Partners In Crime

 "Excuse me, ma'am. May I offer to buy your camera?"

Tella lowered her camera, startled for a moment, before seeing an old man at her side. He was dressed in a shabby black suit with a heavy trench coat over his shoulders. He stood statue-still, complementing the lifeless oak trees and eroded, forgotten gravestones.

 

“Is there a particular reason why?” she asked.

 

He frowned wearily, standing closer to her. “You’re Tella Hunton, aren’t you?”

 

“And you’re Jasper Page.”

 

“So, you’ve seen me around. Bound to happen, I suppose. I’ve lived in this small town my whole life. Not many places to go.”

 

She stepped away from him. His brow creased at her reaction and then dissolved immediately into the wrinkles of his forehead.

 

“I’m sorry, but I’d like to be alone, unless you want to tell me why I should,” she said, lifting the camera and snapping a picture of the cemetery landscape. She continued to snap one picture after another, hoping it would drive the old man away.

 

“I came here to visit Jane—she's my wife,” he began. “She used to say I was her ‘partner in crime.’ She was quite vicious. It was admirable. We had many fun times together—shared secrets she took to the grave. I, in the meantime, am having a hard time keeping those secrets, well… secret. It’s no fault of my own. The dead should stay dead.”

 

She lowered her camera. “Please, just leave me--”

 

“You should look at those photographs, ma’am,” he said. “It’ll do a much better job at explaining why I want your camera.”

 

She glared at him before pressing the Playback button to review the shots she took. The last picture popped up on the LCD screen. She blinked her eyes quickly, unable to believe what she was seeing. She looked at another photo, and then another photo, and then another photo, but all of them showed the same thing: there were dozens of bloodied, mangled corpses pointing at something off frame.

 

“She said I was ‘her partner in crime,’” he said, pulling out a knife from inside his trench coat. “And I intend to keep my secrets secret.”

Franchises

It was a hot and sunny summer day. Benny and I were walking to Dairy Queen for some ice cream. Benny was a vanilla man, I was a sprinkles-nuts-and-every-flavour-ice-cream man. Says a lot for our personalities, me and Benny. 

We were walking when we suddenly came across a cement wall. There was nothing unusual about it, aside from the water damage and cracks. But Benny closely inspected it as though it were a treasure map, mumbling and touching it. I thought for a moment the "water damage" could be "piss damage" and reminded myself not to shake his hand. 

We were underneath a bridge with cars whooshing by every ten seconds or so. I turned to look down at the end of the underpass. A hobo carrying a bottle of red wine stumbled in. He looked familiar, with his long brown hair and beard.

I turned back to Benny. 

He backed away from the wall. Awestruck. 

“It’s the Virgin Mary,” he said.

“What?” I backed away and saw what he saw: The Virgin Mary. A halo and robe and a face of sorrow. 

But I wanted to fuck with him, being a sprinkles man and all, so I said, “So what?”

“‘So what’?” he repeated in disbelief. “This is a miracle. This doesn’t happen everyday.”

“Come on, it’s a coincidence,” I said.

“No, it’s not a coincidence, it’s a sign. A sign from the Lord Almighty.”

I scoffed. “If it were the Burger King Guy instead of the Virgin Mary, would it still be a sign? A sign from the Almighty Burger King Corporation?”

He looked at me blankly.

Then he said, “No. That would be a coincidence.”

“But then how is the Virgin Mary not a coincidence?”

His head was a blank piece of paper.

Then he said, “Belief makes this image a sign.”

“Hunger makes the Burger King Guy a sign, too.”

"What's with you and the Burger King Guy?"

"I worship food."

We could have gone on arguing like this forever, but I was hankering for some sugary goodness. And since I’m a nuts man and all, I said, “Fine. It’s a sign, let’s worship it when we get back and post a picture of it on Facebook and Instagram and Reddit and wherever else you like to lurk. Sound awesome?”

He nodded in agreement.

We walked down to the end of the underpass. The hobo had passed out on a makeshift bed of cardboard, red wine spilling out from the open mouth of the bottle. Benny said, as if he had plucked the idea from my head from before, “Doesn't he look familiar?”

As we walked into the warm rays of the sunshine, a gentle voice said, “Peace be with you.”

We turned around to see who had said it, but no one was there! The hobo was gone! Wine bottle, too.

“Who the fuck said that?” Benny said. He looked at me with wide eyes. “Could it have been Jesus? I told you he looked familiar, didn‘t I?”

He did kind of look like Jesus, long brown hair and a beard. But then again a lot of figures look like Jesus.

Just to fuck with him, I said, “He looked like the Burger King Guy to me.”

Silent Nights

Santa raised the glass of bourbon to the burning fireplace and then took a sip. The liquid burned his throat for a second before it reached his jolly, round belly. 

For years now, rather than delivering toys to good boys and girls, he unwillingly reminisced about the past. No matter how many times he revisited the memories of Misses Claus, the pain of her loss never dulled. He placed the empty tumbler onto the table next to him and closed his eyes. If he listened carefully, he could hear her yelling out “Titus” above the howling winds… 

 *** 

“Careful now,” Santa said to Misses Claus as she descended the sleigh. “This roof is steep. We don’t want you tumbling down to the ground now do we.” 

Misses Claus smiled, her rosy cheeks glowing in the moonlight. “You shan’t worry about me. Is it not my hundredth delivery with thee?” 

“It’s been a rather long time since you’ve accompanied me, Gerty.” 

“It has been, hasn’t it?” 

Santa checked the swollen bag full of presents and pulled out two. There were two very kind children in the dwelling, Titus and Chrissie. Young Titus was one of the most altruistic children in the world. He displayed kindness and never complained and chose to do the right thing when doing the wrong thing would have been much easier and better. His behaviour rubbed off Young Chrissie, who looked up to her big brother with admiration.

“Titus,” Gertrude said gleefully. “He’s such a sweet boy. He’s so precious. I wish the world for him.”

“Indeed,” Santa said, presents in hand. 

“Can I take Titus’s present?” She extended her arms as if she were about to receive a hug from a small child.

Santa handed Missus Claus a large present wrapped in green wrapping paper topped off with a large red bow. 

“Ready?” Santa said. 

Missus Claus nodded. 

They invoked the old magick of the North Pole, and let it course through their beings. Their feet sank through the snow-covered roof, through the dusty floorboards of the attic, and through the toy-strewn floor in Titus’s room until they reached the living-room where a darkened Christmas tree stood silent. 

“Can I take up the present?” Gertrude said. Her eyes twinkled and her smile brightened. 

Santa nodded, unable to refuse her request and the happiness gracing her face. While Missus Claus went upstairs, Santa placed Chrissie’s present underneath the Christmas tree. With a flick of his wrist, the Christmas tree lit up—red, blue, yellow, and green lights coruscated within the branches. He read the Christmas cards along the mantle of the fireplace, all wishing a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. 

“He’s such a darling,” Gertrude said when she returned. “He’s breathing so softly. He’s going to grow up to be a great man.” 

“I hope the best of him,” Santa said. “Shall we go?” 

Missus Claus peered toward the stairwell. Santa noticed how rigid and hesitant she became. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it before she could say anything. 

“Gertrude,” Santa said. 

Missus Claus snapped out of her daze. 

“I’m sorry,” she said embarrassingly. “I do not know where I went.” 

“Shall we go?” 

Missus closed nodded. They floated up to the roof and moved onto the next house… 

***

Santa snorted awake and was greeted by the ardent glow of the fireplace. The fire burned fiercely, showing no sign of wear. The wood was enchanted, imbued with tremendous magick, which could burn for days before turning into a pile of smoldering ash. He poured himself another glass of bourbon as another memory resurfaced… 

*** 

“It’s Titus,” Missus Claus said. “He’s sick and going to die.” 

He peered over his half-moon spectacles to the weeping woman standing at the threshold before him. He had known about Titus’s condition and deduced what would happen to him. His name had disappeared from the nice list—along with many other children’s names—which meant he wasn’t going to be around for the following Christmas. 

“We have to do something about it,” Missus Claus begged. “We have to use our magick—“ 

“No,” Santa blurted, standing up suddenly from behind the desk. When he saw her trembling figure fighting against the oncoming tide of anguish, he wanted to comfort her. But he knew he couldn’t give her what she wanted from him. 

“We can’t use magick to bend the laws of nature. We cannot undo death.” 

“Yes, we can,” Missus Claus said, staring at him with puffy eyes. “We can cure him. We can—“ 

“No,” Santa stated. He sat back down, the chair squeaked under his great weight, and the weight he carried in his heart for Titus and the other children who would never experience another Christmas ever again. 

“Please… please…” Gertrude’s legs wobbled, and she collapsed onto the floor. “Please…” 

***

He poured more bourbon into the tumbler and took a swig. Getting drunk never dulled the pain, only a bit, but at least it helped him to sleep. And sleep was what he wanted rather than to relive the memories long ago passed… 

*** 

The day Titus died, Santa watched Missus Claus trudge her way up to the workshop. The red cowl draped over her bowed head and the cloak wrapped around her plump form billowed in the strong wind as she followed an invisible procession leading to the workshop. She had asked Santa she needed time to herself and wanted to keep her mind and hands busy, and the one way she could appease both was to create a doll. 

He watched until she opened the heavy door to the workshop and disappeared inside. 

Santa stepped away from the living-room window and seated himself by the fireplace. He wished he could do more to console her. But, at that moment, nothing came to him. He sighed and closed his eyes, realizing how much unrest he had while Gertrude shuffled throughout the house on sleepless nights.

 “Santa!" 

 He bolted his eyes open. The living-room window displayed his bewildered reflection against the dark backdrop of night. 

"I want you to meet someone!” Missus Claus cried out. 

 Santa rushed over to the main door and found Gertrude holding a shrouded object. She was in a frenzy, moreso with her grey hair tangled in every direction and a wide smile plastered across her face. 

“You needeth to see,” she said, leaving the door wide open behind her. “You needeth to see what I have done.” 

Santa followed, unconcerned about the blizzard welcoming itself into their home. She went into the living-room, placed the object on a high-back armchair in front of the fireplace, and removed the shroud. What sat on the armchair was a wooden life-sized doll. It was four feet in length and dressed in giraffe decorated pajamas. 

“What…?” Santa let his question die out. 

He thought he had imagined it at first, but he was certain he saw it move! He furrowed his brow and held his breath. Above the crackling fire and the fierce wind, the extremities of the doll creaked to life, its fingers and toes flaring in and out. 

Santa’s heart dropped as the doll bore its glassy eyes at him and at Missus Claus. Despite its rigid mouth, he could sense a frown. 

The doll asked, “Where’s Mommy and Daddy?” 

“Mommy and Daddy are home,” Missus Claus coaxed the wooden child. “They’re home.” 

“I was in the hospital,” the doll said mournfully. “Mommy and daddy were crying. They told me everything was going to be okay.” 

"Titus," Gertrude said. "You're okay now. You're—" 

“This is an abomination!” Santa yelled. “Inanimate objects cannot have lives of their own! Especially one containing the soul of a child!” 

Santa grasped the wooden doll by the forearm and ran out the main door. Missus Claus followed behind, intent on rescuing the child. 

“Don’t you dare,” Missus Claus screamed through the wind and swirling snow. 

Santa tossed the doll into the air. And with a flick of his wrist, the doll was cast into the dark blizzard. 

Santa turned around and saw Missus Claus slumped onto the snowy ground. She stared at her weathered, old hands in disbelief, as if she could see blood. 

“I'm sorry,” Santa said. “We cannot have it in our presence. The doll will eat our magick until we are nothing but dust.” 

“Is he gone from the North Pole?” she croaked. 

“Quite possibly,” he said. 

Santa helped Missus Claus to her feet. She didn’t speak. She did not acknowledge him, only allowed him to guide her to the fireplace. He tried to talk to her, but she remained vacant and docile. 

That was the last time he ever saw her before she disappeared forever. 

*** 

He placed the bourbon onto the table and read the piece of paper he kept in his jacket pocket: I’m going to look for Titus. I’ll be back when I find him. Gertrude. 

Years have passed since she wrote the note. There were some nights he could see her burning lantern searching the horizon and calling out the child's name. He would chase after the light, caught in a spell, only to realize he was chasing a phantom. Where her footprints should have been, there were none. 

He raised the glass of bourbon to the fireplace where a wooden doll burned fervently. Fingers and toes flaring in and out.

Haunted

Jim put his pencil down on the desk and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. Despite how many times Ms. Thompson told him to focus on his work, his eyes kept wandering to the window. Fall greeted him with its orange and yellow leaves, gray oppressive sky, and chilly wind. The season always amped up his imagination each and every year. There was no room for reality, there was only room for the spooky and supernatural.

He thought about the old house in the woods. How he was going to go there right after the last bell. He heard about it by accident, hearing a conversation between Angela, his sister, and a friend: “I know. I was high. That doesn’t mean the footsteps were in my head! Someone was running upstairs! Everyone was too busy laughing and telling jokes. Let’s just stick with Fletcher’s basement, I refuse to go back to that creepy, haunted house...”

“Put your work away and your chairs up,” Ms. Thompson announced to the class.

Jim was swift at putting the math sheets away and placing his chair onto the desk.

As Jim passed Ms. Thompson’s desk, she said, “You need to do your work or I’m going to have to call your parents.”

Jim perfunctorily nodded and said, “Yes. Sorry Ms. Thompson.”

He rushed over to the door and met shoulder to shoulder with a few students as he squeezed out into the hallway.

Fall always made the mundane places seem sinister. Classrooms appeared neglected and dusty. The hallways appeared dark and cavernous. If not for the other students, the illusion would have been complete, but their laughter and screams shattered the alluring phantasmagoria.

He reached the entrance and walked across the street and into the woods. The children’s laughter faded into nothing the further he went and was replaced altogether by leaves rustling in the wind.

He wasn’t sure where he was heading. All he knew was to walk straight until he found a dirt road.

If he couldn’t find the house, he was content with returning home and watching horror movies. His sister was cool and often let him linger around. She would let him watch horror movies with her, which she downloaded from torrent sites. The last movie they watched was Halloween. She thought it was old-fashioned, he thought it was great.

‘Is that the road up ahead?’ he thought.

There was not much “dirt” on the dirt road. It was nearly covered by overgrown grass. The only hint of it being a road was a pair of lines where the grass had been recently flattened by tires.

He started to walk down the road. He crossed his fingers, hoping he was going the right way.

It was darker outside when he finally reached the haunted house. His feet were sore and his body was hot. He determined he only had half an hour to explore before he needed to head back home.

He crossed the overgrown grass of the lawn and climbed up the creaky porch steps. He brushed his hand on the wall, feeling the flaky paint scratching at his skin. He peeked into a shattered window for any sign of an ominous shadow.

He pushed open the front door and yelled, “Hello?”

He waited for an answer. The only sounds he heard were the howling wind and the boards groaning. Then a soft thump erupted from the ceiling, like someone jumping off a chair. He waited a moment, slowing his breath, waiting for footsteps his sister heard the last time she visited this place.

‘That wasn’t my imagination,’ he thought.

His mind raced from one idea to another, one becoming more gruesome after the other. First it was a doll hopping off a chair, sensing a new owner. Then a cat who dropped a dead, fat mouse onto the floor from its bloodied mouth. Finally, a severed head rolled off a dresser and landed with a soft thump. He winced a bit when he realized it was Ms. Thompson’s head.

He left the door open behind him. It reminded him of the time his mom sent him to the neighbours to drop off a jar of sugar. How he waited at the door, for someone to greet him. Now, in the haunted house, he did the same thing, except he was waiting for someone’s red-eyed silhouette to appear from one of the open thresholds in the hall.

“Hello,” he said less confidently.

Nothing.

‘You can always check,’ he thought.

He climbed up the stairs, the steps straining under his weight, his hand sliding up the rail. Once he reached the landing, he passed one open doorway after another until he came upon the one where he was certain he heard the noise.

“Hello?”

No one answer.

He entered the room and noticed it wasn’t as damaged or neglected as the other rooms. For one thing, the walls were intact, no graffiti or punctures. The floor had less trash, only an empty pop can and chip bag. The furniture had been left alone, no open drawer or saggy mattress. The last few things he saw were a 4:3 TV set with a VHS player in one corner. If he hadn’t known the house was abandoned, he’d be convinced someone was living there.

On the middle of the floor, he noticed a VHS tape. He picked it up and read the title, Beetlejuice. One of his favourite films. Was this the thing he heard falling onto the floor?

Then the closet door opened and a meek voice spoke, “Please... please... Mr. Ghost. Don’t take that.”

Jim eyes widened and he screamed, dropping the VHS tape. He ran toward the door, suddenly hearing laughter erupt below and someone in his sister’s voice saying, “Do you hear those footsteps?”

He ran past the threshold and grabbed onto the rail. His teeth chattered and body shivered. Every part of him tensed up, screaming for him to start running and never look back.

He turned around to look at the room. It had completely changed. It no longer looked like it was maintained, it looked like the rest of the house—abandoned and trashed.

Before he knew it, he collapsed onto the floor.

***

Daddy never believed him. Daddy always said, “There’s no such things as ghosts.”

Duran knew the truth. There were ghosts. They liked to make noises. They liked to bang on the walls. They liked to bust the windows, except the windows weren’t broken whenever he checked up on them. They liked to talk in loud voices—like the way Daddy does when he gets drunk.

It was quiet now. There was not much to do. He had finished eating his pop and chips. There was only one thing to do: watch a movie.

He ran downstairs to the living-room and grabbed Beetlejuice and ran back upstairs to his room. He held the VHS tape in his hands and looked at it. The ghosts on the cover weren’t the same ones he saw. No one’s head had been lopped off, no dead bride dressed in white, no ghost dressed in a black-and-white pinstripe suit. The ghosts he saw were... normal.

“Hello?”

Startled, Duran dropped the VHS tape by accident. He knew it was not his Daddy. It wasn’t 6 o’clock yet.

He tiptoed to the closet and shut himself away.

“Hello?”

The voice sounded like one of the older boys at school. They were mean to him. They called him “Peeboy.” He had accidentally peed himself one time at school. Everybody laughed at him, everybody teased him.

A dark shape appeared from under the door. He heard something being scraped up from the floor.

‘Beetlejuice,’ he thought. ‘If the ghost takes it or hides it, Daddy is going to get mad at me.’ He was more scared of Daddy than the ghost, so he mustered as much courage as he could and opened the door ajar.

The boy in the room was looking at the VHS tape. He didn’t recognize the boy. But something was wrong with him. Light was hitting him but it looked like he was still in shadow.

“Please...” he began, feeling like he couldn’t hold enough air into his lungs, “please... Mr. Ghost. Don’t take that.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He screamed and dropped the VHS tape. Then other sounds came from below, of laughter and someone mentioning footsteps.

Duran closed the door and curled up into a ball. He decided he wasn’t going to come out until Daddy got back from work.

***

‘Jim’s in there,’ Angela thought.

The high beams of her car struck the abandoned house. A shit-hole Fletcher and Lacey took her to get high and have a few drinks. She didn’t think she would ever be back here again, especially at night.

She left the engine running, got out of the car, and yelled, “Jim! Are you in there! If you’re there, come out!”

There was no answer, no sound whatsoever. The wind had died down, leaving everything in an unsettling stillness.

“If I find you, you’re in big trouble!”

As she walked across the lawn, she pulled out her phone and turned on its light. She climbed the rickety steps and entered the house.

In the hall, there were milk crates, beer bottles, and cigarette butts. She was there the day before, smoking a joint Fletcher passed her. She coughed up a fit the moment she blew out the smoke, her throat burning. Lacey laughed in her witchy way while Fletcher smiled. She wasn’t used to it, or enjoyed it as much as the other two did, but she didn’t want to be left out. Then she heard the footsteps...

“Jim!” she yelled.

She shined the bright, round light around, peeking into one room after another. She knew she was futile. She knew where he might actually be.

“Fletcher wants to go back,” Lacey said over the phone, after they returned from the abandoned house.

“No way! I told you two about the footsteps.”

Lacey let out a short laugh. “Fletcher thinks it was a hobo you heard. He promised next time he’s going to check inside for anyone before we do our business.”

“No. There was something wrong with those footsteps.”

“Are you still high? Footsteps are footsteps.”

“I know,” she started to scream. “I was high. That doesn’t mean the footsteps were in my head! Someone was running upstairs! Everyone was too busy laughing and telling jokes. Let’s just stick with Fletcher’s basement, I refuse to go back to that creepy, haunted house.”

Her hands were shaking and tears were forming in her eyes. Then she saw in the corner of the eyes, Jim listening in on their conversation...

She pointed the light at the stairway. ‘If Jim heard everything,’ she thought, ‘he would be up on the second floor.’

She climbed up. The light in her hand shook. She wasn’t like her brother whose imagination ran rampant. But there was always the “What if?” part of her mind she couldn’t shut off. What if there is a hobo? What if there is a ghost? What if...?

‘The only way you’ll know is by doing,’ she thought.

She was at the landing. Her light scanned the hall. Immediately, she spotted Jim lying on the floor. She rushed over to him, grabbing onto the rail as she kneeled next to him.

“Jim,” she whispered, forgetting about the mysterious footsteps.

He didn’t stir. She examined him, shining the bright light on his head and body. She found no sign of injury.

“It’s been a long time since I did this, but I think I can still do it,” she said more to herself rather than to her unconscious brother.

She put the phone into her pocket, letting the top part to stick out, so the light would continue to show her the way. Carefully, she lifted Jim like the way she used to, by holding him between the legs and buttocks and by letting his torso rest upon her chest. She prayed for her phone not to slip further into her pocket as she started to walk toward the stairway.

“What the hell did I tell you about breaking stuff!” a voice boomed.

She stopped and stood rigid.

Another voice chimed in, “Daddy, it wasn’t me. It was the ghosts!”

She pressed Jim harder to her body. She didn’t know what to do. The only thing she did know was she wanted to protect her brother.

“This again. I told you there are no such things as ghosts!”

“Daddy...” the child sobbed, “...they’re at the door right now.”

The door slammed shut. Through the door, she heard, “This will teach you to tell lies!” A snap of a belt sounded and then a child’s cry. Another snap followed and a sharper cry erupted.

Angela’s eyes formed tears, tears of fear, frustration, and anger. She swallowed hard and walked away.

***

Jim woke up and lifted himself up, realizing he was in the backseat of Angela’s car. He willed himself to stay awake, his eyelids straining to remain open. He needed to say something, he needed someone to listen. But he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Do you remember the time I hit?” Angela muttered.

Jim just sat there. Not sure what he was hearing. Sleep was drowning his senses and consciousness, only bits and pieces seemed to be coming through.

“You were probably four, or five. You were having a tantrum. I didn’t know what to do or how to calm you down. Mom and dad were out. You yanked at my hair and then…”

She sniffled and breathed in deep breaths. In a shaky voice, she said, “Do you remember? Have I done enough good things for you that it doesn’t matter anymore? Am I allowed to forget or am I supposed to be haunted by it?”

Jim let himself lie back down. His eyelids were heavy—too heavy. Jim remembered what he wanted to talk about and said one single word, “Ghosts.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Angela whispered.

Petey's Birthday Party

"Smile, Petey," Mom called, holding a camera. "It's your birthday."

"I don't want to," Petey said, crossing his arms. "I need to feel happy first."

"Aren't you happy with all the guests?" Mom said. "I invited everyone from the neighbourhood. I thought you would be happy to see them."

"I like all the guests, but I'm not happy yet," Petey said.

"Aren't you happy with all the presents?" Mom said. "There are millions and millions of presents. Big and small."

"I like all the presents, but I'm not happy yet," Petey said.

"Aren't you happy with all the animal and attractions?" Mom said. "There are elephants and giraffes. There are ghost houses and bumper cars. I got everything to bring your heart content."

"I like all the animals and attractions, but I'm not happy yet," Petey said.

"Okay, Petey," Mom said, sighing. "What will make you happy?"

"You forgot to give me a hug and a kiss," Petey said.

"Is that all?" Mom said. "I'm sorry, Petey. I was trying to make your birthday perfect, I forgot to give you a hug and a kiss."

Mom gave Petey a big hug and a big kiss. For the rest of the day, Petey smiles.

The End

Marionette

Pete thought it would be a great idea to take Angela to the haunted house. It was private and secluded because no one had inhabited the household or stepped on the property for years. But instead of reaching third base as he planned, he was interrupted by a noise of rattling wood.

“What was that?” Angela asked. “I think I heard something upstairs.”

Pete didn’t answer. He had heard it too, but it had been too faint to acknowledge. He waited for the silence to stretch along until he was convinced it was nothing.

“It’s probably just the wind,” he said.

“The wind?” she said. “How can you be so sure?”

“This house is old and untended. There’s probably a broken window somewhere in the house and the wind toppled something over.”

The house was certainly old and untended. It stood neglected in the outskirts of town. Every corner of the house seemed to be covered in dust.

“What if this place is really haunted?” Angela said. “The puppeteer who used to live here committed suicide soon after the kidnappings and murders. His suicide note said he would become a necromantic puppeteer.”

“It’s just a lot of hooey,” Pete said. “It’s just ghost stories.”

He recollected the ghost story in his mind. The Puppeteer named Hanson West kidnapped and murdered three children, one boy and two girls. Their bodies were found hanging in the basement rafters, ropes tied around their bruised wrists and ankles. Their small bodies contained no blood and no internal organs which were later found in a garbage container.

The officers on duty claimed they heard the three children laughing in the darkness…

Pete shivered.

“It’s ironic he would kill himself with a rope,” he said, chuckling at his bad joke.

“You’re—“

Before Angela could complete her sentence, she was interrupted by the same rattling of wood. She turned her head toward the staircase, half expecting a marionette to descend the steps. Pete, on the other hand, was waiting for school kids to burst out laughing.

When Angela began to button her shirt, Pete felt a flow of frustration and anger rising to the surface. Even though she liked to fool around, Angela was not an easy girl to get into bed.  Now he would have to wait a little longer to an already slow journey to have Angela.

“I’m going to see what that noise was,” he said grudgingly, pushing himself off the couch.

“Wait,” Angela peeped. “Don’t leave me alone.”

She clasped his hand, his firm hold easing her anxiety. But she was still frightened because she could not shake off the feeling of dread and despondency.

“Take the axe, Pete,” Angela suggested, pointing at an axe beside the staircase.

“Why is it just sitting there?” Pete said.

“I don’t know. You should just take it with you.”

“I don’t need it right now. It might just be a kid messing around. I don’t want to accidentally decapitate him.”

“You’re gruesome.”

Pete ignored the remark.

As they climbed the staircase, Pete warned Angela the third step from the top looked decrepit and weak. They skipped the step and continued their way up.

When they reached the top, they entered a dingy hallway. The rooms along the walls were filled with moonlight, faintly lighting the darkness. Shadowy forms of broken shelves and console tables littered the floor.

At the end of the hallway, they heard wood creaking and groaning. Even though they sensed an unsettling aura in the air, they followed the noise.

Angela squeezed Pete’s hand harder and harder.

Pete wished he had taken Angela to Lovers’ Peak. There would have been no distractions. There would have been him and her alone in the safe and warm car. But instead he was in a haunted house, in a dingy hallway, with her girlfriend frightened to near-death.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Pete said, smiling wanly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

When they finally entered the room, they saw a marionette sitting on a creaking and groaning rocking chair while it moved back and forth. The marionette was modelled after a faraway princess with its locks of blonde hair, detailed facial features, and intricate beryl-coloured gown. Its presence caused Pete and Angela to feel uneasy and anxious.

Pete went up to the rocking chair and stilled it.

“Someone must have just been in here,” Pete said, trying to bury the unpleasantness crawling up and down his chest. “We didn’t see anyone leave the room. There’s only one place to go.”

He walked over to the window and tried to pry it open. He didn’t want to feel the unpleasantness envelope him, so he tried desperately to bury it in doubt and logic.

But Angela didn’t care about Pete’s theories anymore. She was convinced the marionette was alive. She was certain the wooden rattling of the marionette caused them to come up, not the wind toppling something over.

Suddenly, the marionette spun its head toward her. She shrieked hard enough to crack fine glass.

Pete unglued himself from the window. But before he could find out what had happened, Angela was running from the room.

He chased after her, calling out her name, but her scream smothered his call.

“Watch out for the step!” Pete yelled.

But it was too late.

The third step snapped under her weight. Her hair whipped up into the air as she fell forward. She tumbled down and down until she hit the base of the staircase with a sickening thwack.

Pete ran after her but stopped as he stared down at her lifeless body, limbs and spine contorted in unnatural arches.

As he climbed down the stairs, carefully avoiding the broken step, Angela’s body floated up into the air! There were no strings attached to her body, but it did not stop it from climbing up the stairs. Moving like a marionette, her feet brushed each step and her arms dangled like rubber.

Pete could not move. He thought he was in a nightmare.

They were a foot apart now. He could smell the copper-like scent from her bloodied mouth and the perfume of vanilla from her body.

She stretched out her arm. The axe beside the staircase wobbled and floated up into the air until it gently landed on the palm of her hand.

As her dead eyes stared at Pete, Angela asked sinisterly. “Do you still want to reach third base? Because I still want to!”

Her laughter ripped open his soul as she swung the axe.