Byron had never believed in much. Always seeing himself as an island of rationality in a sea of superstition and gullibility. Even as a child, he had found stories of Santa Claus and The Easter Bunny more cute than credible, though he was never the type to destroy the fun his friends were having by letting on to the fact.Later in life, he turned that same knife of skepticism on religion, as well as on those who believed in all that psychic/magical mumbo-jumbo which resurgence in the 90s. It was all the same hokum to him, a desperate way that people tried to find meaning in the meaningless, hope in the hopeless, an order in a reality that was, for all intents and purposes, order-less. But now he almost believed. He had experienced visions. Even if Janice was just getting into his head, even if her story and charisma were simply a catalyst for his mind to create all of this, he had known things he couldn't have figured out yet, w

Anyone who has spent any serious amount of time in prison can tell you there are feelings in the air. If you are to survive for any amount of time with your sanity intact, you learn to read them and learn to duck if the feeling turns into shit hitting the fan. It was all part of the new skill set you learned while incarcerated, though Janice doubted that was what politicians were talking about when they pushed their inmate training programs.The whole time she was standing in line for lunch, she was picking up on the feeling big-time. She knew better than to look behind her, doing so would be a sign of weakness and showing weakness was a sure way to turn feelings into flying fecal matter. But if she did, she would see dozens of eyes drilling holes into her back. Something was up, and it was about her. Janice allowed the cafeteria worker to fill her tray with her guaranteed 2,000 calories, a small scoop of beans, fried rice, and a cup of fruit, w

The camera swept across a beautiful landscape, rolling hills, and serene forests, while soft piano music played in the background. Slowly, we move toward a small U.S. town, serene and charming as those from the writings of Bradbury. The camera travels down one of the small, one-lane streets, there we see a man mowing his lawn, then another washing his sensible (but stylish) car. As we move on, a smartly dressed business woman carries her briefcase into an official-looking building while a group of little girls skip rope. Suddenly, the sky grows dark. The soft piano music turns into a pulsing electronic beat, sinister and full of threats of unknown violence. The children freeze, a pigtailed blonde caught mid skip, her smile of joy turned to a silent scream of terror by the sudden lack of motion. Seconds later, an audible scream comes from somewhere off camera, high and pained, like that woman being tortured. Fade to black. Byron laughed to himse

“You know the rest.” At this point, Janice was crying but not weeping or gasping for air. Byron was once again impressed by her. “I found her in the bathroom, bleeding on the tile. She died in my arms. All the bouncer saw was the crazy girl screaming at thin air moments before now holding a stabbed corpse. It was pretty clear to him what happened, and from there, it was pretty clear to everyone what happened to all my friends. Even though they couldn't find the knife that Kelly was stabbed with, everything else lined up all too well.” “I was the only constant.”Byron nodded speechlessly. In the corner, Betsy wiped her tears. “The worst part is I keep thinking about what she must have seen, right before...you know? Did she think that I... that I hurt her? Or did it become something else in the final moment? She had a boogeyman as a kid; a tall, faceless woman with long claws that lived in her closet. So maybe

Norma walked through the small library. Now and then, she'd drop a small stack of outdated magazines or a day-old newspaper on one of the round tables, which were strewn haphazardly around the room. It wasn't much of a job, but it gave her something to do, and with a mind like hers that was prone to wandering, something to do was precious. She had taken the job more out of desperation than any burning urge to help in the reformation of criminals, figuring there would be fewer people vying for the position than that of a more traditional library. She had been correct in this. After fingerprinting and a full background check (which came back squeaky clean) they had hired her. Her first few nights had been a paranoid nightmare filled with every cinema image of leering, snarling prisoners, depraved murderers, sadists, and all-around bad people. She had jumped every time upon hearing an unfamiliar noise. However, she quickly adapted and found most of the girls h