Category Archives: ghost stories

Slade House (a book by David Mitchell)

As a writer of novels, like all passable to good writers of novels, I read novels. Not just any novels. Novels that are the kind of novels I aspire to write myself.

David Mitchell is one of those novelists who can write the way I want to write. His stories are detailed and yet, compelling enough to follow wherever the story leads you. Characters are vivid and seem to have an actual life beyond the pages of the novel. And there is a chance that you will meet them again in another David Mitchell novel, even if they died in the previous David Mitchell novel you read. He writes across swaths of time and gives the story a sense of history.

Slade House is basically a haunted house story, a horror story about a house that is itself a sort of ghost. It can only be entered by a single small iron door that only appears in an alleyway every nine years. And every time it does appear, in October of 1979, 1988, 1997, 2006… , at least one somebody will go in and never come out again.

The story is side-linked to the masterpiece Mitchell novel, The Bone Clocks. It is also a plot less convoluted and multifaceted than Bone Clocks and Cloud Atlas, so much easier to follow

David Mitchell is an author I study to learn about writing and storytelling. I don’t copy him. I do take note of his bag of tricks, his writer’s toolbox, so to speak, and I pick up and play with those same tools and magician’s secrets. I would like to suggest that if you truly wish to be a writer of fiction, you must put David Mitchell’s books on your must-read-before-I-die list. If you can’t put Mitchell on that list, then here are a few others on my list; Michael Crichton, Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Louis L’Amour, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, H.P. Lovecraft, Steven King, Mark Twain, and J. K. Rowling. It should be obvious that these names are all on my list for different reasons. And if you don’t read David Mitchell, there are artisan’s techniques there you can get nowhere else. But you are the reader. And if you have chosen to read this far through this essay, then you are at least fool enough to want to know the things I am telling you in this book review.

As a storyteller, David Mitchell is Rumpelstiltskin. He weaves straw into gold. And if you are canny and careful enough of a reader, you can gain some of that value from his work without giving up your firstborn.

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Ghostly Reflections

Haunting
I do not believe in ghosts.

So, I am probably the last stupid goomer who should be writing this post.  But I do have a lot to say on the subject that will more than fill a 500-word essay.

Snow Babies 2

At my age and level of poor health, I think about ghosts a lot because I may soon be one.  In fact, my 2014 novel, Snow Babies has ghosts in it.  And some of the characters in it freeze to death and become snow ghosts.  But it doesn’t work like that in real-world science.  My ghosts are all basically metaphorical and really are more about people and people’s perception of life, love, and each other.

Ghosts really only live in the mind.  They are merely memories, un-expectedly recalled people, pains, and moments of pandemonium.

I have recently been watching the new Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House.  It creeps me out because it latches on to the idea that ghosts haunt us through the revisitation in our minds of old trauma, old mistakes, old regrets… We are never truly safe from ghosts, no matter how far under the covers we go in our beds, deep in the dark and haunted night. Ghosts are always right there with us because they only live inside us.

I am haunted by ghosts of my own.  Besides the ghost dog that mysteriously wanders about our house at night and is seen only out of the corners of our eyes, there is the ghost of the sexual assault I endured at the age of ten by a fifteen-year-old neighbor.  That ghost haunts me still, though my attacker has died.  I still can’t name him.  Not because I fear he can rise up out of the grave to hurt me again, but because of what revealing what he did, and how it would injure his innocent family members who are still alive and still known to my family, will cause more hurt than healing.  That is a ghost who will never go away.  And he infects my fiction to the point that he is the secret villain of the novel I am now working on. In fact, the next four novels in a row are influenced by him.

But my ghost stories are not horror stories.

I write humorous stories that use ghosts as metaphors, to represent ideas, not to scare the reader.  In a true horror story, there has to be that lurking feeling of foreboding, that sense that, no matter what you do, or what the main character you identify with does, things probably won’t turn out all right.   Stephen King is a master of that.  H.P. Lovecraft is even better.

DSCN5216

But as for me, I firmly believe in the power of laughter, and that love can settle all old ghosts back in their graves.  I have forgiven the man who sexually tortured me and nearly destroyed me as a child.  And I have vowed never to reveal his name to protect those he loved as well as those I love.  If he hurt anyone else, they have remained silent for a lifetime too.  And I have never been afraid of the ghost dog in our house.  He has made me jump in the night more than once, but I don’t fear him.  If he were real, he would be the ghost of a beloved pet and a former protector of the house.  And besides, he is probably all in my stupid old head thanks to nearly blind eyes when I do not have my glasses on.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

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Slade House (a book by David Mitchell)

As a writer of novels, like all passable to good writers of novels, I read novels. Not just any novels. Novels that are the kind of novels I aspire to write myself.

David Mitchell is one of those novelists who can write the way I want to write. His stories are detailed and yet, compelling enough to follow wherever the story leads you. Characters are vivid and seem to have an actual life beyond the pages of the novel. And there is a chance that you will meet them again in another David Mitchell novel, even if they died in the previous David Mitchell novel you read. He writes across swaths of time and gives the story a sense of history.

Slade House is basically a haunted house story, a horror story about a house that is itself a sort of ghost. It can only be entered by a single small iron door that only appears in an alleyway every nine years. And every time it does appear, in October of 1979, 1988, 1997, 2006… , at least one somebody will go in and never come out again.

The story is side-linked to the masterpiece Mitchell novel, The Bone Clocks. It is also a plot less convoluted and multifaceted than Bone Clocks and Cloud Atlas, so much easier to follow

David Mitchell is an author I study to learn about writing and storytelling. I don’t copy him. I do take note of his bag of tricks, his writer’s toolbox, so to speak, and I pick up and play with those same tools and magician’s secrets. I would like to suggest that if you truly wish to be a writer of fiction, you must put David Mitchell’s books on your must-read-before-I-die list. If you can’t put Mitchell on that list, then here are a few others on my list; Michael Crichton, Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Louis L’Amour, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, H.P. Lovecraft, Steven King, Mark Twain, and J. K. Rowling. It should be obvious that these names are all on my list for different reasons. And if you don’t read David Mitchell, there are artisan’s techniques there you can get nowhere else. But you are the reader. And if you have chosen to read this far through this essay, then you are at least fool enough to want to know the things I am telling you in this book review.

As a storyteller, David Mitchell is Rumpelstiltskin. He weaves straw into gold. And if you are canny and careful enough of a reader, you can gain some of that value from his work without giving up your firstborn.

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 25

Canto 25 – Dealing with the Devil

Stanley was determined to get both hands around Eule Gheist’s stupid neck, and squeeze until he gave up a solution to saving Maria’s life.  He bulled his way into Aunt Philia’s Toy Store.

Before he could shout out the first threat and demand, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the other man standing beside the Owl Man’s check-out counter.

“Hello, Stanley. We’ve been waiting for your return,” said the mysterious stranger with the ice-blue eyes.

“You know I want my daughter back?  You are going to give me a way to go where she is and bring her back home?”

“Oh, no.  Our offer is far more complicated than that.”

“What kind of a place is this?  You trap and kill your customers.”

“You have it all wrong, Mr. Mensch.  We always give our customers exactly what they pay us for.”

“Maria never paid you to kidnap her and put her life at risk.”

“Oh, you are confused about who our customers are.”

“What do you mean?  You never actually sell any of these toys.”

“We have never harmed a customer.  We couldn’t possibly kill them since they are already dead.”

“And you sell them these toys?”  Stan’s arm swept around in a circle indicating the whole collection of dust-covered antique toys.

“We sold Maria to Esperanza for five years’ worth of spirit life.  We don’t sell these toys from the store.”

“Maria is a toy?”

“Basically.  We provide the other side with humans to play with.”

“So, how do I get to where Maria is?”

“You don’t.  No member of the story she is playing in will want you to be a part of it.  You don’t fit the story.”

“So, what’s to prevent me from throwing a fit and wrecking this store?”

“Pick up a toy and destroy it.”

Stanley picked up a wooden rocking horse and slammed it into the floor with the full force of his anger and frustration.  Almost immediately the fractured pieces disappeared and the rocking horse rematerialized on the shelf, even wearing it’s dust covering.

Stan stopped and stared, feeling totally stunned.

“Everything is set in spirit life.  It will still be here even after a nuclear missile from Russia blows Dallas into vapor.”

“I don’t… I mean… ah…”

“I know you are stressed about your family’s situation.  We have a possible solution to offer for a price.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can guarantee Maria’s survival.  And I can cure Bonita’s cancer.”

“How… how do you know about that?”

The Owl Man grinned.  “This is the store’s owner.  Mr. Mephisto.”

“The dark man from the Shandra and Mark story?”

“Exactly,” said the gimlet-eyed man.

“So, I’m making a deal with the Devil.  What will it cost me?  My soul?”

“We want you to become the new manager of the Toy Store.  You are a very resourceful man.  And you have a good heart.”

“And I am due to return to my owl form,” said Eule.

“If I refuse?”

“You have to make the choice, of course.  But the job has perks.  The spirit life will make you immortal.  And Maria and Bonita are both saved.”

“And if I refuse to accept the job, what happens?”

“You trust to luck for the outcome you seek.”

Stanley could do nothing but stand there and try desperately to think.

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 24

Canto 24 – Girl Talk

Maria found herself limited to riding along in her own naked body as she and Esperanza labored to run back to the hacienda where Imelda lived.

“Do we have to run all the way?” Maria asked in her head.

“We do.  Time is short.  Imelda and your Yesenia are in grave trouble.  But your body is so much better than mine…”

“What do you mean?”

“In life I was a little bit of a gordita.”

“Gordita?”

“Little fat girl.  Not athletic like you.”

“Oh.”

“You know some Spanish.  I can see it in your mind.”

“My mom and my real dad are both Spanish speakers.  But they got divorced when I was four.  And we found my stepdad, Stanley.  He only speaks English, so…”

“So, you got out of practice.”

Maria’s body was panting, wheezing, and gasping for air as it ran.  But that didn’t affect either voice in her head.

“And you were out of practice at running.  Let me control the breathing.”

“Okay.  But that might be against the rules.  Promise you won’t use it against me later?”

“We want the same thing,” she reminded Esperanza.

“We surely do.”

The body fell into the trained running style that Maria used in high school track and cross country.  The breathing became regular and easier by far.

“You are definitely good at running,” Esperanza noted.

They pulled up at the gate to the hacienda.

“¿Por qué corres, Esperanza?” asked the guard at the gate.  Maria knew instantly from Esperanza’s memory that the young man’s name was Juanito, even though he was a rust-colored skeleton dressed in gray ghost clothing that you could see through.

“¿Dónde está Imelda? Necesito hablarle.”

“Ella está en el segundo piso. En su dormitorio, creo.”

“Gracias, Juanito.”

They were instantly running again.  The hacienda would’ve been gorgeous in an expensive and colorful way, Maria thought, if only she weren’t seeing it in black, white, and gray.

Esperanza found Imelda’s bedroom door and banged on it with both fists.

Then the door was opened from the inside.

“Yesenia!”

“Maria, you must not say things out loud using your actual voice!  You must tell it to me and let me speak it!”

“You are breaking the rules!” said Imelda in Yesenia’s voice coming out of Yesenia’s tear-stained face.

Maria was hardly listening to the scolding.  She was at once filled with joy at having found the girl she betrayed.   But at the same time she was jealous of how beautiful Yesenia’s naked form would obviously look to Rogelio.

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 23

Canto 23 – Confessional

Stan stumbled into the bedroom.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain it all to Bonita.  Especially since the Vodka was making it difficult to walk, let alone talk.

She was sprawled out on the top of the bedspread, it was still tucked in and made up with her usual attention to tight corners.  She was still dressed.  Her head, propped up against the pillows, was wide awake, and she had definitely been crying.

“Bone, honey, um…”  He stood at the foot of the bed, swaying and shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Stan, you’ve been drinking.”

“It’s Maria… um, ah… it ain’t actually… um, going well…”

“But you’ve been trying harder than before… I’ve seen it.  You two are working together instead of fighting.”

“Yeah, but, I have something to tell you…”

“Yeah… but, first… I have something I gotta tell you.”

“Oh, um… the doctor’s visit?”

“Yeah.  The report came back.”

“Oh, no!  You mean…?”

“Remission is over.  The cancer is back.”

Stan pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead.  How could he…  now?  Maria was…

“You gotta promise me about Maria.  She’s gonna need you more than ever now.”

“You know I will…”  The room was swirling a bit.  He sank to catch himself on the corner of the foot of her bed.  There was suddenly no way he could tell her now.  “How long do you have?”

“Days, weeks, months… not years.”

“You know they told us that before.  Then the chemo started doing its damn job.”

“Yeah, but not this time.  It’s spreading faster than ever this time.  Promise me you will love her like she’s your own daughter.”

“Don’t be so quick to give up.  We both still need you.”

“We don’t have any more options.  It’s still there in my lungs.  We can’t afford more treatment, and Doc Jimenez says it wouldn’t help if we could.”

Stan started to cry.  The alcohol… and the bad news… both sets of bad news.   But mostly the alcohol…

“Promise me you’ll love her, and you’ll take care of her.”

 There was nothing more to say.  “You know I will.”

He gathered her limp and exhausted form up in his arms.  Drunkenly.  And they both wept together.

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 22

Canto 22 – The Puppets on the Wall

The puppets in the workshop were all hung up by the strings on the workshop wall.  There was a triple row of pegs to hang them from and they were basically all there.  All hanging from strings and all in their bare wooden forms without costumes or wigs.

Shandra woke up with a start.  She shook her wooden head awake.  Sawdust flew out of her ears.

“Mark!  Mark?  Are you here too?”

“Yeah.  To your left.”

Shandra turned her wooden head to see Mark smiling at her.

“You been awake for long?”

“No, Shandra.  You woke me up by calling my name.”

She would’ve smiled back at him, but her face was made of wood and was fixed in a frown.

Below them both and to the right they heard a female voice crying.  It was weeping softly.

“Who is that down there?”  Shandra roared.

“That’s the Gingerbread Witch you burned up on stage,” said the mouse puppet directly on Shandra’s right.

Shandra glared at the mouse.  It turned its little gray head away.

“So, what you cryin’ about down there, Wicked Witch?”  Shandra growled.

“You burned me,” replied a shaky little voice.

“But it weren’t real… was it?”

“Everything that happens on that stage is real.  Mr. Mephisto controls reality.  How you think we all got to be puppets?” said the mouse angrily.

“I was just a runaway girl whose parents never looked for her.  Mr. Mephisto promised to find a foster home for me when my punishment as a puppet is done,” sobbed the witch puppet.  “Now, when he puts me back in my real body, I will probably be horribly burned all over my body.”

Shandra’s little wooden tummy immediately turned to ice… well, it felt like that anyway.

“I didn’t know…” Shandra started to say.  But then she got angry.  “Why didn’t you defend your little timid self, then?”

“I couldn’t.  You are so forceful and scary.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mark, “you are saying all the puppets here are being punished for something?”

“Yeah.  Running away from home is a sin that the Devil punishes.”

“I was a runaway too,” said the mouse.

“I ain’t no sinner,” growled Shandra.

Mr. Mephisto was suddenly there laughing.  “You burned poor little Dierdre here.  You put a hit out on Poppa Dark.  You are definitely a puppet for a reason, little girl.”

“I’m gonna run away from here,” declared Shandra.

“You can’t.  Your arms and legs only work on stage,” said Mephisto.

“You wouldn’t leave me here alone?” asked Mark meekly.

“No, of course not.  What did Mark do wrong, by the way, Devil Man?”

“He ran away from loving parents to be with you, an evil influence.”

“So, we are in Hell, then?”

“No.  More like purgatory.  But for a reason.  The angels in Hell are fallen angels, but still angels made by God.”

“Are you sending me to a home all burned?” whined the witch.

“You came here in 1925, Diedre.  You are 103 years old now.”

“But you control reality, Devil Man,” Shandra said.  “You could put her back as a child… and not all burned up, either.”

“That’s right.  I could.”  Mr. Mephisto grinned.

“So, why are we really here?” Shandra asked.

“Because God is a just god.  Some will earn redemption.  And some will get the punishment they deserve.”

“And what if we don’t believe in God?” Shandra growled.

“Well, whatever…  He definitely believes in you.  For good or ill.”

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 21

Canto 21 – The Burned House

“This is all that is left of the house that Momma and I were living in,” said the doll in Brittany’s arms.

It was a brick foundation full of burned wood and charcoal.  It was mostly black and smelled of ash and extinct wood fires.

“What good does it do to bring me here and show me this? 

“You will see when the Lonely One that was my momma shows up at midnight.  I will then be able to show you everything.”

“So, we’re waiting for a ghost?”

“No.  Momma is not a ghost.  She’s a Lonely One like me.”

Brittany did not trust the doll any longer.  She was feeling repeatedly tricked, repeatedly lied to, confused, and definitely kidnapped… yes, that was the word.  Taken without her consent, kidnapped.

The sun was long past set.  The witching hour was at hand.  And Brittany was shivering in the cold night air.

It was at that moment that a glowing ball of red light came down the street from the north.

“There she is,” the doll said.

The light moved to the burned-out ruins of the house.  As it approached the place where the front of the house had been, a sudden growth of red bricks, becoming a red brick wall with a red front door in it, and widened out into the red front of a modest two-story home.  An eerie red ghost of a house stood before the woman and the doll.  Brittany put the doll down, letting her stand on her own two porcelain feet.

“Let’s go in.”

“It’s only a ghost of a house.  There’s really a big hole there to fall into.”

“You are not in your former world.  The rules of this world are different.  We can go into this house and watch what happened there in the past.  You will see what I need you to see.”

Reluctantly, Brittany let the doll lead her towards the front door.  The doll opened the door and ushered Brittany inside.

The living room was typical of a home in the 1940’s and reminded Brittany very much of Great Aunt Tilda’s home when she was a child younger than Hannah.  But everything was lit in an eerie red light.

Brittany took in a sudden, sharp breath when she saw the ghostly image of the momma.  It looked like a duplicate of Brittany herself but dressed in 1940s fashion and with a grim expression on her face that Brittany hoped no one in her future life would see on her own face.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” asked the doll.

“Did she really look like me?”

“No.  You look like her.  That’s why I chose you.”

“Can she see us and hear us?”

“No.  This is an echo of the past.  She has no idea that the two of us are here.”

Then there was the sound of small feet on the stairs.

“Here I come wearing…” began the doll, but trailing off into saying nothing.

Molly came skipping down the stairs wearing a lovely and extra-frilly dress.  She looked exactly like Hannah.

“No!” shouted the momma.  “You should not be wearing that dress!”

“B-b-but it’s a gift from Daddy.”

“It’s cursed.”

“It’s not.  His letter said it was a gift from the lady.”

“You mean the Italian lady?  The one he saved during a battle?”

“Yes… that one.”

“She had the dress to give him for you because her own daughter was killed in the war.”

“But…  It’s my beautiful blue dress.”

Brittany turned to the doll and whispered, “It looks red to me.”

“Everything in Momma’s world was red.  Mad red.”

“Take the dress off.  I should burn the thing.  It is the dress of a dead girl.”

  Molly began to cry.  Then she stormed back up the stairway apparently to take the dress off again.

“Your mother seems overly angry,” Brittany said to the doll.

“My Daddy was the one who really loved me,” said the doll.

Brittany silently bit her lower lip.

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 20

Canto 20 – Esperanza Blanca Guajardo

Maria had been met at the doorway by a young pink skeleton girl ­named Esperanza Blanca Guajardo.  She had been pulled into the very ghost body of the girl, her clothes magically dissolving, and the pink skeleton being pulled inside her naked body.  She walked then, not under her own power, but by steps taken by the ghost inside her.  The panties she had been wearing were on the floor behind her as she walked into a desolate black landscape where every feature she saw was nothing but a gray and white outline, including the simple ghost dress she was wearing.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked the ghost.  It felt weird to be walking nude through what seemed like the inside of a video game more than a real place.  The nearly invisible dress she wore felt like nothing.  It was slightly cold with no wind.

“This is the first time the angel ever let us try something like this.  Always before, Imelda simply dies at the quinceañera, being stabbed to death by the gringo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The game… from the toy store.  You know about the game, or the skull wouldn’t have chosen you.  But never did he choose someone to play the game as me in all the times it was played in the past.”

“This is the game that Yesenia is playing?  With Rogelio?”

“Yes, Imelda and Steven play it with your friends as their game pieces.”

“What are the rules of this game?”

“Imelda’s story ended as a tragedy.  It was a story that none of .us could move on from when we died.  We must replay it over and over until somehow we get it right.”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.  Why do you need living humans to play the game?”

“We, the Lonely Ones, can only play out the actions we took in life.  It is the reactions of the game pieces that are the only hope of changing the outcome.”

“And what happens to the game pieces if you don’t win the game?”

“We have played this game more than once a year for a hundred and sixty-nine years.  Always the game pieces are lost and their bodies disintegrate, and their souls become a part of the land of the dead.”

“Do the game pieces get to go home alive if you win the game?”

“Those that did not die in the game.  Si.”

“What happens, then, that we need to fix in order to win the game?”

“Well, Imelda was in love with Steven.  So much in love, in fact, that they made love one night, making Imelda’s poppa feel his honor could only be restored if he forced Steven to marry her.”

“So, how did that become an unhappy ending?”

“It is complicated.  You see, Javier was supposed to marry Imelda.  But he was not a nice young man.  He beat Imelda twice while they were supposedly courting.  Imelda wanted to tell her poppa how he had treated her.  But her poppa would’ve killed Javier and then been hanged for murder.  Imelda didn’t want that.”

“What was the plan, then?”

“Imelda was hoping Steven would show up at her quinceañera and run away with her.”

“And he never showed up?”

“Oh, no, much worse than that.”

“Then what?”

“Steven showed up covered in blood.  He had a huge knife with him.  And he was angry at Imelda.  He ran up to her and stabbed her in the heart.  As she died, Javier took the knife from Steven and cut his head off.”

“That is really terrible!  How do we stop that from happening again?”

“I don’t know.  But the rules of the game have never before allowed me to have a playing piece in the game.”

“So, it is up to the two of us?”

“Yes, and the game pieces that Imelda and Steven are using this time through the event.”

“Well, let’s go talk to Imelda and Yesenia, then.”

“Si.  I am her best friend, after all.”

“Imelda’s best friend, Esperanza Blanca Guajardo.  Am I right?”

“Si, and my name, in youir language, means Hope.”

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The Haunted Toy Store… Canto 19

Canto 19 – Rattling the Owl’s Cage

Stan was at the toy store early the next day, fuming enough that he didn’t know why there wasn’t a trail of smoke coming out of each of his ears as he made his way through the unlocked business door.

“Geist!  You need to explain some things!”

“Oh?  Did you make the mistake of cutting open the paper skull?”

The owlish man blinked his magnified eyes and gave Stan a grim smile.

“No, I didn’t.  But not because I believe any of that nonsense about demons and the Bones of the Lonelies.”

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

“Well, I need to know how it really works.  I am not going to risk there being some poisonous chemical or radioactive substances in the workings of the thing.”

“I don’t know what is inside the thing.  I do know the one that got opened in Colombia fifty years ago started a series of grisly killings that didn’t stop until at least five hundred people were dead.”

“I don’t want to hear more of the BS.  I want to know how it really works.  Somehow the thing can talk to me in my mind and Maria can’t hear it.  And then it talks to her, and I can’t hear what it says.  This is not the way the universe works.   I want to know how the science works.  And who programmed the damned thing.”

“Well, at least you understand that the thing is damned.  I can’t tell you scientifically how the thing works.  I do not know.  There is science behind it somehow, but growing up I was a barn owl and lived in a tree.“

“What good are you to this place if you don’t know anything at all about how things work?”

“Has she asked it how to get her boyfriend back?”

“She was talking to it again when I left.”

“It will be guiding her, then, on how to get to the Bones of the Lonelies.  It will require a sacrifice of her, possibly asking her to give up her life.”

“What?  You mean it might kill her?”

“Oh, that is what most often happens in these scenarios.  Is she guilty of any mortal sins?”

“She admitted that she brought Yesenia here so she could steal her boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that kind of betrayal probably requires the death penalty.”

“What?  How could that happen?”

“Well, the skull opens a portal to the land of the dead.  A spirit from the other side will come to the doorway used as a portal and take possession of the body.  Considering where she would be going, to the Bones of the Lonelies, she will be taken nude to the other side, leaving some blood-spattered clothing, probably underwear, at the spot of the exchange.  There she will relive an event in the life of a lonely one.  And if the story she is reliving involves death, then the human body will become a sacrifice to the story, and she will die.  Most of the bodies from this practice have decomposed completely in the present because they died so far in the past.”

Stan blanched.  He had to get home to Maria and the skull to stop her before…

                                                *****

When he got home, the door to Maria’s bedroom was wide open, which it never was in his prior experience of it.  In fact, it was usually not only closed but locked.

Just inside the doorway was a discarded pair of pink panties.  And there was blood.

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