Prizm: An Other-World Adventure

By Andrew Michael Schwarz

"Prizm is one fantastic novel. It starts mundane, then gets wild, with truly awful werebears and challenging alien cultures. How do Amazons reproduce? Violently! How do you control the leader you assign? You make a clone, and replace it if it gets ideas. Things make savage sense."—Piers Anthony 

"Prizm has elements of Dr. Who, Terry Pratchett, Robert E. Howard, Philip Jose Farmer, and a touch of the Dalai Lama, shaken and stirred into a quirky and improbable tale that shouldn't work but somehow succeeds. The Swiss cheese theory beats Einstein all to hell." R.E. 

Living in southern California and working as a waitress in her senior year of high school Jen’s life changes drastically when she meets Bea, short for Beasil. At first a casual encounter that quickly changes when Bea’s nemesis, a werebear named Dr. Gukkle, captures Jen to use her as bait to lure Bea. 

In a narrow escape from their werebear attackers, Dr. Gukkle and his assistant Professor Schnuck, Bea is forced to take Jen into the Prizm, a series of interconnecting routes in the spacetime fabric of the universe. 

They arrive in the worlds of New Sulan where Jen encounters things she never thought possible including a populace of unwitting slaves who look to a celebrity dominatrix to pacify their lives and the evil Pontiff Council behind it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Michael Schwarz
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507001950

Book preview

Chapter 1

JEN

He materialized from thin air. Arriving in this manner, one might think him liable to cause a stir, but on this evening, rain fell in torrents, night concealed the world and no one saw the man in rags.

Hunger invaded his every nerve, a sensation that had trebled since he’d arrived just seconds ago. So quickly he could feel this famished? How long did he have before…

The world tipped. It didn’t last long. He met with the brick alley, and wheezed, gasping for wind like a pet fish that had jumped the tank.

He pulled himself up and searched his head. Rain was so wet without a hat. The Universe was too harsh without a hat, this he’d discovered on many an occasion. He stared up into the sky. Spirals of droplets descended in whole platoons just as far as the eye could see, storming the defenseless world below.

All the Universe, he thought, so beautiful and so deadly!

A hunger pang struck and nearly laid him out. He’d better get moving.

He scrabbled beetle-like over the slick brickwork for his errant hat because he wasn’t going to go anywhere without it. He found it, of course; he always found it and saddled it back down on his head where it belonged. That finished, he compelled his body to stand, wobbly at the knees perhaps, but able enough.

He began to cross that impossibly wide street when his senses blurred in a blinding flash of headlights, exhaust and squealing brakes. He stared at the dark windshield, his heart dancing a jig, watching the wipers swish methodically, watching rain drops splash into the headlights. One more inch and…well, best not to dwell on the negative.

Must. Get. Inside.

He reached into a pocket to clutch a thing not unlike a golf ball. It was his reason to carry on. He seemed to draw a bit more strength just knowing it was with him, safe and sound, as if it could be anything else.

His eyes found what he needed through the sheets of rain and shifting walls of fog. He limped toward letters that spelled: F-A-N-T-I-N-O-S.

Let’s go Jenny! We’ve got customers waiting! whined Len, her boss, who enjoyed Fantino’s Signature Cheesecake way too much.

Don’t call me Jenny!

They’d had that argument a lot. It seemed he just had to call her Jenny. Well, she didn’t like it. Her name was Jen. Not Jenny or Jennifer, just Jen. She didn’t call him Lenny. She didn’t call him Leonard. He liked to be called Len, so that’s what she called him. So, why wasn’t there some mutual respect here?

She turned her attention to the waitress station. Of course, one could not read the specials in the waitress station, because the backlights on the menu board had burnt out. The cook, who only spoke Greek, had jury-rigged a flashlight with some tape and a cloth napkin to make a kind of rope-like-thing. Then hung the flashlight around the menu board and forgot to put batteries in it.

Hazel, why do we still have that stupid flashlight up there?

Hazel Lopez stood beside her, eyes fixed on the board, squinting into darkness. Don’t know. Big Len won’t spend a dime unless—

Jen, darling! called Len, and you too Ms. Lopez! Would it be all right if we served our customers now? After all this is a restaurant!

Jen pushed passed him and Hazel popped through on the other side, and together they emerged onto the dining room floor.

Whoa.

Let’s get this party started!

The place was packed, more lined up at the door and more out the door. Fridays were the worst, or best, depending on your view, and with the rain, it just became a mess. Shelly, the hostess, was giving out handfuls of light-up pagers and scribbling madly into the guest book. Water gushed in, transported on shoe tops and jacket lapels. Umbrellas piled up in the coat closet as Fantino’s filled to capacity. If Len could do one thing, it was feed people. He could wine ‘em, dine ‘em, and take their money like a mobster. It was this singular ability that made Fantino’s into FANTINO’S!

Jen and Hazel darted about like hummingbirds in a flower garden. They did their best and still couldn’t keep up. They did a first round and got all the orders in, then nudged bar drinks out. Customers already wore looks of hunger-induced annoyance, glaring at them as they hustled by.

But just forty-five minutes into it, Hazel popped up in front of Jen and squealed.

What? Then Jen saw what. Tommy Daniels was marching up with his little entourage of three and Jen could see he wasn’t looking at her.

What’s up, baby? Tommy purred.

Jen was already making tracks to the waitress station and Hazel was acting so stupidly surprised and Tommy was obviously going to marry her! This was not going to end well for Jen. Why did the two of them have to go at it in the middle of the restaurant like that, all giggly? On a Friday night, this Friday night?

Jen tried to resist the oncoming storm. Not the storm outside, but the one in her head. She felt it coming up, a monsoon of the soul, a psychic thunderstorm. I’m not going to let this one get to me. I’m not, I’m not, I’m…I am.

She took the next order, a cute elderly couple, two old love-birds still cooing. It just worsened her dilemma. Jen Carlson lived in a world where other human beings got everything they wanted and she got nothing.

Could this be true? Was there any evidence of this? Well, yeah.

Hazel used to live in Tujunga—the armpit of the San Fernando Valley—just like Jen. Same school, same economic caste. Then her mom had remarried, and Hazel had become the Mexican Cinderella, moved up the road to La Cañada and found a whole new life, a new school and, now, a new love interest. Wasn’t that proof enough?

Jen sulked and glanced at the clock. Her spirits sagged further. She would have to wander the Dining Room Wastes for another three hours before she could wallow in self-pity.

She bused a plate and ruminated on the problem.

Tommy Daniels. She’d met him one night at a hipster party where she hadn’t belonged. He hadn’t either. They’d gotten to talking and ended up at the park, discussing everything from Ayn Rand to Next Generation under a half-moon sky. He’d told her about his Screamo band and his inexhaustible fetish for campy horror flicks.

She’d given him her number and waited for a call. It had never come. She didn’t even know what school he went to. When Hazel had mentioned him in passing Jen had gotten wise. That cute guy with the band who raved about Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell. Jen had wanted to say something like Stay Away! He’s mine! yet couldn’t find it in her to obsess over someone too disinterested to call. Well, she obsessed anyhow and now the whole affair had just hit critical mass and Hazel didn’t even know who Sam Raimi was!

Jen was considering taking an extended sabbatical in the broom closet when Shelly, the bouncy, little hostess, walked toward her, lips pulled back in a forced smile. Behind Shelly trailed a mass of jackets, hair, and a fedora, all dripping wet. Shelly seated the mass in Jen’s section.

Seriously?

Jen assessed the new situation: probably a bum. Definitely broke, gross, disgusting, dirty and wet. But Shelly had seated him, and When Shell seats ‘em, you girls serve ‘em!

She sighed, put on a fake smile of her own, and walked to her new customer.

Can I start you off with anything to drink, sir? The monotone startled even her. Was she reading a script? Just cope with it.

No response.

We have strawberry lemonade or perhaps a martini.

The ragperson had a drink menu open but he or she wasn’t moving.

Sir? Oh, my God. Ma’am?

The coats moved. Layers of cloth parted and a pale nose appeared beneath a dripping brim. Give me a moment, said a tenor-like voice, decidedly masculine and somehow transatlantic.

At least he didn’t die, she thought.

Water, with lemon, love.

Wide-eyed, Hazel enthused all over Jen when she came back to the waitress station to shovel ice into a glass. What is it? Hazel asked, Man or woman?

Jen shook her head. Man, I think. She walked back across the floor hoping to invoke a cloak of invisibility and then discovered Tommy and crew heading for the door. Figures, you cheap bastard, can’t even afford food. Sarcasm masquerading as happiness bloomed at the idea of Tommy and Hazel’s first date at the soup kitchen.

She placed the water on the ragman’s table.

A straw, please.

Jen produced a straw from her apron, held it before him and placed it on the table.

Many thanks.

Five minutes later, Jen placed a house salad and two more glasses of water before him on the table. Then watched in horror as he scarfed the salad down barely chewing and drained another half a glass.

I have decided on my order, the ragman announced.

Jen waited.

He orated. One Portobello mushroom! One BBQ Chicken pizza! Grilled chicken breast! He announced each line like he’d won a prize. This annoyed Jen. He continued naming a dozen or so dishes.

She shook her head. I’m sorry the wha—?

French Silk pie! A cheesecake! Death by Choc-o-late, Choc-o-late Cake! He went on.

Jen covered her mouth, squealed disbelief, and staggered back to the waitress station crying tears of sadness…joy…was there any difference? Len’s face appeared hawk-like at the bar window. And what are we doing?

Oh, my God, Len! He’s so crazy. She slumped against the drink station and mustered a deep mimicking voice. He wants a Tuscan rib eye! A cheesecake! A French silk pie! A keg of beer—

Did he really say all that? asked Hazel.

Jen glared. Go ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.

I was just asking, Gawd! Hazel walked off.

Len scowled from his perch.

What? OMG, Len, he’s a bum!

Jen, he said sternly, Fantino’s is FANTINO’S, because FANTINO’S feeds its customers! Now, I don’t care what he is, you give him everything on that menu if he asks for it!

But Len, he’s a—

You feed him until he’s fat! You got it? FAT!

And that’s how Jen learned of Len’s childhood.

The night wore on. All the busboys and other wait staff had long since gone home. The ragman’s table was a disaster. Dishes piled up, scraps of crusts and half-eaten things, melted ice cream and such. Jen had catered to the ragman’s order for the better part of her shift, keeping the kitchen at a high roar. Once she’d delivered his order, she’d peeked around the corner of the waitress station to watch him take one bite from each dish. When he’d gotten to the last plate, he’d started all over again with the first one. Nuts!

Somewhere in the middle of the feast, he’d begun poking his face and fingers out from behind those threadbare coats. With the last gulp of wine, of which he had managed much, he had tipped his fedora and let it fall, revealing a drape of lustrous, blond hair. That’s when Jen had stopped despising him.

And how are we doing here? she asked, enlivened.

I should say, quite well, all things considered. Thanks for asking. His voice was…nice. Stately even.

He sprawled over the bench, long gangly limbs. His jacket and scarf made a damp pile on the floor. He wore a white, button-down shirt ending in a pair of ragged, perhaps once elegant, cuffs. What captured Jen’s attention was the brightly shining, tangled mane of blond hair.

Take your time. She placed a small leather folder on the edge of the table.

Oh my, I’ve kept you late, he said, as if just discovering the hour.

Oh, no worries, she said. I didn’t have anything else to do except…sleep.

Here you are. He gently placed four crisp one hundred-dollar bills out on the table. She heard them snap softly like playing cards as he laid them down.

Uh…your bill is only two hundred and—

He held up a hand. My treat.

She pocketed the money. As she walked toward the cash register, it occurred to her that aside from Carl, the Neolithic dishwasher dude, she and the ragman were the only ones left in the entire restaurant. Even Len had gone home. I wonder what his name is. Certainly it’s not Ragman!

She placed the ragman’s receipt on the table. I can’t believe you actually ate— she glanced at the half-eaten steaks and pies —a lot of it anyway.

I wanted to eat one bite from everything, he said. Nothing ever tasted so good.

She laughed. Where are you from?

Mainly…everywhere. He tipped an empty wine glass to his lips.

England, huh? She cleared some plates.

Sure, sure. Listen, I’ve a question for you now.

That scared her. What?

He seemed to lean in, changing the whole atmosphere between them. Why such a sad face?

She stood there way too long for such a moment. She felt her cheeks flush and kept blinking before realizing what was happening. Shit. She put the plates down and turned her back to him and, in as slight a movement as she could make, wiped at the tears, about five of them. She turned around and said, Because I can’t have everything I want and I want too much, which makes me a spoiled brat.

He nodded, unfazed by her show of emotion and self-deprecation. Or, you’re not wanting the things you have.

She shrugged. Maybe.

Take a seat, won’t you? I’ve got all the time in the world to hear your sad tale.

You make me sound like a sappy twit. She sat down.

Oh, I don’t think you’re a sappy twit at all.

Well…?

I think you’re a dissatisfied twit.

Thanks.

I think you’re unhappy because somewhere along the line, you decided that things were out of your reach. I think you and no one else, decided that.

Why, she asked, would I decide such a stupid thing? Absently she picked up three packets of sugar and started playing with them.

I just know the marks when I see them.

Marks?

Couldn’t be plainer, the decision to be dissatisfied. You’ve already decided that you get the short end of the stick in whatever it is you’re involved. Am I right?

He was, but she didn’t want to admit it.

Let me ask you, he said, leaning over the table, do you even like this boy, this Tommy Daniels?

Yes!

Why? Why do you like him sooo much when you barely even know him?

She shrugged. He’s cute for one.

There are no other cute boys? I find that impossible.

Yeah, of course there are. Look, I know what you’re saying. All the fish in the sea and all that jazz. But, you know, I did—do actually like him. We had a nice time.

You don’t strike me as someone hard up for nice times.

Okay, I got it! Because he likes the same things I do. That’s hard to find, right? He likes horror movies and books and directors and Sam… she sighed and stared down at the sugar maze she was making with her finger. Maybe I see your point, though.

Which is what?

She sat back and stared at the ceiling. Well, maybe it’s just a thing where I feel less if I don’t have a boyfriend because… She thought about it.

Well, go on!

Hush! She giggled. Actually giggled. He was making her laugh and that was a good thing. I was just collecting my thoughts. Maybe I’m afraid of what the future will bring.

Ah.

Specifically being stuck in Tujunga and never doing anything important or meaningful or that matters.

I’m sorry, Tu-what’s-ka?

Oh yeah, that’s the town I live in. Tu-hung-a. Its like a big trailer park in the sky, kind of. Well, the mountains.

And where are we now?

Oh this? This is Pasadena, it’s really nice compared to Tujunga.

He furrowed his brow somewhat foggily. Right. I knew that. Anyway, as you were saying?

Well, somehow, I figure if I have a boyfriend then it seems like…maybe I’ll be able to escape this boring-ass life or at the very least, not have to think about it a whole lot.

A delightful distraction, he said and leaned back satisfied.

Yeah, that’s a good way of putting it, a delightful distraction. Jen suddenly grew tired of talking about her problems. She sat up. What about you? You realize, don’t you, that you haven’t even told me your name.

My name? There’s a good question. He pointed lazily toward the middle of his chest. He’d consumed much wine throughout his meal. My name, if you really must know and promise not to laugh or get too confused, is Beasil. As in Benedictus the Ninth. But you…you can call me Bea.

Jen giggled, again.

And just what are you laughing at, you little brat?

Nothing, Aunt Bea!

Hhmm, said Bea, I suppose it is a silly name, isn’t it?

The next morning Jen woke before nine o’clock, jumped into the shower and did her hair the fast way. Gene was sitting at the kitchen table when she walked in.

Hey Kegger, she said, foraging the fridge for something without mold.

Hey there, girl. What’s got you up so early? Gene’s scruffy face smirked before he finished off a breakfast beer.

Can’t sleep in no more. Gettin’ old like you.

Gene was her mother’s boyfriend. Tujunga’s finest. Gene Miller’s nickname: Kegger. He loved his Harley Davidson, which he had dubbed Chaos. Ridin’ her’s like making love to the wind! He worked on her all the time, as in every day, regardless that she was never broken.

Kegger shaved about once a week and cracked a beer every morning with his steak and egg sandwich. He also collected worker’s compensation benefits from an accident that had allegedly occurred in 1997. Presently, he wasn’t wearing a shirt and his gray chest hair splayed over his white skin. He squashed out the butt of his cigarette and lit another. Jen didn’t notice his peculiarities anymore. She liked him in a way, and he seemed more like an uncle than anything else.

Where’s Mom? Still sleepin’?

Yeah, she’s out like a light yet. Kegger read the funnies. He wore his glasses in the morning which gave him an appearance of something on the order of an educated ape.

Tell her I went with Hazel, ‘kay? Jen grabbed her keys from the table.

Sure. Kegger was reading Dennis the Menace. Won’t mention nuthin’ about no boys neither. He smirked without looking at her.

Who said anything about boys?

Go on, I gotcha covered.

The Motel 6 in North Hills looked like every other Motel 6 in the Universe, and nothing seemed to have moved since the previous night when she’d dropped Bea off. He’d managed another half bottle of wine before they’d finished their late-night discussion.

She stepped out of her truck and looked about. It was proving to be one of those rare, overcast Los Angeles specials. She walked to Bea’s door and tapped lightly with a knuckle, holding a Winchell’s bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other.

Bea, it’s me. You up? She wondered if she had tapped loud enough. If he was hung over, he might need something like a freight train horn to get him going. She followed her instinct and put the coffee and doughnuts down and knocked forcefully on the blue door. The door creaked open. Hello?

No answer and too dark to see a thing. Stories from junior high floated in her head. What if he suffocated in his own puke? Or what if...he left?

She flicked on the light to a made bed and a pristinely un-lived in room.

Her heart sagged and the doughnuts and coffee seemed a dumb idea. The image of Hazel and Tommy making out hovered in front of her like Chinese torture, a reminder she really did belong in Tujunga, riding on the back of Kegger’s Harley. She felt a lump in her throat and turned to go.

Oh-hoh! My God! she gasped. Jeezus, kid, you scared me! What are you doing in here?

A child no older than twelve stood in front of her, looking up through blood shot eyes, so red-rimmed and glossy she wondered if he didn’t have some terribly infectious disease.

God, are you okay? Where’s your mom, kid?

The boy said nothing, just stared up at her chewing on a dirt-rimmed fingernail. He smelled like an evil mix of garlic and body odor. His hair clumped in oily points on his forehead. His ill-fitting clothes hung on him like a fat man’s suit.

Stop staring at me weirdo, and tell your mom you need a bath and some Benadryl.

The boy’s mouth twitched. What’s your name? He said in a raspy, little voice that somehow fit.

What do you care?

What is it?

If I tell you, will get out of here?

Whatever you want, he said behind a yellow-toothed smile.

Jen. Now fuck off!

Jennnn, he moaned, taking some bizarre pleasure in drawing out the n sound. Then he cut and ran, ducking long enough to snatch the Winchell’s bag.

Disgusting little shithead! she called after him.

Jen wasn’t known for her decorum. Her mother called her Sailor, because she swore like one. She thought everyone who didn’t swear in public did so in private and were, therefore, hypocrites.

Before she left she washed her hands, because that’s how the freaky kid had made her feel: unclean. She realized she could still smell him in the room. On the ride home she thought of Bea and wondered why he’d left without saying goodbye. She tried not to feel like a lovesick puppy, but failed miserably.

When she got home she bee-lined it to her room and flipped the DO NOT DISTURB sign over on her bedroom door, turned the blinds down, and switched on the iPod. Then, in the dark, under the covers, she listened to Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey and cried.

Chapter 2

RANSOM

Verdugo Hills High School, named after the Verdugo Hills, quickly and all too easily became Ver-drug-o. More like a prison than a school, the sign on the gate said NO FIREARMS BEYOND THIS POINT. Jen sighed and with quiet resolve walked through the gate and plodded down the concrete steps toward the modular classrooms to begin her day of state-based education. Hazel would have been right there with her too, if her mother hadn’t moved four miles south down Foothill Boulevard.

Jen wondered if she would ever see Bea again. She hoped he had not been some meaningless, superfluous character in the great comic tragedy of her life. She wanted something to come of it, something meaningful. She took her seat and waited for the bell to ring. Rachael Lindegard sat next to her.

Hey Jen, how was your weekend?

Same old dog shit. She didn’t bother looking up from her reading matter.

Mr. Harris walked in and began to say things, so Jen slipped her copy of The Illustrated Man inside a textbook and got to work. One thing Jen loved to do was read books, weird books, fantasy books, sci-fi stuff, and even some of the Classics. She wasn’t much for TV, but books—she could lose herself in them. She’d never considered herself smart, per se, but one reason for her attitude at school was because she could ace all her tests without listening in class. This kept her GPA up and made her not really care.

The bell rang and it was time to move on.

The day passed in this fashion until 2:30, when the juvenile convicts got to go home. When she stepped up to her locker, something about it seemed different. She was uncertain what, but when she opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out. She picked it up and found it much heavier than any note ought to be and it was drenched in the sweet stink of glue.

What the hell?

Inside, poorly cut magazine letters pasted out a message that read: Deer jen, follo thees instruxins…

She read it aloud, Go down Oro Vista where it meets Big Tujunga Canyon Road… the note went on in pidgin English explaining pretty bad directions on how to get there, but the part at the bottom, that was the cherry in the whip cream, as it were. It read: luv bee.

Love, Bea? She could hardly contain herself.

Oh, My God. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah! I know exactly where this is! She held the note to her chest. Oh, my God-dess!

Eight-thirty was such a long time to wait. The rendezvous point was located near Angeles National Forest where she used to hike. Her rusty, old Ford pickup lurched into first gear as she rumbled out of the driveway.

She didn’t think anyone lived in the cabins out there, but maybe Bea was just camping. Or maybe he had decided to move in. Tujunga and its sister city, Sunland, were like that. It never ceased to amaze. The town had once been a vacation hot spot with all manner of quaint, stone houses and little cabins. People would come and breathe the air for health benefits if you can believe that. After some urban sprawl, Sunland and Tujunga had become low budget suburbs where people’s houses made more money than they did in the old Glory Years of the Housing Bubble. She could always tell an out-of-stater, because they pronounced Tujunga like Tu-jung-a, rather than the Spanish inspired Tu-hung-a.

She pulled up the sandy, gravel side road off Big Tujunga Canyon, careful to ensure the terrain remained firm under her tires. She found it pretty solid, despite the recent rain, and luckily the cabins were just around the bend and not too far.

Jen entered a wider graveled area and found a place to park; turned off the headlights and stepped out into the darkness.

She clicked on her Y2K emergency light and sent a narrow beam over the ground. The cabins loomed up like cartoon outhouses in the artificial light, three of them in total, made of stone and wood with cooking pits and stone-block chimneys. They could be cute and cozy if someone would just light a fire in the hearths. Now they just made Jen think of ritual huts where human sacrifices took place. Jen considered The Blair Witch Project.

Despite all of this she managed to keep on walking, but then suddenly stopped. Maybe I shouldn’t be out here? No one seemed to be home. No cars in the driveways, no inner glow of lamplight. A wailing wind and a pair of yipping coyotes from afar settled the matter.

Fuck this! Her palms were sweating and she was starting to freak. She was walking back the same way she’d come, when her flashlight ran over a familiar object on the ground.

Winchell’s doughnuts.

Oh, that can’t be good. She leapt to a run and collided with a pair of pale, rheumy eyes.

Aaahhh!

He did not flinch. Did not move. Did not so much as bat one greasy eyelash. He did smile, like a psychopath in a cheap, B-horror flick and he smelled, like tuna and bad gas. She gagged. Jennnn! he rasped.

You? What are you doing here?

The boy latched onto her arm and held it. She squirmed and screamed and tried to slip out of his grip but, like an iron band, his hold wouldn’t break. To her horror, she heard a snap of bone and twist of spine, then watched terror-struck as his boyish flesh ballooned to disfigurement. She felt a dry rush of air, or its absence, fill—or empty—the space between them. Just dry air. That, and fur, was all she remembered before the world went dark.

The moon shone silver through the small window into the attic where Jen huddled and contemplated her fate. She’d given up crying hours ago, about the same time she’d given up trying to pull the iron manacles free. Her bruised wrists ensured it.

The Winchell’s bag in the corner served as a crude reminder of how stupid she’d been.

She heard them down below, listened to them now, snorting and scraping. Beasts. Giant, fucked-up grizzly bears. They looked dead or sick, there was something the matter with them. They smelled too, like a mix of garbage and rancid garlic.

She huddled, her arms and chains drawn thickly around her knees, sure that they would kill her soon. Yeah, eat her. Her life had ceased to be believable about five hours ago.

Plodding footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs. Her body went rigid. The door crashed open in a dusty clap, flooding in light and stench. Somehow, impossibly, the creature fit through the attic door. It filled the little space not made to hold an animal so big.

It made a noise of something like disapproval followed by a wet smack on the floor. They did that, these creatures. Snorting like that. Emotion and mucous somehow twining together.

The monster slid a metal bowl across the floor where it crashed like tenpins into a pile of bowls slid before it. Jen didn’t bother to investigate the contents. She knew. A steaming bowl of brown gruel that tickled the gag reflex and reeked of canned dog food. Did they really expect her to eat it?

She listened as oversized, prehensile paws—if such a thing could exist—somehow fiddled with the lock on the door. Then its slow stomp back down the steps. She slumped, relieved. I wonder if I’ll live through this—probably not. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the dark place inside her skull. Dear Lord, I know I never pray, however…

She thought of Bea…and opened her eyes. Who was this Bea character anyhow?

Then she heard something. Where? Outside? Wait, down below…the snorting…stopped. What does it all mean? Will they drag me from the attic and sacrifice my virgin blo—ah, my non-virgin blood?

She pulled on the chains again. Yeah, still chained like a slave. Then she saw it, a flitter outside the little attic porthole near the ceiling, like a flag snapping in the wind.

Jen strained her every muscle, holding her body still and trying to slow her racing heart. Sweat slid down a temple. She trained her eyes on the small, chicken-wire-covered window, listening, waiting, and staring at the mottled shadow of nighttime light that somehow looked like two eyes, a nose and a mouth. Shadows could do that sometimes, light tricks. Then she screamed, because it was two eyes, a nose and a mouth staring back. A thin finger flicked across thin lips before the face disappeared.

Bea?

Jen choked back tears and swallowed her screams as a door whined down below, followed by creaking movements through the house. Other doors opened and closed, their rusty hinges squealing in the darkness. How many fucking doors are there down there? Then air rushed in through the crack beneath the attic door. Her body tensed as footsteps moved slowly up the stairs, footsteps that were lighter, smaller.

Step!

If Bea had come, he meant to rescue her.

Step! Step!

Unless of course, it was Bea’s trap all along. In which case, he would probably kill her.

Step!

Just who was this Bea anyway?

Step!

But he wouldn’t kill her because he was a nice man. And they’d had a nice time together, right?

Step! Step! Step!

Her breath came in short gasps, her body prepared for the worst.

The lock clicked; the door swung. Jen screamed and Bea said, Shh, now Jen. It’s quite all right. I’ve got you and we’re going to get you out of here. Now, stay still. His voice contained a note of controlled hysteria. He was kneeling now, fidgeting with the shackle, jiggling some arcane skeleton key inside it. The shackle let out a dry click. It opened.

H-how d-did you f-find a k-key?

They left it on the kitchen counter.

And th-the m-monsters!

Outside, he said. I brought something to occupy them.

L-like wha-what?

A bag of meat.

She felt a sharp tingle move over her spine. How did you know where I was?

I got a note, he said. Seems you’re the bait for this little trap.

Jen swallowed.

Now, I don’t mean to rush you, of course, but we have—

Heavy footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs.

—to get the fuck outta here. You see they have a very keen sense of smell. His voice cracked slightly. And it won’t be long before they know I’ve come. Give me your wrist. He took her left hand and inserted the key which then snapped off inside.

Bollocks! Bea pulled a thin wire from his coat pocket, twisted it and stuck it into the keyhole. The house groaned as a screen door slapped down below.

Bea, please!

Fiddle-fiddle.

Hold on, love. I’ve almost got it.

Chapter 3

RESCUE

Jen rode on the back of Bea’s motorcycle, wearing a gleaming black, open-faced helmet he’d shoved into her hands at the last minute. Her arms were locked around his waist; head buried in his hair. They sped south down Angeles Crest Highway, the cabins falling into the distance behind them. Her hands and knees were scraped up pretty badly from crawling through the attic window, a place she hadn’t thought human bodies could squeeze through.

After a few minutes, Bea jumped onto the 210 Freeway and cruised west, away from Sunland and Tujunga.

I can’t take you home! he shouted. Not safe.

She didn’t question him. Her wrists ached. Would they turn black and blue? How would she explain that to her mom? She didn’t want to think of that. She didn’t want to think of anything right now. In the space of a few hours, her world had gone psycho. It all seemed like a bad dream, but she wasn’t sleeping.

About two hours later she couldn’t take anymore riding so Bea had to pull over.

She dismounted the bike with sore legs. Where are we?

Good question. He pulled off his helmet and shook out his hair. He produced a sheaf of papers from his coat and studied it.

What’s that?

Bea rubbed his chin and looked up from his paper. Did you go?

Huh?

To the loo?

Oh. How did you know I had to go?

You’re a girl, he said absently.

I’ll go over here, she said, and found a spot near a wrought iron fence. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d had to go until now. She was only partially obscured from Bea, by the tall grass and old gas station ruins they’d stopped by. He was a gentleman, right? She squatted. The wind blew chilly between her legs. She noticed the trees, and how they swayed a little. She also noticed how something could easily pop out and... She finished quickly.

Bea jumped on the kick-start and revved the engine. Ready?

Almost a half-hour later they zipped past a sign: SOLVANG. Jen had heard of Solvang, a Danish settlement which apparently had never figured out it was part of twenty-first century America. As they crossed the city limits, she stared in awe at the view. Even in the dark, the place looked like Disneyland. Every house, every restaurant was straight out of It’s a Small World. But it was charming enough.

Bea threw down two crisp one hundred-dollar bills and purchased fare for the both of them in a cozy, Danish hotel. The man at the counter looked sleepy, which made Jen look at the clock. Four in the morning. Shit, Mom probably already called the cops!

The room wasn’t as nice as the storybook outside had promised, but it looked okay and gave her a dose of comfortable reality. There was something about the inside of a hotel room, with its bed and fixtures, the TV and HBO guide; it made her feel like she still lived in the real world, and that monsters were imaginary. Real, comfortable, and far away from nightmares. At least that’s how it seemed when she stepped inside and considered the last seven hours may have just been a bad drug trip. She didn’t feel stoned, although she knew there were drugs that made you see and feel things other than being stoned. She wasn’t a druggie, but had tried them just like everybody else in her school.

Maybe they had slipped her something in that awful slop? She’d at least tasted some, hadn’t she? Maybe just smelling it was enough? Or perhaps they’d drugged her some other way after she’d passed out in the woods.

Those monsters—had they really been giant, hairy beasts with curved fang-teeth and prehensile claws? No, that was impossible. They had been people. Like people in the movies that wore costumes and dressed up to scare you. Yes, she’d seen a movie like that once. It had been believable, too. In the end, the beasts had just been people from the town wearing costumes. She felt at ease, a plausible explanation which made some sense. With the drugs they’d fed her, it made it all seem so real.

Jen thought of her mom again and the trouble she would be in for not coming home. But when I explain to her what happened...oh hell, I’ll explain it a different way.

The snack tray next to the television was loaded with apples, peanuts, almonds, M&M’s, cereal bars and the like, along with bottles of water, two dollars each. There was also a brochure about something to do with a Hans Christian Andersen library attraction. They ate everything and drank three of the four bottles of water.

I think it’s a good idea to stay in the same room, said Bea, crumpling a wrapper in the palm of his hand.

Yeah, me too. Jen nodded quickly.

So, I’ll take the floor and give you the bed. How does that sound? He threw a pillow down.

Jen nodded. It’d be better if you took the bed, and I took the bed. How does that sound? She was relieved they were at least sharing a room. It made her feel safe, and he was cute so maybe they’d...tell stories.

She kicked off her shoes and stripped down to a white tank top, but her bra was still on, and she couldn’t sleep like that. So, she made her way to the bathroom and took it off. Her breasts were not really big, but they weren’t totally small either. Going hippie-bohemian like this was sure to catch Bea’s attention, which really hadn’t been her plan, but could be a nice bonus.

She washed up as much as possible without taking a shower. Bea sat on the chair, milling about in his coat.

What’re you looking for? she said, sitting down on the bed.

Oh, just a thing. He looked up and locked his eyes immediately on her breasts.

Just a thing, huh?

Yeah. He looked down again into his coat. Ah. There it is. He sat back. Well, you okay or what?

Oh. Yeah, I guess so, all things considered. She drew a pillow up in front of her chest and hugged it. What’s the plan then?

Well, first thing is to get some sleep.

I’ll need to get back sometime around noon. You know, my mom will be freaking out, but I’m not going to call her now.

No!

What?

It’s just that calling would be a bad idea right now, it being so late and what not.

Yeah, I’ll call in the morning, so...that’s cool. Anyways, what do you want to talk about?

Talk about?

Yeah, you know, move your lips and exchange ideas or whatever.

Yes, I am familiar with talking, he said. Listen, it’s past four and we need—

—to save our strength. Yeah, yeah, okay. I can take a hint.

A hint? Of what?

Yeah. There was no comprehension on his face, and she was too embarrassed to explain the sexual implications of the phrase. She flirted with reservation. Because sometimes it’s hard to figure out if a member of the opposite sex is interested in you.

Jen lay down on the bed, and Bea clicked off the lamp. She heard him rustling on the floor and thought about just flat-out inviting him into the bed. She told herself no. She didn’t want him to think her easy or slutty, and besides, she was too shy for that anyhow.

Good night, he said.

Good night, she echoed, and lay quietly staring into the empty dark, thinking about how she definitely didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Not more than five minutes passed before she heard Bea’s deep, labored breathing.

Every time she closed her eyes, though, images of the beasts from the attic burst into her mind. Had they really been real? No, of course not. Don’t be paranoid.

When she was a little girl and scared of the dark, she would sneak into her mom’s room and sleep in her bed. Sometimes she could still smell the booze on her mom’s breath, but it was a familiar smell which told her that things were normal. She would listen to the sound of her mother’s breathing, sometimes snoring, and nestle up close to her. She would feel the heat of her body and it told her that everything was going to be fine. The night frights and monsters in the closet would all melt away, and before long, Jen would fall asleep and wake in the morning, a time when no monsters could exist.

Until Kegger moved in. Afterwards, Jen dared not slip under her mom’s covers, because Kegger slept naked. She’d seen his bare ass walk down the hallway after the first night he’d slept over. Not cool, she’d thought.

Then she would just lay awake in the dark when she got scared and listen to the sound of her own heartbeat. As the years passed and she grew into a teenager, she didn’t get scared anymore. But some nights she would lay awake thinking about boys. Her heart would beat fast then too, but for other reasons entirely.

Tonight was a mixture of the two. She was scared of those monsters, and she couldn’t stop thinking about Bea—a double whammy. There was just no way she was going to be able to sleep by herself, no way at all.

After half an hour, she decided she just wasn’t going to try anymore. She slipped off the bed and, crouching on the floor by the bed skirt, paused. I can’t really do this, can I?

Bea snoozed soundly. It occurred to her that she was crouching by the foot of a bed and monsters typically hide under beds. Sometimes the most frightening fear is the irrational kind.

Decision made. She crawled to Bea and lifted his blanket. Her heart beat wildly now with a mixture of fear and excitement. It was too late to stop and say Oops, wrong bed so she just went through with it and slinked her arms around his waist and spooned him. It was innocent enough.

Hmm? What’s that you’re doin’? he grumbled, half-asleep.

Nothing. Her heart pounded like a racehorse and she could hear the blood thumping in her ears and then she started shivering, the way nerves make you do sometimes when you get all worked up. She wasn’t normally this bold.

Hmm? said Bea.

I got scared, she said. Can’t sleep.

Ah, he mumbled, I see. He grabbed her hand and pulled her arm around his waist. A shot of excitement flared in her chest. He pulled me closer! He likes me! Hee-hee!

Jen felt the heat build between their bodies and the warmth of his hand on hers. It gave her a wonderful feeling of safety. She smelled him too, a sweet, manly body odor, which made her want to snuggle. Pheromones, she thought and then realized with some trepidation that she had BO and should have taken a shower. Oh well.

Before long, her heartbeat slowed to an unnoticeable cadence, her eyes became heavy, and the monsters melted away as she fell asleep, hugging Bea and with a smile on her lips.

Chapter 4

BEASTS

He grunted and blew snot. It was an answer. Snorting snot wasn’t really snorting snot to a werebear. Not like it was to a human. To a werebear, snot and