Ad Nauseam

BONE PHONE



“Goddamnit!” Emily tripped over the box on her way out the front door of her duplex. Hot coffee sloshed over her hand, causing her to drop the mug. It didn’t shatter, but the remaining liquid spilled out, soaking the package that had caused all the trouble.

Picking up the coffee mug and placing it on the glass-topped patio table alongside her cigarettes and ashtray, Emily turned back and got the box from where it sat. She carried it over to the table and set it down. She shook a menthol out of the pack and lit it. Taking a deep drag and holding it, she closed her eyes to relish the first cigarette of the morning. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the package.

The bottom wasn’t too wet from the coffee, and it didn’t really seem to matter all that much, since the box wasn’t in the best shape to begin with. Stained and torn, its construction appeared to be more masking tape than actual cardboard. Nearly illegible, a name and address was scrawled in the lower right hand corner in black marker, but nothing else. No return address. No post marks.

Emily pulled her reading glasses off the top of her head where they were perched more often than not, and squinted to make out the writing.

Dominik Bettancourt. The address was in the city, somewhere downtown.

So how the hell did it wind up out here in the ‘burbs? she wondered. Her house was at least an hour and a half drive from downtown, and that was if the traffic was light. Emily shook her head and took another drag of her cigarette.

Lifting the box again, she tested its weight in her hands. Slightly larger than a shoebox, it was fairly heavy, and something inside rattled when she shook it. A frown creased her brow.

Can’t exactly open it. It’s not mine.

“Good morning.”

Emily nearly dropped the box as she spun around to find the postman standing at the bottom of the steps. He smiled and held out a wad of letters for her.

“Um, yeah. Thanks. Say, maybe you could help me with something.” She held out the box to him, tipping it forward so he could read the top. “I found this on my porch this morning. I don’t know what to do with it.”

The mailman looked at the writing and scratched his chin for a moment before shaking his head.

“Not ours. No postmark. Doesn’t look like UPS or FedEx, either. No marks at all.”

“Well, could you take it with you? Maybe drop it off at the post office?”

“Nope. Sorry, Ma’am. If it’s not ours, I can’t do anything with it. Maybe you could run over to the address and leave it there. Be quite a drive, though.” He shrugged his apology, already turning to walk away.

“Yeah. Well thanks anyway.” Emily tucked the package under her arm and grabbed her coffee, heading back into the house where she dropped the box on her kitchen table. Refilling her mug, she perched on the edge of a chair and stared at the box for a long time, wondering just what she should do.

I’m sure as hell not driving all the way into the city for this shit. I have work to do, she thought. Then she smiled as an idea occurred to her.

Emily wandered down the hall to the spare room she’d converted into an office several years ago upon moving in. She sipped her coffee as her computer booted, then typed the name and address into a search engine. There were hundreds of hits, but she found a link halfway down the first page that looked promising. Crossing her fingers, she clicked it and watched as a website opened. It looked like some sort of voodoo or witchcraft store called Dominik’s Dark Arts, and the address matched. There was a phone number listed just below the hours of operation.

She jotted the number down on a post-it note and carried it back to the dining room, retrieving her cell phone from the counter.

The phone rang four times before a machine answered, playing a pleasant male voice with soft wind chimes in the background.

“You have reached Dominik’s Dark Arts. I’m sorry, but I will be out of town for the weekend. Normal store hours will resume on Monday. Have a Dark Day.”

Emily waited for the beep before leaving her message.

“Hi Dominik, this is Emily Haven. There seems to have been a mix up and a package meant for you was left on my doorstep. I will keep hold of it for the weekend so nothing happens to it. Please call me at your earliest convenience and we will figure out how to rectify the situation.” She left her cell number, said goodbye to the machine, and hung up.

At least that was over. It was Friday, so she would have the whole weekend to work on her projects before possibly having to make the long trek into the city. Heading back to the office, she thought about the name Dominik Bettancourt, wondering where she had heard it before. Shrugging it off, Emily started her work for the day.

She soon forgot all about the box on her table.

***

Emily Haven was the founder and executive editor of Night Haven Books, a small publishing house she had built from the ground up, spending the majority of her thirties making it a success. Now in its tenth year of publishing, the company had earned a respected recognition in the field and won some awards for superior achievement by a small publishing house. Employing thirty part-time editors from all over the country, she used email and the internet to put together books and a print-on-demand press to put those books into online bookstores. Two of her contracted authors had recently made the bestseller list and business couldn’t be better. Her list of projects was long and always kept her awake late into the night.

Shortly after midnight, Emily sat at her desk, putting the finishing touches on an anthology she was formatting. The duplex was silent, the family next door asleep. Though it was a nice neighborhood and an expensive house, she could still hear the goings on next door when the kids were particularly rambunctious or their television was turned up too loud. She had even been embarrassed to hear them fight on a couple of occasions.

The sound of telephone startled her. Emily looked at her cell phone even though it was a regular ring she heard, not the jazzy ringer her cell was set to. She hadn’t owned a landline in years.

It’s too loud to be coming from next door, she thought.

Emily stood up and walked down the hall, the ringing growing louder as she went. Turning on the dining room light, she looked at the battered box on her table. The ringing seemed to be coming from within. Loathe to open someone else’s mail, but also afraid the noise might wake the children next door, Emily was unsure of how to proceed.

There must be a cell phone in there. Maybe I could just slit the tape and shut the thing off. Then tape it back up again with no one the wiser.

Grabbing a steak knife out of the block on the counter, she sat down at the table and stared at the box for a moment, willing it to be silent. It continued to ring, the shrill noise loud in the calm night. She was going to have to open it. Emily sighed and went to work, using the tip of the blade to carefully puncture the tape and slice it away. Just as she opened the flaps, the box gave a final ring and fell silent. She considered just closing it back up.

What if it starts ringing again? Well, it’s already open.

Emily reached gingerly into the box, encountering not a cell phone as she had expected, but something much larger. She grabbed it and pulled it out carefully, setting it on the counter. She was half right, it was indeed a phone, but one like she had never seen before. Roughly the size of an old rotary phone, the squat base appeared to be fashioned from a human skull, two milky grey stones glued into the eye sockets, and a realistic set of teeth grinned at her.

Resting on two brackets which were screwed into the top of the skull was the handset, half of a thigh bone with two disks affixed to the ends as a mouth and earpiece. The handset was attached to the body by what looked like a heavy braid of dark hair. She lifted it up and traced her fingers across the smooth surfaces. Obviously it couldn’t be real bone, that wouldn’t be legal, but the artist had done a great job of making the resin look authentic, down to the pale yellow hue and small pits across the surface. There were a couple of teeth missing, the eye sockets deep and dark behind the semi-transparent stones.

There was no way the thing could’ve really worked, with no jack to plug a phone line into, and no numbers or dial on the face, but it would certainly be a cool conversation piece for whoever owned it.

Emily wished for a second that it was hers; it would make a fine addition to her collection of strange artifacts in her office. It would look right at home with the hideous dolls, monster busts, and replicas of wooden stakes and silver bullets. She lifted the phone to put it back in the box, then nearly dropped it as it let out a shrill ring.

“What the f*ck?” Setting the phone gently on the counter, Emily stared in disbelief as the gray stones in the eye sockets glowed an eerie red, fading and sparking in time with the shrill sound of the ringing phone.

No way. She thought, wondering for a moment if she had fallen asleep while editing and was still slumped over her keyboard, having a strange dream. It’s not even plugged in.

Emily cautiously picked up the handset, holding it up to her ear in a way that it didn’t actually touch her face.

“Hello?”

There was a heavy hiss of static on the line before a gravelly male voice responded.

“Emily? Is that you, baby?”

A sob lodged in her throat. It was impossible.

“Daddy?”

“Oh baby! I miss you. It’s been so long and I’m so lonely.”

Hot tears gathered in her eyes, her knuckles white where she gripped the handset. She knew without a doubt it was her father’s voice. It had been a quick and terrible death eight years ago when they found the lung cancer. Four months from diagnosis to burial, and she missed and grieved for him every day since.

“Oh Daddy. I miss you, too. I think about you every day. I wonder if you can see me, if you’re proud of me. I love you so much.”

“Proud of you? Are you kidding, girl? How could I possibly be proud of you?” His voice changed, darker, harsher.

Emily froze, her mouth moving but no sounds emerging as she struggled to make sense of the heartless words coming from her kind and loving and dead father.

“Just what the hell have you done to be proud of, you worthless bitch? Look at you. No man, no family. What good is a woman with no babies? Does your success keep you warm at night? Did you want to grow up to be a lonely old woman with no one to f*ck? You sit alone all night, typing away at your damned computer, your cold, hateful womb empty and worthless. I bet your f*cking ovaries are shriveled black grapes.”

“Daddy?”

“Don’t worry, Emily. There’s a place in hell for you. For all you worthless, career-minded bitches who think you’re too good for a man. To goddamned high-class to squeeze a baby out of your rotten crotches. You’ll love it here. You’re gonna learn what a woman is really good for. They’re gonna f*ck you in ways you never knew they could. Maybe I’ll take my turn and give those dried up ovaries a stir!”

The skull phone made a loud crash as it hit the wall, knocking a decent hole in the plaster, but Emily no longer cared if she woke the neighbors.

***

“Calm down, Em. There’s got to be some logical explanation. Someone’s just f*cking with you is all.”

“I don’t know how.” Emily drew a steadying breath, trying hard not to cry anymore. She had done plenty of that already as she relayed the horrifying details of the night before to Layla, her only sister. Her cell phone felt hot against her face.

“I know you said you looked, but it was late. There had to be some hidden battery compartment or something. Some remote microphone in the thing.”

“So how did they know what Dad’s voice sounded like, Layla?”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe you were just thinking about Dad. We all miss him, honey. Maybe you were just missing him extra bad and your mind made you hear what you wanted to hear.”

“Well I sure as shit didn’t want to hear that.” Emily snapped.

“I know. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s a sick prank. You must’ve pissed someone off. Where’s the phone now? Maybe you should take it to the police.” Layla was always a calming influence, had a way of making those around her feel at ease regardless of the situation.

“I threw it in the box and drove into the city. Took me two hours to find the place in the middle of the night, but I did. Left it right on the sidewalk in front of the guy’s store. I don’t care if it gets stolen. Whoever takes it will probably bring it back, anyway. I should’ve never called that guy and left the message. Now he’s gonna get pissed at me for not keeping it. F*cking store looked creepy too, all kinds of voodoo and witchcraft shit in the windows.”

“Hey now. You’re into that shit.” Layla laughed and soon Emily found herself chuckling as well.

“I don’t believe in it. I just like scary movies and horror novels. It’s not the same as living it.”

“Well, Big Sis, maybe you need a vacation. Robby and the kids and I would love to have you.”

With the subject changed, they talked for a few minutes about how long it had been since they’d seen one another and the cost of plane tickets from New York City to L.A. Layla refused to let Emily go until she had extracted a tentative promise that when things slowed down, Emily would visit them in California. Though she tried to remain upbeat after the conversation, Emily couldn’t help but feel awful for the rest of the day. The echo of her father’s words seemed louder when she compared her sister’s family to her own solitary life. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had questioned the decisions she’d made, but this time they seemed to have more of a dire relevance.

***

Emily woke from a nightmare she couldn’t hold onto. Something about hell and babies screaming. Children who ran from her when she tried to save them from the flames. She lay in her bed, disoriented in the darkness for a moment before the sound that woke her came again.

Ringing.

From the kitchen.

“No way. No f*cking way,” she croaked as she slid out of bed and crept down the hall. Emily knew what she would find when she turned on the light, but was powerless to contain a shriek when she saw the phone sitting on the counter, its eyes glowing red with every ring.

Backing away, she kept her eyes on it, not looking away as her back encountered the heavy front door. She felt if the locks were still engaged. They were, and the chain was still in place.

None of this is happening. I’m dreaming this time. There’s no way it’s back.

Eyes burning with a demonic light, it continued to trill, as if mocking her. Emily remembered Layla’s assurance that this was a cruel prank, and her fear turned to anger at whoever could be vile enough to do this to her. Before she lost her nerve, she marched over to the counter and grabbed the handset, yelling into the mouth piece.

“You’re not my f*cking father!”

There was a hiss of static once again, the voice on the other side sounding amused when it replied.

“Of course I’m not your father, babe. It’s Ricky.”

Emily froze, her blood cold in her veins. It sounded like Ricky. It really did. But like her father, Ricky was dead.

“Prove it.”

“Oh baby. I know things about you that no one else does. Your first time was with me in my parents’ bed when they left town for the weekend. You made me wait a year and a half before you gave in. You cried when I was done.”

It was Ricky.

Ricky had been Emily’s boyfriend from Sophomore year of high school until her Freshman year of college. He was a grade behind her, and she had thought they could bear to be parted for one year until he graduated and joined her at the state university. It all came to an end when he plowed his sports car into the back of a semi-truck at sixty miles per hour, taking his head off and severely injuring her sister Layla, who had leaned over at just the right moment to retrieve a can of pop that had spilled on the floor.

Emily had wondered for a long time if something might have been going on between Layla and Ricky, but her sister swore that he was just giving her a ride home from cheerleading practice. In the end, Emily chose to believe her sister, though in weak moments she still wondered.

“What do you want?”

“Wow, babe. You sure don’t seem too happy to hear from me. Of course, you always were a frigid cunt.”

“I’m not listening to this. Do you hear me? I’m hanging up, you sick bastard. I will not listen to this!” Emily yelled into the phone, rage and fear making her shake.

“Oh yes you will! You will because you want to know. You NEED to know what happened. You will listen until I’m done talking, bitch. You think we would’ve gotten married, don’t you? You think we were some perfect f*cking couple. Well, we weren’t, Em. We never were. I was putting the stones to baby sis for a year before you even let me get a finger in you. You were a cold bitch, but Layla was hot for it. That little slut couldn’t wait to betray you. You think you’re so close? Little sister was slobbering all over my cock every f*cking time you turned your back. And you know what? She was good at it, too. Better than you’ll ever be.”

Emily surprised herself by gently replacing the receiver in the cradle. She looked around the room with a calmness she didn’t feel. After rummaging in some drawers, she finally found something she could use. Just like the night before, she packed up the phone and put the box in the trunk of her car, though this time she headed away from the city. After some time, she pulled over alongside a vacant field, leaving her hazard lights flashing.

It was easier to destroy than she imagined. The hammer blows broke the bone (she no longer entertained thoughts it was anything other than real bone), shattering it into large pieces she then smashed again. She didn’t stop until the sun peeked over the horizon and nothing but white dust and two gray stones remained of the phone. Grabbing her smokes off the dash, she lit one, then held her lighter to the cord of braided hair that had connected the handset to the body. When nothing was left to break or burn, Emily drove back home and fell into bed, spending the rest of the morning in a dreamless slumber.

***

Emily felt miserable. Sitting on her couch in front of the television, she stared at the screen, not watching it. Layla was on a plane, heading to New York to assist her with the hell she found herself plunged into, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Rather than being encouraged by her sister’s act of loyalty and her insistence that this was not something she could handle alone, Emily felt disturbed.

Why was Layla’s reaction stronger to a phone call from Ricky? What was with the heavy silence after I told her what Ricky said about her? Emily’s thoughts chased themselves around her head, long buried doubts resurfacing to nag at her mind. Was it true?

The microwave beeped, informing Emily that her coffee from last night was reheated. She shuffled into the kitchen, and catching sight of her reflection in the black glass of the appliance, she let out a harsh laugh.

“You look like shit, old girl.” Grabbing the mug, she poured some expensive vanilla creamer in and returned to the couch.

It was all ridiculous, really. This business of a bone phone just showing up to bring her calls from the dead. But ridiculous or not, it still happened. Emily wondered why she wasn’t spending more time contemplating the impossibility of her situation, rather than chewing over recurring doubts about the one man she had ever truly loved and her only sibling whom she thought shared all of her secrets with her.

These things shouldn’t matter anymore. I’m tired, she thought. Getting calls in the middle of the night from dead loved ones will do that to you.

Layla was due to land in two hours, and Emily had just enough time to shower before she drove to the airport. Heaving a sigh, she got up from the couch and went into the bathroom to start the water. Undressed, she stood before the mirror, her gaze drawn to every imperfection in the glass.

When did I get this extra fat around my middle? And where did these sagging breasts come from? Or all this gray hair? She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone for a run, something she had done regularly in college but seemed to always be too busy for now. Her youth was passing. Maybe her dad was right. No! That wasn’t my dad. He would never say such hateful things.

The hot water restored her mood somewhat. As she toweled dry, Emily looked in the mirror once again, forcing herself to find things that still looked good. She wasn’t gorgeous but she still looked okay, and was smart and funny. She still had plenty to offer someone, should that someone ever arrive.

Dressed for the day, with her hair wound up in a towel, she padded into the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. She yelped and braced a hand on the doorframe, afraid for a moment she might faint.

“Goddamn you!” Emily stood in the doorway, her heart hammering. The phone sat quietly on the counter, no sign of the damage she’d inflicted on it the night before.

The eyes glowed hellishly red just seconds before it started to ring. Emily dreaded the call, but was powerless to keep herself from answering it.

“Hello?”

“Hey sis.” Layla’s voice came through clearly.

“Nice try. You can’t be my sister. She’s still alive.”

“Correction Em, I was alive. But as usual, you f*cked everything up and now I’m dead. Turn on the news if you don’t believe me.”

“Alright.” Emily changed the channel on the television, turning up the volume just in time to catch the breaking news that a plane had crashed on the runway at JFK. There were no known survivors. She didn’t need to look up her sister’s flight number to know she’d been on it. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Jesus has nothing to do with this, Em. I would still be alive if you hadn’t f*cked with the wrong person, just like Ricky would probably still be alive if we hadn’t been forced to hide everything. You selfish twat. You f*ck up everything. Thinking you’re so smart and better than everyone else.”

“Stop. You aren’t Layla. My sister loved me.” Emily felt the tears come. Not her sister. Not her baby sister.

“Oh please. You know it’s me. And you know I was f*cking Ricky. Everyone knew it, but you were just too damned stubborn to see it. If you would’ve just let him go we could’ve been f*cking in a bed, not racing down the highway at sixty-five with his cock in my mouth. That’s why I survived. There wasn’t any spilled pop can that distracted us. I was sucking him off. And you know what? The last thing he did was cum in my mouth. His eyes were closed because he was cumming in my mouth! That’s why he hit the truck. You worthless bitch. I hated you for that. Sitting beside my hospital bed, trying to hide your grief over Ricky because you were worried about me. I hated how weak you were. You still are.”

“Shut up. Just shut the f*ck up! You aren’t Layyyyla!” Emily dropped the phone, but she could still hear Layla’s voice.

“See ya tonight sissy. I’ll tell you about all the things that Ricky liked to do to me. The things you wouldn’t let him do. We’ll talk about all the good old times. It’ll be a blast!”

***

Emily sat in a hotel room, a half empty bottle of vodka beside her. She’d stopped by the liquor store on her way to the hotel. Being sober wasn’t an option. Too much grief and fear for that.

A phone rang. Emily started, her eyes darting around the room in search of the demonic skull. Realizing it was her cell phone, she let out a nervous chuckle. Checking the number to make sure it wasn’t her Mom again, she saw a number she didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” A man’s deep voice spoke. It sounded cultured, containing a light undertone of some unidentifiable accent. “Is this Emily?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Dominik Bettancourt. You left me a message saying you had something that you believed belonged to me. I’m sorry; I just got back to town a few hours ago.”

Emily felt her pulse quicken, bolting upright on her chair and gripping the phone until her knuckles cracked.

“Oh, thank God! Mr. Bettancourt. I need your help.”

“Yes, I’m certain you do. Do you still have the phone?” His voice was soothing.

“No. I left it at home. There’s something wrong with that thing. Something evil. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to me in the last couple days.”

“You might be surprised, Emily, at what I would believe. You said the phone was at home. I take it you are not?”

“No. I drove into town and got a room at the Marriot. Please, could you meet me here? We could go together and get your phone.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Haven. The phone will show up on its own. And it’s not mine. It’s yours.” His tone grew cool.

“Please, Mr. Bettancourt! You have to help me, I’m begging you.”

“Begging me? Isn’t that rich. How many have begged you, Emily? I wonder how many dreams you have crushed of those who have sent you their work, only to be given a form letter rejection. Why would I help you? I’m the one who sent the phone.” He laughed then, deep and throaty.

“You sent the phone? Why? What did I ever do to you? I don’t even know you.” Emily felt deep dread sink into her chest.

“It’ll come to you, Ms. Haven. Enjoy your hell. I’m sure there’s something special waiting for you.”

***

The phone call came around one in the morning. Drunk and unable to hold it any longer, Emily staggered into the bathroom to pee, returning to find the phone sitting on the desk. She answered on the first ring, resigned from the stress and intoxication to see this through to the end, but still dreading the voice on the other line.

Will it be my mom? How many will die before this is over? I’ve killed Layla; please don’t let it be Mom, too.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Emily. Who else would it be?”

Emily thought she was immune to the shock, no longer really believed that the phone calls could surprise her. How many times had she heard this voice on answering machine recordings and video tapes, at once recognizing who it was and at the same time refusing to believe the voice that sounded so different when she spoke was hers?

“It’s me. It’s you. And it’s just about over, girl.”

“But I’m not dead.” Emily whispered, her head swimming with vodka and shock.

“Yes you are. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Please.” She sobbed, her voice coming out in a whine. “No more. What could I have done to deserve this?”

“Oh, you deserve it all right. Think back. You knew his name from somewhere. Dominik Bettancourt. He was a writer. Years ago when you first started publishing. He sent a story for one of your contests. It wasn’t very good, but it was the best he could do. You rejected it. Sent a form letter. Do you remember?”

“I do now. I rejected his story. But it wasn’t good. Not everyone can be good.” Despite the surreal experience of speaking to herself on the phone, Emily did remember him now. And his story. Some wretched tale of voodoo with little plot and poor grammar. She had to reject it.

“But you didn’t just reject it, did you? Oh no. You had to use him as an example of what not to do. You read his story to your friends so you could all laugh at his attempts. You put excerpts on your blog, cleverly disguised, but you let everyone mock him. It was humiliating for him. He gave up on writing. Gave up on the dreams he’d had since he was a child. You and your friends destroyed something inside of him and what grew in its place was hate.”

“I did. I did all of it. I’m sorry. I’m so f*cking sorry. I was young and didn’t know much about professionalism. I would never do that to him now. Please. One more chance. I’ll make it up to him. I promise.” Emily sobbed, her shame and fear overwhelming.

She had done all those things, using this man as an anecdote at countless cocktail parties. Long after she’d forgotten his name, she would still mention his awful story, using it to make others laugh. It was a horrible thing to do to someone, but she would’ve never dreamed in a million years the man would find out. That he would have otherworldly ways of finding out.

“You are already making it up to him with your suffering. Your pain is his comfort when he sleeps at night. Enough talk. It’s time. They are all waiting for you down here. Oh the things they have to show you. Come home, Emily. Come home.”

There was a click on the line, then nothing. Not even a dial tone or open air. Emily sat with the bone to her ear, now nothing more than a prop. A novelty for the desk she would never see again. Setting the handset back in its cradle, she picked the whole thing up in one hand and carried it to the balcony. The night air felt chilly when she opened the doors, a brisk reminder that fall was coming, with winter close behind. Looking over the railing, she could see traffic racing by below despite the late hour.

Ten stories up, she wondered if she’d hear it hit the sidewalk. She doubted it. Emily tossed the phone over the edge without another thought, realizing at the last second that she might hit a pedestrian, but no longer really caring. She probably wouldn’t survive the night, had no doubt a legion of demons would soon be beating down the door to carry her off to hell, and killing a stranger wouldn’t matter much. She listened for the sound of the crash, or horns honking and people yelling, but heard nothing.

Emily frowned and looked over the railing. Nothing had changed below. Had it even hit the ground? Did it disappear on the way down, only to materialize behind her on the desk? Glancing over her shoulder, she could see nothing in her suite, so she stepped onto the bottom rail and leaned over, craning her neck to see if the phone lay smashed on the sidewalk. The rail gave way without a sound, no screeching protest of metal, no squealing of iron bars. It simply let loose, pitching her into the cold air.

Time seemed to expand and contract at the same time as her body hurtled toward the earth, her screams trailing into the night and rousing hotel guests from their slumber and onto balconies in their pajamas. The fall was endless, but over in just seconds as the asphalt rushed towards her face, people on the street stopping to watch, crying out as her body fell headfirst to the ground.

Emily saw none of this, neither people nor the concrete waiting to embrace her and crush her body to fragments and jelly. As she fell, the fires of hell opened up beneath her, a blast of heat drying her tears as she plummeted towards her father, Ricky, and Layla, their arms opened to receive her. Witnesses would report that just before the woman hit the ground, her body splattering a ten-foot radius, she appeared to be smiling with opened arms, as if in an embrace.

***

Stew Swenson couldn’t sleep. He’d lain in bed tossing and turning all night, troubled by the news he’d received the day before. Though they were in many ways competitors, both of them running small horror publishing houses, Stew had met Emily years ago at a convention and they’d become fast friends. The news of her death, still being investigated as a suicide, had hit him pretty hard. He gave up on sleep and slipped into his pants, putting on a pair of slippers to head outside.

The Florida surf was indescribably beautiful at sunrise and he hoped it would help quell the grief in his heart. Pouring a cup of coffee, he opened the screen door and stepped outside, tripping over something on the way out. A beat up box lay next to his door, covered in massive loops of packing tape.

“What the hell?” He picked it up, reading the jagged writing on the top. No return address, just a name and a New York City address. How the hell did you get here? It was much too early for mail delivery and there were no postal markings on the box, anyhow. Someone must’ve hand delivered the box. Stew set it on the table and sat down on his porch swing, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Dominik Bettancourt. Now where do I know that name?”