You saw me as I am: not the sweet loving wife, not the gentle, nurturing mother, but the real me, three-eyed, green-skinned, horned, eight foot two. Remember when the cat disappeared? She was yummy. Remember when our son was anemic? Three guesses why.

Now see me as you need to see me; you’d never survive the truth. But wait: you’ll never survive anyway. I have the recipe. You’re the protein.

But wait again: I see you as you are: not the sweet, loving husband, the gentle, nurturing father, but the real you, not the meal after all, but the cook!

A wind howled through the cracked windows of the old house, carrying whispers from the past. Sarah stepped inside, drawn by something she couldn't name. Shadows twisted along the walls as if alive, watching her. A child's laughter echoed from the darkness. Her heart raced.

"Who is there?" she called, her voice trembling.

The laughter stopped.

Suddenly, small, cold hands gripped her legs. She looked down, but nothing was there. Panic surged as a soft voice whispered in her ear, "You should never have come back."

The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her in with the house’s hungry secrets.

What people don’t talk about when it comes to the market crash is the ripple effect of it all. Yes, people lost their jobs, and there was a certain horror in that, but there was also a horror in how those men and women processed the loss of their life’s work. Many drank, some skipped town, leaving their families behind, and some took it out on their families.

I lived in a small working-class suburb, and Danny lived a block away from me on Dover Street, and Brooke also lived on Dover, just further down towards the mountains. There was a small park in between all our houses where we met up most evenings when the wind wasn’t too cold, or we weren’t locked in our rooms playing catch up on homework we should have started months ago.

The park was built by the town right before the crash, with hopes of the vacant lot behind it being turned into a school, because the elementary school up on Normandy Avenue was in a serious state of disrepair.

The park got built in a hurry around election time, the only time anything really happens, and then all the money went to abroad to places where factory workers didn’t complain as much about little things like benefits, pension plans, raises, and labor laws. So, now we were left with the shadow of a town filled with disillusionment at the great lie that our parents’ generation were sold.

I was lucky, in a sense. My father was able to switch over to a management job for the railroad, which was a non unionized position. He knew the storm was coming and could switch over before many of the conductor jobs got axed along with the closures of our three major industries, which all fell like dominos within six months of each other.

But the railroad hung on by the skin of its teeth, because of the smaller industries all along the coast heading west. It wasn’t much, but he remained employed, though that didn’t always make me Mr. Popular at my high school. Danny’s father survived too. He was a cleaner who had a contract with the Walmarts in Atlantic Canada. He was on the road nonstop, but Danny, his mother and sister kept a roof over their head because of it. That was what mattered the most.

Brooke’s father, however, did lose his job. We didn’t know the severity of it until she started coming to the park with different afflictions. One evening, it would be a cut just above her left eyebrow. A week later a shiner with every color of the rainbow swirling like a vortex, and then a few days after that a swollen lip, cracked and busted.

“What’s going on, Brooke?” I finally said one evening.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She answered, walking towards the small yellow slide where she laid at the bottom and stared up at the night sky.

I looked over at Danny, who shrugged his shoulders, and we followed her. I laid on the slide next to her, and Danny dug in the sand under the playground and grabbed three bottles of warm beer that he buried for evenings like these. We opened them up and drank warm piss, making faces like we were shooting hard liquor, and then I asked again.

“Seriously, Brooke. What’s going on?” She was silent for a moment.

“You ever wonder what you’re gonna do after high school?” She asked, then continued before Danny or I had the chance to answer. “I know that we won’t see each other anymore. I know that.”

“Brooke, that’s not tr–,” I tried to say, but she cut me off.

“My mom was going through photo albums the other night. She was a teenager here in the late 70s. There were pictures of her and she was beautiful, so full of life. She had that Charlie’s Angel’s hair, and she was so happy. Every picture she was smiling like her face couldn’t stretch anymore. Every. Single. Picture. I asked why I’d never met her friends from back in the day, and she said, that’s life, sweetie. People drift apart. People lead different lives. And she started to cry. One of them died of cancer a few years ago, and the other’s were on the other side of the country living in a goddamn glass cathedral on hills overlooking a mining town. And she was here.”

Danny and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do with our bodies. He peeled the label off of his beer, always trying to extract it in one go, and I stared at the small dark freckle just below her left cheekbone and kept my eyes locked there, not knowing where else to point them. I got lost in that freckle, and for a moment I loved Brooke, and I wanted to tell her I loved her, and that I’d keep her safe, and I’d make sure that we never drifted apart, but I couldn’t because of the pact. When Brooke first started hanging around Danny and me, she said we had to make her a promise, and we said sure, what was it? And she told us we couldn’t fall in love with her, no matter what. Danny and I had looked at each other and laughed, but she was serious, not a hint of humor in those auburn eyes, and we agreed. We spit in our hands and shook them. No one was allowed to fall in love, as though that were something within our control.

“My father isn’t handling things well.” She said in a voice just above a whisper. Almost like she was hoping we didn’t hear, but that she could still say she told us. Or at least she told the wind.

“Your dad’s doing this?” Danny asked, the half peeled label in his hand. “Jesus, Brooke. We gotta go to the police or something.”

“No, Danny. You’re not gonna do anything, you got it?” She said, sitting up from the slide and pointing a finger right between Danny’s eyes. Danny was timid and small, always a target for small town cruelty.

“You got that too, Jamie?” She turned to me, and I nodded.

“No cops, gotcha. But what are you gonna do?”

She relaxed and laid back on the slide.

“I turn 18 in six months. I’ll have to go somewhere. Anywhere. Find a place, and grow up.” She sipped her beer. Then I followed, then Danny. It was terrible, but still to this day, anytime I drink a beer, I travel back to the park, the cold sand slipping through my fingers. The frigid evening air was cold, often too cold, but feeling like being a cool teenager meant always wearing less clothing than was needed. Danny’s laugh, the way his front teeth came out, and he looked like a rabbit. Then if you got him laughing hard enough, and loud enough, he’d snort like a pig and the three of us would erupt in laughter. The kind of laughter that you thought would never end on those days when your mind didn’t care about reality because you had friends, good friends, to take you away from it. Just like best friends should do.

But we didn’t do enough for Brooke. We didn’t do enough because we respected her wishes too much, or because we were scared, most likely a healthy mixture of the two. Because the cuts and bruises got worse, and the laughter became a rarity and even when it reared its head, it wasn’t filled with life, nor escape, it was just a short cackle, that signified, hey that was funny, in better times, I would have given you more. But this is all I’ve got left.

Danny and I didn’t talk about it, because talking about it would turn into finding a solution, and the only solution was the cops, exactly what Brooke didn’t want. So we remained silent, talking about sports and superheroes, and pretending we gave a shit about anything other than what was happening to our best friend, and the helplessness we felt.

——————————————————————————-

When she died, I was asked to do the eulogy. This is the note that she left:

When you bury me, I want Jamie to do the eulogy. Jamie with his soft brown hair, and his worried eyes that always made me chuckle, but also a little bit sad. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I think that I didn’t let him talk enough. I didn’t let him talk enough because I was frightened of the truth that would come out of his lips. He’s wiser than his years. Oh, and one more thing, Jamie, I wish we would have never had that stupid pact. But it never changed the way that I felt.

So, I stood up at the altar of the Holy Cross and stared out at scattered people occupying less than half of the pews and talked about Brooke. As I looked down at her father in the front row, I realized something definite. I was going to kill him. At the altar of a church in front of a statue of the crucifixion, I decided I was going to kill a man.

That evening I sat at home, slouched on the couch, my father on his chair beside me, nursing a beer. For the first time, I felt like my old man had nothing to say. He always knew the right words to keep you going, but this time he didn’t. I could feel his eyes in my peripheral, constantly moving back and forth from the TV to the side of my head.

“I’m gonna go to the park with Danny for a bit.” I said, and my father said, “Sure, kid.”

When I got there, I laid on the slide. The one to the right, because by laying on the side that Brooke did, was admitting to myself that she wasn’t coming back. And that was something I wasn’t ready to process.

There were no stars that evening, just clouds that looked ominous in the dark sky. Like the sky understood how I was feeling, like it understood that people didn’t want sunshine and starlight every day, that some days you wanted to know that the universe could be ugly too. Like it was reminding you that you weren’t alone. We all had cloudy days.

Danny showed up a few minutes later, and he sat in the sand where he normally did. It was one of the reasons I loved Danny, because he understood the world the way I did. We saw things the same way.

“Shitty day,” Danny said.

“Yup.”

“Can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about, Jame?”

Another thing I loved about Danny was that he cared what was on your mind. He wanted to have a conversation the right way. So many people spoke only to wait for their chance to speak again. That wasn’t the same as listening, that wasn’t the same as inquiring. But on that evening, I was scared to tell him what was on my mind. We thought alike, but maybe this was me descending deep into the throes of madness.

“Something’s on your mind, man. Unburden thyself.” And he smiled. I did too.

I sat up and looked at him with as much seriousness as I could muster. “Look, Danny. You might think I’m crazy, alright?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’m serious, man.”

“Okay, okay!” He put his hands up.

“I want to kill Brooke’s dad.”

The words came out of my mouth, and it felt like the entire world shut down. Everything seemed so quiet in the moments following the words, because they were out there now, and there was no way to bring them back. No way to say that it was all a joke.

“What?” Danny asked. “You’re not serious?”

I could feel the tears coming now. I closed my eyes as my mind played snapshots of every memory I had with Brooke. It was the three of us watching movies in my old man’s man cave, laughing our heads off and spilling popcorn onto the carpet. We were sneaking out of our houses and walking along the abandoned rail line that was growing its own ecosystem behind the old high school. We were sitting right where Danny and I were sitting, drinking beer that we’d stolen from Danny’s dingy basement, and trying to act like grownups. She was alive, and we were talking about getting out.

When I opened my eyes, Danny had tears coming down his too.

“He took her from us, man. He beat her until she had nothing left to live for. He did that. He killed her. He doesn’t deserve to live. HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE!” I screamed.

Then it was quiet again, and Danny looked down at his hands buried in the sand and said,

“How are we going to do this?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

And we both laughed. Bent over laughing, unable to keep it in, and as my eyes closed, I could almost hear Brooke laughing with us.

We’re doing this for you, Brooke. I love you.

——————————————————————————————

That evening I laid in bed tossing and turning, and wondering how exactly we could kill a man. A few questions continued to echo inside my head.

Could I do it?

Could I get away with it?

And could I come up with a plan?

I thought I could do it. There was enough hatred flowing through my veins. It was just how to do it and how to get away with it. Did Dylan and I just knock on the door and when he answered, just pop him in the head?

Dylan’s old man did have a collection of Ruger’s. We could probably get our hands on a gun, but how did we dispose of the body?

But then I thought about talking to Dylan about the school they were supposed to build before everything went to shit, and how it was just a deep, dark pit. You probably could put a body down there. Plus, Danny also had access to his mom’s car. She was off on disability and the little grey Toyota usually just sat in the driveway begging to be driven.

Then there was the question of Brooke’s mother. She was as much of a mess as the old man. She wallowed in her alcohol, and in another life, she’d likely deserve what the old man was going to get. Her sin was the one of pretending things weren’t happening, but then again, if I were going to kill her for that, the next bullet would need to go under my chin.

But Brooke said that her mother went to the Legion for Bingo on Wednesday nights. She always said that because Wednesday nights we stayed at the park longer, because she didn’t want to be alone with her father. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or talked to her when it was just the two of them.

Then my heart started racing because I thought I had formulated at least a semblance of a plan. Wednesday night, we’d get Danny’s mom’s car, put some kind of tarp in the trunk, and we’d knock on the door. Boom. Point blank, we’d shoot him once in the head. Grab the body and take it to the park, where we’d bury it in the hole. 

Of course, the plan wasn’t foolproof. There were neighbors who might see what’s going on. There’s the chance he might not answer. There was also a chance that Brooke’s mom skipped Bingo that evening, and hell, there was the strongest chance of all that we just didn’t have the balls to go through with it.

But if all went right, there was also the chance of everything going as planned, and nobody finding out a thing.

Yes, Danny and I would have to live with it for the rest of our lives, but if he stayed alive, we’d have to live with that, too. And which was worse?

The following evening, I told Danny the plan and his face went pale.

“Put the body in my mom’s car?” He asked.

“We’ll make sure there’s no trace of anything. No way they could trace it back to you or your mom. We’ll cover it up and put his body on it, and then we’ll dump him.”

“You really want to go through with this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because at night when I get scared of doing this and start trying to talk some sense into myself, I feel worse. I feel like letting him live is worse than killing him. Walking these streets every day knowing that there are monsters like that who are allowed to wake up and just go about their days. It makes me feel worse.”

“So, you want one of my old man’s guns, and my mother’s car, but you’re going to pull the trigger?”

“I’ll pull the trigger.”

“And not one soul finds out about this as long as we live?”

“Not a soul.”

We both paused, and then finally Danny said.

“Then let’s do it.”

I smiled.

“I love you, man. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “Best accomplice to fucking murder you’ve ever had.”

——————————————————————————————

On Wednesday night, I waited at the park for Danny to show up with the car. I still had Brooke’s suicide note that told me she loved me. And if I ever lost it, I think I’d go mad.

Danny was a few minutes later, and I started to feel like it would never happen. That I should just forget it. That I was just a stupid kid.

But then I heard tires rolling down the gravel and knew it was Danny. I hopped the side of the fence to grab a green tarp that had been lying around since the contracting company pulled out, and I ran back towards the car.

“Pop the trunk.” I said.

I placed the tarp in the back and went around to the passenger’s side.

Dylan looked pale as he handed me a loaded Ruger with hands that shook. He looked like he was about to cry, and I tapped his shoulder. “Within an hour, it’ll all be over.”

We backed out slowly and drove west down Dover until we came up to Brooke’s house. It was a small one story with chipped yellow paint and shingles that direly needed repair. I told Dylan to back in, so that we would have less distance to carry the body, and at the word body, Dylan threw up on himself. Only a little, and it didn’t get in the car. But it was enough to tell me we had to do this fast.

He backed the Toyota up with expert precision, and I felt like we could get away with it. There were neighbors but not stuck together, and in front of their house was a crescent with no houses for at least 500 feet.

It wasn’t exactly the boonies, but there was a chance no one would notice anything. Of course, there was the sound of the gun, but we’d have to get the body in the trunk and leave before anyone even realized what had just happened.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with a sad smile.

The gun was loaded and ready. We walked up the three concrete steps and I knocked on the door. Christ, I hoped Brooke’s mom was at Bingo. There was no answer for a moment, so we knocked again, Danny scanning the area to make sure that no one was looking. Though it was hard to tell.

After the third set of knocks, I heard a grumpy hoarse voice call out.

“One goddamn second.”

And I waited with the gun pointed at the door. As soon as he answered, I shot. I didn’t allow myself enough time to think, and I didn’t allow him enough time to grab the gun and turn it around on me.

He dropped quickly.

“Oh my God,” Danny said from behind me.

I turned to him. His face was white, and I’m sure mine was as well. “Let’s grab him. Grab his feet, okay?”

Danny nodded, and we struggled with the body. He was a big man, at least 250 lbs. And now it was 250 lbs of dead weight.

I grabbed him from under his armpits, and Danny grabbed his legs, scooting his hands up close to his knees. And we did a three count before throwing him in the trunk.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I said, and we scanned the area again. A couple of lights went on, but no one had exited their homes. “Don’t peel out, Danny. Just back it out slowly.”

He listened, and we took off east down Dover Street, driving even under the speed limit. Then we got to the park, drove slowly down the gravel, and backed the car up close to the hole.

“You did great, Danny.” I said. “Other than the puking.”

He didn’t laugh, but he seemed to be over the worst of it.

We pulled the body out of the trunk and just let it drop four feet into the dirt. Danny had a small flashlight, and he flashed it inside the trunk to make sure that the body touched nothing, or that no blood splattered, making his own mother an unknowing suspect in a goddamn homicide.

I jumped in the hole, and began burying the body as deep as I could, so that even if in time somebody came back to do the job, they’d just pour the concrete over this spot and hopefully no trace of this man would ever be found.

I came back up, and Danny was leaning against the trunk of the car. “I think we’re good.” He said.

“I think so too.”

We stood there for a long time, and then I said, “want to go to the park?”

He nodded, and we sat in our spots. I grabbed three beers, handed one to Danny, who instantly began peeling off the label. I put one on the slide next to me for Brooke, and then I drank one myself.

Danny and I didn’t talk much that evening. We just said, “To Brooke,” as we raised our glasses. And we both hoped that the horror of what we’d done remained a secret.

Inside the desolate Truth Toll Games, the air was piercingly cold, casting an eerie discomfort over the otherwise empty room. Jane, dressed in dark blue denim shorts and a short-sleeve shirt adorned with the American flag, pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail, her expression tense with apprehension.

Her husband, Barry, clad in a striking red suit paired with American flag shorts that exposed his hairy legs, lacked any semblance of her concern. Bald and boisterous, a gold cross necklace swayed from his neck as he swigged from his beer, oblivious to the stark silence surrounding them.

"Could someone please inform the host that I’m ready to proceed?" Barry bellowed with a slurred bravado, his voice echoing off the walls. "I have a $200 wager on the line, and I’m eager to get started."

His confidence, however, betrayed him as he staggered and fell hard onto the cold floor. Jane rushed to his side, her worry etched deeper by the minute, but he rebuffed her with a sharp, "Please, don't touch me. I’m perfectly capable of getting up on my own and don’t require anyone’s help."

As she stood over him, her concern morphed into a mix of fear and frustration. "You have to stop drinking that brand of beer; it's making you a different person, Barry."

Ignoring her plea, Barry struggled to his feet only to collapse once more, his voice growing venomous. "Shut up," he snapped, clinging to his bottle of Bogus Brew beer. "This is the greatest beer in the world."

The chill of the room seemed to seep deeper, the shadows lurking in the corners watching, as if the building itself fed on the discord between them, heightening the sense of impending doom that Jane felt creeping closer.

........

Suddenly, the floor beneath Jane and Barry trembled and groaned, splitting apart with a slow, deliberate creak. From the darkness below, something began to rise—elegant yet unnatural. A tall, ethereal woman emerged, her long, black hair cascading down to the floor like ink, her white dress flowing as if caught in an unseen breeze.

.........

Her eyes, pale and empty like polished bone, locked onto them. She had bangs cut precisely above her thick, dark brows, framing a face both beautiful and cold. When she spoke, her voice was unnervingly sweet, almost musical, yet it sent a chill down Jane’s spine.

"Welcome to the Toll Games," the woman purred. "My name is Glen. Are you ready to pay up?"

Barry, in his drunken hazev, scrambled to his feet, pointing a shaky finger at Glen as if to challenge her presence. But the alcohol betrayed him.

He tripped over his own feet, crashing onto the floor once again, his bottle of Bogus Brew shattering beneath him. Glass crunched under his weight as he cursed, oblivious to the cuts forming on his palms.

Jane, horrified, rushed to help, trying to pull him from the shards. But Barry shoved her away, wiping the glass from his red suit with a clumsy hand, muttering to himself. His bloodshot eyes met Glen’s ghostly form, and he sneered.

"I'm not cleaning that up," he slurred, as if it were someone else's problem entirely.

Jane flushed with embarrassment, her stomach twisting as she avoided Glen’s cold, white gaze.

There was something profoundly wrong about this woman—something that made Jane’s heart hammer with a primal fear. "I’m... I’m sorry," she stammered, glancing at her husband’s humiliating display.

Glen’s pale lips curled into a chilling grin, one that did nothing to comfort Jane. "Don’t worry," Glen said smoothly, her tone dripping with mock reassurance.

Without turning, Glen called out into the room, her voice echoing eerily, "Egore."

Beside her, the floor opened once more, and a small man appeared, almost as if conjured from the bowels of the building itself.

He was short and stout, wearing a dusty cowboy hat and faded blue jeans, his plain black t-shirt emblazoned with the word Thermite across the chest. A gun hung loosely at his side, but his most disturbing feature was his dead-eyed stare.

Egore moved silently, his movements deliberate as he pulled a small broom and dustpan from his pocket, the tools appearing absurdly out of place. He cast a cold, unforgiving look at Barry, who remained silent this time, the usual bravado fading under Egore’s piercing gaze.

.............

As Egore swept the broken glass with an eerie efficiency, he glanced briefly at Jane, giving her a grin that felt far too knowing, too intimate. Jane, unsure of what to do, offered a small, nervous smile in return, though the gesture felt wrong—like acknowledging something she shouldn’t have.

With the mess cleaned, Egore stepped back to the hole from which he had emerged, disappearing beneath the floor without a sound, leaving the room colder and more oppressive than before. Glen's eyes lingered on Jane, her grin still frozen in place, as if she knew something Jane did not, as if this was only the beginning of a debt that could never be repaid.

.

Glen snapped her fingers, and with a slow grinding sound, the floor opened once more. Rising from the void was a round table and three chairs, as if summoned from the depths of some unseen dimension. Glen took her seat, her eerie, pale eyes fixed on Jane and Barry, while Jane hesitantly sat down, her nerves jangling. Barry, with drunken defiance, grabbed his chair and threw it behind him, the crash reverberating in the cold, empty room.

"I'm not going to sit down," he growled.

Glen remained unfazed, her grin never faltering. She folded her slender hands, her long, sharp nails gleaming in the dim light. "Here’s the game," she began in that soft, unsettling voice. "You place a bet, and if I’m wrong, I’ll pay you whatever you wagered. But let’s be honest," she added with a chilling smile, "I’ve been wrong exactly zero times today. Ready to lose?"

Jane, her mouth dry, nodded timidly. Barry let out a loud laugh, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I'M BORN READY!" he shouted. With a drunken flourish, he pulled out two hundred dollars and slammed it onto the table, the sudden motion making Jane jump.

Beside Glen, the floor cracked open again, and she reached down, pulling out a small, antiquated fan and placing it in the center of the table. Next, she retrieved a jar filled with murky green liquid, which she set close to her. She grinned wider, exposing sharp, gleaming teeth that caught the dim light in a way that made Jane’s stomach churn. Barry didn’t notice, too fixated on the game. Jane, her pulse quickening, whispered urgently, "Let’s go, Barry. Please."

But Barry waved her off, his eyes glued to the table. "Shut up. I’m in this to win."

Glen’s grin widened as her eyes gleamed with something ancient, something dangerous. "Is it true," she began, her voice dripping with malice, "that if I don’t turn on this fan, it’s just going to sit there, like it’s on a permanent vacation?"

Barry, his drunken mind struggling to focus, squinted at the fan. His blurry gaze shifted between it and Glen. "Turning on the fan? No... no, if it wanted to be on, it would just do it itself. Simple as that."

Jane, now shivering from the cold and the growing dread, rubbed her arms to keep warm, her eyes drifting to Glen’s long, razor-like fingernails. They were too sharp, too predatory. She swallowed hard, terrified of this woman—or whatever she was.

Glen chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down Jane’s spine. "Alright, Mr. Barry," she said. "We’ll give the fan five minutes to magically turn itself on. If it doesn’t, you owe the toll."

For five agonizing minutes, they stared at the fan. The tension in the room was unbearable, the silence thick with impending doom. Jane’s heart raced, her mind screaming for Barry to stop, to walk away. But he wouldn’t listen.

The fan never moved.

Barry, red-faced with frustration, slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it!" he shouted, throwing the two hundred dollars at Glen, who smiled calmly as she picked it up and dropped it into the green jar. Jane watched in horror as the money dissolved into the liquid, disappearing before her eyes.

"W-what happened to the money?" Jane asked, her voice trembling.

"It was destroyed," Glen said, her smile growing wider, more sinister. Barry’s anger flared, but instead of lashing out, he muttered under his breath, "You dumb witch." His words were just loud enough for Glen to hear.

Without a second thought, Barry turned to Jane. "Give me another two hundred bucks," he demanded, his voice laced with desperation. Jane hesitated, her stomach churning with fear, but eventually, she handed him the money. Barry slammed it on the table once again, his bloodshot eyes wild with determination. "Don’t worry," he said, flashing her a crooked grin. "I’m gonna win this time."

Jane rolled her eyes, careful not to let him see her frustration. She knew this was a lost cause, but Barry was too far gone to realize it.

Glen leaned forward, her sharp teeth gleaming. "Ready to lose again, Mr. Barry? Or maybe this time, you should let your wife take a shot—it might be your only chance at a win."

Barry, ignoring the suggestion, took out a small bottle of beer and gulped it down. But his unsteady legs betrayed him, and he fell backward, hitting the floor with a thud. Jane rushed to his side, concern etched on her face. "Are you okay?"

"Just let me be," Barry slurred, waving her away. "Tell that shady witch to start another game, so I can make some cash."

With a groan, he tossed Jane another hundred dollars. He stayed lying on the floor, the bottle slipping from his grasp as he stared up at the ceiling, lost in his drunken stupor.

Glen’s gaze shifted to Jane, her eyes narrowing with dark amusement. "Maybe you should give the game a go yourself," she said in a voice like velvet, "since your husband’s not quite all there."

Barry, struggling to stand, placed fifty more dollars on the table, his body swaying as he pulled off his suit jacket with clumsy hands. Beneath it, his t-shirt revealed bold red letters that read: TRUMP WON THE 2020 ELECTION.

As Barry stumbled, the words across his chest felt like a cruel joke, a symbol of his reckless belief in winning against impossible odds. And Jane, shivering in the cold, could only stare helplessly as Glen’s grin grew wider, her sharpened teeth promising that this game was far from over.

.

Barry slammed his fist on the table, the echo reverberating through the cold, empty room. "Bring on the next challenge, you deceitful fraud! I'm ready—let's see what you've got this time!" he roared, kicking the table with violent force. Jane flinched, her heart racing as she reached for his arm. "Calm down, Barry," she whispered, her voice trembling. For a moment, he relented, but only for a moment.

.....

Glen, still seated, her pale eyes narrowing, no longer smiled. Her voice was soft, almost mocking. "So, if you break your finger, does it actually hurt?"

Jane opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Barry shot her a venomous look. "Shut up!" he snapped, pointing his finger aggressively at Glen. "No way! Breaking a finger doesn’t hurt at all! That’s just not true. It’s like, barely anything!"

......

Jane’s face flushed with anger and shame. She couldn’t believe the stupidity coming out of her husband's mouth, but she bit her tongue, afraid to provoke him further.

Glen remained calm, though a hint of something darker flashed across her face. She turned her head slightly, calling out, "Egore, bring out Subject 18."

The floor beneath the table groaned and creaked as it slowly opened once more. All eyes were drawn to the gaping void, a deep, unnatural darkness from which there was no escape. Slowly, a chair began to rise from the abyss, a man strapped to it, naked and limp, as if asleep. His skin was pale and cold, his chest rising and falling weakly with shallow breaths.

Jane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She rose from her chair and instinctively moved closer to Barry, as if he could shield her from whatever horror was about to unfold. Glen stood beside the nude man, her fingers tracing the outline of his limp hand, her long nails glinting ominously in the dim light.

"If our sleeping beauty here doesn’t wake up when I break his finger," Glen said softly, "then I lose three hundred filthy bucks. But if he does..." Her grin widened, sharp teeth glinting. "You must pay the toll."

Without hesitation, Glen grasped the man’s index finger and, with a sickening snap, bent it until it broke. The man’s eyes flew open, and he screamed, his voice filled with raw agony.

"My finger! My finger!" Subject 18 wailed, his wide, terrified eyes locking onto Jane. "Help me! Please, help me!"

Jane turned away, her eyes squeezed shut, unable to bear the sight or sound of his pain. "Make him stop!" she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please, make him stop!"

Barry grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him, his eyes wild with delusion. "Babe, this witch is lying to us! Don’t listen to her!" His breath, thick with the stench of beer, assaulted her senses. Jane shook her head, her body trembling from the cold, from fear, from everything.

Glen, unmoved by the suffering before her, glanced at Egore. "Take him away."

With a nod, Egore approached, and as the floor opened beneath the chair, the man fell back into the darkness, his screams echoing long after he vanished into the void. The room grew quiet again, but the air remained thick with tension. A few minutes later, the table returned, as if nothing had happened.

Glen reached for the pile of money on the table, slipping it into the green jar. Jane watched in silent horror as the money dissolved, consumed by the strange liquid. It was gone, just like the man. Barry’s hand twitched, his fist tightening as if he wanted to strike Glen, but he held back, his knuckles white with restraint.

Jane, desperate for some semblance of normalcy, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, finally spoke up. "C-could you please... lower the temperature in here?"

Glen laughed, the sound echoing unnervingly in the small room. Her sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light. "It’s not the AC that’s cooling the room—it’s the cold, hard truth giving you both the chills."

Barry, still swaying from the alcohol, pointed at Glen again, his voice slurred. "Shut up, Jane! And you," he said, glaring at Glen. "Start a new game."

Glen’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement as she leaned forward. "Is it true humans need oxygen to breathe?"

Jane, still shivering, tried to answer, but once again Barry cut her off. "Look," he said, his words barely coherent, "I don’t think it’s that simple. Oxygen? Maybe. But who’s to say we can’t breathe something else? So, no."

A smile spread across Glen’s face, sinister and knowing. Jane, trapped in her seat, felt the urge to scream, to tell Barry how wrong he was, but fear and the cold gripped her too tightly. She was too scared to speak, too scared of what Glen would do next, and terrified of Barry in his drunken, unpredictable state.

Glen’s voice pierced the silence again, sharp and commanding. "Egore, bring out Subject 47."

The floor opened once more, this time behind Jane and Barry. Slowly, a bed began to rise, upon it a nude man, bound tightly to the frame, his face contorted in terror. His eyes darted around the room, wide and pleading, settling on Jane. He lifted his head weakly, his voice trembling with desperation.

"Please, help me! Help me, please!"

His eyes, filled with pain and fear, locked onto Jane’s. Her legs shook beneath her as she stood, frozen in place, her body betraying her desire to run.

She moved behind her husband, her hands trembling as she gripped his arm, praying for this nightmare to end, but knowing, deep down, that it was only beginning.

Barry stumbled over to Subject 47, ignoring the man’s desperate cries for help, a twisted smile plastered across his face.

"Aren’t crisis actors just the finest example of dedication and public service? We all appreciate their hard work!" Barry’s laughter filled the room, cruel and mocking, while the bound man’s screams grew more frantic, more desperate.

Glen, her face devoid of the smile she once wore, approached Subject 47 as Jane covered her ears and shut her eyes, trying to block out the horrific scene. Trembling, Jane muttered through choked sobs, "For the love of all that’s left, silence him... please, just make him stop."

Barry, barely able to stand, staggered over to Jane, his voice dripping with condescension. "My dear, there’s no need to get emotional. It’s not real. Let’s remain calm and composed."

But Glen wasn’t done. She walked up to Subject 47, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment. She slid the pillow from beneath his head, holding it up as Subject 47 begged for his life, his eyes wild with fear. Glen’s cold gaze fell on Barry, her voice devoid of warmth.

"If I cover his face with this pillow, and he can’t make it a full 30 minutes, you’d better have that toll money ready."

Before Jane could stop her, Glen pressed the pillow over Subject 47’s face, her movements slow and unhurried.

Jane’s stomach lurched as she watched, horrified, the man thrashing beneath the pillow. "No! Please! Stop! This isn’t right!" Jane begged, her voice a mere whisper against the rising horror.

But Glen’s eyes darkened, her voice calm, almost detached. "Subject 47 strangled his pregnant girlfriend and their child. All because he wanted a fresh start with someone new."

Jane’s mind raced, disbelieving. "How do I know you’re not lying?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Glen snapped her fingers, and behind her, the floor opened. From the darkness, a TV slowly rose, flickering to life.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the gruesome scene—Subject 47, hands wrapped tightly around his girlfriend’s throat, the life draining from her eyes. Jane doubled over, vomiting on the cold floor, unable to unsee the horror.

Barry merely laughed at her. "It’s not real, Jane," he said dismissively. "Keep going, Glen."

Subject 47’s struggles began to slow, his screams fading into weak gasps. Still, Glen held the pillow, pressing down for the full thirty minutes until the man stopped moving entirely. Silence fell over the room like a shroud.

Glen then pulled a stethoscope from the pillow, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She tossed it to Barry, who was too drunk to stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. "Check for a heartbeat," Glen said with a cold grin.

Barry, unable to move, barked at Jane to do it. Reluctantly, she approached the lifeless body, placing the stethoscope in her ears. There was nothing. Her hands trembled as she looked up at Barry, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I don’t hear anything."

Barry spat on the floor, slamming two hundred dollars onto the table in frustration. The floor beneath the bed creaked open, swallowing Subject 47’s body as it descended into the abyss.

Glen collected the money, dropping it into the green jar where it dissolved once again, leaving nothing but a bitter reminder of loss.

Egore appeared once more, the floor opening beside Glen as he emerged with a mop to clean Jane’s vomit. "I’m sorry," Jane whispered, her face flushed with shame. Egore winked at her, a strange, unsettling gesture, before disappearing back into the floor.

Glen leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes fixed on Barry. "Maybe it’s time to hang up the gloves, Mr. Barry," she said coolly.

Barry, growing angrier by the second, stumbled around the room, his movements unsteady and uncoordinated.

"You lying witch!" he shouted, veins bulging from his neck as he lunged across the table, grabbing Glen by the front of her shirt. His beer-soaked breath washed over her, but Glen remained unfazed, her calm expression never wavering.

Barry’s face turned red, his veins pulsing with rage. "Those fake teeth of yours aren’t even real! I’ll yank them out and make you chew on them yourself, witch!"

Glen’s lips curled into a smile, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "My teeth are just as real as that stale beer stench you’ve got going on, Mr. Barry."

Barry raised his hand to strike her, but Jane rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he could hit Glen. He shoved her to the ground with a violent push. Jane, tears streaming down her face, pleaded with him. "Barry, stop! You’re going to hurt someone. Let’s just go home."

But Barry wasn’t listening. His anger boiled over as he grabbed his checkbook, scribbling out a check for two thousand dollars and slamming it onto the table. "One more game!" he roared.

Glen, lounging casually, glanced at the check, then back at Barry. "Alright. One more." She leaned back, crossing her legs as she watched him with detached amusement. "Is it true that 2+2 equals 4?"

Barry, his face twisted with fury, glared at her. "2+2 is. not four! It’s five! Math can be whatever we want it to be!"

Glen’s expression remained calm as she reached for the check. "Math is not subjective, Mr. Barry."

Barry’s face contorted with rage. In a sudden outburst, he flipped the table, shattering the green jar. Glass scattered across the floor, and Barry pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at Glen’s head. His hand trembled as he shouted, "You’re lying! It’s five, not four! Admit it, you lying witch!"

Glen, still calm, smiled softly. "It is four, Mr. Barry."

Jane, her voice shaking, begged Glen to give in. "Just say it’s five! Please!"

But Glen shook her head. "No."

Barry cocked the gun, his attention fixed on Glen, oblivious to Egore silently emerging from behind him. The floor opened slowly, and Egore stepped up behind Barry, pressing the barrel of his gun against the back of Barry’s head.

Barry, feeling the cold steel against his skull, hesitated for the first time. Jane sobbed, her voice frantic. "Barry, stop! Please! You’re on parole. Don’t do this!"

But Barry, consumed by his rage, shouted, "Say it! Say 2+2 equals 5 or I’ll blow your face off!"

Glen, her gaze steady, blew a kiss toward Egore, then turned her piercing red eyes back to Barry. "Barry, even when we both kick the bucket today, 2 + 2 will *still* be 4. Some things never change, just like how you’re always going to be one ugly fool."

BANG! BANG!

The shots rang out simultaneously. Barry collapsed, his body slamming to the ground, his head lolling forward, his body twitching as blood pooled around him. His ass stuck up in the air in grotesque mockery. Jane screamed, running for the door, her cries echoing through the empty, cold building.

Egore holstered his gun, his expression unreadable as he knelt beside Glen’s body, her eyes vacant and still. He wept silently by her feet, the room once again consumed by silence.

Fin.

He wanted, in exchange for a soul, another chance. The sixth time he had made the deal, it not only had forfeited his own soul, but he owed another four souls, and a fifth most certainly to come. It wasn't the wisest deal he'd ever made. Nor should he have offered his family's souls, but that was allowed according to the Perdition Treaty.

He manipulated the wheel with great dexterity but the prize fell out of the loose jaws again.

"No more chances," the devil said. "No more souls to wager."

"I could get my wife pregnant again," he offered.

There are lots of words for it; egocentrism, arrogance, narcissism, conceit, vainglory, etc., but in this instance we’ll call it “smugness”. Our boy is looking and feeling “smug” … a wee bit repentant, of course, but mostly smug.

Because, yet again, he had been right! Mind you it is not easy being right, not with any consistency. Being right requires not only a mind guided by good old-fashioned common sense, but also a requisite, updated knowledge of the sciences, histories, philosophies and literatures. One must put in the work to be consistently right. A blow-hard cannot pull it off, though he will try. And Constantine Goolsby had been right once again! Ha, ha! And the look on her face when his rightness was proved to her had been golden, and had made it well worth the long, wintry ride Constantine had had to suffer just to show her that he was, indeed and again, right. Ha! Constantine’s chuckle was startling enough in the quiet stillness of the snowy afternoon to jerk his exhausted horse’s head up, and to cock its sagging ears his way.

Yes. “Smug” is the word.

And the December afternoon was quiet; so very, deathly quiet. Quiet as midnight, as if the whole world was asleep, or as if Constantine himself was asleep. It was the sort of snowfall where one could tip his head back, open his mouth wide, and catch flake after flake upon the tip of his tongue without hardly trying, so Constantine childishly did just that. The flakes were coming straight down and large, accumulating deep enough on the ground now to muffle the horse’s heavy hooves. Not even his saddle creaked to break the quiet. The snow muffled it all. Everything. It was as though he was lost in a snow globe with bits of frozen matter falling, falling, falling all around, and a glass dome to insulate him from the outside world.

It was also creepy, the silence, leaving him alone to think. Sometimes being smart was not so good. Being always right had its consequences, didn’t it? Sometimes Constantine wished he could escape himself, and this was one of those times.

She had been surprised! The wonder of his appearance had been apparent on her face; in her eyes. His heart had leapt at it… at her astonishment. And the way her astonishment had morphed into fear when he’d drawn his pistol, morphing so easily and readily that the expressions had almost been the same, and could easily have been confused for one another by someone who was not so sure of himself as Constantine. And “his” eyes had changed to… that guy’s.

“God,” Constantine thought as he rocked easy in the saddle, “what in Heaven’s name had the two of them been doing when he’d barged in with his, “Ha!” What exactly was that position they were in? Constantine had never seen anything like it, nor even imagined it! His neck grew warm at the thought of it. And his Laura Lee, too! Who would have thought?

Maybe he was not “always” right, after all. Maybe he’d been wrong this time… what he’d done back there. In any event there would be no one awaiting him at the cabin when he got there; no one to talk to. No one to admire his competence. No one to cook his dinner. The cabin would be as quiet as this snow globe he was in, and as lonely too. Maybe he should have been wrong this time. Maybe if he’d been wrong then his Laura Lee would could home. Maybe she would. Maybe.

Removing his glove from the one hand, Constantine pulled the pistol from its holster. The click of the cylinder opening was loud in the silence that was the snow globe. He shucked some shells one at a time from his belt and filled the empty chambers. He held the pistol for a long while, resting it in his lap, liking the way the butt of it felt in his hand, the ergonomics of it, and remembering how it had so violently bucked back yonder.

Without replacing his glove Constantine lifted the pistol’s barrel up to his temple, only somewhat sure that he was right.

The house stood silent at the edge of town, abandoned for years. Every night, a single candle flickered in the upstairs window, though no one seemed to live there. One cold evening, Sarah dared to approach.

She pressed her ear to the door and heard faint whispers, like a conversation from another world. Curiosity pulled her inside.

Within, the whispers grew louder, a low shrieking filling the air. The walls trembled. Shadows moved without light. She turned to flee, but the door was gone. In its place stood a mirror, her reflection grinning back.

And then, the candle went out.

Guests at our backyard parties always noticed patches of grass that were thicker, and corpse shaped. We joked this was an ancient burial ground.

But after a winter of alternating heavy snows and thaws that squeezed the ground like a pimple, bones emerged. The first ones looked like chicken bones. We were horrified when a skull surfaced.

Soon afterward, our old lady neighbor asked why we were digging out back, again.

"Putting in a native garden," I said. "For the environment."

She stomped away disgusted.

My wife said, "Might be a problem."

I put the old snoop under the goldenrods.

There is no way to sum this up, but I'm in a pickle. How is it even possible to clean up this amount of blood? How much blood is in a human body? I never learned such things. All I know is, that it's literally everywhere.

I'm watching it soak into now dark ground. And what had he said before the died? Language has always been a hard subject to understand for me. Had he judged me? Did he call God's wrath down upon me? He seemed so angry. Screaming at the top of his lungs like that. It wasn't my fault the tent had been left wide open. His fault that this was the end he met if anything. I remain blameless in this ordeal.

His blood was aromatic. Almost intoxicating; I sniff the air. Jesus the smell is so potent, others will probably be coming soon. I will have to do something with this "mess". I craned my neck to stare down at his empty eyes. Soulless now.

Blood has pooled around his cheek against the floor. I almost can't stop myself. I east forward, my tongue licks the surface. The blood delicious in my mouth. I feel the pit in my stomach lurch. So, hungry. Why the hell not, I think. I took a glorious bite out of his side and swallow it nearly without chewing. The meat was tender and juicy.

Before long, my belly is full. I can barely move. I stare at the body lying there. So much still left, I could never finish it all. Can't really take it with me either. I give a few more perfunctory sniffs, and saunter outside. Unfortunately, this is the world. This is life. This is how it pans out sometimes when humans venture out to live in the Serengeti.

I have pages of notes delineating dreams I've had. Vivid, feels-real-how-is-this-a-dream-thank-God-this-is-a-dream-type dreams. Some of these dreams have led to feelings of déjà vu in daily life and cold fear as my subconscious reacts to a memory of something that did not happen.

As I write this, the water is spilling into the tunnel around me. People are running, screaming.

Stay, or run?

The first body just floated by.

I hear the sounds of steel bending, cement blocks exploding.

Now, it is dark. It won't be long.

If you read this, find my notes.

This is not the first time I've---