Rough Hands: A Different Perspective

Many of you called for MORE after reading my recent short story, “Rough Hands.” (See HERE.) This is just a tease, but hey, why not get a glance into the mind of our human character, Damian Keller? Enjoy this tiny addendum.

Rough Hands: A Different Perspective

Standing so close to her in the elevator, he smelled her perfume—spicy, like cinnamon and autumn in London. Her dark eyes shook as she looked up at him. She didn’t want to be kissed; he kissed her anyway. He felt her hesitation—her lips limp like cold, raw meat. Then, her lips tightened, willing him to pull away, leave her be.

When she moaned, he was surprised. He thought she might hurt him, shove him away, under the duress of his sexual attack. Instead, she made a noise like a wild beast, and her hands latched onto the back of his head. Her mouth opened; her tongue touched his. He was shocked by her hunger, and in response, his hands found her ribs, her hips, and finally, her thighs. He lifted her, pressed her against the wall. He pushed his pelvis against her, and his violent lust would have hurt a normal woman. But Helena was not a normal woman; she was immortal. Part of what he loved about her kind: their strength and the way, for once in his life, he felt weak in someone’s embrace.

Her fingers pulled hard on his hair, and he remembered the look on her face the night before when he caught her touching him in his office. She was so embarrassed, she ran from the room. He terrified her, he knew, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps that was part of his game, part of the reason he trapped her in an elevator. He had to know: why would a vampire be scared of a human?

She took charge and shoved him away. He watched her land like a cat on the elevator floor, and her iron-like fists exploded against his chest. He fell against the opposite wall of the elevator, barely able to contain himself. He wanted to tear her clothes off, bang like mad on the elevator floor. He knew it was the danger he craved. He dated vampires because at any moment, he could end up dead, and in a life so filled with boredom, Damian found the threat intoxicating. He longed for it, so he wasn’t afraid when she pinned his wrists to the wall—wasn’t afraid when she kissed him and he felt her fangs clash against his front teeth.

Her kissing slowed. She still held him trapped, but he felt as though her mind wandered. He felt as though she traveled far from him, away from the elevator and their connected mouths. He wanted to speak to her, say her name and call her back, but then, she returned. She tore at his tie and popped a button on his dress shirt in an effort to press her mouth against his bare chest.

He’d been there before. He knew he would soon feel her teeth in his flesh, feel his own warm blood flowing into her cold mouth. He lived for the pain; he was willing to die for it. He touched her shoulders, pulling her closer, but then, she pulled away. She stepped away from him, out of breath, eyes wide.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

He watched her run fingers through her hair. She adjusted her dress and looked nowhere near him.

“Helena,” he said.

Then, the elevator moved, but Damian stood still. She left him there, alone, with a painful erection and an even worse feeling in his chest. Didn’t she understand? He just wanted to be one of them.

Read Full Post »

Saying No to Grad School

For the past few weeks, I’ve met with several of my amazing professors at Glendale Community College to discuss the prospect of me pursuing a Master’s degree at Arizona State. Although they’ve all been very helpful, they’ve been holding out on me; yesterday, I got the real deal, and I left campus, halfway between total panic, disillusionment, and tears.

The fact is I’ve been looking for some challenge in my life. I love writing novels and short stories; you know that. However, I usually feel as though I’m not doing “enough.” I’m not working toward the greater good.

I like to think that getting one of my novels published would change this feeling. For instance, one of my dear, dear friends just finished reading my recently completed novel rough draft, Damned if They Don’t. This dear friend is agnostic, and my novel made her say, “Maybe I could come to church with you some time just so I can understand what this God stuff is all about.” If that’s not working toward the greater good, I don’t know what is.

Despite this amazing conversation, I wanted more. I saw myself as a teacher someday, which is why I spoke to my professors about earning a Master’s degree. Until yesterday, I saw myself teaching at the college level. I saw myself inspiring youth to read, write, and use their words to exorcise emotional demons. All of this and more—until yesterday.

It’s no one’s fault, and I’m thankful the professors I met with yesterday said the precise things I needed to hear. For instance, “Teachers rarely have time to write.” Or, “I’ve given up on writing a novel.” Or finally, worst of all: “Don’t try to be a good teacher and a good writer.”

Certainly, I felt distraught yesterday. I feel distraught today, because I thought for sure I would be applying to ASU for my Master’s next year. I thought I would be a TA and then, a teacher. Now, I realize these were silly aspirations. Not silly because they were unrealistic; silly because I should have known—being a Master’s student, being a teacher, would ruin me as a writer.

It’s sad, tragic, to hear that teachers—highly talented professors—no longer write. It’s sad they no longer publish, because there just isn’t enough time to take care of personal projects when they have over a hundred students to deal with. However, my professors spoke the truth yesterday, no question. They were brutally honest with me. One teacher who I highly respect even said, “I worry about people like you becoming teachers. I worry you’ll stop writing, and writing is what you’re made to do.”

I’m saying no to graduate school. I’m saying no to becoming a college professor. I’m lost, for now, seeking a sign. However, the same friend who now wants to go to church with me said something interesting at our last happy hour. When I explained my frustrations over my current career situation, she said, “You’re in a waiting room, and a door will open soon.” Here’s hoping I step through.

Read Full Post »

Rough Hands (A Sexy Story About an Elevator)

She never looked at her reflection in elevator walls. She kept her eyes planted on the dark red carpet at her high-heeled feet for fear of realizing there was no reflection at all.

            The elevator stopped on the second floor of the vampire clinic, a medical space reserved in the Brooklyn borough for blood-suckers alone. The second floor was where they kept the plague patients, so Helena was not surprised to see his shiny shoes enter and face away from her.

            He said nothing, but she smelled his skin and felt the warmth of him, just like the first time they met, when she offered him a job and he whispered in her ear, “Are you to be my assistant, then?” She had avoided him ever since—at least in appearance.

            The elevator lurched to a stop, and Helena for once did look up in time to notice one of his manicured fingers on the red Emergency Stop button. She stood up straighter when he turned to face her, all black hair and burning blue eyes. Two steps later, he was inches from her face, both hands planted on the elevator walls at her sides.

            “What were you doing in my office last night?”

            She couldn’t—wouldn’t—touch him; anything to avoid feeling the warmth of a living man.

            “Styling my hair?” he asked.

            “It could use some gel.”

            He smiled at this but did not reveal the teeth she knew were straight and white. “How long have you been watching me?”

            Since you set foot in the clinic. Every day, she thought, via security cameras. Every night when you fall asleep at your desk or on some random couch. She said, “We’re never even in the same room.”

            “I caught you staring at me once in the emergency ward.”

            “It’s not every day we welcome a human into our midst. You looked odd surrounded by monsters who want to kill you.”

            “Is that what you want then?” He leaned in as if he might kiss her, but his parted lips merely brushed the side of her face. “Do you want to kill me, too?”

            Helena was lucky she did not have a heart that increased in pace. She did not have skin that blushed, so nothing could give her away, except perhaps the shortness of her breath. “I don’t want to kill you.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “Not until you find a cure for this damned disease that’s killing us.”

            He leaned back some, enabling her to see the way his blue eyes looked black beneath the overhead lights. “I suppose that’s all I’m good for. Once I’ve found the cure, I’m expendable.”

            “We didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

            She told the truth. Helena’s boss and maker, Vittorio, chose Englishman Damian Keller because of his Harvard degree and specialization in blood-based disease. She suspected Vittorio chose Damian for other reasons, as well. He was young—a science prodigy who, as a child, made grown men cower at his greatness. His face and hair were reminiscent of a Botticelli angel, and worst of all, he bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Elijah.

            “Why do you avoid me, Helena?” Again, he leaned toward her, this time pressing a kiss where her pale neck met collarbone.

            She closed her eyes, told herself to breathe, just breathe, which only made things worse when she smelled an earthy cologne mixed with the blood that pounded beneath his cheeks. “Why do you seek me out?”

            “I should think that would be obvious.”

            “Vittorio says you like vampire women. Have a fetish, do you? Or maybe a death wish.”

            “I’ve never been harmed by a vampire. Why should it happen now, in this elevator?”

            “Nothing is happening here in this elevator, Damian.” But as she said his name, she realized the word tasted sweet. She needed to get past him, get the elevator rolling again, but his arms kept her pinned. If she wanted him to move, she would have to touch him, and if she touched him …

            He touched her instead. She felt his hands on the sides of her ribcage, pulsing with heat. His warm forehead found hers. “I’m going to kiss you.”

            “You wouldn’t dare.”

            Breath escaped his lips in a chuckle, and she realized, with him standing so close, he very well could have been Elijah, born again into the body of this young doctor—ironic considering Elijah was nothing more than a farmhand outside London a century ago.

            He pressed his lips against her mouth. She wanted to bite his tender lower lip, just to get him to stop, but she feared the taste of his blood, having longed for it over the past three months. Helena had no choice but to accept his kiss, and as she opened her lips for him, he tasted like Elijah—black tea and smoke.

She tilted her head up and moaned. It was over a century since Helena felt a man’s touch, and here was a man whose body she could crush but who felt no fear in her presence. She could tell. Although his heart beat with the excitement of their embrace, Damian was not afraid. He trusted her, and she wondered if he was as naïve as other humans who dated vampires and ended up dead.

          His hands moved down her body, took hold of her thighs, and lifted her. The elevator wall was cold against her back, but her legs around Damian’s waist burned. She allowed herself to touch his black hair, messy like Elijah’s, but this was not like her intrusion from the night before. The night before, she found Damian sleeping and could not resist just a touch. Now, she took full advantage and dragged her fingers through thick black.

            In her mind, she smelled hay mixed with Damian’s blood. She closed her eyes and saw Elijah, shocked to find her, suspected dead, in the middle of his horse stable. She felt Elijah’s callused hands as he touched her face. He said he was married now. He said, Something is different about you.

            No longer afraid to touch the very living man who pressed her against the wall, she shoved him away and landed gracefully on her feet. She took hold of Damian’s wrists and captured him in a corner; then, she captured his mouth and stood on tip-toe until their teeth clashed.

            Elijah did not kiss her after her return from Venice. He kept saying he was married now, married to someone else. What happened to her in Venice? Who was the strange Italian man she traveled with? Yet the word stuck: married. Her love was married, so she killed him and left him in a bed of hay, covered in blood. The guilt set in later, which was why she punished herself, stayed alone for a hundred years.

            But she wasn’t alone. She was in a stopped elevator with a man she wanted to devour.

            He tried to free himself from her grasp. Surely, he wanted to hold her again, and she wanted his touch. She wanted his warmth. She wanted …

            She let go of his wrists and pulled the knot of his black tie. He stood watching, as if enamored by her black hair, violet eyes, and lips, dyed red from years of blood. She threw the tie to the ground and pulled open the top of his dress shirt, popping a button. When she leaned up to kiss his neck, her fangs distended. She would punish him—punish him for being married, for leaving her to be alone forever.

            Soft, smooth hands touched her bare shoulders and she realized she was not in an elevator with Elijah. Elijah’s hands were rough—farmer’s hands. Damian’s hands were soft, the hands of a scientist.

            Shocked at her own confusion, she fell backwards and caught herself on the elevator railing.

            “Where did you go?” Damian asked.

            Helena pushed the Emergency Stop button. The elevator moved, and she stepped off at the next floor.

            “Helena.”

            His voice made her glance back, and there he stood, Elijah, Damian, one and the same—a trap set by Vittorio, tired of her loneliness and hoping this young doctor could fill a space a hundred years old. She still tasted him on her lips as she walked, promising herself she would never again be alone with Damian Keller. Because the next time, he would end up dead.

Read Full Post »

Remembrance

She used to smoke cigarettes here, in high school, right after swim practice.

At her parents’ house, she kept her smokes in the back of her underwear drawer in a double Ziploc bag. The older kids told her cigarettes got stale, and since it took her a month to go through a pack, she did her best to keep the tobacco fresh—although she never noticed if they were fresh or stale; it was all the same to her, as inexperienced as she was.

After swim practice, she and Katie met at the corner of their suburban neighborhood. They snuck down the street toward the magical wall of green. They slipped past the gate, plastered with black and orange “No Trespassing” signs. Then, it took some work to get back to “The Hole,” what with all the vine overgrowth and thorns.

That’s what they called it, The Hole: a big old pond in the middle of a rich, suburb, hidden on all sides by trees, thorns, and barbed wire. It smelled like wet moss, and when it rained, there was a pile of old highway concrete where they hid. They crept back there to smoke when school was too rough, parents too annoying, or even the time they thought they were Wiccan for a second and tried working spells. The Hole was their haven, shared only with older kids and their alcohol and weed. Parents didn’t know about The Hole—would have ruined the allure.

Now, the girl is thirty, and she returns home to the news that The Hole is gone. Some contractor is trying to turn it into houses, but his plan isn’t going well. Of course not. Doesn’t he know the ground is saturated with the memories and broken hearts of hundreds of busted up kids? She stands on the edge. The trees are sheered, cut back to meager remembrances. The pond is drained. Papers she burned with the names of ex-boyfriends? Gone. Tears shed for her grandmother’s death? Dried up. Just like the pond. Just like The Hole.

She wonders where kids of the new generation go for escape. She hopes they’ve found an equivalent. She hopes they still sneak out to smoke cigarettes, no matter what the Surgeon General says. She hopes they still seek solace. Somewhere. Otherwise, she thinks, being a teenager would be too damn hard.

Read Full Post »

Joy and Fear

Family Fun World, c/o Joe Orman.

For the past three years, whenever we visit Jake’s family in Tucson, we drive past what appear to be pastel bird cages off the 1-10. For the past three years, I’ve said to myself, “I wonder what the heck is up with that” but done nothing. This year, on our trip down for Christmas, though, it came to my attention that my husband now owns a smart phone, and voila! Family Fun World.

Family Fun World was one man’s dream to bring an amusement park to Eloy, Arizona. Richard Songers was a construction worker with a dream—to open a park on the land he purchased outside of Eloy in 1995. Initial plans included a drive-in theater, wild animal zoo, race track, and concert venue. Songers apparently ran out of money before the park could open, and well, Family Fun World became a skeleton of unfulfilled dreams. Nothing remains, beyond these bird cages (originally part of a ride called “The Galaxy” from the Magic Mountain Amusement Park in California) and, from what I’ve read, a very angry guard dog.

A bird cage at Family Fun World, Eloy.

What became of Richard Songers? I guess he still lives near Eloy, since one Family Fun World visitor claims to have met the guy. What does he do with his days, I wonder? Has he moved on to the next dream, or does he mourn the loss of the dream unfulfilled?

It’s a new year, 2013. I’m not going to get into my goals (they’re not “resolutions;” they’re goals). I look toward this new year with joy and excitement, because so much can happen in a year. So much can happen in a month! However, there’s been an unfamiliar feeling, too—an invisible finger itching the back of my brain. This feeling woke me up almost every morning when I was home for Christmas in Ohio. This feeling wakes me up at 2 AM sometimes, too. The feeling is fear. Now, I love horror movies. I love haunted houses. I love dark walks with no flashlight. Fear is a feeling I usually embrace, because, like the time I swam with sharks in Belize, fear makes us feel alive. This fear is different. This is the fear of never amounting to anything.

This is the curse of the “artist.” I’m not talking about the movie, The Artist, although the theme fits, as we watch George Valentin sell off his possessions and sink into anonymity. Fear of failure is the curse of anyone with a dream, although artists generally are more susceptible, because we rarely have anyone tell us “good job,” “here’s your promotion,” or “you need a raise.” I live behind a computer screen in pajamas, and although I have a couple essays published, the accomplishment is not enough. I want my novel published, and as I try to sell the one from last year, I work on a 2013 manuscript and hope, because the doubtful voices get louder every year.

What if your book is never on a shelf at Barnes and Noble?
What if you never become that smiling author on The Daily Show?
What if professionally, you never become anything but a marketing copy writer?
What if? What if?

By Kelly Rae Roberts.

I have crushing days of failure. I have days when I pay my career no mind at all. I have days when I don’t want to write and days when I can think of nothing but writing. So here we are, in 2013. What will this year bring? Will that long-awaited call from a literary agent arrive, or will I be crushed beneath the weight of my own terror?

I bought something while we were in Tucson, after passing Family Fun World and spending a good half-hour thinking about poor old Richard Songers. My recent purchase was an ornament from a coffee shop: a painted picture of a skinny girl like me with three words: “create (tell it).” The ornament sits on my desk, because that is what I do. I create and I tell it like I see it. I can acknowledge my fear, but I must also acknowledge a tireless drive to dream. Not even fear can blow that candle out.

Read Full Post »

“Frankie Forever” in the Gila River Review

The winter issue of The Gila River Review features one of my essays: “Frankie Forever,” an homage to Rocky Horror Picture Show and how it possibly saved my life as a troubled junior high kid in Perrysburg, Ohio. No, it’s not Christmas-related, but consider it my Christmas present to you anyway.

***Beware: includes explicit language.***

“Frankie Forever”

by Sara Dobie Bauer

There’s something about a big pair of red lips—something like salvation. I didn’t know it as a seventh grader at Perrysburg Junior High School, but I was about to find out, following the death of my Grandma Dobie. Grandma and I were close, maybe best friends. She was my babysitter and a constant fixture at Sunday dinners and weekend picnics. Then one day, I came home from school and my dad’s car was in the garage. I knew damn well he should have been at work, and I remember thinking, “Grandma Dobie is dead.” I hated being right.

Before the start of eighth grade, I demanded to dye my hair black. I stole black eyeliner and nail polish and wore huge t-shirts with Kurt Cobain’s mug on the back. He’d killed himself the year before, and I associated with the guy. So did plenty of people, but I didn’t know it. I was too busy raging to Nine Inch Nails. Writing notes to myself that said “I hate you” and “You are ugly.” Using little pocket knives to scrape my skin.

They call it “teen depression.” How was I supposed to know? I lived in Perrysburg, Ohio. The yards were perfect. The clothes were perfect. Everyone was perfect. Except me. I was messed up, but no one in Perfect-ville talked about depression, suicide, or sex.

It’s estimated that one out of every eight American teens experiences depression. It’s considered a national epidemic, and I was the poster child, wallowing in death fantasies, hopelessness, and fear. There were ways to treat my condition, of course: medicines like Prozac, Zoloft, Effexor … the list was endless, but in teens, certain antidepressants had been shown to actually increase suicidal tendencies, so that option was out.

I did see a therapist the summer after Grandma died. He wanted to talk about my dreams and what they meant. I remember how much I hated him. He was fat with a big beard, and he never laughed. He made me angry and nervous, and after sessions, I would bury myself under my bed like some skinny corpse in a tomb. Asshole, I would think. Conventional treatments weren’t working; my parents were running out of choices.

Then, I met Jannelle through church. Our moms were friends, and we shared a bond of introverted misery. It was like she knew, just looking at me, that I wasn’t right. She wore big, white bandages up her arms and around her wrists. She was even bonier than me, and none of her clothes fit, so she always appeared to be drowning. I loved her. I loved her even more when she gave me my first cigarette and said, “You should come over this weekend. We’re going to watch Rocky Horror,” to which I replied, “You’re doing what?”

###

When asked about the film Rocky Horror Picture Show, actor Barry Bostwick said, “I just thought we were making a musical.” Well, he was right and he was wrong. Rocky Horror was a musical, released in 1975 to horrible reviews. The film was a total bomb, until one advertising exec in Hollywood suggested the Waverly Theater make it the midnight show. It’s been shown continually in movie theaters ever since, making it the longest theatrical run in history. How did this happen, when the movie was originally such a flop?

In 2005, it was selected by the Library of Congress to be preserved in the National Film Registry for being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically important.” I don’t know about the aesthetic part, but culturally, I get it. Rocky Horror was one of the first films to openly portray a transgender lead male who just wanted to screw. And it’s easy to root for the guy, because who doesn’t want to screw Tim Curry in a corset and high heels? I know I did, sitting on the carpet at Jannelle’s mom’s house that weekend for the popping of my RHPS cherry. As soon as Magenta’s big red lips started singing “Science Fiction Double Feature,” I was hooked, done for, obsessed. I have been ever since.

The plot is simple … in that science fiction, alien porn kind of way. Janet and Brad are college kids who just got engaged. Out for a night on the town, they get lost and end up at the mansion of Dr. Frank-N-Furter (Tim Curry, better known as “Frankie”). Frankie is a bi-sexual transvestite from another planet. He’s having a party with all his transsexual alien friends and celebrating the creation of his “monster”—a hunky dude with blond hair who was born to become the doctor’s sex slave. As you might imagine, the innocent virtue of Janet and Brad is soon compromised by Frank’s servants: Riff Raff, Magenta, and Columbia. Of course, they get some sexin’ from Frankie, too, and well, that’s the movie, with some outstanding song and dance numbers and finally, a mansion that takes off and disappears into space.

I recently asked a fellow Rocky Horror fanatic why the film was so important. His response? “The movie itself is not important. It’s the people who are attracted to it.” ….

(Read the essay’s conclusion at the Gila River Review website!)

Read Full Post »

All about “Life without Harry”

Most of you know I finished writing a book in August. I’ve been quiet about it so far, as the editing process goes on, but now, I’m ready to share. Here’s a teaser to hold you over until you buy a copy someday … because you will buy a copy.

What is the working title of your book?
Life without Harry

Where did the idea come from for the book?
Last December, I was without a project. (See “I Quit.”) Then, I watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (viewing five-million-twenty-seven), and I realized how much I missed the world of Harry Potter! Images floated around my head, most notably an image of an owl landing on a car windshield in the middle of downtown Phoenix. Why? Dunno, but the image stuck, and well, so did the first scene of what would become Life without Harry.

What genre does your book fall under?
Adventure fiction with a side of magic-realism, romance, and comedy.

What is the one-paragraph synopsis of your book?
Xanax-dependent author Samantha Elliot is on deadline with a literary festival three weeks away when a white owl flies into her windshield and then disappears. This wouldn’t be the strangest thing, if not for the magic wand that soon shows up and the Invisibility Cloak that just happens to make Sam invisible. Then, there’s Paul Rudolph: the office crush who finally asks her on a date. With the help of anti-depressants and her friend, Julie, Sam must navigate an ever-escalating world of Harry Potter and an ever-hotter relationship with Paul while finishing a manuscript before her agent (who might be Voldemort) arrives for the literary festival … and possibly Sam’s head.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Hard to say (since the characters are mostly based on real people), but I could see Zooey Deschanel as the lead and Ryan Reynolds as the romantic interest. (Who else is hot enough to portray a character based on my husband?)

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I worked as a publicist for a children’s book publisher for two years, and I currently work as a writer for two self-publishing houses. I know how the industry works. I also know, however, that I need a guide, which is why I’m currently shopping for literary agents.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Four months.

What other books would you compare this story to?
The magic of Harry Potter.
The humor of David Sedaris.
The fast-paced dialogue of Bunnicula.
The romance of The Princess Bride.
The occasional darkness of The Graveyard Book.

Drinking Butterbeers at Harry Potter World.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Life without Harry deals with the down and dirty of anxiety, depression, and the loss of a loved one to unexpected death. It is funny (because I love making people laugh), but in order for Sam to be a fully developed character, she has to have an internal darkness … because frankly I have an internal darkness. In order for the story to be well-rounded and complete, each of the characters must go to a dark place and, like Harry Potter, realize that hope, love, and friendship abound.

Why do you want to write and sell a book?
I have a card on my desk that says, “We must play all the keys, seek the tunes only we can hear, and deliver them to those outside our box.” I write to tell a story. I write because I have to. I write because God wants me to write; why else would He have given me the obsessive drive to do so? Mostly, though, I write to give people light and laughter in a world that is growing less and less funny.

Read Full Post »

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow? Part VII. The Big Ending!!

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow?

Part VII (of VII)

By Sara Dobie Bauer

They did as they were told, moving a few feet away from where Marie stood—all except Rupert, who seemed dazed and jolly behind his wife. Suddenly, he clapped his hands. “Oh, this will work out just fine!”

“Rupert …” Bernadette had her hands on her pale cheeks, mouth half-open in shock.

“Dearest Bernadette, did you know we murdered your husband?” Rupert was practically gleeful; Angie noticed he did a little hop before he continued. “Car accident? It wasn’t a car accident. We knocked him out and shoved his car into the Hudson! Marvelous!” He cackled.

Angie could see it took all Jonathan’s resolve to not go running across the room. Meanwhile, Bernadette began to sob, falling to her knees on the floor.

“Why?” Ellis’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because we want the family fortune, of course,” Marie replied.

Angie was getting tired of the headlock. She struggled slightly, but the gun only pressed tighter against her skull.

“And we all know the family fortune only passes to Crane men, don’t we?” Rupert did a little spin. “And I’m not a Crane man, grandmother; I married into the family, so I don’t count.”

“But what if there were no Crane men left?” Marie continued.

“Yes.” Rupert pointed. “There’s only you, son, and there is someone outside who desperately wants to see you.”

“No!” Angie and Bernadette bellowed the word at the same time.

“In fact, he wants to see all of you. Somehow, dear Marie and I will be the only Cranes to survive the horrible massacre.”

“Because we want the family fortune, of course,” Marie replied.

“Sadly.” Angie looked up to see Marie putting on a fake pout. “All it took was a girl, Jonathan. A girl made you go outside, and now, you’re all going to die because of her.”

“You wanted me to go out tonight,” Jonathan said through gritted teeth.

“Of course I did. It’s why I helped you sneak out, isn’t it?” Marie danced back and forth with Angie. “We dug up the skull ages ago, of course. Have been planning this for years. And as my dear husband pointed out, it’s all working out just fine!”

Angie’s mind spun. Could she work a spell with a gun to her head? Hmm. It was possible. There was that one spell her aunt liked to show off at Christmas when it got cold outside. She might end up dead, sure, but at least she could save Jonathan. Speaking of Jonathan … “Hey.”

The sudden entrance of the witch in the conversation made them all shut up.

“Jonathan. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“I’m falling in love with you, too.”

“Cool. Just wanted to get that out of the way …”

“How sweet. A Halloween Romeo and Juliet.” Rupert made a raspberry noise with his tongue.

Again, Angie had to think and think fast. First, get the gun off her head. Second, get the gun away from Marie. Third, find the skull and make Brom Bones go the hell away. She hadn’t used telekinesis in a while, and granted, she’d always kind of sucked at it, but it was worth a shot.

In her head, she concentrated on Jonathan and said, “Can you hear me? If you can, blink twice.”

Within seconds, she lit up like a dried out Christmas tree in bright orange flames …

Well, he almost gave them both away when he tripped over his own feet and fell into a table. He did, however, have the presence of mind to blink, twice.

“I’m going to do something that will make your bitch of an aunt let go of me immediately. When she does, take her down, get the gun, and let’s find that freakin’ skull.”

He blinked, probably about four times, she noticed.

Then, Angie closed her eyes and said the words in her head, just like her aunt taught her. Within seconds, she lit up like a dried out Christmas tree in bright orange flames. Marie screamed and batted at her burning clothes. Through the smoke, Angie saw Jonathan swoop past her and tackle his screaming aunt. Bernadette and Ellis watched Angie, horrified, and Rupert went sprinting from the room.

“Ange?”

“Mm?”

“You can … put out the fire now.”

She sighed, and the flames disappeared, leaving her skin and clothing completely unscathed. Jonathan had the gun pointed at Marie, who lay on the floor, smoldering. Beneath her burnt clothes, Angie saw melted skin, which put a smile on her face. She glanced at Jonathan.

“Can you never do that again, please?”

“Saved your ass, didn’t it?”

Ellis shuffled forward. “Where’s Rupert?”

“He ran upstairs.”

Angie took off, not stopping even at the sound of Jonathan’s voice shouting her name.

ψ

“Here. Take this.” He handed the gun to his mother, whose hands shook. “Don’t let her move.” He gestured toward his aunt, who had possibly passed out from the pain. She didn’t look like much of a concern, but one can never be too careful. With the downstairs situation under control, he took off after his crazy witch girlfriend.

Upstairs was pitch-black, so when he reached the top of the steps, he ran right into Angie. “Sorry,” she said. “Aren’t there any lights up here?”

Jonathan flipped a switch to their right, illuminating fancy green and gold wallpaper, a long hallway, and about a dozen closed doors.

“Great,” she muttered.

Luckily, Rupert was an idiot without his wife, and within about two seconds, they heard someone stomping around the attic.

Jonathan’s eyes looked up.

“Any guns up there?”

“Who knows? This house has been in our family since the freakin’ Civil War.”

“If I get killed by an antique, I’m going to be really pissed.”

Jonathan led the way down the hall to the attic door, which squeaked like a ghost when he swung it open.

“Guess we don’t have the element of surprise,” she said.

“Stay behind me.” He turned and pointed his finger right in his face. “I’m sick of you saving me. I’m the one who’s supposed to save you.”

“This ain’t Washington Irving, babe. It’s 2012.”

“Just stay behind me.” He turned and crept up the old, wooden steps. It comforted him when Angie reached up and took his hand.

There was light up there, reflecting off the myriad boxes and dust-covered furniture. It came from a single bulb, lit with the pull of a white string, in the center of the massive room that stretched the length of the entire mansion. There was no sign of Rupert, which made Jonathan considerably nervous.

“Where is he?”

“Shh,” he whispered. When a box moved in the corner, they both ducked, but Rupert still didn’t show his cowardly face. At that point, Jonathan had had enough. “Rupert. Get the hell out here.”

“It was her idea, you know.” His voice came from the direction of the box. “All her idea. I was a pawn.”

“Apparently, the truth serum wore off,” Angie said, crossing her arms.

“Just give me the skull.”

“And you won’t hurt me?”

“What? No, I won’t hurt you. Give me the damn skull.”

It appeared above the box, held in the center of Rupert’s palm like some Shakespearian prop.

“Stand up, Rupert.”

“She’s going to zap me.”

Jonathan glanced at Angie. “She’s not going to zap you.” He lifted his eyebrows at her to insinuate, “Don’t zap him.”

“You promise?”

Jonathan elbowed Angie.

“Yes. I promise, you little weasel.”

Finally, Rupert stood up. His hand shook so much, he almost dropped the skull, which Jonathan was quick to grab and hold like a newborn child. He turned to Angie and handed it to her before knocking his uncle unconscious with a fist to the face.

“Nice punch.” She kicked Rupert’s foot with her platform shoe.

“Thanks.” He took the skull back from her fingers, and together, they walked down the steps.

His hand shook so much, he almost dropped the skull, which Jonathan was quick to grab and hold like a newborn child …

“Oh, thank God,” Ellis said when she saw the ancient bones.

“Where’s Rupert?” Bernadette asked. She was calm now, and cold, Jonathan noticed. She looked ready to kill, especially since she now knew how her husband had really died.

“Jonathan knocked him out.”

“Good job, son. Now what?”

“We give him back his head.” He turned away from his mother and grandmother but hesitated at the front door.

Angie was at his side. He could feel the warmth of her skin. Her perfume was back—lavender and vanilla—and her fingertips on his arm, as usual, spread a cool calm through his chest. “What?” she asked.

“What if he still kills me?”

She reached down and took the hand not holding the skull. “Then, I’m going with you.”

They stepped out into the night. A frigid breeze blew the edges of Angie’s black hair against Jonathan’s face, but the air had nothing to do with his shivers. A headless Brom Bones sat not ten feet in front of them, sword in hand, with a cornucopia of dead heads tied to his saddle.

“Oh, my God,” Angie breathed.

Jonathan squeezed her hand and held the skull high in the air. “Brom Bones.”

The horse reared back and screamed at them.

“I have your … head.” He cleared his throat. “Do you want it back?”

The horseman dismounted, and Jonathan realized he would probably have a heart attack before the ghost even had a chance to cut his head off. Angie was practically squeezing the feeling out of his fingers as the horseman stomped toward them, sword drawn, shoulders vacant of a head where some sort of readable expression would be.

Jonathan was sure their number was up. After all they’d been through that night, it was finally time to die. But then, Brom Bones sheathed his sword and viciously grabbed the decayed skull from Jonathan’s shaking fingers. The horrible Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow held up one leather-gloved finger as if to say, “One moment please.” He then walked back to his horse and hid in the darkness.

Jonathan looked down at Angie; Angie gawked up at him.

It was a minute later that the horseman reemerged, no longer headless at all. In fact, he was probably their age, with flowing brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a sour expression on his unshaved face.

As he approached, Jonathan shoved Angie behind him and prepared to be destroyed.

The horseman grunted as he walked and stopped so close to Jonathan that Jonathan had to lean back to avoid the smell of a dead man’s breath. Then, the horseman said … nothing.

Jonathan had trouble swallowing, but he managed the words that needed to be said: “You know I’m not Ichabod Crane, right?”

The man once known as Brom Bones considered this. Then, he made Jonathan jump when he started to laugh—a deep-belly, hearty laugh of a man after two many pints. “You? Ichabod Crane? Ichabod Crane could not run five feet, let alone with the speed with which you ran across yonder field.” He gestured toward the backyard, the scene of Jonathan’s earlier near-death experience.

“Oh. So. We’re good then?”

Brom Bones scratched his broad, furry chin. He blew out a breath of stank air and walked back to his worthy steed. He leapt onto the horse’s back without the aid of stirrups and turned to ride away. Halfway down the driveway, he stopped. He pulled his silver sword from its sheath and spun it in the evening light.

“I was not really hoping to get your head, Crane,” he shouted. “I was hoping to get your whore.” With that, Brom Bones growled at his long dead animal companion, and halfway down the driveway, they disappeared, quite literally, to God only knew where.

Angie stepped forward beside him. “Do I look like a whore?”

“A really expensive whore.”

She sighed.

Over the sound of incoming police sirens, Jonathan asked, “Do you want to get a drink?”

“Sure.”

He took her hand, and they walked away from Crane Manor and hid in the bushes when the cops sped by. Family drama could wait until tomorrow. After all, it was only midnight, and for the first time in his life, Jonathan Crane felt safe on Halloween.

THE END

Happy Halloween!

… for the first time in his life, Jonathan Crane felt safe on Halloween.

Read Full Post »

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow? Part VI

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow?

Part VI (of VII)

By Sara Dobie Bauer

She felt herself waking up. She could hear voices, smell the scent of an old, old house. There was Jonathan, shouting about the skull—the skull wasn’t there, he said. Where was the skull?

She moaned in an effort to respond, and his hand was in hers immediately. “Angie?”

She moaned again.

“Please wake up.”

For him, she would. She opened her eyes. His skin was paler than usual, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She reached up and de-wrinkled the wrinkle between his eyes.

He kissed her hand. “Thank God you’re all right.”

He kissed her hand. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“Are you all right?”

He glanced down at his chest, covered by, she noticed, a replacement forest green sweater. “Thanks to you.”

“Where’s my locket?”

He reached behind her head to the table by the living room couch. The piece of silver fell into her hand, still covered in his blood.

“Very Halloween-y.” She let go of his hand long enough to clasp the bloody piece of jewelry behind her neck. With the cold metal against her skin, she felt stronger again. “It was my mother’s. She died when I was a kid.”

“My dad died a few years ago.” He kissed her hand again, and Angie finally noticed the rest of the Crane family, curled together in a tight circle in the corner.

“What’s Brom Bones up to?”

“Circling the house.”

The phone rang, making them all jump a mile.

Ellis sighed. “I’ll get it.” She left the quiet circle and answered a phone that looked older than she was. “Happy Halloween! … Yes, officer, we’re aware. … I wouldn’t worry your head over it.” She gasped and covered her mouth. “I just meant …. Well, he’s at the house now, so the town has nothing to worry about. We’re dealing with it.” She hung up the phone. “Our undead friend killed seven students, it would seem.”

Angie sat up suddenly. She would have fallen over onto the floor if Jonathan hadn’t caught her. “Oops,” she muttered before standing up with Jonathan’s help.

Bernadette was on her in a flash. “Thank you!” She wrapped Angie in a hug that managed to cut off her supply of oxygen. “Thank you.” She kissed Angie on the cheek.

“Hey, no biggie. I like the guy, too.” She nodded at Jonathan. “So. Who else knew about the skull in your backyard?”

This brought a noticeable air of tension to the room.

Ellis glanced at each member of her family in turn. “Only the people in this room, dear.”

“So which one of you dug it up?”

“Ange …” Jonathan put his hand on her arm.

“What? You’re thinking it, too. I know Grandma is.”

Angie noticed despite the circumstances, Ellis smiled at her friendly epithet.

“How dare you come into our house and start pointing fingers?”

“I don’t like you, Rupert. I think you’re a little weasel, with your weasley moustache.”

“Watch your mouth, witch.” Marie stepped forward, and even Jonathan seemed surprised by the ice in his aunt’s voice.

“Okay, everyone calm down.” The authority in Jonathan’s voice made them all shut up. “I guess it’s worth asking. Does anyone in this room know where to find the horseman’s skull?”

In the silence, they heard horse hooves and the sound of a sword on tree-trunk. Apparently, Brom Bones was bored and sharpening his weapon.

Jonathan sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.”

“You do?” Ellis seemed hopeful from her seated position.

She noticed her spell book on a nearby empty chair. She picked it up. “I need to use your kitchen.”

“What for?” Rupert demanded.

Angie hugged her book to her chest. “A truth serum. Ellis?”

The old woman pushed herself up from her seat. Angie noticed she was looking older already, after the near loss of her grandson and the basic unraveling of her big, happy family. Nevertheless, she guided Angie to the kitchen, followed closely by Jonathan.

“A truth serum?”

Angie threw the book down on an updated black marble island and began turning pages. “Mmhmm.”

“How long does it last?”

She started digging through cabinets for cooking spices, along with wine and a sharp knife. “I’ll make one that only lasts a couple minutes, although some of them have been known to last weeks.”

“That would suck.”

“Telling lies lately, Jonathan Crane?” She raised her eyebrow at him.

“No, but it’s nice to have a filter, especially with you around.”

“Don’t tell anyone about the blood,” Angie said. “People get weird about that.”

“Oh, really?” She leaned her elbows on the counter, knowingly flaunting her breasts. “And what would you tell me if you didn’t have a filter?”

“I guess we’ll find out in a few minutes …”

Angie was a speed demon at potions, always had been, thanks to the teachings of her aunts, who were masters of the ancient art. Thankfully, Ellis had a well-stocked kitchen, although Jonathan looked away when Angie cut her own flesh and added a drop of blood to the mix. “Don’t tell anyone about the blood,” Angie said. “People get weird about that.”

Jonathan didn’t have words to respond.

Angie carefully poured the completed potion into six rocks glasses, if only to be fair. She felt that if she was making the Crane family take the potion, she might as well, too, in case they suspected the witch of some evil intent. She used a fancy silver tray to carry the glasses into the living room, where everyone waited, none too excited at the prospect of telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Okay, everyone, take a glass.”

“I refuse to drink some witch’s brew,” said Rupert, twirling his moustache with a finely manicured finger.

“Then, I suspect you, Rupe.” Angie smiled.

He indelicately snatched a glass.

The rest of the room followed suit, and Angie lifted her glass in a toast. “Okay, bottoms up. Question and answer begins as soon as you swallow.” She closed her eyes and took her shot down first; it tasted like Italian food gone bad—real bad.

Everyone was wincing when she opened her eyes, and she immediately pointed at Ellis.

“Ellis Crane, do you know where the skull of Brom Bones rests?”

Her eyes were slightly dreamy as she said, “No, dear, but I once spit in a casserole dish for the Rotary Club because a woman on the potluck committee slept with my husband.” She gasped and covered her mouth.

“Guess it’s working.” Jonathan rubbed his forehead.

Angie was on the move. “Bernadette Crane, do you know where the skull of Brom Bones rests?”

“No.” She appeared to be biting the inside of her lip to hold something back. Angie moved on to Marie just as Bernadette blurted out, “I’m not a natural blond!”

Angie pet her on the shoulder, but before she could ask Marie much of anything, the black-haired broad had her in a headlock with a gun against her head. “Stupid, meddling witch!” she shouted.

Jonathan took a step forward, and Angie felt Marie’s arm tighten around her throat.

“You take another step, nephew, and I’ll throw her outside.”

He stopped moving.

“Marie?” Ellis stood, frozen to the spot. “What are you doing, Marie?”

“Everyone, just back up, or ding dong, the witch is dead.”

(THE FINAL INSTALLMENT GOES UP FRIDAY!!! I hope you’ve enjoyed this Halloween romp! I know I enjoyed writing it! Cheers!)

Read Full Post »

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow? Part V

Do You Have a Head I Could Borrow?

PART V (of VII)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

Jonathan dragged her inside, where the whole family rapidly began to appear at the sound of uninvited guests. Angie noticed there were only four of them in total: the one called Aunt Marie; a well-dressed man with a moustache, probably in his mid-fifties; a forty-something lady with Jonathan’s bright blue eyes; and finally, a petite lady with white hair, glasses, and a frown, who had to be the Crane matriarch.

“What on earth were you doing outside?” The little old lady moved faster than any old lady rightly should.

“It’s my fault, Ellis.” Marie stepped forward. “I helped him sneak out.”

“Sneak out? On Halloween?”

“Baby.” The blond moved past grandma and lifted her hands to her cheeks. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Right. Can Angie use the bathroom? I’ll explain.”

“I think I should probably be here when you explain.”

Jonathan glanced down at Angie, holding her massive, leather book of spells. “Right. Well, this is Angie, and I snuck out to see her, and um … well, the Horseman, he’s real, and he’s trying to kill us, but Angie’s a witch, and …”

“Jonathan. You’re doing a shit job.” Angie addressed this family of strangers, all of whom looked practically murderous. “Look, the Headless Horseman from a fictional short story is actually real, and he’s down in Tarrytown killing people trying to get to Jonathan. So please tell me you have a protective spell on your house, because if you don’t, I’m a witch, and I need to get started right now.”

Surprisingly, it was the intimidating grandmother who stepped forward, took Angie’s blood-soaked arm, and gently said, “Come along, dear, let’s wash you up.”

“But … he looks just like … or Jonathan looks just like …”

Angie looked over her shoulder at a blood-soaked Jonathan and was surprised to find he still looked attractive, despite what might have been a piece of another man’s skin under his right eye. She then allowed herself to be coached through the house, past expensive-looking antique heirlooms and a room full of deer heads—which gave her the creeps.

Then, there was a long hallway of paintings. Angie recognized the elder woman by her side, Ellis Crane, among them, but then, she recognized someone else.

“Hey.” She stopped. “Is that …” She pointed at a particularly striking young man.

“Ichabod Crane.”

“But … he looks just like … or Jonathan looks just like …”

“Yes, the resemblance is quite significant, but he does have his mother’s eyes.” Ellis led her on, as if the creepy similarity between a long dead ancestor and a very living college student was run of the mill.

Finally, they found a bathroom bigger than Angie’s entire apartment. Ellis took the book from Angie’s hands and set it on a decorative, marble table. She then pulled a washcloth from beneath the sink and began to wash Angie’s face.

“I’m certainly glad Jonathan snuck out to meet you, honey. I was beginning to think he was a homosexual.”

Angie bit her lip to stifle a smirk.

“And a witch, no less.” Ellis glanced at the rather sizeable square of leather on the nearby tabletop. “Quite a big spell book for someone so young.”

“It was my mother’s.”

“Ah.” Ellis put her hand on Angie’s head and smiled. “What a lovely girl.” Then, she leaned forward and whispered, “And yes, the house is protected by many spells, but I do hate scaring the younger ones. Most people aren’t as comfortable around witches as I am.” With no further warning, Ellis put the washcloth down on the sink and left Angie quite alone.

ψ

Jonathan paced the living room, hands on his hips. He jumped at every noise, while the rest of his family merely watched him walk around. Grandma Ellis came back, followed closely by Angie, who was no longer covered in blood but who still hugged her spell book as if it in itself would save all their lives.

Jonathan watched his uncle approach the little witch. “I’m Rupert, by the way, Jonathan’s uncle. Marie is my wife.” He gestured to Jonathan’s aunt, who waved politely from a plush white chair in the corner.

“Sorry. Introductions.” Jonathan put his hand on his mother’s shoulder where she sat on a pink paisley couch. “Ange, this is my mother, Bernadette.” He watched his mother stand up and clasp Angie’s hand.

“Very nice to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”

“Me, too,” Angie replied.

“I’m surprised we haven’t had any calls from the police.” The room turned to face Ellis, who was peering beyond the curtains and out into the front yard.

“Oh, Tanya.”

Jonathan looked toward Angie, who’d suddenly gone a couple shades paler than usual.

“I have to call her. Tell her to stay inside.” She shamelessly reached between her breasts and pulled out a tiny black cellular phone before she disappeared back toward the bathroom.

By now, Rupert, too, stood at the front window. “Ah,” he said, “We have company.”

“When he pulled back the shade, he was more than horrified to see the Hessian …”

Jonathan heard the horse hooves before he reached the window, followed of course by a house-shaking burst of thunder. When he pulled back the shade, he was more than horrified to see the Hessian with about a half dozen decapitated heads attached to his black saddle.

Jonathan promptly threw up in a nearby potted plant. When he was finished, he glanced back at his family. “Let’s not tell Angie about that.” He gestured to the sad looking fern.

“We won’t, dear, but you might want to wipe the blood off your face.”

“Right.”

Rupert offered him a handkerchief, which he accepted, gladly.

“What’s going on?”

Jonathan didn’t want to tell her, but he didn’t really have a choice. While wiping his face, he turned to Angie and said, “Is everyone okay?”

“They’re drunk, but they’re fine. Why are you all standing by the front window?”

“Well, because there’s an angry horseman outside, dear.” Ellis dropped the curtain and sighed. “I think it’s time we told them the truth.”

“Ellis,” Marie hissed.

“What truth?”

His grandmother approached him and put her hands on his upper arms. “How about a drink?”

As a collective, they followed her to the library, where rows of books were challenged by rows of multi-colored liquor bottles. She chose a scotch—one of Jonathan’s favorites—and poured an inch of gold in each glass. Jonathan took his back like a shot, and when he lowered the glass, he realized Angie must have, too, because the entire family stared at them. Ellis poured them a second round and gestured to the leather furniture around the room.

“Please. Sit.”

Angie didn’t ask before she lit up a clove. Jonathan gave her a sidelong glance, knowing she’d left her purse at her own apartment. When she noticed him watching, she pulled a second clove from between her cleavage and extended her hand to him.

“What else are you hiding down there?”

“A lighter.” Which she presented and used to light up. No one complained.

“Well. Jonathan. Darling. We’ve never told you the truth about your great-great-great-grandfather. It was just too soon, and you were too young. It’s a secret to be shared by adults.”

“This doesn’t sound good.” His shoulders were tense, and Angie lit his cigarette before he could even ask. In fact, when he looked around the library, he noticed everyone was tense … and avoiding eye contact.

“Ichabod Crane was, well, like you, very handsome. He was a travelling teacher of sorts in Sleepy Hollow, and he caught the eye of a local girl by the name of Katrina Van Tassel.”

“Van Tassel? Like from the story?”

“Yes, dear.” Ellis nodded at Angie. “But you see Katrina was already engaged to a local boy, Brom Bones. When Ichabod tried to woo her nonetheless, it was quite a scandal, but woo her he did, and well …” His grandmother’s eyes looked up to the gold-encrusted ceiling. “Well, it started kind of a feud between Brom and Ichabod. So Ichabod cut off Brom’s head.”

“What?” Jonathan felt the sudden urge to stand.

“Yes, well, it would seem that Washington Irving and your great-great-great-grandfather were good friends, so they made up a story as a joke and told everyone in town that Brom had left in a huff, never to be seen again.”

“You’re telling me … Ichabod Crane murdered someone, and now, that someone is outside, headless.”

Angie stood up, too. “What happened to Katrina?”

“… he caught the eye of a local girl by the name of Katrina Van Tassel.”

“Oh, she married Ichabod. She’s Jonathan’s great-great-great-grandmother. This house was known as the Van Tassel Estate before they got married. Now, it’s called Crane Manor.”

Angie fell back down on the couch. “What an f-ed up family.”

“So if I’m to understand correctly, Brom Bones is the Headless Horseman. Not some Hessian soldier from the Revolutionary War.”

Ellis waved her hand. “Oh, that was just part of the story.”

“Right. The story written to cover up a murder.”

“Precisely.” His grandmother sipped daintily on her scotch.

“So …” Jonathan pointed toward the front entrance. “What does he want?”

“Your head. Probably.”

“My head?”

“Well, it is an unfortunate coincidence that you look so much like Ichabod.”

Jonathan finished his second glass of scotch and put it down heavily on the table. “This hiding out every Halloween in the house, you were doing that because of me?”

“Well, you and every male direct descendant of the Crane line. As you know, it’s your responsibility to keep the family line alive, and you inherit the fortune. Can’t be too careful.” She laughed, softly, until the expression on Jonathan’s face made her stop.

He looked toward his mother. “Mom? He wants my head?”

“Well, there are other options.”

“Like what?”

“I think he would also accept the sacrifice of the woman you love.”

Jonathan glanced at Angie, who pointed her finger and said, “I will hex the hell out of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s our other option?”

“We could always give him back his skull.”

Now, both Jonathan and Angie’s mouths hung open. “You still have the skull?”

“It’s buried in the backyard,” Ellis replied.

“Sick.” Angie stubbed out her cigarette in her empty glass of scotch.

“I’m not sure it would work, but it’s worth a try.”

“How are we going to get to it? He’s outside.” Jonathan held his hand out and waved at the front door.

Angie blew out a loud breath of air. “Distraction. I’m a great distraction.”

As she stood up, book in hand, he held onto her shoulders. “You’re not going outside.”

“I don’t have to go outside. You have windows.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Shoot sparks and shit. It’s what I do.”

“She is a witch,” Rupert whispered into his drink.

Angie pointed. “Hey, don’t judge me, moustache.”

“They burned people like you for a reason, sweet girl.”

Jonathan literally had to get between Angie and his uncle to keep an all out brawl from breaking out, and frankly, he was surprised at the small girl’s strength. “Enough! I’m going to get the skull.”

Well. That managed to stop all discussion.

“Jonathan.” Bernadette stood up.

“Mom, I have to do this.”

She sat back down but would not look at who she still considered her little boy.

“Gram, where is the damn thing?”

“In the family plot, of course. Beneath Ichabod’s tombstone.”

“He knew the way to the family cemetery, not far beyond the house.”

“That is so twisted. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yes, honey, on the back porch.”

Jonathan looked down at Angie, who he still held tightly in hand.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“Do we have a choice?”

“No.” She glanced around the room. “Do we have time for a quickie?”

He smiled and pressed his forehead against hers. “I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll distract.” She dropped her precious book and put her hands on the back of his neck, pulling him into a long, wet kiss that almost made his knees buckle.

When she finally let him go, he shook his head. “I swear you put a spell on me.”

“Well, I didn’t put a spell on myself, so I think it’s just animal instinct.”

The sound of an angry horse huffing and puffing pulled them out of their flirtations and back into a world where a headless maniac wanted people dead.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

“You kind of sounded like Bruce Willis just then, and I think Bruce Willis is really hot.”

Ellis cleared her throat behind them before Tonsil Hockey, Round 2.

Angie tossed the book on the couch by the front window and opened the curtains. Jonathan watched her turn pages until she found what she was looking for, but it was Russian to him. Obviously, it was the language she’d spoken earlier in the woods, but it was private—a Duncan … er … Good family secret, most likely.

She looked up at him. “Gimme five minutes. And then go.”

Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”

He turned to leave, and she grabbed his arm. “If you don’t come back safe, I’ll kill that mother trucker with my bare hands.”

He nodded and headed for the back exit, his family close behind. As he walked, he could hear his mother’s voice, begging, pleading, but there was no turning back. They were out of options, and if Angie could keep the ghost of Brom Bones distracted, Jonathan could be gone and back quick as a hippie on cocaine. From the back porch, he grabbed the flashlight and a small shovel. Looking at his watch, he had two minutes to go. He took a deep breath. The scotch felt warm and comforting in his stomach, and he could still taste the clove cigarette on his breath.

“Good luck, boy.” Rupert’s thin fingers on his shoulder did not incite confidence.

“Thanks. Rupert.”

Jonathan took one glance back at his mother before shooting into the night. The wind whipped against his ears, and the cold air pulled at his skin. He knew the way to the family cemetery, not far beyond the house. There were the wrought iron gates, illuminated by the flashlight beam that shook in his hand. He pressed forward, and of course, the damn gate creaked.

Ichabod’s grave was famous in the family—the only one immortalized in a short story. Also the only cold blooded killer, Jonathan now knew. He slid to his knees at the base of the memorial and started digging. Shovel after shovel, dirt flew up around him in a cloud until finally, he hit something … but that something was not solid. He found an empty piece of cloth where a skull should have been.

And at the sound of Angie’s screams, from somewhere far away, Jonathan knew he was in trouble.

“Shit.” He scrambled to his feet, leaving the flashlight and shovel behind. He was a daily runner—had been all his life—and yet in some nightmare scenario, he felt he could not move fast enough. From his position, he could see his family, waving for him to come closer, faster, now! When he saw Angie shoving them out of the way, he knew Brom Bones was coming.

He heard the horse before he saw it, turning the corner at the back of Crane Manor.

“Shit. Shit.” Jonathan dug in deep to the very bottom of his endurance, but the horse was faster. He saw the glint of sword in the night light, and he did a diving roll in an effort to keep his head. Unfortunately, he didn’t get up fast enough, though, giving the horseman time to swing his sword back and cut a deep gash across the center of Jonathan’s chest. He screamed in pain but then felt a positive presence over him: Angie, with her pale hand in the air.

“Her touch felt like fire …”

“Arach-expungo!”

In his injured, bloody haze, Jonathan now recognized the words from the forest earlier, and again, the Headless Horseman was trapped in a green-glowing web that made him back away in momentary defeat.

He felt Angie’s small hands under his arms, pulling him back inside the house. He also felt his shirt soaking with too much blood. His breath came hard and ragged down his throat, but he didn’t feel pain. Jonathan took that as a bad sign.

Once he felt carpet beneath his back, he heard Angie’s voice, commanding, “Back up! Give me some goddamn space!”

His eyes found her, kneeling above him. She tore his flannel shirt open and paused.

“Damn, you have a great body.”

He found the strength to say, “Angie, what the hell?”

“Sorry, sorry.” She ripped the locket from around her neck, took it in the palm of her hand, and pressed it directly into the wound that spread from pec to pec.

Her touch felt like fire, and he yelled out again, over the sound of her voice chanting, chanting, something he couldn’t understand what with the searing pain that ripped through his ribs and down his spine. He thought she was killing him until the pain began to subside. As the pain subsided, though, he noticed Angie weave above him. She suddenly fell, face first, against his healed chest, completely limp.

Ψ

(Have a happy weekend, everyone! Watch out for headless men on horseback! We’ll finish up parts VI and VII next week. Thanks for reading!)

Read Full Post »