Tommy Bedlam Part II: Sticks and Stoners

I scurried up the stairs to my apartment, the walking stick at my side tapping out a beat that momentarily brought the musician in me back to life, then stopped dead. My fears were well founded. One of the boys in blue, who definitely wasn't a boy, stood before my front door, banging loud enough to wake the dead. Old reflexes told me to bolt, to turn around, run away, and never look back. That was the junkie in me: The "Old Me". I don't have anything to hide these days, but old habits die hard. I'm sure you understand. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, then surveyed the situation.

She was short and perky, alive with a frenzy of motion: The archetype of a frizzy blonde. Her demeanor was in complete contrast to the stiff and commanding behavior I'd come to associate with anyone in that dour blue uniform. I guess she heard me bounding up the steps. Whatever deity there is knows I'm not at my sneakiest when having to rely on assassinated lumber to walk. Whatever the reason, she heard my approach and whirled about to face me, hand at her holster. For some reason, looked very familiar, someone I met somewhere. I decided to play it cool.

"I know I'm a dangerous criminal officer," I said, brandishing my walking stick and exaggerating my limp for full effect. "And a brain damaged junkie to boot. But is it necessary to shoot first and ask questions later? You generally miss a few answers that way."

She tried to hide a smile, but couldn't quite manage it. The corners of hir lips kept turning up every time she tried to suppress it. I guess I could have said something to assist her, but I didn't. It's not polite to go uninvited to fight another's battles fort them. Besides, once I'd gotten past my initial apprehension, I was having far too much fun. It took her nearly half a minute to win her private little war. I was timing her with my watch, just so you know.

"Mr. Bedford?" She asked, her voice lower than I would have guessed. It haunted me like a half remembered dream. "Thomas Bedford?"

"I am. " I replied, lacking a better response, "What can I do for you, Officer?"

I left the words hanging in midair hoping to cadge a little more personal info from her.

"Daniels. Karen Daniels. I hate to drop in this way unannounced, but your usual probation officer is on leave, and your case has been transferred to me."

"What's happened with Jake?" I asked, relieved that I wasn't in any trouble with the law, but worried. Jake Richards has been a family friend for years.

Her head shot up, taken aback by my familiar tone

"Officer Richards is on temporary leave for personal reasons." All ice now. I wondered if I'd hit a nerve or she was just schitzoid. With some women you just can't tell until it's too late.

I fumbled for a response. "Ah. That's good I suppose."

Officer Daniels was really getting me off balance. And to think I started this conversation out so well. I did the only thing any sane man would do to even the score.

"Um..uh...Would you like to come inside? I have..Um....Bagels." Yeah, I know it was lame, but see if you can come up with better.

"No thank you, Tommy." Smirking, yet... And how did she know I went by Tommy? " I just came by to check on you. Don't worry about coming into the office today. I'll take care of all the paper work. Your next scheduled appointment is at five o'clock next Tuesday. Don't be late or I'll have to arrest you." I could have sworn I saw a bright yellow smiley face hanging superimposed over her badge, but before I could catch more than a fleeting glimpse, she turned and quickly bolted down the stairwell. The bouncy blonde basket case...jeez, I thought I had problems.

I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to just forget about the whole encounter, but that damned smiley face hung in my minds eye, mocking me in it's sunlit splendor. I still had to go by Jim's place, but dread followed me like a puppy every time I went there. Something, somewhere deep inside, felt that the place was trouble waiting to happen. I can't say I can argue with it.

The trip to Jim's took longer than I'd hoped, having to rely upon my trusty walking stick to carry my weight the entire distance so soon after my jog home. I got there, winded for the second time in the afternoon. I was shaky and tired and the sense of wrongness I'd felt at Jim's over the last few weeks was nearly palpable when I arrived. I saw a Corvette in the driveway, a '65, black as midnight and without a scratch on her: Spider's car. His real name is Dave, but ever since he started dealing he's insisted on being called Spider. I guess it makes him feel important or something.

Jim's front door was open and I let myself in. True to form, Jim was on the couch. His glazed expression and the rubber tubing still wrapped around his left arm stood as mute testament to the day's activity. Jim didn't concern me though. I heard muffled voices from the bedroom, and sought out the source.

Again, the door was open, as if the occupants didn't have a care in the world. I'm sure they didn't. I peeked around the corner and wished I hadn't. Spider sat on the mattress, his pants around his ankles and a baggy in his hand. Gina knelt before him, paying for the goods in the only coin she had. Her black hair bobbed up and down in front of his exposed crotch while he whispered near her ear. The bastard must have seen me, because he looked up sharply, a sly, knowing smile on his face as I ducked back around the doorframe.

I'll admit it. I ran. I ran as fast as I could, my need for my walking stick forgotten in the rush and haze of pure adrenaline. I'd pay for it later, but at that moment, I didn't really care. I kept remembering that damned smile. I guess I couldn't really blame Gina though. A part of me eyed that little bag of hellish heaven and could have knelt down right next to her for a shot at it.

I didn't stop running. I thought about going back home, but that didn't seem like the right place to be. The sun was already low on the horizon and there really wasn't a whole lot to do in a little town like Pine Lake. With my options limited by geography and my slowing stride, there was only one real choice. The Shop: Yeah, coffee. It wasn't the juice I craved, but the bitter kiss of coffee might just hide a multitude of sins. I slowed down, took my cane from under my arm, hefted it experimentally, then proceeded to The Shop, the rattle and tap of the cane's tip drumming out a dirge to keep me company.

Tommy Bedlam: Enter the Yeti

How did I ever find myself stuck in the Himalayas, freezing my ass off to the musical stylings of a tonedeaf yeti with a fetish for The Violent Femmes? Well, maybe it wasn't the Himalayas, but the band's practice space was pretty damned cold. To be honest, I really shouldn't call my girlfriend a yeti, but what can I say other than, "You sound great, baby." when what I really want to do is have her vocal chords removed like a noisy dog. I guess I shouldn't hook up with people when I'm stoned. I always regret it later. I set thoughts of both abominable snow-girlfriends and abominable music aside as I slipped quietly out of the converted storage space to have a peaceful smoke in the fresh air.

It wasn't meant to be. The last leaden notes faded off before I could finish a single cigarette. I heard the metal door clatter as it was drawn up. The footsteps, light as they were, must have belonged to Jim, the guitarist. Jim is a stick of a man, always wearing longsleeve shirts to hide his trackmarks. I unconsciously fingered the scars on my own arm, then stopped when I realized what I was doing.

"Hey Tommy. I've got some new stuff at the house. You and Gina want to come over and have a taste?"

I resisted the urge to hug my arm again, pierced so many times in the past by the dragon's teeth. Instead I just stared into the cloud of nicotine before me. For a split second I thought I saw the words Go Home Thomas in the heavily curling smoke in the air. I shook my head and the vision scattered with the breeze stirred up by the motion.

"Maybe later," I heard myself saying, "I need to go home and get a shower. I have to meet with my Probation Officer today."

I left them all, including Gina, to the dubious entertainments they had planned.

Funny, I don't think I'd have ever used the word "dubious" in regular conversation before my OD. Come to think of it, lots of things had changed after my trip to the hospital in the bodybag express. Officially, I was DOA when the ambulance dropped me off, but a defibrulator and the power of modern medicine can indeed work miracles akin to Christ's resurection of Lazarus. Hallelujah!!!! Science be praised!

I was expected to be front and center at my case officer's desk in a little over 2 hours. So I hightailed it home. Hoofing it all the way on shank's mare, it took me a while to run home. I'm not in the best of shape these days. I was panting a bit by the time I got there.

My heart sank as I burst through the woods and saw a police car parked in the visitor's space of my apartment complex. They couldn't be here for me, but even as I thought the words, I knew them for the lies they were. Yes, the cops were there for me, I just couldn't for the life of me guess why.

Experi-mental: Escape

The mists parted long enough for me to see a woman in a white labcoat look down at me. She held something in her hands. It was long and transparent and that tiny corner of self awareness hidden in the recesses of my drug addled consciousness supplied me with names. Doctor. Hypodermic needle. Narcotic withdrawal. But not even that hidden reservoir of knowledge on my otherwise blank mental slate could tell me the answers to the questions that, even then, I burned to know. Why? Why is this happening? Is this normal? Did something happen to me? What? Who? Am? I? The mists closed in again before I had come up with a satisfactory answer.

I'm not sure how long it was before they parted sufficiently for me to take in my surroundings again. The room was not the room I had been in before. That one had been very sterile. all white tiles and strong chemical odors. This one shared those qualities, but they were softened somehow. I was on a bed, before it had been an operating table. This little bit of trivia again came from that hidden recess of my mind that I was even now growing more aware of. exploring it like a man tongues the gap in his teeth after just having one pulled by a dentist. Aware of the shape of things by their absence. It was a start, but not much of one. There was no doctor to shoot me full of drugs this time, so I had a bit of leisure time to explore my surroundings. I was restrained somehow. Visual inspection confirmed the presence of soft fabric cuffs at my wrists and ankles. I guess someone really didn't want me going anywhere. With the drab scenery around me, and nothing else to really contemplate, I turned my thoughts inward. focusing on the only source of info availible to me. Me. I cautiously probed that little pocket of knowledge that had been so helpful to me before. There were a few brief flashed of insight. Generally images and some name to append to them. Car. Woman. Sex. Book. Hammer. TV. The exploration gave me enough of a working achive of images and concepts to work with. That "sex" concept required attention, especially when if one added the "woman" concept as well. I wondered idly when that doctor would return. I hadn't long to wait. She burst through door accompanied by several very large and very unwomanlike shapes. They definitly wouldn't be much fun when added to my newly reacquired concept pool. Men. Orderlies. Thugs. my ever helpful mental companion supplied.

They rushed the into the room in a very organized and practiced manner. very professional. Each of the four man/orderly/thugs physically checked one of the restraints upon my limbs, while the young doctor checked various blinking lights on a box next to my bed. My inner voice seemed stumped as to it's exact purpose.

After checking to see if I was still firmly attached to my bed, they cleared the way for my fantasy doctor, again holding a hypo full of misty oblivion. I couldn't resist them any more than I could resist that little voice. While the needle administered it's steely kiss to my arm. I reached out as much as the restraints would allow to grasp the edge of her labcoat.

"Will you have sex with me?" I asked, prompted by a sort of mental giggle.

She withdrew her hand hurriedly, a look of shock on her face. "It seems even intense rehabilitation can't cure some parts of him" she muttered to no one in particular.

The last thing I saw before the mists closed in again was a look of utter amusement on one of the orderly's faces. Apparently I'd not been the only one to entertain such notions.

I won't bore you with the details, but the next several days, as I reckon the time, were a blur. I'd come to lucidity more and more often, but they seemed ready for me. someone was always watching that damned box when I awakened. I'd get a stab and then be off to dreamland again.

At some point I'd managed to get a permanent hold upon my little companion and drag it down into sleep with me. Something strange happened then. My mind cleared completely for the first time in my recently recorded memories. I awakened from my narcotized slumber safe and secure within that hidden recess of awareness that I could only poke at from the outside before now. My warden never even looked up from the monitor, for I'd allowed none of my vitals to change as I awoke. My breathing deepened and I spoke.

"Release me!" an invisible hand shot from my liitle mental haven to wrap about the head of the orderly on duty. He stood stiffly, and walked robotlike toward me. With mechanical precision he reached out to one restraint and then another, freeing each of my limbs in turn. I stood, still wearing all of the assorted monitors upon my person. Barely stood would be more accurate. God, I was weak. I told my guard to strip, and strip he did. I told him to lie down upon the bed and go to sleep. again, total compliance. Everything had such a dreamlike quality that I didn't worry about it. I figured a dream of escape was almost as good as the real thing...when had I started thinking of escape anyway? I carefully removed the pickups from my body and attached them to my pliant accomplice's snoozing form. The box didn't show so much as a blip as I hooked him into the machine in my place.

After taking care of that little problem, I proceeded with the next. Clothes. The orderly, the same one that had smiled at my little performance earlier, now that I think of it, had been kind enough to supply me with his, Ugly hospital whites: shirt, pants, belt and all. even his sneakers were white. They were also the only part of his uniform that actually fit me. Size 11's. That might be useful to remember.

He posessed several ID cards, drivers license, credit cards, the usual stuff one finds in a wallet. Strangely I knew what was usual to find. The picture of him standing next to a shiny red sportscar gave me a bit of an idea. My mind locked onto the image in the picture and compass-like supplied me with a general direction to head. Without seeing any other options, I made my way out the door. There was a guard, looking very official and very asleep just outside the door. I didn't want him to wake, and that unseen hand responded. the guard's snore grew louder and deeper.

The building was mazelike. Several times I found myself going in circles. I had to bluff my way past several pairs of guards and hospital staff. that unseen presence aiding me all the while. You don't see me. I'm just a piece of the background. a scuttling bit of wall, a breeze. It took most of the night to navigate my way down to the parking garage. It was cold out and very quiet. That maginetic pull toward Smiley's shiny new car seemed stronger now and I just let it guide me. It led me down to the bottem level of the deck.

I'd been expecting a shiny red sportscar... two out of three wasn't bad. Apparently Smiley didn't wash his car very often. it was a dull and faded red with nicks and scuffs all over the paint. His keys fit the lock and ignition. and from somewhere I dredged up the knowledge concerining driving a stickshift. I tore out of the deck in grand prix racing fashion. I was free, had a bit of cash, and didn't think anyone would be looking for me for a few minutes at the very least.

I needed to get some distance between me and the hospital. I needed to find a cheap rat trap of a motel not likely to ask me any questions, breakfast would also be a thing to take care of. from the grumbling of my stomach, I'd have to tend to that soon.

The Priest Part 1

:

From the journal of Father Rillian Cortan:

It had been well over a year since the last time I held a sword in my hands. There were times that I felt positively naked without it's weight tugging at my belt. My palms nearly itched for lack of a blade as I peered cautiously around the trunk of the tree that I was crouched behind. My little vantage point concealed me from the small army I saw below. I really wasn't sure they were looking for me, but I'd be damned, quite literally, if I let them catch me. All in grey with that strange matte armor they always wore and the dark serpentine blades at their waists, these men were obviously soldiers in the service of the Shadow Host. Unless I missed my guess or had suddenly been struck color blind, The dark banners they carried, the color of congealing blood, marked them as Crimson Legionaires. Fanatics. They were still far enough away that I couldn't even say for sure if they were human. If the rumors I'd been hearing had any ring of truth to them, then it was very likely that some of those below were not my fellow man. I had my doubts as to whether or not they could find me in my cosy little hideaway, but I've not lived through what I have by taking unneccisary risks.

I offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to whomever might be listening that it was the Priests of the Green Order who took me in and helped my shattered body mend after the Host overran the town my company had been hired to defend. As my Order's name might imply, We wear a habit that, not suprisingly, involves lots of deep forest green robes and vestments. I was rather smitten with their utility at that point, Serving as they did to allow me to move through the dense underbrush and mountain laurels without drawing undue and sincerely unwanted attention to myself. Sometimes fame isn't all that nice a thing.

I fumbled for my battered ironwood walking stick. It was a stout piece of lumber, a little over four feet long and capped on either end with dull iron and laquered to an oily black finish. Though twice the thickness of my thumb and quite sturdy, It was not the sword I so dearly missed. If the need arisesI can still use it like one though. I just really hoped it wouldn't be necisary.

Using my short staff for leverage, I rose ponderously my feet, careful not to put my weight on my bad knee. It still ached and gave out on me from time to time even after having a year to heal. Keeping my balance with the stave, I leaned against the tree trunk, transferring more weight from my knee as I did so. Leaning there, taking stock of my situation, I ran my fingers through my hairshaddy red and seriously in need of a trim. Seemingly of their own accord, my hands eventually settled upon the task of scratching my chin through a wild and bushy beard, also in desperate need of a barbers ministrations.

After two hours of waiting, shadowing them, and marking their every move, I realized I needed a distraction, badly, if I had any chance of escape. I reclined there, wracking my brains, hoping to rattle an idea out before the sun could shift enoughin the sky to dislodge the shadows kindly hiding me just then.

I closed my eyes, letting my inner vision roam the wilderness and terrain about me. I had to take extra care and go slowly. One of those soldiers might have been more than he seemed. A sloppy probe on my part could give away my comfy little hiding spot beforeI even realized my error. I sorted through and discarded a number of possibilities before settling on one that just might now get me tortured, killed, and stripped of my immortal soul. I let my inner sight drift over my adversaries, and saw, to my dismay if not my surprise, that one of them burnedd from within with a pale green witchfire. They had a mage after all. I fixed my physical sight on him as well. I marked him out quite easily. Tall and slender. Human enough looking at this distance, he was swathed in a deep charcoal grey cloak that hid most of his features. If the strength of that eldrich aura was any guage, that man below me, (if that's what it truly was) held an enormous wealth of magical power within him. I knew I had to be really careful. My little plan had to be executed perfectly. There was no room for error.

I extended my awareness again, this time directing my questing thoughts, not outward, but downward, my gentle probe burrowing into the earth at my feet. Using the probe to make a connection, I tapped into the subtle energies there, giving them a slight push here and a little nudge there as they bubbled to the surface. To my hypertrophied magical senses, I'd created a slight bulge in the ambient energies surrounding me. It wasn't true magic, not as anyone would recognize it. I was counting on that fact to keep my presence secret. Anyway, I've never been any sort of a mage, so I guess there was no harm done to my self image. Using a sharp mental smack, I sent the bulge sailing low and to the left of the enemy sentries. The image of a mouse scurrying under a wrinkled rug ran through my mind as my handiwork went into action.

The underbrush rustled loudly and was accompanied by a chorus of fluttering wings as that magical bulge rippled its way under and past a flock of roosting birds. The mage dispatched three of his scouts to investigate the noise. All eyes turned away from my hiding place as the trio investigated my little ruse. Taking advantage of the distraction, I quietly padded my way past the soldiers and into the forest on the other side of the trail. No cry of alarm, no pursuit. Good. None noticed my passing I allowed myself a small sigh of relief once I was well past the legionaires.

"That was far too close," I remember muttering to myself. "I'd better pick up the pace if I want to get home before nightfall."

Who would have thought that a one time knight and mercenary like myself could ever get into so much trouble on such a regular basis. My wiser self prompted me with a double score of reasons for trouble following me without evn being asked. I sighed again, this time with exhaustion, and continued trudging on through the wilderness.

What's in a Name?

Let me tell you a bit about my family. Our forefathers had a bit of a tradition that, to this day, still continues. Each and every female in my line was given a name at birth that was supposed to reflect the virture we would embody in life. It seems that somewhere along the line something went awry.

It started simply and harmlessly enough. The girls named Grace were inevitably clumsy. Woe betide anyone married to one of the handfull of those named Patience. Waspish and short tempered barely begins to describe them. I feel so sorry for Dad. No one should have had to put up with that. All simple and good right?

by the way, are the ropes too tight for you? Good.

My generation seems to have been hit by the worst of this particular curse. Let me fill you in. Don't talk with your mouth full, the ball gag stays where it is. My eldest sister Faith spent most of her childhood years fascinated with the church. She spent her days dreaming of going to a convent and becoming a nun. God was her life and breath. She started to get a little strange though, her constant prattle about god, taking on a hysterical pitch. It wasn't until she was sixteen that we discovered that Father Mallory had been doing some fairly unpriestly things with dear little Faith. She started sliding off the deep end then. She tried everything then. Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism, she hit all the major easter religions in about a six month span. Islam was her belief of choice for about a week before she stumbled across the new age section at the book store. For about a year or more, she took to wearing all black and saying stupid things like "blessed be". Just what the hell does that mean anyway?

Oh, do stop whimpering so. If you don't be a quiet little boy I'll have to use the clamps again. That's better. This whip isn't nearly as bad as my other one. Is it?

Where was I? Ah, poor little lost Faith. She finaly renounced it all and became an Atheist you know. My cousin Chastity fared little better, but I'd like to think she's had the most fun with her curse. She started out a shy an innocent girl, going to church almost as much as little Faith. She always talked about how she wanted the perfect family, a loving husband and two kids. She would have been content to while away her life trapped in a fifties sitcom. She always seemed a little intimidated by the boys in her school and stayed out of the spotlight while she matured. She matured alright. Blessed with d-cups before she turned fifteen, and the trimmest physique you ever did see. She couldn't beat the boys off her with a stick after that.

Stop looking so worried. I left the stick at home today.

Well, you know how these things go. Boy meets girl. Boy asked girl out on a date. Boy gets girl drunk and rapes her at a party. Girl gets pregnant and opts for an abortion. So where does that leave the dreams of dear Chastity? Shattered and flushed away with the remains of her unborn child. She fell on hard times, was in one abusive relationship after another. Frankly, her life in those days was pretty shitty. She wound up dropping out of college after her second abortion left her physically and emotionally shattered. She had to find some way to support herself and one of her friends talked her into trying out at an amateur night at a local strip club. She was a natural. They offered her a job on the spot after she finished her set. She felt a little ashamed but she later told me that deep down, a little part of her enjoyed it. I see a glimmer of understanding in your eyes...ooops let me get the blindfold then. Yes, my cousin is that Chastity. She didn't start working in adult films until a few years ago. She took to it like a fish to water though. I've seen a few of her movies, and frankly I'm impressed. I've never met that many people who can do the things she does and not dislocate a hip.

I'd think the curse wasn't all that bad if it wasn't for my baby sister Hope. She had dreams. It really didn't matter what they were. But she had them. When we were kids, she'd decide that she wanted to be a doctor. within a week she'd added astronaut, supermodel, princess, and artist to the list. She always had a plan for her life. it didn't matter to her if it was vague and everchanging. She had a Dream. Hope always had good grades and easily made it into the univeristy of her choice. She faced some tough choices in college. She had to choose a single major o devote herself to. She soon discovered she hated math and physics, so pretty much all the sciences were out. No med school for her. She could never get a good enough portfolio toether to get into the design school. She must have raced around the course catalogue over a dozen times before her advisor made her sit down and just pick something. She graduated with a degree in communications and had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do with it. Hope struggled to find a job, but could never hold one down. she struggled to find a man, but could never keep one. She fought to maintain a home, but wound up leading an almost nomadic lifestyle. She didn't have a thing to call her own after a few months of joblessness and homelessness. She was always the most proud of us and never dreamed of asking for help. She turned to whoring and drugs. A dirty needle infected her with a virus and would have killed her eventually. She chose to open her wrists with a straight razor instead.

What is it you're trying to say honey, let me get that gag out. My story? Hmmm...That might have to wait until next week. Your hour is up and I have another appointment. Don't forget your things now. Now before you go, tell me you love your Mistress Mercy. Your such a sweet boy. I just love to hear the sound of my name.

Practical Necromancy: A Guide to College Living (spring semester)

Words of wisdom for an aspiring Adept of the Black Arts: A dorm fridge is not the most secure place around for keeping your ingredients fresh. The little buggers never work quite right, either letting them spoil, or freezing them in turn. Let's not overlook the fact that unwitting roomates might accidently get into your stash of AB positive while looking for Jagermeister. I found better places to keep my jars full of anatomical odds and ends after that little debacle. It's tough being a necromancer at a public university.

Just so you know, my major is techincally Biology with a Pre-med concentration. Dr. Edwards, my advisor, thought that might be the easiest way to describe my work. I never would have guessed I'd meet a kindred spirit, and fellow student of the Art, when I came to college. Takes all kinds, I suppose.

I woke up early, having to meet with Dr. Edwards to choose my classes for the coming semester. I showered, shaved and dressed with typical haste, missing a few spots here and there with the razor. At least I didn't cut myself shaving. Running down through the hall and continuing that hurried pace left me winded but at my advisor's office right on time. It pays to be punctual with a man who can dine on your soul. Not that he would, mind you, he's really a nice guy, as far as it goes in this business.

Even arriving on time I was still about ten minutes too late for dear departed Doctor Edward E. Edwards(an alias if ever I've heard one). I found his body, or what was left of it sprawled awkwardly upon his office chair. His chest was a wide, bloody crater. His eyeless gaze stared into infinity. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I drank in the carnage. Terrible magics hung in the air like a fetid cloud. I guess I needn't have worried about him drinking my soul. It seemed that someone else had dealt him the same professional courtesy.

I performed a cursory sweep of the room, my senses tuned to the horrifying power unleashed here. My sort of power. Necromancy. Dr. Edwards was missing both his eyes and his heart, along with who knows what other assorted bits and pieces. His eyes could have shown me the face of his murderer. His heart would have retained his power for some time after death. It was clean and efficient, no signs of mania or other psychotic behavior. No notes or signatures to mark this as a serial killer. Someone killed him for his power. Someone knew exactly what they were doing.

I dialed the number for the Campus Police on my cellphone. I tried to sound as frantic and distraught as I felt, but thanks to my training there was a cold wall between me and my emotions. The police arrived in record time. By then, that cold wall had crumbled and I was a jittering mess of nerves. I think the police bought it. The last thing I needed was to wind up on the list of suspects. They asked me all sorts of questions, and I think I answered them. I'm not really sure though. A few hours later, I left there, numb and emotionally wrung out. It's not every day you see aftermath of someone ritually murdering a friend.

I wandered aimlessly for a time, not thinking and not knowing where I was going. When I finally roused myself from my maudlin musings I stood in front of old Wilson Hall. It had been left derelict for years. It was also where the good doctor and I had done some of our most guarded research. I almost hit myself for my stupidity at that point. If there was someone watching I almost led them right to a potent cache of occult lore. The place was well shielded, and even if the killer had assumed the doctor's power by now, there was no way that anyone other than he or I could enter those protected rooms. It was time for some quality acting, just in case.

I summoned up all the fear and grief anew. I lost myself in it for a time, wandering aimlessly yet again, but this time toward some place only slightly less dangerous: The dining hall.

I wasn't really in the mood to eat anything, but I forced some unnamed and indescribably substance down my throat and washed it down with tepid fruit juice. My stomach protested the invasion of those culinary abberations, but there was naught I could do at the moment other than just live with it.

I shambled home after that, feeling queasy and generally put through the sausage grinder. Up to the third floor I went. My roomate, Jake, was there. He handed me a package, gaily wrapped in all it's Christmas glory. I would have thought it proper if it were December, not March. I opened it up with care, listening for any ticking or buzzing that might betray it's malign nature. Nothing. The box thudded to the floor and I gasped. Jake had already left the room, he and I didn't get along too well, and at that moment I was quite thankfull. Looking up at me from a cushion of crimson silk, was what could only be Dr. Edwards' misplaced optical organs. I sat down on my narrow dorm bed and unleashed an acidic stream of profanities.

Someone, it seemed, had his eye on me.

The Weight of a Guilty Heart

Nightmares are the price I pay for my deeds. Every sweet vision and tender dream is laid to waste, twisted by the powers that be into landscapes of torment and portraits of guilt. That night, they were something like a badger, something like a lizard, and something like a corkscrew. I swear I'll never read Lewis Carrol before bed again. Straight out of Through the Looking Glass they came. Three of them, my personal Furies called Conscience, perhaps, roused me from my most favored of dreams. Yes, that kind of dream. Hot and musky, was the vision. I was loath to part with it.

I ran from them as if my very existence depended upon it. It didn't help me to escape them. Running never does. They brought me to bay soon enough, my body battered and helpless upon a blasted plane of broken glass. As one, they reared up before me, a range of twisted mountains. The mome raths were enormous now, godlike in aspect and terrible to behold. As if it had been waiting for some unseen signal from these harbingers of retribution and finally received it, the ground beneath me gave way with a crash akin to thunder, my guilt a weight to heavy for it to bear. Civilizations were born and died as I fell through that timeless instant. The Furies retreated into an unimaginable distance now that their task was complete. I fell and fell and fell, tumbling through a void as dark as death and probably a few degrees cooler, besides. Suddenly, I was...elsewhere.

Upon seeing the landscape resolve into an all too familiar park, a part of me screamed in silence, knowing what horror must come next. Try as I might to assert control, it was to no avail. I was here in this memory as an observer only, a mere passenger trapped within my own vessel of flesh. The memory played, a vhs loaded and paused, waiting only for the arrival of the guest of honor...

I snuffed the remains of the day's first cigarette, crushing it under the heel of my boot, and pondered my situation. How does one hide a body in broad daylight? More lines from Jabberwocky mocked me in a whispered chorus as I lay in wait.

Beware the Jabberwock my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"

My still ambulatory corpse-to-be sat on a park bench, alone and oblivious to his impending demise. Someone should have taken the time to warn him about the bad things that could happen out here. On second thought, that would have made my part in this harder than it already was. So much for being a good Samaritan.

I needed a plan. There were several options available to me, but none seemed likely to allow me an easy escape. A small pond sat across the way, only a few hundred yards east of my current hiding place. Unfortunately, the way to it crossed several paths frequented by joggers. I had no real desire to answer a lot of awkward questions just then. Many of them involving an abruptly bloody body and an equally bloody knife. Most perplexing, indeed. I required a nice, quiet place to work, and my window of opportunity was small. His death had to occur before noon. By my watch it was nearly eleven o'clock. I fingered the edge of my obsidian blade, a gift from Grandfather, and mentally went through the motions of evisceration, bringing the appropriate spells and charms to mind as I did so, another gift from the Old Man.

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood a while in thought

I felt the now familiar butterflies of uncertainty racing one another through my innards. A couple of dramamine tabs kept them on the inside track where they belonged. Sicking up during one's first kill is just bad form. Don't get me wrong. No matter how hard I try to play it off, I'm just not emotionally cut out to be a killer.

"A pederast's heart. Evil to trap evil. The bastard deserves what he gets." I hoped that saying it would help support the shaky moral ground I stood upon, but the words rang hollow and empty in my ears.

"A pederast's heart," I repeated. Look it up in a dictionary like I did if you don't know what it means. Maybe you can decide if his death was justified. I can't.

My target shifted his weight while feeding breadcrumbs to some rather affectionate ducks. Their asthmatic quacking further distracted me from my purpose. I almost missed my cue when he stood and stretched. His supply of duck chow now exhausted, he started walking away. I was still no closer to a solution and my mobile meat wagon was escaping me. I had to do something.

And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

I moved to intercept, sticking to shadows and cutting through the woodlots, not knowing exactly where my path would take me. To keep from getting lost, I reviewed my mental map of the park as I slinked along. If I were fast enough, I'd be able to take him at a switchback in the trail without drawing too much attention. I gave up stealth in favor of speed, sprinting through the underbrush, palming that wicked black glass blade as I did so. I made it to the edge of the woodlot in a time that an olympic runner would have been proud of, but quickly plunged back into the bushes as my prey rounded the corner.

Those last minutes of waiting made my stomach roll and turn, a turboprop flying through a turbulent storm. Thankfully the dramamine kept my stomach safely under wraps while I endured those final moments before the deed. I crouched behind my shrubbery, being as silent as I could, tensely awaiting his approach. Gathering myself to strike as he came along side my place of concealment, I flew from the underbrush, ebon blade brandished before me, and a spell upon my lips to keep the blood from my clothing and person. He turned to face me, dumbfounded and amazed, as I hit him with my full weight. We tumbled into the brush on the other side of the trail just as a jogger rounded the bend. I hoped he didn't see us, but I couldn't be sure. Once concealed by the obliging flora, a few muttered Words and a few well placed slashes from my sharp, sharp knife, allowed the first part of my grisly task to come to an end.

One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack

Once the deed was done, I went silent again, listening intently for the jogger. I was nearly certain he'd passed me by, but I needed to reassure myself. I peered through the underbrush to see the jogger's retreating backside, his easy pace belied his ignorance. He'd get to live another day. One body was enough, thank you very much. It doesn't pay to be greedy you know.

I returned to my now less than mobile playmate. I franticly went to work, gathering certain choice bits from him and placing them into some plastic baggies I'd brought along expressly for the purpose. I almost felt sorry for the coroner who'd have to examine this body. It wouldn't be an easy task to explain how a heart was removed from a human torso without first opening the ribcage, and never mind the lack of mess that should have accompanied the act. They didn't have Grandfather's notes to tell them it really was possible. Heh, even if they did, It's not like they'd believe it, anyway. With a pederast's heart and Grandfather's grimoires both firmly in my possession, I could finally set a trap for that fleshbound demon that called itself Mr. Vincent. He wouldn't escape me again.

He left it dead and with its head, He went gallumphing back.

After cleaning my knife on the carrion's clothes, I placed my collection of baggies and the blade into my purse, adjusted my skirt and as calmly as I could, headed home from the park.

"And has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

That accursed poem still echoed through the vaults of my subconscious when I awoke, drenched in sweat, my voice hoarse from screaming. Somehow, if Grandfather were still alive, he'd tell me I did the right thing. I'm not sure I'd believe him.

The Tale of a Lost Soul. Part 1

Stale vomit isn't the taste you want in your mouth when you die. I guess I should have thought of that before hand. I drank a bit too much that night. To be honest, I'd been drinking a bit too much every night for the last five years. I'm not really sure exactly how or when I died. I could have fallen and hit my head. It was a dark alley, I could have been mugged. However, judging from that obscene taste in my mouth, I probably passed out and choked on my own puke. Dignified to the very end. That's me. I'm not really sure if my thoughts were typical of the newly deceased. My case of the common Death was only temporary, and I've yet to have a relapse. So I guess I'll just have to wait my turn again to make a comparison. Don't you just hate being sent to the back of the line? I'm skipping ahead though, you really shouldn't let me do that. Shame on you.

It took me a few minutes to figure out that I was dead. Seeing my own body lying in a heap of refuse and covered by the leavings of a chamber pot should have clued me in, but I was new to the whole dead thing. My first real inkling came when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

"Ahem. Khamion Reece?" The voice was very polite in that terse, official sort of way that bureaucrats are born to.

I made a startled little noise reminiscent of a pinned mouse and whirled around.

"Who's there?" I asked. It was a stupid thing to say, but when does anyone ever say the right thing when they're frightened?

"I am." The voice repliead sarcastically."Let me repeat myself. Are you Khamion Reece? I'm on a tight schedule here and I want to make sure I have the right alley."

"Aaaahhh. Yes, I am. My friends call me Kham though."

"I assure you,"came the voice as the shadows stirred, "I am not here to be your friend."

I could barely make out two balefully burning embers in the darkness at about eye level. I was more than a little shocked when I realized they were, in fact, eyes. They were also moving steadily in my direction. I tried to run, but I couldn't, those hellish eyes held me transfixed more effectively than any spear could have. I could do nothing but wait in that eternity of terror as the shadows slowy coalesced into a very large, very black mastiff. That giant dogs feral grin seemed strangely human. All the more so when that mild, urbane voice I'd been hearing impossibly came from the dog's muzzle.

"You needn't fear for your life, Khamion Reece. I'm not here to hurt you."

"And I'm supposed to believe a talking dog?

It chuckled wryly. "If I were here to do you harm, I'm far too late." My eyes followed as it gestured with its muzzle in the direction of my corpse, just as it truly dawned on me what I was looking at.A corpse. A dead body. Most importantly, my dead body

I.

Was.

Dead.

It laughed again, a low chuckle reminiscent of gravel rolling down a slate roof. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"I see you understand. Now hurry up. We have a long trip ahead of us."

"Excuse me?" I said, slightly surprising myself with a sudden burst of spine, "I am not going off into a dark alley with a giant talking mongrel. I may be dead, but I'm not crazy."

"Suit yourself. You can wander the realm of mortals for as long as you like and I am forbidden to stop you. Know this though. Jessica and Camlin are waiting for you."

My wife and son, both dead for five years. She died in childbirth and he followed her to the grave within an hour. He really knew how to hit below the belt."You bastard!" I hissed, all resistance fading from me in an instant. "Alright, lead the way." I said weakly."By the way, what should I call you?" Flames spang up around him and his eyes burned like suns and from what seemed like a great distance I heard him reply.

"Call me Smoke. Now follow closely and don't get lost. There are things out here that are worse than death."