By Sharon K. Gilbert

—A demonic twist on Rod Serling’s classic tale, A Stop at Willoughby—

ARNIE Pushman folded his newspaper and gazed out the window. Through the gleaming glass passed mile after mile of rolling green, dotted occasionally with specks of deep lavendar and marigold yellow. Beyond the green, Pushman knew there lay a sea of azure blue that rolled onto a sandy beach so white it almost reflected the perfect sky above.

It was enough to make a grown demon puke.

Except for the sickening scenery, Pushman loved his daily train commute into San Diego, loved this train of half-sentient fools. He loved the slouching conductor whose wife had left him for a vacuum cleaner salesman last October. He adored the piggy-eyed tax accountant with the crumbling marriage and a debt that would strain an elephant. He delighted in the delicatessen owner with the raging overbite and a three-year lease on a love nest on Fuller Street.

For a demon, it didn’t get much better than this.

As personal demon to a whining and completely self-absorbed, former software engineer, Arnie Pushman had life easy. Gone were the tough and tumble days of coaxing cloistered nuns into missing morning prayer. Gone the lackluster life of tempting curious pre-teen boys to sneak into X-rated films. Yes, Pushman’s newest assignment put him into a better and higher class in the netherworld, and his stock was definitely going up.

His current mark, the one who had made Arnie’s millennium, was an eminently forgettable man named Howard Perlman. Divorced with five kids and two mistresses, Perlman fancied himself a ladies’ man. Every morning and every evening, Perlman – with a small shove from Arnie – squirmed into suggestive conversation with a stylish, blonde banker with legs up to her ears, perky eyelids courtesy of Botox, and unnaturally pouty lips. Arnie knew she was a card carrying coke addict with three ex-husbands in her wake, but Perlman couldn’t see past his own erect appendage. Unseen and unperceived, Pushman would merely whisper a word or two to his idiotic human, then he could sit back and enjoy the ride.

Except for this morning.

Something in the air nagged at Pushman, who was in his six-hundred-and-sixty-sixth year as a personal demon and was nearing retirement. He’d known of others in his circle who had reached this hellish milestone with narry a slip, but who had suddenly come upon disaster, ending their careers in ignominy and – far worse – assigned to the dregs in India, where demonic numbers would soon surpass human numbers. And the rats had a nasty habit of biting.

The train slowed slightly, and Pushman noticed a small child standing near the tracks, just in front of a station he’d never noticed before. The boy wore no shoes, and his hatless head shone golden in the sun.

What a nauseatingly adorable kid, Pushman thought as the train stopped. Out of the corner of his third eye, Pushman saw Perlman slide next to the short-skirted banker, dropping his briefcase on the floor in front of the green leather seat, thus giving him an excuse to fumble around near her trim ankles.

Good boy, Pushman thought proudly.

Outside, the boy glared at the demon’s window, soft blue eyes boring into Pushman’s empty heart.

Damn! What a rottenly adorable kid! If I could reach him, I’d punch him in his rotten little gut!

“Willoughby!” shouted the conductor, shuffling along the aisle and asking for tickets. “All out for Willoughby!”

Willoughby? Where the hell was Willoughby? Not on this route, he knew that much. Something definitely wasn’t right here.

Ahead of him, Pushman noticed his human’s demeanor had shifted. The leer that so often passed for a smile had softened into a genuine grin – how disgusting! And he had actually removed his hand from its soft and sinfully suggestive position on the banker’s right thigh.

Not on my watch! Shouted Pushman, who dove forward to grab Perlman’s hand and return it to its proper place.

Outside, the small boy’s simple eyes tore through Pushman – he could actually feel the wretched kid’s eyes searing holes into his back. “You!” he shouted, forgetting Perlman’s peril and heading for the open door of the car. “You little creep! Stop looking at me, or I’ll……”

Pushman’s words stuck in his throat, as his foot touched the ground. The kid smiled.

“Welcome to Willoughby, Mr. Pushman,” the waif said, offering the demon a small hand. “Don’t you want to stay?”

Arnie felt a small scream rising in his belly. The train was starting up again, its wheels rattling along the phantom track as his old car, the train, and his downwardly mobile mark, Howard Perlman, pulled out of sight.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted at the boy, all three eyes blazing red.

“I’m your guardian angel,” the child replied happily. “Now you’ll get to remain here for the rest of your life.”

Pushman blinked, his double tail swishing in the clean breeze of Willoughby. Somewhere, beyond the white clapboard station, past a blacksmith’s shop, and to the right of a cheerful corner store called Peter’s Place, Pushman could hear a choir singing.

“Don’t you want to stay?” the boy’s elegant voice asked. “It’s heaven.”

The bright strains of the choir’s hymn broke momentarily, and the conductor stopped for a beat – his wings rising high, their long, white feathers reflecting the brilliant sun that shone twenty-four hours a day. “What was that?” he asked, as the singers exchanged glances. “Where’s David? Has anyone seen him?”

“He’s gone to the station again,” one of the tenors answered, his halo slightly askew. “Shall I fetch him, Michael?”

The head angel shook his head, recognizing now the sound that had interrupted their practice. Screams again. Little David must have nabbed another one.

Good lad, thought the angel, lifting his baton. Very good.

Popularity: 23% [?]

By Sharon K. Gilbert

“AND SO, ladies and gentlemen, we must now leave the glorious world where our loved ones eagerly await us, and return, albeit grudgingly, to the harsh realm of our own reality. But fear not, dear friends. For this reality will soon fade into distant memory, as we each one of us step into the world of eternal peace. The Land of Light.”
“Beautiful, Chris. Just beautiful!” called a woman’s voice from the booth that jutted out of a wall, twenty feet over the audience’s heads. “Keep smiling through the credits now. Big wave to the little people. Ok, five, four, three, two, and cut! We’re outa here, folks. Let’s wrap this pig up, and we’ll all be having mai tais by midnight.”
Chris Hope continued to smile as a stagehand removed his lapel mic and battery pack. “Going to the party at Ken’s house, Chris?” the youth asked. “Connie says she’s going, and I heard that Max Caesar would be there. I’ll have to keep a tow line on my girlfriend, but–.”
“’Scuse me, kid,” Hope said, as he brushed past the stagehand. “Well, ladies, did you enjoy the show?”
Three delicious young things from the front row had lined up for an autograph, a trio in red, blonde, and brunette. Hope put on his best smile.
The brunette giggled. “Can you really do all that stuff, Mr. Hope? Contact the dead, I mean.”
Hope shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s all in a day’s work. Is there someone you’d like to contact, my dear?” he asked, his voice a practiced river of glass.
The blonde elbowed the redhead. “She’s the one who wants to, you know. Make contact.” All three burst into champagne giggles, and Hope put his arms around their shoulders, drawing them into a bunch like so many picked flowers. “Well, now, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.”
He started to herd them toward his dressing room, but a tug at his right elbow stopped him. He turned to see a withered old man of ageless years in a threadbare coat of patchwork wool and a grimy straw hat with a ridiculous looking feather sticking out the top. “Could you take a minute to speak with me, Mr. Hope?” he asked in little more than a whisper.
“Mister, uh, Mister–.”
“Pierson. Josh Pierson.”
“Ah, yes, well, Mr. Pierson, the show’s over for now, but if you want to speak with my producer, Connie Markham, I’m sure we can work you into a future show.”
The man’s pale eyes sagged. “Won’t do. I need to talk to you now. Time is running out, Mr. Hope. I have to warn you about–.”
The brunette’s hand had slipped into Hope’s jacket pocket, and Chris felt sure she’d left a room key there. “I can’t help you tonight, Mr. Pierson. Talk to Connie. She’ll work you in. Goodnight.”
He turned away, followed by the laughing, high-heeled trio, not caring whether or not the woman got help tonight or if she got it next year. Hope had just wrapped his one hundredth live episode of Land of Light, fittingly aired on Halloween, and he had no intention of letting some crazy old lady keep him from a night’s howling.
Outside, he and his three companions slid into the leather embrace of Hope’s limousine. “Compton, take me home. These lovely ladies need personal consultations,” he told the chauffeur as they pulled away from the curb. It was nearly midnight, and Hope leaned back as the girls talked. This would be a night to remember.
“How does it feel to be so powerful?” asked the blonde. “Isn’t it frightening?”
Hope ran a hand along her thick, bleached tresses. “Oh it is, my dear. And it’s a terrible burden. I was ten when I first realized my gift. I saw my grandmother after her funeral. She hovered over her casket like a weeping cloud. Of course, my parents didn’t believe me then. Genius just isn’t appreciated.”
The redhead nodded, tickling Hope’s recently straightened nose. “We appreciate you, Chris. Is that your real name – Chris? You can tell us. You’re among friends.”
Hope winked. “Read that in that market rag, did you? Well, it’s true. Why should I deny it? My real name is Ed. Edward Alan Stump. Ugly name, huh?”
The brunette stroked Hope’s golden hair; each strand faithfully restored two years earlier in Sweden. “I’ll bet the kids teased you. Called you Stumpy.”
Hope blinked. Bad memories. “Pretty good guess,” he muttered. “Archie Plankman was the worst. He and Danny Kellerman made me eat their dirt every time we had recess back in school. Every single recess! They couldn’t let up even once!”
The redhead kissed his left cheek. “Poor Eddie. You showed them though, didn’t you? You got back at Archie and Danny.”
Hope sat forward, staring at the three women. “You bet I did. I – what? What kind of question is that? And the name’s Chris. Christopher Hope.”
“We’re here, sir,” the chauffeur called as the car pulled to a stop.
Hope looked puzzled. The conversation must have made him lose track of time. His penthouse was more than an hour from the studio. It seemed like only minutes had gone by. He checked his Rolex. Midnight.
“Compton, are you sure we’re home?” he asked as the car door swung open.
The girls stepped out, helped by Compton’s gloved hand, but Hope was having trouble seeing much inside the garage. He could have sworn he saw fog!
“Compton, just where are we?” he insisted, as the chauffeur’s hand reached in to help Hope.
The television psychic stood outside the car, but his feet were not on concrete as he’d expected.
“What the hell!” he called out, as the fog rose to engulf the car. The girls had run ahead, and he could hear their giggling voices echoing in the mists. “Compton!” he called, but the chauffeur had vanished.
Hope shuddered, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of this new place. He thought he heard music and the tinkling of glasses.
The party! Connie’s Halloween party – that was it. She’d planned a big bash in the woods behind her new lake house. That was it! He’d have to have it out with Compton for helping Connie with this prank. Still, Connie’s parties were legendary. It might just be fun.
“Oh, ladies!” he called through the fog. Hope forged ahead toward the noises, noticing how spongy the earth was. Funny, he thought, it hasn’t rained in weeks.
“May I take your coat?” asked a high-pitched voice. A man with small, dark eyes had appeared out of the fog.
“Sure, Renfield. Nice costume. Here’s my suit coat. Sure is hot! You guys turn up the heat just for me?”
The small man took the coat without remark and left. Hope shrugged. Hard to find good help these days. “Hey, girls! Wait up!”
He couldn’t be more than a few yards from the knot of partygoers now. Hope glanced up, but he could see no stars or moon. Cloudy night, he thought. “Hey! Where’s Connie?” he asked a dancing body just ahead.
A tall, stick thin man wearing a disgustingly grungy fedora turned to his question. The man’s skeletal face looked gaunt even for Hollywood, and Hope decided to move on. “Thanks, buddy,” he said as he pushed past the bobbling skeleton. “Eat a sandwich sometime! Sheesh!”
“Hey, Eddy!” a man’s voiced called from the darkness. “Nice party, huh, Eddy?”
Hope strained to see the speaker’s face. “Do I know you?” he asked, wondering if some cockroach reporter had crashed the gate. “The name’s Chris Hope. I don’t think I got yours.”
“Sure you did,” the voice answered. “Kellerman. Daniel J. Kellerman. Old Danny boy, Eddy. Remember me?”
Hope stopped up short. “What the hell are you talking about? Kellerman? Not funny, buddy. Dan Kellerman was killed back when I was in high school.”
“That’s right, Eddy my lad. Three days before the spring dance, remember? Oh, you were inspired at my funeral, Eddy. You weren’t much of a ladies’ man in school, but those girls sure snuggled up to you when you talked about how I was in a better world. Good stuff, Eddy. Golden stuff. Sherry Anderson fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You’re smooth, Eddy. Smooth as the satin lining of a coffin.”
“Hey, Ed! Good to see you!” called another voice from just beyond the skeletal man. “Ed Stump! Good old Stumpy!”
Hope shut his eyes against a bad memory that clawed at his mind. “Plankman?” he asked, certain now that he’d fallen asleep in the car. Dreaming. He was simply dreaming.
“In the flesh!” called a portly shape from the mist. “Try the canapés, Stumpy. Burn your tongue right off! Right, Kellerman?”
The two dream figures laughed, taking turns slapping Hope on the back. “Oh, Stumpy, you always were a dope! Hope the Dope! Hey, I made a funny!”
“Funny as a screen door on a submarine, Plankman!” the other dream figure added, stuffing a small spider into his mouth. “Say, Stumpy, where’d you get those chicks that came here with you? They’re hot!”
It’s just a dream, Hope. You’re only dreaming in the car. You’ll be home soon, and all this nonsense will be gone.
Chris “Stumpy” Hope stepped past Plankman and his idiot sidekick, intent upon finding the girls. He could hear both bullies cackling like hyenas, but chose to ignore them. This was only a dream, right? He could change it if he wanted; make it whatever he chose to make it.
“Do you have time for me now, son?” asked a quivering voice from the darkness just beyond.
Hope turned on his heel to find the old man from the studio staring at him. “You! You were at the studio! Now why would I drag you into this dream?”
The old man’s pale eyes narrowed. “Dream, son? Oh, I shouldn’t think so. You’d like to believe that, I’d imagine. Believe that it’s a dream, I mean. Do you have time to talk now? I really need to tell you about –.”
“No time, old man!” he answered brusquely, pushing toward the main knot of partygoers. He had to take control of this dream!
Ahead in the mist, he could see the girls, huddled around someone at a big table. The redhead smiled seductively, beckoning to him with one scarlet-tipped finger.
Hope pushed up the sleeves of his Calvin Klein turtleneck and ran a hand through his hair. “So, shall we blow this place?” he asked her.
The girl smiled provocatively and nudged the other two. “We’d love to,” she said, her voice tinkling like a small bell. “But wouldn’t you like to meet our boss first?”
Hope blinked, wondering just what sort of game the girls were playing. “Your boss?” he asked, glancing at his watch. Still midnight? He shook the timepiece, which appeared to have stopped.
That proves it – this has to be a dream.
Hope smiled again. He was, after all, in control of his own dreams.
The redhead drew him into the small circle. Before Hope, towered a man of nearly seven feet in height. Red eyes met his own, and an enormous palm with sharp nails dwarfed his in a meaty handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ed,” the tall man said.
Hope jerked his hand away, noting several red streaks where the man’s fingers had touched him. “I didn’t catch your name,” Hope returned, doing his utmost to appear cool.
“Oh, I believe you know me, Ed. We’ve been friends for years. Ever since your grandmother’s death, if you’ll recall. One might say I made you what you are.”
“The name’s Christopher Hope. And I don’t think we’ve met.”
The tall man laughed, and Hope felt his entire body shake as the giant’s laughter echoed eerily against the fog.

“You’re an amusing fellow, Ed. I take it the girls made you welcome. They’re good for that. Now, Thalia, Euphrosyne, Aglaira, go now! You’ve done your jobs. Scurry away now!”
The redhead lingered a moment near Hope’s left ear, whispering something that made the confused psychic blush, then she kissed his eyes and laughed. “You were more fun than most,” she said as she led her two sister Fates toward a large tree at the center of the grove.
The tall man handed Hope a large, golden cup, filled to the brim with a dark, thick fluid. “Drink up, Ed. Drink to those lives that your lies have ruined! Drink to eternity and darkness! Here – here in this dark place, drink to your friends, Ed. Mr. Kellerman and Mr. Plankman. Drink to Kellerman’s untimely demise after you prayed he would die! I heard you, Ed. I have always heard you. And the very dear Mr. Plankman! Drink to the syphilis that took him to his wormy grave! The very end you had wished for him, isn’t it Ed? Once again, prayer works miracles, my lad!”
Hope threw the cup to the ground, and the crimson liquid ran out and became a swarm of flies.
“Dear God!” he cried, stumbling backward. “What is this place? Why would I dream this?”
“Don’t you recognize the other world, Stumpy?” asked Kellerman, whose face now twisted into a thing with three eyes and a blackened tongue. “Isn’t the afterlife light enough for you, old boy?”
“No! You’re not – it’s a lie!” Hope screamed, pushing away from the hideous creature called Kellerman and running toward the car. He had to regain control!
But in the thick fog, he lost his way, and he smacked into a soft figure, clothed in rags. “Watch it!” he cried out, and he glanced down to see the old man. “You!”
The white-haired man’s hat had fallen, and he looked at Ed Stump with eyes that had grown soft and wise. “I tried to tell you, Ed. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry, Ed.”
Stump suddenly felt enraged, and he shook the old man by his thin shoulders. “You did this! You did this to me! Who the hell are you?”
Behind him, peals of raucous laughter rang out from the tall man and his minions. The Fates danced beneath the great tree that dominated the dark wood, and the two demons who had been masquerading as Kellerman and Plankman slapped each other’s backs in congratulatory fashion.
The old man’s gentle eyes grew wet, and he bent to pick up his hat. “I tried to help you,” he said as his body changed shape and began to brighten. “God loves you, Ed. But you refused that love. Instead, you wasted your life on earth by seeking power, and then you used that power to deceive others. There is no Land of Light, Ed, and you know it. Not for those who refuse God’s gift of eternal life in Christ. Verily, I say unto you that for those who refuse this great gift, there is only wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
Ed shielded his eyes as the figure grew taller and whiter, until Ed could no longer bear to gaze at the shimmering, pure light.
“I am the way, the truth, and the life, Edward. I died for you. But since you did not wish to know me in life, then I will not know you in death.”
The figure, clothed now in a snow-white robe and girded with a sash of gold, rose high above Ed Stump’s head. The being’s feet shone like bronze lanterns, and Ed could barely stand in His wonderful presence.
“Goodbye, Ed,” the magnificent being called as His light grew brighter and brighter. Suddenly ashamed, Ed fell to the ground in supplication. As he glanced up, Ed strained to catch one last glimpse of this perfect, loving man. Ed knew this man embodied all that was good, and he longed to go with Him. As He rose, the man spread his arms wide, and Ed could just make out the imprints of crimson wounds in both hands.
“Dear God!” Ed cried, as the demons Kellerman and Plankman reached for him from behind. “I was wrong! I do believe! Dear Lord, please, don’t leave me here!”
“Too late,” the Kellerman creature said with a throaty laugh. “We have a special place for people like you, Eddy old man. Not a land of light, though,” he added, and everyone in hell laughed. “It’s not light at all!”
Ed screamed as the demons pulled him toward a blackened maw that had opened up beneath the tree. The Fates spat upon Ed as he fell. And all Ed Stump, formerly Christopher Hope, could think as he fell was how much he longed to see the man of light again, just for a moment, so he touch the hem of his gown.
========
Copyright 2004 by Sharon K. Gilbert

Popularity: 19% [?]

By SHARON K. GILBERT

EDDY WILSON looked back at the hunter green,1998 Chrysler van and waved to the driver. He checked his watch: just past three. He’d have to return to this corner by four or miss the ride out of town.

The nineteen-year-old reached into the right, slash pocket of the navy windbreaker he’d found at the Salvation Army and fished out a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes. In one smooth, practiced motion, Wilson removed a well-packed cylinder, lit it with his Dad’s old Zippo, and inhaled deeply.

“Damn, I needed that,” he said out loud. “Another podunk day in another podunk town. Sheesh, what a gawdawful job.”

After taking a moment to gather his bearings, Wilson pointed his Nike trainers west toward what appeared to be an ‘old money’ section of today’s target town: Caleb’s Crossing. Jackpot. Fancy homes like these inevitably provided big returns for scams such as Eddy’s. Lonely old ladies in bunny slippers and bathrobes usually answered these doors, often confusing him with some kid from the neighborhood. Eddy always knew just which line to employ to relieve these society dames of a bit of their savings, often with a sandwich and beer thrown into the bargain.

A northerly wind cut across his ears as Eddy approached the first corner of the picturesque neighborhood. It looked like something out of an old Jimmy Stewart movie.

Smack down the center of the broad avenue lay what looked like a park. Towering poplar trees formed a line of skeletal soldiers along the promenade, their fallen leaves cast upon the green grass like a thick carpet of yellow. Wrought iron park benches squatted beneath many of the trees, and Eddy could see what looked like a family of squirrels chasing each other up one massive trunk.

Two blocks further down, near the center of this lush park, Wilson could see a magnificent stone and marble fountain, bordered by a roundabout and crossed by a street called Wolf Park Avenue. The Nike trainers stopped, and Eddy took a final puff on the spent Lucky. He’d reached what looked like a very tall, slender pyramid. It reminded Wilson of something he’d seen in a movie—Cleopatra perhaps.

“Dang if it’s not an obelisk,” he muttered, feeling the smooth stone with his gloved hand. “Cool. Real cool.”

He walked to the other side, admiring the stone marker’s precise lines. Not granite, he thought. His father had managed a granite quarry back in North Carolina. Eddy knew granite, and this wasn’t it. Funny, it feels sort of creepy.
A bronze plaque was screwed into the obelisk’s northernmost face. Eddy had to squint to read the tiny writing.

WOLF PARK. ESTABLISHED BY JACOB STEINHERZ, 1849. WOE TO ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

What the hell kind of sign is that?

“Hey there!” a man’s voice called from Eddy’s right, causing the teenager to nearly jump out of his skin. “Too cold a day for sightseeing!”

The old man stood on the top step of a dozen that led up to a wide brick and stucco porch. The three-story house dominated the street like an aging dragon; a remarkable feat among such a collection of quirky mansions. Eddy scanned the odd home—it may look like the Addams family, but it surely meant big money. A lawyer maybe. Or local politican. Maybe a rich old writer. After six months going door to door in nearly every state in the union, Ed Wilson had learned to size up a pigeon in seconds.

“Boy, you got that right,” he said, stubbing out the Lucky with the toe of his shoe. “But a guy’s gotta make a living.”

The old gentleman nodded, slowly descended to the bottom step. “I got hot coffee, if you need it. What line of work you in, son?”

Boy, it doesn’t get any easier than this!, Wilson thought, imagining the bonus he’d get for landing a fat check in exchange for flimsy promises. “Magazines,” he called back, looking both ways before crossing the street. “Not many cars around today. Is it a holiday or something?”

“Not officially,” the man answered cryptically. “Come on up here, son. What kind?”

“Excuse me?” the kid called back, moving closer to the monstrous mansion. A quartet of stucco turrets rose above a central brick manor house, connected by a widow’s walk of wrought iron. A curious series of weathervanes crouched atop the slate roof’s peak. Eddy couldn’t make out the shapes exactly, but it looked like the Amish silhouettes he’d so often seen throughout small Indiana towns. “Kind?”

“Kind,” the man repeated. “What kind of magazines do you sell?”

Laughing, Wilson pulled up his thin collar. “All kinds,” he lied. Though he’d ‘sold’ thousands of subscriptions, he knew not one customer had ever received even one issue. It’s all about you, his trainer had told him back in June. If they like you, then they’ll buy anything. Sight unseen. Most people will just think of it as offering you a helping hand. Look clean but poor. That’s the killer look. And be polite. Old folks love polite kids.

“Perfect,” the man replied. “You like cream in your coffee?”

Eddy paused at the foot of the steps, gauging the feel of the elaborate home. “Quite a place you got,” he said, remembering lesson number 12: Lead with a compliment.

The elderly gentleman smiled, obviously pleased. “It’s been around for many years. Built back in 1845 by Jacob Steinherz, a present for his bride. Old Jacob worked day and night laying brick with his own hands. Course he had help, but I’m told he did the bulk of the work. I suppose that’s why it’s not one of those cookie cutter places. It has soul, you might say. Cream?”

“Oh—yeah, thanks. And sugar, if that’s all right.” Eddy put his right foot on the bottom step. “So did his bride like it?”

The man stood at the door, holding it open wide in invitation. “I’d like to say she did, but truth is she never saw it. Poor Beatrice disappeared the night before their marriage. Tragic tale. Come on in!”

Eddy stepped up closer, noting how slick the spalled concrete steps felt beneath his feet. It was like his shoes refused to enter, even though his feet insisted upon it. His arms felt like ice. He gave his feet a mental nudge, and rushed toward the open door.

“Thanks,” he said, passing over the threshold and stepping into the foyer. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

“Many thanks,” his host answered, closing the door behind them. “I’ve kept it just the same for all these years. It’s rather pretentious, and it can take a whole day just dusting. I don’t know—maybe I should change with the times—have one of those high-priced interior decorators over for lunch. I’ll get your coffee. Feel free to look around.”

He walked ahead of Eddy, his gait faltering now and then as he crossed the vast, marble tiled foyer before disappearing behind a nine-foot high, swinging door.

The impressive entryway bisected the home, opening in the four cardinal directions: north to what must be the kitchen, east toward a sitting room dominated by a stone fireplace that spanned one entire wall, west into what old folks would call a music room, and south out the enormous, mahogany and oiled bronze front door. Man, there’s money here. I can smell it.

Eddy wandered to his right, choosing to warm himself by the roaring fire. A pair of tiger oak pillars flanked his passage, and the Nike trainers squeaked as his tread left the marble of the foyer for the softer carpet—no doubt, this is some Persian rug or something—inset into an octagon of black and white Italian tiles. Gee, what a crazy room, Wilson thought. Don’t care—so long as I get a beauty of a bonus. Man, this oughta make me van captain.

“Be there in a minute!” the man called from somewhere to the back of the house. “Sit by the fire, Eddy. Take off your jacket!”

Wilson drew near the fireplace and slowly removed his windbreaker. “Thanks!” he called back, suddenly aware that his strange host had called him by name. Did I tell him my name? Bad move. I gotta be more careful. Use the fake name. Rule number six. Sheesh!

The ceiling rose easily twelve feet overhead, and an ornate metal—gold?—and crystal chandelier hung from a centrally placed, hand-painted medallion. Oddly, the mural decorating the medallion lacked color—painted solely in shades of black and gray. Come to think of it, a lot of this place is black and gray, Eddy realized. Even the paintings on the wall, most likely ancestors long dead, appeared otherworldly and drab. Varying in size and shape, each looked more like a precise but lifeless cutout than 19th century portraiture. Perhaps the man’s children had painted them—otherwise, someone had wasted his money.

“There,” his host declared upon returning to greet Eddy. “I have brought coffee with cream and sugar—as requested. And I have even embellished our tray with fresh danish pastries, made by two dear sisters who run a local bed and breakfast. Perhaps, you will be able to visit them as well—or not,” he said, setting a sterling silver tray on a highly polished table nearest the fire. “Sit down, Eddy. Mustn’t let the coffee get cold. Oh, let me take that jacket. You won’t be needing it.”

Edward Thomas Wilson, named for his grandfather and his father, blinked. “Say what? I mean, uh, I don’t understand, sir. Did I introduce myself earlier?”

His host’s face grew wide with an unabashed grin. “Do forgive me, Eddy. I should explain. I’m a bit, well, psychic. That’s how I knew your name. It was presumptuous, perhaps even prahlerisch of me to use it. Please forgive me.”

“Prah-what?”

The man’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “Oh, I am forgetting! I meant that I was being boastful, you know. Sometimes, I forget. I don’t often have such nice visitors. Have one of the danish, they’re very good. The sisters use an old family recipe.”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” Eddy said, taking one of the sweet treats. Wilson hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous night—typical for a scam trip. How many nights did he go to sleep hungry? Most, all? The buttery pastry melted in his mouth, and he soon took a second, and then a third. “Gee, I’m sorry,” he mouthed around sugary bites. “It’s just…”

“It’s just that you’re hungry!” the man said, finishing Eddy’s thought. “Of course you are! Drink the coffee now. You wouldn’t want the pastry to stick in your throat. Now, did you bring a brochure?”

Eddy gulped down the coffee. He’d never tasted such aromatic flavors in his life! Where had coffee like this been? Maybe this is the fancy stuff that sells for fifty dollars a pound. Man, I’ll live like this someday. High on the hog and not giving a dog’s butt for what the world thinks!

Did he just ask about a brochure? “You mean for the magazines?” Wilson asked, suddenly a bit woozy.

“Natürlich! The magazines. I would love to see what you offer. Do you have any periodicals about ancient peoples?”

Eddy’s brain hurt. Sugar rush, he thought dreamily. I’m eating too much at once. “Like—uh—what’s that rag called—oh yeah!—National Geographic?”

The man shook his head, a raven lock falling into his steely eyes.

Wasn’t that dude’s haircolor gray when I got here?

“Not exactly,” he explained. “Oh, I shouldn’t expect you to know of such materials, Eddy. They’re lost on today’s generation. But the world is far older than you might think. And infinitely more diverse.”

The boy’s head shifted to one side as he tried to keep his vision clear. “Don’t move so much,” he complained. “Old world? Yeah, I guess. If you’re old. Me? I’m young. I got plans. As soon as I rack up enough bonus points for a plane trip back home, I’m gonna show my old man just how tough I am.”

“I know you will,” his host assured him. “Oh, you’ve eaten all the danish. Perhaps, I can persuade my dear neighbors to send over more. Do we need more, Mr. Wilson?”

“Huh? Dang, mister! Sorry. Look, I got a headache. Maybe I’ll go. But—you should buy some magazines first. Anything. I don’t care. Just give me all your money. Ok?”

To his surprise, the man nodded and produced a black leather checkbook. “Of course! It’s the very reason I invited you inside, dear boy! I’ll take one each of every magazine you represent. How much would that be? A thousand? Two thousand? Five?”

Wilson’s brain screamed, and tiny lights danced against his retinas. “Five? Are you crazy, old man? Sure! Write me out a check for a million bucks!” he screamed, jumping to his feet. The trainers gripped the woolen carpet, effectively nailing the teen’s feet to the floor. “What the…?”

The man wrote out a check and handed it to Eddy. “I’m afraid you’ll find you can’t move,” he explained. “I should have warned you, but then you seemed so eager to come inside and offer me your magazines. I suppose there are no real periodicals, are there? Can’t talk? Das ist schade. Too bad. But, you came inside of your own free will, and that is all the law requires of me.”

“Wh—wha?” the boy mouthed. His face had grown ashen and his hands pale. His clothing, a light yellow sweater and faded denim jeans, looked as if they had aged a century. His tongue felt thick, and his mind empty. My name? What’s my name?

“What law? Is that what you wish to know? Well you might ask, young man. Since you are a bit of a trickster, I’m sure you’ll appreciate my own brand of, well, deception. It’s the way of the world, you know—at least the way of the old world. The original world. We have to have your permission to deceive you. You might call me a bit of a reverse vampire. I don’t come to you. You must come to me. And it must be willingly. Well, Mr. Wilson, I invited you inside, and in you came. Right into my special house. Soon you’ll forget all about your world, and all your experiences, your hopes, your dreams, and your precious youth!—all will become mine. I will once again be able to walk among the living outside these walls—for one year—that is the rule, you know. And you, well, you dear Mr. Wilson, will join the Shattenleute. The Shadow People. I leave you that much. Just a shadow. Just a tiny impression of the man who once wore those ridiculous shoes. Oh, dear. You’re turning, Eddy. Tell me quickly, do you prefer hanging on the wall of this room or would you perhaps enjoy a bit of outdoors? I can mount you as a weathervane, if you like. Nod if you would enjoy being a weathervane.”

Eddy nodded, drooling as his face darkened into a black silhouette. His limbs froze into place, lifted as if in prayer. His shoes solidified into black boots, giving him an old-fashioned, Amish appearance.

“That’s nice,” the man said with a satisfied grin. “Of course, I’ll be keeping my check. You won’t need it where you’re going. And I suppose I’ll find some use for this jacket.” He searched the pockets and found the cigarette pack and Zippo lighter.

“Lucky Strikes,” the man mused. “How appropriate!” he said, removing a white-wrapped cylinder and placing it in his mouth.

A moment later, he stepped outside and happily hopped down the stairs, two at a time. He watched as a 1998 van drove up and down the street. Finally, the vehicle stopped at the house, the driver leaning out of the window. “You seen a kid in Nikes and a jacket—well, sort of like yours—seen him?”

The man, looking just twenty or so, flicked a bit of ash onto a pile of frozen poplar leaves. “Can’t say I have. Do you like my weathervane?” he asked, pointing to the roof where a black silhouette of a lanky man perched among a dozen other, similar shadows.

“Sure,” the driver said. “Look, if you see the kid, his name’s Ed. Tell him he’s got until five, and then I’m leavin’ town.”

The man nodded and took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he promised, enjoying the warm sunlight that bathed his newly re-born skin. “But I wouldn’t wait. Most people who visit Caleb’s Crossing find it so inviting, they simply don’t want to leave.”

“Yeah, I guess,” the driver muttered, shifting the van into gear and heading east.

The mysterious man waved to the disappearing van. He pondered the youthful eyes and limbs of the six teenagers crammed into the seats. Suddenly, as if inspired, he ran after the van, shouting.

“Mind if I hitch a ride?” he asked, noting the boys’ hungry faces. “I can pay.”

The driver thought for a moment. “Sure. You pick up the next tank of gas and supper, and we’ll take you as far as the gas will hold. What’s your name, bud?”

“Jacob,” he replied, thinking of all the Shadow People hanging in the house he’d built with his own hands. And of his bride—the very first to give her life so that the ancient German vampire could live a little while longer. “Jacob Steinherz. I guess this must be my lucky day.”

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Copyright Sharon K. Gilbert November 2008 — All rights reserved

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