 “When A Flower Blooms In Hell”by J.R. Rustrian Dear Nicon, It was so good to read your last letter and even better to see the care package you’ve sent me. I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten my stash of sulfur and bones at home. I hope the latest paycheck is enough to pay for at least two months’ rent. We can’t afford to get evicted from yet another place and our latest landlord is just waiting for a chance to kick us out. It’s been an interesting time here at the Lake of Fire Recreational Area. I have to admit, I was nervous when I first started here, but I feel like I’m starting to settle into a routine here. My co-workers are much younger than I am, as most of them are barely starting their university training. It can be difficult to relate to them because most of the time they are sharing gossip about who is dating whom and what parties to attend that weekend. You know me, Nicon, I’d rather be at home with a good book of satanic spells, drinking an aged cup of blood. I spend most of my time here working alone, struggling to keep up with the younger, stronger demons. The work of a Recreational Assistant takes a certain amount of effort and I often find myself falling behind everybody else. I’ll tell you something, Nicon, loading meat wagons full of rotting and flailing human carcasses is tiring work. My coworkers make it look easy, and I suspect they don’t like to work with me because of that. I’ve found it easier to just go off by myself, clean up charred human bones and remind myself that the money here is much better than what could be made back home. Thoughts like that keep me company when I’m out in the field working, or else I’d throw myself into one of the lava pools with the rest of the damned souls. On the third day, they put me to work moving and re-staking the Impalement Gardens. It’s tough, messy and tedious work. The impaled souls wail in torment as you lift up the stakes and reposition them, leading the eyes of relaxing demons and fallen angels square on you. I’ve never been one for the limelight, and so I try to finish my work as quickly as possible so I can run back into the safety of the recreational center. Days like those make it tough to not call it quits and come home, but then, I’m reminded of our struggles. The meager rations. The ragged clothes. The long days of begging. Yeah, I’m not eager to go back to that. If that means I have to work endless days physically eviscerating every single damned soul that crosses the lake, then so be it. Don’t let that be a sign of despair, Nicon, but rather just thinking about if I had chosen a different path in this afterlife. I’m writing to you during my break so I better wrap this up. My supervisor, a peppy demoness not too much older than myself, is going to show us the latest in skinning and flailing technology and I have to say, I’m not the least bit interested in relearning something I learned in grade school. Take care, brother. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, The days have started to blend together. I wake up every hellish morning to the swirling maelstrom above and frown. It takes me back to our days off from school, when we would try to entertain ourselves in the empty poison mounds near our home. We would stare up at the gaping hellmouths above and try to count the endless human souls falling to their doom, before falling asleep to the sound of mortals suffocating from the toxic sludge around us. Those were better times, brother. It brings me some comfort in the lonely, tiring days here. Lately, they’ve been working me to death on the torture racks, which require resetting after the body breaks apart. I must’ve reset the same soul over fifty times yesterday. The other demons don’t seem to mind it, but it’s just so repetitive and dull. It makes me wonder whether or not I was meant for this. Or am I even meant for anything at all? The days would be pure torment if it wasn’t for this demoness I met here named Scarlett. She’s a funny demon, older like myself and also only here for the paycheck, a result of having two little bundles of despair at home and a fallen angel who refuses to work. It’s a relief to meet someone here that admits how boring and soul-crushing the work is. Despite all of that, she still exhibits a good attitude and even excels at fielding questions from the public and wrangling stinging insects for the diseased souls near the playground. I’m glad that I’m not alone here, but I’m never one for demonic interaction. I try to stay away from the groups of vacationers, health fanatics and families who come to see human souls try to balance their way across a scorching sea of pure fire. Their questions can be annoying and never-ending and keeping kids from touching the suffering masses without proper protection is the worst torture one can endure around here. There’s one great part here, however, and that’s the foothills towards the back end of the park, away from the frolicking crowds, near the river of boiling blood which flows down into the lower levels of the Inferno. It’s secluded, quiet and, best of all, a great place to take a break from the tedium of punishing the damned. In the days since my last letter, I’ve often found myself sitting near one of the many alcoves, watching the swirling vortex of fire and brimstone above or just listening to the babbling creek beside, watching the violent damned boiling in torment. I wonder how my life got here. We should’ve been elsewhere by now, either enjoying ourselves on the shores of the Styx, enjoying paid torments in the city of Dis or vacationing near Limbo. It makes me wonder why I even went to university and wasted my time in learning skills that I am not even putting to use here, such as those studies into mortal culture and physiology. Either way, brother, I have to believe that we will come out stronger. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, Things have been getting interesting to say the least here at the Lake. Workwise, the job has been getting vicious as my instructor has started myself and Scarlett on the vivisection field renovations. I couldn’t tell you the many hours of shifting operating slabs, wiping down viscera and strapping down flailing souls that it took to complete that project. Poor Scarlett, as dynamic and chipper as she is, would nurse her aching hooves each moment she had to herself. The little patch near the alcove became my refuge, my safe place, my second home, if you would call it that. Picture the yard in our old home. Try to remember the gnarled oak trees covered in screaming faces, feel the hot gravel underneath your claws and hooves, taste the burning ash in the air and you might get some semblance of the tranquility that this little piece of Hell had to offer. It was like playing hide and go seek in our younger years again. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hint of green. I was never a superstitious demon and I chalked it up to my own exhaustion, but the green stayed there, never straying from my vision. Curiosity got the better of me. I lumbered over towards the alcove and froze in my tracks. It was unbelievable what my eyes fell upon, almost bordering on the horrifying. It was tiny, no taller than four inches and so fragile even a gentle breeze could knock it over but radiated a feeling of terror so absolute it was difficult to look at. The thin, oval petals, overbearingly white and circling the fluffy yellow center, were supported by a thin, green stem from which small, green leaves poked out at random intervals. It was what the humans called a “flower.” The ground seemed to fall beneath my feet as I stumbled back from the sight. What was a flower doing here in Hell? What sort of unmerciful God would allow such an abominable sight such as this? The flower swayed in the hellish wind, taunting me with its mere presence. Fear overcame me, paralyzed by indecision. My first instinct was to stomp on it and forever be rid of its welcoming presence. It’s possibly what any normal demon would’ve done, but there was something about it that was…enticing. Something attractive. Something beautiful. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I caught myself before I examined it more and so, out of fear, I ran away back to my duties of punishing the human damned. All day, my co-workers asked about my agitated state. I lied to them and told them that a park patron had been aggressive towards me, even when Scarlett asked. She smirked at me when I told her. I wondered if she was able to see through my lie. I’m at a loss of what to do. Should I go back and stamp out the infestation? Should I alert my instructor and let them know what has invaded the Lake of Fire? Either way, sleeping is going to be difficult. The small plant is still out there, laughing and taunting me, slithering into my dreams and mutating them into happy thoughts. Keep me in your thoughts, Nicon. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, The days have rushed by since my last letter. Out there near the foothills was that little piece of the mortal world, sitting there and taunting me with its presence. I haven’t dared go back to check on it, for fear its power would overcome me. Or maybe it already has, since I can’t stop thinking about it. The flower has invaded my dreams ever since I first found it, causing me nights of restless sleep and making me even less popular among my peers in the dormitory. Not even the wailing of the damned has been able to help. I’ve had memories of our time in school creeping back into my mind, like when we would write notes on scraps of human skin and pass them to each other during torment lessons. I only remember because our teachers would try to drill into our heads about how dangerous the world above was. Stay away from anything mortal, they would tell us, they have an effect on demonic things and are strictly banned because of this. Our teachers likened objects from the land of the living like pieces of radiation, affecting any demon or anything that came near with an invisible, unseen effect. As to what, they never really said. We always thought it was just fluff from teachers trying to scare us away from earthly things. I remember the urban legends about wayward demons stumbling onto objects from above, such as the one about the kid who found a piece of a human building that had mysteriously appeared out near the Stygian wastes. Story had it that the kid had gone insane, trying to rescue damned souls from their torment and then was never seen again. I shuddered the first time I heard it and I shudder even as I’m writing it to you. Could you possibly imagine losing your mind and, even worse, trying to rescue the damned? I hope you can forgive me, bro, as I wasn’t strong enough to keep this secret to myself and entrusted it to my new friend Scarlett. I approached her yesterday as we were setting up chains and hooks for the newly arriving damned. Something got into me and I started whistling a strange tune. She turned to me and gave me a disgusted look as no self-respecting demon would be caught dead whistling at work. I looked at her and, for a second, thought that I shouldn't reveal the existence of the flower. Scarlett already had so much going on, and this would just burden her even more. There was also the mere fact Scarlett would turn me in like a good demon should. I was petrified at the thought. Losing this job Then, she sneered at me, and that’s when I realized that she had noticed me keeping this from her. “You found something, didn’t you? Over by the foothills?” she asked much to my amazement. “I think it’s best if I showed you.” I said. Before I knew it, we had hiked to the foothills along the blood river. My whole body trembled as we approached the site, like if we were trespassing into the personal domain of the Devil himself. Scarlett let out a holler as we both stumbled back. It was worse. It was far worse than I remembered. Scarlett had been promised a solitary white flower, and what we happened upon was a tiny garden of the horrible creatures, surrounded by a patch of green grass. The smell was overpowering and pleasant; the colors bright and cheerful. It almost made me vomit. We stared at the sight for a bit, keeping a distance, before Scarlett took her first, careful steps towards it. I would have asked what was wrong with her, if I hadn’t also been stepping closer to the garden. The flowers, so told to us as dangerous and deadly to the underworld, sat there idle and unassuming. “This…this isn’t a dream…is it?” she asked me. I shook my head. We were awake and lucid. A garden had somehow sprouted in Hell. The urge to touch a flower overcame me and I reached out to touch the original flower. Its petals were soft and fluffy and its stem was rigid and fuzzy. For all intents and purposes, it was harmless, at least for now. “Aza, come!” I heard Scarlett call to me. “There’s something going on here!” I looked up and found her inspecting the small alcove itself. She reached out and waved in the air at the entrance and then pulled it back as if something had whipped her fingers. I asked her what was the matter. “It’s…cold. Like in Cocytus, but that shouldn’t be, should it?” she asked. I walked over the alcove and confirmed the cold. What was it doing so high up? There was something off about that alcove, brother. Fear got the better of us and we dashed away before something inside that place reached out and slaughtered us. As I’m writing this, Scarlett is sitting across from me, her eyes dashing back and forth. There’s something in her mind, trying to process the mysterious place. Maybe she thinks it’s haunted, or is some sort of holy place where we shouldn’t be trespassing. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, Anxiety kept me up most of the night, as the thought of the illegal garden was too much for me to bear. As the next shift came, I searched out Scarlett near the female dormitories, only to be told that she had started her work early. A chill went up my spine and into my horns. There were only two places she would go to right now: to our instructor to turn me in for not reporting the flower garden, or to the alcove itself. I wrestled with which one would be the most preferable. I gingerly walked along the blood river, swatting away the wailing souls that attempted to climb out. My heart pumped. What I wouldn’t give to be one of those souls in the river right now. I secretly prayed that the alcove was just some figment of my imagination, that it was just a lucid dream that I thought in my lowest moments. Then, I found Scarlett sitting near the garden, smiling and gazing into the mysterious alcove. I approached cautiously, as if whatever this was had a hold on her. She patted the ground next to her and invited me to sit, not taking her eyes off of the void. “It’s a portal,” she said, “to above.” “A portal to where?” I asked her. “To the mortal realm, Aza. To Earth.” I took my gaze off of her and turned it into the alcove and, suddenly, it all became clear. The cold, the flowers, the grass. It was all coming out from this alcove, spilling into our little park. “How do you think it happened?” she asked me. I shrugged and told her about rumors of demons playing around with forbidden rituals to see into the living world, as some of the urban legends went. She then told me about a rumor about a special day of the year where the boundaries of the afterlife and mortal realms weaken, letting us see into their world. “Or maybe it was just a huge mistake.” I said, “Either way, it’s dangerous and we oughta let somebody know about this.” “True. If we’re caught sitting here, we’ll get fired, or banished from the Inferno. These things from above, they’re not supposed to be here. They can mess up the ecosystem here or something, at least, that’s what I learned in school. But, just look at them, they aren’t really doing anything. Just existing.” “We’re probably the only two demons who have ever seen an actual flower in the flesh. It’s starting to be an interesting day, don’t you think?” Whatever the reason was, Scarlett and I continued to stare into the portal in silence, trying to commit the feeling into memory. I glanced over at her, and noticed her standing there with her black eyes transfixed on the garden and a gentle smile on her face. There wasn’t a trace of fear or anxiety to be found within her, only a level of confidence that I’ve been chasing my entire life. She had an entire family to support at home, I thought, how was she able to be so close to something that could potentially get ourselves in trouble, or worse? It was nice to just sit there, however, away from the hustle and bustle of the park, away from our financial problems, away from the burden of having to figure out what to do with your life. The fear of the invasion from above was gone for a moment, replaced by a strange serenity that I had never experienced before, something that other demons would want to pay to experience. Then, an idea hit me like a spear. Other demons would absolutely pay to see this. Forgive me, brother, as I am writing this, Scarlett and I are working up a plan to present this to our instructor. I’ll write with more news as soon things are put into place. Wish me luck that the next time I write, I’m not wrapped in chains. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, Sorry for the lack of communication. There’s so much happening at the Lake of Fire as you can imagine. So many things have changed here and it’s all thanks to our incredible idea. I wondered, instead of being so scared of the flower, why not replace it with curiosity? So Scarlett and I got to work putting together a proposal about turning the flower into an attraction. People love sideshows, after all, and so did our supervisors. They could see the gold coins spilling out of their pockets and immediately approved it. Scarlett had experience in negotiating contracts, as, at one time in her life, her career pointed her towards creating contracts for demons to use when they make deals with mortals for their eternal souls. It sounds boring to me, but to each their own. You should’ve seen her when we presented our idea to our bosses. It made me, well, jealous, I guess you could say? If she’s so talented in contract negotiations, then what would be my talent? It took a few days, but after confirmation, the other Recreational Assistants and I got to setting up the attraction to complement what the Lake of Fire already had to offer. We called it the “Vision of the Living World Exhibit” and it's already attracted dozens of demons, shades and fallen angels of all walks of life to our little park. The whole place feels like a carnival with families and other onlookers milling about the length of the park. We even have food stalls and souvenir stands to boot. That’s not even the craziest thing, Nicon. Yesterday, as if the flower wasn’t enough, we discovered six more flowers budding from the small patch of cursed soul. They aren’t as majestic as the main specimen, but are certainly a sight to behold. The crowds are increasing every day and it’s getting harder to corral everyone into a place where they can get a good look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people not blink at the same time. Demons are entranced by the living world. For eons, we could only speculate at what it might be like up there, save for what possessor demons would report back in secret. We could always ask a damned soul, but how would we even make out what they’re saying from all their wailing and despairing? This is the closest anyone of us will ever get to getting a complete picture. I’ve found myself inspecting the garden and grass around the alcove very closely. Scarlett laughed at me as we were setting up the attraction. She commented that I looked like an investigator hard at work. I answered back that I merely wanted to make sure that everything was going to plan. No need to get too invested in the human world, but it’s very interesting to say the least. I miss you very much, bro. Was the checkup to your standards? It’s a negotiated fee for one week’s worth of work! Can you believe it? It feels like things are certainly looking up. Make sure you put that money to good work, like our debts and bills, but also treat yourself to something nice. You deserve it considering you’ve been holding our home together. Can’t wait until I see you. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, Something odd is happening around here that I don’t quite understand. It’s as if some unknown, invisible force is stalking us and we’re unable to do anything about it. I woke up in the middle of the night to a deserted park, save for the tortured souls who so deserve to be here. It’s a different place when there are no other demons around. Maybe I’m just so used to the crowds that visit our lake that it’s bizarre to see this level of inactivity. The presence was so thick that I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to take a walk. I wandered over to the back where our precious money-making alcove was, scared that it may have disappeared or collapsed. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. A tree. An honest-to-badness tree. Not some gnarled oak, twisted and bent into familiar horrific shapes but a tall, majestic evergreen which seemed to pierce into the hellish sky. Its leaves were a brilliant green, wide and full of life. Its bark was full and healthy with a verdant moss growing in patches across its surface. The entire trunk swayed as if it had just conquered a foreign land. So taken was I with its height that I almost neglected to see the numerous bushes that dotted its feet like demon children surrounding their mother. Each one of these leafy monstrosities supported numerous red berries with green stems. Now, I’ve never known you to judge me in any capacity, but I have to confess that the urge to taste one of these berries was overwhelming. And so, I did. The taste was sweet, sour and juicy, unlike the bitter herbs or raw flesh we feast upon. I gorged myself on several, eating until the shame was too much to bear. Paranoia flooded inside me and I stepped back, taking in the true scale of the site. Scarlett and I’s little garden was growing. As to how much, I didn't know. What’s happening here, bro? I feel as if I stepped into something I don’t fully understand. Were they right to tell those stories in school? I would hope not. I’ll write later and, hopefully, these feelings will dissipate. Keep a look out for those checks. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Nicon, Scarlett roused me out of my slumber with excitement dripping out of her fangs. She dragged me over to the exhibit to be greeted with a veritable grove of evergreen trees, large berry bushes and several gardens surrounding the mysterious alcove. Yes, the site was growing, but that could be managed. I asked her what she was so worked up about. “No, not the ground! Look up!” she said, raising a singular claw to the green canopy. I couldn't believe what my eyes had seen. There, among the branches and leaves, was a solitary, white bird. A dove, as the mortals call it. It sat there, tweeting and singing its love song. The sound was grating and annoying, like a horrifying whisper of love. “This is going to put us on the map, Aza!” Scarlett said to me “There’s probably a whole nest of them up there!” A chill went up my spine. A whole nest of them? What does that even mean? But Scarlett’s excitement was too infectious and quickly overcame my concerns. I eagerly went to my posts, coming up with a way to introduce our new dove companions to the visiting crowds. Once word had spread, the park filled to capacity, with demon families trying to get a closer look at the visitor from the world above. It was as if time had been robbed from me, because the next memory I have is walking back to the dormitory, laughing and cheering our success with Scarlett. I think she might have noticed it too, since we immediately stopped and went our separate ways. It was a strange thing to have happened. Demons aren’t usually known for laughing and cheering at successes. We do it whenever we cause mayhem to those who deserve it, as our Creator intended. I fear that this alcove, this portal to the living world, is having an effect on us. I’m too sure, brother, but maybe I’m just overwhelmed with my duties today. Besides, this exhibit is putting the park on the map and making us known for more than just throwing sinners into burning brimstone pools. For the first time, my name is known outside of our family. People ask for me whenever they come to the park. You should see their faces light up when they set their eyes on the gardens and trees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Scarlett happier than when we first started working here. Things are definitely looking up. Let me know how things are at home. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Brother, This was never what I wanted. The Lake of Fire…isn’t what it is anymore. The authorities are watching me with a keen eye. Out of mercy, they allowed me a quill and paper to write this letter to you. They think I’m a madman after what happened today. Let me explain to you so you’ll get my side of the story. I trudged out of bed this morning, with an energy that I didn't possess when I first arrived here at the Lake of Fire. We expected a large crowd today, and I didn’t want to miss a second of showing them all the wonderful sights and sounds. All around me, there was the sound of laughter, playing and cheering, but it was a strange sort of joy that I’d never heard before. The cheering came from my left and I quickly realized that I was standing next to the Impalement Gardens. I looked up and saw, to my horror, that the laughter was coming from the damned on the stake. A wide grin greeted me, even though the soul’s innards were spilling out into a pile of mush. It was as if he were enjoying the punishment. Terror overcame me. I looked around and spied smiling, happy families vacationing on our little piece of Hell. Patches of grass and flowers, accompanied by small, harmless insects covered the landscape. A chill raced up my spine. I rushed to the exhibit, where Scarlett had begun setting up for the day. She smiled widely and waved me over. “Beautiful day, Aza! I can’t wait to start our shift!” she called out, sending me a friendly wave. I surveyed the area. Gone was the steaming hot gravel and broken bones, replaced by lush green grass and flowerbeds. Trees covered the foothills surrounding the alcove like boils on a plague-ridden soul, replacing barren ground with verdant, rolling knolls. I couldn't be sure, but I was certain that I could see white clouds forming in the skies directly above me. The demons and fallen angels eagerly awaiting the exhibit laughed and played with one another, calling out, “Good Day!” to the supposedly punished souls in the blood river, who answered back in kind. The sound of human voices, free from the sound of torment, chilled me. Why couldn’t anybody see what was happening? It was wrong. It was all wrong. Our twisted, evil home was turning into a wonderland of smiling faces and chipper tunes right before my eyes. Whatever the alcove had unleashed was bringing…hope, corrupting not only the land, but the people as well. Their laughter was unnatural and not of this world. I’d had enough. I needed to put a stop to it, immediately. What happened next was my only choice and rumors will go around of what happened, but don't pay any attention to any of it. They’ll say I went nuts and attacked the trees, stomped the gardens and slaughtered the birds which had made their homes in the green canopies. I will admit the thought had crossed my mind, but in order to rid us of this infestation, I had to stop it at the source. The alcove needed to be destroyed. I rushed past the exhibit, nearly colliding into several visitors, and stopped at the alcove’s entrance. The cave is twice as tall as I am and made of solid brimstone. Inside, the earthen ceiling was sandy and gravelly, like the ground outside. It was soaked in blood flow from eons of the lake flooding and receding. That’s when I got the idea of collapsing the chamber as there was no way such an unstable feature could withstand a concentrated blow from a mature, strong demon like myself. I spied an executioner’s axe near one of the food booths, used for chopping wood and human body parts, all of which went into the vendor’s pots and fryers. I “borrowed” it and savagely attacked the ceiling of the alcove, screaming and frothing at the mouth as if I were Cereberus feasting on the slothful. The crowd around me stopped celebrating and turned their attention towards me. Scarlett, who was entertaining a small group of demon children, realized what I was doing and attempted to stop me. She was too late, however, as the ceiling of the cursed alcove collapsed in on itself. Seconds later, the cave was no more than a pile of brimstone and hot sand. I stared at the pile, satisfied that my task had been done, before a pair of security guards grabbed me by my arms and dragged me away. As of writing this, I sit inside one of the recreational center’s meeting rooms under close watch. I can hear my superiors outside whispering in voices, discussing what is to be done with me. I feel like a prisoner awaiting their execution or…maybe a human soul waiting to be judged by King Minos. The irony isn't lost on me, brother. Is this empathy I feel? Or is the alcove still having some sort of effect on me? I’m tired. Very tired. Like my life has been drained from my body. At this point, I don't really care about what happens to me. What matters is that terrible influence is finally purged from the park. Keep me in your mind, Nicon. Take care of yourself. I most likely won’t be there to do it for you. Hellishly yours, Aza *** Dear Brother, It’s a miracle! Yes and, in Hell, of all places. They let me sleep my mania off as there was too much to do regarding the cleanup surrounding the alcove. The night, despite the events of the day, finally let me rest and the nightmares of the world above were finally silenced. It was the most restful sleep I’ve experienced in weeks. The morning brought more good news. My supervisors decided that flogging and flaying would not be necessary, as the park began to return to normal and any trace of the mortal infestation was nearly gone. Everybody could feel the spell’s influence on their minds weaken with each passing minute. Upon returning to normal, the destruction of the mortal world exhibit began in earnest. I have never seen so many demons chop down so many trees and churn up mounds of dirt. No flower petal was left standing when they were done with it. Scarlett eventually settled down into her normal, terrifying self. She was a bit sad that all of our hard work was destroyed in the span of an afternoon, as was I. It took all of our courage to go up to our superiors and get the ball rolling in the first place, after all. In the end, I think she was just glad that we weren’t going to be flailed, skinned alive or drowned in pitch. I think the relief gave her a sense of purpose, as she decided several hours ago that she would return to her home to her family. We had earned more in these past couple of days than we had in the past month and that would at least buy a week or two of time with her loved ones. I congratulated Scarlett and encouraged her to find something in the business field. If she could cook up something like the exhibit in our tiny park in a week’s time, imagine what she could do at a major company! I expect her future to be a bright one. “What are you planning on doing?” she asked me. I shrugged. Staying at the Lake of Fire was probably not the best course of action, but what else was there to do? At that moment, I lamented that I had gone back to square one. “You know a lot about the human world, Aza. People would kill to get the knowledge you have. There’s courses that can help you.” Scarlett waved goodbye to me. I bid her a safe trip and watched the maintenance demons finish off whatever remained of the cursed alcove. Her words still bounce in my head. I had never considered going back to school but now it seems like it’s within reach. If Scarlett and you think so, then it's very much possible. I’ll be returning home soon on the next train out of here. There’s so much about the living realm to learn and there are places that will accept somebody with my caliber of knowledge. For the first time in a long time, there is actually a hope in Hell. Hellishly yours, Aza  J.R. Rustrian is a Latino writer of speculative fiction living and working in Southern California. When not writing, you can find him cooking, hiking and playing video games. You can find his work in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Hispanecdotes, and Etherea Magazine.
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 “Brujo”by David Estringel It was 3:21 AM and the main corridor of the Letheville City Asylum’s east wing was silent save the random, faint clacking of an unseen computer keyboard coming from an open doorway behind the nurses’ station counter and the rhythmic ticking of the old, analog wall clock that faced it, which was securely tucked away behind an iron cage, constructed specifically to its dimensions. Slowly, a lone, tall figure in a white, slim-fitting lab coat—Joseph de los Santos, LCSW, the Director of Clinical Services—with a legal pad of the same color (maybe a shade or two duller) tucked securely under his left arm, made its way down to the isolation rooms; the hypnotic clacking of hard leather soles atop the terrazzo floor punctuating the air’s stillness. Loud pounding rolled and echoed down the hallway like distant thunder, increasing in volume and vibration as he approached the magnetic security doors that quivered at the violence contained behind them. He continued on without interruption in volition or gate, as the clamor (from isolation room #2 to be exact) summoned concerned looks from the mental health techs on duty and covert peeks of patients from behind the darkened cracks of numbered doors. Again, again, and again, the pounding continued, each strike more explosive than the next…until Joseph swiped his access card across the wall-mounted reader. Then, silence. Looking through the observation window in the heavy, metal door, Joseph knocked three times, catching the attention of the mental health tech leaning against the wall inside, who kept watch. Tilting his head back in acknowledgment, he pushed himself to a standing position by pressing his back against the hard surface behind him. He was a bald man with a thick, muscular neck and a body to match. His height was average (at least half a foot shorter than Joseph) but seemed shorter due to his stout stature. Breaking the silence, one last pound sounded, seeming to shake the bolted pictures on the walls and the unit clock’s metal grill. “Hey, A.J., quiet night?” Joseph cracked, opening the door—a slight smirk beginning to curl at the right side of his mouth. A.J. chuckled, rubbing his stubby fingers across the smoothness of his scalp. “Yeah, chief, real quiet. We’ve been counting sheep waiting for you to finally get here.” He lumbered over to Joseph, extending a fist bump in his direction in dire need of reciprocation. “Seriously, chief, tonight’s been off the hook! All kinds of crazy shit happening in the unit. All the units, really. And don’t even get me started on this guy,” A.J. confided. “If you have like an hour, I can give you the deets on what went down after you left earlier.” He let out an exaggerated exhale, rubbing his scalp, again, and shaking his head. “Yeah, really crazy shit.” “Literally, I hear.” Joseph quipped. “I got report from the charge nurse when she called me in, and Dr. Sullivan touched base on the drive over.” Turning toward the observation window in door #2, he noticed dripping spit and smears of blood on the glass. “God, I hope that’s spit on that window.” Turning back to face A.J., he saw the tech’s eyes glued to the door over his shoulder, followed by a palpable wince that set Joseph’s eyes squinting. “Yeah, I don’t like the odds on that, buddy.” “Right. Well, how about you keep those ‘eagle eyes’ on me while I am in there, huh?” Exasperated, Joseph approached the door, hearing errant stirs on the other side. A heavy quiet had settled in the air that somehow felt more unsettling than the commotion that heralded his arrival on the unit. Eyes fixed on the filthy, square-shaped glass, Joseph approached the isolation room door with key in hand. He unlocked the door, slowly opening it, preparing for the possibility of the patient’s mad dash for freedom. Sliding his thin frame through the open crack, he scanned the room, registering nothing in his line of sight except a sheetless, plastic-covered mattress on the floor and erratic flickers from the fluorescents overhead. The room was bare but crowded with the competing smells of fading antiseptic cleaner, body odor, and excrement. Hearing a shuffle to the left of him, Joseph turned his head and spied a slouched figure standing in the corner, staring at him, fixedly, through oily strands of black hair with even darker, piercing eyes that latched deeply into him like hooks. “Are you ready to die, Doc?” the soiled form asked in a guttural voice, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. “Not tonight,” Joseph answered, unflinchingly, closing the door behind him, “and I’m not a doctor, Dante. I’m a psychotherapist; there’s a difference. You keep calling that, and I always correct you.” Moving closer to Dante—just within arm’s length—Joseph observed him. He was unwashed and appeared to have been for some time (probably days), evidenced by his smell and the thin layer of grime that slicked over his skin. His eyes were bloodshot and starkly pronounced by the dark circles that had engulfed them. His face—oddly handsome in its own way—was angular, severe, and drawn. “I wasn’t summoned here in the middle of the night to have my life threatened, Dante. We’re better than that. Aren’t we?” There was no response. “Surely, there are better things you could be doing right now. Maybe, I don’t know…sleep?” “Fuck sleep,” Dante said coldly, his eyes wildly darting up and down Joseph’s form, which stood at the ready before him, clipboard in his left hand and a click pen in his right, jotting down musings and fragments of the current moment. “Essentially, I have; otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.” Joseph continued scribbling down notes, while talking to him, following the train of his own cognitions along blue lines across the page. “You have gone to great lengths to get our attention. So? We’re listening. What happened tonight? Everything was fine before dinner—or at least quiet—when I left.” A brief period of silence passed. “I’m not getting a shot! The son-of-a-bitch that tries to stick me with that shit will be sorry! I mean it!” Joseph’s hazel eyes, behind a pair of vintage black horn-rimmed glasses, stoically rose from the surface of his notepad and met Dante’s. “You tore up your room, urinated on your mattress, bit a tech, and defecated in the hall outside your door,” he retorted. “You are getting a shot.” He quickly slid his notepad under his left armpit with a smooth twist of his wrist. “It is, however, up to you how much that process is going to hurt,” Joseph advised, clicking his pen the slipping it into the front breast pocket of his coat. “So, take a moment to check yourself, and don’t make matters worse for the staff…or you.” Or me, he thought to himself. Dante fell silent, averting his eyes from Joseph’s, slowly sliding down the corner to the floor, cupping his sweaty face in his dirty hands. “Fuck sleep,” he sobbed, almost inaudibly, behind trembling fingers. Joseph was intrigued by the sudden shift in Dante’s mood, which was not at all out of character, but its acuity was, revealing a side of him that he had never experienced before. Edging a little closer to Dante, Joseph squatted down before him, instantly struck by the overpowering stench of feces and urine that emanated from Dante’s ripped, paper scrubs. “I think that’s the problem, Dante,” he assured in a neutral tone. “Nursing says you haven’t slept in days. Four, I believe, and you’ve refused to take anything for it. You’re exhausted and things are feeling out of control right now. How could they not be? We can’t, however, help you if you don’t let us.” “Fuck sleep…Fuck me,” Dante whimpered, curling himself up in a tight ball, disappearing into the safety of the darkness of the corner he occupied, finding comfort in the feel of hard, cold plaster against his shoulder and little anywhere else. Joseph calmly observed the defeated heap before him with its back hunched, tangles of black clutched between whitened knuckles. Unsure if he was jolted more by the depth of anguish conveyed by Dante’s tears or persistent stench, Joseph leaned in. “What’s happening here, Dante? This isn’t you.” He waited for a response, but none came. Just sobbing. “Dante,” Joseph said softly, placing his right hand on Dante’s left shoulder, “talk to me.” “Look!” Dante ordered, the dirtied fingers of his right hand swiftly wrapping themselves around Joseph’s wrist. “Don’t give me a shot, man! Don’t make me go to sleep. I’ll die if I go to sleep. I’ll die!” His dark eyes pleaded through the mass of oily curls that obscured his face; the blackness that surrounded them seemed to become more void in the isolation room’s pallid glow, made even more unnerving by the random flickers overhead. Holding Dante’s gaze, Joseph coolly turned his wrist, which was constrained in the tightening grip, upward toward Dante’s fingertips and whipped it outward, stepping backward into a standing position. Looking down at his throbbing hand, he was overcome by the urge to rub it, but the soiled cuff of his white lab coat dictated otherwise. Pulling his notepad from under his left arm, Joseph inched toward the door, flipping and scanning pages. “It’s quite normal to lose control like this when you don’t have adequate sleep, you know. Further complicating matters, you haven’t been quite selective in terms of taking your meds, antipsychotics to be exact. Haven’t for a few days now,” he revealed, pulling his eyes from his notes, and catching Dante’s stare again. “I’m afraid Zyprexa only works if you take it.” Dante turned away and stared at the floor, rapidly rocking back and forth and mumbling. “Dante, if you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.” “You can’t help me,” Dante insisted, shaking his head, eyes fixed upon the floor beneath him. “No one can.” He looked back at Joseph, tears streaming down his unwashed cheeks. “I’m going to die here and you’re just going to let it happen.” “Are you telling me that you plan on hurting yourself?” Joseph questioned, concernedly. Dante’s sobs quickly turned to laughter, yet another unsettling shift that rested upon Joseph’s ears. “I am not going to do anything.” Using his arms to support himself, he positioned his back against his obscured corner of the room with his head tilted upwards, the angles of his face exposed as his hair fell backward, highlighted by the play of shadows around his angular features. He extended his legs outward, forming a V-shape, and with a calm voice stated, “I’m not going to do anything.” “But someone else is?” Joseph inquired, not oblivious to the emphasis Dante placed on his previous statement. Dante’s voice was cold, as was the stare that disturbed the darkness of his corner of the room. “Maybe.” “Who then?” Joseph stared, quizzically, at Dante, trying to make sense of what he was saying, playing over previous sessions to find some semblance of sense. Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he began to nod. “Ah,” he ejaculated, “your demon.” Joseph brought his hands behind his back, their fingers clutching his notepad. “Tell me about…him…her…it?” “You know. You know it’s a ‘her.’ I told you so. Many times.” Dante scoffed. “Man, I tell you shit, you write shit down in those fucking notes of yours, but you don’t fucking listen.” “Dante…” Joseph began. “No! You wouldn’t keep asking me this shit if you did!” Dante admonished. “If you did—I mean really did—you wouldn’t keep me trapped here.” Tears began to well in his eyes. “You’re just making it easier for…” “Her.” “No…them.” Lifting his glasses from the bridge of his nose with the thumb and index finger of his right hand, Joseph rubbed the burn of the late hour from the inner corners of his eyes. “Okay, Dante, I feel a bit lost here,” he admitted, pulling his fingertips away, allowing his glasses to drop back down in place. “Them? Who is ‘them’? I thought it was a ‘her.’” “There is a lot you don’t know. Huh, Doc?” he queried in a mocking tone, then after a brief silence, started to chuckle. “Then, again…there’s a lot you do…Huh, Doc?” “Am I to assume that is what they are…she is…telling you?” Slamming his palms on the floor, fingers digging into cold terrazzo, Dante leaned forward and growled, “I don’t need to be told anything.” His eyes glaring and then softening, he pulled himself back into his shadows. “I know things, too, Doc. Seen things. Things that’ll make even your shit turn white.” “I don’t doubt it, Dante,” Joseph responded, volunteering a validating nod, “but I managed to make it out of grad school in one piece, so I’m fairly confident my ‘shit,’ as you say, will be fine. Dante continued to stare at (maybe through) Joseph in complete silence, the slightest hint of a tune lingering around his lips. “So, there is more than one thing now, one demon?” Joseph asked, as Dante chuckled. “So, you’ve been seeing more than one? Hearing them?” The chuckling continued. Sensing the beginnings of a fluster, Joseph gave his neck a slight pull to the left to give it a crack. “Have you heard or seen her recently?” Dante smiled as if the corners of his mouth were being pulled to the back of his head, pushing what there was of his hollow cheeks upward, narrowing his eyes into blackened slits. “I always hear her, man...It’s always been her,” he admitted, his voice divulging hints of an unholy union of longing and fear. “Do you hear her now? Dante nodded with an unwavering stare. Pulling his pen from his coat pocket, Joseph gave it a quick click, bringing his notepad to the ready in front of him. “What is she saying?” “Nothing.” Bemused, Joseph looked at Dante. “Nothing? Hmph. No news is good news, I suppose.” “She isn’t saying anything,” Dante countered, as tears began to stream down his cheeks. “She’s humming…like shit’s gonna go down and she’s just gonna watch or something. I don’t like this, Doc. Hearing this isn’t good. It can’t be good!” “Is that normal for her…you?” Joseph questioned. “No, it’s not, I said! Man, this isn’t right. It’s not right!” Lowering the tone of his voice, Joseph slowly assured, “You are safe, Dante. You are safe here. Alright? Just focus on me. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.” Joseph searched Dante’s eyes for a sign that his message hit home. Dante quickly nodded that he understood. “Well, when was the last time she did talk to you? “After bed check earlier tonight.” Dante wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his right hand, then ran its fingers backward through his dampened hair, revealing a pale face that seemed ravaged by fear and exhaustion. “Look,” he started, clearing his throat, “I’m good now. I’ll be good. Just no shot, okay?” Joseph brought his pen to the breast pocket of his lab coat, giving it a solid click before it vanished. “I know you’re good, Dante, but that’s not up to me. In the doctor’s hands, you know? I’ll talk options with him, but I can’t make any promises,” he assured as Dante nodded, silently. “First, though, I would like for you to tell me what she said to you earlier to set you off.” “She said…” Dante began, looking downward, wiping more tears from his eyes, “…if I sleep, I die. It’s the same. Every night.” Looking at Dante directly, Joseph felt a softening in his chest. He had worked with the man suffering before him for months now and, while Dante’s moments of decompensation had always been challenging to manage, it was always clear that Dante was cognizant and hyperaware of the ever-shifting and terrifying world that was happening around him—one he could never seem to escape. No escape. “I see how this is affecting you, Dante. How scared you are. Believe me when I tell you that nothing is going to hurt you here. A.J. is literally on the other side of this door and can be in here in a second if you need him: he’ll be watching you every minute. I promise. I really do feel like things would be so much better for you if you could get some rest. Tomorrow can be completely different if you would just let us help you.” “Man, you don’t get it! Nothing you guys do can keep them…she is always with me, you see, whether you or A.J. are here or not!” Holding out his palms, Joseph stepped forward. “Alright. Alright. No one is trying to upset you here. Look, you have been with us for almost nine months, now. Your bipolar disorder was wildly uncontrolled when you got here and your psychosis quite acute. The voice you heard—I assume it’s the same one—convinced you your wife was trying to kill you, even convinced you to stop eating. Remember that?” “She was trying to poison me! That shit was everywhere…in everything. My food. The coffee cups. Toothbrush. Everything was poisoned.” “And this voice…she told you your wife was doing this?” “To protect me.” “Help me understand this,” Joseph insisted, scratching the top of his head. “This voice threatens you every night, progressively making you more and more unstable, causing you to be restrained and locked up—here—in isolation, but she wants to protect you? I’m sorry, Dante, but that just doesn’t register.” “Then, fuck you, Doc!” “What I think,” Joseph started, inching his way to the door, “is that these thoughts of yours, these things you are hearing and seeing, have become too overwhelming for you, too much for one brain to handle. Now it’s hard for you to determine what is real and what isn’t—so much so that it’s too hard to keep things straight.” Dante scoffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” “Explain it to me, then. Neither of us is going anywhere any time soon, so we have plenty of time to paint a picture here.” Joseph could feel himself becoming weary of the absurdities and contradictions laying out before him, noticing the smell of his sarcasm starting to compete with what Dante had to offer. Grounding himself, “What comes from holding onto this idea of a demon, Dante? How can something that wants to hurt you, hurt your wife, be good? How could it want to protect you at the same time? Do you see how that doesn’t—can’t—make sense?” “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Dante screamed, repeatedly slapping his palms against his ears. “God dammit! Shut up!” Two knocks sounded from behind the door, as a head with a thick neck peered through the observation window. “Everything alright in there? Do I need to go in there?” Dante stopped hitting himself, keeping his palms firmly pressed against his ears, seemingly to drown out something. “No, A.J., I think we are good here. We’ve just been talking, and things got intense, but they are good now. Nothing to see.” Turning to Dante, Joseph asked, “Right?” Silently, Dante nodded in acknowledgment. “Alright…if you say so, chief. Sorry…psychotherapist…Kinda falls with a ‘thud’ on the ears, doesn’t it?” A.J. finished, disappearing from the square glass into a cloud of muffled laughter. Addressing the window, Joseph humorlessly answered, “Thanks, A.J. We are good.” He turned to face Dante, a smirk already beginning to stretch across his face. “Keen timing, that one. Let me tell you.” As a smirk started across his face, Joseph looked over at Dante, who was now, somehow, sitting upon the plastic-lined mattress on the other side of the room, his back to the wall, legs straight out, feet rolling outward and inward. His hair was pulled back, tucked behind his ears as if in a humble attempt at grooming. His face was emotionless like the hollowness of his eyes. His smirk dissipating, Joseph could hear the distant squeaking of metal-on-metal creep into the room, possibly from a passing medication cart in the main corridor, making its early morning rounds. “Sorry about that. He was just concerned, but I’m sure you can understand why.” Joseph approached Dante, feeling as if a shift had occurred in the room. Somewhere. Standing just a few feet from the long edge of the mattress, he continued, “What did you hear just now? What made you so upset?” Dante leaned his head back onto the wall behind him and closed his eyes, bringing his hands up to his head then sliding them down his face, pressing his fingertips deeply into his flesh. “She’s still humming. She won’t stop.” “Help me understand this, Dante. Why do you think she is doing this?” A sudden chill took over the air in the room, making its way through Joseph’s coat. Crossing his arms, he looked about for an offending air vent. Spotting it, he realized that he heard nothing to indicate that the HVAC was blowing. “She’s angry that I am still here. We’re no good to each other here.” “As opposed to out there?” Joseph pointed to the windowless wall to his right at the theoretical world outside. “We know what you have been capable of ‘out there.’ You hurt a lot of people, Dante, especially your wife, who—may I add—is lucky to be alive. I don’t think the city streets are quite ready for you yet.” Joseph scanned Dante’s face for any semblance of remorse (or even a reaction) but identified none. “Is that what you wanted, Dante? Want? What she wanted?” “I told you,” Dante grumbled coldly, “that bitch was trying to kill me, so…I did what needed to be done. Would have ended things—right there and then—if the damned bitch hadn’t screamed so fucking loud.” A glint seemed to stir in his black eyes, as he cocked his head. “I just hate leaving a mess behind.” That painful grin now stretched, coldly, across his face. Put off by his patient’s cavalier attitude, Joseph, rubbing his arms with his crossed hands, admonished, “Is that so? Well, it appears you have no idea what a favor she did for you—the both of you. If things hadn’t worked out the way they did, you would be in jail right now, not in here. If you ask me, the chances of getting out of here are far, far better. That won’t happen, however, if you don’t get better.” “I didn’t ask…Doc.” Dante’s smile had disappeared. “We need to be out of here, now. I can’t be who I am supposed to be locked up in here with your useless doctors and useless talk that change absolutely…fucking…nothing!” The hollowness of his eyes had returned. “And what is it, exactly, that you are supposed to be?” Dante jutted his chin outward toward Joseph. “Check your papers. I’m not repeating myself, man. You are wasting…my…time.” “Humor me,” Joseph challenged, digging his heels into the floor. “A brujo, man. I’m a brujo,” Dante bragged, extending his arms outward, “a witch of the likes you’ve never seen.” “And she’s…” “Mine.” Joseph walked toward Dante, stopping a few feet from the mattress’ edge, squatting down, and resting his arms on his knees. “So,” he started, “we’re back talking about this?” Nodding, he brought his fingers up to his chin and gave it a rub. “I must admit, I didn’t see that one coming.” “Well, you know,” Dante leaned inward as if to say something in confidence, “I hear that, after so many years, you people—therapists and the like—start to lose your touch. You know… apathy…fatigue…bitterness. That final realization that no one cares that you are a martyr because no one fucking asked you to be in the first place.” Dante tilted his head to the left, bringing his right index finger upward, pressing it into his cheek, adopting a pensive yet mocking expression. “I believe they call it ‘provider decay.’” Straightening his head and leaning further forward, he warned, “No coming back from that, I am afraid. Guess your kudos will have to wait for the afterlife.” Dante slinked backward toward the wall, not releasing his gaze from Joseph’s, the tip of his tongue clamped between his front teeth. “Really now?” “Yes, asshole. Crack a fucking book.” Joseph’s eyes scanned Dante’s form, noticing a rigidness had set in that was not there before, as if he were ready to pounce at any moment. He chuckled, “You know, I do remember you talking about your being a witch, Dante. You have talked about a lot of things since you have been here but, frankly, not all of them have stuck.” He turned and walked toward the door, waiting for a response, but he got none. “But the subject has come up again, so let’s discuss. Shall we?” Turning around to face him, Joseph saw Dante lying flat on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “What does she have to do with it?” Dante turned his head toward Joseph and yawned, rolling his eyes. “Power, man. It’s all about power. Power to do what you want. Power to get what you need…Power to break out of the fucked-up script that was written for each of us by a fucked-up God that has no alternate ending.” Dante licked his lips, raising himself on his elbows. “I make her happy…she makes me happy: that’s the deal.” He lowered himself, again, resuming his vigil of 12x12 inch ceiling tiles—a tear rolling down his left temple. “Alright. I can understand how being here for so long can make you feel like you are powerless. I get it, but you have more control than you think or even know. Not the kind, however, that you have been exerting as of late, tonight. That tack will just result in you being here—in a room like this one—having discussions you don’t want to have like this one with me.” Joseph moved toward the door, then leaned back against it. “I do need you to remember, though, that all of us are here to help you, regardless of what you feel, see, hear…or think about the efficacy of the treatment you receive here.” “I need to get out of here! None of you can do shit for me!” “And I’m telling you that you can’t look down your nose at the treatment you receive here if you cheek most of the meds we give you and hide them in your shoes.” Dante glared at him, hostilely, with a clenching in his jaw that transformed, slowly, into a knowing glance, which Joseph returned. “So, I have asked you this before and you never really given me a clear answer: Why don’t you use these powers you say you have to get out of here? I assume your demon has them as well, or you get them from her. Why doesn’t she set you free?” The squeaking of metal wheels reached Joseph’s ears again, disturbing the tension in the air that had filled the room. A cold silence fell. “We are not here to dance for you. You are nobody to challenge us like that. I will leave here when the time is right, and she will pave the way; I just have to bide my time, that’s all. But, when the time comes, it won’t be nice, and it won’t be tidy like you all want…You’ll see.” “You keep saying ‘she.’ Does this ‘she’ have a name? Surely, you have to call her something.” “Nothing you need to know,” Dante countered, fingering a rough patch of paint on the plastered wall. After a few seconds, he turned to face Joseph with a look of resolve on his face. “but I will tell you.” “That’s very forthcoming of you, Dante, and a bit curious. Why now after all this time?” Dante, starting to grin, revealed, “Because she will be leaving soon.” “And you with her, I assume.” Dante sat up on the mattress, staring at his feet that were rolling inward and outward. “No, no…I’m needed here…for a little while longer at least…Things are just starting to get…interesting.” “Seems curious that this demon of yours would just up and leave you just like that. That’s strange, no? I mean, you make your relationship with her sound so…intimate.” Pulling his attention away from his feet, Dante turned to face Joseph. “I’m not going to be alone, Doc,” he stated, shaking his head. “No…no.” Dante turned back to his feet, nodding and biting his lower lip. “Nope. Don’t you worry…about that.” A sense of discomfort sunk into Joseph’s stomach, hearing those words come from Dante’s mouth. While there was very little that was appropriate in what Dante had to say up to that point, there had been few times with Dante—or any other patient, really—where he had sensed a threat to his own safety. Yes, he had been verbally and physically threatened before, but this was the first time he had ever entertained the idea—even though for just a split second—that he might not be able to handle it. “And her name?” “Six.” “Six? Six. That is a very unusual name. Thanks for sharing that with me. We both know you didn’t have to…So, Six is going and something else will be taking her place?” Shaking his head, Dante answered, “No. She is just stepping back for a while.” “What for?” Joseph asked. “Someone has business here and they are eager to be done with it.” Dante pulled his head to the left, peering over his shoulder, seeming lost in thought. “He’s been a long time coming, actually, from what I hear…Elusive like quicksilver,” Dante raised his palms up into the air and wiggled his fingers, “through your fingers…Tricky. Tricky. Trick. Trick. Trick. Trick. Trick.” Unsure of what he had just witnessed, Joseph squinted as if that action alone would clear his mind of the motley questions flying around in the dark. “So, it’s a ‘he’ then. At least we know that…What is he called?” he asked, stoically. Dante just laughed, rolling his eyes back in delight. “Why don’t you tell me, Doc?” Joseph crossed his arms, legs slightly apart and firmly planted, letting out a small chuckle. “There is nothing to tell, sir. There are no demons, Dante. No witches. No conspiracies. Certainly, no games. Not in this mind.” Dante sat, erectly, then swung his legs around over the edge of the mattress and faced Joseph. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself unable to form words. He felt the icy trailing of what felt like razor blades sliding up both sides of his back, then crawling over his shoulders, stopping at his chest, where stabbing sensations dug their way into his skin. Despite the frigid grasp that had taken over him, he felt an intense heat at the back of his neck, as he heard a voice whispering into his ear from behind. He smelled a stink of death and rotting meat that seemed to cut its way through the room like a hot blade. Dante’s eyes seized with terror but found the will to cast them Joseph’s way in a silent plea; his voice still failing him. “Dante? You okay?” Joseph asked, moving closer. “What’s happening? Talk to me.” Dante, staring wide-eyed, slowly turned, again, to his left but never lost sight of Joseph. He began to nod, mustering up a “Yes” just under his breath, then nothing else. Dante remained silent, never pulling his eyes from Joseph; however, his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. For a few minutes more, the two occupied the vacuum in the room, until… “Well, it looks like you are done talking, Dante, so we will wrap this up for now.” Joseph slowly stepped backward toward the door. “I’ll talk to the doctor about your shot. I don’t think chemical restraint is what you need right now, but you do need an emergency dose of your scheduled antipsychotic; it’s what you normally take by mouth, so don’t worry about that. Okay?” Just as Joseph turned to go for the door handle, he saw Dante sneeze. “Bless you,” he said. Dante closed his eyes, which were tearing now. “Can’t you hear him whispering?” he asked. “He’s behind me, just whispering…whispering, whispering, whispering, whispering, whispering.” Intermittently, his eyes would veer off to the left—a smile starting to slowly creep across his cheeks. Intrigued, Joseph pulled his hand away from the door handle, then brushed his right index finger across his nostrils to address a nagging itch. “Excuse me?” he questioned. The smile continued to grow. “No, Dante. Like I said before, I don’t hear anything. You are hearing these whispers, now?” Joseph inquired but with no response, as Dante turned, again, to his left and began to nod. “Alright then. I am going to leave now. The nurses will be here in a second with your injection. Just take it and don’t fight them, okay? We will talk more later today.” Joseph grabbed the door handle and gave the window three taps with the knuckle of his right index finger, nodding to A.J. to open the door, so he could leave. “Before I can tell you what he said?” Dante suddenly teased. “What fun is that? We need to make sure your trip down here was worth your while. Come,” he insisted, extending his left arm, rapidly curling his fingers inward. “Surely, you have time to humor a patient, just this once.” Motioning to A.J. to hold off on opening the door, Joseph stepped forward. The air seemed to disappear, as the leering figure before him continued to beckon and smile. “I really think we are done here, Dante. We’ll talk later.” “No!” Dante bellowed. “Time for you to listen,” he managed to say calmly, recomposing himself. “Just for a bit. Then, you can go.” He motioned, again, for Joseph to come closer. “I’m fine here, actually,” Joseph assured. “So…talk.” “Not one for foreplay, are you?” Dante reproached, goadingly clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “All work and no play…Fine. Have it your way.” “And?” “Well, for starters, it is quite disappointing to see how you’ve ended up,” Dante declared, looking Joseph up and down. “So much promise, such a fine mind, and all those…gifts: all wasted in a place like this, day in, day out. I mean, you’re at what, twelve…fourteen hours a day? Here? What are you avoiding, Joseph? What are you running from?” Dante began to laugh a laugh that was distinctively different than before—one that was much deeper, more spiteful. “Such the hypocrite. I mean, really, Doctor…heal thyself.” Exasperated, hands on his hips, Joseph shook his head. “I think that’s enough, Dante. Verbal abuse is not on the menu tonight, especially from someone who can’t seem to remember their toileting skills.” Too far. Recollecting himself, Joseph knew he had overstepped a boundary. Dante laughed even harder than before. “Now, now…professionalism feeling a little tight in the crotch, is it? No matter. It’s doing me a world of good to finally see a crack in that austere veneer of yours. There’s always a chink in the armor. Isn’t there?” The two stared at each other, motionless and silent. “Shame on me. I’m losing sight of why we’re here…What happened to you? The world was yours for the taking and this is the path you choose?” “I have no complaints.” “Having no complaints and not complaining are two very different things, Joseph. So, so sad to see how you have given up.” “Hardly. I am doing exactly what I want to do and helping those who want it in the process. I am sure that is within your capacity to understand, despite whatever this is that you are doling out right now. So, if there is nothing else…” Joseph turned to leave. “Dante raised his left index finger, “Oh! Just one thing…Mom sends her best.” Dante’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Does she now?” Joseph challenged, using all his effort to maintain a cool exterior. “Oh…have I offended?” Dante sarcastically inquired. “An even sadder case, if you ask me.” “No one did.” The grin continued. “Poor thing. Ignored by her parents. Abandoned by her father. Saddled with raising a sad nothing like you. Her youth, stripped away by one cruel twist of fate after another. Well, no matter…we have our own plans for her.” The dull ache in the pit of Joseph’s stomach turned into a stab, shaking his resolve to the point of making his legs start to tremble. It had been less than a month since he had gone to South Texas for his mother’s funeral, and the void he felt—inside and out—had been more than he ever thought he would ever have to deal with. Homing in on Dante’s repugnant smile, he said, “And this is supposed to be frightening, I suppose? Eh, Dante? Cause this scene, here. It’s been done before and much better. Trust me, knowing about her death is hardly something to be impressed by; I was gone for almost a week, which the entire unit was aware of. So, you will pardon me if I am not laid to waste by this sad attempt to reduce me to jelly. Now, as I said, I am going.” Dante, looking down at his chest, felt the piercing fire of black claws sinking into his pectorals, as large, black, leathery hands tightened their grip. Letting out a gasp, he raised his eyes toward the ceiling, noticing a dark form rise from behind him in his peripheral vision. Staring him down with eyes even blacker and colder than his, the large figure towered over him, smiled, and then began to growl through bloody, yellow teeth, as its attentions were slowly pulled across the room to Joseph. Knocking once more on the observation window, Joseph signaled to A.J. that he was ready to leave. A key from the outside unsecured the lock with Joseph beginning to step through as the door opened—a familiar chill clawed at his back, trying to pull him back in. Turning around, he saw Dante with that agitating grin. “‘Til we meet, again…sweet meat.” Shaking his head, Joseph turned back around and walked out, just as he heard another sneeze from behind. Hesitating, a “Bless you!” escaped his lips. He heard soft sobbing in the background. “Joseph.” Outside the door, hand on the external lever, Joseph looked in. “Yes. What is it?” “That wasn’t me.” Dante’s smile was gone, replaced by a look of shame and disbelief in his eyes. Tears began to well and stream down his cheeks, as he shook his head. “It wasn’t me.” Joseph stared at the man crumpled on the mattress and closed the door, pulling at the door handle to make sure it was secure after he heard the lock catch. He walked down the corridor, which was dark save the dim glow of overhead fluorescents; the sound of his hard leather soles sounding down the recently mopped floor, reverberating off the unit’s pale grey walls. The heaviness in his stomach lingered, as the sound of Dante’s sobbing grew more and more faint as he got closer to the nurses’ station. Looking for a nurse to leave a message for the doctor, he found no one. Rounding the corner, he made his way to the medication window, which was closed. Pulling out his mobile phone, he texted a message to Dr. Sullivan, supporting the recommendation for the administration of emergency medications for Dante, suggesting continued one-to-one observation at least until the treatment team could meet later that afternoon. The time on the wall clock registered 5:06 AM and the unit rang silent save the occasional stirring of patients in their rooms. He continued down the corridor, flanked by a symmetry of numbered doors that disappeared into his periphery; the clacking of his soles seemed to fade as the sound of humming perverted the air’s stillness—a humming from isolation room #2. Entering the men’s room at the end of the corridor to the right of the elevator, he approached a line of five white, porcelain sinks under a large expanse of mirrored plexiglass. Stopping at the middle one, he rested his clipboard on the sink to his right, then turned on the faucet before him, throwing cold water upon his face to jolt himself out of the dizziness that was starting to overcome him from a lack of sleep and hunger. Heal thyself. The water was invigorating on his skin, taking a portion of his breath away with every splash. Grasping a greedy clutch of brown paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, he buried his face deep within his palms, absorbing the moisture that stung his bloodshot eyes and nostrils, holding his head still for a moment. Pulling his face away, he crumpled the damp mass in his hand and tossed it in the dispenser’s depository. Leaning forward with his hands on the sink, he stared into the makeshift mirror to center his thoughts and ground his body. His reflection revealed a tired man who, tonight, looked older than he was with an emptiness in his eyes that he had put great effort into in the past to avoid encountering again. So much promise wasted in places like this...What happened to you? He was snapped out of his reverie as the fluorescents overhead flickered, casting glares on the plexiglass that seemed to make his reflection look hepatic, distorted, almost alien. With a long exhale, he released the lip of the sink and turned to leave, his reflection seeming to linger a split second longer than it should to watch him walk away. Exiting the elevator on the fifth floor, Joseph walked down a corridor of treatment rooms, then toward his office in a separate suite that was separated from the rest of the unit by magnetic doors. Before he could grab his access card to swipe the door open, the squeaking of metal wheels made their way closer and closer, creeping up behind him. Turning, he saw an older woman, probably in her sixties, dressed in an unshapely beige custodian’s uniform. Her hair was long and grey hair, pulled back into a bun. Her face was plump—but haggard-looking—with a single, remarkable feature—two sunken eyelids, where her left eye used to be. “Long night?” she questioned with a slight but noticeable Spanish accent, as she drew closer, the rhythmic squeaks of her mop bucket punctuating the silence in the corridor. “You could say that,” Joseph answered, managing to muster up something that looked like a smile. “I haven’t seen you before. Joseph de los Santos,” he said, extending his right hand, “…and you are?” “Luz,” she responded, giving his hand a firm shake. “And, yes, I just started a couple of weeks ago.” She rested the handle of her mop, which also functioned like a steering wheel, against the wall. “Strange night, no? Not right at all. On the units, I mean…Oh, I’m sorry! You have to be here so late…or is it early?” She looked up at Joseph, as she was considerably shorter than him (at least by a foot and a half). “Both, actually. A long night has turned into an early start. Goes with the territory, I am sad to say.” She stepped closer toward him with the muffled, familiar sound of glass beads and metal—chains and charms—clicking against each other beneath her uniform. “I tried to clean your office, but my master key doesn’t work on your door,” she curiously stated, sounding more like she had asked a question. “No. I supposed it doesn’t,” Joseph confirmed. “Lots of confidential papers on my desk. You know…Everywhere, really. It can be quite a mess in there, actually. Better that I tidy up myself.” “Of course.” Luz grabbed the mop handle. “I am here if you decide otherwise. People need people, especially when things get really…messy. But you can handle your business. I’ll bet you can do whatever you set your mind to. Surprise yourself sometimes, too, no?” She smiled at Joseph and shuffled her way back down the hall. Turning around, she ended, “Don’t let tonight shake you. You are a smart man. You know what to do. I’ll be around, though…if you need a hand,” then disappeared into a treatment room. Joseph looked musingly down the hall, taken aback by such a new and unusual face. Using his access card, he entered the office suite and made his way to his office, which was as dark as pitch save the desk lamp he always kept on. Closing the door, he took off his lab coat and hung it on a hook that was fastened to its back, then unbuttoned the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt, rolling them up to his elbows, exposing curious glyph-like tattoos of varying sizes on the undersides of his forearms. Locking the door and leaving the lights off, he headed toward his left next to a bookcase that was overly stuffed with diagnostic manuals and old textbooks from his university days. Just past it, he paused at a large, wooden door with a crucifix above its frame. He reached into his right trouser pocket and pulled out a key, then, clutching the doorknob, took a deep breath and unlocked it. Sweet meat…sweet meat… sweet meat. Finding himself dwelling on why those words seemed to affect him so, he shook his head, as if to shake off a bad dream, and entered the room. He was surrounded by a cool darkness and echoes of lavender and smoke. Feeling the door at his back, he leaned into it, letting out a deep exhale through his knows. Worry settled on his brow, as he felt the hint of tears wanting to well up in his eyes. He brought up his right index finger and his thumb up beneath his glasses and rubbed his eyes, restraining the jumble of emotions that he could feel expanding within his chest. Fumbling forward in the dark, the smell of candle wax and cold wicks teased his nostrils. Reaching back into his right pant pocket, he withdrew a white disposable lighter and lit a flame, casting a dim, warm glow upon the walls of the room. Against the wall across from him was an old wooden table, draped with a black linen cloth that was topped with a censer with a new charcoal block, scattered bits of charred herbs, and a visibly used black candle with hardened drips of wax that was positioned on the tabletop’s center. Quickly, he lit the wick before the lighter’s metal guard got too hot. Grabbing a corked bottle, a vial, and a shallow dish from a cabinet underneath the table that was hidden by a flap of the black cloth, his lips began to move. He placed the items on the table, then used the back of his right hand to wipe sweat from his now furrowed brow. Uncorking the bottle, he tipped it over the dish, tapping clumps of powdered eggshell onto it. He opened the vial, emptying a dram of holy water on top of it, then used his right index finger to swirl the mixture into a thick paste. Around the candle, he drew motley glyph-like symbols in a spiral fashion with the white compound, his moving lips now producing soft murmurs. He thought about how much he regretted taking call that night and everything he saw and heard in the unit (the isolation room…and the men’s room). He thought about all the years, wasted, that he had to pretend to be blind and deaf to the ‘other’ world around him: all for the sake of not attracting attention, for staying safe. Instinctively, he quickly gave thanks to his spirits for the privacy of his alter room and the spell that shielded it (and him) from prying eyes—human or otherwise. If one knows your name, they all do, his mother used to say. They are not a threat if they think you don’t believe. He thought of the burden the legacy of brujería and kitchen witchery his mother (and her kind) left behind and all it had taken from him. He thought of his own weakness in dropping his guard, which ultimately betrayed him. That wasn’t me…It wasn’t me. Joseph grasped the knife handle with his right hand, flipped open the sheath’s snap, and used his thumb to push the leather covering off, revealing the gleam of silver peeking through the murk. Holding up the blade high, as if making a command to the heavens, Joseph extended his left arm before him with his palm facing upward. His mumblings (now audible) charged the room: Black to black, a devil I attack!...Black to black, a devil I attack!...Black to black, a devil I attack! With immovable intention, he brought the knife’s edge down with a slice (not too deep nor too shallow) letting trickles of hot, red blood splash and drip down the candle’s black, waxy surface. Continuing to chant (now in a whisper), Joseph’s awareness—and acceptance—that his masquerade was over grew along with the burning in his palm. His mother’s fight was now his own; he only hoped that he would fare better in the end. Black to black, a devil I attack…Black to black, a devil I attack…Black to black, a devil I attack.  David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications like The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, DREICH, Somos en escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and Drunk Monkeys. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House (2022, little punctures (2023), and Blind Turns in the Kitchen Sink (scheduled for late 2023). David has also written six poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, Golden Calves, Sour Grapes, Blue, and Brujeria (coming soon). Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com.
 “Lechuza” by Carmen Baca I took my usual route home. Or started to, anyway. The blowout changed everything. My car slid on the snow-packed road until the bar ditch swallowed the right front tire. The car tilted and hit bottom. The motor died, taking the warmth from the heater with it. I turned the key, but the car was deader than dead. I reached for my phone, cursing myself when I remembered it was still on the charger at my folks’ house. I looked out at the slush turning to ice. I’d left before dusk, but the overcast skies made the sun vanish over the mountains quicker than usual. I had to walk or freeze. Maybe a car might come by, who knew? Granted, I was on a dirt road in a rural area, but people lived in small communities up ahead. I put my parka and gloves on, grabbed my flashlight, and exited through the passenger door since it was closest to the ground. I took a big breath and set off. I didn’t know how long it was before I noticed crunching behind me. I turned in a circle with the light sticking straight out. There was no one, not even the otherworldly glow of animal eyes. I listened for a bit and then kept going. Four-footed creatures didn’t concern me much; I’d had my share of encounters with deer, elk, even bobcats a couple of times. But I also watched true crime. Those are some of my favorite podcasts, too, so my traitorous brain turned to serial killer or rogue murderer. Meeting either one out here would end with me dead. The steps had stopped when I slowed anyway, so I kept walking—what choice did I have? The road was in the middle of a llano—a plain with few bushes and piñon trees not big enough to offer a hiding place. I walked faster, searching for something I could use as a weapon. The crunching started up again. The steps matched mine in speed but sounded uneven. My imagination took another unwelcome detour to the shuffling walk of Frankenstein’s monster. Houses up ahead gave me hope. Some were abandoned, but several had cars and trucks in front. The nearest one had lights on. I covered the next stretch of road at a jog, acutely aware the steps behind me quickened, too. When I got winded, I stopped and turned around fast, ready to face whoever followed. A pair of shiny eyes made me take a deep breath to yell. And then I exhaled in relief. It was an owl. It was still a ways behind me, but I could see the dark silhouette shuffling nearer. The shape was unmistakable. “Oh, hey, why didn’t you call out?” I laughed to stave off the hysteria which had been building up ready to explode. I took a few steps toward it. It stepped back. “I’m going over there, wanna come?” I pointed to the house just as whoever was inside turned out the lights. I could see the progression through windows from one room to the next as each went dark. “Oops, not that one.” I took off again, spotting another house with a light. The owl’s steps joined mine. I sped up. It was a bird, and I no longer felt real danger like I had for a panicked moment. But my thoughts started their winding journey through my mind again, and the apprehension remained. Why would an owl follow me? I remembered my grandmother, a Sioux, believed the owl was a messenger for evil creatures, though I forgot the name. It was a legend though, wasn’t it? Yeah, my dark mind supplied, but don’t some legends come from truth? Either way, an owl followed me on a deserted road, something I didn’t think was normal unless it wasn’t an owl. Really? You would think about that now. It’s just a curious bird, geez. I talked myself down from another panic and kept an eye on the road. That was when I noticed the light had gone out at the house I’d been walking to as if fate didn’t want me to reach help. “What the—,” I blurted. “They barely went to bed. They can’t fall asleep that fast.” I took those final steps to the entry. I banged on the wrought iron screen door, the reverberation making a racket I was sure the nearest neighbors, not just the resident, would hear. I rang the doorbell a few times, but no one came. I shouted a couple of times, too. Not a peep. “What now?” I couldn’t camp out on the threshold. I’d freeze by morning, and the homeowner would find me a corpse on his doorstep. If the owl turned into something else that attacked me, I’d damn well fight back. I knew enough to leave evidence like scratches on attackers. It would wear my bite marks, too, pájaro o no. I started off again, searching some more for something I could use to defend myself if I had to. My pal still traveled behind me, keeping the same distance. I wondered why it didn’t fly. I was more concerned about the question, is it just an owl? repeating in my head. I never did find a weapon, not even a stick. I hadn’t thought to look for a rake or something back at that house. I climbed a small rise, and on the other side was the village of Los Tecolotes, The Owls, since it boasted a healthy population of them. “Is that where you live?” I threw over my shoulder at my companion, keeping my eyes on the cluster of houses and hoping to see lights. Granted, more owls than people probably claimed this place as their home. I quickened my speed. I walked so fast I got shin splints and limped along for a while, just like in nightmares where I ran in slow motion from danger and snapped awake when I was about to get caught. That’s how it felt. My flashlight dimmed. I gave it a whack, and it brightened. “That’s all I need,” I muttered. The moonless night wasn’t as dark as it would be with no snow, but if I didn’t stay on the road, I knew I would jeopardize my already concerning situation. The light finally gave out after a while. “Whadda say?” I yelled to the owl. “Can we go to your place?” I turned to look back at the bird without stopping. The image of me cuddled with an owl somewhere was so absurd I burst into laughter. After a while, I snorted when I couldn’t catch my breath and made myself laugh harder. I don’t know when it turned to hysteria and sobs, but it did, and I stopped. Stood there with tears running down my cheeks until I yelled at myself again. Covered my freezing face with my gloved hands and made myself quit. I glanced at the tecolote, wondered what it must think of me—a madman who talked to himself. I shouted, “C’mon then. Keep moving.” I repeated the last phrase in a mantra with each step. After a while, I glanced up again. A house on my left made me blink. A light went on, propelling me forward. The bar ditch conspired against me again. I stepped right into it and fell face-first. The sharp pain in my left wrist from landing on my palms made me groan out loud. “Dammit.” Probably just a sprain, I didn’t know, but I cursed myself for not having looked first before taking that step. I got to my feet, cradling my wrist. The light went out. I took care as I approached. In the pitch black of the porch, I felt my way along the wall of the adobe house until I found the door. “Help!” I called, pounding on it. Surely, whoever shut off the light hadn’t gone to sleep that fast. I yelled loud enough to wake the dead. The thought made me laugh again, and as I slid with my back down the wall, once more my laughing became hysteria. The owl was gone. Before I could think about its absence, the click of the lock made me rise so fast I saw stars and wobbled like a drunk. The night’s vibes, the owl, and now—these weird clicks and menacing hisses coming from inside—gave off “get out of here fast” warnings. I took off again and ran until I couldn’t, and then I fast-walked and jogged and ran some more. Nothing followed that I could see. Other than my noisy footsteps and my heavy breathing, quiet ruled the frosty winter night. Numb with cold and spent, I would have probably found a place where I could hide and try my chances at surviving until morning if I hadn’t seen approaching headlights. The attack came from behind. A weight landed on my back and shoved me forward. I would’ve fallen but for something clamping my shoulders. When the pressure turned to pain, I reached up and back, my fingers sinking into something soft as sharp claws fought for better purchase. With a pop, what felt like blades penetrated my down-filled jacket, clothes, and my skin. I screamed then. My feet left the ground, and I rose about a yard. The headlights swept over the rise of the road at that moment. The driver must’ve slammed on the brakes because the car fishtailed and careened straight for me. I kicked my feet and punched at the creature’s torso and claws, right, left, right, left. It tightened its grip when my legs crashed onto the windshield and then let go. The car stopped when it hit a mound of snow, and I slid down the hood like a chunk of melting ice. I hit the road feet first and leaned over the car for balance. “Oh, hell! I hit you! Did you break anything? Are you hurt? Answer me, dammit!” I heard all this as my friend Tony got out of the car. “Behind you!” I pointed at a huge owl about seven feet tall—I could see it now—big and black in the taillights—as it took a step forward with wings outspread. Tony turned and bent over almost in one movement. Then he stood up, holding a chunk of snow-packed ice, and threw it at the beast. The direct hit to the head resounded with a crack before the owl screeched loud enough to hurt my ears. It advanced and then rose into the air, whooshing over our heads, and disappeared. Tony slid right past me on the icy road. I heard his “What the hell was thaaaat” as he passed. “Get back over here,” I yelled, watching him stop a few feet away. He returned in short, sliding steps. I stood, holding onto the hood with one hand and reaching out for him with the other. When he clutched my glove, I felt Tony’s tremors like they were my own. The night had gotten downright terrifying. “I hit it. Did you see? I got it.” “I did,” I replied. “But did you kill it or only wound it? And will it be back?” Tony looked at me with a face so filled with horror I got the chills. I had never felt such fear even when the bird had me in the air. My thought at that moment had been escape. My body had felt nothing but the pain and my response to danger: fight for my life. If we weren’t still filled with terror, we would’ve laughed at ourselves slipping and sliding, arms windmilling, short gasps and yells as we struggled to reach the car doors. I couldn’t dispel the feeling that every second we moved toward safety wouldn’t be fast enough. The owl would catch one of us this time for sure. But we got inside. I said a silent prayer of thanks when the engine turned over and heat blasted on high from the vents. “What the hell, Marty!” “I know, I know,” I said through chattering teeth. “Get us out of here.” “I’m trying, I’m trying.” Tony’s shaking made his foot fall from the clutch twice before he got the car moving. After a while, he found space to make a careful U, and we headed back to town. “Your mom called me around eleven. You never called her when you got home, and she was worried. She called your phone, and it rang in her kitchen. What happened? Where did you come across that thing? It was a lechuza, wasn’t it?” “I—I guess. Perfect timing, dude, thanks.” “What’re superheroes for? Mickey to the rescue.” He opened his coat and in the light of the dash, I saw his Mickey Mouse PJs. I chuckled despite the close call of a few minutes before. My shivers subsided as I told Tony about my night up until he found me. “If you hadn’t come by when you did…” I couldn’t finish with the mental pictures of my being eaten alive by the raptor. “Damn.” Tony shook his head. “At first, I didn’t see any bird. I just saw you rising into the air like you’d grown wings, and then you slammed into my car. When you yelled at me to watch it, I saw the lechuza. And then I just reacted.” “I’m glad you did, look,” I pulled at my jacket, showing him the rips in my shoulders. “Son of a—!” “Yeah,” I interrupted. “I woulda been a goner for sure.” Tony changed the subject, asking, “Where’s your car?” “I don’t know exactly. It’s halfway in a ditch. Can you take me to get it tomorrow? I want to find that house again, too.” When Tony gasped, I explained, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what we’ll find there? As far as I know from the legend, the lechuza is a witch who turns into an owl. Maybe that was her following me all along, or maybe she was hiding inside. Somebody turned a light on to get me there. I wonder if I was supposed to be supper.” I shivered again. “I want to see her in human form. Meeting a real live lechuza—no one’s ever done that and lived.” Tony threw a look at me, a mix of disbelief and dread. “Did you just hear yourself? Either way, if she was your owl escort or if she was at the house, she’ll know who you are. She’s gonna want to get rid of witnesses. Hell, if she recognizes me, I’m a goner, too.” “But it’ll be two against one.” “Well, yeah—two against a monster bird with razors for talons and a carving knife for a beak.” Tony got me home safe and somewhat sound. When I opened my door, he reached over and plucked something from my hair. “A black feather,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “There’s more,” he nodded, pointing to my clothes. We made plans to go for my car around ten, hoping the sun might melt some of the ice by then. I silently thanked my old-fashioned landlord for leaving a phone line and called my mother. I retold my story, omitting the sensational details and assuring her I was fine. I tended to my wounds which were less serious than they felt, threw myself into bed, and fell into an exhausted sleep. In the morning after we pulled my car from the ditch and changed the tire, I made a mental note to equip my trunk with survival gear. Lesson learned. We got back on the road, and I kept an eye out for anything familiar to show me that spooky casa. I drove until a small adobe house came into my line of sight. Two state police, a coroner’s van, and the sheriff’s cruiser were parked helter-skelter in front. I slowed to a crawl, Tony right on my tail. It was definitely the house. A deputy waved at me to keep moving, so I did. Tony followed. “Was that it?” He asked from his car as he rolled by my apartment. “What d’you think that was about?” “Yeah. Nothing good,” I answered. Three days later we found out. The resident had been discovered frozen just outside her front door. Evidence pointed to foul play. Shoe prints in the snow, feathers strewn around the body, and a deep gouge in her head might’ve revealed the identity of the killer, but the person who discovered the body confessed he’d stepped into the mess to check on the woman’s condition. Too bad for law enforcement. They tried to shut down any gossip of her having been a lechuza, but the believers kept the conjecture alive. Equally bad was the feather incident in the laboratory when the evidence bag was unsealed. It was empty. Tony and I breathed easy when we heard. We agreed never to tell anyone the señora had indeed been a lechuza. No one would believe we killed a shapeshifter in self-defense, not when so few thought such anomalies exist at all. Instead, we’d be found guilty of her murder. After that night, I didn’t doubt others outright when they shared their incredible stories of strange sightings. Neither Tony nor I had believed lechuza was real until the night we faced her down. I didn’t like to think why she’d gone after me, I just figured she’d thought I’d been convenient prey. Good thing I wasn’t an easy victim, thanks to Tony’s timely rescue. We counted ourselves lucky to have escaped. The price for our silence we paid for with our internal and lifelong struggle with guilt. But we never jeopardized our freedom for a truth we could never prove. We made a vow the night we burned the feathers.  Carmen Baca taught high school and college English for thirty-six years before retiring in 2014. Her debut novel El Hermano, published in April 2017, was a 2018 finalist in the NM-AZ book awards program. Her third book, Cuentos del Cañón, received first place for short story fiction anthology in 2020 from the same program. To date, she has published five books and close to fifty short works in online literary magazines and anthologies. Her goal to make her mark on New Mexico literature comes from her desire to pass on elements of her Hispano culture which have disappeared almost entirely since she was a child. She believes we should embrace our culture, cherish our roots, and remember our elders to prevent losing important facets of our identities as Hispano people
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Somos En Escrito: The Latino Literary Online Magazine
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is published by the Somos En Escrito Literary Foundation,
a 501 (c) (3) non-profit, tax-exempt corporation. EIN 81-3162209
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