If Vampires Don't Sparkle...

STOP: This is a continuation from Do Vampires Sparkle?

 

If Vampires Don't Sparkle

by Lisa McCourt Hollar

 

My eyes hurt when I opened them. The light outside filtered into my room, slipping past blinds that were drawn to allow for uninterrupted sleep.  I had bought them when I first moved in. I liked to sleep past noon.

“Oy, did someone get the license of the truck that hit me?” I wasn’t expecting an answer, I was in my bedroom for Pete’s sake. No one should be there. So I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone did answer.

“Try not to move to fast. You might be a little dizzy.”

“What the hell… Joseph?”

He smiled at me from the entrance to the room. I could hear the television in the living room now and realized he must have been here while I was sleeping. The image of him carrying me… shimmering… came back to me and I winced. My throat hurt. Bad. I reached up to touch it, expecting to find bandages and was surprised to find my neck as smooth and whole as normal, no gaping wound.

“Was it just a dream?” I asked. Sitting up, I stood and took a tentative step. The floor stayed where it was meant to stay and I took another.

“Take it easy,” Joseph said again. Ignoring him, I crossed the room to open the curtains only to find that Joseph was there, blocking me.

“How did you…”  I looked from the door where he had just been standing and then back to the window where he now stood.

“You don’t want to open the blinds. Not without some sunglasses to protect your eyes.  Here.”

He handed me a pair of pink shades. I shuddered. They reminded me of something Deb would wear.

“I know, but I didn’t have time to get you something in a darker color. Deb says if you break them, you owe her sixty dollars.

I stepped away from the window, putting space between me and Joseph. I thought about running for the door, but knowing how quickly he’d moved across the room, I doubted I would make it… if his intentions were to harm me. So instead I asked, “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I didn’t. From the look on your face and your preference for black, I took a guess. You hate pink. That’s why Deb wears it, to annoy you.”

“I thought she wore it because she was a mindless zombie.” I meant it as a joke. Joseph however frowned and shook his head.

“Zombies aren’t as mindless as you think. And they would probably never wear pink.”

“What?”

“Now werewolves, they like pink. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t been able to figure that out.”

“You’re joking,” I said. I moved away from the curtain and slowly worked my way across the room.  Joseph took my elbow, intending to help me but I jerked away. For all I knew he had slipped something into my cocoa the night before. Nothing made any sense.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, but he kept his hands to himself and let me walk into the living room on my own power.  The television was tuned to the local news and a reporter was standing in the park while the camera filmed her. Behind her was a strip of police tape. She was saying something about an animal attack that had ripped open the throat of a jogger the night before. I touched my own throat, the memory of sharp teeth tearing into the flesh. I still wasn’t sure if my memory was real, but the news broadcast hit a nerve. My knees sagged and I moved to sit on the couch… only my couch wasn’t empty. Carl was sleeping on it.

“Here.” Joseph took my elbow again and guided me towards the seat next to the couch.  It was my grandmother’s chair and the most uncomfortable thing, but I sat in it, grateful that I hadn’t landed on the floor.

“Joseph, what’s going on?”

“What do you remember from last night?”

I told him, the man that had come into the store, how he had been waiting for me on the way home. His arms around me… kissing me.  Teeth… pain. And then him lifting me.

“You sparkled,” I said.

Joseph blushed. “I don’t like that word. It sounds too much like a certain popular vampire series.” He shuddered.

“Are you a vampire?”

The sound that came out of Joseph was so startling that Carl sat up on the couch and looked around, his eyes wide. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

 “Me, a vampire?” he barked, “No. I’m an angel.”

“This is where I probably should have called the police. Most people would have. “There’s a crazy man in my apartment that claims he’s an angel. Oh and by the way, I had a vampire rip open my throat last night, can you bring a white jacket for me as well.”

My grandmother had believed in the paranormal and had passed some of that on to me. When I was little and the Polly Anna that lived next door to us called my grandmother a witch, I put a hex on her. Not a real one, I didn’t know how to do that, but when she fell ill the next day I went running to my grandmother.

“What’s the matter,” she had asked.

“I hexed Sissy Susan.”

“We don’t call people names. Now why did you hex, Susan.”

“She called you a witch.”

“And how does that hurt me?”

“Because,” I sobbed. “Witches are old hags with warts on their noses.

“Do I have a wart on my nose?” She looked in the mirror then and squinted at her nose. “Well look there, no one bothered to tell me I was supposed to have a wart.”

“You’re not a witch,” I laughed.

“I’m not? Are you so sure of that, child? Then how can you have hexed Susan.”

“I guess… I don’t know. But she’s sick now.”

“Probably the stomach flu. I’ll make her some chicken noodle soup and take it over to her.”

“There’s creatures all around us,” she said as she made the soup. “We can’t always see them, but they watch us. Sometimes they listen to what we say. Now if they are good, they won’t do anything to hurt us, but some are mischievous. If they hear you put a hex on someone, they could act on that and cause that person all kinds of pain. Now I’m sure that’s not what happened to Susan but a little magic can’t hurt.”

“What do you mean, Grandma?”

She just winked at me and blew into the soup. I didn’t see anything magical happen, but Susan got better and went back to tormenting me a few days later.

So now I looked at Joseph telling me he was an angel… and I believed him.

Afterimage

The amazingly talented Lori Fetters Lopes is hosting a contest. This is my entry based on the photo prompt. Check it out and the other stories... write one of your own. Seriously, you should try it. 175 words of good time.

Afterimage

By Lisa McCourt Hollar

 

Sarah woke from the nightmare, her scream dying as the afterimage of the dream faded. This was the third night in a row she’d woken covered in sweat, terrified of… what?  Aaron?  He was gone. Still, something was coming.

Padding to the bathroom she dropped her robe. Turning on the shower, she inspected her body in the mirror while the water heated up. The scars were fading, but the evidence of what Aaron had done to her was still there. At least she was safe now. She’d managed to kill him and that damn hell hound of his, barely escaping the cult with her life. Others had escaped too, but it was Sarah he had wanted, trying to take her with him.

As the steam surrounded her, she shivered remembering the fire.

“Hell can’t keep me from you,” he had promised as the flames consumed him.

Horrified, Sarah watched as a heavily bearded man and his dog appeared against the steamed glass. Screaming, she heard the growl of a dog right before the glass shattered.

Word Count: 175

The Vampire Bureau

An excerpt from:

The Vampire Bureau

by Lisa McCourt Hollar

Stefan watched the boy as he approached the yellow house. Decorated in gaudy ornaments, the porch light brightly lit the door, displaying a witch in garish orange and green colors. Stefan hid behind a tree, just out of the reach of the encroaching glow.

The boy, plump for someone so small, struggled to keep up with the rest of the children, his short, stubby legs sticking out beneath the sheet serving as his costume.

“A ghost, boooo hoooo,” Stefan said, his voice so low, the surrounding crickets wouldn’t have heard. How he tired of these games. The boy’s scent carried to him, causing his stomach to rumble a little louder than he would have liked. A bird sitting on the branch, unaware of Stefan, who had been standing so still he could have been one of the plastic figures peppering the lawns of the neighborhood, took off, startled by its sudden proximity to danger.

“Never worry,” Stephen grumbled, “it’s not your blood I am after. I would have to be far more starved than I am to find the little nourishment you would provide, palatable.

Stephen’s eyes never left his prey. The boy was slow, which took the sport out of the game, and probably dimwitted. The other children looked to be the kind who would have a sporting chance at survival, though even that was unlikely. He nearly said damn it all to the rules, his legs itching to spring from his hiding place and gather the children in his arms. He could be gone before the first trick or treat bag hit the ground. Their blood smelled more appetizing than the ghost boy’s. He could only imagine what kind of in-breeding might have gone on in Stubby’s family gene pool.

The Vampire Bureau would be on him before he had the first child drained. They had gotten rather testy lately, insisting all un-dead abide by the treaty they had negotiated with the government. The idea of a treaty being signed between the living and dead seemed ludicrous, but it had happened and all because a few of his kind had gotten greedy. Even then, the existence of vampires might have gone unnoticed, if not for the special task force the government set up to investigate Supernatural happenings around the world.

“We should have wiped them out,” Stefan grumbled, his belly protesting his delay to action.

The argument for a treaty had been sound though. They could have wiped out the human population, but in doing so, would have wiped out their food supply. They could have enslaved the living, but again, that would have meant trusting them not to revolt during the daylight hours, when they would be otherwise incapacitated. The treaty assured the government would leave the general population unaware of their existence, so long as they abided by rules.

Rules included blood banks and plasma stored in refrigerators, nursing homes and aged blood of the dying, the forgotten elderly lying in beds, neglected by the staff and ignored by their family. Rules didn’t allow for the draining of children, whose blood was fresh, pure of the toxins that would pollute their blood stream as they grew older; alcohol, drugs and sex with unprotected prostitutes, all served to make the blood a little less savory.

The group of children reached the front door and rang the bell. A woman answered, feigning fear at the gruesome creatures standing outside her door.

“Oh my, what do we have here? A witch, oh my, oh my… and Frankenstein and a werewolf, oh look at you, aren’t you a little doll.”

The princess smiled, holding out her bag, threatening to reveal a scarier side if the woman didn’t drop in a treat. The woman obliged, after insisting everyone follow the inane ritual of singing out their request.

“Trick or Treat,” they all echoed and the woman dropped her bribe into each bag, insuring her house would not be assaulted with rotten eggs and toilet paper. Last in line was the ghost, who stumbled over his feet in his rush for the door.

“My, but aren’t you a scary little guy,” the woman chuckled, dropping a chocolate bar into the proffered bag. The ghost mumbled a thank you and turned to join the rest of his group, who had already moved on, parents and all, confirming what Stefan had already suspected. The boy was a straggler, no more a part of the group than Stefan would be if he suddenly decided to join the group of parents. 

Stefan had tried the year before to blend in with a group, hoping perhaps for an invitation into one of the homes after the evening was over. He was sure he had heard once that these humans threw costume parties and played such games as bobbing for apples pin the fangs on the vampire. He’d thought about how much fun it would be if a real vampire showed up and played a game of his own.

If there was a party, he never found out. All parents have a warning signal inside, warning of danger. Most have learned to suppress it, dismissing their fears as silly and superstitious.  Stefan had given a friendly, “Hello,” having trailed a lone child to the group. They parent’s had looked him up and down, glancing at the boy, who was dressed in rags, with a fake hobo beard painted onto his face.  Stefan had at first thought the hostility emanating from the group came from the sense of danger built into all mankind and if he put on a pleasant smile and exchanged pleasantries with them, their anxiety would pass.

“So… are you, um, Eddie’s father?” 

The question had come from a young woman whose blood, oddly enough, smelled as though it was void of many of the addictive substances that tainted the taste for him. Stefan had looked at the woman, confused for a moment and then realized she was referring to the hobo. After a long pause, he answered, “Yes.”

‘I always wondered what you looked like,” one of the men said, turning towards him. “Surprised you managed to stay sober for the evening.”

While Stefan was trying to figure out how to respond, another father said, “Maybe we should show him how we deal with men who like to beat kids.”

Amused, Stefan realized they were angry because of who they thought he was, not because of what he was. He tried to salvage the night, but Eddie’s father was apparently a worse monster than any vampire could be and eventually he faded away, watching until the opportunity arose to take the child. The blood had not been as satisfactory as he had hoped. There are some things done to children that can taint the blood of even the innocent. He felt perhaps he had done the child a favor.

The ghost, encumbered by his small legs, hurried down the steps after the other trick or treaters, calling out a tiny, “Wait for me.” They either didn’t hear him, or as Stefan suspected, didn’t care and continued on without the boy. Hurrying his pace, he ran to catch up, not seeing Stefan until he stepped out in front of the child. Startled, the ghost nearly stumbled over the vampire, juggling his bag, which bore the image of a grinning Jack O’Lantern, in an attempt to keep from spilling his contents. He failed. The boy and the chocolate contents went sprawling across the sidewalk while Stefan pretended to be horrified.

“Oh my, here, let me help you.”

Stefan bent to help the boy pick up the spilled candy. Nervous eyes peered out of the sheet while the blood, oh the sweet blood, teased his senses, calling to Stefan to take one little bite. A low rumble trembled in the back of his throat, the sound startling the boy, who pulled his hand back as Stefan’s fingers grazed the back of it. His teeth ached, longing to break the delicate skin promising so much pleasure. Nearly in a trance, Stefan hesitated… he could do it and no one would know. The damn Vampire Bureau and their nosey paranormal agents would never know it had been him.  Childish voices pulled him from his reverie. Coming down the block, only a few houses away, was another group of Trick or Treater’s. Had they seen Stefan with the boy, could they give a description? These were dangerous times for being a vampire.

No, Stefan decided. Shadow surrounded him and his prey and at the moment they went unnoticed, but it wouldn’t be long before the little monsters were there. He needed to act swiftly.

“It seems your friends have left without you.” Stefan smiled knowingly at the boy.

“I… I can catch up with them.” His voice shook, betraying his nervousness.

“I bet you can,” Stefan laughed, winking. “But why should you? They think you’re slow, but I bet the never heard the story of the Turtle and the Hare.”

“Slow and steady wins the race.” The boy laughed, though fear still tinged his breath. Stefan tried not to breathe. Gads, he was hungry. A year of drinking approved blood had taken his toll. If he didn’t get something fresh soon, he wouldn’t be responsible for what happens.

“Yes and in this case, bigger and better candy. I know someplace handing out the King sized candy bars, not these tiny bite sized things which leave you wanting for more.”

“Where?” The boy’s voice shook with excitement.

“It’s a few blocks from here. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

The Vampire Bureau is one of 14 stories included in Jezri's Halloween Nightmares.

A collection of 14 stories, perfect for the Holiday, along with bonus material. Collection includes, The Bainbridge Witch, The Vampire Bureau, Ol’ Jack, Witch’s Brew, The Dress’s Curse, Retribution, Trapped, The Dragon’s Claw, Hide and Seek, A Prank Gone Too Far, Temptations, Dare, Ageless and Reverie, A Graystone Manor Short.

Bonus Material gives you free sample reads of Progeny, The Second Wave: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale, Blood Lust and Undead Ahead, a collaboration of stories by Lisa McCourt Hollar and Jeffrey Hollar.

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Available on Amazon, BN and Smashwords.

Last Line of Defense

Written for #MenageMonday

 

Last Line of Defense

By Lisa McCourt Hollar

 

Sondra’s hair lashed her face as the wind climbed with every word of the spell.

In the distance, the creatures kept coming, pushing through a gale strong enough to stagger even her.

The blue moon lit the dead, an army of corpses that refused to stay buried, defying every law of nature she knew.

Behind her, the survivors huddled in the town hall. Even now, she cursed herself. If she’d revealed her powers sooner, maybe they wouldn’t be here.

Or maybe we would.

They hadn’t trusted her. If she’d admitted she was a witch, they might have thrown her back into the ravine where they’d found her. So she’d called herself a doctor instead, using herbs and healing to earn her place.

The ravine was the town’s only entrance. They’d blown the bridge and stationed sharpshooters along the cliffs to pick off anything that crossed. She still considered it a miracle they hadn’t shot her on sight.

The wind clawed at her robes. Raymond’s stare burned into her back. He blamed her, and he wasn’t wrong.

Her spell had been meant to make the ravine impassable. Instead, it flattened the land, carving a clear road straight to town.

“My mama always said I could botch the simplest spells,” she’d said. “But I can fix this.”

“I can too,” Raymond had replied, nodding toward the gallows.

“Give her a chance,” his daughter had said, the only voice he ever listened to.

Outside the hall stood a monument to two Dobermans, heroes of some long-ago attack.

They would be heroes again.

“Rise, great warriors,” Sondra called into the storm. “Rise and fight. Multiply. Divide. Conquer. Leave no dead alive.”

The spell was crude, stripped of poetry, just commands.

The ground shook.

Concrete split. Bolts screamed free. Stone dogs tore themselves from their pedestals.

Two became four.

Four became eight.

“Attack.”

As one, the pack surged forward and slammed into the advancing dead.

G is for...GHOST!

In my tour of the Alphabet with the A to B Blog Challenge, I have reached the letter G…

                              G is for G…g…g…GHOST!

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Dead

By Lisa McCourt Hollar

Eyes like daggers, Miranda poured as much anger into her as she could and threw it all at the man she was following. A display of oranges broke, spilling across the open air market and into his path. The man stumbled, his arms flailing as he tried to maintain his balance by dancing a jig around the escaped fruit. He almost succeeded, but then a basket of muffins fell over and the man went down, landing hard on his back, and smacking his head against the pavement.

“Score!” Miranda stood over him, her lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Are you okay mister?” A woman came running over to help the man up, stepping into Miranda’s space and forcing her to dissipate. Gasping from the pain, Miranda shook it off and rematerialized behind him, directing her rage at his back.

“I’m fine,” he said, looking nervously behind him. The hairs on his neck were prickling and he had a feeling of dread that he couldn’t shake.

“Are you sure? Oh…you’re bleeding. I think you should get that stitched.”

Carl reached up and touched his head. Feeling something warm and sticky, he pulled his fingers away and stared at them, confused. Miranda grinned. Reaching out, she pushed her fingers into the wound, twisting and grinding against the damaged flesh. Sucking in his breath, Carl winced in pain and pulled away from her touch.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” the woman said.

“No, don’t…I’ll be okay. It’s just a small cut.”

“Are you sure? It looks bad.”

“I SAID I AM FINE!”

Surprised by his anger, the woman stepped out of his way and let him go. Miranda followed, whispering in his ear when he stopped at the corner to lean against a car. He was looking around to see if anyone was watching.

“Thief,” Miranda hissed, when he popped the door open.

Carl leaned in, reaching for the wires under the dash. The car roared to life, but then the wires sparked, burning the tips of his fingers.  Miranda laughed, enjoying this new game. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic.

“Where are you going,” Miranda asked. “You can’t get away from me.” Then grinning, she pushed her foot down on top of his, forcing him to go faster. “I won’t let you.”

Terrified, Carl tried to put on the brakes, but he couldn’t lift his foot from the accelerator. A busy intersection was coming up and the light was red. Just before he would have run it, Miranda lifted the pressure and he slammed on the breaks.

“I want you dead,” Miranda hissed…but not at the expense of the innocent that would be hurt in an accident.

When the light turned red, Carl turned the corner, passing a police car. Miranda had a new idea and dove under the hood. The car came to a stop.

“Damn!” Carl turned the key, trying to get the stolen car to start, but it just made a grinding sound. Then there was a tap on the window. Miranda pushed the power button and sent the glass rolling down.

“Sir, can I help you?”

Carl looked at the cop standing outside the window, the color draining from his face.

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

“I…I’m fine officer. I just had a little accident and was on my way to the hospital.”

Puzzled, the cop looked down the road, where the University Hospital sat, only a block away. “You’re going in the wrong direction then.”

Carl looked behind him, then back at the officer. “I guess I’m a bit turned around. Must be hurting worse than I thought.”

“What’s your name, sir? You look familiar.”

“I don’t think you would know me. I’m from out of town…another State,”

“But your plate is local. Can I see your license and registration?”

“RUN,” Miranda hissed, breathing ice into his ears.

Carl opened the car door, slamming it into the officer’s side and knocking him to the ground. Running down the street, he heard the man ordering him to stop.

“RUN,” Miranda laughed, sending the lid from a trashcan flying towards his head. Carl dodged it, looking in horror at the spot where Miranda was standing. For a moment he thought he saw someone.

“That’s right Carl…it’s me.” Miranda picked the trash can up, allowing it to hover in the air before throwing it at his feet.

Carl turned and ran the moment the can went sailing through the air. He’d never believed in ghosts before, but the image of his ex- girlfriend standing in the street was embedded in his head. He’d only seen her for a moment, but then the trash container had begun to float in mid- air. Behind him he heard the metal can hit the ground.

“Run Carl,” Miranda laughed, chasing after him. “RUN!”

In front of him, a heavy tree branch broke and fell, barely missing him. Looking over his shoulder, Carl saw Miranda coming at him, her eyes flashing with anger.”

“I’m sorry,” he screamed. “I didn’t mean it!”

“But I do!”

A bike from a nearby yard sat up and went wheeling towards Carl, while the wind picked up and the branches from the trees began to sway, violently. A dog came to the edge of the road and growled at Carl and then another dog and another.

“Miranda, please stop!”

“Isn’t that what I said, when you had your hands around my neck?”

The bike that was rolling towards Carl rose into the air. Screaming, Carl turned and ran into the path of the police car.

***

Carl couldn’t move. His head was strapped to a board and his arms were tied down.

“Don’t try and move,” a voice said. “You have a neck injury.”

Carl looked up into the face of the paramedic, and then over his shoulder at the woman standing there, her face twisted and filled with hate.

“Yeah, don’t move Carl…we wouldn’t want you to get hurt. And don’t worry if it turns out you’re paralyzed. I’ll be here with you, forever...or until you die.”

The Chair

Written for The Daily Slice on Writing.com

The Chair

By Lisa McCourt Hollar

Robert Turner watched Luther Baker’s body stiffen in the chair. 2,450 volts of electricity coursed through the man’s body. Robert didn’t care for this part of the job. Killing a man was never easy, even one as vile as Robert (the Butcher) Baker. The crimes this man had committed absolved Robert and the others in the room of their guilt in his death, but Robert had a feeling that this day would live with him forever.

***

“Do you believe an object can be imbued with evil?”

“Uncle Robert, are you okay?” Grace Wheeler glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was almost three a.m.

“I never should have taken the chair Gracie. He’s part of it. Someone so evil couldn’t die.”

Grace swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her husband raised himself up onto his elbows, giving her a quizzical look. “Uncle Robert,” she mouthed, then into the phone, “I’m on my way.” The only answer Grace received was the buzz of the dial tone. Shaking her head, she turned to her husband. “The man has gone completely ape nuts. I have to go check on him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay. Can’t it wait until morning?”

“You didn’t hear him. He thinks his chair is alive.”

“The leather one?”

“You got it. He says that HE is a part of it, that evil couldn’t be killed.”

Michael chuckled. “Well, he may have a point. Someone as evil as Luther Baker…”

“Not you too!”

“I’m just saying, there are some that believe he made a deal with the devil.”

“You are just too much. I’ll be back, after I make sure he’s okay.”

When Grace got to her Uncle’s house, he was already dead.

***

“The chair comes with the house.”

Bob Stone looked at leather wingback and raised his eyebrows. “It looks expensive. Why would anyone leave it?”

Francine Stevens shrugged her shoulders. “They didn’t want it, but couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of it.

“It doesn’t really go with our furniture,” Kathy said, joining her husband by the chair.

“There’s no reason you have to keep it. Robert Turner was a craftsman and he made the chair himself. I’m sure you can set it on the curb and someone will pick it up, or you could sell it.”

“WAS a craftsman,” Kathy asked.

“He died.” Francine didn’t add that he had died, sitting in that chair.

“How?”

Heart attack. The man was old.”

“I don’t know...It doesn’t seem right. Why are they asking such a low price for this place? They could easily get twice as much.”

“The niece is grieving and wants to start the healing process as quickly as possible.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Bob said. He was sitting in the chair, smiling.

“The chair goes.”

“Of course honey. Anything you say.”

***

“Unbelievable.” Kathy dropped the box she was carrying onto the living room floor and went in search of her husband. She found him in the kitchen, making a sandwich.

“We’ve only been working for an hour.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I thought I told you we weren’t keeping the chair.”

“You did.”

“Then why is it in the living room?”

 “I put it outside by the curb. You helped me carry it out.”

“I did and then you brought it back in.”

“Honey, I didn’t.”

“You know…never mind. Just help me carry it out again.”

***

“BOB!”

“What is it?” Bob came running into the room and stopped short as soon as he saw what it was that had his wife so upset. Sitting in the corner of the room was the leather wingback.

“Honey, I don’t know what it’s doing here.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Kathy said, sounding frightened. “I watched someone pull up to the corner last night and put it in the back of a truck.”

“How did it end up back here?”

“I don’t know, but it’s creeping me out. I saw it move.”

“What?”

“The chair, it moved. Not a lot, but when I walked in the room, it was angled more towards the window, and then it shifted, only an inch or two, but it moved, so that it was facing me.”

“It was just a trick of the light.”

“No it wasn’t Bob! I’m calling the real estate lady and finding out what the hell is going on.”

“It’s not such a bad chair. Try sitting in it. It’s pretty comfortable, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.” Angry, Kathy stomped off to use the phone.

***

Sitting at the table feeling numb, Kathy ran her hand through her hair, replaying in her mind her conversation with Francine Stevens.

“Don’t tell me there is nothing wrong with the chair Francine. We’ve tried twice now to get rid of it and it keeps coming back. On its own! I know that’s impossible, but that doesn’t change that the damn thing is sitting in my living room, glowering at me. Yes, glowering. I know it’s not a living thing, or at least shouldn’t be, but I swear to God Francine, if you don’t tell me what is going on with the damn chair, I’m going to the State Realty Board. You are supposed to give full disclosure on a house, before selling it.”

Now Kathy was even more worried than ever. “Shit! Freaking Luther Baker of all people! No wonder they didn’t want the chair.”

“Bob,” she called out, heading for the living room, “you are never going to believe what Francine told me. Robert Turner was a guard at the state prison when Luther Baker was there. The damn chair is made out of the one they used to fry the bastard! Bob?”

Entering the living room, Kathy saw her husband sitting in the leather wingback. His head was turned at an odd angle and there were scorch marks on his shirt. “BOB!”

Kathy stared unbelieving as the chair tipped forward, dumping Bob onto the floor and then began to slide across the room, towards her.

Word Count: 1,000