The Looking Glass: Tales of Light and Dark

By H.L. Sudler

Are you prepared to look in the mirror? Are you ready to look deep inside yourself?

Eleven stories, light and dark, stand ready to guide you through the dark caverns of the heart, through the bizarre corridors of the mind, down into the cell of your soul’s fears.

In GOODMAN, the Devil takes on an unexpected for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archer Publishing
• Release date: Nov 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780984846061

H.L. Sudler

H.L. SUDLER is the author of six books, including Patriarch: My Extraordinary Journey from Man to Gentleman, CafeLiving's Favorite Cocktails (with Keith Vient), Man to Gentleman: A Beginner's Guide to Manhood, his short story collection The Looking Glass: Tales of Light and Dark, and his thriller novel series Summerville and Return to Summerville. His short story The Way of All Flesh was selected for the PATHS Humanitarian Writing Award. He has served as a magazine publisher, a newspaper editor, and a contributing writer to numerous anthologies and periodicals. He was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Washington, DC.

Book preview

Wraith

Marnie heard something go bump in the night, or thought she had. She wasn’t sure.

Whatever it was, it caused her to wake from a deep sleep. For a moment she lay on her side, one hand under her pillow, the other down by her thigh. She opened her eyes and sighed deeply. Her bedroom was bathed in soft blue moonlight filtered through the sheer white curtains on her window.

She cleared her throat, thinking the noise she heard was her imagination. Marnie wanted to return to her dreams of having sex with an actor she’d seen on her favorite nighttime soap. He was beefy and smooth-chested, with thick, dark hair she’d run her fingers through. In the dream he was a friend of Helena, her older sister, and was staying over for the night. He was really interested in Marnie, and had been eyeing her all evening.

After everyone was sleep, he’d snuck into her room. He wore only his pajama bottoms, which hung lowly on his waist. She watched him walk through the moonlight to her bed. She raised up on an elbow, her nightgown falling off her shoulders. Her nipples, hard and pink, were visible through the fabric. She touched his stomach, taut with muscle, then her hand eased down to the growing bulge in his pajama pants.

He tugged them down and Marnie gasped, her eyes lowered hungrily from his chiseled chest to the hair around his navel, to the thing she wanted so badly inside her. He threw off the blanket, and kneeled by the side of her bed. He ran his hands up her legs and beneath her gown, his nails scratched gently along the insides of her thighs, as he lifted her gown above her waist. She watched as he ran his tongue along this same trail, up the inside of her left leg. Then he stopped for just a moment, looking deeply into her eyes. She opened her legs and he lowered his mouth to taste her. Her head fell back and she let out a satisfied sigh, letting his tongue work inside her like a serpent—

There was that noise again. A bump in the night like…

Someone moving in the hallway outside?

Marnie sat up, her dream fading away. She flung back the blankets and stepped onto the soft carpeting. She walked over to her bedroom window and looked down into the street, to a suburban road dark, still, and quiet. She turned and staggered wearily to her bedroom door, stifling a yawn. She opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. It too was dark, still, and silent. Everyone was in bed. Helena, her mother and father, her cousin Steve visiting from New York, who was sleeping downstairs on the living room sofa.

Nothing. Not a sound.

Marnie ventured to the railing that looked over to the steps and down to the first floor.

Quiet.

Oh-kay, she whispered to herself.

She turned and went back to her room, to her private bath. She turned on the light and sat on the toilet. She yawned again and thought about the family reunion on Saturday. She wondered if she could get Steve to take her out afterward. At 20, she wasn’t old enough to get into a club, but maybe Steve and some of her other older cousins could sneak her in, get her a drink or two, introduce her to some hot guys. It was spring. Time to get out again, time to get laid…finally.

She had fooled around a little, but nothing serious. Rich Van Gossen had thumbed her nipples once at a movie theater, and Paulo DiGrassi had once backed her into a corner in the university library, reaching under her skirt and fingering her softly for ten minutes while nibbling at her ear and neck. Those Italians!

Marnie stood and flushed the toilet. She washed her hands in the sink and bent to splash a little water on her face. She was hot, and not from the weather. When Marnie stood up and looked in the mirror, a shadow moved behind her and Marnie jumped, unsure of what she saw. She spun around and in her darkened bedroom, something moved. Someone.

Marnie stood there trembling, her back pressed against the sink. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest and her breath was ragged. She started for the bathroom threshold, then stopped. Her eyes scanned the darkened room, then in a rush she reached in and switched on the light in the bedroom.

It filled with illumination. It was empty.

Marnie frowned, her eyes darting everywhere. She searched the soft pink walls and the matching white bedroom furniture, her closet and her desk and the night tables. She stood still as stone, waiting for something, someone, some noise. But there was only quiet. Stillness.

She sighed, swallowed, and rubbed her forehead. She thought she had been seeing things. She shook her head and turned to flick off the bathroom light and there she was. A woman in all black. An old crone staring back at her from the bathroom. Her face was wrinkled, her head nearly bald, her toothless mouth was sunken, her skin pocked with warts. Her eyes bore into Marnie’s. She was so close that Marnie could feel her hot fetid breath, so close she could feel her body heat.

Marnie screamed, backed away, tripped over her feet and fell. She crawled to her bedroom door, frantically turned the knob and ran into the hallway screaming. The door to her parents’ room tore open, a moment later Steve bound up the stairs, and Helena ran from her room. Someone turned on the hallway light.

Marnie still screaming, pointed to her bedroom. There’s someone in my room! There’s someone in my room!

"What?" her father said.

There’s someone in my room!

Somebody’s in the house? Helena said, alarmed.

Helena, Marnie, come here! Jim yelled. He and Barbara grabbed for their daughters and pulled them toward their bedroom.

Steve, a handsome and fit 30-year-old police officer, 6 years on the NYPD, held out his hand to quiet everyone. He was in blue shorts and a white T-shirt, and tip-toed into Marnie’s bedroom.

Be careful, Steve! Helena yelled, and Marnie shushed her.

There was quiet after he disappeared into the room. Barbara looked at Jim, and he returned her worried gaze. More quiet. More stillness.

A few moments later Steve stepped out into the hallway and looked at them blankly. There’s nobody there.

What are you talking about? I saw her, Marnie said.

"Her?" Helena spat.

There’s nobody in here, sweetie, Steve said, looking back into the room. Not a soul.

No, I’m telling you! There was somebody in my bathroom! A woman, an old woman, ugly with wrinkles and wearing black! Marnie was becoming more hysterical with each word.

Jim reached out to his daughter, and so did Barbara.

"She was there," Marnie screamed, tears sliding down her cheeks, her face reddened.

Oh, dear God. Helena rolled her eyes. I woke up for this?

Screw you! Marnie hissed.

Marnie… Barbara said softly, rubbing her daughter’s shoulder.

Helena put her hand on her hip and looked at Steve. This is nothing new, Steve. When we were kids, she’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Every light on in the house. Everybody running to her bedroom. And for what? Miss Marnie had a nightmare. She’d had too much candy or soda, and had a nightmare. She had to sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed the rest of the night. It was the only way she could get attention as a child.

"Oh, you’re just a hateful witch because nobody paid attention to you, chubby!"

That’s enough, Jim said, ending their argument.

Marnie ran to Steve, then looked into her bedroom.

There was someone in there, Steve, she said, her voice quivered. Her hands squeezed his, as her eyes scanned the room. I could feel her breath…she was that close to me.

Steve Costello looked at his cousin Marnie Petros, and saw real fear in her eyes. He looked over to Helena, standing with her arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. He looked at Marnie’s parents. His mother’s brother, Jim, was running a hand through his thick, black, Greek hair. His wife Barbara stood with haunted eyes, her hand over her mouth.

Unknown to them, this was the start of a cycle of death.

The family reunion two days later was held at Barbara’s brother’s beautiful home in Ojai. Dave Cummings was an investor in Silicon Valley startups, and with his riches he bought a big house neither he nor his wife Tessa needed. He’d bought it for sport, for them to show off, to have parties. Neither wanted kids, only the good life. When Dave wasn’t conducting business, they hardly spent any time there, instead opting for spontaneous trips to London, Hawaii, Montreal, Maui, or Sidney.

Much of the family had driven in to Ojai from Los Angeles, while others had flown in days earlier and stayed at the house, hiking the trails of Ventura County, catching California sun on the lawn, or enjoying late-night drinks around the fire pit. Jim, Barbara, Marnie, Steve, and Helena drove in from Santa Barbara, about an hour away. By the time they arrived mid-afternoon the party was in full swing. Dave had someone in the outdoor kitchen, manning the barbecue pit. Dance music was blaring for the kids, and two bartenders worked overtime to keep the adults happy.

The closest ones here, the last to arrive, Tessa said, hugging them all. Come in, come in!

She was one of those beautiful women of a certain age, stylish and ageless. She was still sexy and youthful, with a wide smile that showcased bright, white teeth, and long flowing black hair she’d gracefully fling back when she laughed. Being rich agreed with her.

Amy’s here. So is Madeline, Hank, Tobias, and Cleo, Tessa said, holding her sister-in-law Barbara around the waist and walking them from the living room, through the dining room and the large kitchen to the back. Mac brought her kids, and Jeremy brought his.

She suddenly stopped, put up her hands, and looked around the kitchen for eavesdroppers, then turned to face them before they went outside. They gathered closely knowing she was about to share some juicy gossip, as Tessa always had juicy gossip whenever she and Dave held these sort of events. She whispered.

Danny brought his Black gay lover Sidney. Steve, you’re from New York. I assume that doesn’t put you out.

Steve smiled. No, ma’am.

Good. Changing the subject, Tessa said, Oh, and you should all know that Trace and Claire are here with their teenaged kids, except the one that’s in college, thank God.

Who, Aston? Barbara asked.

Yes, Tessa replied, exasperated. "If he had come, I’d have had to lock up every valuable I own. How is it that someone who comes from money is still a thief? Can someone explain that to me?"

Every family needs a black sheep, Jim said, smiling. What’s to drink around here?

"We’ve got everything! Tessa said, beaming, her bright red nails on full display. Marnie, dear, are you drinking yet?"

She’s not old enough, Helena answered for her.

Shut up, Marnie snapped.

No, she’s not drinking yet, Barbara said.

"Why not? She’s almost 21, Tessa said, taking Marnie by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. She frowned then turned back to the family. I have the most wonderful white wine sangria. Go and join the party. I’m stealing Marnie."

Tessa linked her arm through Marnie’s and strolled with her through the large yard to one of the bar stands. She waved at guests as she spoke to her.

You look tired. Are you okay?

I’m fine, Marnie said, not meeting her eyes.

Liar.

It’s nothing.

Tessa stopped at the bar. Two white wine sangrias, Sam. She turned back to Marnie. How’s university?

Good.

You studying hard? You really do look tired, Tessa asked, fingering one of her pearl earrings.

I didn’t sleep well last night…or the night before.

One of these days I’m going to convince your mother to let Dave and I take you on one of our fantastic vacations. Hedonism like you’ve never known!

Italy!

"Italian men are so irresistible, Tessa said, passing Marnie a drink. She took a sip of her own and smiled when Steve came over. Steve, keep Marnie company. It looks like we have more guests. I invited Penny Carlyle from down the road. She’s single—again!—and any man here is fair game, God help us all."

Who’s the Black kid in your kitchen? Steve asked.

She turned to him, a bewildered look on her face. What kid?

There’s a little Black kid in the kitchen. A boy…with a knot on his head.

Tessa looked through the crowd into her wide kitchen. She turned back. There’s no one there.

Steve looked over her shoulder. I just saw him. He was standing right there. He pointed where she was looking.

There’s no one in there now, Tessa said, making a face. She turned away and started after Penny Carlyle, saying over her shoulder, Eat some barbecue, there’s too much!

"Now you’re seeing things," Marnie said to Steve. They’d gotten food as instructed, and were sitting in the kitchen where it was quieter than outside. The wall between the kitchen and the back was all glass, so they could easily look out to the party.

Really, Steve said, before biting into his hamburger. There was a little Black kid standing right here in this kitchen.

Just like I saw that woman in my bedroom, Marnie said, biting off a piece of spare rib. There was an old woman in my room. She was old and ugly and…and…

Steve looked up at Marnie. Her eyes bulging, her mouth open, her gaze fixed on something outside, past the crowd. Marnie’s face reddened and tears filled her eyes. She started to shake.

Steve frowned and followed her gaze. All he could see were the people from the party, laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. When he turned to Marnie again, she was pointing in horror. She stood so abruptly she knocked over her chair.

Marnie, what’s wrong? What is it? What do you see? Who are you looking at?

HER! She’s there! She’s right there! Marnie screamed.

Steve turned and looked outside again, his eyes frantically searched the crowd of people. He stood up and walked to the sliding glass doors, looking frantically for the old woman. He saw no sign of her and turned back to Marnie. He froze. She was clawing at her throat, her face scarlet, her eyes focused but blank.

She was choking, looking at him. When she saw him seeing her, she held out her arms and reached for him. Her knees buckled and she grabbed at the table as she fell, their plates and glasses crashed to the floor. Steve caught her and titled her head back, her eyes rolling up to their whites. Her face was a deep red now, and she was struggling to breathe.

Steve reached his fingers into her mouth to move her tongue, to see if there was food stuck there. Nothing. Whatever it was, it was in her throat. He turned her over and put a fist under her rib cage.

Steve, what’s going on? Jim said, suddenly behind him.

She’s choking. Call an ambulance!

Guests started to gather around in shock, calling her name. Barbara screamed as Marnie Petros became limp and lost consciousness. Lack of oxygen rendered her comatose a few days later. After a month of deliberation, she was taken off life support. She was dead within the hour.

A month later, Penny Carlyle, who was at the party, sat in an Ojai spa, having her toes done by a young Russian woman. Penny’s hair was in a towel, and she was wearing a plush robe, sipping mineral water, and leafing through a magazine. She had been in the spa much of the morning, and had gotten a deep tissue massage, hot stone treatment, and had finished with a clay mask.

Dave and Tessa had closed down their home and had gone to Santa Barbara to be with Dave’s sister and her family. Penny decided to get away herself. Newly out of her third marriage, she thought a cruise would be perfect to lift her spirits. She just had to decide where she wanted to go with only two months left in summer.

Something on the TV caught Penny’s attention.

Dear, please turn up the volume so I can hear, she instructed the woman doing her pedicure.

The young woman reached for the remote and unmuted the television on the tail end of a story by news anchor Randi Robeson.

"…to heal the country after such a divisive presidential race. In other news, a woman claims that Santa Monica police are not taking her reports seriously enough that her daughter was killed by a strange man she said had been stalking her the last month and a half.

Julia Bailey says her 16-year-old daughter Alisa had become hesitant to go out in recent weeks, because a strange white-haired man had been loitering near her part-time job at a concession stand on the Santa Monica pier. A week later, Alisa Bailey was found dead in her home with a broken neck after an apparent fall from a step ladder. The police forensics team had concluded the death was accidental and that the teenager had been alone in her locked house at the time of her death.

The camera cut away from the news anchor to the distraught and tearful Julia Bailey being interviewed on her front lawn.

My daughter said an overweight white-haired man had been stalking her. Everywhere she went he was there, in school, in the neighborhood, but mostly at her job on the pier. I had her quit her job to stay home. Julia Bailey broke down in sobs. But when she didn’t answer the phone, I knew something was wrong. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I know he got to her.

The camera cut back to Randi Robeson.

Santa Monica police say they have no further comment on Alisa Bailey’s death. Bailey’s older brother Brandon says his sister was an avid swimmer and was excited about upcoming regional trials that would have put her on track for next summer’s Olympics. When asked, the Bailey family confessed they never saw a white-haired man in the neighborhood surrounding the family home in recent weeks.

Randi Robeson arrived at her Inglewood apartment a couple of hours after she finished her early afternoon broadcast. She had done the 4:00 AM and noon shifts, and had packed in a couple of meetings with her producers for remote broadcasts next week. Randi had promised to call her brother on the east coast that evening to touch base with him and the family in Virginia. It had been a month or so since they last spoke, and she owed him a call.

Hey, Jack, it’s me Randi.

Hey!

What’s up? I got your message.

Jack Robeson sighed. It’s Daryl.

What’s wrong with him?

He’s moping again. Walking around the fucking house like he’s got the world on his goddamn shoulders. This kid has everything we didn’t have. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.

Did you ask?

I ask him what’s wrong, he says nothing. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to go out, he doesn’t want to be with kids his own age. He just wants to sit up in his room, playing with his fucking computer. Leslie thought he was gay and we flat out asked him.

What’d he say?

He said no, but I lost my cool. I told him if he wanted to sit around moping like a pussy then I couldn’t help him.

Go easy on him. He’s a teenager. You know how they are. They need you until they don’t. Then they won’t tell you if they do, until it’s too late.

I don’t know, Jack sighed. I got enough on my plate with the business and the house, I just don’t have time for this shit. Can’t wait till he graduates and gets the fuck out. He can do this poor-me shit on his own time.

Jack Robeson had no idea his son Daryl had come in the back door while he was talking on the phone in the kitchen. Hearing how his dad hated him, and what an inconvenience he was, made Daryl want to cry. His father was tall, muscular, and handsome with thick brown hair. Daryl knew he would never measure up to him. He was a skinny, mousy kid, with none of his father’s gruff, masculinity, good looks, or the easy way he made friends. Worse, they shared nothing in common. His dad was a landscaper, was into sports, and even rode a motorcycle. And Daryl...he was a geek. Chess club, computer club, science club.

Jack turned and caught Daryl standing there. What the fuck!

I just got in.

Jack shook his head. You want something or you just gonna stand there listening to my conversation?

I wasn’t listening to your conversation.

Then what were you doing?

Nothing...

Where’ve you been?

Daryl shrugged. At the library.

The library? It’s summer. Why aren’t you out playing sports or with your friends?

Daryl shrugged again and looked away.

Jack closed his eyes and sighed deeply, clearly frustrated. Go upstairs.

What’s to eat?

Go upstairs.

I’m hungry—

You want me to smack the shit outta you? Go upstairs. Your mother and I’ll call you when the pizza gets here.

Daryl sighed and looked down to the floor. He walked slowly out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his bedroom, knowing his father’s eyes were scornfully following him every step of the way.

I swear this kid was switched at birth. He’s nothing like me at all. Nothing, Jack said to Randi.

Upstairs, Daryl turned on the light to his room and shut the door. He leaned against it and closed his eyes. A wave of sadness covered him so completely he could hardly breathe. Why was he so different from his father? And why didn’t his father like him the way he was?

Are you a fag? Just tell us so we know what to do with you, his father had asked once, red-faced, his muscles bulging in his T-shirt.

Another time when they didn’t know he was home his mother said to his father, Guess you’re kicking yourself now for saying no to another child when I said I wanted one.

He’d even heard his aunt Randi, a famous Los Angeles newscaster, once whisper to his dad during a visit, It’s amazing how he’s not like either one of you.

No, he wasn’t. And that made him feel like an outsider in his own home. He felt trapped with parents who couldn’t relate to him, who he couldn’t talk to. At times it seemed they barely tolerated his existence. Why were they so against him just because he wasn’t like them? No, he didn’t like baseball or hockey, wasn’t on the soccer or lacrosse teams. He didn’t like playing football, touch or tackle. He wasn’t interested in live bands or dirt biking or shooting. He was happy with his books, his computers, and he really liked robotics.

But even at school, life was miserable. The kids were so mean.

Hey, Pencil Dick? You’re such a fucking dweeb. You should fucking kill yourself, you know that, dude? You’re a worthless piece of shit. Get the fuck outta my way.

Daryl plodded over to his window and looked out at the back yard. He knew she’d be there. In the early evening’s light, she had to be there. And she was. The Japanese girl. Standing on the lawn, looking up at him. So beautiful, with her long straight black hair, and deep enticing eyes. She was in a gorgeous chocolate colored dress, her lips small and red, her face oval, and to Daryl, perfect.

He knew who she was. Or rather, what she was. A ghost who followed him everywhere. He saw her in his classes, on the side of the road on his way home from school, in the library, at the foot of his bed in the mornings. She had been appearing to him in recent weeks. And he knew what she wanted. Something she could not, would not, tell him, but that he knew all the same.

Do it…

Do it…

Dinner was silent, or at least it was to him. His parents talked to each other, but not him. They sat outside, on the deck, enjoying their pizza, beer, and cigarettes, listening to rock music, enjoying each other’s company. He took his pizza up to his room and ate and came to a decision.

That night, very late, he snuck out of the house. On his bike, he followed the Japanese girl, who showed up every few miles on the side of the darkened bike path. He followed her to their final destination. He’d taken nothing with him. Not even his house keys.

This would not be a return trip.

You’ll never guess what happened, Candice Costello said to her husband Steve. She’d just hung up the kitchen phone and joined him in the living room, where he sat watching highlights of the Yankees Sunday game on the news.

What’s that?

Sue told me that Jack Robeson’s not coming to the high school reunion.

That a big deal?

Yeah. They found his son’s body floating in a river somewhere in northern Virginia.

Steve turned to his wife. Really?

Yep. Apparently, Jack and his wife thought their son had run away. They filed a missing person’s report, told police nothing was out of the ordinary, he was fine, blah blah blah. Police there think he jumped from a bridge between DC and Virginia. He’d been missing for two months and they just recovered his body.

Damn. Steve shook his head. Nothing but bad news this year, I tell ya.

Candice was silent a moment, knowing Steve was thinking of his cousin Marnie who had died last spring. She’d choked to death at a family reunion, of all places, deathly afraid of some ugly, old woman she thought was following her. Candice closed her eyes and thanked God that even though Steve was a cop with the NYPD, he always managed to come home safe to her and their son.

I’m going to put Eric to bed.

Nah, I’ll do it. You get ready for me. He turned off the set and playfully slapped his wife’s ass.

Meet you in the bedroom?

Yes, ma’am.

Steve walked down the hall to his son’s room.

Hey buddy, what you doing?

Looking for my Halloween costume.

Bit early for that, don’t cha think?

Eric shrugged as Steve sat on the bed.

I used to like Halloween. Lots of parties and candy.

That’s kid’s stuff. I just like the costumes.

What are you thinking? Freddy, Jason?

Football man, Eric said.

Football man? he said, smiling. What position? Quarterback? Wide receiver?

His son shrugged again.

When I was a kid we had Mean Joe Green, Lynn Swann, The Purple People Eaters...

Dad, those people are old!

He started to say something, but instead smiled. He looked to his son’s closet, on the door a large poster of his favorite pop group, NSYNC. He started to turn back to his son, when his eye caught something behind the door. It was slightly ajar, and there was movement in the shadows, slight, quiet.

Steve stood up and went over to the closet. He opened the door and looked inside. Nothing.

He pulled the overhead string that turned on the light. He looked around the closet. There were clothes on hangers, shoes on the floor, a football, a baseball, and a little boy hiding in the corner.

Steve was about to turn off the light when he saw him, standing there, still, silent, with the most haunting face he’d ever seen on a child. He was Black, no more than six. He had on a blue and white striped T-shirt, and had a bruise on his forehead that had been there a while, by the looks of it. It was the kid from the party in California. The one Marnie teased him about before she choked to death.

Now you’re seeing things.

Steve jumped back against the door. He turned to his son to ask him who the kid was and what was he doing in the closet. When he looked inside the closet again, the boy was gone.

He snatched at the clothes, yanking them aside, but found nothing.

Dad, tell me a story.

Steve looked around the room, confused, his eyes searching every corner, every dark space.

Dad...

Yeah, buddy.

Tell me a story.

He was distracted. You know your mom doesn’t like me to tell you police stories. She says you can’t sleep and then you take too long to get up in the morning.

He pulled on the overhead string in the closet, darkness falling once again, his eyes doing a final check of the space. He closed the closet door firmly and went to sit on his son’s bed.

Get under the covers, buddy.

Eric got under the covers and stared at him, but Steve didn’t notice. He was thinking of something. Something he should have thought of a long time ago.

They say that people believed wild and crazy things during eclipses.

No, not that one again, Eric whined.

What do you want to hear then? he asked, shaking his head, trying to forget his morbid thoughts.

Tell me a ghost story, his son whispered, devilishly. Mom doesn’t have to know if you don’t tell her.

I don’t know, buddy, he said, patting his leg. His son seemed determined to take him down a road to his past, to a distant memory.

"Dad, please," Eric begged.

Okay, he relented. He sighed and took a moment, his eyes far off, seeing a distant memory.

They say that when you see a ghost...that sometimes it’s a spirit that has died and doesn’t want to go to Heaven. It likes it here on earth, walking around, seeing friends and familiar places. Steve paused while Eric snuggled deeper under the covers.

"They say when you see a ghost, that sometimes the ghost doesn’t know it’s dead. That it thinks it’s still alive. It goes on, doing the things it’s always done.

"They say that when you see a ghost, that sometimes it’s trying to talk to you, trying to tell you something. Maybe you’re pregnant. Maybe trying to give you a warning. Maybe it just misses you. Or maybe it’s mad and wants to get back at you. Maybe it wants you to get out of its space. Maybe the ghost feels forgotten, because they’re no longer alive...

But my pop-pop used to have a saying.

What did he say?

Steve swallowed, remembering the conversation like it was yesterday. He was about Eric’s age, visiting his grandfather’s farm in New Jersey, his grandfather eating tomatoes right off the vine with salt. It was a sunny and golden summer day, the air filled with floating white dandelion flowers.

He said that sometimes when you see a ghost, the ghost is not dead at all. The ghost is you. It’s who you’ll become after you die, when your soul comes back to earth. It’s you in your next life. Same soul, different body. He called them wraiths. They come to earth to tell you that you’re going to die, that this is who you’ll be…next.

What’s a wraith?

He called it...a fetch...or something like that. I can’t remember all of what he said. I do remember him saying this wraith was not yet alive, had never been alive. But will be. At your expense. And it comes to earth to tell you that it’s almost time for you to go. That it’s their turn.

How do you know what it looks like? Does it wear a sheet?

His eyes darted to his son’s face but his voice was distant. My grandfather said that I would know when it happened. I would know.

There was quiet in the room. And he took a deep breath before coming back to himself.

It’s time for bed, buddy. Get some sleep. He added, chuckling, "After all...tomorrow is another day."

He kissed Eric long and hard on his forehead. He watched his son turn over onto his stomach and close his eyes. Steve pulled the blanket up around him. He turned off the light and walked out of his son’s room. He turned off lights in the apartment, the last in the hallway.

Before the light extinguished, there was the little boy again, watching him sorrowfully, his eyes so sad. He smiled at the boy briefly, apologetically, then turned to go into the bedroom to make love to his wife. They wanted to have another child. It seemed like a good idea, given the signs.

He thought with a little humor, Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today? God only knew how much time he had.

Steve Costello closed his bedroom door on the day and the darkness. He enjoyed making long and vigorous love to his wife. Later, he imagined what his child would look like as a newborn, by their fifth birthday, as a teen. He dozed in Candice’s arms and drifted off into a peaceful night’s sleep, warm, safe, and comfortable. His last.

It was September 10, 2001.

Night as We Know It

It was night, full dark no stars. They were on their knees, outside, the two of them, hands up. The black asphalt was wet and shiny. Fire raged all around them. Intense heat radiating, the crackling infernos burning orange and yellow. Guns and rifles were pointed at them. They were bloody, their faces, hair and hands. They were panting, out of breath.

Johns Mayweather turned to Nick Fullwood and said, Tell them a story.

Tell me a story.

This was how it was between them when they were at Franklin Charter Academy, Nick telling Johns made up stories as they sat across from each other in the school cafeteria.

Johns was a football star, beefy, brown hair, and as the girls would say, hawt. Those eyes, those large hands, an upper torso that narrowed down to a trim waist, muscular ass, and hairy legs that fueled many a daydream, and caused many a sigh. He would sit across from Nick, chomping down on a sandwich, guzzling chocolate milk, prepping for the fruit cocktail and cookies he had ready for dessert.

Nick had been an unlikely friend. Johns was good at sports but not good at too much else, and the two made an unspoken pact. They