Death's Entanglements

By Doug Lewars

It all seemed so simple. Avoid a financial crunch during a recession by building a new golf course. A buyer was prepared to pay as much as David Westlain wanted, perhaps more. Then came an unexpected dispute over the rights. It should have been simple. There was plenty of land, but political constraints made it necessary to build in one particular area. When a blockade closed the best route north, conflict began and political expediency drove a wedge between the town and those who manned the blockade. Tempers grew hot.

Carefully, the Dark Lord maneuvered the players until two young children were forced to come face to face with a murder, and the murderer. Terrified they fled, but events had been put in play such that only the death of the witnesses could secure a future for the killer. And he knew it.
'This was all wrong. Alex was standing watching what was happening. He was petrified with fear, but wasn’t exactly sure what he was afraid of. The bad man was nearby, but couldn’t get him, not with the police around. The man on the ground had stopped moving, but he was still covered with blood. Alex suspected he was dead. The police seemed to think the stranger was the bad man. That wasn’t right. Everything was moving so fast.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Lewars
• Release date: Mar 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215715291

Doug Lewars

Although not quite over-the-hill, Doug is certainly approaching the summit. He lives in Etobicoke which is a polite way of saying West Toronto. When not exercising such creative talents as he may possess, Doug may be found gardening or out somewhere fishing. He comes with a large bald spot, a dark sense of humour, and a fondness for chocolate eclairs – or chocolate anything actually.

Book preview

Even before the sun crested the horizon, Huritt Kekouk knew it was going to be a scorcher of a day. It wasn’t unpleasant – not yet, but it was only five-thirty and the temperature was already twenty-three, and the humidity, well, Huritt didn’t know, but he knew it was going to get hot. He shook his head. The weather couldn’t be explained. It was May in Thunder Bay. The temperature was usually above freezing – but not by much. Normally it would be hat, padded-jacket and warm-boots weather. Suddenly an unexpected and largely unprecedented shift in the winds had turned early spring into mid-summer.

The woods were quite pleasant. The hunter moved as quietly as he could, aware any sound could spook his quarry. He wasn’t as skilled as his father had been. That man could move like a ghost, but Huritt had learned quite a bit from the old man and his footfall was light. He would have preferred to approach the game from downwind, but there wasn’t the slightest breeze to stir the leaves, cover his sound or carry away his scent. He would just have to hope the deer were as torpid as just about every person he’d encountered over the last couple of days.

What he was doing was not entirely in accordance with the law. True, the law made allowance for aboriginal hunting, but still, he was hunting out of season, without a licence, on private land, and carrying a Winchester M94 without a permit - but after all, the gun registry would probably be scrapped soon anyway - and, possibly, most questionable of all, he was using bait - a salt lick left more than a week ago. It should have received plenty of attention over the past few days. There was at least a slight possibility enforcement officers of the Ministry of Natural Resources might look a trifle askance at what he was doing, so he thought it best to get in early, get a deer and get out before there was any fuss.

Strictly speaking, Huritt thought many police officers were overly picky about small details. He had no intentions of taking an eighteen point buck, not that there would be any this time of year, but all he wanted was a small deer between a hundred and two hundred pounds to put meat on his table seeing as the recession had limited his income to such an extent it was either do a bit of poaching or go on the dole. He had seen plenty of people do the latter, but had never seen anyone better off for doing so. It kept starvation away and provided clothing and perhaps a few other things, but what it gave in material benefits it took away from the spirit. The only thing left was the dry husk of a man, one good only for injecting drugs, drinking alcohol, and eventually winding up in jail or dead. Such was not for Huritt.

In his opinion, he was doing the white-men a favour by culling a few deer now and then. There were too many and the official hunt was too short. Development had reduced the older forests and replaced them with new growth just perfect for a hungry deer. In addition, there was a reduction in their natural predators, so the deer did what deer do best. They bred. And they thrived. Then new arrivals came from some place where the world was nothing but concrete, glass and asphalt, and ‘wow, there’s a deer’, followed by ‘hey, those damn deer have eaten all my best plants and why doesn’t someone do something to get rid of them?’ Huritt Kekouk was doing just that.

This was a particularly good place to hunt. The property was owned by one Leonard Rigby a senior executive for some large company with offices in Toronto and a head office somewhere in New York. Beyond that Huritt knew nothing about him and cared less. Rigby had purchased it as a retreat some five years before, and immediately surrounded it with a wire fence decorated with lots of ‘No Trespassing’ and ‘No Hunting’ signs thereby keeping hunters out and allowing the deer population to grow still further. Huritt and Leonard had met on one occasion. It turned out Leonard was a member of PETA and had seen fit to castigate Huritt for his official livelihood which was guiding hunters during hunting season and fishermen the rest of the year. On that occasion Huritt had been too surprised by the sudden invective seeming to come from nowhere to say much, but the incident still rankled, so he made a point of poaching on Rigby’s land whenever possible. It wasn’t much of a challenge because Rigby spent so much of his time in New-York, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

The sun still wasn’t up, but there was a bit of light filtering into the woods because the leaves weren’t out yet. That changed things from pitch black to mostly black. Mostly black was better because Huritt had pretty good eyes. All he needed was a silhouette or a bit of movement. Technically speaking, hunters are not supposed to shoot at movement in case it happens to be another hunter, a farmer, a game warden or someone out for a walk, but at such an early hour and on private land, he didn’t expect anyone would be around.

Cautiously he took two more steps to the edge of the clearing. On the other side he could see the faintest bit of white from his salt-lick, and there in the clearing, nibbling a bit of grass, was a fine doe. He looked about for any fawns but didn’t see any. He wanted meat. It was not his intent to leave one or more orphans out in the woods to starve. He realized shooting a doe was another thing the Ministry frowned upon, but generally he found them more tender and tasty than the bucks. This one looked positively delicious.

Carefully he raised the gun to his shoulder. He moved slowly and silently, but something, a scent, the tiniest of sounds must have reached her because she was instantly alert, her head in the air. The sound of the shot seemed to echo endlessly through the silent woods. Huritt prayed no-one was around because it would have carried forever through the stillness. Quickly he moved to the fallen animal and hoisted it over his shoulders. He knew she would be heavy but he hadn’t realized she’d be quite that heavy. She must be close to two hundred pounds. Getting shot served her right for being such a glutton. Still, it would be difficult walking back to his pick-up and not something he could manage in silence.

Sweating, cursing under his breath, and crashing through the undergrowth he made his way to the road. As he got close, he stopped and listened for traffic sounds. It was technically a highway, but traffic was never heavy and pretty much guaranteed to be non-existent so early in the morning; still, there was always the possibility someone might be about. Hearing nothing, he broke cover, hurried the last few yards, dumped the body in the back of the truck and threw a tarp over it. Then he opened the passenger door, pulled out a change of clothing and quickly replaced his bloodied garments with a fresh shirt and jeans. Satisfied he wasn’t obvious should someone see him, he bundled the soiled garments into a plastic bag, dumped them on the passenger floor, walked around to the driver’s side, got in, started the ignition and drove away. Finally he could start to relax. He had his deer. There’d be plenty of meat on his table for the next few months. If he was lucky, the recession would let up, so the wealthy hunters from the large urban areas in the States would make their way to Canada looking for trophy antlers in the fall.

Chapter 2 – Dark Meeting

A human might have called it an office; but humans had no reference by which it could be understood. It was in a dimension not part of the universe nor even the multiverse. It was the realm of the Dark Lord. In it was the Grid holding the souls of the multitudes in timeless, dreamless slumber – stasis. It was where Balchor hunted for those he required to carry on his work.

Over the centuries, emissaries of the Dark Realm had entered the human world at regular intervals, there, to carry out whatever their masters required; however, there were too few for Balchor’s liking - too few to ensure the Wraith would be corrupted and returned to the pit, and from there, cajoled into the grid, for no-one was compelled into Stasis. They went of their own free-will, driven by despair. The Wraith was dangerous, for in him was the seed of hope that might topple the Dark Realm.

There were four ways in which the Dark Realm could influence happenings on Earth. Souls could be attached to living hosts and then born into the world. That was the easiest and preferred method requiring the least energy and delivering a servant both loyal and powerful in magical talent. The most difficult method was to transfer a life form from the Dark Realm directly to the dimension of the Universe. The energy expenditure was enormous and the organic result frequently defective. If, however, the creature lived, and was sufficiently human to fit in with the populous, it was a good servant and also a powerful magic user. In between were the options of co-opting a human to become a servant of the Dark Lord, or possessing one. The former could be problematic, because the human might have an agenda unaligned with the Dark Lord’s. Worse yet the creature would likely have sufficient independence to execute it. On the other hand, possession might meet resistance. If successful, the individual would be unreliable, probably stupid, and certainly incompetent when it came to magic; nevertheless, possession was on Balchor’s mind as he studied the mirror allowing him to peer darkly into the world of light.

His people, if such a term can be applied to disembodied inhuman souls, had identified a number of candidates none of whom were particularly suitable. The most promising was a young woman named Crystal Sorlis. Admittedly she was an alcoholic and a recreational drug user, but she possessed sufficient psychological aberrations to make her a candidate. As Balchor reviewed the information provided on her, he nodded approvingly at her complete indifference to a vehicular death she had witnessed. Her support was for the young man driving the car. As soon as they were able to get away from the police interrogation and off to somewhere private, she had demonstrated her admiration in a manner he found most pleasing.

Her erratic nature would be a problem – that, and the fact there was a very good chance she’d wind up in jail before she could be co-opted. Still, the other candidates were worse.

A second problem was she appeared to be under what humans referred to as ‘house arrest’. It was a complex concept for Balchor and he didn’t entirely understand it, but, it seemed she was compelled to stay where should would normally reside. Balchor felt there was probably more to this than was readily apparent; nevertheless, if, as he was led to believe, it was a form of punishment, he failed to understand the mechanics of how it worked. It did however, make contact problematic. While he had a number of reliable agents in that dimension, those who were resident were too far away for convenience.

Crystal Sorlis was an actress, model and singer of some accomplishment. In human terms, she was a ‘star’ of screen, stage, catwalk and television. She was also a hedonist. With no drugs or alcohol in her residence, and having to wear an ankle bracelet forcing conformity to her court-ordered house arrest, she was very frustrated. Even worse, her personal assistant had the day off so she had no-one to yell at. She thought of going on the internet and complaining, but her technical skills were so rudimentary she couldn’t even access a social media website without assistance from someone else. She turned on the television. She turned it off again. She paced. She picked up her phone and checked to see who had called her. No-one had called her. Being under house arrest made her about as popular as rabies among the Los Angeles show-business elite. For probably the ten-thousandth time she thought about how unfair the whole thing was. True, she’d been caught driving drunk for the third time, and without a license, but, unlike … what was his name again? Well, whatever it was, unlike him she hadn’t killed anyone. She wouldn’t mind phoning him and suggesting he come over for a bit of afternoon sex, but she’d deleted his number. She considered phoning her agent, but the probability of her picking up was arbitrarily close to zero. She was not wanted by any of the studios nor anyone else for that matter. Well she’d show them! She wasn’t sure just how, but she’d show them!

Balchor nodded and approved. This individual was ready for the taking. If he’d had an agent in the neighborhood she’d be his in less than five minutes. Unfortunately he had no agent so all he could do was watch and consider the possibility of manipulating her surroundings so it might seem she had a poltergeist in the house. If he could get her to believe in the supernatural, then she might decide to appease her boredom through experimentation although he thought it unlikely. She seemed far too stupid to carry out even the simplest spell.

He glanced over the other candidates and decided to leave them for later. There were plenty of murderers, rapists, and others who had nothing to contribute to society. In many respects they were all suitable, but, like Crystal, they all required work to recruit.

With only a very limited ability to operate in the human dimension, Balchor looked around to see who else might be able to assist. There was an agent, Mavis Lockwood who had stayed with Crystal through some difficult times. She evidently felt there was some good lying deep within Miss Sorlis. That, in Balchor’s opinion suggested Miss Lockwood was sufficiently nuts to be a candidate herself; but in most respects she was pretty stable, so he had to consider her a minor tool, occasionally subject to suggestions He studied her carefully. It was evening in Los Angeles but she was still hard at work, contacting various individuals within the show business industry who might need one or more of her clients. Most of the calls were fruitless and served only to maintain her contacts, but now and then she’d manage to acquire a minor part, possibly nothing more than a commercial, but outside of Crystal her clients were largely unknown and therefore anything was better than nothing.

Crystal was well known. Unfortunately what was known about her wasn’t flattering. Mavis didn’t even bother mentioning her to those she contacted because she knew it was useless. Perhaps, if her client managed to avoid drugs and booze for at least three months, some interest might arise, but there was nothing for the moment.

It started to grow late even for agents, so she packed it in for the night and headed off to bed. Balchor turned his attention to Crystal. Amazingly, she, too was in bed, apparently having become bored with pouting. Bereft of anything to stimulate her shallow mind, she’d given up and thrown herself on the bed, presumably to cry dramatically, but, in fact, to merely doze off. Perfect, thought Balchor, it was time to begin her education.

In her dream, Crystal found herself standing on a beach looking out over an ocean with waves running onto the sand. The sky was grey and there was a bit of mist, but in the distance she could see the shape of a small island jutting above the water. If it was just rock, or if there was vegetation she couldn’t tell. Near the water’s edge she saw people – perhaps a family – running towards a large box on the beach. In spite of herself she was curious, so she started walking towards them.

Before she could get close, she chanced to look down and saw a mirror lying in the sand, but when she stooped to pick it up, the face reflected was not her own. It was an older woman from a time long before, when hair was customarily worn in a bun and the dresses were long and formidable. The woman seemed somehow familiar and was certainly pretty, but before Crystal could begin to think about what she was seeing, the image changed once more and the woman grew older and was wearing a bonnet popular in the eighteen hundreds.

Somehow the image appalled Crystal. She threw the mirror away and turned her attention back to the family, but they had disappeared and the shore was empty. Above her sea birds circled crying mournful songs suggesting life was fleeting and only the grave a surety.

Horrified, she put both hands over her ears and tried to run, but her feet would no longer obey. With the birds overhead she walked until she came around some trees and saw a small cottage. There had been a fire and all that was left were ashes and the smell of something burnt. A woman appeared and began walking towards the house. Fearing danger, Crystal attempted to shout a warning but all she could manage was a gasp. As the woman drew closer she began to stagger and finally collapsed. Even as she fell, and melted into the earth, she turned and Crystal saw the grinning visage of a skull under the flowered hat.

She screamed, or tried to, but no sound could she utter. Instead the dream changed and she found herself standing on a boat watching people standing around a casket, presumably holding a funeral. Horrified, but unable to look away she watched as they finished the ceremony and then slowly and carefully tied lead weights to the coffin and began easing it over the side, until, with a splash it sank into the depths.

The group who had been at the funeral, vanished. From the cabin someone emerged. He didn’t seem to see her but walked to the rail and stood staring at the passing waves. Without meaning to, Crystal uttered a small gasp, for surely this was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen and she was something of a connoisseur. Was he sad? Had he lost someone close to him? Was the person in the coffin someone he had once loved?

Part of her longed to approach. Part of her sensed danger. Somehow, should she take the next step, she might be lost forever. She hesitated.

He turned abruptly, returned to the cabin and closed the door. Crystal stepped forward intending to look through the porthole, but before she could do so, there was a whirr of feathers and a nameless creature landed in front of her. It was all black, and looked like a giant crow with human features. Folding its wings, it stepped forward. Where its fingers should be were talons and they reached to tear and grab at her.

She turned and ran, terror giving her speed but before she could go more than a few steps she felt a claw-like hand grip her shoulder and pull her into the creature’s embrace. She screamed and woke up, her body covered with sweat, her heart racing and her breath coming fast. Was it really just a dream? She looked around half expecting to see the thing emerge from her closet. Pulling her knees to chin she huddled on the bed. Had she anything in the house – booze, drugs – anything, she would have taken them without hesitation, but there was nothing. Her parole officer had seen to that. All she could do was sit and tremble.

Mavis, too, was having a dream. In her dream she was sitting at her desk working. In front of her was a computer and she was scrolling through names and making call after call but no-one answered. Surprise turned gradually to shock. No-one ever failed to answer. They might not answer in person, almost never did; however, there was always an answering message or answering service to take the call. This time there was nothing, no service, no message, just an empty ringing going on and on until she cradled the phone. That too was strange. She hadn’t used a desk phone in years, but made all her calls from her cell. What was going on?

She selected the next person on her list. Somehow the computer screen was difficult to read, but it seemed his name was Mr. Krattz or Krittr, something like that. The phone number was blurred, but after staring at the screen for a while as the numbers seemed for form and reform, she thought she knew it. It was as she was dialing, it occurred to her all the numbers were the same. She was dialing the same one over and over again. Within the dream it seemed somehow logical.

Once more there was the interminable ringing, but as she was about to hang up, there was the sound of a receiver being lifted and a voice said Hello?

Oh, Mr. uh, … The name had slipped from her mind.

Never mind. Your friend Crystal Sorlis is in danger, he said in a flat voice. Then he hung up.

Hello? Hello? She clicked the button on the phone several times. She had no idea why she did so because the line was clearly disconnected, but she worked in the show business profession and clicking the button was always done in movies whenever a character lost a connection. It was a tradition.

Then she woke up and sat straight up in bed. Crystal was in danger? It was just a dream, but it scared her somehow – so much so she jumped out of bed and began putting some clothes on. She could, she knew, phone, but somehow it didn’t feel right. In her dream phoning had not been productive, and she felt it important to get to Crystal’s house quickly.

Twenty-five minutes later Mavis pulled into Crystal’s driveway. As she’d driven her feeling of urgency increased. As soon as the car was stopped, she jumped out and ran to the door. As Crystal’s agent, confidant, and babysitter she had a key so didn’t knock, but opened the door and stepped inside. All was dark and silent, but that didn’t slow her for one second.

Although Crystal lived alone it was a two story house and Mavis took the stairs two at a time. Rushing down the hall she entered Crystal’s bedroom and snapped on the light. Crystal was sitting in the middle of the bed, her knees pulled to her chin and wearing a vacant expression. She was rocking back and forth and moaning slightly. Without hesitation Mavis ran to her, took her into her arms and held her tightly.

Crystal baby, what’s wrong?

Crystal responded by hugging back and starting to cry. It was horrible! she said, That thing was trying to kill me!

What thing honey? What thing?

It was like a bird only it was a person too. It was all in black and it had these great big claws. It was trying to tear me apart.

There, there honey, it’s all right. Just take it easy. There’s nothing around here to hurt you. She mentally inventoried Crystal’s various drug habits and came up blank. Crystal’s parole agent had scoured the house and removed most of the drugs, and Mavis had used the opportunity to remove the rest. She knew all Crystal’s hiding places including a few Crystal didn’t know she knew. She was confident the house was clean. There were no drugs or booze. What had happened?

Finally Crystal finally stopped crying, pulled back, looked at her and said, I haven’t been drinking you know. And I haven’t been taking anything. It was real, all real. I know it was a dream, but it was still real. It wasn’t an ordinary dream. It was like I was really there, and that thing was really there. I’ve had lots of dreams, but this was different.

Mavis first inclination was to dismiss this as being just another of Crystal’s flights of fancy of which there were many, but she hesitated realizing she was present because of her own dream.

Well, some dreams are worse than others and some are more real. As long as it was just a dream nothing can get you.

I need a drink.

You probably do, but there isn’t a drop in the house.

You could go out and get some for me.

At this time of night? The only places still open are places I wouldn’t set foot in even in the daytime. There’s no way I’m going there now. You just lie back and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.

I can’t go back to sleep! That thing is waiting for me. Besides, I’m wide awake now.

That thing is not waiting for you. If you lie down and close your eyes I’m sure you’ll soon fall asleep.

This is the pits! I don’t even have a goddamn drink in the house! Those jerks from social service don’t know what they’re doing!

This, thought Mavis, was more like Crystal. She’d rant, rave, curse, swear and throw a proper tantrum. Then, when she’d worked off her surplus energy, she’d throw herself on the bed to sulk and soon fall asleep. It was quite predictable and she prepared to weather the storm.

Three hours later the sun was beginning to rise and Crystal was asleep once more. It had been a tumultuous three hours, and Mavis felt drained as much by the predictability of the whole thing as the theatrics. She wondered, not for the first time, if there was any commercial value left in the girl, or if she had been sucked too deeply into the spiral of booze and drugs. She thought there might be one more movie, and possibly a couple of television series. Given the girl’s potential, she decided to stick it out. Besides, despite the histrionics and everything else, she somehow liked her. True, she was shallow and callous, perhaps even nasty, but, Mavis believed, underneath the surface there was a decent human being yet to be released. In some respects Mavis, for all her business acumen, could be quite impractical.

Mavis was an early riser, at least by the standards of show business people. She was up by ten thirty, and considering Crystal hadn’t settled down before five, that wasn’t bad. She could have gone home, probably should have she thought, but it was hardly the first time she’d stayed through a bad night. She was used to it.

She rose from the coach where she’d slept, stretched and headed for the kitchen in the hope Crystal might have been sufficiently rational at some point to purchase food instead of relying on delivery pizza and wings. In the fridge she found a carton of eggs. Mavis looked at them dubiously. How long had they been in there? Were they safe? If she cracked an egg in the frying pan, would she wind up with a fried egg or fried chicken?

Well, she thought, nothing ventured nothing gained. She rooted around in the cupboard and came up with some stale bread and margarine. The bread would toast just fine and the margarine was probably unhealthy, but had a shelf life longer than some rain forests. They would serve. Of course there was coffee. That was hardly a surprise. It was instant, but it would do. Altogether it was not a bad haul. She set to work.

Soon she had a couple of eggs frying, some water boiling for the coffee and bread toasting. She was just about ready for breakfast when Crystal walked in. Perhaps ‘walked’ was putting things generously. She slouched into the room and looked vacantly around her.

Ready for breakfast? Mavis asked brightly.

Crystal managed a grunt by way of reply. Mavis chose to take it as an affirmative. She slid the eggs from the pan onto a plate, quickly buttered and added the toast and poured a cup of coffee into a mug. Then she put the whole thing on the table in front of Crystal who stared at it as if she was being asked to analyze a problem for a PHD thesis.

Eat up. It will make you feel better, she said while cracking another two eggs into the pan for herself.

Crystal, it was clear, wasn’t convinced. What is this? she finally managed to say.

Breakfast.

I don’t eat breakfast.

Just try some, you’ll like it.

She took a sip of coffee and made a face, Christ, are you trying to kill me?!

Mavis reflected on the merits of the idea. You need to keep your strength up?

What for? I can’t leave this stinkin’ house! I can’t get any stinkin’ parts! My life sucks!

Probably, thought Mavis. She put a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster.

Well, a fresh batch of scripts landed on my desk the other day. I haven’t had a chance to look them over, but I’m sure something must be right for you.

Scripts? Like you mean I’d have to audition?

Well … I guess so.

What kind of shit is that!? Me? Audition!? Like some third-rate little punk from teen-neck somewhere who’s just got off the bus and is looking for some work to stay alive!? Are you crazy?! I’m a star! I don’t audition! They come begging me to do their crappy little movie and I tell them whether or not I’ll do it and how much they’ll pay me! I don’t audition!!

Mavis sighed, Well, Crystal, frankly there haven’t been many offers lately.

It’s your damn job to get me some and if you can’t do it I’ll find someone who can!

Oh? Who?

Uh … well … uh … There are plenty of agents out there!

That’s true, but frankly your reputation isn’t the greatest,

Isn’t the greatest?! What’s that supposed to mean?! I stared in ‘The Return of Mr. Bixley’ when I was only six years old for God sake!

That’s right. You’ve made eight movies, three television series and starred in a play. In your last movie the critics described your acting as the slurred meanderings of an alcoholic geriatric. Not a studio in Los Angeles will touch you at the moment. You need to stay dry and drug free for a good six months, and then, maybe, someone will let you in the door long enough to audition and show them whether or not you’ve still got it, or whether they were right to cancel all your contracts and pretend you never existed.

I won an Oscar!

You were nominated for an Oscar. There wasn’t anyone in the industry excluding yourself who thought you’d win it.

Whose side are you on!? You’re supposed to be out hustling your butt for me and you’re just sitting around eating my eggs and toast!

I am hustling my butt for you. Every time Vinney or Martin calls for any reason I mention your name. Believe me it’s not something they want to hear. I talked to Frank three times in the last two days about that new television thing he’s got going, and three times I mentioned you. He told me I was wasting my time. He was too polite to say I was wasting his. You are not popular at the moment and until you become popular you’re going to be sitting around doing nothing, because there isn’t a studio around here willing to give you five minutes. In fact we’ll be lucky if we can get you a commercial in the next six months.

A commercial?! That really sucks!

You’re right, and it’s still the best you can do, so deal with it.

You deal with it! You’re supposed to be an agent!

Mavis took a bite of her eggs along with some toast. Frankly, she decided, it was a pretty good breakfast. She’d had better, but with only basic ingredients it was pretty good.

You’d better eat something or you’re going to get sick.

I’m already sick! I’m sick of you! I’m sick of this town! I’m sick of prissy little directors who don’t know one end of the camera from the other! I’m sick of all the pretty little boys who think they can strike a pose and I’ll roll onto my butt for them with my legs open! I’m sick of it all!

Right, so if you don’t want to be an actress and you don’t want to be a singer then what do you want?

I never said I didn’t want to be an actress! I’m a damn good actress! It’s just every stupid little director and producer thinks anyone who won’t lie in the dirt and let them walk on them is no good! Well I’m sick of that! I’ll go to Europe where they appreciate talent!

Mavis arched her eyebrow. You’re just as well known there as you are here. No-one there would touch you with a ten foot pole.

Don’t give me that crap! My fans will demand they give me a part!

Really? Have you heard what your so-called fans are saying on the internet?"

I never look at the internet!

Probably just as well. You wouldn’t care for the experience. Look, it doesn’t matter whether the directors are right or wrong. The fact is, you’re under house-arrest for the next three months. You can’t take one step out your front door to pick up a newspaper without half the cops in LA rushing in here with guns drawn. There’s no way you could accept a part even if one were offered. All you can do is sit around the house and entertain yourself as best you can; so I’ll send around a bunch of scripts and you can look them over. Maybe something will look good and then I’ll start work on prying open a bunch of locked doors.

Yeah, whatever.

Okay, I guess I’d better get going then.

Yeah … uh, how come you’re over here?

You were in bad shape last night around two a.m.

Crystal furrowed her brow, Yeah, I had some kind of bad dream I think.

When I came in you were sitting on the bed with your knees drawn up to your chin and shaking.

I sort of remember … there was this big thing, sort of like a bird, but like a human too. Uh … I think he was trying to claw at me.

That’s what you said.

God it was scary! Crap! I hope I never have another dream like that.

Well, nightmares come and go.

I guess, but how did you know something was wrong?

Uh, I had a dream too.

Really? Like you saw the bird thing with all the feathers and the claws?

No, not the same dream. Mine was pretty routine. I don’t really remember it. But when I woke up, I was certain you were in danger, so I rushed over and found you huddled on the bed.

Wow! It’s like our minds were somehow linked, like we had some sort of telepathy!

Maybe, anyway, I’ve got to get going.

Okay, do you think it’s real? Like this telepathy stuff?

Mavis shrugged, Who knows? I guess it’s possible. I don’t know anything about it. See you.

Yeah, later.

She walked out the door, got into her car, and soon gone. Crystal continued sitting at the table, only a couple of bites taken from her breakfast, her half-drunk coffee growing colder by the minute. She was deep in thought, or as deep as someone shallow, pretentious and hedonistic can get. Maybe, she thought, maybe there is something to it, like, maybe this