A Big Thanks to You Readers

Hey guys, just wanted to offer a big thanks. I'm not sure how many of you are actually out there who don't technically "follow" as in you don't click the magic little button there on the sidebar, but I know there's a considerably fair amount of you guys there too.

Anyway, I wanted to say a big thanks to anyone who has read and commented on the work we do here and my writing in particular. As you may note, my latest story "Mother Dearest" was published 41 or so hours ago. It has now reached a grand total of 101 downloads. That may not seem like much really, but please take into consideration that nobody really knows who I am or what I write and I have done virtually no marketing here. For a little perspective, "Merchandise" has been up for 17 days now and is holding strong at 106 downloads. That's a big change in downloads and I owe it to you guys and God.

I just wanted to say a big thanks for your support, and thank you for reading this blog. God of course is the only One responsible for these numbers, so I would ask that you join me in praising him for this. Aside from that, all I can say is Soli Deo Gloria.

Download "Mother Dearest" here.

Mother Dearest Published on Smashwords

Dear readers,

Just dropping in a post to let you know my latest story Mother Dearest is now available for free download at Smashwords.com in almost any format. I should offer a mild warning however, the story is not intended for younger audiences due to violence and mild thematic elements. The following is the description from the book page:

"Tom Morrison has just lost his fiance, and then his mother grows incredibly sick. In caring for his mother and missing Trisha, he finds more about his mother than he cared to ever know...a dark and terrible secret. A story of a mother's love gone wrong.

How well do we know the ones we love? How much do they keep hidden from us?"

 Download it here,

Reader - A Short Story

They called him the Reader.

This was partly because no one knew his real name. He kept to himself most of time, hiding away in a large manorhouse on the outskirts of town. But I think he would still have borne the moniker even if things had been otherwise. It just fit.

Every Tuesday he would come walking into town - summer or winter, rain or shine, he came. The very picture of inevitability. Feet crunching against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his coat, he would make his way past the houses and the shops and the eateries, without so much as giving them a glance. He would not stop – no, not once – till he had reached his destination: a small, homely-looking bookstore with a wordy array of novels, short story collections, and non-fiction titles staring outward from behind the window glass. It was a mere hole-in-the-wall, nestled between a bakery and a clothing store. Above it, suspended by wire, hung a wooden sign that read THE READERY in large splintery letters.

And into The Readery the Reader would go.

Half an hour would pass, maybe even an hour. Then the bell on the door would ring and he would emerge with a book under his arm. He always bought one. Always. It might be the latest bestseller or a piece of classic lit – it didn't matter. What mattered was that he never left The Readery empty-handed.

On a particularly chill and drizzly Tuesday in February, I happened to take shelter under the eaves of that bookstore. I hunched myself into one corner, shivering, disgusted at the weather. I pulled my overcoat tighter around me, then shoved my hands into the pockets, trying to coax warmth back into the tips of my fingers.

That's when I saw him. He stepped off the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and sloshed toward me through the puddles. He smiled politely as he came up and then reached for the door and disappeared inside. Just like that.

I had the sudden and inexpicable urge to follow him, though to this day I'm not sure why. Perhaps for the simple reason that I really had nothing else to do. I unrooted myself from the sodden pavement and clasped the slippery brass doorknob and opened the door.

Stepping into that bookstore was like stepping into another world. The air was warm and dry and the fiery amalgam of candles and electric lighting threw an orangey-white blush over the place - an errant contrast to the oppressive, wet greyness of the world outside. The pungent odor of ancient books and the crisp, sharp smell of new ones mingled in the air with that of the wooden shelves. Somewhere in the back of the store a phonograph played. I closed my eyes.

“Can I help you find something, sir?”

I hit the here-and-now again with a jolt. The speaker stood behind a counter on my right, busily sorting through a large stack of books. She was elderly, maybe mid-sixties. Stocky build, white hair, wrinkled skin. The owner, I assumed. She paused in her work, questioning. I smiled and shook my head. She nodded and smiled back and resumed her sorting.

I caught sight of him again, poised by a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. I walked toward him and casually selected a book from the same shelf and made a show of thumbing through the pages, all the while watching him out of the corner of my eye.

His interest was fully engaged by the weighty volume in his hands. Eyes poring over every letter, every word, every sentence, every paragraph. Fingers sifting the crackly yellow pages. It was an old book. Very old. Like him.

Suddenly he looked up and grinned a wide toothy grin. "Chaucer," he rasped happily, indicating the book he was reading. "You read any of him?"

I said that I hadn't.

"You should," he said, head bobbing up and down. "You really should." Then, after a pause, "How d'you like Milton?"

"Pardon?"

He nodded toward the book I had absently-mindedly pulled from the shelf. "Milton," he said again. "How do you like his work?"

"Oh, this," I said, awkwardly turning it over in my hands to get a good look at the title: "Paradise Lost". I shrugged and tried to look appreciative. "He's, um, pretty good," I said lamely.

He just smiled and bobbed his head again and returned to his book. After a minute or so, I ventured to ask whether he read much, knowing full well what his answer would be.

"I love books," came the enthustiastic reply. "Love them. My house is full of them. And even then, I can't stop myself from coming here every week to get a new one. I started collecting them years ago, you know, and haven't stopped collecting since. I could start my own library if I wanted to," he laughed. Then he stopped. He looked up, sober-faced. He leaned toward me. "Would you like to see it? My library, I mean?"

I was a surprised and delighted. Apparently he wasn't the total recluse I'd taken him for. I felt a thrill run up my spine, recognizing a tremendous opportunity to see something nobody else, to my knowledge, had ever seen before. "Sure," I said. "Thanks."

Excitement danced in his eyes. He tucked Chaucer under his arm and beckoned for me to follow. He paid at the counter and exchanged a few cheery words with the lady behind it and then swept out the door with me close on his heels.

I didn't so much mind the rain or the cold or the greyness now; my mind was abuzz with anticipation. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, and together we walked through town and out of town and along a dirt road that was now turned to mud. Shortly thereafter, we turned off the road and started through the grass and up a rise. His house was at the top. Large and grand and impressive, yet marked by evidences of age and decay. We went up the rickety wooden steps and onto the rickety wooden porch and paused as he fumbled with the lock.

Then we were inside. I nearly tripped over a stack of encyclopedias lying on the floor just inside the door. "Look out," he admonished with a chuckle.

I was looking, but not at my feet. I was looking at all the books. Stack upon stack of them, littering the floor in a sort of choatic orginization. He took hold of my arm and guided carefully me through the maze.

In every room we went through it was the same: books everywhere. On the floor, on the wall, on the furniture. Everywhere. I opened my mouth, then clicked it shut, stupified.

He led me to the den and told me to stand still while he cleared away a place for us to sit. I gazed around me at the sea of words and blinked. I even tried pinching myself to be sure I wasn't dreaming. He looked round. "Well," he grinned, "what do you think? Quite something, isn't it?"

My tongue fumbled around uselessly in my mouth. "Amazing," I finally managed to stammer. "There must be a gazillion books in this place."

He laughed and bent to gather up another pile of books off a seat cushion. "More than that, probably. Upstairs is full, too."

"How many of these have you read?" I breathed, reaching to pick up a copy of Huckleberry Finn and then turning it over in my hands. "How many? And how long did it take you/"

"Read?" He straightened and turned to face me, wiping his dusty hands on his trousers. He smiled, but it was a strange smile this time. An unnatural smile. He licked his lips. "Why," he said, "I haven't read any of them, actually. I just like collecting them. That's all."


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Merchandise - Part 10

X

FAR AWAY, in a tiny town in Montana, a woman named Tracy Jackson was walking her Great Dane, Arnold, and saw a man up ahead. He was strong looking, youngish; he was nicely dressed, fresh shirt, clean jeans. In his hand was a post and he had it lined up, carefully, he pounded down onto the wooden post. As he looked up, taking a quick break from his work, he caught her eye and smiled. He had a nice smile, a real winning smile, she thought. They hadn’t welcomed this couple to the neighborhood yet, she realized. Perhaps she would do that. It might be a good idea.

The man went back to work on his post and finished after a few more hammer blows. The hammer hung limply in his hand as she approached, trying to keep Arnold from running too far ahead of her. He walked to the sidewalk to meet her, the hammer swinging lightly in his hand.

“Howdy there,” he said. He seemed to have a bit of a Texas accent to her. Something very pleasant, she thought.

“Hello there,” she replied. “New to the neighborhood?”

He nodded. “That we are, me and my wife, Helen.” He extended his free hand. “I’m Jonathan Cain, ma’am.”

She shook it and introduced herself. “This is my dog, Arnold.”

The Great Dane took a look at him and sniffed, turning his nose back to the wind, seeking out something more interesting.

“What’s that you’re putting up?”

“It’s a sign for our new business venture. Something my wife cooked up, figured it’d be a good way to make some money, you know.”

She looked at the sign.

ODDS AND ENDS: NEVER-ENDING YARD SALE
WE SELL ANYTHING

“Anything?” She whispered.

“What’s that?” He asked, the smile of perfect teeth still on his face. She took a look at his face and noticed that he really was the picture of perfection. Just how you’d expect a man in a magazine would look.
“You sell anything?” She asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” He replied. “Anything.”

The End

If you enjoyed "Merchandise" spread the word, and download it here at Smashwords.com

About the Author:

Michael Wright lives in Alabama and has been writing since his mid-teen years. He enjoys playing guitar, reading, writing, coffee, sushi, Christian theology and he has never been to a never-ending yard sale. Read more stories at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/michaelwright92

Premonition - A Short Story

Harry entered the waking world with a start, head swimming, muscles tense. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then, as his eyes took in the familiar surroundings, he relaxed. He was in his living room. He must've fallen asleep on the couch again.

The book he'd been reading lay on the cushion next to him - a crime thriller he'd picked up at the bookstore the other day. The title stared up at him with eyes of fancy, gothic lettering: Death Comes As A Friend. He regarded it coldly, unimpressed. A story which put the reader to sleep could hardly be deemed a "thriller".

He sat up from his reclined position and massaged away the cric in his neck with one hand. He got to his feet. He was already dressed, but one look at his exceptionally wrinkled shirt convinced him he needed to change.

In the bathroom, he turned the faucet all the way on and let the water run. He cradled some in his palm and splashed it over his face. The chilly wetness was refreshing, chasing any vestiges of sleep from his cobwebbed brain. He closed his eyes contentedly for a minute and relished the feeling. Then he turned the faucet off and dried his face with a towel.

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes, then proceeded to the kitchen. He turned the dial on the coffee maker to “On”, and grabbed a skillet from the cupboard and began warming it on the stovetop. Two eggs were fried and on a plate and on the table within minutes, accompanied by a cup of coffee. Harry sat down and took a sip. The dark liquid scalded his tongue and throat, but he didn't mind. He liked it that way.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry looked up, surprised. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”

Harry set his cup down hastily and went to the door and opened it. He motioned his friend inside. “Sorry 'bout that,” he muttered apologetically, closing the door. “Didn't even notice the rain.”

“Well, I noticed it,” said Aaron, grinning. “Doesn't look like it's gonna stop anytime soon, either.” He looked up. “You just get up?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I was just eating breakfast. Care for some coffee?”

Aaron shrugged. “Sure.” He stripped off his sopping rain coat and deposited it on the coat rack behind the door, then sat down at the table. “Thanks.”

Harry turned and reached into the cupboard and took down another cup. "So," he said, conversationally, "what's up? Need to borrow somethin'?" He began filling Aaron's cup. The coffee swirled and steamed. "By the way," he added, turning around, "d'you want cream?"

He stopped and his jaw fell and his face turned a pasty white. "Aaron?"

Aaron was standing again. A revolver was in his right hand, his finger curling round the trigger, the bluish barrel pointing straight at Harry's chest.

"Aaron?"

"Bye, Harry."

There was a small thunderclap. Harry dropped and lay shivering in the floor, a blossom of red spreading slowly across the front of his shirt. His glazing eyes focused one last time on Aaron, who knelt beside him, gun in hand.

"Aaron." Harry's lips moved in a low, reproachful whisper.

Aaron watched, listened.

"Wh-why?"

Aaron bent his head down to the dying man's ear and whispered back: "Because, Harry. Because I can."

***

Harry woke with a start. His head was swimming and sticky rivulets of sweat ran down his face and his heart was beating in a fast, panicky tempo. He rose from the couch and stumbled hastily into the kitchen. He snatched a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap and drank. Calm yourself, Harry. It was just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream and nothing more.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry dropped the glass, shattering it into a million winking shards. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Merchandise - Part 9

IX

WAKE UP!” He was being shook. The feeling of hands on his shoulder, the fingers digging just a little deep, like someone was clawing into his shoulder.

Jim pulled himself back into reality. The feeling of weightlessness quickly left him, like someone pulling a rug out from under him, leaving him on a hard floor that he quickly realized was a driveway.

“Wake up!” Beverly, she was waking him up.

What did she want?

His eyes opened, and he was instantly blinded by light.

It wasn’t gone! It wasn’t over; whatever it was that he had seen was still there, right by him, the blinding light…

“Wake up, Jim!”

He realized it was the sun. A blue sky with the slightest grin of clouds gazed down on him, like a Cyclops with a blinding eye.

“Jim!” Beverly, covered in dirt, but as beautiful as anything he had ever seen. He managed to slur out something that sounded like a death rattle instead of a reply.

“What?”

“Are they gone?” He asked. He managed to glance around, and saw that the shed was there, the latch busted open still, hanging loosely. The padlock shone in the grass, right by his bolt cutters. He saw his Ruger lying on the ground, empty and discarded. He wished it hadn’t been left like that.

“Yes,” she answered. “They’re gone. I don’t know where, but they’re gone. Everything’s gone.”

Everything? What was she talking about?

He looked around and saw that there were no tables in the back yard. There were no bins either. No tent. No piles of junk. The table that was in the carport was missing as well, and so were Bram and Linda. He leaned back on the grass, and smiled up at her, unable to help it. He felt the pull at the edges of his mouth and wanted to stop it, wishing that he could be serious, but under the circumstances could not be serious.

“What are you smiling at?”

“The craziness of it. The police didn’t come, probably because they didn’t want them too, and the neighbors were eating out of their hand. They had control of the whole neighborhood, and still they’re the ones that left. They had all that, but we won.”

Beverly looked down at him, confused.

He didn’t feel like it needed to be explained. In the end they had the neighborhood, but that didn’t mean anything. When it came down to good versus evil, good won, despite the odds.

He grinned at Beverly again. She looked back down at him, desperate, but relieved at the same time—more confused than he was. She had not seen the light, nor had she seen the wings, or the swords. He wasn’t sure she understood, or was ready to understand. He didn’t even know if she ever would be able to understand all of what had just happened. All he knew was that they were together, and they had survived. Both of them had made it out, free from evil. Good had won over evil.

He looked at the ground and saw a round burn mark; right where he had seen the ball of light and reckoned it was centered. Impossible, but undeniable—it had all actually happened. Even though everything was gone—he was sure that it indeed was all gone, and not a single thing had been left behind, they were still there. They remained, he and Beverly. They made it. Good over evil.

No, he thought to himself. It was God won over evil. Not just good. God.

End of Part 9

Merchandise - Part 8

VIII

THE NIGHT swallowed all light around it. The streetlights tried to supply light to any who would dare venture the streets so late at night, but they tried in vain, and the darkness reigned over all, with a rod of iron shadow. Underneath the glare of fading stars, speckled across innumerable galaxies, Jim walked slowly, the bolt cutters held tightly in his hands, partially hidden by his leg. The gun was in his side pocket, and the knife tucked in his waistband, a towel wrapped around it to keep him from cutting himself.

His breathing was hard, harder than it had ever been on one of his longest runs, and his mind was filled with fears that contested with the amount of the stars above. He hadn’t been quite so afraid before he had left his house, but the tiny fears, the ones that made up the little cold needles that danced on the skin of your arms, had grouped up when he had seen the dark streets, and the feeling that he was being watched.

The eyes were everywhere. They were always watching, those tiny little eyes, each one focused on him, peeking through the windows, glowing in the darkness, caught under a spell of their neighbors who were holding the best sale on earth.

We sell anything.

Anything.

Anything.

Even you. We’ll sell you. Just come on, rack up some debt—we’ll sell you. We sell anything.
Jim held the bolt cutters tighter. Not that they could really supply him with any assurance, they were only bolt cutters, the gun was in his pocket, and the knife his waistband.

The eyes watched.

He came up to the same old driveway for the last time, and glanced behind him at the streets, empty and dark. They were only occupied by the stretching shadows, waking from their rest, ready to fade again. The streetlights glared, tiny dots, little eyes down the street, growing in size, as they got closer.

The sign: simple, fresh, daring, smart and infuriating—the simple three-word slogan, that terrible phrase that haunted him in the dark corners of his mind. It burned into him, like a lit match pressed against his skin. He thought of Beverly, of what he was about to do. He thought of the little girl—Amy—who had been heartlessly sold to a man that had who knew what in mind for her. A dim fire, the blue blaze of righteous anger burned deep down within. He knew what he was going to do, and come what may, he would make sure it got done, or he would sure enough die trying.

The gravel, suddenly returned, skittered away from him. He hardly paid it any mind; he was going straight for his target, a little shed tucked just to the side of where the tent was. Just to the far right of all of the tables in the back yard.

—They keep us in the shed. There are some cots in there for us to sleep, and it’s locked up with a padlock at night. I want to make noise but I’m afraid they’ll hear. They hear everything.

 The fence was wide open, as if they were expecting midnight customers, or—he wanted to cringe at the thought—expecting him.

The backyard was not illuminated in the least; the only light was what came from the street. He could see the faint reflection, barely discernable, on the plastic bins that were piled high on the tables, holding all of the goods, all except for a particular piece of merchandise.

He remembered sitting at his kitchen table, what, only a few hours ago? He was counting cash. He was going to buy her, but then it occurred to him—she couldn’t be bought. Beverly was a person, not a thing. You don’t buy a human being—that was just wrong. He had to break her out: that was the only option. That was the only thing he was going to do. He was going to break her out and then call the cops; he wouldn’t leave her in their possession any longer. They could hide the truth, fool the cops, but Beverly would be free, and that was the point. That was the mission.

He crept down the driveway, stealing a quick peek at the house. The windows were dark, the happy couple probably asleep, exhausted from a day’s labors, dreaming of the next big sales, of how many more people they intended to sell.

The padlock was on the shed, just as Beverly had said, it shone lightly in the dim illumination. He brought the bolt cutters up a little, and moved in for the lock, looked quickly at the window, saw that it was boarded up.
He slipped the cutters right on the lock and began to squeeze.

After a moment, the lock didn’t move—nothing.

Oh, dear God, please.

Jim could feel the cutters gaining purchase, digging just a little bit into the metal. He could picture a large dog, one with big teeth, locking down a bone, trying to bite it in half. The metal cutters sunk a little deeper, and the dog began to growl.

With a light grunt the lock broke. The cutters thudded against the wood of the shed door, and he inhaled sharply, hoping that it wasn’t too loud; not giving him away to the happy couple that was inside.

He fumbled with the lock, realizing that his hands felt like they had swollen a thousand times usual size and were near impossible to use on the lock. He quickly dropped it to the ground, and fumbled with the latch, managing to pull it open, just barely. A flashlight emerged from his side pocket, a Maglite Solitaire, and the beam cut through the darkness of the shed.

A cot, empty, something that looked like a nightgown laid across it delicately. He directed the beam across the room. Another cot, and this time there was a girl curled up in the corner, her knees defensively drawn to her chest, shoulders heaving in near-silent, hysterical gasps. A copper canopy was draped over her shoulders; twin blue stars, shining bright stared desperately out at him.

“Bev,” Jim said. “It’s me.” He shone the light on his face, nearly blinding him for a split second.
Her face poked out, slender and drawn with worry. She stood so quickly that he wasn’t sure that he’d actually seen her do it. She moved across the floor in a blur, running to him, grabbing him around the neck.

“I didn’t think you’d come. I thought you’d…”

“No.” He said. “We’re getting out of here.”

She let go and he clicked off the light, making it easier for stealth, and led her out the door, her steps were soft and careful with her feet clad only in flip-flops. She tried to keep that telltale flapping down, but it was near impossible, and Jim was convinced, inaudible to the two inside.

“They hear everything.” She insisted.

The night swallowed them whole. He suddenly felt the darkness, thankful for it, but still wary, feeling as if he were being watched by it. As if the night itself, while being the only way he could have ever accomplished such a feat, was plotting against him.

It was about that time when he heard the coarse whisper of a sliding door and the terrible metallic chuckle of a shotgun being chambered.

The blast of plastic and glass was almost immediate, and it brought him and Beverly both down to the ground immediately. The bin that had taken a majority of the hit had been completely destroyed, shards of it were in every direction, scattered with the cruel relentlessness of twelve-gauge buckshot.

“Stay down.” He whispered to Beverly.

The rasp and clatter of an empty shell hitting the ground, followed by another mechanical chuckled of a load being shot into the chamber of the gun. An explosion rocked the backyard again, and the splinters of plastic rained down again.

Jim reached into his pocket and grabbed the LC9, raising it high, and squeezing off three rounds in quick succession, hoping it would scare the shotgun wielding guard, knowing that it was near impossible for him to aim correctly from the distance and in the dark. He hadn’t fired the gun in a few years, so he was way out of practice.

Another shotgun blast and more plastic rain, eliciting a thin yelp from Beverly, who ducked low again.
Jim fired off a one more shot, the fear deep down within him that he was almost out of ammo.

No extra magazines. He hadn’t brought the extra he owned.

He reached around for his waistband, where the knife was, but was disappointed—the knife was gone, probably on the ground somewhere when he had dived for the ground.

“We’re closed!” Bram said, the shotgun chuckled again, “And I’m afraid we don’t make any late night exceptions.”

Jim squeezed off another round; he heard it hit the concrete, splintering it, sending bits and pieces in all directions.

“You’re getting warmer. I’m surprised, Jim, how long has it been since you fired a gun, anyway?”

“Not recently.” Jim replied, motioning for Beverly to make a dash for it, but she shook her head. “I haven’t had any freaks like you to shoot at. Takes all the fun out of it.”

A shotgun blast closed the line of discussion.

Jim took a few more shots, and was quickly disappointed by the terrible squishing click that met his ears, he was out—and there were no more bullets.

The firefight was over almost as quickly as it had begun, and there was an obvious advantage that Bram had over them. He didn’t fire back, however. What met Jim’s ears instead was laughing, cruel and full laughter. It was like someone had just told the world’s funniest joke, only the joke was on he and Beverly.

“Looks like you’re up a creek without a paddle there, Jimmy!” He chambered yet another round—the one that had to be his last—and began to walk down the steps in the near pitch-black night.

Jim turned to Beverly, sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not over yet.” She whispered.

Jim glanced down at the empty gun in his hand, and he dropped it to the ground, tossing it so that Bram could see he did not have it any longer, and hopefully keeping him from shooting them too quickly.

Bram walked towards them. “You two better stand up.” He said, the boots he wore crunching the sand underfoot. “I know there’s a couple of you.”

Beverly tapped him on the shoulder, and nodded, squeezing his shoulder with her small hand. Thanks for trying, it said.

Jim stood with Beverly at the same time, raising his hands for a moment to show that he was unarmed, and then dropped them by his sides. They were empty, depressingly so. He was out of things that he could do.

“Well, Jimmy. Nice to see you, albeit, at this late hour.” Bram’s tone was unmistakably mocking.
Condescending, and even hateful, he took a look at Beverly, in the dim light, chuckled. “Well, well. Am I interrupting something here? Seriously, Jim, if you just woulda said that you wanted her she could have been yours for the right price…”

“She’s not for sale, anymore.” Jim said.

“Everything’s for sale.” Bram countered. “Ask anyone, everything’s for sale. Morality, purity, even innocence—all you gotta do is name a price.” He held the gun at chest level, pointed directly at Jim. “Some come cheaper than others, but everyone has a price.”

“Not everyone.”

Bram laughed again, that sick, full laugh. He looked at Jim and burst into another fit of it. “You’re kidding. Have you looked around lately, Jimbo? How many kids do you suppose have tried drugs? How many do you suppose haven’t messed around and slept with each other, stolen something—all for a moment of pleasure, a little thrill? For some, that’s all of the price they need.” He looked at Beverly and then cut his eyes back to Jim, that cruel smile on his face. “Some girls will let their boyfriends take it to the next level all because they’ll ‘love them forever.’ Other kids, they’ll do some pot because everyone else does, the price for acceptance and they’re willing to pay. Seriously, Jim, have you even been paying attention?”
Jim was silent. The darkness was still surrounding them. The shotgun barrel was bright in the light, limited though it was, reflecting across the silvery surface. Jim could see the way it was held so steadily in Bram’s hands, like a toy.

“Come over to the carport. We’ll chat over here.” He gestured with the shotgun to signal that this wasn’t optional.

Jim looked at Beverly, and she nodded, moving slowly, with him, her hands on his forearm. She wasn’t squeezing, it was more like a light touch, the calm assurance of a loved one after a bad dream in the middle of the night.

They walked slowly and ever so carefully, trying not to make any quick movements that would give Bram a good excuse to shoot them on the spot.

He stopped and they did the same. Daring not to move any farther, the threat of hot lead enough to make them stop.

“So,” Bram asked, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Jim said nothing.

Bram smiled, and gestured—with the gun—to Beverly. “Lemme guess.”

“She’s not for sale. She’s not a sale item, Bram, you’ve lost your mind.”

“That requires having one in the first place, Jim. But I assure you that I am perfectly sane, in fact, I have the experience of years over you on my side, so not only am I sane, but full of wisdom as well.”

“Just how many years would that be, Bram? Decades? Hundreds?”

Bram remained silent.

“I know what you are. I know what you and Linda both are. I guess I knew since the first time I saw you, I just didn’t want to believe it. Sometimes we like to try the think the best of people, silly how people are, I guess.”

Bram smiled again, “Time to pay up, Jimbo. Got news for you, she’s stolen property. You gotta pay us back for her.”

Jim moved in front of Beverly. “She’s not for sale. She’s a person, not a piece of merchandise.”

Bram ignored him. “We have had a hard time selling her, because she is worth so much. In fact, she’s worth more than you could pay—ever. So, we’re going to have to charge you the same, Jimmy. And I’m afraid that if you can’t pay that up front, then we’ll have to put you on the payment plan option. Or, we’ll just save time and take you, right here.”

Jim nodded. “If she goes free.”

Bram shook his head. “You’re really dense, aren’t you?”

“Then no deal.”

“Really?” Bram laughed again. He dropped the barrel, pointing it at the ground. “I really hate to break it to you, Jim, but you’re not in a negotiating position here. You do what we say or you don’t live to reconsider.”
“I don’t come quite so cheap, Bram.”

The gun was raised, pointed at his head. “How’s your life?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Can’t threaten me with death. I know what’s waiting for me on the others side. I think you do, too, don’t you?”

Bram nodded, gave an approving expression. “Fine.” He shifted the barrel’s position. “How about hers?”
Jim stopped. He had no reply, and Bram knew that he had him; he had him pinned to the wall. There wasn’t any reply that he had for that, and he knew that Bram knew that.

Bram grinned. “You know, she’s damaged goods. I might have to lower the price on her. How about for her, we take just you? She gets to go wherever she wants. I just want you.”

“I can’t make a deal, Bram.”

An eyebrow rose.

“I’ve been bought out already.” Jim shrugged and pushed the barrel away from them. He glanced back at Beverly.

The door rasped open again and Linda stepped out, dressed for bed, but sauntering up in her usual fashion. She took a look at Jim and Bram, knowing exactly what was going on, but choosing to play dumb. “What’s going on?” She was asking Bram.

“Just haggling, dear,” he said, “nothing much.” Bram took a look at her and grinned, gestured to Jim. “How about it?”

“What?” This time Jim responded.

“I know you got a thing for my wife, Jim. It’s hard to miss, well, it was, I was told you gave her a funny look when she got after, um, her.” He pointed to Beverly. “How about that? Enough of a down payment for you?”

Jim looked at Linda, an arrow of shame at what he had thought before shooting through him, and realized that she had no hold over him any more. He was free from that sin of lust that had tempted him for that short period of time. “No. I was paid for by a lot more.”

“What?” Linda said, coming up by her husband.

“In fact, it was a price of infinite value. More than I could ever pay. It was paid long ago, about two thousand years to be honest.” Jim looked down at the gun and didn’t feel the slightest sliver of fear anymore.
Beverly gripped his arm behind him. Her hold was suddenly a light tighter, unsure of where he was going with it.

“Paid for by the highest Royalty ever. Perhaps you’ve heard of Him, name was Jesus.”

At that Bram’s eyes flamed, and he pointed the gun back at Jim. “Don’t…”

“Don’t what? Rebuke you? I wish I could, but I think that He already did, a long, long time ago.” Jim pushed the gun aside, and it fell down on the concrete below them both. Linda glanced down at it, and when she looked back up, her appearance had changed a lot. Two protuberances stood out on her forehead, and her entire face had grown tighter and wrinkled, all of the uncannily youthful beauty departed. The charade was over, no more put-on faces. He knew that he was seeing them for what they truly were.

“You’re kidding.” She said. “You know that He’s dead. There’s nothing for you that He can do.”

“On the contrary, in dying, He did everything for me.” Jim looked at Bram and saw that his appearance had changed a lot as well, into a wrinkled, heavy-looking old face, one that was slowly decaying at the edges, rimmed by a thin line of long, white hair; pus oozed out of an open sore. His true face. “And I don’t have to answer to you. I don’t even have to fight you.”

Bram grinned a toothless, rotten grin. “Then this will be easy.” He drew back and arm and threw Jim to the ground, backing him into Beverly who was dashed in the other direction.

Blood was oozing on Jim’s face. He realized Bram had long nails that had slashed him. The thick teardrops of blood slid slowly down his cheek.

Beverly stood, and Bram took one look at her, and slammed a folded fist into her skull. She took another hard landing on the concrete, this time she did not stir as before.

Jim only half-processed that before Bram was on him again, kicking him with old, curling boots, completely different than the ones he had on before. The ratty clothes that the man wore were a far cry from the usual attire that he had on, they looked years old and never cleaned.

Jim rolled into the next kick and tried to grab Bram’s foot, but the touch of it burned, scorching his palms and he had to quickly let go. The thick odor of sulfur was in the air, as if someone had just opened a sulfur spring right in front of him.

“Everyone has a price, Jimbo. I named mine a long time ago. I’m gonna live longer than you can even dream! Perpetually young!”

Jim looked up at him. “At what price? Your soul?”

“Everyone’s going somewhere. Mine is just guaranteed in advance, no interest. No payment down.”
“What happens when it’s time to pay up?” Jim asked, rising to a crouch.

Bram grinned, that same rotten, empty grin. “Guess we’ll find out when the time comes. It’ll be some time though; I don’t have to pay up for a lot longer. Well, a lot longer than you.”

It was then that Jim noticed the hammer in Bram’s bony hand. The handle was still firm, the head bright, even in the dim light.

“Cheesy as it is,” Bram said, “someone’s gotta say it: time for you to meet your Maker, Jimmy. Tell Him I said ‘hi’.” He raised the hammer up over his head, and readied it to come down on Jim’s head. The ugly, thin arm that raised it was surprisingly strong seeming, and from just a glance, Jim knew that he would not survive if that arm came down a few times.

Dear God, please, I’m ready to meet you, but I’d rather do it at the hands of something other than this monster.

Beverly was still laying on the concrete just a few steps over, huddled together, reflexively protective.
Linda came up behind Bram, bearing her own grin, with two shining canines and nothing more. Her horns were fully visible, even in the poor lighting. Her true face easily seen.

“Say goodbye.”

Jim smiled, grinning at his own dumb joke, “Goodbye.”

The hammer came down.

A bright light broke from nowhere. The center of it was undetermined, but beams shot out in every direction, the fibrous movement of the rays was smooth and organic, as if it were living sun.

Jim covered his eyes immediately. He heard an unholy wailing and knew that it was Bram and Linda; the light was too bright for them, which meant that it didn’t come from them.

Jim felt a warm embrace around him, as if something were protecting him, out of his fingers that covered his eyes, he saw a great sword, a robe swirled, moving, as if alive, then a wing moved past his field of vision before he could no longer stand it and had to look away.

Deep down he knew that Beverly was safe. Something told him that, he wasn’t sure what, but he knew it.


That was just before he lost consciousness, and the world faded away to white.

End of Part 8