – and my sister has one on her right ring finger.”

            “Sweet mother of God,” Jim said, under his breath.  “Wealth, health, and…?”  He looked at the man, a question in his eyes.

            An attractive young woman, a cosmopolitan in one slender hand, came up to the man, and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice…”  She laughed nervously, reddened, and set her drink down on the bar.  “This is… this really isn’t like me.”  She stopped, and looked at him, smiling.

            “It’s okay,” he said, as if he already had the script memorized, and was just waiting for her to recite her lines.

            “It’s just that… when you had your shirt pulled up, I thought, Wow, he is so hot!  It just… it just came over me so suddenly, and I thought, hey, you only live once, right?  So I thought…”  She looked down, coyly, and said, “Are you doing anything this evening?  I thought maybe we could go to my apartment, and you know… get to know each other a little.”  She looked up, smiled.

            The man looked at Jim, and said, “Wealth, health, and I sure as hell would just like to be believed because I’m actually telling the truth.”  He sighed, and looked at the woman, who was hanging on his every word, even though there was no way she could possibly have had any idea what he was talking about.  “Not to mention women finding me attractive because I actually am.  The brother who was poor gets money; the sister who was sick gets well; and you know what that implies about me?”  He shook his head.  “Oh, well, I guess there’s nothing to be done about it.  Uncle Harry did the best he could, all things considered.”  He looked up at the woman, managed a smile, and said, “I’m really good in bed.”

            She wiggled an eyebrow.  “I’m sure you are.”

            “My name is Margaret Thatcher.”

            She gave a coquettish little laugh.  “That’s fine with me,” she said.  “Mine’s Terry.”

            The man slid a ten dollar bill across the bar, told Jim to keep the change, and Jim watched as the two of them exited into the rainy night.  Leo Corcoran, one of the bar’s regulars, came up, pint of Guinness in hand, and said, “It’s a right quiet night, Jimmy boy.  Who was that nice-looking young man you were talking to?  Dashing sort of fellow, I thought.  I’ve not seen him in here before.”

            “Interesting gentleman,” Jim said, picking up a towel and polishing a glass with it.  “Quite a lady’s man, I fancy.  I think he’ll be scoring a nice little home run this evening, with that sweet blonde who left on his arm.  But odd thing, you know?  Fellow’s name is ‘Margaret Thatcher.’”

            “Is that a fact?”

            “It is,” Jim said.

            “Never know what you’ll hear next, some days.”

            “That’s God’s honest truth, lad,” Jim said.  “God’s honest truth.”

The Next Big Thing

A couple of days ago, I was asked by my writer friend, the inimitable Tyler Tork, if I wanted to participate in an author-centered "blog hop."  (If you are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, think "chain letter for bloggers," and you have the idea.)  I thought it sounded cool -- answer a few questions about my work-in-progress, and then pass the baton to other writers.  It's a chance for our readers to find out a little about what we're currently working on, which is always fun.  So, without further ado, here are my questions and answers.

1.  What is the working title of your next book?

It's called Lock & Key.  A wooden lockbox, and the intricate silver key that unlocks it, figures prominently in it.

2.  Where did the idea come from for your book?

Well, there are two answers to this, the first one being, "Who the hell knows?"  Ideas tend to pop into my head unbidden, and while sometimes I can pinpoint where they came from, most of the time, they just seem to explode into being, usually in the form of one or two powerful images, that I then have to write a story to explain.  For this one, there is at least a partial further explanation, however; my younger son, who is interested in such bizarre fields as quantum physics, was having a discussion with me about the "Many-Worlds" interpretation of quantum phenomena.  The idea of this theory is that at every junction in the history of the universe, all possible outcomes did happen -- just in alternate timelines in the space/time continuum.  (Note that whatever Geordi LaForge might have to say about the matter, this is a conjecture that is far from proven, and in fact it very much remains to be seen whether it would even be possible to prove it.)  In any case, after one such mind-bending conversation, I got to thinking, "Wouldn't it be cool if there was a place where all of the possible outcomes were kept track of -- where you could, if you wanted, look up what would have happened had someone acted differently?"  And that was the genesis of the opening scene in the novel -- when the main character, the hapless bookstore owner Darren Ault, finds himself suddenly propelled into the Library of Timelines after his best friend, physicist Lee McCaskill, tries to kill him.

3.  What genre does your book fall under?

Like most of my novels and short stories, I'd call it "speculative fiction."  Some people would say that it's "science fiction," because it does involve time travel -- but I don't really agree with that, because unlike most writers of science fiction, the how doesn't interest me much -- the workings of time machines, spaceships, and so on.  What fascinates me endlessly, and (really) what all of my stories riff on in some fashion, is how characters react when their world is turned upside down by events that they never thought could happen.  How can you explain something that is completely outside of your experience?  It's the people, and their reactions, that drive the story.

4.  What is your synopsis or blurb for this book?

Darren Ault is a mild-mannered bookstore owner in Seattle, Washington, who is invited for a visit by his best friend, Lee McCaskill.  No one is more surprised than Darren when, in the middle of dinner, Lee pulls out a pistol and shoots him in the head.  But the surprises aren't over; far from being killed, Darren escapes without a scratch, but finds that the event has somehow made the entire human race vanish.  This launches him on an adventure that involves a beautiful red-haired Scottish lass from the 10th century, a chronically depressed Norwegian silversmith, some religious crazies from 19th century Kentucky, Vikings, a manic and murderous highwayman, and the Library of Timelines -- the place where all of the possibilities, for everyone in the history of the world, are tracked, monitored, and chronicled.

5.  What actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Darren Ault -- I'm thinking Shia LaBeouf.  Knows how to play a hapless nerd, but has some basic sex appeal.
Archibald Fischer, Head Librarian of the Library of Timelines -- Tom Felton.  He had the sullen thing down pat as Draco Malfoy.
Maggie Carmichael, Fischer's administrative assistant and right-hand woman -- Tilda Swinton.  No doubt about it.
Maire Gillacomgain, the lass Darren is supposed to save from a fate worse than death at the hands of the Vikings -- Karen Gillan.  She has the red hair and the lovely Scottish accent.
Per Olafsson, the depressive Norwegian silversmith -- Paul Bettany.
Brother Zebulon Bell, leader of the Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ Risen and Triumphant Through Suffering -- I think if you put a white suit and a straw hat on Vincent d'Onofrio, he could pull it off.
Jane Bell, Brother Zebulon's free-thinking daughter -- Olivia Wilde.
John Andrews Murrell, the insane highwayman -- Johnny Depp.
Lee McCaskill, Darren's best friend and (attempted) murderer -- Chris Hemsworth.  If he can do Thor, he can do a homicidal physicist.

6.  Will your book be self-published, or represented by an agency?

I've completely given up on traditional publishing, after (literally) hundreds of attempts even to get a reading by an agent.  I'm now self-publishing electronically.  It may not be the road to fame and riches, but it's working for now.

7.  How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Well, I'm not done yet.  But this book has had an interesting history; I started it (first twenty pages or so) almost ten years ago, and then put it aside because I couldn't see where I was going with it.  My writer friend Cly Boehs, who had heard that bit of it, encouraged me to pick it up again -- she said the whole concept of the Library of Timelines was just too good to give up on.  So I sat down and basically mapped out the path the story would take, and I've been working on it steadily since then.  If you added up how long I've put into it thus far, I'd say it totals about eight months.  I'm guessing it'll be a year and a half total to have a finished manuscript.

8.  Who or what inspired you to write this book?

As I've said, the two people who really launched this idea were my son Nathan and my pal Cly.  Without them, I wouldn't be writing this right now (although I'd probably be writing something else; working on something is pretty much a perpetual state for me).

9.  What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Well, I'm not sure there's anything else I've read that's quite like the plot of this book.  Stylistically, I owe a lot to Christopher Moore and Terry Pratchett; their ability to take wacky situations and drop characters into them to see how they react is basically a model for how I write.  (This book has a lot of funny moments, as do most of Moore's and Pratchett's books; but a lot of my writing is scary/disturbing, and for that aspect of my writing I'd say I draw from inspirations like Neil Gaiman, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King.)

10.  What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

I've tried to work in real historical figures and events throughout, to give it a solid substructure of fact within which the plot can develop.  John Andrews Murrell, for example, was a real highwayman in 19th century Kentucky and Tennessee, although I doubt he was as crazy as I'm portraying him.  There were various plots against King Magnus of Norway, although my involvement of the (real) Archbishop of Trondheim is a fabrication, and I hereby apologize for slandering his memory by implicating him in one.  Darren's visit to Norway lands him there in the middle of the Black Death, which was (obviously) a real event, and one which I've always found morbidly fascinating (I set my novella We All Fall Down during the same period, in central England).  So along the way, you meet some interesting real characters, and witness some interesting real events, along with the rather frenetic fictional quest that Darren is trying to accomplish -- undoing the damage to humanity's past that Lee McCaskill unwittingly caused, and bringing everyone back from the paradoxical void.

11.  Who's next in the Blog Hop?

I'm tapping three folks -- make sure you check out their blogs!

1)  The incomparable K. D. McCrite, who has been a continual source of encouragement to me
2)  Jeff "Smoke" Tsuruoka, writer of monster stories
3)  Christina Esdon, actress, writer, and occasional mermaid

The Cellar Hole

Be careful who you talk to in dark places.

***************************************

The Cellar Hole

            It was boredom that drove Jeb Shay up into the hills north of the village.  He was 18, had finished his schooling the previous June, and still lived at home, working part-time at Leckey’s General Store to contribute at least a little to the family coffers.  He worked enough hours stacking jars and cans, dusting shelves, and sweeping to justify the meager paycheck he got every week from Bart Leckey, and gave enough of it to his parents to keep them from hounding him about the amount of time he spent idling. 

            No one in his family seemed to trouble much over him.  They never had, really.  His father was a silent man, not given to saying anything more than was absolutely necessary.  His mother often seemed preoccupied with her own problems, not least of which was the vexing question of how a vital, lively young woman had somehow become the middle-aged, graying housewife to a man who hardly ever looked at her, much less spoke to her.  Jeb’s older brother, Leonard, was 21, had gotten a two-year degree at the local college in bookkeeping, and had a steady job as the assistant to the village’s CPA; he spent all of his free time courting Sue Lounsbery, and from the bit of spying on them that Jeb had done during the previous year, they were soon to be married or soon to have no real choice in the matter.  Jeb’s younger sister, Sally, was 15, and was the academic star in the family, and despite her gender looked to be the only one of them that had a shot at a four-year college.  Sally Shay seemed likely to be a teacher or a nurse, given her brains, drive, and independence, and her eagerness to get out of the dark and still home in which she had been raised.

            Jeb, on the other hand, had neither a goal like his sister, nor an active romance like his brother; all Jeb had was jealousy, a lazy streak, and a bad case of middle-child syndrome.  He was left alone for the most part, and no one much seemed to notice him unless he overslept or was late for dinner.

            So it was that one day in early November, having done his shift at Leckey’s and still facing three hours before he had to be home, he struck off up the hill behind the general store, through leafless maple trees and past old stone walls that had been the boundaries of smallholdings a hundred years ago, and now marked nothing, accomplished nothing, only got in the way.

            Just like Jeb.

            He tugged his jacket tighter around him to block the wind, and worked his way in a zigzag fashion up the long, rocky slope.  It was steeper than he’d expected, and he was breathing hard before he got halfway to the top, and turned to rest and to see what he could see from his higher vantage point.  From here he could see the rooftops of Guildford, chimneys breathing out wood smoke.  He saw a shiny black Model A, just purchased that year by the village mayor, Charlie Upshaw, purring its way down Main Street toward the village offices, finally disappearing behind the old courthouse building.

            The village seemed to lose his interest quickly (Just like it does from down below, he thought glumly), and Jeb turned and continued his ascent.  He followed the line of a low stone wall, and soon came to the overgrown, tilted slabs of an old house foundation, nestled in one of the few flat spots on the hill’s steep slope.

            I wonder who lived here, Jeb thought.  No one’s lived up on the hill since I can remember.  I could ask Bart.  Bart Leckey prided himself on his knowledge of the village’s history, and undoubtedly would have an answer, although Jeb had privately wondered at times how much of it was true and how much made up so that Bart wouldn’t have to admit ignorance, something the shopkeeper hated doing.

            Next to what was left of the foundation was a vertical piece of wall with a gaping, dark hole in the center – an opening into what had once been the house’s cellar.  Jeb went around and knelt next to it, and peered in, but the sun was slanting at the wrong angle and nothing could be seen of its dark interior.

            And then a female voice, from inside, said, “Hello.”

            Jeb leaped to his feet, and backed away, his breath coming in a thin whine.

            The voice laughed.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

            “Merciful Jesus,” Jeb said.  “What are you doing in there?”

            “What are you doing out there?” the voice countered.

            “Talking to you,” Jeb said.

            “Well, then.  I’m talking to you, that’s what I’m doing in here.”

            “But why are you in the cellar?”

            “Maybe I was waiting here to talk to you.”

            Jeb frowned.  “How did you know I was coming?  I didn’t know, myself, not until I finished my shift at the store.”

            “Just a hunch.”  There was a smile behind the voice as she said, “Come closer.  You don’t need to be afraid.”

            Jeb walked back to the cellar hole, and knelt down.

            “You’re awfully handsome,” she said.

            “Thanks.”  Jeb blushed.  “Not as handsome as my brother, though.”

            “Well, I haven’t seen your brother, but I have seen you, and I think you’re awfully handsome.”

            “Thanks,” he said again.  “Don’t you want to come out?”

            “Not really.  I like it in here.  It’s cozy, and out of the wind.”

            “Oh.”  Jeb squinted, trying to get a glimpse of who was talking to him, but the darkness defeated him.  “What’s your name?”

            She laughed.  “I think I’ll let you guess about that for a little while.  Mystery is appealing, you know.”

            “Do I know you?”

            “Maybe.  You’ll just have to figure it out.”

            The wind gusted, causing the branches of the maple trees to creak against each other, and making Jeb shudder.

            “Are you cold?”

            “Yes.  It’s freezing.”

            “I’d invite you in, but you know, it’s not proper, a boy and a girl on first meeting.  You understand?”

            “Oh.  Sure.  Yes.”

            “Then we’ll just have to look forward to our second meeting, then.  You will come back?”

            “When I can.”

            “Good.”  It sounded like a dismissal.

            “I’ll see you soon,” Jeb said.

            “Yes.  Yes, you will.”

            By the time Jeb got to his house, he was half convinced that he had imagined the whole thing.  He went about his chores, helped with dinner, and no one much spoke to him, as usual.  All that evening, the voice of the strange girl haunted him.  There was something familiar about it – but what girl he knew would be up there, on the hill behind the general store, hiding in an old cellar hole?  He tried out the idea of various girls he knew – ones he’d gone to school with, girls who came in with their parents to shop at Leckey’s, friends of his sister’s.  None of them fit.  None had the right voice, and certainly no girl he knew would have ventured into an abandoned cellar.

            The wind had risen to a howl by the time he went to bed, and the radiator was clanking in a futile effort to warm up his bedroom when he went in to ready himself for bed.  He got undressed, donned his pajamas, and pulled an extra blanket out of the chest at the foot of his bed before putting out the lights and climbing under the covers.  Relaxation eluded him for some time, but finally, he felt himself drift into that comfortable half-doze that precedes a gentle drop into the true realm of sleep.

            And then something touched his lips.

            He was startled into instant wakefulness, and pulled himself into a half-sitting position, leaning on his elbows.  There came a soft laugh.

            “I told you, we’d meet again soon,” the voice whispered, in the darkness.  And then there was another touch on his lips; another mouth, warm and moist, pressed against his.

            “How did you get in here?” Jeb asked, a little breathless, as the kiss broke.

            “Are you asking me to leave?” she said, a pout in her voice.

            “No!”

            “Good.  Because, you know, this is our second meeting.”  She kissed him again, and he reciprocated.

            “But… who are you…?” he said.

            “I don’t think you really care,” she said, laughter in her voice.  An unseen hand pulled the blankets back.  Jeb felt a tug on his pajama bottoms, and moments later, he was swallowed up by pleasure.

            The next morning, he awoke, alone, twisted in a tangle of blankets.  His brain felt logy, sludgy, like he couldn’t quite put two thoughts together.  He got out of bed, at that point discovered that his pajama bottoms were a damp mess, and hurried to the bathroom hoping he wouldn’t meet anyone on the way.

            Fifteen minutes later, he’d cleaned himself up, rinsed his pajamas and brought them into his bedroom to hang on the radiator to dry, and dressed.  Then he headed downstairs, still feeling like his brain was wrapped in cotton wool, but hoping that food would help.

            He was working at the store that morning, so he fixed himself some oatmeal, and then consumed it in silence at the kitchen table.  His mother came in, dressed in her pale blue bathrobe, and put on coffee and sliced bread to toast, all without acknowledging his presence.

            “Hi, Mom,” Jeb finally said.

            Mrs. Shay jumped.  “Oh, Jeb!” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her face.  “I didn’t see you there.”  She turned back to the loaf of bread.  “Are you working this morning?”

            “Yes.  I work till three o’clock.”

            “I see.  Would you like some toast?”

            “No, thank you.  I just had some oatmeal.”  He got up, rinsed his bowl and put it on the rack to dry, and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

            “Have a nice day, Jeb.”

            Jeb donned his jacket and went outside.  The wind had died down, but it was still chilly and gray, and the ten-minute walk to the store was cheerless.   He passed two people he knew, but they didn’t greet him, and Jeb himself still felt too shaken and confused to feel up to saying hello himself.

            What had happened last night?  He’d had dreams of that sort before; he supposed every man did, sometimes.  But this dream was different.  There was something about it that seemed more real, not only than other dreams, but than reality itself.  While in the midst of it, he’d felt like every sense was stretched to the snapping point.  And now… he felt like there was something gone from him, some vital spark that he couldn’t quite conjure up.  He no longer felt groggy; he felt, on some level, not quite there.

            He opened the front door of the store, and went behind the front counter and donned his apron.  Bart Leckey came out from the back storeroom, humming tunelessly through his thick mustache, and almost ran into Jeb as he walked over to the cash register.

            “Jeb!” Leckey said, huffing a little.  “I didn’t hear the bell ring.  I didn’t know you’d come in.”

            That’s because the bell didn’t ring when I came in, Jeb thought, but he decided that saying this to Bart Leckey would just have brought up questions he couldn’t answer.   In the end, Jeb just shrugged.  “What do you need me to do today, Mr. Leckey?”

            “Oh, the usual,” Bart said, frowning at Jeb nearsightedly.  “Just dust and sweep.  The wind yesterday blew in dust and leaves, and of course there’s what folks track in.  It’s a never-ending battle.”

            The day passed in tedium, a steady stream of customers, a steady slow-motion list of menial tasks, the clock ticking the seconds out far too slowly.   He took fifteen minutes to eat an apple and a paper bag full of peanuts he’d bought for lunch – Bart gave him a discount on everything he or his family purchased, so it was easier just to eat something from the grocery store shelves and have Bart deduct the few pennies it cost from his next paycheck.  Then it was another three long hours of boredom before the clock stood at three, and Jeb was able to shuck his apron, write down his hours (and his lunch purchases) in the ledger, and escape into the cold November day.

            He found that his feet were heading back up the hill without any real conscious decision being made.  He half expected the old house foundation, and the dark maw of the cellar hole, to be gone; a figment of his imagination, or part of the bizarre dream from the previous evening.  But there it was, surrounded by a tangle of blackberries and osier.  His heart beat a little faster as he knelt, and looked into the darkness.

            “Are you in there?” he said, quietly, a little embarrassed.

            “Of course,” came her voice.

            “Did you…”  He swallowed, the redness coming into his cheeks, and hoped she wouldn’t notice.  “Did you come to my house last night?”

            “Of course,” she said again, and giggled.  “Who did you think it was?”

            “No,” he said quickly.  “I knew it was you.  I just… I just wondered if I might have dreamed it.”

            “No, it wasn’t a dream.”

            “I didn’t know…”  He paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.  Why wouldn’t his brain work?  He felt mired, like he could barely produce a coherent thought.  “I didn’t know you were going to do that.”

            “Didn’t you like it?”

            “Yes, of course I liked it!  But… I don’t… I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

            “Like I said last night, does that matter?”

            “It should.”

            She laughed.  “By which you mean, it doesn’t.  Right?”

            “I don’t know.  I just… I didn’t know…”  He stopped.

            “If you don’t want me to come back,” she said, “all you have to do is tell me.  Tell me you don’t want me, and that will be that.  No… hard feelings.”  There was just the slightest pause, and a hint of mockery, in the last phrase.

            “Were you going to come back, then?”

            “That depends.”

            “Depends on what?”

            “Whether you want me to.  I can be with you every night, if you want.”

            “You would… you would do that?”

            “If you ask.”

            “I…”  He paused, licked his lips.  “Okay, I’m asking.”

            She laughed.  “I wondered how long it would take you.”

            Three mornings later, Jeb stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, looking for marks.

            She had bitten him the previous night; he was sure of it.  Just as he was teetering on the edge, his backbone arched like a bow, he felt her teeth clamp down on the muscle in his shoulder.  It didn’t hurt; or, more accurately, the pain was so wrapped up in the pleasure that it seemed like it was all one thing.  He looked, bleary-eyed, at his reflection, at the angle between his neck and shoulders, expecting there to be a neat, serrate bite mark there, with maybe a little bit of dried blood, but there was nothing.  His skin was smooth and undamaged – but when he touched the spot, it was sensitive, like there was an invisible bruise hovering just underneath the skin, out of sight.

            He held one hand up, in front of his face, held it close enough to his eyes that the outlines were blurry and transparent.

            I’m vanishing, came a thought out of nowhere.  She’s eating me alive.

            Nonsense, came a more prosaic voice.  You just aren’t used to nights like this.  It’s what you wanted, it’s what you were so jealous of when you used to spy on your brother making out with Sue Lounsbery.  Now you have it.  Enjoy it.

            Soon you’ll be gone, the answer came, as if it hadn’t heard.  Blown away like a dead leaf.

            He dropped his hand to his side, and then slowly, mechanically, put on his clothes, went downstairs to breakfast, went off to work, where no one spoke to him, no one even saw him there, a shadow among other shadows.

            That night, he ate dinner without speaking to his parents or his siblings.  His sister was eager to get to her studies, his brother to his usual tryst with Sue Lounsbery; and soon it was just Jeb there, with Mr. and Mrs. Shay, silverware clinking against plates, the quiet sounds of a meal among people who hardly know what to say to one another.

            Jeb finished eating, and looked from his father to his mother.  He wanted to get to his room; he didn’t know when the woman would come to him, but he could already feel the desire rising in him.  His mind was playing over what they had already done together, and thinking about what undreamed heights she might take him to that night.  It was only a little after seven; she might not come for three hours, or more, and he wondered how he would manage to wait that long.

            She is stealing your mind, came a warning voice, in his thoughts.  She wants all of you.  She started with your groin, now she’s taking your mind; your heart will be next.

            Again, he forced the voice away from him.  Stop listening, said a voice, and it sounded like a little like his own voice, and a little like hers.

            If she isn’t evil, then why does she say that you have to turn the lights off before she’ll come to you?

            Because what we do can only be done under cover of darkness, came the voice, sweet and seductive, and now it was clearly her voice.

            “May I be excused?” he said, setting down his napkin next to his plate.

            His mother looked up at him, and frowned, as if seeing him for the first time that evening.

            “Of course, Jeb.”

            He stood, tugging his shirt down to hide his erection, and turned to make his way upstairs to his bedroom.

            “Jeb?”

            He half turned back.  “Yes?”

            Mrs. Shay looked at him curiously, anxiously.  “Are you all right?  You don’t look… yourself.  You seem pale.”

            “No, Mother, I’m fine.”

            “Are you sure?”  She twisted her napkin between her hands, looked at her husband, who just gave a little shrug and said nothing.  “It just seems like…”

            Like I’m not here, came the thought, unbidden, but the desire was stronger, the need for what his unseen lover could do, would do to him, would make him feel.

            “I’m fine, Mother.  There’s nothing wrong.”  He managed a smile, and she smiled back, faltered a little, and then visibly relaxed.

            “All right.  That’s good.  You know, it’s so easy to catch a chill in the winter.  I just wondered if you might be ill.”

            “There’s no need to worry about me,” he said, and turned back away toward the stairs, feeling the heat rising in his loins.  Any thoughts of pushing his strange lover away were gone, chased from his mind by raw need.  No, he thought, and as he ascended the stairs his smile took on a quite different quality, one his mother would not have recognized.  Chilled is the last thing I feel right now.

            And so it went.  Work, silence at home from parents and siblings, each night new pinnacles of desperate pleasure, and each day his reflection in the mirror looked less… there.  Every morning he checked his body for marks; there was one night that she spent minutes that felt like hours, her warm mouth pressed on the skin above his heart, while his naked body writhed in a desperate twist of pain and ecstasy, and he bit his lip till the blood flowed to keep from crying out and awakening his sister who was sleeping in the next room.  But there was nothing there the next morning, no bruise, just a tender spot on his chest, right above his left nipple, that ached under his touch.

            And as he walked to work that morning, he was quite sure that when said hello to Mrs. Wentworth, who had been his ninth grade writing teacher, she looked around to see who had spoken to her… and then looked right through him and kept on walking.

            “Mr. Leckey?” Jeb said, just before quitting time, three days later.

            Bart Leckey turned around, and frowned.  “Oh, it’s you.  I thought you’d already left for the day.”

            “It’s only 2:45.  My shift goes until three o’clock.”
            “Well, of course.  What is it, then?”

            “Do you know who used to live up there on the hill?  There’s an old house foundation up there.”

            Leckey’s frown deepened.  “Well, that hasn’t been a house for, oh, probably a good seventy years now.  Belonged to a family named Curtiss.  Long gone, upped stakes and moved west, to Iowa, I heard.  Place fell into ruins, land taken for taxes.  Still belongs to the county, I daresay.”  He paused.  “Why?  What’re you doing up there?”

            “I just was out for a walk, and came across it.”

            “Is that so?  Well, might be better you didn’t.”

            “Why?  It doesn’t look dangerous.  There’s barely any of it left.”

            “It’s just…”  Leckey chewed on the end of his mustache, and gave Jeb a queer look.  “It’s just best left alone.  People have gone missing up there.”

            “I’ve never heard of any.”

            “Hasn’t happened in a while.  Last one I knew of happened when I was a young man.  Fellow named Harkins.  Richer’n Croesus, became convinced there was buried gold up there.  Wouldn’t tell anyone how he knew; just hinted that he’d ‘heard tell from someone who knowed.’  He kept going back, you know, you’d see him going up the hill, every day, carrying a pick and a shovel.  One day he just didn’t come back down.”

            “What happened to him?”

            “Couldn’t tell you,” Leckey said.  “No one ever found a body, so hard to say for sure.  Only thing I could think of was that he’d gone crazy and got lost.  But there was some as said he’d been tricked, that there was something up there on that hill that catches people by whatever their weak point is.  Draws ‘em away, eventually they’re so lost they can’t find their way back again.  Harkins – well, if there was a way to catch him, money was it.”  He made a snorting noise.  “Like as not, that’s just a lot of foolishness.  Harkins probably got lost up there, or fell and broke his leg and starved.  Bad end, but no need to talk about evil spirits.”

            No, came a purring voice in Jeb’s ear.  No need at all.

            “Thanks,” Jeb said.  “I think my shift is about over.  Can I go now?”

            “Certainly, Jeb.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Jeb trudged up the hill, as the wind grabbed at him and flung specks of snow in his face.  There was a thin white crust of it around the cellar hole when he got there.

            “Are you there?” he said, his voice weak, and sounding as if it were coming from far away.

            “Of course!”  Her voice was strong, vital, filled with life.

            “I talked to Mr. Leckey today.  He knows about you.”

            “I know you talked to him.  I was there.  But he doesn’t know much, and most of what he thinks he knows is wrong.”

            “What are you?”

            The voice was sweet, seductive.  “Just what you need me to be.”

            “Did you kill Mr. Harkins?  Way back, when Mr. Leckey was young?”

            “Kill him?  Why would I do that?”

            Jeb lay down on his belly, with his face right next to the dark opening.  He squinted.  He thought he could see a shape, a vague, human shape, just inside, but it was out of reach of the light from outside.

            “You hooked him.  Mr. Leckey said you did.  You hooked him by his weak point.  That’s what you do.”

            “Oh, then,” the voice said, laughing, “I guess we know where your weak point is.”

            “That wasn’t fair,” Jeb said.

            “What wasn’t fair about it?  I gave you a chance.  I gave you a taste, then I offered you a choice.  I told you then that if you asked me to go away, I would.  And I would have.  I never lie.”  She paused.  “You begged me.  Just last night.  You begged me to keep on, to make you feel what you were feeling.”

            “I’m not begging now.”

            “No,” she said, and her voice turned harsh.  “I see that.  So what is it you want?”

            “Go away,” Jeb said, and rested his cheek on his hands.  “Go away.  Let me be.”  His voice was muzzy, slurred.

            “Oh, but Jeb, my darling, my lover,” she said, “I think it is far too late for that.  What you have left is hardly anything at all.”  A sad, pitying tone came into her voice.  “I thought you’d last longer, I honestly did.  I didn’t know how easy it would be to empty you.  Perhaps you weren’t anything much to start with.”  She paused.  "Or maybe I was just hungry.  It has been a long time, after all.  Far too long."

            “Please,” Jeb said, as his eyes closed.

            Ten minutes later, a deer minced its way through the little dip in the side of the hill.  It avoided the cellar hole, by some primal instinct against danger; but it looked for a time with its liquid brown eyes at the outline of a man, stretched on the ground, a silhouette in dead leaves and dark earth that was bare of snow.  But then the wind blew, and the snow came down harder, and the outline was blurred and lost in a haze of white crystals.