“Morning, Dave,” I said cheerfully, slipping my card back in the rack. I looked for an inconspicuous place to sling my lunchbox as he shuffled up behind me.

“Evening, Charlie. Evening,” he mumbled, as he pulled his card and headed toward the time clock. Ker-chunk.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” I offered, and headed for the bulletin board. “Besides, it’s morning somewhere. Time’s relative, these days.” I’ve always been one of those people who wake up cheerful. Dave…not so much. It wasn’t so much that he was a grouch, just that where I saw a silver lining, he still saw the storm cloud it surrounded.

We worked as night watchmen at the old Blackstone place on the edge of town, keeping out the riffraff. Normally, it wasn’t hard, as it was publicly known to be haunted…that alone kept many people at bay. But there were always the thrill-seekers out to test their mettle, not to mention the occasional folk who didn’t believe in such nonsense, that figured there had to be something they wanted from the old place. The place isn’t livable, so there must be some reason it hasn’t been knocked down, right?

Dave grunted and moved over to the board with me. “What do we have tonight?”

“Huh…looks like there were some folks poking around on the day shift, a few hours ago. Didn’t look like squatters or college kids out for a hazing.”

Dave peered at the report, squinting. His lips moved as he read, and then he suddenly scowled. “Aw, crap, here we go again,” he drawled. “Charlie, we got ourselves some ghost hunters checking the place out.”

Dave may have been put out, but I was looking forward to this. “We get to put on the show?”
He moved over to check the props closet, nodding. “Yeah, Charlie, we get to put on the show. Go find the cat.”

“Now? Football game’s coming on in a few minutes.”

“Go find the damned cat.”

Finding Jonesy…no, I have no idea who named the cat…wasn’t hard on a normal night, but tonight, he wasn’t hanging out near his food bowl. So I went out into the mansion itself, making the begging sounds humans always make with their cats. Here, kitty kitty. Psst. Psst. Got some nice treats for you. Blah blah.

I saw him streak by on the second story foyer, and tromped up the stairs. I couldn’t tell if he was spooked, or just chasing vermin. Either way, I was going to have to root around in the dark rooms for him. Maybe I’d get lucky and find him before….

“Charlie! They’re here already! Company’s coming through the front door in ninety! Stay up there, we’ll start with the creaky sounds. Get ready!”

So, in they came, two men and a woman, cautiously, looking around. It was a typical troupe of hunters: one skinny guy with a mop of brown hair, obviously the science arm of the expedition, one guy, blond, lantern-jawed, apparently the hero of the piece, and the woman, a bespectacled redhead, was in clothes that were somehow practical and slinky at the same time. And heels…I never understood why the women in these groups always wore heels when they know they’re coming to a dilapidated old mansion on a hill. Maybe they weighed the danger of a twisted ankle against impressing the hero-type, and hormones won out.

The three started to set up base camp in the foyer, unloading backpacks full of gadgetry, lights, and video equipment. Before they got the generator up and running, we started in with the creaks and groans. Nothing elaborate, just a matter of selectively applying weight and pressure to the proper places in an old structure, as if playing the house itself as some sort of macabre instrument.

It was enough to stop them in their tracks. Flashlights arced out in the darkness as they searched for the source of the sounds. Typical behavior…they never catch us.

The scientist type, however, pulled an instrument from his belt, and pointed it in my direction. The other two narrowed their eyes and started my way. Luckily for me, Jonsey chose that moment to rub up against my leg, having come out from whatever bolt hole he’d been in. He probably wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

So I picked him up and tossed him over the railing.

There was the obligatory kitty scream as he arced down at them, quite obviously tossed from somewhere. I mean, seriously, cats don’t naturally jump like that, and don’t make that scream when they’re pouncing…they’re annoyed. But for some reason, it always works…the rubes roll their eyes, ignore whatever they were investigating in the first place, and go back to whatever they were doing. In this case, fixing up camp. Jonesy, unharmed but perturbed, dashed off to a quiet, dark corner to sulk.

The camp in question was a new design…the scientist guy was setting up a perimeter of small boxes in a circle around the room, connected by a series of wires. Against form, the woman was apparently flirting with scientist, while the hero stood guard. Good for her. I circled around the balcony, and met up with Dave. “What the hell are they doing down there?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea.” He chewed his cheek. The group took up position outside of the circle.

“I could just jump in the middle of them and scare the bejesus out of them.” I hefted a leg over the railing.

“Not a good idea…” But I had already started my jump, angling for the center of the circle…after all, it was dead center of the group. “Boo!” I yelled.

You should have seen their faces. The blond and the girl freaked. Unfortunately, the scientist didn’t, he just grinned, hit the button, and the little boxes in the circle glowed. Zzzzp…and I was suddenly in a whole world of hurt. Everything went a prismatic flashy beige, if you can imagine such a thing, then black.

When I came to, I was trapped in this damned cell. I was apparently the first they caught, but soon the rest of you started showing up, and there ain’t no sign of the flow stopping. I hope they build us an annex or something…it’s starting to get awfully damned crowded in this ghost house. This prison needs more space.

Paul walked in and turned on the lamp sitting on the desk. The old shade caused the room to only look more dingy. He could now see the black & white photos that lined the walls. The photos, for the most part, were of his grandfather, Robert Paul Thornston standing with someone or other in front of various dig sites. Paul’s favorite was of he and his grandfather standing in front the pyramid of Cheops. He had taken Paul along on one of his digs during summer break that year. Paul was only ten years old but he understood the significance of bringing him along. Grandpa never talked about his work with anyone in the family, let alone one of the children. Bringing Paul on the trip was a last minute decision that no one in the family quite understood.

At the time it filled him with a sense of pride, the feeling of importance. But that soon changed. After some brief site seeing they moved to the dig site about 150 kms south of Giza. Paul fell ill as soon as they arrived and never left the tent he was placed in to recuperate. Paul passed the time by reading the research books his grandfather brought with him. They were a bit difficult to follow but they were the only books in English at the site. Although ignored for the most part during the trip, the books sparked an interest in Paul. He began researching ancient civilizations on his own and this eventually led to his going to college and becoming an archeologist.

His grandfather died before Paul finished school and never spoke to him about it. This was one of the great disappointments in Paul’s life.

Along the rows of photos he noticed a blank spot where a photo was missing. The area was free from dust and left a clean square. Paul could not remember which photo had been there.

He pulled the chair out from under the desk and sat down. The desk was bare except for a solitary plaque from the local police department thanking him for his work on the ‘Smellings case’. He did some work for them after he retired. Just another thing he didn’t speak about. The usual papers that crowded his desk were nowhere to be seen. A quick tug on the top drawer proved it was locked. A brief search of the desk turned up no key. He even rubbed his hands on the underside of the desk and found nothing.

“He cleared away all of his paperwork before…” The sudden voice startled Paul as he looked up to see his grandmother leaning on the doorway. “What was that?”

“I was saying, that before Robert passed away he cleared out his desk. It was like he knew it was coming. His grandmother stood there with her arms folded and a dishtowel hung over one shoulder. Paul couldn’t remember ever seeing her with out it. She was a few years older than her husband and Paul noticed that she looked well. When he saw her at the funeral she looked old, tired. ‘Maybe it was the stress of it all’ he thought.

“Do you know what he did with them?” Embarrassed that she had caught him poking around, he quickly stood up and walked over to look at some pictures. “I just was wondering if there was anything I could … ah…you know, do. ’

She pushed off the doorway and walked down the hall, her voice trailing off with her. “He spent a lot of time down in the basement near the end.”

Paul pushed the chair back into place and followed his grandmother, shutting the door behind him. Down stairs the air was full of the smell of home cooked food. “You said something about the basement?” He was trying to sound like he wasn’t too interested as he lifted a pot cover and snatched a piece chicken.

His grandmother slapped his hand and motioned for Paul to sit down. “What is it you’re looking for Paul?” Apparently it didn’t work.

“The university is interested in possibly publishing a book about grandpa Robert and his work.” This wasn’t entirely true. Paul had always wanted information about his trip to Giza. He never felt quite right afterwards but was unable to gather information from his grandfather.

“And I suppose they want information about the Smellings case also?” She sounded angry. She reached for Paul’s hand and held it between hers. “They tried to get all of his notes after he died. They tried to ask nice and when that didn’t work they sued me. It didn’t work but I knew they would keep trying.

Paul’s face flushed. He was being used and he didn’t like it. “Grandma…”

“It’s okay, I’m tired of fighting with them. Tomorrow we will go down stairs and see what we can find. I wish to let this matter rest in peace.” She patted his hand and stood up. “Your grandfather was a proud man Paul. We will find what they want and I’ll let you take it to them. As for the rest, if he wanted them to have it he would have given it to them. Everyone has their secrets. Goodnight Paul.” She turned off the stove and went up stairs.

…

The door to the basement was locked. “Damnit. Don’t these people trust anyone.” Paul opened a few drawers and found only miscellaneous tools and such. There was a letter opener shaped like an Egyptian sarcophagus which caught his eye. He grabbed it and headed over to the door.

He jammed the letter opener in between the door and the rail. No Luck. Then he stabbed at the door lock. The tip fit in about half an inch and when he tried to turn it there was a loud snapping sound. The handle to the opener fell to the ground and blood was streaming down Pauls wrist, forming a pool in front of the door. “Sonovabitch!” He quickly placed his lacerated hand into his mouth, to either shut himself up or to stop the blood, he wasn’t sure which.

Grabbing a dishtowel he wrapped his hand and gave the doorknob another wiggle. This time it opened. The solid wooden door gave way to a pitch-black stairwell leading downwards. As he groped around for a light switch he found at three separate deadbolt locks. Paul did not remember those locks being there when he was younger. The smell coming from the darkness was disgusting and yet familiar. Paul had to put the bloodied dishtowel to his mouth to keep from throwing up.

A shaky railing was the only thing to steady him as he descended into the darkness.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out details of the large room below. Waving his arm around a bit he found a pull string and an old uncovered light bulb burst to life.

There was an old desk sitting next to a cast iron stove. The stove had bits of burned paper and ash piled before it. The room smelled grotesque, but it reminded him of something he could not put his finger on. Suddenly the basement door slammed shut.

Not wanting to brave the stairs again Paul sat in the chair next to the stove and pulled at the corner of a slip of paper that was sticking through the front grill. The edges were charred but the most of the handwriting was still clear. It was a list of names and dates. After each name was an age and an M or an F. Paul could not tell if it was his grandfathers handwriting or not.

Setting this on the desk and with his hand still over his mouth to repel the stench, he grabbed for another piece of paper. His head was beginning to soon. This slip was a bill of lading showing that a single large crate was delivered to the university. The origin of the crate had been burned away. ‘This is just a bunch of old crap.’ He didn’t even want the trash men looking into his business.

Paul let this piece of paper fall to the floor. ‘Maybe the old man was just crazy.’ The top left drawer was open a bit so Paul opened it up. Broken glass covered the inside of the drawer. After shifting it around he found the remains of a picture frame. ‘The open spot on the wall.’ Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mind he pulled out the drawer and dumped it on the desk. On top of the pile of broken glass and wood there was an old newspaper article. Something went ‘Bump’ behind Paul. Startled and beginning to get a bit creeped out Paul turn around to find that the area beneath the stairs was pitch-black. The light from the bare bulb seemed to shy away. ‘Jesus Christ’.

He turned back to the newspaper. The headline read: ‘Smellings Executed! – The article went on to recount the Smellings trial for the murder of four children in his care. The names of the missing and presumed dead children were immediately familiar. Paul held up the list of names he found earlier. They were an exact match. ‘Thump!!!’ Paul felt something move this time. He was beginning to shake.

Paul stood up and walked over to the stairs holding his left hand out before him. The smell was coming through the towel now and was clearly becoming stronger as he walked in this direction. A soft glow in the outline of a square could now been seen under the stairs. The outline of his hand against the glow showed it to be trembling. Then his hand hit what felt like plywood. Feeling around he realized that the object was quite large and he could feel movement inside. ‘What the fu….” The crate was gently rocking back and forth.

Paul found a corner and gave it a tug. The front panel opened out towards Paul and was partially exposed to the light. There was printing on the front that he recognized as Egyptian. Looking in to the crate Paul was faced with what looked like a small mummified creature. Suddenly he understood what the smell was. It was an older form of formaldehyde used by the university to preserve ancient discoveries. The formula had been changed years ago and didn’t quite smell the same and this was clearly an older version.

The small creature was strapped, face first, to a large clear case. The glow was coming from what appeared to be smoke swirling within. All about the case pictures of Isis were painted. The swirl of the smoke was mesmerizing and Paul found himself unable to pull away his gaze.

Suddenly the smoke began bunch together and take form. Paul realized with horror that he recognized the form; it was his grandfather Robert.
The voice was not audible but he heard it clear as day. “Paul…I knew you would come. You were always the smart one.” The voice was soft and labored. The form of his grandfather moved about while he ‘spoke’. “I need you.”

As the mummified creature fell away from the case it revealed a plate on the front pane with a small bamboo shaft protruding straight out of it. Paul found he could not move away. “Need? What do you need from me?” The smell of the chemicals had been forgotten and the towel dropped from his wounded hand.

“Paul, do you recognize the chamber? You helped us use it during our trip. In fact, you were the first.” Paul raised his hand towards the bamboo shaft. The blood had stopped flowing through the wound. He did not know why, but the experience was becoming familiar. As Paul grabbed the bamboo shaft the glow from the chamber became bright enough to light the entire room. He could feel blood being drawn through the tube into the chamber. His grandfather’s form had dissipated in to a vortex that was drawing the blood forth. Paul tried to remove his hand but he could not.

With the light bright enough, Paul could see several more mummy like creatures within the crate and under the stairs, they were dried, empty husks. The horror was building within him as the pain from his hand began to run up his arm. In waves he was becoming numb from his hand upwards.

“I knew you would come back. I’m glad you became the person I needed you to become. It will be so easy.” His grandfather’s voice was soothing and becoming stronger as he spoke. The whirling vortex had taken form once again with small wisps that reached into the main swirl. The form was becoming solid.

“You see Paul, as you were the first, you must be the last. You were the blueprint that we have been building. The souls of the living give strength to the dead. This is what the Egyptians discovered. This is how they were reborn. Gods they truly were and a God I shall be!” The pain grew so intense that Paul shouted out. His arm was holding up the rest of his body, his right shoulder and half his chest tingled before becoming numb.

“Don’t be afraid. You are going to live forever.” The form was become a whole body. It looked like a mix of his grandfather and of Paul. Paul then fell to the ground. Turning his head up towards the case he realized that he was looking at his hand still holding on to the bamboo shaft. Air was being sucked through the severed wrist.

The shattering of the case was deafening. But instead of the glass exploding outwards the case imploded. The glass mixed with the mist and created a vortex of glowing shrapnel that rose to the ceiling and exploded outwards. The cloud dissipated as tiny bits of glass fell to the ground. The tingling feeling of blood returning to a sleeping limb covered most of Pauls body and wracked it with pain. As he rolled on he ground and was about to lapse in to unconsciousness he saw the form of his grandmother standing above him holding an axe.

…

A short while later, a pair of headlights cut through the velvet darkness of the moonless night and he braced himself against a tree and began waving his crutch towards the oncoming lights. The car, a small four door Japanese import, slowed down and pulled up to him. The passenger side door’s window, which was closest to him, rolled down. He hopped up to the car and leaned in the window.

“Hello darling, what can I do for you?” asked the rather attractive woman driver. He figured she was probably in her early thirties.

“My car got a flat and I drove off the rode into a ditch. With no cell phone service and no hope of getting the car out of the ditch, I decided to start dragging myself to the nearest town; it’s a good thing you came about. I am hoping that I could bother you for a lift?” he asked her with his best smile, showing her his crutch.

He noticed her staring at him a bit suspiciously, and he quickly added, “I could understand if you’re a bit nervous about picking someone up at this time of night, so if you’d like just call a tow truck when you get into town, that’s fine.”

“No it’s ok, sorry I seemed hesitant darling, but you can never be too careful, do you need help getting in?” She asked. The expression on her face was a bit more cheerful now, but a bit restrained nonetheless.

“No thanks, I can manage.”

He opened the door, tossed his crutch in the back seat and sat down in the front passenger seat. She looked at him and he nodded that he was ready to go. She put the car in drive and away they went. He always thought of himself as witty and they chatted for a while as she drove along, finding out her name, which was Susan, where she worked, and that she had a passion for exercise.

He noticed how the dashboard lights lit up her bosom in a soft red glow which excited him. He gave her the usual lines about how he hurt his leg and how he worked at the university as a professor. He fed her a false name as he always did, just in case. He couldn’t help himself but keep looking at the blood red breasts and dreaming about the things he wanted to do to her, some of which were not very nice. She seemed to notice how he stared at her bosom and when their eyes met, she just smiled at him. He noticed that she started to slow down and came to a stop at a clearing next to the road. She apparently had succumbed to his charms, they almost always did, the few that they did not were a delightful challenge onto themselves.

She turns towards him and he casually slips the panty hose into his left hand, figuring he could wrap it around her neck when they began to make out. As he reached over to place his arm around her, he felt an unnatural chill coming from her. It was a chill that froze him to the very core of his being.

“Something wrong sweetie?” she asked almost playfully. He started to feel an uneasy feeling and decided to get out of the car. He kept his eyes on the woman in front of him, was grinning at him and also got out of the car. He stumbled out of the car and landed hard on the pavement and turned to run but was stopped dead in his tracks. In front of him was a woman, no not one, but quite a few. He slowly backed away from them and turned in a circle looking all around him. He looked at the ghostly women who had a milky, soft look to them all. He noticed the wounds and the misshapen appendages that looked broken and twisted. He started to remember some of them, and then he came to the realization that these women before him all had one thing in common, they had all been a victim of his.

The woman that drove him here had moved away from the car and moved to the front of the car, joining the congregation of the dead. He looked down and noticed that they all stood outside a large circle which was painted, no; in the soft lights of the interior of the car he noticed it was not paint but sand. His driver had just finished placing some on the tire tracks that were made when they drove over them to complete the circle.

He laughed towards her and boasted “This won’t hold me for long, and these ghosts can’t, no, they won’t do anything to me.”

“Its not meant to keep you here long, it’s just meant to keep you here for a few minutes.” She then raised her hands and all of the 174 ghosts, which had formed around him, let out an ear piercing shriek which seemed to rattle the ground itself. The shriek was then followed by an eerie silence, one in which the noisy Florida wildlife respected, as there seemed to be no sound at all.

He looked around at his victims’ ghastly vestiges, a shadow of who they were in life, doomed to walk the earth in the condition he had left them in as the life seeped out their bodies.

“Ha, is that the best you can do?” He taunted them, sure of himself, as he has escaped from jail and worse situations numerous times. Escaping from this pathetic trap should be child’s play for one of his intellect.

He noticed now that the woman was at the edge of the circle now, at the farthest point away from him. He decided he was going to find a way to somehow make her victim number 175 before the night was through when the car abruptly flew into the air! Below it a squirming mound of larvae grew. He now understood the nature of their trap and fear gripped him for only the second time he could remember.

The mound rose to about ten feet and then spread into a large round circle. The road gave way and flames burst through a gaping abyss that was eaten away by the larvae. From the depths of the hole came a deformed scorpion like creature, with a dozen of clamp like appendages which spewed from various places along its torso.

The abomination rose on its hind legs, and he noticed the beast had smaller versions of itself clinging to its abdomen. The silence was suddenly broken by Susan voice.

“He’s over there and he’s all yours.” She said to the hideous creature.

The seemly thousands of the little beasts crawled towards him and swarmed all over him. He screamed, louder and more horrifying than the wails of his victims if that where possible. The larger creature then grabbed the mass which he had become and quickly went back into the abyss.

The hole closed and all was as it had been before it appeared. Susan let out a pent of breath, which she felt she had held for an eternity. As she looked around, the faces and conditions of the ghostly images seemed to change. They looked radiant now, not a dull color of grey, but a majestic pure white which was bright as the sun. As quickly as they appeared, they walked away from the circle and disappeared into the night. All but one of them left.

Susan walked up to the last ghost and it spoke to her.

“Thank you my love, we are all eternally grateful for what you did for us, putting that bastard Ted Bundy where he belongs.”

Forward: What is Horror and Why is it So Scary?

First off, Dear Reader, thank you for buying my book. Believe me, I can use the money; it’s amazing how fast it goes once you start using stacks of fifties as kindling.
Now, "horror" is not the same as "terror." I explore this in detail in the forward of every single horror anthology that exists and some that don’t, so forgive me if I skip right to the pseudo-academia. Horror plays on our most primal fear, the fear of the unknown. Evolutionary biologists believe that fear of the unknown dates back to when people didn’t know a whole lot and were constantly getting the shit scared out of them.
Now come, take my hand, and we’ll walk into the dark together.
Let go of my hand. That’s just the way I write.

ONE: The Clouds Gather

Sherman Puddlesby was an old man who was haunted by the memory of his late wife, and at this particular moment he was having a more-poignant-than-usual reminiscence, so it really mattered when the huge thing wearing overalls and a helicopter beanie disemboweled him with a Garden Weasel, because, you see, I’ve made you care.

TWO: The Basement in the Bookstore

There was some kind of evil Force at work, and you might be saying to yourself, "but ‘force’ isn’t a proper noun." Lighten up, you jackbooted language fascist—it’s for emphasis.
So anyway, there was this vague, undefined Malevolence that pervaded everything in the town, and I might eventually reveal some kind of structure to it, but rest assured it won’t be as cool as something Clive would come up with. Prick.

THREE: The Old Mill that Gets Mentioned a Lot and How it Relates to Stuff

Mitch and Bethany suddenly realized they were the only two non-eccentric characters and should therefore have sex.
I’m thinking there’s some initial guilt over backstory stuff but they overcome it with nipple-sucking.
And maybe when they’re done they talk about the Native American Manitou myth, which is sort of like all my antagonists and it makes it sound like I’m following in a tradition instead of just winging it.

FOUR: The Colorful Tertiary Character who Started Off as a Coward Does Something Heroic and Redeems Himself and Dies

"Hey, you’re gonna be fine," soothed Andrea, the waitress with latent artistic talent awakened in the crucible of adversity and a hot ass. "You saved us all from that unholy Thing that could take the shape of whatever the situation required to move the plot along."
Wendel spit out a mouthful of blood and the better part of his uvula. "I was just trying to impress the girls."
Everyone laughed, but joylessly. This was even more heartbreaking than when the poor but dignified old black man (who’d faced down the Klan and wasn’t about to run from no fool monster) got killed.
"Seriously, could somebody jerk me off or something? Sort of dying a virgin over here," Wendel gurgled.

EPILOGUE: The Aftermath of the Storm, Literally and Figuratively

Mitch pulled Bethany close. "I’m glad we chose to give love a shot even though my pregnant wife was killed by a drunk driver five years ago and your ex-husband used to hit you with a bowling trophy, hence our intimacy issues and other flaws that make us more three-dimensional," he cooed.
"Me too," she purred, "and I think we should adopt the little orphan girl whose blindness gives her a kind of second sight. It’d be serendipitous and plus we could run a wicked poker hustle out of the rec room."
"You got it, babe. Hey, look—the clouds are breaking."
Bethany turned her gaze upward and froze. "Wait, Mitch. That cloud there looks an awful lot like one of the many guises of the unnamable Evil which we just defeated using the talismanic power of childhood memories."
Mitch Laughed. "You’re right, Beth. It also looks like a bunny, a Paddy Wagon, and Lyndon Johnson. That blasphemous phantom from another dimension—and I’m not even sure which one of those words I’m supposed to capitalize—isn’t coming back, not after what Wendel’s balsa-wood dinosaur skeletons did to it. You don’t have to be scared anymore."

Then the cloud disemboweled them with a Garden Weasel.

I had just started living my girlfriend at the time, whom had, in turn, just recently moved into a converted duplex in the historical section of town, only a few weeks before.

The place had been built as a full home over a hundred years previously, but had been remodeled into a duplex at some point in the early 40’s. The layout of the apartment was strange; The living room, bath room, a bedroom (that was used by my ex’s son) all ran in succession along the lefthand-side of the property, with one long hallway running straight down on the right. At the end of the hallway was a large kitchen. At the very back of the house, beyond the kitchen was a coverted bedroom, which had been originally built as a sun porch. This was the bedrom that my girlfriend and I used

The apartment been been one of those places that had been handed down from one friend to another for years. One person would be moving out, and he would reccoment the place to someone he knew, and so on. It therefore became a place with a longstanding history amongst people I knew.

And so I began living with Anne (as I’ll call her here), and her two-year-old son. And right away, things started getting strange.

Her two-year-old son began having terrible night terrors – he woke wake up screaming, still in a dream state. Too young to be able to articualte his nightmares adequately, he would nonetheless talk about scary faces and the window scaring him. This went on for nearly two months straight before the dreams subsided.

It was a couple of months after moving in that my girlfriend and I were in bed, ready for sleep. Suddenly my girlfriend turns to me and says, "you forgot to turn off the facuet in the sink." I don’t remember leaving it running, but sure enough upon investgating, the bathroom sink was running full-bore. I twisted it off, and ran back to bed.

40 minutes later, Anne (a light-sleeper of epic proportions) woke me up. "I thought you turned the faucet off!" she complained. Now, I was annoyed. Of course I had shut it off! But then I heard it; the sound of rushing water. Shocked, I ran to the bathroom. The sink was not dripping. It was again running at full-flow, the knob turned all the way to left. I couldn’t understand it. I twisted it until my palm was red, and ran once more for the sanctuary of sleep.

In the morning, the faucet was still running.

We started to become aware that things weren’t quite kosher in the house. In the dead of summer (with no air-conditioning), we would suddenly both be struck with a deep chill, that would vanish as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared. Anne’s son began conversing in gibberish to no one, eyes intently foward as though it was really conversing with another person. He would even go so far as to wave goodbye to a corner of the living room as we would leave the house. The night terrors continued, although less frequently than in the beginning. In the kitchen, sounds of scraping would be quickly attributed to unseen pests, but the sounds would often appear to be coming from different directions, and sounded a bit too loud and close for it to be any rat under the floorboards.

But the most intense expereince was still to come, for me.

It was early winter, and Anne’s son had gotten ill. She decided to have him sleep n the bed. I had decided to sleep on the couhc in the living room, since I was new to having children around, asnd was scared I would roll over the poor child and smother him in my sleep (in perfect contrast to Anne, I’m as heavy a sleeper as a person can be). But this decision was not made without a sense of trepidation. Because of all the house, no room gave a person the willies quite like the living room.

But to the living room couh I went. And by 10 o’clock at night, with Anne and her son soundly alseep on the opposite end of the house, I started to get…well, spooked. I began to feel as though I was being watched, so much so that I kept glancing around behind me, to peer down the hallway. Finally, I decided to watch a movie, and chose "What Dreams May Come"(i had never seen it, but it was abouth Heaven, so I thought it couldn’t hurt). And slowly I drifted to sleep.

And the nightmares started.

Each started the same, and simlpy enough. I was watching myself from the darkness, my reclining body asleep on the couch as it had actually been in the waking world. And then, slowly, the dream would change, to something more sinister. The first time, a hand reached up from the darkiness un the couch, the arm impossibly long, until it was ready to grab me. And then I woke up, in a sweat. The movie was still playing, and exhaustion still held me, so I calmed myself back down,and after a while, found sleep again.

It seemed like no time at all when the second dream started. Again – watching myself sleep, like some self-abusing voyuer. And then, the shadows of the room began to move, and change shape. Then the shadows began to break apart, and the pieces crawled like liquid insects. They squirmed all around me, up my neck and head. They made theirway towards my eyes -and that’s when I woke up again, with a yelp.

The VHS tape had stopped playing. The tv was nothing but a blue screen, and it shones it’s glow across the room. I couldn’t decide wether this made things better or worse, but I decided to keep it on. I had a cigarette, and tried once more to find some rest.

I’m not sure how long it took me to fall back to sleep, but again the dream seemed to start instantly. This time though, things changed slightly. I was still watching myself, but it was as though I was looking through the eyes of someone else. I could see a body, hands and feet beneath me as I moved. Like in the earlier dreams, I intially sat in the darkness of the room’s corner, watching myself. But then, I began to move about the room, never taking my borrowed eyes my own sleeping form on the couch. Slowly, I walked closer and closer, until I was standing directly over the edge of the couch. Then, I began to lean on. I could see my rumpled hair, and one closed eye..

The eye stirred. It blinked, then opened. Groggily I looked up, and the expression on my face twisted in what I could only translate and terror. My mouth opened, ready to scream.

"Ah!" I did scream, as I woke up with a jolt. Although the was 50 degrees outside, my shirt was pasted to my chest with sweat. I sat up, and rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. .

As I sat up, that familiar scraping sound from the kitchen. And then, a shuffle, and creaking. And then, a fraction of a second later , a voice:

"Joseph," it seemed to call to me, but there was not emotion to it. The voice was soft, slightly androgynous, breathy. It was clear in my ear. It came from right beyond the threshold of the hallways, right over my head.

I didn’t need a single second to consider it. Obviously, I had woken up Anne with my scream, and she was calling me to bed. Child or no, I was sleeping in the bed room. Shemust have opened a window somehwere, becausea blast of cold hit my as I stood, stinging my chest as it chilled the sweat. I bolted up, and with blanket in hand turned the corner to the hallway.

But Anne was not there. Though it was dark, I should have been able to see the outline of her in the hallway. But there was no outline. I listened for the sound of footsteps, but again nothing but the quiet darkness.

It was impossible, I thought. She couldn’t have gotten down the hallway so fast! I walked slowly down the hallway, through the kitchen. I got to the bedroom door, which was closed. I turned it as quiet as I could.

There on the bed was Anne and her son, both fast asleep, both snoring and nestled under the warmth of heavy blankets.

I stood in that doorway for a considerably long time, not sure what to do with myself. I knew I had heard that voice! And I knew I had been awake, and not in some half-dream state when I did. I tried to convince myself that I had simply imagined it. But the sound, the cadence of the words stuck with me. So what was it, if I wasn’t crazy?

The scraping sound began again, and then stopped again almost immediately, as if in repsonse to my thoughts.

With no other option left that sounded comforting, I got dressed in the dark, wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, and proceeded to spend the next couple of hours on the porch, smoking and drinking, until the sun began to show itself. Finally, I went inside and lay on the couch, in my clothes. I slept and thankfully, no dreams came to me.

And then, that presence in the hallway. To this day, I cannot adeqautely express to those I relate this story to, how utterly real, how distinct, the voice that spoke to me was. Later on, I realized that the creaking sound I heard was very much the sound of someone shifting their weight on a hardwood floor.

So; was it really a ghost that had called to me? I’m not sure.

9/11 has been great for business, but it’s sure made flying a bitch. I was running late for my flight to begin with, and then the good folks at the security gate insisted I remove my shoes. Note to self: don’t wear combat boots on a commercial flight. The guys back at the lab are always joking that I look like I play for the other team, but I wasn’t speaking Farsi or anything. I’m just not too particular about trimming the old beard. Maybe I ought to do something about that before the flight out of here. After all, it would suck if they decided to break out the latex glove.

Anyway, I managed to survive the turbulence and the in-flight meal (I use the term “meal” loosely – I think the airline gets its meat at the same place as that sketchy Chinese dive near the lab). The company even put me up in a decent joint instead of a “Hotel Beirut” knock-off like the one I stayed in on my last TDY. Tonight I’ll toss some ramen in the microwave (I like to pocket my per diem when possible), kick back on that sweet looking king-size and pop my Donnie Darko DVD in the laptop. Life is good.

I better enjoy it while I can. Tomorrow morning I meet the client’s people and we head out to the facility. I don’t imagine the accommodations will be quite as posh. I’m still geeked, though. This project is going to be so cool. I hope.

06.03.06

Red tape. Why do they call it red tape, anyway? It should be yellow tape, like the stuff cops wrap around a messy crime scene. Nothing says “things are just a little fucked up” like yellow tape. You’d think (or I’d think, since I’m writing this to myself and hence you is me) as long as I’ve been doing government contract work, I’d be used to it by now. You’d be wrong. Or I’d be wrong. We’d be wrong. Let me try this again….

Looks like I’m going to be cooling my heels here for a few days because Uncle Sam has wrapped his happy ass up in red – no, yellow – tape and shipped himself to Tahiti. Apparently, that’s where my clearance paperwork is. At least, nobody here knows where the hell it is, so it might as well be. As for me, I think I’ll head back down to the little dive I found around the corner from the hotel. The draft’s stale, but the bartender’s cute and makes a good show of bending over way more than she needs to every time she fishes a frosty mug out of the cooler. Never underestimate the power of tipping. So much for my per diem.

06.04.06

It’s official. I have papers. But don’t pencil me in for best-in-show just yet. I don’t think the judges would like my current shade of green. At least the security paperwork came in late enough today that I won’t be heading out to the facility until tomorrow. That should be plenty of time to kick this hangover. Of course, that bartender did say she would be working again tonight. Maybe all I need is a little hair of the dog.

06.05.06

The terrain out here is phenomenal. I’m almost glad I passed out watching Hellboy last night and never made it down to the bar. I could actually open my eyes in the sunlight this morning. Growing up in West Virginia, it always pissed me off when people from out west said that the Appalachians aren’t “real mountains.” But now that I’ve seen these suckers, I’m afraid I’d have to agree. At first I didn’t think there was that much of a difference. Then I realized the stuff that looked like fuzz on the mountainsides was actually thirty, forty foot trees. My whole sense of scale is off out here. The first big ridge I saw looked almost close enough to touch, until the driver told me that if I took off walking it would take me two days to reach the horizon. I bet a lot of people died crossing the desert in the days before cell phones. I mentioned as much to the driver and he just laughed. The guy’s got a messed up sense of humor.

Fortunately, I didn’t get a chance to see if Melton was right about how long it would take to hike the desert (Melton being the aforementioned driver). We made it to Calaway Army Air Field without incident. Tonight, I’m crashed out in the on-post digs, a converted 1950’s dormitory style barracks painted government issue lime-green. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the place gives me the creeps. They call it the Jackalope Inn. How fucking quaint.

Funny thing, SSG Melton is the lowest ranking guy around. You know you’re in The Shit when the smallest enlisted fish is a staff sergeant. Most of them are older too, career guys. No pups in this kennel. At first I wondered what the hell these guys did to get stuck out in the ass-end of nowhere after all their years of service. Then I asked Melton about his family, and in his usual terse manner he said, “What family?” I have a feeling I’d get a similar response if I surveyed most of these other geezers. You should feel safer knowing guys like this are on our side. But then, you don’t have to sleep out in the desert with them.

06.06.06

The high desert’s cold after sunset, even in June. Cold enough to see my breath. The moon looks closer here, and under its light the pool of blood looks black as tar. Not my blood, thank God, though there’s some of that spilled too. There was an accident. We were about four hours out of Calaway when Melton shouted something (“What tha—”, maybe?) and pulled hard on the wheel. I was napping so I don’t really know what happened, but it seemed like he saw something dart out into the road. The tire gripped the soft dirt on the side of the road, and when Melton tried to correct, the Suburban rolled hard. We must have been doing seventy, but everything seemed to slow down. I counted each roll, all seven of them, wondering when we would stop. My window was down, and I felt earth beneath my cheek and ear the first few times we rolled onto my side of the truck. I somehow had the presence of mind to snatch my head back in before the next roll could snap it off. Melton wasn’t so lucky.

I can’t remember what happened next. When I came to, I saw the truck, laying up on the driver’s side, about twenty feet away. My seatbelt must have jammed, because when I checked out the wreck I found it had been sawed through, and my Leatherman was laying open inside the cab. Melton was still in the Suburban. Well, his legs were anyway. The rest of him was sticking out of the side window, crushed under the truck. That’s his blood drying under the desert moon, of course. I haven’t moved him. Despite all my gross-out gags back at the lab, the sight of those disembodied legs almost made me lose my stomach. I’ve never seen a fresh corpse, and certainly not one in this condition. That’s sort of why I’m writing this now. You see, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Not with a dismembered body lying a few feet away. Not out here, in the big desert.

For the first time on this trip, I’m not getting any signal on my cell phone. Complete flat line. Maybe if I start walking now I’ll reach the horizon in two days.

06.07.06

I remembered something today from some show on the Discovery Channel. It seems that people have actually died of thirst out in the desert with water still in their canteen because they were “rationing” it. This knowledge might come in useful if I actually had any water to not ration. Melton and I each had a bottle when we left Calaway. Of course, I finished mine before we’d been on the road half an hour. When it comes to drinking, I have only one speed, and that’s “chug.” I think Melton still had about half a bottle, but I couldn’t find it in the cab of the Suburban. It’s probably under the truck, with the rest of Melton.

It’s noon now and blazing hot. When you mention the word desert to most people the first thing that comes to mind is endless sand dunes with nothing else in sight, or tall cacti, road runners, coyotes and shit. But this is high desert — broad expanses of sage-covered powdery dirt hemmed in by distant mountain ridges. If you’re lucky enough to stumble across a dry streambed, you might just find a desert cedar that throws a little shade. I got lucky. So, I’m killing time while the afternoon heat passes before hiking further out the road. They said it was a six hour drive to the facility, so I figure we were closer to it than Calaway. I’m surprised that I haven’t seen a single vehicle out on the road. We’re about twenty hours overdue … where’s the search party? I’ll get moving again at sunset. I should be napping now, but last time I closed my eyes for more than an instant I saw Melton walking across the desert towards my little shade spot. Only it wasn’t really walking, I guess shambling would be the word for it. And it wasn’t really Melton either, not really. It was just his legs.

06.09.06

Will Mercer: 1, Desert: 0. Believe me, at times the outcome was in question. Even traveling at night, the lack of humidity is as bad as the midday sun. My skin was getting dry before the truck ever stopped rolling. After just a little more than a day it was starting to look as cracked and baked as the desert earth. And my lips are so raw and wasted right now, I basically have to grow a new pair. But a little bit of survival knowledge (garnered mostly from nature programs and National Geographic) and some good old-fashioned West Virginia stubborn-headedness paid off, and I eventually found the facility. No thanks to this outfit, I might add. The clowns didn’t even know I was coming. All that hassle getting the right security papers here, and all I had to do was show my driver’s license and they let me waltz in through the front gate. All right, maybe I didn’t waltz in. After I collapsed, they had to drag me. Still, the point stands.

I vaguely remember the gate guards taking me to the room I’m writing in now. I passed out on a mattress that’s only marginally softer than the rocks I’d slept on earlier in the day. I shouldn’t complain. I’ve got a roof over my head, and more importantly, water. It’s discolored and tastes a little funny, but this place looks like it was built during WWII and I’ll bet it still has the original pipes. The room looks an awful lot like an old hospital room — cinderblock walls (painted that all too familiar shade of lime green), and one small window with what I first thought was an air-conditioner. Turns out it’s what I’ve heard called a swamp cooler. Basically, it’s a box with a squirrel-cage fan drawing air through fiber panels with water constantly circulating over them. It cools through evaporation, and out here where the relative humidity is below 25% it works pretty damn well. When I started writing, I was debating whether to get up and explore or sleep some more. Well, debate’s over and sleep kicked explore’s ass. I’m going to crash out again in a minute, after one more glass of water. I hope Melton was in decent condition when they went out to recover him. I know he was ripped in half, I just hope nothing had, you know, started eating at him.

06.10.06

What a difference sleep makes (or the combination of sleep and water, anyway). I feel like a new man. As far as I can tell, nobody checked in on me. I woke up feeling rested and decided to check out the facility myself. You should see the place. This building is huge, but they have about the most primitive laboratory I’ve ever seen. Maybe I’m just spoiled, but I’ve never worked in a microbiology lab with wooden benches and brass fixtures before. All the instrumentation is manually controlled. Even the steam sterilizers are worked with valves and levers. There isn’t a keypad in the entire place, or even a computer. The people here don’t seem to mind. They might just be the biggest collection of super-geeks I’ve ever seen. Most of them look like they stepped out of some 50’s B-movie. Close-cropped flat-tops, big glasses with bulky black frames — I know the look is coffee-house chic now, but I don’t think these guys are trying to be ironic. I saw a few engineers with a similar look when I did some work down at the Cape in Florida a few years ago, guys (and even a few women) that wouldn’t have been out of place in old mission control footage from the Apollo days. They aren’t very talkative either.

I’ll have to finish this later, looks like they’re ready to give me the tour and explain exactly what I’m supposed to be working on. Somehow, I don’t think it has much to do with what they told me back in Maryland.

Let me take this from the top, and maybe I can reason things out by writing this all down. This morning I was sitting here writing when two scientists show up to finally explain my duty assignment. The first one, a squat guy with buzz cut and thick glasses, tells me his name is Dr. Ben Halleck. He makes a show of introducing the other guy, Dr. Elias Grinnell. Grinnell’s the director of research here. He’s an older guy, bald, thick, sharp features, big meaty hands and he’s about as personable as a grizzly. As soon as Halleck explains how important and brilliant the director is, Grinnell gives him a weird little look and the guy scampers away. Grinnell tells me he’s glad additional staff has finally arrived (at which point, I wonder, why didn’t his people even know I was coming?). According to Grinnell, things have been a little (dramatic pause here) hectic for the past week. You know that little voice you hear in your head, but it comes from down in your gut? The voice you sometimes ignore, only to realize maybe you really were driving a little too fast in that rainstorm, or maybe you should have shut that breaker off before trying to replace the light switch? That voice. At this point the little guy is screaming at the top of his lungs. But this Grinnell guy, despite all the gruffness, he’s charismatic, and my brain is genuinely curious. You don’t make it this far in science if your curiosity doesn’t sometimes override your common sense. So I tell him I’m glad to be here, and excited to learn more about the project. For the first time, he smiles. All will be revealed, he promises.

Grinnell leads me down labyrinthine corridors, a rat’s maze of lime-green concrete block walls and swinging doors. I can hear monkeys screeching. Nobody mentioned primate research, I comment. He raises a brow and says, “I imagine there’s a lot they didn’t tell you. The things that happen here, they don’t leave this facility.” He seems mildly amused, but that little voice from down in my gut is singing the chorus from “Hotel California.” Fuck, I never realized how much I hate that song.

We’re walking down endless corridors punctuated by wooden doors with small glass windows. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen any of the tri-foil biohazard symbols that are usually plastered all over even in the tamer labs I’ve worked in. Instead, the doors are marked with engraved bakelite signs reading “Restricted Access,” or the less benign “Danger – Toxic Substances” and “Warning – Infectious Agents.” I guess this place is deep enough that OSHA never pops in for a visit.

During our walkthrough Grinnell keeps talking about The Enemy. He goes on about troop movements and supply lines and morale. Stuff you don’t hear much about these days while we’re so focused on terror. He talks about what The Enemy’s up to, how we have to stay one step ahead. I’m about to ask him if he’s talking about China, North Korea maybe, but it’s hard to get a word in edgewise with this guy, plus he looked at me like I was insane when I mentioned Biopreparat earlier in the conversation. We finally come to a door with a guard posted on either side. Grinnell’s suddenly quiet. The voice in my gut tries to go panic-button on me, but doesn’t like the sound it makes in the dead silent hall and shuts up fast. It’s funny, but I could swear for just a second that Grinnell looked at me like he had heard the voice, too. Then without a word he turned away and pushed through the door.

We walk into the virology lab. Shit. The dudes in there are in get-ups that look more like Hawkeye Pierce’s surgical dress than any lab gear I’ve ever worked with. I recognize what they’re up to immediately. Inside what looks more like a chemical fume hood than a biological safety cabinet, they’re culturing cell lines in glass flasks. I haven’t used a glass anything in a micro lab since college. Before I can wonder much more about that, Grinnell starts talking about the virus that they’ve isolated from some chimpanzees acquired in the Congo basin. He’s telling me about its unique characteristics – the stability of the dried virus particles, the unprecedented communicability. My gut-voice is too tired to scream anymore. At this point it’s resigned to quiet sarcasm. “Your funeral,” it says.

Grinnell mentions the accident and the quarantine facility casually. They’ve been exposing virus-infected cell lines to dozens of different chemical cocktails in an attempt to mutate the bug. It worked. They developed a strain that infected the chimps as readily as the original. The virus incubated with typically mild flu-like symptoms. But then it went warp-speed, turning the animal’s internal organs into frappe. Then, in a proud, almost fatherly voice, he tells me: “And it infects humans, too.”

Last week one of their people got sliced with a scalpel during a chimp dissection. They moved him to isolation and in a week’s time found the virus in his blood. Grinnell tells me that this unfortunate event has a silver lining. They now know that the bug definitely causes illness in humans. Plus, in trying to save their colleague they will have to create a treatment for it – which happens to be a necessary milestone before deployment.

That’s right. He said deployment. Huge WTF moment. I’m not naïve. I suspected we had kitchens where we cooked this shit up, and that if it came down to the final inning and the home team was losing we’d use them. But he’s talking about deploying a bug with a communicability rate that would take it around the globe in days. And he’s not batting an eyelash.

I wasn’t really capable of coherent speech after that bombshell, but Grinnell wasn’t finished. He actually took me down to see the infected scientist. We came into a small room with a large plate glass window looking into a small dimly lit cell. Grinnell identified the person laying on an inclined bed as Leonard Smythe. He was in bad shape. His eyes – they weren’t human. There wasn’t any white left in them. Blue irises swam in two pools of blood. The blood trickled from his nostrils, a slow, steady black-red stream. The stuff was leaking out from random spots all over him, seeping out of sweat glands I suppose. Not gushing, just moist, like sap from a damaged tree trunk. Where there wasn’t external blood his skin looked bruised, likely caused by capillaries in the endodermis hemorrhaging. His face was a hellish red. I can’t imagine what kind of fever he must be running. Hell, I couldn’t believe the guy was even alive.

Then he talked. Somehow that poor bastard was not only alive, but coherent. That’s when I puked all over Grinnell’s shoes.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he gurgled like an automatic coffee brewer bubbling words while it percolated. After that, Elvis left the building.

06.11.06

After everything that happened yesterday, everything I saw and heard, I somehow managed to turn in a day’s work. It was almost like yesterday never happened. I was able to shut it out and take care of business, at least until I returned to my quarters. Here, alone with my thoughts, yesterday seems real and immediate, and today seems like the distant dream.

I worked with Halleck today. He’s a nice enough guy, but he doesn’t have the steadiest hands. I wouldn’t want to be around him if he was handling a dirty needle, or say, dissecting a diseased monkey. We were prepping human cell cultures that will later be infected with the virus. After the cells are infected, we’ll hit them with some drugs to see if we can find the magic bullet that kills the virus, but leaves the cells alive. Pretty basic stuff, too basic really. I asked if they had sequenced the virus isolate – many times you can figure out a better way to attack a bug if you can identify the proteins for which its DNA codes. Halleck just looked at me funny and launched into an explanation of how they isolated the original samples. Nobody mentioned Smythe today, and I wasn’t about to bring up the subject. I’m haunted by those eyes. I’m exhausted. Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep.

06.12.06

Not much sleep last night. I hear chimps screaming when I lay silent, and when sleep
tries to settle in, I see Melton pulling his legless torso across the desert, his face sun-scarred and his eye-sockets picked clean by scavengers. Or worse, Smythe, his bloody red eyes fixed on mine in a fever-hot accusatory glare. The oozing skin sloughs off his cheeks and jaw as he says, “You aren’t supposed to be here” and breathes the worst kind of poison into the air. I’m not sure if I’m really hearing the monkey screams or if they’re only imagined, but the visions of Melton and Smythe are all too real, so I spent most of the night with the monkeys, fighting off sleep. There’s the morning knock at the door, time to get to work. I want to go home.

06.13.06

The high desert’s cold after sunset, even in June. Cold enough to see my breath. I walked as far as I could, probably in circles. I tried to follow the stars, but they don’t look like they did … what, eleven days ago? Now they are just distant points of alien light, foreign constellations spinning coldly across the sky. I think I’m losing my mind.

It was close to noon when I heard the klaxons. I was picking at a chili dog and some under-cooked tater tots in the cafeteria. I’ve hardly eaten since arriving at the facility. I don’t think I need to explain my lack of appetite to you. Anyway, sirens go off, and people start running everywhere. Through a window I see Army trucks rolling in. Men in gas masks pour out of the trucks, but they don’t approach the facility. Instead they form a picket line, fencing the building in. Fencing us in. I can hear running and shouting in the hallways, but I can’t take my eyes off the guns pointed at us from every angle. A distant part of my mind registers the piss running down my leg without much interest.

I’m out of it until Grinnell shakes me to my senses, his big fingers digging painfully into my shoulders. “Snap out of it, Mercer. I’m counting on you.” He looks down at the spreading stain on my trousers with a mixture of disgust and amusement. “Smythe went into the rage this morning. He’s out of isolation. I’ve always suspected Halleck had something to do with it, maybe trying to put him out of his misery to make up for his blunder. But none of that’s important now. You can still get out before those bastards shut us in like rats in a cage.”

With that we’re off and running. Grinnell leads me to a windowless side room off the mess. He directs me to a nearby mechanical room. “There’s a service tunnel that leads to the power station, about a half-mile away. You can get out through there. They’ll never even know you were here.”

I’m frozen. Something’s wrong. I mean, other than the obvious facts that I’m in the middle of the desert, surrounded by madmen, a deadly virus of the worst sort, ghost dreams, countless soldiers who seem ready to shoot us down. My mind sticks on Grinnell’s words. There’s something so detached and predetermined about them. But the moment passes in the confusion, and Grinnell’s shouting for me to get moving. Instinct takes over and I bolt in the direction Grinnell pointed out, looking for the promised mechanical room. I see the door, and I’m about to grab the handle when the blood-soaked thing that was Smythe turns a corner about 40 feet up ahead. He’s out of his mind and snarling like something straight out of hell. But when his eyes meet mine, for a second there’s a flash of something – recognition, understanding, I don’t know. Then he’s charging at me as fast as his ravaged body will carry him, spraying blood and infection like a sprinkler. My mind tries to shut down, but adrenaline won’t let it. The handle sticks, but I manage to throw the door open. There’s a sickening crunch as Smythe slams into the other side of the door, his weight snapping it closed behind me. There’s a rusting boiler in front of me, and behind it a small trap door. It pulls open with an unnerving screech. I scramble down the service ladder to a narrow tunnel. Incandescent bulbs spaced at long distances stretch off into infinity. I run as fast as my ravaged body will carry me, and I don’t stop until the lights go out.

I don’t know how far I’d gone down the tunnel. Maybe a quarter-mile, halfway to the power station. I’m still full of adrenaline, but mindless panic gradually gives way to paralyzing terror in the black depths of the tunnel. It’s not just dark now. It smells different, and it’s silent. No dripping water, no distant hum of machinery, no voices echoing behind me. It’s like a sensory depravation tank. Or death. I take some deep breaths and count to ten, and then keep counting. I don’t remember how far I got before I was finally able to reach out my arm and find a wall. Keeping my outstretched fingers against the wall, I began a slow march in the direction I’d been running. I went on like that for what seemed like long hours, one hand on the wall and the other splayed out in front of me, certain I was going to walk into soldiers – or Smythe – in the dark.

I almost collapsed with relief when I finally felt the cold metal bars of the ladder at the end of the tunnel. I scrabbled up and found a heavy steel door blocking the exit. My first efforts were futile, but eventually there was a loud popping noise on the opposite side and the door gave way. I stumbled out of the service tunnel into a large metal building. Dark hulks of silent, rusting machinery sat silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. There was a little sound now, gentle wind blowing against the building and the faint howl of a coyote. The coyote’s howl probably shouldn’t have been comforting, but after the palpable silence of the tunnel below I found it as soothing as a mother’s lullaby. The floor of the building was covered in thick dust and grime, and when I found a door to the outside it was standing ajar, tentacles of earth creeping in as if the desert were slowly reclaiming its turf. I pointed myself away from the facility as best I could and set out at a fast hike, as close to a run as my legs would allow.

The sky’s starting to show the first hints of dawn. I’ve found a good cedar, and I’ll rest here. The little tree should protect me from the heat, and any eyes that might be looking for me. I can’t stop thinking about something that happened back in the facility. When I was in the mechanical room, just after my close call with Smythe, I distinctly heard him say something on the other side of the door. It wasn’t a furious scream of rage or anguished shriek of pain, but a clear, almost resigned protest. “No, no, no. You were never supposed to be here.”

06.14.06 (???)

I don’t know how long I slept, but it’s night again. The wind is blowing from a different direction. It’s probably just wishful thinking, but every now and then I hear something like distant traffic noise. I don’t have any other clues to follow, so I’ll just start walking in that direction. Last night I was terrified of being discovered, afraid soldiers were going to hunt me down and shoot me, but that all seems like a distant sepia-toned memory now. Thirst will kill me before a bullet does if I don’t find some water. It occurs to me that everything that happened at the facility – the outdated equipment, the weird scientists, the monkeys, the soldiers, and most of all, Smythe and those horrible, blood-filled eyes – maybe every bit of it was a hallucination, brought on by head trauma from the accident, exposure, and lack of food and water. I’ve just been laid up under this same cedar for days (or what seemed like days – I can’t trust anything I’ve written since the accident). I never should have strayed from the highway.

06.15.06 – 06.08.06? WTF?!?

I hitched a ride into Elko, a small town at the intersection of I-80 and Nevada State Route 225. From there I phoned the home office. They were freaking out. Apparently I’ve been missing for – get this – two days. Somehow my mind stretched two days into seven. I must have hit my head harder than I realized in the rollover. That much was real, anyway. They found the wreck (and what was left of Melton) a few hours after they realized we were missing. The rest of it, those days at the facility, none of it happened. Of course not, how could it have? The whole notion is absurd, and every single detail was wrong. The client is sending a chopper out to pick me up at Elko’s small airport, and on to Calaway from there. I don’t know what happens after that. Even if I pass a medical screen, I’m begging off this assignment. They can send some other lucky individual. Once I get out of here, I’m making it a point never to set foot in the desert again. And I’m going to burn this journal. On second thought, I think I’ll hold onto it. With a little work, maybe it’ll make for a decent short story.

I have about an hour to kill before the chopper gets here. I think I’ll find a place to get that Claritin and grab some juice. The sandstorm left my throat all scratchy on top of packing my sinuses solid.

06.09.06

They took me over to the post hospital when we got back for a once-over by some Army doctors. I’m dehydrated (big surprise), but other than that not much worse for the wear. The local security types debriefed me, then the range safety officer, and finally a neurologist. I spilled everything, even the hallucinations. I didn’t mention this journal, though. There’s an off chance they would confiscate it just for the stuff in here that really did happen, and I’d like to hold onto this. My nose is running now, hopefully clearing out the last of the sand.

06.10.06

I feel like shit today. My little walkabout in the dreamtime must have weakened my immune system. I hate summer colds. I’m in the post hospital. There’s no shortage of beds here, and the neurologist wants to make sure I didn’t get a cracked melon in the crash, so they’re holding me as a precaution. Going to lay back down, don’t feel much like writing. Funny thing, the neurologist here is named Halleck. I must have heard his name mentioned before leaving with Melton, that probably planted the seed in my mind for the name in my dream. He tells me his grandfather was a microbiologist like me. He did some work at a top-secret facility out here in the desert in the days after the war, but apparently died of a freak heart attack. The old base is an abandoned ruin now, somewhere out near where I picked up a ride to Elko. I probably stumbled right by it.

06.11.06

My eyes are pretty bloodshot and I am feeling like a truck hit me. Not much new, still waiting for permission from corporate to come home once I get medical clearance. If they insist that I finish the job, I just might quit and buy my own ticket home.

06.13.06

It was a simple enough word, thought Jack as he lay in the middle of the casino staring skyward at the hidden cameras that speckled the ceiling overhead.

Of course he understood the complexity of what blood truly was. He’d had the anatomy course in college where he had managed to pass with a low B average. Jack never really cared for the course and figured it for a waste of time for someone planning to become an Archetect. He took the class to fill a science requirement because he had procrastinated too long during regristartion and Anatomy was the only class with seats still available.

He also recalled there were actually 3 types of blood cells. Red, white, and platelets.

Lastly, Jack surprised himself when he remembered that blood was actually made up mostly of plasma.

It was truly amazing what goes through your mind as you’re lying on the ground in a puddle of your own blood while the people around you are moving about in hysteria and chaos. Jack wondered if he should feel guilty that his last thoughts weren’t circling his wife or his three children; but clinging to some obscure facts from a past he had all but forgotten.

As an Arcetect he also found himself admiring the worksmanship that had gone into this ceiling that he now found himself forced to stare into. Jack wasn’t so much impressed with the renisance style paintings that covered his last vistage. He admired the way a ceiling this vast could be domed with just the minimal of support beams and how even those few supports he saw were expertly blended into the background of the casino itself.

No, this wasn’t meant to be admired by the masses now surrounding him. They were meant to ignore the craftsmanship and focus of the glitz of it all. Only a true Artisan like Jack was meant to see the hidden beauty this structure held.

I wonder how long it’s going to take for someone to get around to helping me, he thought. It seems like everyone’s too busy trying to loose their kids college fund to notice a guys been stabbed and is dying in the middle of the floor. Even security seemed to be taking it’s sweet time getting around to finding out why someone’s spread out on the floor and not leaning over a craps table praying for just one more seven to come.

Of course tossing dice when you can no longer feel your extremities would be somewhat difficult. He could just see the dice rolling off his fingertips with all the force of a newborns drool as it ran down its chin. Not much chance of making it across the table when you can barely muster the force to make it past the pass line.

I guess I could blame the randomnous of my thoughts on the lack of oxygen finding its way to my brain right now, he rationalized. My family couldn’t really expect me to maintain control of my thoughts while I’m faced with problems like these could they?

Jack tried to remember how it was he had gotten into this spot in the first place but found it difficult to focus.

He recalled that he had been drinking quite a bit before he felt the sharp flash of pain that plunged into his right hand side. Was he drinking for a reason? Jack couldn’t recall. Vodka Tonics had that effect on people. And now the loss of blood was compounding the problem.

Why isn’t anyone helping here? Jack pondered. This is proving to be a true testiment to the lack of altruistic nature in people these days. I guess there’s no real money in heroic efforts anymore.

Jack decided it might be best to call out for help at this point; but as he tried he found his lungs wouldn’t fill with air. His mouth, on the other hand, rapidly filled with blood and his plea for assistance turned out to be little more then a gasp and choke on his own fluids.

I guess the blade must have puncutered one of my lungs., Jack speculated as he attempted to regain some measure of himself. Not much chance of getting anyones attention that way then.

He briefly considered trying to grab hold of someone but found there were too many people in the casino and no one was really near enough to him to grasp.

I realize the casinos slow down after 2 in the morning, but you’d think I could find someone to help.

As if in answer to his prayer, Jack finaly did see a young lady moving towards a slot machine nearby where he was grasping to the last few breaths of life he had remaining. Jack strained to move his arm into place in the aisle where the young lady was sure to have a better view of him.

He was thrilled to see the young lady suddenly change direction and begin moving in his direction.

With the last bit of energy he could muster, Jack reached out and grasped at the young ladies pants leg when she was near enough for him to manage it.

It was then that the fear and shock truly did overcome him as he watched his hand pass right through both the young ladies denim pants and he leg as well and reemerge on the other side.

What the hell? He thought as he watched the young lady continue past him and take a seat just three machines away from where he now lay. My hand… It passed right through her!

Jack dug deep and strained to bring his hand up to eye level in an attempt to assertain what had gone wrong with his plan. He soon discovered the problem.

Jacks hand had become all but transparent at the end of his wrist!

A light panic began to grow deep inside himself and he found that the harder he strained to figure out what was going on, the further up his arm this new translucent condition began to spread.

It was like a vicious cycle. The more he faded, the more he paniced. The more he paniced the more energy he explelled. The more energy he expelled, the more he faded.

The disease spread rapidly at this point throughout the rest of his body. Jack could feel his legs and torso becoming lighter and lighter. The thought terrified him.

Suddenly Jack saw the paint on the ceiling he had just been admiring begin to loose color. It was rapidly being replaced by a bright glow that was moving towards him at an ominous rate.

Again Jack tried to scream, but found the words lost in another throat full of blood. He stared at the light willing it to leave with every last drop he could muster. Pain ran through his mind as he strained against all of creation to hold back his new predator.

Suddenly, it began to work!

The glow faded, replaced again by the ceiling that had been there beforehand.

I did it! He thought. I won! I’m going to live!

But even as he thought this he still felt the fading disease crawing over his body at a faster rate then before. He was being erased and didn’t know what to do about it. Had me made a mistake in wishing the light away? The thought filled him with a moment of terror as he vanished all together.

Blood.

It was 1935 – a Sunday- and she never had a care in the world. She looked at the bright leaves on the birch trees and she thought the trees looked like they were on fire – the leaves were so bright, and every now and then and ember fell slowly to the dead tan grass below. Over the old wooden bridge and creek, through a small clearing, just her and Barley.

Time flew like it always did on the weekend. She heard the train whistle blow and right after that, she heard her mother calling her for lunch. She raced her little puppy back to the house. Both adventurers were hungry and Madeline was getting cold anyway. A little of Mother’s hearty soup and she’d be ready to go again, clear till dusk.

Madeline ran up the stairs, skipping the first and third, and laughed as she watched little Barley clumsily climb up one at a time, working those little back legs as hard as he could. Madeline picked him up, brought him inside the warm house and plopped him in front of his food bowl, before plopping herself at the table in front of her bowl of soup and glass of milk. Ready to dive in, she looked around for her spoon until her mother reached over, put one in her bowl and kissed her daughters forehead. Her mother paused, kissed again and then put her cheek to Madeline’s head. She told her she felt warm, but in reality, Madeline was burning up.

She let her finish her soup and then broke it to her easy that playing for the day was done. Her Sunday was to be spent now back in her pink pajamas, in bed and maybe a little drawing if her fever went down.

She slid into bed under extra covers and now only now was glad to be there. She started feeling really weak and her stomach was turning. She closed her eyes tight and felt the heat on her eyelids. Her mom sat with her for a while, petting her head and occasionally Barley’s and then got up to contact the doctor down the dirt road.

Madeline loved her doctor, but usually refused to admit she needed one. Not this time. Her willingness to quit playing outside for the rest of the day made it clear to her mother just how bad she must have felt.

Madeline dozed for a minute, with Barley by her side of course, and then woke up and slowly peeked her head up and looked out the window. She could barely make out the dark, slim shape of her kind doctor walking down the dirt road. She watched his grab a leaf off a nearby tree, watched as he nearly stumbled as he crossed a little stone bridge, but as he got closer, he seemed different to Madeline in a way. He was wearing a hat, a black one; in fact his clothes were completely black and kind of reminded Madeline of the pilgrims she saw in her schoolbooks. She let her head fall back onto her pillow, disappointed that she’d have to settle on a different doctor this time and wondered wear her usual one was.

His three knocks on the door were faint, but Madeline knew it was time for that gross medicine and looked at Barley with envy – but the little puppy was still fast asleep.

Then her door opened.

The doctor’s hat was covering his face at first, but he moved with a grace to Madeline’s bedside and only then could she really see him. She froze, all the while wondering why her kind mother would let someone like this into her house –her room. She stared into his pitch-black empty eyes dug into his pale and wrinkled face.

Madeline closed her eyes and slowly faded away, holding on tightly to Barley’s little paw. Madeline died.

It was 1935 – a Sunday- and she was a bit scared of the similarities the more she realized them. She looked at the bright leaves on the birch trees and she thought the trees looked like they were on fire – the leaves were so bright, with every now and then and ember falling to the dead tan grass below them. Over the old wooden bridge and creek, through a small clearing, just her and Barley.

She loved the woods though, especially this time of year, and soon forgot about the silly dream and let time fly as her and Barley played and played.

The train whistle blew, and then she heard her mother calling her for lunch. She raced her little puppy back to the house. She was hungry and little scared and was getting cold anyway, though she prayed there wasn’t soup on the table.

Madeline ran up the stairs, skipping the first and third, and then picked up her little puppy, brought him inside the warm house and plopped him in front of his food bowl, before plopping herself at the table in front of her bowl of soup and glass of milk. She looked around for her spoon until her mother reached over, put one in her bowl and kissed her daughters forehead. Her mother paused, kissed again and then put her cheek to Madeline’s head. She told her she felt warm, but in reality, Madeline was burning up and suddenly not so hungry anymore.

She couldn’t her finish her soup and then heard her mother try to break it to her easy that playing for the day was done. Her Sunday was to be spent back in her pink pajamas, in bed and maybe a little drawing if her fever went down.

She slid into bed under extra covers that she brought up over her nose, barley peeking over them. She started feeling really weak and her stomach was turning from fear now, more than anything else. She closed her eyes tight and felt the heat on her eyelids. She kept them closed this time falling asleep for a few minutes. She couldn’t help it.

She woke up. Shaking now and very slowly, she picked her head up and looked out the window. She could barely make out the slim shape of her kind doctor walking down the dirt road and was momentarily relieved. Then she saw the lone leaf hanging over his head and was filled with horror as he plucked it off the nearby tree, she started to cry when he nearly stumbled as he crossed a little stone bridge, and as he got closer, he seemed familiar to Madeline in a way that made her stiff with fear. He was wearing a hat, a black one; he was completely in black, in clothes that looked just like the pilgrims in her schoolbooks. She let her head fall back onto her pillow, and just as she heard the three knocks screamed like she’d never before to her mom, “Don’t let him in my room mommy! Don’t let him in my room!”

The little puppies head popped up in a flash. She was holding on to his little paw tightly. She heard her mom tell the doctor that maybe it was a bad time and then the front door closed shut. Madeline’s mom came into the room looking worried and confused and sat on the bed and put her hand on the small hand of her daughter. All the while, Madeline was staring outside at the black figure who just before reaching the little wooden bridge, turned to her and waved his arm over his head.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, looked once more and he was nowhere in sight.

I haven’t left our apartment for weeks now, but every muscle aches as though I’ve run a marathon. I can only do what I have done every day since the accident. I call around the corner for a pizza; I don’t have to tell them my address anymore. Then I open her side of the closet. I thumb through the clothes, anticipating our after dinner rendezvous. I take my time, and time passes quickly. I usually make my way to the end of the closet just as the doorbell rings. I leave just long enough to throw some money at the boy and close the door again. Both she and I had life insurance on ourselves, and that has sustained me, but I hate every second I physically touch that money. It’s filthy and feels like sandpaper.

The food is left in the living room to get cold. I don’t eat until the wee hours of the morning, long after the restaurant is closed, and the stiff, room temperature cheese tastes like cardboard, but then, so does everything else. Everything looks like grey and feels like ash ever since the pink that surrounded my life left me. I vaguely think about this as I stare at the box.

“Did you get pineapple on it?” she asks. The whisper tickles my ear and I swat at it, feeling like a bee has just tried to crawl in. I realize I’m not at my peak, but I know I didn’t just hear that. It’s just a ritual we used to have. So I play along.

“You know I hate pineapple.” I say out loud. And there she is now, standing in front of me with that pout. Certainly she can smell the sickly sweet pineapple, but she pouts anyway. “That’s why I got it on only half the pizza.” The pout turns into a big grin, and she leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

“Thank you, baby.”

You can’t get pineapple on just half a pizza. The juices spread, contaminating every part of it. I eat it anyway. At least on my half, it’s not quite so bad.

When I’m done, the box is thrown on top of the stack. The ones on the bottom are starting to smell, but not like pineapple. More like decomposition. I can’t bear it, but I don’t do anything about it, either. So I move back in to the bedroom, where the closet door is still open.

“I have too many clothes” she says. The blouses and dresses and jackets and other items are bulging from the small space, but that’s okay.

“No you don’t. We just need a bigger place. We’re going to get a house of our own one of these days. You can decorate it any way you want- paint the walls, plant a garden, anything you want without having to get the landlord’s permission. We’ll have extra bedrooms, too. For when we start a family. Just as soon as I get that promotion at work, I promise.”

She smiles, not knowing that I lost that job a long time ago, probably about a month or two after I quit showing up for work. My boss is a pretty good guy. He had called and said that he was sorry to hear about my loss, and that I could take as much time as I needed. But then, that wasn’t exactly true, because after the first couple of months, he stopped leaving messages on our answering machine. I never called him back and I’d erase the messages as quickly as I could. I didn’t want her to overhear me have to explain that I couldn’t go back to work. Not just yet.

As usual, I take all the clothes out of the closet and lay them on the bed. I bury my face in the fabric, but this time, something’s wrong. Oh, I see the problem. The articles of clothing that are always on top have lost her scent. Well, that’s understandable. I peel off a few layers and try again to know her scent. But still, it’s not there. Out of the corner of my eye, explosions of color fly past, as my arms flinging one thing after another on the floor, searching.

It’s gone. How could I have been so careless? I took her clothes out and allowed them to air out too many times. And just like that she’s gone again. I can’t lift my head from my hands. Why is my collar all wet? I didn’t think I had any more tears left.

“There’s still a way.”

“What?” This time, I know it wasn’t my imagination. I realize I’m not at my peak, but this time, I know I heard that. Because this is something new. I don’t remember ever hearing her say that phrase before. And then there it is- that whiff of pink. Could it be true? I can not let myself believe, but I can’t ignore her either. I never could.

“How?”

Her laughter. I can see the music again. “Do you really miss me so much?”

“More. Oh, God, please talk to me.”

“Then don’t forget my clothes in storage, silly.”

Of course. I jump up from my slumped position on the edge of the bed and scramble through the boxes and bags on the top shelf of the closet. Nothing. Old trinkets break easily when I let them fall on the hardwood floor.

“Where?”

No answer. I drop to my knees and claw at the mounds under the bed. What’s this? I can’t believe I didn’t remember this. The ridiculous vinyl storage bag she’d seen advertised on TV.

“You can suck all the air out of it, and it’ll preserve your clothes.”

I had teased her about buying this, and I couldn’t help feeling ashamed about that. But the important thing now would be to not let all the pink out of these clothes, like I had the others. I would not foolishly squander this second chance.

My hands shaking, I open the ersatz hermetically sealed bag. The smell hits me so strongly I fall back a little, catching myself from falling all the way back. This is like pink champagne, and now I am intoxicated. That’s when I hear her again.

“I miss you so much. Come closer.”

I oblige, pushing my face in further, soaking up the scent, so strong I could swear she is standing right beside me. All thoughts of trying to preserve these clothes disappear, and all I want to do is get closer somehow. I continue to breathe her in, burrowing ever deeper.

“Closer. Closer. You’re so close now. Reach out to me, baby. I’m right here. Just a little further.”