He wanted to meet in a bar. Of course he did. And in typical Aksel fashion, the bar sat smack dab in the worst part of the city. Not even cockroaches showed their faces after dark in that stretch of gang-ruled territory. No place was off limits to the demon. I, however, stuck out like a hot pink evening gown in a funeral parlor.

I sat at a table in the back of the bar hugging my purse to my chest. Even though I dreaded it, I wished Aksel would hurry up. At least then I could pretend there was someone strong and fearless to keep me safe. A pair of thugs walked by, their hands occupied; one hand on a beer, the other keeping their sagging pants from bunching around their ankles.

A warm breeze hit the back of my neck. A hand bearing a large ring with a red stone slid onto the table. Another hand joined in, trapping me between the table and his body.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”

That voice, gods… I couldn’t stop the shudder. “You invited me here, Aksel.”

He leaned down and sniffed my hair. “Only because you asked so nicely to do this interview.”

Aksel backed off and took his seat. Before his ass even took the shape of the chair, a waitress brought him a glass of whiskey, straight up. She left the bottle. He looked across at me and raised a brow. Moments later the waitress returned with another glass filled with ice. Aksel poured my drink.

“Can we just get this over with?”

He chuckled. “Ask away, sweet thing. I want to hear what my adoring fans are curious about.”

“First off, what is your full name?”

“Aksel.”

I gave him a look. “Okay… How old are you?”

“Old enough to date your mother.”

“Aksel!”

“Yes, that is my name.” He took a drink. “I’ve been around since mankind came into existence.”

I blinked at him. “That’s a damn long time. Do you have any family?”

A look crossed his face and he finished off the whiskey in his glass. “No.”

“Did they die?”

“Yes, and I’ve got the teeth for proof. Next question.”

Hoping he couldn’t see the list of questions I’d jotted down, I crossed out the remaining family-oriented questions… and finished my drink. He poured us both another.

“What is the biggest misconception about you?”

“People think I’m nice.” Aksel flashed he trademark smirk. “They should know evil comes in sexy packages.”

“I’ve tried warning them.” I shrugged. “Do you have a secret? Something you’ve never told to anyone, not even those you trust?”

A tick started in his jaw. He scrubbed at a day’s worth of beard and frowned down into his glass. “I might, but I’m not telling you jack shit.”

“Why, don’t trust me?”

His hand came down on the table hard enough to make the bottle of whiskey jump. Aksel leaned across, within kissing distance.

“I trust no one.”

Just as quickly he sat back and waved at the notepad clutched to my chest. I looked at the next question and winced. Damn his fans…

“Rachael wants to know: Were you to be in our world, I’m curious what you would most like to do with R.C.? I’m thinking ala ‘My Dinner with Andre’, do tell us if you had her for the evening how it would go?”

A grin split his face from ear to ear. “You slipped that question in yourself, didn’t you?”

“No. Just answer the fucking question.” Not that I wanted to hear his answer. I knew better than most what his idea of a night out meant.

“I’d take you on a hunt with me, like we used to do. Just you, me, and whatever chick happened to be at the end of my blade.”

The salad I ate for dinner threatened to make a reappearance. “This is why I don’t let you out to hunt any more, Aksel.”

“No, you don’t let me out because you’re afraid you’ll grow to enjoy it.”

I stood. “We’re done with the interview.”

In a blur he pinned me against the table again. “You’re lying. I saw one more question on your little list.”

I knew better than to struggle. He liked it way too much and I wasn’t about to excite him before asking the question I truly dreaded.

“Say it, Renee.” The scrape of metal against leather was unmistakable. Aksel pressed his knife against my back. “I’m asking nicely.”

“Alli wanted to know more about your sex life.” My heart tried to beat its way out of my chest.

A surprised laugh sounded over the rap music playing in the bar. Aksel sheathed his knife and stepped back. Smug satisfaction twisted his darkly handsome face.

“She’s read the story. What more could she want to know?”

“Why you do it that way, I guess?” Gods, I did not want to be having this discussion with him. Aksel’s sex life is my worst nightmare.

“It’s the hunt, babe. The power I have over them. They think they’re getting the ride of their life, but it’s on my terms and the biggest ride of all is the slippery one leading to ones demise. I’m just the catalyst giving them that one last thrill.”

“They get absolutely no satisfaction out of dying, Aksel.” I couldn’t keep the outrage out of my voice.

He shrugged and tossed back a double shot of whiskey. “Who’s to say what the dying feel right before they go?”

“Killing isn’t right.” For once I didn’t feel like an idiot standing on moral high ground during a debate.

“Maybe they want to die.” Aksel pulled a wad of bills out of his wallet and dumped them on the table. “We’re done. Don’t call again unless we’re going on a hunt.”

Shaking, I watched him stroll out of the bar. In that moment I didn’t care how bad that side of town was, how I’d get home, or much of anything else, really. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured myself another drink.

Aksel would be the end of me one day.

(FYI: This is all for fun. Juliette, Jinxie, and myself are likely laughing and safely Not In Jail. …probably. Find out by following us on Twitter: @TheZSC )

Eventually in life one will have a moment were they feel alone in a crowd. A thousand people could walk by, possibly even try to strike up a conversation, but their efforts cannot shine a light into the deep well of loneliness surrounding their fellow man. As the popular saying goes, “everyone dies alone”.

Brenda sat on the crowded platform in the middle of the Elder’s ballroom-slash-torture chamber and wished like hell she could fall into that dark, lonely place. Too many eyes watched her. Too many people counted on her to fight the base urges she’d only been coping with for two days. And there were far too many people waiting for her to fail so they could kill her and the two vampires responsible for creating her as well.

Kneeling beside her, a teenaged human male watched the vampires with a mix of fear and awe darting across his young face. Behind him, Sydnee stood silently. She held a small knife by her side. Brenda didn’t know how she’d use it, but the idea that anyone in the room possessed a weapon made her already uneasy mind skitter around in blind panic.

Jarlan wheeled a small fire pit through the maze of torture devices. Emerald positioned the waist-high pit beside the coffin-cage holding Rich. She hummed a happy tune, stuffing various iron tools deep into the hot coals. Amund sidled up behind her and slid a leather apron over her head, securing it with a bow in the back. How nice of him to help the lunatic doll protect her pretty dress from burns and blood stains.

Strapped to a giant cross, Nico snarled through the gag in his mouth. Thais circled behind him, something long and thin in her hand. A fleshy slap echoed around the room, quickly followed by another. Through the blood bond, Brenda felt the corresponding stinging pain across her butt cheeks. The bitch, she thought.

The spanking slowed to slow strokes of leather across Nico’s backside. Thais slid the tip of the riding crop down his thigh, tickled it against the back of his knee, and brought it back up to gently pat his sac. Brenda’s breath caught. Fear of what the psycho would do next mingled with Nico’s response to the intimate touch. It wasn’t much more than a flicker, and delivered at the hands of someone he’d never have sex with, but it gave her hope. If he could cling to that, perhaps he could surface from their collective bloodlust. The test would be over before anyone got hurt.

Sparks flew into the air. Emerald pulled an iron brand from the fire pit and inspected the glowing tip. Murmuring pleasure with the temperature, she glided up to Rich’s cage.

“Now be a good boy and answer. What is it you truly desire, Rich?”

His wide brown eyes darted from the hot poker to Brenda, eventually falling on the boy beside her. He growled. The hunger cramp twisting his stomach passed through their bond. She doubled over from the pain.

“Wrong answer,” Emerald sung happily.

She jabbed the hot brand under the cage. Screaming agony cut through the blood bond. The smell of burnt flesh wafted in the air. Brenda fell out of her seat and scrambled for the edge of the platform. She clung to the wood as she hurled up the blood they’d allowed her to drink. What hadn’t been absorbed by her starved body splashed on the marble floor.

Hands scooped her up by the armpits and hoisted her back into the chair. Jarlan rubbed her back. He waved a handkerchief over her shoulder. Brenda took it gratefully, wiping the bile and blood from her chin. She blew her nose, not caring about manners. She’d already puked in front of them, they could deal with snot.

“Now, Brenda. Your turn. Sydnee, if you would.” Amund gestured to the redhead.

A flash of silver caught Brenda’s attention. The boy’s cry of pain cut off to a muffled whimper behind Sydnee’s pale hand. Blood hit the air, smelling better than a platter of bacon and eggs after a weekend bender. Her eyes fixed on the blood dripping from the human’s arm to form a puddle. Such a waste. A horrible waste. She should clean that up.

Brenda, no. Fight it. Nico whispered in her mind.

She paused, caught between her husband’s plea and the unrelenting need to crawl on the ground and lap up the wasted blood. Hands clenched into fists, Brenda slowly sat back up. Relief flickered in Nico’s eyes. Thais began her work again and the look vanished.

Thais rubbed gloved hands over Nico’s chest. Each time the vampire lifted her hand she saw small flashes of silver on her palm. Through the blood bond, it felt as though something prickly, but not too painful scraped Brenda’s thigh, stomach, and down to her groin. Arousal reared its head again only to be chased off by her own shame. How could either of them could get turned on by that woman?

Don’t be ashamed. This is what they asked for. We fight them and we give them a show if that is what’s needed, my love, Nico breathed through her head. She felt his body pull against the ropes to chase the hand playing across his hips. Even then, she couldn’t ignore the smell of spilled blood.

Agony ripped through her left arm. Brenda looked down, expecting to see Sydnee’s blade sticking out of her bicep, only to find flawless, smooth skin. Whipping he head up, she watched Emerald pull back from Rich’s cage. A bloody set of platinum claws fixed to her fingertips dipped into her parted lips. The vampire gave a low moan, her tongue carefully working around the blades to clean them. She reached out again. A single claw dug into Rich’s arm. Blood flowed more freely. Drip, drip, drip. The leather apron covering Emerald’s gown shimmered where it caught Rich’s blood.

“Stop it,” Brenda begged.

“My pet, what do you desire?” Emerald caressed his cage. It swung around until he faced her and couldn’t see Brenda. “Be truthful with me.”

“I—“ He choked on the words. “Blood. I’m hungry.”

Rich’s head sagged—as much as it could in the form-fitting cage—and Brenda felt his shame mix with the pain and the lust threatening to tear all three of them apart. She did her best to silently reassure him that they’d be okay. Could they read the doubt in the back of her mind? God, she hoped not.

On his cross, Nico groaned. Thais ditched the toys while Rich bled. Her hands roamed Nico’s body with the freedom only a lover should have. Nails scored his chest. Fine lines of blood crisscrossed through his skin. Brenda fidgeted in her seat, hating that she’d done this, that she’d put them in that room with those vampires. Now she could only watch her husband molested by a jealous, psychotic freak.

“Enjoy him while you can, bitch,” she muttered.

“Sydnee,” Thais called over her shoulder as she knelt down in front of Nico. “The boy.”

A thin arm blocked Brenda’s view. She reached up to bat it away, but froze with her fingers locked around the wrist. Fresh blood slid down the boy’s forearm from a pair of inch-long cuts. So precise, the wounds. Just enough to bleed him, but not drain him. Looking up, she met Sydnee’s emerald green eyes fully for the first time. Something deeper lay in them. Pity? Couldn’t be…

Sydnee pulled the boy’s arm back a fraction of an inch. Enough for Brenda to feel it, but not enough to draw attention. Would she help them? Could she, even? Brenda’s stomach cramped. Her body hurt from Rich’s torture, yet hummed from Nico’s trials. Thinking didn’t come easily. With willpower she didn’t have, she used Sydnee’s lead and together they moved the boy’s arm away.

“You are impressive, Brenda,” Amund called. He stepped up beside her. A hand brushed the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. “But you still hunger. It still controls your men.”

Amund’s fingers swept down to her jaw and forced her head around. Thais knelt in front of Nico. Her head moved in such a way it was impossible to mistake what she’d been doing while Brenda rejected another offering of blood. Nico’s body didn’t respond to the blowjob. That didn’t stop the female from trying, though. Anger pulsed through her veins. Hot on it’s heels came the urge to tear into something. Rip it apart until she held nothing but bloody chunks of flesh and bone in her hands.

A growl from somewhere masked the wet sounds of dripping blood and… other things. Brenda looked around. Somehow she’d made it to the edge of the platform without realizing it. Amund’s arm latched on to hers, keeping her in place. Another growl rumbled through the room.

Control, honey. Please. We need you to be in control. Rich’s silent pleas cut off with a scream. Emerald giggled, setting the brand aside. On his thigh a red-black burn shaped like a Celtic knot sizzled.

“No more!” Brenda tried to wrench away from Amund to no avail.

He laughed and walked her back to her seat. Sydnee resumed her position, the boy’s arm in one hand, and the knife in the other. She wouldn’t look up. Brenda needed her to look up. She needed an ally.

Taking several deep breaths, she tried to focus on just that; air going deep into her lungs—even though she didn’t need to breathe—and coming back out in a slow hiss. She began to meditate, not sure how much time passed. Through the blood bond she knew Nico’s body began to respond to Thais’ touch. Brenda shut that out. Rich’s burns made her head spin and her stomach roil. She breathed past that as well. One of them needed to be clear-headed. The elders expected her to be that vampire. Then they’d get it.

Hurry, Brenda. We can’t hold on much longer. Nico’s voice brought her back to the real world.

“We’re ready now,” she announced.

Amund gave her an amused look and gestured to Sydnee. She made another pair of small cuts on the boy’s arm, just above the others. Brenda’s stomach cramped and she fought to keep from falling on him like a ravenous beast. Air in, air out. There’s nothing to eat here, she told herself. Just keep breathing and it will be all right.

“Rich, would you please tell us what it is you truly desire at this moment?” Amund asked.

A hoarse whisper came from the vampire. Emerald prodded his backside with a finger claw. “Speak up so that everyone can hear you, pet.”

Rich sucked in a rattling breath and tried again. “Get this psycho bitch away from me.”

Emerald’s laugh rang out through the room. The scent of blood wafted up from the boy’s arm. She struggled to keep her wits long enough for the elder’s to question Nico. She took a breath—careful not to breathe in the offered meal directly—and hoped like hell her husband could do his part.

“And Nico, what is it you truly desire?” Amund turned his attention to the other male. Thais still worked him with her mouth, determined to screw everything up.

Nico’s heavy-lidded eyes rolled up to glare at the elder. “I’d rather stick my dick in a cactus than take what she’s offering.”

Thais growled. Her hand reached to the small of her back. A pair of blurs shot across the room and knocked her to the ground. Gunshots popped off rapidly. The humans screamed and cowered. Snarls and curses overlapped the screams, followed by the meaty sound of knuckles hitting flesh. Just as quickly as it started, the chaos came to an abrupt halt.

On the floor Caius held his bleeding throat. A puddle formed under his writhing body and spread quickly. A few feet away Jarlan held Thais in a headlock, his huge bicep cut off the blood flow to her head.

“Get the fuck off of me!” She kicked at him. She may as well have kicked a steel door.

Jarlan tightened his hold and lifted Thais off the floor. Her struggles grew sluggish, uncoordinated. “What should I do with her?”

Amund flicked a hand over his shoulder. “One of the cages, for now. We will deal with her later.”

The large vampire toted off his burden, carefully stepping around the blood on the marble floor. Sydnee hurried to Caius’ side with the boy. Her knife went to work again, making a clean wound on his wrist. Blood dribbled into Caius’ gaping mouth. He didn’t move to feed. Tears pricked the back of Brenda’s eyes. He’d taken a bullet for Nico. He couldn’t die from a gunshot wound…right?

She scrambled off the platform and paused. Help Caius or free her men? Nico nudged her with his mind, making the decision for her. Brenda ran over and unfastened the ropes holding him to the giant cross. He rubbed her shoulders, reassuring her and pushed past her to Caius’ prone body. Knowing she couldn’t help the fallen vampire, she went to tend to Rich.

The worst of his wounds still oozed. Blood coated his skin to the point where she couldn’t tell where any of the smaller cuts were. Brenda looked around the coffin-cage contraption. It hung from a post, like one used for lynching people. A lever stuck out from the support beam. She pulled it and the cage lowered to the ground. Emerald stepped up to the gate and slid a brass key in the lock. It gave way with a well-oiled click. Wisely, the elder stepped away again to the shelter of her husband’s arms.

She spared a glance back. Too many people crowded around Caius for her to see how he fared. Jarlan peeled away from the group. He nodded towards Rich, a myriad of emotions running through his hazel eyes.

“Let me help him.” Despair warped his deep voice. “She made me put him in there, knew it’d kill me to do it. The least I can do is free him.”

Brenda nodded. “It wasn’t your fault. You did what they ordered you to. Rich wouldn’t have wanted you punished for his sake.”

In the cage, Rich moaned his agreement. The moans morphed to curses foul enough to make a statue blush as the other vampire extracted him from the metal coffin. Jarlan laid Rich out on the platform. She ripped the curtain framing the staged torture area down to cover him with. Rich curled on his side, favoring the freshest set of brands on his left. She sat at his head, giving him her thigh as a pillow. Carefully, her fingers stroked his long hair.

Over her shoulder, Jarlan dangled a pair of blood bags. Brenda shifted Rich’s head around and bit the corner off of one. She fed him first, despite the cramps in her stomach. The smaller cuts on his face began to fade as she watched. He’d finished half of his bag when a silver cup wagged in her face.

“They will heal faster if you feed as well.”

Brenda took the cup with a thanks and drank it down without tasting or even noticing if Jarlan warmed the blood. When she finished, he refilled it. They repeated the process until she held up a hand.

“Any more and I’ll pop.”

Chuckling, he took the cup. “You went through four bags. Even I’m impressed. Rich, you made a truck driver, not a vampire.”

In her lap, Rich laughed. He rolled onto his back to look up at his friend. “I don’t care, buddy. She’s perfect as she is.”

She smiled down at his mostly healed face. Rich reached up and hooked a hand behind her neck. He pulled her down for a kiss. A gasp from across the room brought them apart. Instinctively they reached through the blood bond for Nico. Sadness greeted them in a great wave.

Brenda made it to Nico’s side first. Squatting down, she smoothed a hand over her husband’s hunched shoulders. He knelt, still nude, in a massive puddle of blood. His hands were coated dark red. Tears pooled in his eyes and spilled over when he looked at her.

“The bullet severed his spinal cord. He’s gone.”

Rich joined them, sandwiching Nico in. He wrapped a hand around his friend’s nape and drew their foreheads together. “Caius knew the risk when he ran to help you.”

“She’s going to pay, Rich. Caius was a good vampire. A good friend despite what’s happened.” Nico fisted a hand in Rich’s hair, holding desperately to him.

Unwilling to part them, Brenda wrapped around Nico’s back. She rubbed her cheek along his shoulder and kissed the spot where Rich’s fingers held on to him. They stayed like that, frozen with the loss of a friend and ally in their plight. Caius had every faith that they’d endure the test he’d suggested. Without his interference the elders would have sent Thais to kill them all at home without another thought. Brenda absorbed that knowledge from both of her men and realized how much Caius really risked for them before they even set foot in the elder’s compound.

Soft fabric brushed Brenda’s arm. Shocked, she looked up at the pair of black robes dangling from Emerald’s tiny hands. On their other side Amund draped the fallen vampire with a pristine white sheet. Blood soaked into the fabric and Brenda looked away.

“Thais will be dealt with. It is forbidden to kill another vampire. More so, that she has slain an elder above her station without provocation will cost her life. How that price is paid is up for discussion, should you wish to help.” Amund raised a brow at them.

Shaking her head, Brenda helped Nico stand and put on his robe while trying to keep it out of the blood surrounding them. “I don’t know about them, but I’ve had enough death today. The bitch should be left to whither and rot.”

Approval caressed the inside of her mind. Nico and Rich gathered her between them and simply nodded for the others to see. The three of them left the torture chamber arm in arm without another word to anyone. Even vampires—with their seemingly endless thirst for blood—grew tired of needless death.

And because I’m a dork, there’s–of course– a video of me seriously goofing up while trying to record the video.

by R.C. Murphy

Like a Viking horde, Christmas invaded Huntington Boulevard. Nearly every home along the mile-long historical district possessed some sort of twinkling lights fixed to their lawns. The few bare houses were startling in their lack of glitz and mass-produced holiday cheer. On any given night throughout December, folks walked or drove down what had been dubbed Candlestick Lane—so named because the old fashioned street lamps were decorated like gigantic candlesticks. Halfway through the dazzling displays children could catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. A real, live Santa who waved and gave a hearty, “Ho, ho, ho” to passing cars. Holidays on Huntington Boulevard were surreal, beautiful, and a gigantic pain in the ass.

Morning sun stole all of the glory and wonder from carefully decorated homes. Everything in sight looked washed out, tired. Or maybe her mood colored her view of the world.

Rebecca McGovern sneered at a herd of wire deer grazing in her neighbor’s yard. That very same herd had been making Mr. Jacob’s lawn their home for nearly ten years. They were the only décor the old man allowed to be set up. Hell, since his wife passed, not even a tree went up inside. Ah, the holidays. How they persisted in reminding the living of those who have passed on.

Across the street, in the wide grass strip that once held tracks for the long-forgotten trolley line, sat Santa’s sleigh—complete with animatronic reindeer. Somewhere along the line of reindeer caretakers, they fancied that the reindeer were fans of bad disco fashion. Each of the four bore bright, sequined saddle blankets. Rebecca couldn’t help but hum the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever every time she passed by.

A sudden attempt to dislocate her shoulder banished the disco music from her mind and firmly pulled her attention back to the matter at hand.

“All right, Samantha. Calm down, we’re going.” The bouncing blonde chihuahua on the other end of the leash gave an excited whimper and shook. She always shook. It was part of the tiny breeds charm. If only their propensity to develop an ear shattering bark would fall to the evolutionary wayside.

Samantha let out another trembling whimper. Her gaze locked on something over by Santa’s sleigh. Another dog came around the side of the display, nose locked to the dewy grass. The stray hiked up his leg and pissed on the base of a Christmas tree beside the sleigh. Rebecca bit back a laugh. Some days, she held the same sentiment.

“Come on, baby girl. Let’s leave him to his bathroom break.” Rebecca chuckled at Samantha’s snort and led the way down the sidewalk.

A quartet of ice-skating Smurfs met them in the next block, their smiles far too cheery for the cold breeze leeching through her jacket. Their ply-board bodies swayed in the wind, giving the illusion that the overgrown Smurfs could actually skate. Not that Fresno ever got cold enough to freeze ponds for anyone to skate on. Winter in the Valley consisted of a moderately chilly two-month break from the hot-as-hell temperatures.

Samantha’s nails clicked along into the next block, which held the infamous dueling manger scenes. For as long as Rebecca could remember, the two houses constantly tried to out-do each other, adding more and more to their decorations until it became Jesus-palooza on their lawns. A few years back both of their baby Jesus dolls went missing. The “official” report blamed teens from the high school down the street. She suspected, however, that the men engrossed in the manger battle stole the other’s Jesus in order to get an upper hand. The second, and larger manger scene pulled ahead by leaps and bounds in the annual pissing contest when the homeowners hung a life-sized mannequin dressed as an angel over their manger.

This year the scene didn’t pack a punch. The angel lost an arm during a storm. His missing limb laid in front of baby Jesus, looking like a serial killer’s offering to the Messiah. Rebecca laughed. Her mind toyed with the idea of one of the wise men as a homicidal maniac. Gold, frankincense, and the still-beating heart of an unfortunate woman… considering how bloody the bible was, the idea didn’t seem that far-fetched.

Tugging impatiently on the leash, Samantha led the way across the street. Her little chihuahua legs moved a mile a minute to keep her well ahead of Rebecca’s steps. The dog had enough horsepower to pull a dogsled all by herself. If there were any snow on the ground, she’d sacrifice some cash to see if Samantha really could.

When it seemed as though the subdued decorating theme would win out, weird reared its head again. Smack-dab in the middle of a manicured lawn sat another set of ply-board figures. Santa Claus stood in the cold, his bright red long johns exposed to the public. He looked awfully embarrassed as a bunch of woodland creatures laughed at his expense. Why anyone thought a half nude Santa was appropriate confounded Rebecca. Poor Santa had been flashing passersby his unmentionables for years. Though she still held out hope that someone would take pity on him and update the display.

Rebecca left Santa to his embarrassment. Leaves crunched under her feet. A breeze kicked up under the back of her jacket, cold enough to make her gasp like she’d been goosed with an ice cube. “I’m asking Santa for a longer coat this year, Sammy.”

The chihuahua ignored her. Her determined little legs dragged Rebecca past an never-ending line of houses with more of those damn wire deer and corresponding wire Christmas trees. About five years back originality in the decorations gave way to cheap and easy ways to get their crap out on the lawns the weekend after Thanksgiving and back out of sight on January second. Nevertheless, when the sun set the street took on an ethereal feel. If one could overlook the modern decorations it’d be easy to imagine a troupe of Victorian carolers strolling down the sidewalk.

A surge of traffic forced them to stop in the shade of a gigantic Christmas tree. According to the sign by the sidewalk, it was one of the tallest, living, lighted, and decorated Christmas trees in the nation. Rebecca tilted her head back to take in the full size of the tree. She’d hate to be the one responsible for decorating that thing every year. Nor would she want to be the one stuck footing the electric bill. The half-billion bulbs on the branches twinkled in the sunlight between brightly colored ornaments.

Despite the hassle and the cost, the Christmas tree remained the shining star of Huntington Boulevard. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that growing up, the main reason she’d sneak out on cold December nights wasn’t to visit Santa, but to admire the grandeur of the giant tree.

Traffic slowed and she moved on. Samantha did her doggy business. Out of habit the pair kept walking all the way to the other end of the street towards Cedar. A pair of teens from the high school strolled past, headphones plastered to their heads, phones in hand. She shook her head, wondering if the next evolutionary step would be no mouths or vocal cords. Kids nowadays communicated strictly by texting.

Down at Cedar, she stopped to wait for the traffic light. A noise drew Rebecca’s attention to the house behind her. The corner house had always been a tad… different. This year the owner put out a set of realistic deer grazing on the lawn and, to her surprise, little tiny Santa hats on the metal flamingos interspersed between the well-kept rose bushes bordering the sidewalk.

“How adorable. I wonder if those come in Chihuahua size,” she teased Samantha, who in turn snorted and squatted to tinkle on the strip of grass next to the street. “You’re all class, Sammy.”

“Pssst…”

Rebecca frowned down at the dog. No way could she pee enough to actually make a sound after a mile and a half walk.

“Pssst…”

“Oh what the hell?” She turned around, expecting to see one of the high school kids trying to screw with her head. Nothing. Just the flamingos with their tiny red hats.

One of the flamingos’ head bobbed on the giant spring that acted as its neck. The wind must have caught it, though none of the others moved. Samantha gave a whimper and darted behind Rebecca’s legs.

“Chicken Chihuahua. It’s the friggen wind,” she muttered.

“The wind can’t talk,” a male voice replied.

Rebecca blinked. Then blinked again for good measure. The flamingo that’d moved in the wind moved once more, only instead of just bobbing its metal head, its jaw moved. Okay, too much time in front of the weirdo house, she told herself and turned around to cross the street, traffic light be damned.

“Roadkill isn’t a good look, Rebecca. Get over here. I can’t exactly chase you,” the voice said again.

She froze, one foot hovering over the pavement. “Let me guess, because you’re a flamingo with his leg stuck in the ground?” Whirling around, she scanned the bushes for the source of the voice.

The flamingo’s head tilted up to meet her eyes. “Precisely.”

“I’ve lost my fucking mind.”

“That is up for debate considering how often I’ve heard you speak with that rat on the end of your leash, but we don’t have time to assess your sanity. Rebecca, I need your help.”

She gaped at the flamingo and then pinched the back of her wrist. Hard. “Ow! Okay, so not dreaming. Why the hell do you need me?”

A frustrated snort came from the non-throat of the flamingo. “You’re sensitive to spirits. I bet you know which houses down this street are haunted. It’s a gift, and is the reason why I need you. After the lights turn off, come back here. I will explain more.”

Just like that, the flamingo’s head dropped down and went back to being a plain ol’ metal flamingo with a Santa hat on its head. Rebecca inched forward and gave the thing a poke. It didn’t move again or yell at her. She peeked over the rose bushes, looking for wires or speakers, anything to explain what the hell happened.

“Excuse me.”

Rebecca yelped and turned around so quickly she tripped over Samantha’s leash and hit the ground with an “oomph”. A pair of nurses who worked at the hospital across the street gave her concerned looks. One reached out to help her up while the other hit the button for the crosswalk.

“You okay, miss?” The older nurse gave her an once-over. Probably checking for blood… or a hospital wristband saying she’d escaped from the mental ward.

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.” Without meeting their eyes again, she slinked across the street and walked back home. Oh yeah, she was okay. If you considered talking to lawn decorations the definition of “okay”.

—

By ten o’clock Rebecca decided pacing would be her newest hobby. She walked a loop around her living room, bypassing the oversized chairs and couch that tempted her to sit and think. Thinking, that’d be a bad idea. Really bad. Then she’d be forced to face the fact that either her last marble had gone the way of the dodo or accept that a metal flamingo expected her to meet up with him in an hour. What sort of help did he need?

“Get a grip. You got brain freeze or something and it made you see things,” she told herself for the umpteenth time.

From the back of the couch Samantha watched her pace, little brown eyes tracking her progress across the living room and back. If the dog saw or heard the encounter, she sure didn’t let on that she did. Aside from that one yelp when the strangest conversation of Rebecca’s life started, Samantha seemed okay with what’d happened. That made one of them. She eyeballed the dog, who’d since given up watching and curled up in a ball to sleep.

“A lot of help you are,” Rebecca murmured and abandoned her pacing to make a cup of tea.

Butt leaning against the counter, she cradled an oversized coffee mug to her chest. Cinnamon drifted up from the steaming contents, but did little to soothe her nerves. The lights down Huntington would be off in just a few minutes. Could she—would she—really trek out in the cold to converse with something that’d certainly been a figment of an overactive imagination?

Through the kitchen window, Rebecca watched Mr. Jacob’s wire deer turn off and settle in for a long winters nap. Santa would be climbing down from his sleigh to go home for the night. In a few moments the people that came to see the lights would clear. It was now or never.

“I choose never,” Rebecca decided, setting her mug on the counter.

A chill crept down the back of her neck, invisible fingers working their way down her spine. She turned to check the window lock. Suddenly the coffee mug skittered across the counter and shattered on the floor. Cursing, she bent down to pick up the pieces. Halfway down she realized the fragments held a message, H-E-L-P. Oh wonderful, notes from her mystery flamingo.

Minutes later Rebecca trudged out the door bundled up in her coat, gloves, hat, and scarf—which covered most of her face, thankfully. If anyone saw or heard her talking a flipping flamingo, they wouldn’t be able to identify her to the men in white coats toting a straightjacket.

She crossed the street and headed towards Cedar. A handful of looky-loos lingered on the sidewalks. Cars without their headlights on eased past to catch a glimpse of the last few houses with their lights still on. Rebecca, like most, kept her lights on a timer. That way she didn’t have to go outside in her pajamas to turn off the friggen things.

Feeling rather humbug about everything involving Christmas, she walked up to the last house on the street. Hands shoved in her pockets, she waited for something to happen. She’d be damned if she spoke first. The flamingo-ghost-illusion wanted her help; he could break the ice.

“It’s not polite to stare.” The flamingo sprang to life. The little white poof on the Santa hat bobbed back and forth across beady black eyes.

“How about breaking someone’s coffee mug?”

“It got you here. I call it a necessary sacrifice.”

Rebecca bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from telling him she’d necessarily sacrifice his freaky metal backside to a junkyard. “Can we hurry up? I’m freezing.”

“Certainly.” The spring neck of the flamingo creaked as it lifted up higher. “I am a Christmas spirit and as such it is my du—“

“Oh god.” Rebecca slapped a hand against her forehead. “I fell asleep watching A Christmas Carol again. No wonder all this weird crap keeps happening.”

The flamingo’s head shook. “You ruled out a dream when we first met. Please, just hear me out.”

Sighing, she motioned for him to continue and silently wondered how long she could stand on the corner before someone came by, probably not much longer. The bird better talk quickly.

“As I was saying, it is my duty to ensure everyone in the area has a wonderful Christmas. This year, however, there is a dark cloud looming over the boulevard. If someone does not take action, it could be devastating.”

“What, no stockings from Santa this year?”

“Sarcasm is not productive.”

“Yeah, but it keeps me entertained. I’m still not seeing a problem that needs my help.”

“Santa is going to burn down the Christmas tree.” The flamingo’s tone made the ridiculous statement ten times spookier.

Rebecca snorted and shook her head. “Santa is a myth. How can a myth burn something?”

“You’re intentionally being dimwitted. The gentleman playing Santa in this year’s festivities plans to torch the giant tree tomorrow night.”

Oh. “And why on earth would he do that?”

He made an exasperated noise. “I don’t know why. I just know you have to stop him.”

“Some kind of spirit you are.” She took a look around to make sure no one snuck up while they talked. “Okay, fine. Who is it and I’ll call the cops.”

“I don’t know.”

“What time will he blow up the tree?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know anything at all?” Her hands fisted in her pockets. One more “I don’t know” and she’d punch the flamingo in its metal beak.

Black eyes met hers and held. “I know that if that tree burns, not only will the spirit of the season be forever tarnished, but every house on that block will become ash and rubble.”

She squirmed under the intense gaze. “But why me?”

“You are the only one I can speak to. Your gift, the niggling feeling that tells you there is a specter near, allows me to warn you of the events to come.”

Talk about pressure. Rebecca nodded, not believing that she really just agreed to help a possessed lawn sculpture save a giant Christmas tree. “I’ll do everything I can to stop him.”

“You won’t see me again, Rebecca, but I will be around, lending a hand when I am able.”

The flamingo’s head sagged on its spring neck and bobbed lifelessly in the breeze. Frozen to her core, Rebecca turned around and headed back home. The entire walk she wondered how exactly to stop a man determined to ruin not only the holidays, but a lot of families’ lives as well.

If she really was their only hope, God help them all.

—

The next morning Rebecca woke with a Chihuahua on her head and so many questions her mind buzzed. She’d stayed up late, trying to think of ways to flush out Santa. Every year someone else volunteered to play the part and this year she’d opted out of the holiday planning committee, so she had no insider information on the fat man. Not only did she have to find Santa, she had to prove he meant to do serious damage. Just catching him wasn’t enough. He needed to go to jail. She rubbed her forehead, knocking Samantha’s paw off. Could you go to jail for threatening to burn down a tree?

By the time she showered, she’d almost convinced herself the flamingo and his dire warning had been a hallucination. Stress at work and the holiday blahs always messed with her head. Depression mixed with stress cause this sort of mental snap all the time, right? Sure.

Rebecca stepped out of the shower and wrapped her hair in a towel. When she looked back up, the fog on the mirror began to move.

H-U-R-R-Y

“Just what I needed, an impatient hallucination,” she grumbled and went to get dressed.

After breakfast, she perched on one of the stools at her kitchen counter, scrolling through the contacts on her phone. Would it be too much for the spirit guy to help her and give her the number of whoever played Santa? Rebecca searched the numbers, half hoping to see one that said, “Bad Guy” or “Evil Santa”. Unfortunately no such number came up, so she called Joyce instead.

Joyce Conrad possessed the title of Huntington Gossip Queen, a title she wore with utmost pride. It earned her a few enemies in the neighborhood, but came in really handy when one needed to spy on someone without getting their hands dirty, or in this case possibly burnt off by a nutjob in a red suit. She hit the call button and held her breath. If Joyce didn’t know who played Santa, the whole saving Christmas thing would be a lot harder than she originally thought.

“Good morning.” Joyce’s voice vibrated through the phone with cheer. A morning person, wonderful.

“Morning, Joyce. This is Rebecca McGovern. I have a strange question for you.”

“Ask away, sweetie.” Christmas music drifted through the phone. Not only was Joyce a dreadful morning person, she also listened to holiday music from Thanksgiving day to New Year’s eve non-stop. Good thing she didn’t have to live with the woman.

“I was wondering who is playing Santa this year. He’s doing such a wonderful job out there and I wanted to write him a thank-you card.” Lame, lame, lame. Rebecca mentally smacked herself.

“Aren’t you a doll? It’s the new gentleman, Leonard.”

“New” around the boulevard meant someone that’d moved in during the last five years. Older folks owned most of the houses and the ones that weren’t were owned by the children of the previous generation. The houses moved down family lines for the most part. For one of the larger houses to be sold to an outsider was a rarity.

Leonard bought the house on Sixth that held the giant Christmas tree about five years before. She sat there, so shocked she forgot to reply to Joyce.

“You still with me, Rebecca?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, I was distracted by something. Thank you, Joyce. Have a nice day.”

“You too, sweetie.” The Christmas music and Joyce’s vibrant personality cut off with a click.

Rebecca sat back in her seat. Not only did Leonard plan to burn down the tree, but his own home as well. The guy didn’t strike her as the type to do such a thing. Of course, she’d never met anyone that wanted to set fire to much more than a barbecue or a stack of logs in a fireplace. She rubbed her forehead to chase off a budding stress headache.

Leonard Pickett was a big man. When he moved in they all thought he’d make an ideal Santa. Year after year he politely refused, saying his hands were full enough making sure the tree looked its best. What changed his mind this year? And what the hell possessed him to burn it down after taking so much pride in the thing for the past four years? Most importantly, how the heck would she take down a man that easily had a hundred pounds and six inches on her?

“Too many questions,” she groaned and hopped off the stool to hunt down some aspirin.

By the time the aspirin kicked in, Samantha began to do the puppy pee-pee dance at the front door. She gave a relieved yip when Rebecca hooked the leash onto her harness. Ten feet outside the door, the tiny dog stopped to do her business. The temptation to turn around and go back inside after she finished tugged at Rebecca. Outside stood reality where, allegedly, one of her neighbors would burn down a small chunk of the city for no apparent reason. Inside her house, she could ignore the Christmas spirit’s warning and call the fire department if or when the blaze started. Good plan. Safe plan. She liked it.

Across the street a leaf blower whirred to life. Looking over, Rebecca cringed. Leonard Pickett strolled around his massive front lawn, sweeping the leaf blower back and forth to clear the leaves that’d fallen overnight. From a distance he still didn’t look like a guy with arson on his mind. A nagging feeling in the back of her head propelled her feet before she could stop herself.

What are you going to do, Rebecca asked herself, walk up and say, “Excuse me, sir, but are you going to light the tree on fire tonight?” That’d be a one-way ticket to the loony bin for sure.

Leonard looked up from his work and killed the leaf blower. He waved to her. “Well lookie here. Haven’t seen you two in a while.”

A nervous smile broke across her face. “Work keeps me busy. Uhm, how’ve you been?”

Any more small talk and she’d smack herself. How the hell could she get away before blurting out the nonsense the flamingo fed her the night before? Fake an injury? No, then he’d try to help. She’d walked right into the “nice neighbor” loop. Crap.

He gestured to the tree. “Keeping busy. Replaced all the old ornaments for this year.”

Did he cringe when he looked at the tree? Oh god, now that damn metal bird had her all Nancy Drew, searching for clues to a mystery that likely didn’t exist.

“Wow, must have been a lot of work. A birdie told me you’re Santa as well this year.” Samantha tested the limits of her retractable leash and went off to sniff around the yard.

“Yes, ma’am. Speaking of, I need to finish this up and get ready. Tonight’s a big night.”

Leonard gave a wave and walked back towards the pile of yard tools laying by the gate to his back yard. He set the leaf blower down before stepping through the gate. Several red jugs, what looked like gas jugs, were lined up on the other side. The gate shut behind him too quickly for her to figure out exactly what they were.

“I can’t believe this, Sammy,” Rebecca said softly to her companion. “But I’m starting to believe the flamingo.”

—

Night fell on Huntington Boulevard. Twinkling lights set on roofs, yards, and trees blazed to life. Families bundled up in winter coats began their walks. Others piled into cars to drive slowly down the boulevard. In the middle of it all sat Santa, giving a cheery ho-ho-ho to everyone that passed.

Rebecca watched Leonard do the Santa thing from her front window. When she figured enough time passed, she grabbed a black coat and crept out the back door. She circled around, using the alley to keep her out of sight until she crossed Huntington well behind the sleigh. Slow traffic hid her progress. She ducked into the alley behind Leonard’s house without incident.

“I must be insane,” Rebecca said to thin air. Maybe the Christmas spirit watched. Who knew?

She gave the gate handle a jiggle. It didn’t budge. With a curse, she kicked the wood. The gate lock gave a soft click and the door swung inward. A breeze swept across the back of her neck, but didn’t move any of the nearby bushes.

“Uhm, thanks?”

The breeze vanished. Rebecca didn’t waste any more time and walked into Leonard’s back yard. Dense trees blocked most of the ambient light. She clicked on the small flashlight she’d grabbed. Hoping like hell Leonard couldn’t see the light, she picked her way around the backyard until she stood where she’d seen the red jugs that morning.

Nothing. Not one damn can in sight.

Frustrated, Rebecca backtracked to a small shed beside the winterized garden. The lock hung loose on the door. Probably more help from the great beyond, or wherever Christmas spirits resided. Inside, she passed the flashlight’s beam back and forth. In the rear left corner sat a pile of red gas cans. She took a sniff of an empty can. Diesel? Leonard drove a hybrid. Why would he need this much diesel?

The flashlight scanned around. Lawnmower, weed-eater, hedge trimmer, unlabeled boxes, crates holding god knows what… the shed was packed, but no where did she find a piece of paper detailing Leonard’s master plan to ruin the holidays. She slumped against a wobbly worktable. Something rolled forward and bounced off her backside. Rebecca moved the light over what looked like a road flare.

Frowning, she looked around the table. Tools covered most of the surface. On the back corner sat a box, blasting caps. She paused and took a closer look at the road flare. Dynamite.

“Holy crap.”

Rebecca hauled ass out of the shed. Her breath shot out of her mouth in huge clouds of fog. While she tried to slow down her heartbeat, she went over what she’d seen. Leonard had enough diesel fuel to power about a hundred chainsaws, blasting caps, and at least the one stick of dynamite. Would that be enough to call the cops? She looked up over the roof of the house at the star atop the Christmas tree. He’d said that all of the decorations this year were replaced. If he possessed any more dynamite, it hung on the giant tree, disguised as ornaments.

A breeze cut through the branches of the tree. The shiny ornaments caught the lights as they swayed. Taking that as a sign, she left the backyard and circled around to the front of the house via the alley. Hunkered down in the bushes, she waited for a gap in passer-bys before scampering up to the backside of the tree, away from prying eyes—all the while humming the Mission Impossible theme song to keep her panic at bay.

She checked the ornaments on the lower rows of the tree, paper towel rolls wrapped in foil gift-wrap with ribbon glued to the ends. Tacky, but not deadly. Glancing up, she realized the ornaments changed shape ever so slightly on the higher branches.

Rebecca jumped. Her fingers brushed one of the ornaments, but she couldn’t get a grip. Muttering a curse, she jumped again with the same result. Oh what she’d give to be two inches taller, or better at jumping. Maybe she could climb the tree? One look at the branches changed her mind. Unless an ornament sat close to the trunk, she’d fall. None of the outer limbs were thick enough to hold her weight.

“Crap on a stick.”

Legs feeling like rubber, she gave jumping one more try. Her fingers barely managed to wrap around the ornament before gravity sucked her back down. Rebecca landed on her ass with an “oomph” and decided to stay there for a while until she could breathe again.

“Let’s see what you really are.”

Carefully, she peeled the foil gift-wrap away and exposed a stick of dynamite identical to the stick she’d found in the garden shed. A tremble started at her legs and worked its way up to her hands. Leonard really wanted to blow up not only the tree, but that much dynamite would take out the entire block of homes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Still in full Santa gear, Leonard walked around the tree, glaring down at her. He ripped the fake beard and hat off. “I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing, Rebecca?”

Ut oh… “I was just—“ she stuttered and took a breath. “The ornament fell, I picked it up so a stray dog wouldn’t take off with it.”

He snorted and snatched the stick of dynamite out of her hand. “You’re a horrible liar. Step back into the tree and hold onto one of the branches.”

The Santa Claus gone wrong produced a length of rope from the back of his belt. Rebecca stood, backed up slowly and jammed a hand in her pocket. Blindly she tried to dial 9-1-1, praying her shaking fingers hit the right buttons.

“Don’t do this, Leonard.” The only plan she could muster involved making him talk. If he stayed to talk, he couldn’t blow anything up. As far as plans went, it sucked. “Why the tree? Why now?”

Red splotches colored his cheeks. A vein throbbed under the curls of his white wig. With jerky movements, Leonard grabbed her wrists and tied them together around a branch above her head. He seemed to be thinking of an answer, his thin lips pinched in concentration.

“Didn’t want it to go this way,” he said at last. “ But you wouldn’t know how hard it is to keep afloat with a mortgage the size of the national debt. That fucking house, this god damned tree, they’re sending me to the poor house!”

He gave one last yank on the ropes holding her in place and stepped back. Anger flickered across his face, looking really out of place with the Santa getup.

“There has to be another way.” Rebecca twisted her wrists against the binds. They didn’t give. Just her luck, the crazy man probably learned from the Boy Scouts.

Leonard pinned her with a stare that froze her blood. “I thought so too. The bank won’t help. I can’t go to my family asking for a handout to save a house they warned me not to buy. This is the only way. It’s a historical landmark. They’ll assume terrorists blew the block sky-high long before they think Santa Claus did it.”

A muffled voice came from her pocket. She couldn’t make out what they said, but assumed her call to 9-1-1 went through. Please, god, she thought, let the dispatcher hear what we’re saying.

The friendly neighborhood Christmas spirit could help any time now.

“Blowing up a huge chunk of Huntington Boulevard homes won’t fix anything. And blowing up the tree will hurt the people who’ve lived here their entire lives.”

“Shut up! You inherited your house. There hasn’t been a mortgage on that place in your lifetime. I’m going through with this. Your pooch can inherit your place after they piece together your charred skeleton.”

Leonard collected his hat and beard from the ground and slid them back on. He set the faux-ornament she’d retrieved down beside her feet. With a wink of his eye, he thumbed his nose and strolled back towards the sleigh. A group of children cheered from the other side of the tree.

“Please, please, please help.” She didn’t know if the operator still talked from her pocket. The pounding of her heart drowned out everything.

In the branches above her head, wires ran back and forth. Some went to the multitude of light bulbs; the rest strung the sticks of dynamite together. The interior of the tree looked like a spider’s web and she’d become the unwitting fly caught in the trap. A trap that reeked of diesel fuel. Rebecca fought to free her wrists. There was no telling when that lunatic would press the trigger and blow her to smithereens.

“I’m going to die, blown up by fucking Santa Claus.” Her laugh turned into hysterical tears. Blood ran down into her coat sleeve from where the tree bark scraped her wrists raw.

Tears made her vision blurry. A bright light swept across her eyes and only made things worse when paired with the multicolored Christmas lights. Rebecca sobbed, waiting for the worst. She’d never been very patient. Apparently that included waiting for certain death.

“Hello?” a man called. “Ma’am are you in there?”

Great, she’d started hallucinating again. What the heck, might as well go out embracing insanity. “I’m here!”

The branches blocking her view of Leonard’s house parted. Through her tears she made out the vague shape of a man in dark clothing. He stepped carefully around the puddles on the ground until he reached where she’d been tied up.

“Just try to keep breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t calm down. Breathe with me, ma’am.” The man, a cop judging by the silver glinting off his chest and hat, took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth.

A sob choked Rebecca when she tried to do the same. Her wrists screamed in pain and only got worse when he began to untie the knots holding her in place. He kept his cool, continuing to take deep, calming breaths. Eventually her body followed his example.

“T—thank you.” She cradled her throbbing wrists against her stomach.

The officer led her through the tangle of wires and tree branches. A short, blonde paramedic swooped in on them when they emerged, blue-gloved hands making quick work of assessing the damage to her wrists. The woman walked her to the ambulance parked in the semi-circle driveway in front of Leonard’s house.

A light bulb went off in Rebecca’s traumatized mind. “Santa Claus! They have to catch Santa before he blows the tree up.”

Firm hands held her down on the back bumper of the ambulance. “Stay still, please,” the paramedic warned softly and jerked her head towards the flashing police car beside them.

“They got him right before we found you. Congratulations, you saved Christmas.”

Santa wig askew, beard down around his throat, Leonard glared at her from the backseat of the car. He yelled something, but she couldn’t hear it. Probably for the best, she thought. He’d be out for blood. Her blood. Oh god, what would happen once he got out of jail?

“Cops say there’s enough explosives to put him away for a nice, long time,” the paramedic said in that soft, even tone emergency workers used. She carefully pulled a piece of tree bark from Rebecca’s wrist and dabbed it with gauze.

“Thank goodness for that,” Rebecca replied, eyes glued to the man that’d nearly killed her.

Frost crept up the window of the cop car, completely obscuring the hateful man inside. Bits of ice began to swirl and move of their own accord. The Christmas spirit—shaped like that dang flamingo—nodded at her in the frosty picture. He winked; the end of the ghostly Santa hat bobbed around. Just as quickly, the image vanished and the frost began to recede.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered to the spirit, wherever he’d gone.

Over at zombiesurvivalcrew.com we’re hosting a new contest. Usually I don’t share these, but this one is different. We want your zombie poetry. Yes, you read that right. Zombie. Poetry.

Details on how to enter can be found on the ZSC website here.

Good luck!

Tuesday:

Dear diary,

Today was a special day. They let me play early, so long as I promised not to set the bright, shiny news camera on fire. We could have used the warmth, though. Five o’clock in the morning is really, really cold. After we played with the handsome news man, they let our normal screaming friends in to play. My furnace was only slightly busy tonight. A shame, really.

~Sera

Wednesday:

Dear diary,

I guess our puppy, Brooken invited a friend over to play in her pit of bodies tonight. When I decided to play peek-a-boo with potential friends, (pre-burning, of course) I ran into a werewolf! Fur and all. It was really strange since Brooken never mentioned being a social beastie. Maybe I should tie one of my friends up for her to play with from now on so she won’t get lonely… or hungry.

~Sera

Thursday:

Dear diary,

I don’t understand rude people at all. Here I am doing a public service and they yell at me. How dare they? If I wasn’t there to burn the bodies, first f all it would smell really, really bad. Secondly, they’d all catch the Sick, or whatever it is that’s made the people in the house all weird with puss dripping down their faces. (Yick!) I know I don’t want to get sick, so why would they willingly walk in, get infected, then yell when I try to cure them? We all know, fire is the only acceptable cure for the Sick.

~Sera

Friday:

Dear diary,

The Brooken puppy isn’t allowed to have sugar any more. She snuck into our candy stash, gobbled it alllll up, then ran around growling like crazy until the only noise she could make was a itty-bitty squeak. Squeaks are not scary… unless you’re afraid of clowns and they squeak their horn. I’m developing a sensitivity to clowns, what with Giblets wandering in whenever his painted self feels like it. Oh and not to mention all the abuse I take from Sassy. Now that I think about it, there’s a shortage of nice people at the house. Must have burnt them all first.

~Sera

Saturday:

Dear diary,

Because I know you’re curious… Gumby doesn’t burn. He just kinda melts into a puddle of goop at the bottom of the furnace and boils until all that’s left is a black and green splotch. It did provide ample entertainment waiting to see how he’d burn up and the colors were really pretty. Now if only I’d caught that one woman in the Catholic school girl uniform, bet she’d scream well in the fire. They all scream, some just better than others. Heehee!

~Sera

Sunday:

Dear diary,

Breakout! We have some really forgetful keepers. They left all of the cages unlocked after closing tonight and, well… the monsters may have overrun the midway. No one can confirm or deny if any of the fun-screaming people were eaten, but I’m pretty sure I saw Slappy and Spot using finger bones to clean their teeth after. Oops? Look at it this way, now there’s more toys to play with next year!

~Sera

Happy Halloween, fellow weirdos!!!

Love,

R.C. (and Sera!)

(Sad to say, Sera has to go back in her cage now. Thank you all for reading our adventures in scaring the pants off of people. Who knows, maybe Sera will find another way to come out and play again soon.)

Wednesday:

Dear diary,

How did I know today was Monday in a nifty Wednesday disguise? The chainsaw caught on fire. Fire is pretty. Really pretty. All that orange and yellow dancing together as it spreads, bringing more partners into their fiery ballroom… where was I? Oh, flaming chainsaw. See, its not supposed to do that and Tiny got freaked out. Such a male. Anyways, he put the fire out. I spent the whole night pouting about it. Fire killer!

~Sera

Thursday:

Dear diary,

No flaming chainsaws, sadly. But! We did have a couple of zombies shuffle through late tonight. Their keepers over at the hayride must have let the leashes slip. Thank goodness I wasn’t bit! Human flesh tastes funny, and not just because I took a bite out of Giblets the clown for making a joke about my mummy. Some other weirdos walked into my yard after that. Is it a full moon or somethin’?

~Sera

Friday:

Dear diary,

My not-so-little brother, Smoky, came out to play tonight. We played hide-and-go-seek with the funny screaming people and Rum, our favorite chainsaw. Why’s he called Rum? ‘Cause he says, “Rum, rum, rum, ruuuuuuuuuuuum!” when you pull his cord. The people didn’t like our game very much. Before I could so much as open the furnace door, they ran off. How rude!

~Sera

Saturday:

Dear diary,

I am now the proud owner of… a blinky light! These things are too dang cool. You stick ‘em on your clothes and they go blink, blink, blink, blink, blink! So awesome and I didn’t have to threaten to burn anyone to get it (unlike last night when one poor soul honestly thought she’d escape certain death by giving me the blinky light in her hair. As if!). I think I’ll sleep with my light tonight and hug it and squeeze it and call it George.

~Sera

P.S. Blinky lights RULE!

Sunday:

Dear diary,

Today I met an honest to goodness firefighter. Isn’t that exciting? I wanted to keep him so he could play with Smoky and I, but he had a tumor growing out of his back… uhm, I mean a girlfriend who was afraid I’d burn  her alive if she didn’t play our game with Rum the chainsaw. On another note: SPOON! That is all.

~Sera

It started on a social media site. (don’t most of these things, honestly?) For two days I watched people bicker back and forth about this, today was when I finally snapped. (some of this is copied rants from my private Facebook page)

Veiled bisexual comments by heterosexuals just to get attention… method #67 to irritate Renee before she’s had breakfast. 

Ladies: if you are going to consistently admit to being attracted to other women, then come out of the closet. Otherwise, please, please stop being cock teases by saying, “If I swung that way, I’d hit it.” Men aren’t that easily impressed and the few that are, you don’t want to sleep with anyways.

“I’m doing it to show admiration for the woman in the photo.” By suggesting you’d sleep with her? That’s like a guy walking up and saying, “Nice tits, let me stick my dick between them.” Fucking lame excuse for attention whores.

Being bisexual isn’t “cool”. It isn’t a trend or fad. I’ve gotten more grief since coming out than ever before. People suddenly assume you are a whore because you have no gender preference for your partners. That’s not because of anything I did, but because of women like those mentioned above that think it’s neat to pretend to be someone they are not. THAT is where the stereotypes begin. Not with those who are actually living through the challenges of being “different”.

You want the statistics to prove that I’m not some uber slut? Fine. I wasn’t sexually active until I was 18. Since then I’ve slept with 5 men and 2 women. That’s it. Most of those encounters were with people I had a relationship with. Only one was a one-night-stand, which I do not regret.

That is my idea of normal. I don’t call myself bisexual to cover up half a dozen drunken mistakes. Bisexual women are not the girls you see at a house party downing one too many beers and then making out with their best friend. Except that one, I’ve courted the people I slept with, built some sort of connection. Like. You. Are. Supposed. To. Do.

If you can’t be mature enough to respect the people in your life who are dealing with the negativity associated with being bisexual, gay, transgendered… then maybe you should stop and take a long look in the mirror. What about yourself are YOU unhappy with that causes you to look down on the few that are doing their damndest to make a good life for themselves despite all the bullshit in society?

And if you can’t handle having the truth laid out under your nose, then maybe we shouldn’t be associated with each other. I am who I am. Take it or leave it, but never, NEVER try to shame me by playing your little social media games.

Wednesday:

Dear diary, 

Slow night for the monsters. A faulty chainsaw that decided it needed the night to snooze… or that could have been operator error. No one has ever said Tiny had a full set of crayons to color with. Brooken, our pet, tried to bite Tiny. Personally I don’t think he’d taste good, what with all that blood and dirt all over him. She didn’t seem to mind, though.

~Sera

Thursday:

Dear diary,

I’m pretty sure that every guy they sent out back for me to burn up had a bad run-in with the doctor and he replaced their vocal cords with a females. That’s the only way to explain some of those high pitched shrieks they gave during our game of peek-a-boo. Pansies.

~Sera

Friday:

Dear diary,

I think Brooken has gone rabid. She chased a group of teenagers, snapping and growling after them until all five of them ran SMACK into the side of the furnace. Tenderized bodies to burn alive? How fancy!

~Sera

Saturday:

Dear diary,

I’m so beautimous  that one poor, delusional plague victim tried to take me home to meet his fryer. What? A friar? Why on earth would I want to meet a holy man? I have standards, you know. No schmoe straight out of the sick house can woo me… unless he has a flame thrower. Oh, and his own fire truck. VROOM! Hee hee hee!

~Sera

Sunday: 

Dear diary,

Teenagers can fly. I’m not kidding. Tonight I watched at least ten teenagers grow wings and fly out of my back yard. One minute I heard Brooken give her warning growl, suddenly there’s a blur and the burlap on the far side of the yard is flapping. Gotta set a trap for them. Who am I supposed to burn if they keep running away? Inconsiderate people, jeeze!

~Sera

BONUS: A local news station did a special story on The Grove. Below is a link to the video. Sera can be heard (and slightly seen) at the very end of the haunt footage. Her laugh is mixed in with the chainsaw noise.

KSEE 24 – The Grove: Visit if You Dare!