THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 26TH POSTCARD

Montana's postcard was thicker, Darren saw, because it was one of these specially printed cards where if you shifted the card, the image would change, giving the appearance of motion. This one showed a large bison grazing, then its head lifted to look straight at Darren when he tilted the card.

WAKAN

     Carl grunted as he squinted at the print he held carelessly in one hand. "Doesn’t look like it’d be too hard to do this myself. I even got a dog for a model," he drawled, chucking at his own wit. He glanced at his wife, Ann, and nudged her, as if he expected her to join in with her own amusement.
     Of course he expected it, Ann thought sourly to her self as she allowed a tight small smile to appear on her face. He always wanted her to validate his jokes, his opinions. She pretended to be suddenly interested in some of the beadwork at the adjacent table, where a very old, extremely wrinkled woman sat, hair in long white braids.
     The man seated at Carl’s left reached up and gently removed the print from Carl’s hand, placing it carefully back onto the table with the other prints. "That’d be a wolf. Not a dog," the man said. He stared at Carl without any particular facial expression, and his voice was even, polite. Still, Carl’s face grew red. The Indian was calling him stupid.
    "Yeah? Well, I can tell you right now that you’re overcharging way to much for these, pal," Carl told the Indian, thrusting his head slightly forward like a bulldog, complete with jowls.
The man simply sat, with his hands on his knees. Then he shrugged almost imperceptibly. Carl glowered at him then whipped his head around to see if his wife was also witnessing this affront, but no, of course not. She was dithering over some stupid bracelet, talking to the pruny old lady who probably bought it off someone else and was passing it off as her own artwork.
     Carl snorted, looking at the artist again. "Do you even sell any of this?" The man nodded.
     "Yes, I do. If you are not interested, then thank you for your time. Please feel free to look at the other artists’ craft before you leave," the man said. His gaze seemed to go just past Carl, dismissing him. Carl scowled. He reached down and picked up one of the business cards from the small stack on the artist’s table. He read it perfunctorily.
     "Michael Tall," Carl muttered. "Tall what? Tall Trees? Tall dude? Neck? Shoes? That’s not even a real Indian name. Oh, excuse me, Native American name."
     Michael Tall’s flicked back to Carl. "You shouldn’t believe everything you see in movies," he replied, shaking his head back slightly to move his shoulder-length hair away from his face and eyes. These eyes continued to regard Carl. Carl’s face turned even more crimson. He took another glance at his wife, whom he saw now with satisfaction, was looking at him. Her face was tight with tension. She looked away, and Carl scowled. She was embarrassed by him, her husband? His lip curled up into a sneer. He flipped the card onto the table.
     "Come on, Ann, forget that prune and let’s go," Carl said, sniffing deeply. He turned his back on Michael and started strutting towards the exit leading to the adjoining building, where the main entrance was.
Ann closed her eyes briefly. She started to follow Carl, but then a light touch upon her arm stopped her. She looked down at the elderly woman peering at her from a dark face made elfish by time.
"He is on a path that grows dark, and the darkness is his own," the woman said, speaking through toothless gums. Ann shook her head slightly, frowning.
     "I’m sorry?" Ann inquired, glancing towards her husband’s receding form with discomfort. Carl would be even more annoyed if she tarried further, but also she didn’t like this woman making judgmental remarks about the man she’d married.
     The elderly woman leaned forward. "Your man. He walks into the darkness, but he cannot walk away from it, because it is a darkness he makes. Perhaps he senses your light, keeps you close, to keep the darkness away. But lights do go out."
     Annie backed slowly away from the woman, trying to make some excuse for leaving, but couldn’t find any words. She managed a quick polite yet insincere smile before she pivoted on her heels, hurrying after Carl.
     She caught up with him halfway to the car. She glanced over at the gigantic, rough and unfinished Crazy Horse sculpture just before she took her husband by the elbow, a placating smile on her face. They’d decided to do over to South Dakota for the weekend, to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse, make a mini vacation of it. They’d gone to Rushmore first, saving Crazy Horse for the return trip.
     Carl jerked his arm away in petulance. Ann exhaled, the condensation from her mouth swirling in a tense, tight mass. Much like she felt. She reached down to zip up her coat- the cold already seeping through her layered clothing. Carl continued to walk towards the car with stiff angry steps. Out of the gray sky, snowflakes began to drift, dusting Carl’s thin hair as he ran his hand through the brown strands. He began to dig into his jeans pocket for the keys to the car, grunting with the effort it took to fit his hand into the small space.
     "Jesus Christ," Carl muttered, "now I gotta drive through this, and it’s almost dark. Fantastic." Procuring the keys, he unlocked the car and sat down heavily in the seat, slamming the door. He made a gesture with his hand, staring pointedly at Ann through the windshield. Let’s go.     Ann took a last look at Crazy Horse. The day had started off well enough, and she’d enjoyed the trip to this cultural center, with the exhibits and the Indian vendors and their art, the cats wandering the premises, the decent food at the café. She sighed again and got into the car. It was going to be a long drive home.
     Sure enough, Carl immediately launched into a tirade against artists without jobs, Indians with attitude problems, inconvenient snow, and non-supportive wives. Ann merely stared ahead at the road with hands folded in her lap. She studied the road, thinking how much the view resembled the old television set she and Carl had bought secondhand when they first moved in together. The screen had static, but not a full screen of buzzing grey insects. It’d been like the swirling snowflakes, white motes dancing across the images, almost reacting to the movements of the people and camera angles. Then, just like the TV whenever she turned it off, the view faded into grey then black, as Ann fell asleep.
     Carl glared at his wife for a moment before returning his attention to the road. Did Ann really find his viewpoint that boring? He lifted his lip in a sneer, squinting through the thick darkness. The open road, crossing into Montana, in Indian territory, through the Crow Agency was normally a boring stretch to drive through. Now, though, as the evening aged into deepest night, and the snow became a heavy curtain of icy whiteness, Carl gripped the wheel firmly. His jaw began to ache as he ground his teeth slowly. His head began to ache from the tension in his jaw and shoulders. Why didn’t they put lights in by the road in this area? Beyond the snow filling his headlight beams, there was nothing but black, black, black. There weren’t even any other cars to allow him glimpses of the road ahead via their headlights.
     Ann awoke with her own scream as Carl smashed his foot down on the brake, yelling hoarsely. The car slewed across the road, across the center lines, from his lane to the other and back. Finally, the car came to a rest, halfway into the shoulder.
     "Carl, what happened?" Ann asked, her voice high with panic. Her eyes darted in all directions, while she tried to peer through the windows. Carl lifted one hand up in a gesture of confusion, shaking his head. He kept his eyes on the bleached kaleidoscope.
     "I saw something! An animal, something brown and kinda big." Ann stared at her husband.
     "Was it a dog?" she asked her husband. Carl licked his lips and then wiped his face with his hand, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
     "No, it was too big for that- moved differently . . . more like-" Carl stopped, head cocked. Ann looked around again, trying to see or hear whatever Carl was giving his attention. She started to speak again, but Carl made a chopping motion with his hand. Ann looked away, at her own reflection in the side window. She had difficulty scrutinizing her face, since the snow was causing her reflection to waver and wriggle.
Then she realized it wasn’t the snow, as the vibrations grew stronger. Carl and Ann turned their heads to stare at each other, eyes wide in wonderment as the vibrations turned into sound. The sound of hoofbeats.
The snow made mystery of sound and distance, so both Carl and his wife were taken completely by surprise when the stampeding herd of bison burst into view not ten feet away from the front of the car. The car bounced and shook with the thunder of the beasts as they ran past.
     A tear welled up in Ann’s eye and fell upon the dashboard as she leaned closer to the windshield to watch the awe-inspiring, slightly frightening scene. Carl just sat with his hands upon the wheel, grinding his teeth.
     Then they stopped. The stampede just came to a halt. The bison ceased running, and stood with sides heaving. Their nostrils flared, causing snow to ripple out from around their heads. The silence was disorienting, coming so suddenly. Carl grimaced, having visions of sitting in the car all night while the damn things just stood around being obstacles. He started to lift his hand to lay it on the horn, but froze, his skin suddenly crawling. His breathing turned shallow while he stared at the buffaloes.
     The bison were all turning to face him, their eyes glittering in the beams of light. They continued to exhale fogtrails that mingled with the bodyheat mist rising from their bodies. Then a ripple coursed through the herd. The beasts began to shuffle to the sides of the road. Carl thought perhaps they were making way for his car, but the size of the aisle opening up was still too narrow. Carl squinted into the blackness beyond the buffalo, but could not make out anything. Carl closed his eyes, teeth grinding slowly.
     Ann’s gasp caused Carl’s eyelids to fly open. He looked at his wife, who was staring straight ahead. He followed her gaze and saw her. She walked slowly, her bare feet leaving tracks overlaying the hoofprints in the new snowfall. She was a young Indian dressed in white, her braids long and straight. She was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Her eyes were as black as the darkness behind her, surrounding the buffalo, the car.
     "What the hell?" Carl yelped. The woman stopped, tilting her head. One side of her mouth turned up. Carl blinked. Had she actually heard him? Her eyes grew large. They went from dark marbles to big, shiny black orbs the size of billiard balls. She bent over, her hair unraveling and turning white. Her hands touched the pavement and fused together. Her spine bowed, and her girth expanded. She became a buffalo. A bison with all white hair. This pale beast began to move forward, approaching the car.
     Carl put his hand on the gearshift lever, thinking he could put the car into reverse and back up far enough to turn the car around, but a quick look into the rearview mirror informed Carl that the buffalo were just as densely gathered behind the car. The white buffalo continued to approach, and began speaking.
It didn’t speak with a human voice, but with thought. Carl and Ann could hear her words in their minds, and it was undeniably her voice they heard.
     I am White Buffalo Woman. I am here to speak with you, Carl Gunnison.     Ann gripped Carl’s hand in her own. Carl let her take it, his mouth open in disbelief.
     The white bison drew nearer. It lifted one hoof, and placed it atop the fender.
     You walk a path of darkness. You take others who have light, like your wife, and cover them with darkness. This-     The bison brought its leg down, snapping the fender off. Ann jumped at the crack.
     -is not a good thing. You think that your path is one you need to follow, but I say this to you now.     White Buffalo Woman took another step. Her hoof punched through the hood into the engine. Metal tore and screeched, but the bison kept walking, crushing the front of the car.
     I say to you, Carl, to choose a different path. Follow someone who has light. Like your wife. Walk with her.     The entire engine portion of the car was now crushed flat underneath the white buffalo. It took another step, and its nose touched the windshield.
     If you do not, the darkness will take you. I am White Buffalo Woman. I have spoken.      The buffalo lurched forward, breaking the glass. Carl could feel the hot breath of the beast upon his face. It snorted and Carl clutched his arm, grasping at the pain radiating up to his shoulder, towards his heart. He slumped forward, oblivious to his wife’s cries of concern. The last thing Carl saw was the eyes of the great white bison staring at him. Then all was darkness.
     Carl blinked, shuddering. He grabbed at his chest, but the pain was gone. So was his car. And the buffalo herd. He glanced around, confused. Everything was bright, colorful. He realized he was still at the Crazy Horse cultural center. The Indian artist guy, what was his name, Michael, sat with his arms folded across his chest, regarding Carl with mild interest.
     Carl whipped his head around, seeking Ann. An unpleasant jolt ran up his spine as he recognized the elderly woman speaking to Ann. Carl strode over to his wife, and took her by the arm, glaring at the older Indian woman.
     "C’mon, Ann. Time to go. I wanna leave before it gets dark. It’s a long way to Billings," he muttered. Ignoring Ann’s spluttered reply, he began to head for the exit, half-pulling his wife along. His hip bumped into Michael Tall’s table, and a print fell to the floor. Reflexively, Carl bent over with a grunt of effort to pick up the print. Before he hooked his fingers under the matte frame, Carl let out a startled cry.
     The print was of a painting which depicted a white buffalo at the forefront of a herd of bison. Mumbling a half-hearted apology, Carl straightened up without touching the print and continued to pull his wife outside.
     "You could at least have picked up tha-"his wife began, but Carl gave her arm a sharp jerk.
     "Shut up," he snarled. Ann was shocked into sullen silence by her husband’s rudeness. Once they were outside, Carl released her arm, and began to dig into his pocket for the keys to their car. Ann looked over at the hillside half-transformed into the profile of Crazy Horse mounted on horseback and sighed as she zipped up her coat. The day had started so well.
     Carl sat inside the car, gesturing to his wife to hurry up and get into the car. It was a ways to Billings, and the last thing Carl wanted was to drive through pitch black darkness all night.
     As soon as Carl started the engine, it began to snow.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD #25

The Missouri postcard made Darren's eyes water to look at. It almost seemed as if there were two cards occupying the same space, but just a tad out of sync, timewise. The image on the front rippled slightly. Darren hoped the text on the back wouldn't do the same, and was relieved to see that the writing was quite easy to-

THE DELIBERATE GHOST

1.

When Lana saw the slowly swaying body of her husband Leo in the living room, his purple face nearly unrecognizable with the protruding, bulging eyes and tongue, her first reaction was a dull, muted sensation of surprise. She didn’t think Leo had it in him. Her first action was to sit down on the sofa, facing the body as it swung gently, and take out a cigarette. Leo didn’t allow smoking in the house, and also didn’t know she hadn’t really quit. Her first thought, as she lit her cigarette, was “Where did he find a rope that thin and still strong enough to support his fat ass?”

Lana thought many things as she took her time finishing the cigarette, and most of them were unkind. She stubbed the cigarette out on a coaster placed upon the end table next to the sofa, then took out her compact mirror and a tube of lipstick. After lining her mouth, Lana stood up, glanced once again at her husband, and left the house.

When she returned several hours later during the very late hours of the night, when it was closer to being early, smelling of vodka and cigarette smoke, and perhaps the saliva of an overzealous dancing partner, Lana stopped in the doorway, staring at Leo’s body. His face was even darker now, and a slight, sweet odor could be detected.  She exhaled noisily, quite annoyed. She’d planned on getting some sleep before taking care of the situation, but the odor would undoubtedly get a lot worse when the day became warmer.

Lana marched upstairs to take off her heels, and began to change into more comfortable clothes, but realized that would contradict her story when she gave it to the authorities. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and began dialing as she headed back downstairs to fix herself one more drink. As soon as the other end picked up, Lana spoke, trying to make her voice sound sad.

“Bill? It’s Lana. Could you come over here? I need-” she stopped. She thought of a better incentive. “Leo needs you.”

2.

Lana discovered quickly that any concern she might have had about not playing the part of the grieving widow was quite unnecessary. Bill had more than enough tears, sobs, and snot for the both of them.

The meaty, sweaty Bill shook as he sat upon the sofa with his head clasped in his hands, heaving with loud ragged sobs. Bill was one of Leo’s oldest friends, having gone to grade school with her husband- her former husband-and standing in as one of the groomsmen at her wedding. She’d called him, partly to try out her mask of grief before showing it to other law enforcement officers, and partly to give the appearance of being disoriented and unsure what to do. Calling a friend rather than 911 would surely be something a distraught wife did.

“I’m so sorry,” Bill moaned, although Lana was unsure whether he was addressing her or the dead man. “If I knew, if I knew, I would have done something, anything to help, anything but this! Ah, GOD!” Bill erupted into a fresh round of wailing and gushing snot from his nose.  Lana turned her head aside to roll her eyes outside of Bill’s field of vision. Then she put a hand on Bill’s trembling shoulder, leaning in a bit.

“Maybe we should call some of your guys? We shouldn’t leave Leo like this. I mean, I called you the second I walked in, you know? But I just can’t bear to leave him like that any longer.  It’s so awful.” She mirrored Bill’s pose, hunching over and covering her face with her hands. Bill wiped his own face on his sleeve, leaving a long streak of fluids that shone wetly on the fabric. He nodded, taking in a deep breath and uttering a resolute grunt.

“Yeah, Lana, yeah. Let’s take care of Leo.”

3.

Growing up in Oak Valley as Leo and Lana had,  everybody knew each other. Therefore, when Lana showed up at the coroner’s office to receive the official verdict of death, the coroner, Rita Warrick, greeted her with sincere condolences.. Popular opinion was that it was a suicide, but Bill wanted to be sure. Leo had loved his wife very much, but the general consensus among Leo’s friends was that Leo could have found a more devoted partner. Lana had a temper, seemed to occasionally find Leo quite irritating, and her faithfulness was an issue of debate sometimes. When Leo was far from within range of hearing, of course.

Their relationship had not always been that strained or one-sided. When Lana and Leo began dating during Leo’s third year of college; her first year, they’d been head over heels for each other.  Still, the changes in Lana weren’t all that subtle and it seemed only Leo was oblivious to the fact that his wife was no longer crazy about him. Then again, perhaps not, if Leo had chosen to end his life.

“Oh hon, I am so sorry for your loss,” Rita told her as they sat down in Rita’s tiny office in the back of the hospital adjoining the police station. Rita sighed as she sat, perhaps from sorrow, or from the effort of lowering her considerable bulk into her char, which groaned and creaked in protest. She drew imaginary hair back out of her face; she’d worn her hair long for many years, until the gray became harder and harder to dye over, so she’d cut it short. From the way Rita occasionally tossed her head back or moved her hands to her head to execute certain actions with phantom locks, she was still adjusting to the reduced amount. Lana acknowledged Rita’s words with a nod. She opened her purse and began to draw out her cigarettes, then stopped. She couldn’t remember if she’d be allowed to smoke indoors, since she now did all the time at home.  Still, better not to seem uninterested. She folded her hands and looked at Rita, expectant.

“I have completed my examination of your husband’s body, and all indications are that he died from asphyxiation, caused by the cessation of oxygen flow through his  carotid arteries and trachea. This appears to have been self-inflicted, by means of a rope. I regretfully conclude that Leo hung himself, to death.”

4.

“I’m afraid I don’t really get what you mean,” Laura snapped, her fingers twitching towards her purse.  Gordon Morgan regarded her without reply for a few moments, smoothing his tie out with two fingers and thumb over and over. Finally he broke his silence, deliberating his reply.

“Your husband’s instructions were quite clear, Mrs. Daugherty. Leo explicitly stated in his will that his estate not be released for the 12 months immediately following the date of his death.” Gordon paused again.   “You’ll have to wait a year to get what Leo left you, that is the gist.”

“Why?” Lana demanded, her voice turning somewhat strident.  Gordon shook his head.

“Only Leo knew the answer to that. You could try contesting his will, see if you can get the estate released. But, really, by the time you got all the paperwork filed, a hearing date set, and then a decision handed down, the year’d pretty much be up.” Gordon stood up, relinquishing his seat upon the edge of his desk near where Lana sat. He began to gather papers, halfway dismissing Lana. “Besides, it’s a small inconvenience, I should think, for you.”

Lana frowned, standing up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Gordon stared into her eyes, holding her glare for a beat.  “You’re his sole beneficiary, Mrs. Daugherty. You get everything. Your husband left you everything.”

5.

The following Tuesday, the day of Leo’s memorial service and internment, was one of the worst days Lana had ever endured in her lifetime. Not because it meant saying good bye to her husband. Lana had already said farewell to her marriage in her mind and heart years ago. Leo was a good husband, she knew, but she hadn’t been attracted to him in so long. She hadn’t been excited about coming home to him in ages. She felt as if she’d been going through the motions for quite some time.

The entire ordeal was excruciating because she was bewildered anew nearly every minute by the sheer volume of devotion Leo’s friends and family displayed, devotion she could not find within herself at all. Devotion which she didn’t understand how someone as unremarkable as Leo could elicit from a handful of people, let alone what seemed to be the entire damn town.  It was exhausting. Especially Leo’s mother, who seemed to suspect Lana had a hand in Leo’s death despite Rita’s findings of suicide. Lana could feel her mother-in-law’s accusatory eyes burning into the back of her head as she leaned over Leo’s casket. Lana noted that the mortician had done a pretty good job with restoring Leo’s natural colors. A definite improvement over the ghastly eggplant hue of his demise.

Lana also decided that perhaps she could have pursued an acting career beyond playing the lead role in two plays while in high school. How else could she have managed to endure the seemingly endless condolences and anecdotes from all of the mourners at the service , and later, at the cemetery, without screaming? Or perhaps even laughing?

Because . . . now she was free.

6.

For the first couple of months after Leo’s burial, Lana spent a sizeable chunk of money on gas, since she didn’t want to arouse suspicion,  criticism, or contempt from the other residents of Oak Valley. She drove a minimum of an hour out to seek out men whenever she got horny. In the third month, though, Lana started decreasing the radius of her sexual gratification searches, and also began to socialize more frequently with her girlfriends. Let them think she was starting to “heal” from the “loss”. Or drowning her sorrows in alcohol. Either way, Lana wanted to go out and have fun, with or without the approval of her friends.  She visited the attorney, Gordon Morgan, twice more, but despite her attempts to win him over, both times by niceties, the second time by seduction, the lawyer remained adamant. Lana would not get her inheritance for another nine months, Gordon told her, and if she tried to sexually harass her again, he’d take legal action.

Lana didn’t let that faze her. After all, the quality of her life had already improved so much. Things could only go up in nine months.

In the fourth month, Lana arrived home one evening, late. She didn’t bother turning on the lights as she headed for the staircase, but then she bumped her hip into the sofa. She was still adjusting to the new arrangement of their- her­- living room. Moving the furniture around had given Lana some relief from the occasional flashbacks she had to walking in on Leo’s corpse.

Rubbing her thigh where she’d hit the sofa, she stumbled her way up the stairs, her gaze darting left and right in the darkness, chasing the rainbow whorls of drunken colors starbursting in front of her eyes. Once upstairs, she dropped her heels and purse from onto the floor, pulled off her shirt and unzipped her skirt. Kicking it aside, she collapsed into bed.

When she awoke, a few hours later, with an uncomfortable full bladder, she grunted with annoyance at the slight hangover that she’d already acquired in her   boozy slumber. She flung out her arm to support herself up into a sitting position. Her arm hit something soft, but solid. Something warm. Something that grunted softly when her arm made contact.

Gasping with panic, Lana catapulted from the bed. “What’s that? Who’s there?” she cried, as she backed up so rapidly she nearly fell over backwards. She came up against the back wall, and  began feeling her way towards the bedroom door. There was no reply to her queries. Lana reached the doorway, stubbing her toe slightly on one of her discarded heels. She wanted to flee downstairs, arm herself with something sharp and nasty from the kitchen, but . . . she also had to know.

Slowly, trying not to let her hand rasp across the wall surface, Lana felt for the switchplate by the door. She slammed her hand upon the switch, and when the lights came on, she screamed.

Leo lay upon the bed, staring at her with bemused eyes.

“What’s the matter, hon?” her dead husband asked, “did you hear something downstairs?”

Lana’s body began to tremble. She couldn’t still her muscles as she grasped the door frame for support.

“No,” Lana whimpered.  “You’re dead! This can’t- why is this-” Lana left her sentence unfinished, gasping.

Leo nodded. “Yes. I’m dead. And?”

Lana’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a cross between a squeal and a squeak. Her mouth remained open for some time before she finally shut it. After several false starts, she raised a shaking hand to point at her husband.  Ex-husband. Wasbund. Deadbund.

Leo propped himself up on his elbows, his expression now less bemusement, more a mixture of amusement and scorn. “Allow me to give you the Reader’s Digest version. I died with . . . shall we say unresolved issues?  And you, my dear wife, have quite some relevance to these issues. So apparently, I’m not going anywhere for a while.  I’m here to,” Leo grinned enthusiastically, waggling his eyebrows, “haunt you!”

Lana screamed.

7.

Lana tried one last time to procure her endowment from Gordon, desperate to acquire enough money to move out of the house, since Leo’s constant presence was driving her crazy. She tried to deny his existence. She’d moved into the guest room downstairs, and locked the door every night. Leo made no comment, never knocked on her door, or jiggled the handle. Yet every few days she’d wake to Leo’s sleeping form next to hers. To spite Leo, Lana had taken to smoking quite heavily, indoors all the time. Leo made no comment, never coughed, or waved a hand in front of his face.

One night Lana had even brought a man home for the night. She talked loudly, clung to the man, and walked around in her underwear after she’d “accidentally” spilled water upon her dress.  Leo made no comment, never made his presence known to the man, or tried to stop her seduction whenever she walked past her husband the few times she’d gone upstairs.

But when she finally took the man by the hand and drew him into the guest bedroom, she realized she had no desire at all to follow through with her intended tryst. With insincere apologies she kicked the man out and fell into her bed, weeping. Her tears were angry and defiant, and what bothered Lana most of all was that she couldn’t figure out why.

One day, Lana stormed upstairs, surprising Leo as he stood staring out the window over their backyard. Her backyard.

“Why don’t you ever complain? All these things I do, the things I have done, I know you can’t be fine with them,” she cried, striking her thigh with her fist. Leo merely shrugged with a faint smile.

“I’m dead, Lana. These things don’t bother me anymore. Beyond worldly concerns and all that. But thanks for checking in,” he said with a smile.

Lana spun on her heels, peeved. She stalked downstairs, her shoulders tense. That man was insufferable.  She’d show him. She had a whole life ahead of her.

8.

Lana continued to ignore Leo as best as she could for the next few weeks.  Then one Tuesday, she had a terrible day at work. The kind of day where everything just seemed to go the worst way possible, and everyone was running on angry juice, snapping at each other and being uncommunicative and uncooperative.

When she got home, the first thing she did was to pour herself a glass of wine. She slumped down on the sofa, but before she could take a sip, she doubled over, weeping.

Suddenly, an arm encircled her shoulders gently, offering comfort. Lana automatically leaned into the embrace, laying her head upon Leo’s chest. They remained still, saying nothing for several minutes. Then with a grunt of annoyance Lana wrenched herself away, gulping down half her glass. Leo remained where he was, but cleared his throat.

“Wanna talk about it, Lana?” he inquired softly.

“No. I never want to talk to you again. You have no right to be here. Get out, and leave my life forever.”

She wanted to say these words. She meant to say them. She opened her mouth to utter them. But when she looked at her husband’s ghost, she saw in his eyes the companionship she’d been without for so long. A friend. Someone who would listen. Someone who always listened.

So she talked, and Leo listened. For hours. When they got up to get ready for bed, or at least when Lana did (since she didn’t know if Leo actually slept regularly. She hadn’t seen him eat or sleep or anything else on a regular basis since his return as a ghost) Lana realized she’d followed Leo halfway upstairs. She paused, surprised. She said good night to him on the stairs, and surprised herself again when she reached out to squeeze his arm affectionately. (She’d asked him weeks earlier why he was solid, not intangible. He’d just replied with a grin, “I don’t make the rules.”) Lana fell asleep into a dream of her wedding.

           

9.

            Lana continued to spend her nights in the guest bedroom, but in the mornings and evenings, she began to spend more time with her former husband. She engaged him in conversations, began to ask him about his existence as a spirit or ghost or whatever he was supposed to be. She began to notice little things, details that were at once familiar and new to her, about Leo. How his eyes always crinkled at the corners a half second before his smile appeared. How he always paused whenever they moved together to head in the same direction to make sure he wasn’t in error about their destination.  She also noticed that his belly was flatter than she had remembered it, his hair a little darker, perhaps thicker.

            One Sunday evening while Lana was at the grocery store a whim blossomed in her mind, and she began to walk more briskly with her cart, choosing items purposefully.

            As she walked into the house, she could hear Leo walking around upstairs. She called up to him. When he replied, she ascended a couple of stairs to make sure Leo would hear her clearly.

            “Join me for dinner, Leo,” she declared. “I’m making chicken cacciatore.” Leo’s favorite dish. “I have more than enough for the two of us, if you’re hungry.”

            Lana stared at Leo through her wineglass, watching his features distort as he spoke. He had been talking about a book he had read years before, one he hoped to re-read if a copy should fall into his hands. Suddenly he trailed off, staring back at Lana. “What is it?” he asked, expectant. Lana shook her head, but the words were out of her mouth before she really realized the thought behind them.

            “I wish you were still alive.”

            Stunned by her own admission, Lana set down her glass, blinking rapidly. Then the tears came.  She put her head in her hands and sobbed loudly, without reserve. Faintly, over the sound of her crying, there was the sound of Leo’s chair scraping and his footsteps. She waited for his comforting caress. Yet it never came.  She raised her head to see what Leo was doing.

            He was gone.  Unhappily, Lana stood. She stumbled her way to Leo’s-their-bedroom, only to find the door locked. She began to cry again, a quieter, softer keening, as she stroked the door. She stared at the door as if she could wish herself through it and into her husband’s arms. Sinking down to the floor, she whispered apologies over and over. It wasn’t until several hours later that she drew herself up with great effort to stagger downstairs and collapse in the bed downstairs.

10.

            Lana awoke to an unusual and unexpected sensation: breakfast cooking. After a quick change into her pajamas from the clothes she hadn’t bothered to remove the night before, Lana ventured into the kitchen to find Leo preparing a delicious looing and smelling breakfast, and there was clearly enough for two.

            Leo glanced over at Lana, and smiled brilliantly. “Lana! You’re up. Have a seat and I’ll get you coffee.” Slightly dazed, Lana complied. Leo paid a hand upon her shoulder as he poured the coffee, a habit of his Lana had all but forgotten. She put her hand over his, and Leo looked down at her. He put the coffeepot down on the table, and held her gaze.

            “Last night, you wished I was still alive. Why?” he inquired of her. Lana blinked, stammering out her reply.

            “I- we- it-I-“ She caught herself, let out a sigh. “We’d lost what we had together, but I think what happened is that I put all the blame for that on you. IT was easier than working at our relationship. I resented that we’d changed, but rather than figuring out to keep up with each other during the change, I only focused on the past rather than our future.”

            Leo nodded slowly. “So did I, Lana. Then once day, I realized that perhaps I could change things by taking a jump into the future. So I left the present.”

            Lana shook her head, mystified.  “I’m not following you.”

            Leo sat down opposite Lana, and folded his hands on the table. “Lana, I faked my suicide. I’m not a ghost. I never died. Gordon and Rita agreed to help me.“

            Lana stared at Leo, waiting for him to laugh, to smile, anything to turn the moment into a joke. But no laughter came forth.  Instead, a hiss did. Not from eo, but from Lana. The hiss rose into a wail then a scream. Lana stood, throwing herself at Leo who had also gotten to his feet. She hit him with her fists everywhere she could, screaming. Leo made no comment, offered no resistance, returned none of her blows. But when she finally leaned into him, crying, running her hands over his face and chest and arms, Leo gathered her into his arms and held her tightly, breathing into the top of her head, until she sagged in his embrace. 

            She raised her eyes to look into his. Emotions cascaded through her as lava and icewater. Her entire body began to tremble, but Leo held her steady. She grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him in for a kiss. The kiss went on and on, through her, piercing her heart, and pulling her back, years, into the beginning of their love, and then up the stairs, with Leo, her husband, her love, alive.

            They made love several times throughout the day and night. Sometimes hard and hungry, sometimes gentle and exploratory, sometimes both at once. In between, they talked. Lana tried to apologize for her behavior after Leo’s fake suicide, but Leo told her she had no need to, since for all intent and purposes, he’d been dead. AS much as her actions had hurt him, he’d endured it all as a consequence of his deception. A necessary deception, he explained, for a fresh start.

            Lana still felt anger at the trickery, but she also realized the depths her husband had been willing to go to, hoping to revitalize their marriage. And so she surrendered to the hope that this truly was a new beginning.

11.

            Lana moved back upstairs into her-their-bedroom. The next three weeks flew past as they rebuilt the foundation of their life. Lana found herself actually smiling whenever she was headed home, knowing Leo was there, or would be, when he got home from his new job.

            Which is why she was truly devastated when Bill (who’d been pretty pissed at finding out that Leo’s death was fake, but quite happy to have his friend back) called her, his voice thick with doubled sorrow to inform her that Leo had been killed in a car accident.

            Numbed, yet still aware of unbearable pain buried underneath the obliterating dullness, Lana found herself repeating the entire cycle of morgue, lawyer, funeral. This time, her grief was all too real, and everything was blurred through an invisible widow’s veil. The faces of everyone who uttered their condolences blurred into one wavering, wobbly mouth-hole voicing meaningless sounds.

            Then Lana found herself at the graveside, the true graveside of her husband. She’d never see him again. Never know his love again. Never be his wife again. She’d been given a second chance, and it had been so fleeting. Could one dehydrate from tears?

            The sixth night she lay in their-her- bed, caressing the space where Leo should be, Lana fell asleep with her head upon a salty wet pillow. In the middle of the night, she awoke, sensing a presence. She reached over, but felt nothing on the other side of the bed opposite her. Still, her arm tingled as if she’d touched something electric. Something alive. Lana got out of bed, and walked over to the switchplate by the door. She flicked the lights on, and looked at the bed.

Leo lay upon the bed, staring at her with bemused eyes. She could see through him, and his body made no depression on the surface of the mattress. His face was wrong, out of alignment, his skin a landscape of pain and damage. His skull had been crushed in the accident, and the mortician had recommended a closed casket. Now Lana knew why.

“What’s the matter, hon?” her dead husband asked, “did you hear something downstairs?”

            Lana screamed. And screamed.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 24th POSTCARD- MISSISSIPPI

CATFISH SCRATCH FEVER

     Leo cursed when he dropped the second worm almost immediately after the first, glaring at the twisting pink body fading into the murky water. He lay the pole down, and let out a long sigh. He lay on his back, stretching his arms out behind his back, looking up at the clouds through the wavering heat shimmer. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. His mother’s face flashed behind his eyelids, and Leo heard her parting words all over again.
     "You’ll end up barefoot in the street, face down in a ditch, or behind bars . . . anywhere but up. Boy, you so lazy! What would your Gramps think of you? Some way to honor his memory!" Leo sneered. Mom knew how to push his buttons, and he resented how she’d dragged his grandfather into it. He’d been close with his grandfather until his death two years ago.
     He was paying his respects to Gramps on this day, his Gramps’s birthday anniversary. One thing they’d loved to do together was to fish for largemouth bass, just as Leo was doing now. If he could get the goddamn worm on the hook.
     He rolled over to prop himself with his elbow and forearm. He gazed at the water for a while and then for an instant, the swirling browns clarified. As if looking through a spotless window, Leo saw the catfish.
It was an impeccable specimen. Sleek, fat, drifting against the current with a slow oscillation of its tail, the catfish hovered just a couple of inches above the bottom of the banked bed alongside the edge of the river. Leo slowly lowered himself onto his belly, and pulled himself slowly closer to the water. His mother would probably lose it over the grass and mud stains he was painting his clothes with, but he could appease her with fresh catfish for dinner. Let her tell him he was lazy, if he caught food.
     The catfish was still enough that Leo believed it was asleep. He could catch it by hand. Or rather, both hands. The thing was huge. Thirty-five pounds and change, if Leo knew his fish at all. He continued to inch his way towards the drifting catfish. Leo had a moment when he thought his attempt at capture would be aborted before it even began when the shadow of his head fell across the catfish’s eyes and a spasmodic quiver move down its body. But when the catfish remained in the same spot, Leo grinned as he wormed even closer.
     His abdomen muscles shook as he balanced his torso over the water, arms reaching out so that he could grab the tail and heave it over into the embankment behind him. He inhaled deeply, and plunged his hands down.
     The catfish seemed to look directly at Leo, as it spun its head around to point in the boy’s direction. Quicker than Leo’s grab, it rolled several degrees so that its dorsal fin spines jabbed into Leo’s hand.
Leo yelped, and pitched forward into the water, even as the catfish vanished, swimming so fast it was a streak of shimmering brown. Spluttering and thrashing, Leo forgot he could just stand up in the shallows. Finally he remembered sheepishly clambering to his feet. He waded out, shaking his hand which already felt as if he was holding it inside a flame. Catfish venom was dangerous if untreated, and with a fish that large, Leo had gotten a substantial injection. Leo’s legs started to tremble. When Leo stared at his swollen hand, he gasped with horrified breath to see the purple, pulsating worms crawling out of the punctures.
He slapped his palm against his leg, bringing sweat to his brow with the fresh waves of pain. His heart was racing so heart it no longer beat, it buzzed with the vibration. He tried to step forward and was puzzled when he made no forward progress. Then he realized he was already on his back, pawing the air with his foot. The clouds overhead started to squirt out great billowy emissions of ink that glittered metallic in the fading sunlight.
     Leo’s body convulsed and his head snapped to the side as his neck muscles strained in one direction, as if a fist inside his neck was clenching itself. He stared at the cypress trees as they pulled their roots out and began to pair off, twirling and dipping in a dance. Their roots made wet suction noises that make Leo think of sex, and indeed, the trees were rubbing against each other, their branches groping and rasping across bark. They started to fall to the ground, still groping and making sticky, moist sounds. An uncomfortable, hazy recollection rose in Leo’s mind. The silhouettes of his parents one night as he stood in the doorway, aghast at the moonlit patches of bare, sweaty skin and those strange, primitive sounds. Before his father left one day, never to be heard from again.
     Leo’s neck unlocked, and he turned his eyes skyward again to see the heavens burning even as his hand did, then suddenly the sky filled with river life. Crabs skittered across the blue expanse, and different fishes darted in all directions. Leo glanced down to see he was no longer prone on the ground, but rather, buoyed up by innumerable stars. He poked one, and it flitted away, twinkling. Suddenly, all of the stars flew away from underneath Leo. Screaming, he flailed through the bottomless blackness but he could still see the starbugs gathering into a single swarm, creating a stridently buzzing comet that hurtled towards Leo.
     Try as he could, Leo could not swat enough of the starbugs away, and they began to force themselves down his throat, into his nostrils. Leo cried out in silence as the swarm poured into him. From inside, they gave Leo flight once again, giving him the ability to stop his headlong descent. He turned over and over, weightless. He started at the whirling lights underneath his skin, his body a galaxy of restless stars and novae.
A massive noise broke Leo’s focus, and he turned, his skin tight at the sound. That sound always conjured up the memory of the time he’d ripped his little sister’s dress as she slipped from the rooftop that one day they were alone and he’d convinced her to join him up there. She’d broken her arm in the resulting fall, and Leo had threatened to break her other one if she told on him.
     The blackness was tearing, as if it was made of the same cotton fabric of his sister’s ruined dress. As it tore, a thick liquid welled through the opening, and then began to spray and gush. Suddenly, it burst forth with a roar, and engulfed Leo in tepid dark water, the waters of the Mississippi.
     The environment was distorted, and Leo puzzled over the disparity until realization came upon him- either he had shrunk, or the scale of the river setting had grown gigantic. Pebbles were enormous mesas, algae created thickets. Leo could breathe, so he remained tranquil, stroking through the water. He noted the starbugs no longer glowed under his skin. Turning over to face the sky through the rippling lens of the river surface, he saw that they were back in their proper places, in the night backdrop.
     A sudden, sharp pain in his wrist flared, and Leo looked down, thinking his hand was still exhibiting the signs of being envenomed, but he saw instead that his wrist was caught fast in the grip of a crawfish large as a truck, its antennae waving and flicking against Leo’s struggling body as he tried to pry the pincers off his arm. Then a quick flurry of mud rose from the bottom, and a crab that Leo could have made a house out of rose up and crunched the crawfish into half. Leo exclaimed in disgust as he hastily shoved the dying crawfish’s claw off his arm. Blood trickled from his wound, drawing the crab’s eyestalks to Leo’s floundering. Leo went pale as the crab suddenly scuttled towards him, but then a shadow passed over his head. Leo began to paddle backwards in panic. He was nothing but food to just about everything down there, especially being as tiny as he was. He espied a large thatch of algae and some river moss, and immediately began to burrow into it for concealment.
     Leo let out a sigh of relief. He grasped the strands of moss to keep from floating up above the plant mass. He didn’t squeeze his fists too hard, so he didn’t notice at first that he hands were sliding upwards over the slimy surface of the moss. He glanced up, his blood turning colder than the water surrounding him. His urine mixed with the river water as he stared at the gigantic catfish directly overhead, its mouth a vacuum that pulled Leo inexorably closer despite his grip upon the treacherously slippery plants.
Leo was startled into releasing the plant anchoring when his grandfather rose up in front of him. His Gramps’ regular kindly expression was gone; all he could see was contempt and disappointment in the elderly man’s mahogany eyes. The stooped figure pointed an arthritis-gnarled forefinger at his grandson, and uttered two words, "Wicked boy!"
     Leo screamed so loud his vocal cords seized, causing him to choke and cough through pain-shredded throat tissue while he grappled wildly with the elusive strands of moss. The inevitable finally occurred, and Leo was sucked into the catfish’s gullet. All was darkness, then, for Leo.

* * * * *

     Leo’s mother rubbed her temples with the wet, soapy dishrag in the vain hope that the slight coolness would appease the migraine that threatened to kick in the walls of her skull and do a jig in her brain. Her son, as wayward as he might be, still was her son, and so she worried about Leo. He had not returned home the previous night, which was quite unusual for the boy. He might show up in the wee hours, but he did come home.
     The tang of the coffee vapors emanating from the Mr. Coffee was all the migraine need to make it first full assault. She sank down, stumbling into the nearest chair. She buried her throbbing, tenderized head in her hands. She didn’t hear the footsteps over the blood roaring through her vessels, the crinkling of plastic and the faint clatter of glass. But she felt the tentative hand patting her shoulder.
     Through her bleary vision, she saw the double image of her son, holding the garbage bag in one hand, holding the other behind his back. His face was pinched, and a couple extra years rested upon his visage. He gave her a look that held several years of contrition, and for a moment, she could see her father’s eyes looking out from Leo’s face.
     Leo held up the garbage bag. "I didn’t know if we recycle, so I put the bottles in here, but I can take them out if that’s a problem," he said, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 23rd POSTCARD

Darren felt a strangle tingling thrill going through his fingertips as he picked up the Minnesota postcard. It was black. Completely black. He couldn't stop caressing the colorless, glossy surface, but finally, he shook himself back to alertness. He began to read.

WHISPERS OF A DARKLING COME

I

          Moira sighed loudly, a sound of relieved exhaustion, as she slumped against the frame of her front door. She was always so tired those days, now. She was young, barely turned thirty, and her comely face took a few years off her age. Dark blond hair framed her small face and brushed her shoulders. She wore her uniform still, now that she had stopped changing her uniform in the ladies’ room at the restaurant where she worked. The uniform was maroon with silver braiding and her apron had a picture of a large, jolly-looking gentleman holding a Franklin stove in his hands. Under the picture, the words: The Cast-Iron Stomach

          This apron she wearily tugged at, trying to remove it, as she switched on the light. The sixty-watt bulb illuminated the living room in a blanket of dim light. She closed the door behind her and finally getting the apron loose, pulled it off and dropped it to the floor where it lay looking like a mound of warm flesh. Moira stared at it for a moment or two, lost in memories which plunged their claws into her subconscious and pulled images screaming in protest from their dark, locked niches.

          Her husband, Jeff, had been a wonderful lover. He had known how to bring her to ultimate ecstasy with his hands, his tongue, his member. Many nights they had moaned together, covered with sweat, their flesh sliding together, merging, until they were truly together, a single entity of pleasure. Moira had never come home tired from her job as a waitress then. She always had a bounce in her step, a smile on her full lips, and a black silk teddy under her clothes.

          Moira averted her eyes from the apron, then shut them tightly as if she could squeeze out all of those thoughts that hurt her so much. Fourteen months already since Jeff was killed and it still felt like only a few hours ago. After the funeral Moira’s father had asked her if she wanted to come live with him and her girlfriend but Moira had insisted upon staying at the apartment she had shared with Jeff for three years. Moira shuffled over to the curtains covering the large window overlooking the street outside and drew them open so that she could look at the scarlet sun sinking below the horizon. She wondered if it was as tired as she, after being up in the sky for over twelve hours, pouring out energy constantly.

          Keeping the place meant working double shifts and a practically nonexistent social life but she wanted to stay. It was the only place she had truly felt at peace with herself, when Jeff was still alive. Now . . . she left nothing except pain and loss. Still, better than the self-hatred she’d had when she met Jeff. She had been on the brink of becoming a prostitute, desperate for even a false pretense of love, an euphemism for selling her body to men. She had been in a state of deep depression and then Jeff had come along, with his liquid brown eyes and slightly off kilter but adorable face. He had saved her from the hell she had been facing and married her.

     

          Moira flung herself onto the couch and sank into the soft cushions, tears falling unnoticed down her cheeks. She had cried so often in the past fourteen months, she wasn’t even aware of it at times. Upon more than once occasion, her customers had asked her if anything was amiss and Moira had raised her hand to her face, surprised to discover that her cheeks were wet. Moira made herself comfortable, sweeping her gaze around the room.

          The shelves that Jeff built were still there, with her collection of assorted thimbles displayed upon them. She would never get rid of Jeff’s ghost, Moira knew. His musky scent lingered in the recliner, the couch, and the bed. The echo of his deep laughter clung to the walls. Maybe she wasn’t letting go of him properly, but the ache within herself could not be dissolved in mere months. Moira let her head fall back and her eyes focused upon the ceiling for a moment before they closed. Her consciousness retreated into the deepest reaches of her mind, even as the sun sank out of sight and darkness closed its cold fist around Moira.

II

          Moira looked up into Jeff’s dark eyes with adoration. They were walking down Lake Road, a small dirt road that wound through the countryside of Minnesota, through beautiful meadows and spacious farmland. They made love sometimes in these fields, running from the road and stripping as they ran, giggles bubbling from their mouths and lust streaming through their pores.

          "I love you, Jeff." The words floated upon the chill September air. The autumn air gave the words an extra crispiness, so that they seemed to crackle like the leaves fluttering down the ground, tongues of flames twisting and turning in the breeze. In reply, he caught her in his arms and swung her around once, twice, thrice. He laughter surrounded them in tiny trails of fog, a cocoon of security. They had kissed with passion, while Jeff still held Moira aloft. She had reached down with her free hand towards his pants. Lost in each other, neither one of them noticed the dark green Camaro catapulting at them, churning up dirt and leaves and the driver braked in desperation. Moira felt the impact as the car bulldozed into Jeff’s back, snapping his spine and shattering his pelvis. Moira, not understanding what was happening, fell from her dead husband’s arms to the ground. She closed her eyes as the wind was knocked out of her, then opened them, gasping for breath.

          She saw Jeff; blood trickling from his ears and mouth, and the leaves floating gently down. One landed upon Jeff’s brow covering one vacant eye, the liquid brown now a brittle grayish brown. Moira had thought: The leaf. He can’t see that leaf covering his eye. She had reached out for his face, but was interrupted by the shrieking of the teenager who had rushed out of his car and vomited in the weeds lining the side of the road.

          "Ain’t my goddamned fault, man! You guys were in the middle of the fuckin’ road! Necking, man! You gotta stay off the goddamn roads!"

          Moira simply stared at him, uncomprehending, struggling to her feet. The boy kept on screaming-

          Screaming-

          Screaming-Moira woke with a start. She turned wild eyes in the direction of the phone in the kitchen, which had been ringing for a while. She got to her feet, wiping the sweat from her forehead and neck. She had these nightmares frequently and she wished that she could wake to see Jeff’s concerned face, give him a hug of relief. The phone stopped ringing seconds before her hand touched the receiver. Moira grunted in annoyance, and decided to call it a night as soon as she fixed herself some hot chocolate. 

III

          In the kitchen, she busied herself with heating the milk and thought about the book she was currently reading, Sidney Sheldon’s The Other Side of Midnight. She thought she might actually even read a few pages before she settled off to sleep. Checking the microwave clock, Moira saw that she had been asleep for only little more than an hour. She changed her mind and decided to take a bubble bath while reading. God knew, she could use some relaxation. While the milk heated, she went through the bedroom into her bathroom, and turned on the faucet. She adjusted the temperature of the water, letting it run over her hands, thinking of silk and oil.

          She took off the uniform, kicking it into the corner of the bathroom and put on her terry robe before going back into the kitchen to check the milk. The milk was ready, so she poured some into a mug with a picture of a zebra on it and added some Hershey’s chocolate syrup to it. Moira leaned against the kitchen counter and stirred the milk dreamily, listening to the water splashing in the bathroom. It made her think of Hawaii and of sex under waterfalls. She caught herself, uttering a startled yet amused sound. She hadn’t been this horny in a while, thinking of all those erotic images.

          Laughing softly yet sadly, she turned off the stove and the kitchen light. Then she moved towards the living room light switch. She flicked the light off gripping the mug firmly to make sure she wouldn’t spill any hot chocolate on the carpet as she walked through the darkened room to her bathroom. As soon as her hand left the light switch, she instinctively looked towards the window.

          , Moira dropped the mug. She could feel the sting of the warm milk splashing on her toes and soaking into the carpet. Framed against the November moonlight stood the silhouette of a tall man, wearing a hat and overcoat. In the darkness, Moira could not make out his features, but she could detect a faint glimmer from his eyes. She groped frantically for the light switch, stammering out frenzied questions.

          "Wh-who are you? What are you doing here?" she shrilled, turning on the light just as the figure began to raise a hand to its hat. Moira stared in bewilderment and uttered a single word: "What?"

The figure was no longer there. Moira let her head fall forward, blaming her exhaustion for the hallucination she had just seen.

          She groaned, looking at the spongy brown mess at her feet. She had no desire to clean it up. She decided to simply put a wet rag on it and clean up in the morning. The tub was getting pretty full by now. This chore she completed, not bothering to turn on the kitchen light. She turned out the living room light again and when she glanced in the direction of the window, the scream that ripped from her throat was a truly terrible sound for any human ear to receive. The figure had returned and was moving slowly towards her. Moira backed up against the front door and briefly considered escaping from the apartment. Then a strange whim seized her and she lifted one hand slowly towards the light switch, fascinated by the figure as it approached her sensuously. The whispering of the overcoat as it brushed against the couch reminded her of the rustling of strong hands over the lace of her lingerie.

          The light clicked back on and the figure was gone, no longer even a shadow. Moira gasped, badly frightened, yet curious. She turned the light off again and watched the approaching figure as it reached for its hat. It was too much for her and she fled, running into her bedroom. She locked the door, hastily jabbing her finger against the button. She ran into the bathroom and turned off the water, which was a centimeter or two from spilling over the rim of the tub. She sat on the toilet lid, trembling badly.
          Jesus Christ, I’m going to be raped by Freddy Kruger, she thought hysterically. She cursed her stupidity for having taken the phone that had been in the bedroom when she still shared it with Jeff and putting it in the kitchen. The only way to call for help was to leave her bedroom, and with that thing out there, she couldn’t do that.     

          Moira dropped to all fours and began emptying the drawers underneath the sink, desperately searching for some kind of weapon should the intruder kick the bedroom door down and come for her, erect member throbbing under his clothes. Seeking her flesh, to plunge hotly into her. Moira made a disgusted noise; amazed she could think such things while trapped in this dilemma. Her search through the assorted objects turned up nothing and she stood up, wrenching open the medicine cabinet. She hoped maybe there were still some of Jeff’s shaving appliances left; a razor blade maybe that she could try to use on the intruder’s eyes. Nothing. She had been very thorough in the disposal of non-sentimental items belonging to her deceased husband.

          Moira turned on the sink faucet and splashed some cold water on her face, rubbing her eyes. Then she thought of her own shaving razor, the one she used on her legs and armpits. She slammed the medicine cabinet shut, ready to whirl and rummage through the shower rack but the image reflected in the mirror stopped her. Behind her, emerging from the tub, rose the figure. Even under the fluorescent glare, it had no color, no texture. It remained a shadow, albeit a very solid, three-dimensional shadow. Its glittering topaz eyes locked with her bright blue ones as it continued to rise, beads of water rolling off its shoulders, down the folds of the coat. The hat dripped onto the tiles, tiny splashing sounds, each of which caused a small stirring in Moira’s loins.

          Moira spun around, moaning in terror. Her eyes strained to focus on the empty space above the water of the tub. Water continued to drip off the shadowy figure, but the figure was no longer visible. Only the water drops suspended in midair, slowly changing shape, merging with each other to make miniature rivulets returning to the tub could be seen. The dripping from the brim of the hat continued although Moira could not perceive the hat itself.

          Dear God, I’m losing my mind, she thought to herself, backing up as far as she could against the sink counter. Her fingers gripped the edges with painful desperation. By moving her buttocks from side to side slowly and with the help of her arms, she slowly moved herself into a sitting position on the counter with her back flush against the medicine cabinet. I’ve been too obsessed with the loss of my husband, she realized, and it’s screwed my mind up.

          The invisible figure opened its eyes and Moira gasped in fascinated revulsion to see the topaz irises suspended under the unseen hat, nothing else. Then she realized the figure was becoming opaque. Slowly, the figure darkened, becoming more and more the image she had seen reflected in the mirror. In a few moments, a man with the appearance of being carved from obsidian stood in her bathtub. Moira found herself relaxing somewhat and her thighs moved away from each other. Her terry robe slid over her legs, away from her inner thighs, and Moira realized she was spreading her legs to reveal herself to the apparition.

She tried to clasp her knees together, but oddly, she found that she didn’t want to. Her breathing began to accelerate and she could not honestly decide if it was because of fear or desire.

          "What are you?" Moira gasped, as the being lifted one leg and stepped out of the bathtub, water cascading from his feet. She realized that although the being had risen from underneath approximately forty-five gallons of water, it was dry. The water slid off like lake water from a swan’s feathers. She moved one hand between her legs watching the figure as it removed its hat and coat by tossing them contemptuously (it seemed to her) onto the floor. The clothes absorbed the light so completely that they appeared to be merely a dark puddle. She would have had to lay flat on the ground to discern the shape of the hat and the folds of the coat. The apparition took another step towards Moira. She began to breathe in quick little gasps, her hand rubbing strongly now.

          I am a darkling, whispered the being, although she could not see its mouth moving within the darkness of its features. The golden eyes were fixed upon her. I come to those who have need of me, and you have need, it murmured sibilantly. Moira inhaled deeply of the musky scent of sex emanating from the darkling’s skin and slid forwards, hesitantly, her toes touching the cool tile floor. She reached out a tentative hand but the darkling did not respond except to draw back just the tiniest bit. Moira found herself crying out to him mentally not to retreat.

          The darkling smiled, although Moira did not know how she knew; staring at the darkling’s face, smooth except for the glittering eyes. Its whole body was smooth and Moira could not tell if he wore any other clothing other than that he had already discarded. The darkling put out its hand and caressed Moira’s cheek. Its hand was cool, yet she could feel warmth radiating from his body.

          She closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her lips, responding to its touch. She could feel herself releasing warm lubricating fluids within and she put her own hand to where the darkling’s cheek would be. She found his skin to be silken in texture and she imagined how it would feel to have the darkling enter her with his silk-covered member and a moan escaped from her lips.

          "How did you know-?" she implored in a murmur filled with aching and longing and desire. The darkling slid its hand around her neck and leaned closer, the topaz eyes burning into her own. Moira’s lips parted in anticipation.
          I sensed the emptiness you harbor within. I exist to balance what has been stolen from the heart, love lost to the intricateness of Fate. I come to those who are lonely. I am a darkling. I am desire incarnate. It is my purpose. Your destiny. With these words, the darkling kissed her, its lips sucking on hers, its tongue probing, setting thousands of her nerves on fire. Moira began to pant and the darkling held her in its arms, supporting her. You have a void that needs to be filled, the darkling whispered, and I will fill it . . .

          It kissed her fiercely and Moira could see nothing but darkness, then two orbs of gold flashing so brightly she squeezed her eyes shut.

IV

          When she opened her eyes, Moira stood on her bedroom and the darkling stood before her. She now knew it to be naked. She glanced down at herself and saw that she was wearing a very exotic lace and satin teddy. She raised one finger and rubbed it against the material. It swirled and little wisps of darkness kissed her fingers. She realized it was an extension of the darkling’s essence.

          Moira stared into its eyes, overcome with wonder and wanton lust. The darkling took her hands gently into its own and led her to the bed. It then picked her up in its arms and laid her down on the mattress, not bothering to pull the cover and blankets back. He moved to the foot of the bed and then with his head between her legs, blew the misty material away from her body. Tremors of pleasure shook Moira’s body as the dark mist evaporated into the air.

          Then she began moaning and writhing, for the darkling was now exploring her folds of flesh with its tongue and fingers. After several minutes of massaging, probing and lubricating, Moira was on the verge of exploding with rapture, her ecstasy was that powerful. Then the darkling abruptly drew back and watched her shivering and panting for a few moments.

          Now, said the darkling, as it moved further up, its erect member sliding like velvet against Moira’s thigh. Moira threw her head back and screamed. It was a scream of delight. The darkling poised itself above her for a second and then descended.

          As the darkling slid into her and brought her to unimaginable heights of pleasure, she thought fleetingly of Jeff. Then she put him out of her mind as she clutched at the darkling. And desire and passion and the darkling held illimitable dominion over her.

V

          The darkling stood up and strode into the bathroom. It picked up its hat and overcoat and put them on slowly, thinking of its recent deed. With a final tug on its hat the darkling exited the bathroom, and glanced at the empty bed. The darkling smiled, its topaz eyes glittering with contentment. All was well. Moira belonged to it now. Now . . . and forever.     

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE TWENTY-SECOND

The postcard for Michigan showed an old black and white picture of Henry Ford standing inside his factory. There was no caption or greeting, but Darren recognized the photo from anold history textbook or some such.

MORTIS CITY

          Despite the countless accusations and allegations levied against Alec Kaminski, Alec hadn’t been trying to bring about the end of the world. Or at least the end of Detroit, which was ground zero for the apocalypse, or Carmageddon, the more popular name for the disaster Alec was responsible for initiating. Alec had just wanted to fix his new car.
          Alec sighed, staring at the ceiling above his bed. Getting up was becoming more and more difficult, as if his bed was becoming a giant pit of tar sucking Alec’s motivation into itself, to create a fossil of Alec’s former enthusiasm. With a grunt Alec wrenched himself up into a sitting position but kept still, eyes closed, for another few minutes. He listened to the sounds outside his window, holding his breath. He hoped there wasn’t anybody lying in wait outside. You’d think after two months, they would have stopped trying to ambush him.
          Alec drudged through his breakfast and shower. He had to force himself to re-dress himself twice. He might be off work on this day, but he didn’t need to go out and be seen in public looking like a hung-over, depressed teenager dealing with an immense volume of hatred from John Q. Public. A hung-over, depressed teenager who couldn’t be bothered to dress with any attention to his wardrobe. This, of course, was exactly what Alec was.
          The choice between hiding out at home and going out wasn’t really much of an internal debate for Alec. At home, there was the TV with its news, talk shows, and shows rife with references to the apocalypse. His parents had changed their number five times in 7 weeks, Alec no longer went online.
When Alec stepped outside, he was gratified to see there were no effigies or piles of excrement on the lawn. No knife-wielding would-be attackers. No reporters-
          "Alec Kaminski!" the reedy voice came from the shrubbery to Alec’s right. Alec yelped and jumped to the left, colliding with the post of the porch. Slightly dazed, Alec could not decide whether to retreat back inside the house or to flee the premises. The thin, young man (barely) with glasses half the size of his face and skinny jeans who emerged from the shrubbery, yanking on the strap of his camera to free it from a branch reminded Alec of a bug. Maybe a dragonfly, without the wings.
          "No comment," Alec told him, recovering sufficiently to shoot the reporter/photojournalist/insectboy a nasty glare. Unfazed, the bug held out a hand. Alec didn’t take it, but when he glanced down he saw that the hand held a business card in it. He deliberately didn’t take it.
          "DeShawn Banks, with the Update," the reporter said, pocketing his card after a brief pause. "Just a moment of your time-" Alec made a chopping motion with his hand.
          "I said no! No . . . comment ." Alec spun around and walked swiftly down the steps, intent upon making his way towards his bike locked up several blocks away. His last bike, while locked up in back of his house, had been trashed beyond repair.
          His car was untouched. No one in Detroit worried anymore about vandalized cars. The risk was too great.
          "Why?" DeShawn’s query, simple but plaintive, stopped Alec in his tracks. Over the weeks, various people had asked Alec how he did it, who else was involved, what he did. But no one had asked why. They were too angry, too stunned. Alec didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look DeShawn in the eyes.
"I just wanted to fix my car," Alec said, his voice weary as the steps he took away from the staring journalist.
          Alec kept his head down as he shuffled down the sidewalk. He was less likely to be recognized if his face wasn’t easily discernable. But he glanced up often, out of necessity. He knew that while it was far more likely that any car leaving the road and heading up the pavement towards him would not harm him at all, there was still the risk that it would be a solid, existent car with a vengeful driver behind the wheel. So many people blamed him for the deaths of their loved ones. Or the maiming accidents. The injuries. The stress. The list went on.
          Alec dealt with enough of his own stress. It’d even gotten him started on drinking heavily, at the age of seventeen. His shoulders and neck were a constant knot of tension, as if the hand of collective resentment and hatred was wrapped firmly around his neck. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the afternoon light flash off something green. He glanced up and saw a Model-T bearing directly down towards where he wavered upon the pavement.
          Alec’s body trembled as his heart flung itself frenziedly at his ribcage over and over. Was the car real? It looked and sounded real, but that meant nothing these days. He tried to force his feet to move, to run, to flee, but it was as if his legs had petrified. Likewise for his eyelids; they would not close, would not let Alec shut out the approaching car as it came closer and closer, rattling and roaring. Smoke shot out the rear and from underneath the hood as well, making Alec think of a dragon. A dragon that soon would strike Alec and kill him. The dragon drew even closer and-
          Passed through Alec, continuing a few more feet before it abruptly stopped, the entire front caving in with a hideous cacophony of tearing metal and snapping parts. The car must have hit a tree or something similar that no longer stood in that spot, Alec surmised, as he wiped his face with a shaking hand. His legs unlocked, and he fell down onto his knees, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. A ghost car. How Alec hated the bastards.
          After a few moments, Alec staggered to his feet. Swaying, he began to move once again, his eyes darting in all directions. He reached his bike without further incident, although he did hear the collision between two 60’s sedans. He didn’t bother to look up and see the aftermath. There wouldn’t be one. The cars would disappear soon after the collision, and Alec had seen the accident already. Twenty or so times.
Alec ran his fingers over the frame of his bike. He had so little motivation these days. Lifting his leg to straddle the bike seemed to require more work than running a marathon wearing cement blocks upon his feet. His life sucked ass, and he was only seventeen. He sighed, and got on his bike. "I just wanted to fix my car," he muttered, as he began pedaling.
          The brakes need fixing, Alec decided, probably because he used them so often every time he went out, with the extremely defensive riding he had to do. God damn, but he needed a drink. Gabe at the liquor store wouldn’t start his shift for another couple of hours, though. Alec wandered the streets, trying to stay off the bigger streets and sticking to alleys and side roads. Eventually, he decided to go home to eat something, so he headed back towards the no parking signpost where he would leave his bike.
          Perhaps if Alec had returned by a different route. Perhaps if he’d pedaled slower, or faster. Perhaps if deep down within, he wasn’t harboring thoughts of just giving up for once and all. Perhaps . . . it didn’t matter. Alec was coasting along when he saw, again, the phantom green Model-T headed on a course perpendicular to his. In a single day, a car’s demise could be played out a dozen times, easily. During the nights they seemed to occur more often, perhaps because they had, in reality. Nearly everyone slept with earplugs now. Alec felt surprise when a burst of anger welled up within his cor. He was so tired of this, of everything. He gripped his handlebars and began pedaling towards the car.
          Too late, he discerned through the reflected sky the face of the driver inside the car. The clothes, the hair, they weren’t of the 30’s. Alec’s entire body went numb, even as he cried out and tried to swerve out of the car’s onrush. As the shock of the impact ran through Alec’s body, he marveled at the ingenuity and hatred behind the driver’s planning. To determine where Alec kept his bike, to discover which ghost car was nearest, and to locate and refurbish an actual match, to trick Alec long enough to kill him. Alec’s weak laughter was inaudible under the sounds of breaking bones, twisting metal, and screeching brakes.
Alec awoke in pain that transcended any possible measurement he’d even been capable of imagining. Nausea rose in his throat, receded, and then spilled forth.
          Through a haze, he was vaguely aware of cries, a sponge wiping his face and chin, a sheet removed and replaced. A hand stroked his brow, clearing his hair away from his forehead. A mother-voice murmured to him, "salrrghtAlessyoresaffnao" and then Alec sank back into the folds of oblivion.
          Alec dreamed a memory, the memory of how it all started. He’d bought his own car with long-saved cash, a ’76 Thunderbird. It hadn’t been the best of deals, because the car itself needed many parts. Even though these were plentiful in Detroit, the ones needed for a ’76 Thunderbird weren’t cheap, not by a far cry. Fed up with the disproportionate hours his car sat on the driveway compared to the few he spent driving it around, he turned to alternate means. Magic. Deepest magic.
          Alec believed that he could adapt some spells to basically restore the Thunderbird. He’d gotten the idea from a late night movie based on a Stephen King book. He’d had to be creative with the interpretation of some of the spells and the ingredients they called for, but in the end, it turned out that Alec was quite adept at working magic. More adept than he’d known at the time.
          One particular night Alec had sat inside the complex diagram that took him five hours to draw with chalk (his parents were out of town for the weekend) on the fllor of the garage and spoke the invocations, combined the ingredients, and projected his will into the wooden constrict representing his car. He’d experienced a palpable emanation of power, but when he ran outside, his face full of excitement, he was bitterly disappointed to see no change in his car.
          As it turned out, Alec’s spell hadn’t had the exact result he’d hoped for. He’d also performed it in one of the most risky locales possible; Detroit. The essence of the spell had been to restore the spirit of the Thunderbird, but Alec’s natural and innate talent had amplified the force of the magic, increased a million fold by the heart of Detroit; the cars of days gone by. The result: the echo of every single automobile that was now defunct, due to collision, fire, immersion in a body of water, rust, or old age, now manifested itself. In short, Detroit was now heavily infested with car ghosts. They looked solid, and sounded real, so people could not discern the difference between these and actual presently existing cars, except by touch. There was no safe or effective test to determine a car’s physical status by contact, unfortunately.
          A rather sinister feature was that some of these cars also had drivers and passengers clearly visible inside. The ghosts of those who had perished with the vehicle. As with any haunting, the car ghosts often re-enacted their demises over and over.
          Small wonder that Alec was so reviled by the city of Detroit. In a single night, he’d changed the entire cityscape and put the residents into a constant state of paranoia and fear and tension. Furthermore, the spell showed no signs of abating. Modern cars totaled in accident since the night Alec performed his magic also returned in spirit as phantoms.
          It took Alec three weeks to climb out of his medicated stupor. Another three weeks before he was due to released from the hospital. Two days before he was to leave, a stranger slid into the room where Alec slept and stood staring down at the boy for a long while, teeth and fists clenched, rage rising off skin.
Alec woke up completely free of pain. He sat up, and swung his feet over to the side of the bed. He stood up, and looked at his dead body, the head still obscured by a pillow. He glanced over at the departing figure of his killer without much interest. Well. It was over with and he didn’t hurt anymore. He turned to face the wall, and then walked through it.
          He ambled along several streets, enjoying the privilege of being able to look around at his environs without fear of drawing unwanted attention or reprisal from passer-bys. He reached out to stroke a parked Dodge Charger, something he would never have dared to do if his hand was solid. His fingers now just dipped beneath the surface of the fiery orange paint. He crossed an intersection against the traffic flow, ignoring the cars that simply phased through him. He laughed, elated at his new freedom.
          When the ’02 Mazda squealed around the corner at another intersection several minutes later, Alec paid it no attention as he stepped out in front of it. That’s when he realized that a ghost getting hit by a ghost car was exactly the same as getting hit by a real car in life. Exactly.
          Except that while Alec lay in the street, a broken and moaning creature, blood pouring forth from his body but making no stain upon the pavement, there would be no medical assistance coming to his aid.