The cards danced in his talented fingers as they intermingled with one another. The beautiful sound of the cards smacking against each other filled the dark basement. The only light was a bare sixty-watt dangling directly above the center of the table.

Jimmy’s fast hands dealt the cards to the other players. He picked up his own cards and tried to hold back the smile building on his lips. His gaze fell upon the gentleman in the sunglasses.

“You’re up first, Hollywood,” Jimmy chirped eagerly. “Oh, and take the shades off, cheater.”

The man didn’t move; he just sat there. Jimmy reached across the table and snagged the sunglasses from the man’s face. Empty eye sockets stared back across the table at the dealer.

“There, now, isn’t that better?” Jimmy laughed as he flipped Hollywood’s cards over. “Pair of fours. Not a very good hand, partner. Sorry about your luck.”

Jimmy turned his attention to the woman beside Hollywood. Dry blood crusted around the slit in her throat.

“You’re up, Dollface,” Jimmy demanded as he leaned over the table to flip her cards. He paused halfway.

“What’s that? You’re folding? Well, all right, I guess. If you insist,” Jimmy chuckled as he sat back down in his chair. Jimmy gave Dollface a wink before addressing the final member of his dysfunctional poker game.

“Looks like it’s your turn, CEO,” Jimmy announced to the well dressed man sitting to his left.

Cold sweat poured down the man’s forehead. The sweat stung his eyes but he barely felt it; his mind was elsewhere. The gag in his mouth was so tight he could barely breathe. The ropes binding him to the chair dug deep into his skin, sending painful fire through his nerves. He shook his head furiously.

“Too late to back out now, buddy. The cards have already been dealt. You should have spoken up earlier,” Jimmy angrily demanded; he looked hurt that his new friend was struggling to free himself.

“What do you say we make this a bit more interesting, friend?” Jimmy asked his bound compadre.

The man in the expensive suit shook his head feverishly but Jimmy ignored the gesture and flipped his own cards over all at once. “Wow, look at that! King, deuce, deuce, King, eight! I’ve got four of a kind, Kings even!”

Jimmy smiled happily at the man beside him. His fingers were beginning to itch with anticipation. It was a familiar itch that he’d grown to love.

“Looks like we’ve only got one more player with cards in his hand, folks,” Jimmy exclaimed as he reached for the cards in front of the man in the suit.

The man eyed the knife at the center of the table.

“Don’t get any ideas, bro. You didn’t win yet,” Jimmy demanded as he began flipping the man’s cards one at a time.

“Ace of Spades.”

“Two of Diamonds.”

“Queen of Hearts.”

“Ace of Hearts.”

“It’s all down to this card, friend,” Jimmy said as he paused with his finger on the card.

He tapped the card several times. His fingers itched furiously in anticipation. He flipped the card over slowly.

“Two of Clubs,” Jimmy said, shocked.

“Damn, I really thought I had that one. Looks like you win the pot, man,” Jimmy moaned, reaching for the center of the table.

He picked the knife up and smiled softly at it. Its weight felt perfect in his itchy fingers.

“It’s all yours; you won fair and square,” Jimmy added as he buried the heavy knife into the well dressed man’s chest hard enough to tip the chair backwards.

As the suns sets on deep forests, old castles, mountaintops and graveyards, foul demons creep just out of sight and just out of reach. Many fear people as we fear them; most fear only discovery.

Discovery brings attention, knowledge, courage, destruction. And existence is their only goal. To continue, to exist, unseen and unknown, is the challenge. To those of us who see them, death is certain.

Yes, some of them are predators and we are the prey. But they are the few. The many hide among the trees, in the castles and in the graves.

The evening I saw one, the shortcut through the trees was dim, the sun gone and the night near. I was late, hurried but unafraid. I had walked this trail dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times unmolested.

Something was at the bend in the trail; a shadow solidified, became aware of me. And I of it. We locked eyes. Mine in fear, the demon’s also. I stopped and stared, too frightened to run. And where would I run? Its eyes shone with preternatural fear, but not cowardice. My instinct was to flee; its instinct was to eliminate the threat to its existence.

Dusk was gone and night was full upon the two of us, one human, one something else. Now its shape was hidden in the gloom but I remembered its claws, its fangs, its eyes. It growled and hissed.

My bowels loosened, my pants were wet. We were alone, a human in battle with an unknowable enemy. No choice but to try to escape. Back to the start. I ran a race I could not win.

The claws sank into my back. I howled like an animal. The fangs snapped at my throat. We rolled in the leaves, in the twigs and branches. Its strength was supernatural; mine was superhuman. I threw it off but my blood flowed down my back. It braced for a charge.

A weapon–I needed a silver bullet, or holy water, or garlic, or a cross, or whatever this demon feared. It did not fear me. It charged and I fell onto the forest floor. A sturdy branch touched my hand. The monster leaped towards me; I thrust the branch towards it. It was impaled.

The demon screamed in unearthly misery. I said a heavenly prayer and fled the forest.

Home. Locks. Knives. Safety. Perhaps.

Call the police? Visit the loony bin. But my back burned and continued to bleed. Hospital? Explain? Then the police. And then the loony bin.

I called my girlfriend, told her I was hurt and needed her. Bring dressing pads, tape, antiseptic. And please hurry. I put her at risk. I was dying, or thought so.

I almost peed myself a second time when she knocked. Through the peephole, it was her and no monster. Unlocked three locks, let her in. She was carrying a bag from the drugstore. Relief from pain. I would live. But did the thing in the woods survive?

Would it look for me? Hunt me? Would its fear drive it to kill me?

She cleaned my wounds. Told me I needed a hospital. Told her no. The wounds dressed and the pain eased, I thanked her.

She hushed me and caressed my shoulders. My fear and pain lessened. Her seduction increased. Her breath was warm in my ear. Her tongue exhilarating on my neck. Her hands ran down my bare chest. Pinching ever so lightly. I moaned.

She growled. The hands were claws. Her nibbles on my neck became bites with fangs so sharp. I died… but not of pleasure.

I exist now in the shadows of the forest. Always fearful of discovery. Always hiding by day under the dirt. Rising at dusk to prowl. With my mate.

“Man-bits were never made for splits.”

“But the crowd loves you, darling,” said Monty. “No pain, no g–”

Michel groaned.

“Aren’t you wearing your support?”

“Of course I am, but…”

“So change your act.”

“The split is what makes the act unique.”

“Well, it’s your balls, sweetie, but you’re not getting any younger!’

“Monty, if you can’t be positive…”

“’Scuse me for breathing! I’m on in five. Catch you later?”

“No, I’m off home. Break a leg.” He almost meant it.

Michel removed his makeup, pulled on his street wear and left unnoticed through the crowds. He stopped in at the all-night bar on the quayside.

“Usual, Mike?”

“Double.”

“Double tonight!”

“Doug been in?”

“’Bout half an hour ago.”

“Alone?”

Ted shook his head and handed over the bourbon.

“Who this time?”

“Some new guy. Fancy car. You know, if you were to tell Doug who you really are, I’m sure…”

“Oh, they’d all love a piece of Michel de l’Ange, Ted. I am who I really am. What I need is somebody to love plain old Mike Bird. Another double.”

“You sure?”

Mike twirled his wrist. “Keep ’em coming.”

Monty was right about one thing; the act wasn’t getting any easier. He couldn’t be Michel de l’Ange forever. Maybe just one more time…

When Mike Bird took a dive off the High Bridge, with no safety net, there was only silence.

Gifford stifled a yawn and looked around him for diversion. Beside him, his fellow FBI agent was sneaking a look at a newspaper below the level of the prosecution table. The headline of the paper proclaimed, “Dozens dead in massive car pile-up at LaGuardia.” The subhead told, “Many more injured in baffling smash-up.”

The two special agents had flown into New York for a federal prosecution hearing, landing minutes after the tragedy. They had, in fact, witnessed the disaster from the air.

The trial was going to be a long one and just the thought of the long weeks in that beige-walled, sweltering room made Gifford fidget like a grade schooler stuck in math class. He tried to focus on the attorney’s statement, but couldn’t lock onto the words. He realized with a near sexual tingle of anticipation that the only way to cut through the boredom would be to play his special Lonely Game.

Despite the heat, Gifford shivered.

He’d played The Lonely Game ever since childhood when he’d discovered it after being locked in a closet overnight as a cruel joke by his father. The old man had died in a construction accident shortly thereafter.

Gifford tried one last time to find a comfortable position on the wooden bench and stay focused, then gave up and, with relish, began The Game.

First he relaxed. He regulated and slowed his breathing, unfocusing his mind to let his consciousness drift out of his body. Then the wall within his skull that held the real Michael Gifford opened a gap, and he was released to float upward.

He hovered for a moment over his own quiet form, only vaguely aware of the courtroom and the people in it, but acutely aware of every pore of his now vacant physical shell that sat apparently staring ahead in interest at the court proceedings.

“I need a shave,” he thought offhandedly. He pushed the thought of his physicality from his mind to think about going outside and was suddenly in the middle of Fulton Street. Disembodied, the speed of thought never fazed him; it was only later, when he returned to solid reality, that he marveled at it. He soared above the sidewalk without feeling and studied the avenue for a subject to play the game on.

After a moment, Gifford saw a crowded lunch hour bus rumble down the street, drop off passengers, and move on.

“That’s a good place to look,” he thought. With the thought came fact and he was inside the bus in the midst of the noise and humanity. The florescent light stole life colors from the interior of the bus, reducing blacks, whites and Chinese onboard to neutral green-gray. Somewhere near the back of the bus a baby was crying.

“Perfect!” Gifford thought.

He turned his attention then to the bus driver, a beefy Irishman with a mane of silver-gray hair. Gifford settled into the driver without actually passing the man’s consciousness barrier, experiencing audibly and visually everything the driver did.

He left the conscious mind of the driver intact until he was sure he knew the correct muscles to move and the proper actions to take to maneuver the ungainly metal machine over the cobbled streets.

When he was sure he could handle the bus, Gifford eased into the driver’s brain, forcing the conscious mind of the driver to black out.

“It’s going to be a lovely crash,” Gifford thought.

Joseph played with a string on his shirt, and shook his freshly shaven head.

“Are you having the same nightmares?” Dr. Perry asked.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Only the demon, or whatever it is, catches me now. It smells like rotting flesh. The stench is so strong that my eyes water and my nose burns. When I wake up, I can still smell it.”

“What happens when he catches you?”

“He uses his sharp claws to–”

“Claws like Freddy?” Dr. Perry interrupted.

“No. They aren’t anything like that. They’re thick and black; they’re not just weapons attached to his body. They’re his hands. He uses them to slice me open, and it burns so much. I can see my blood and my own insides spilling out, and then I wake up.”

“Funny.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“The irrational fears people have are funny. I treated a man who was afraid of ladybugs. Strange, but at least ladybugs exist, right?”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Joseph asked, getting defensive. “You’re my therapist. You’re not supposed to make fun of patients!”

“It’s amusing when people are afraid of demons, God, Hell or any other fairy tales. You name it, and someone fears it. My point is that true evil comes from other people, not imaginary monsters. You shouldn’t fear demons, Joseph; you should fear me.”

Joseph stared at the doctor, baffled. Dr. Perry called in two orderlies.

“Sedate the patient and prep him for surgery.”

“Surgery?” Joseph asked as the orderlies grabbed him.

“Let’s just say that you won’t have to worry about those scary monsters any longer.”

“Come on, Cy. You wrote nine songs for eight different bands last year, with every single one going straight to the top, and you tell me that’s mere luck?” Dunning cocked his head, grinning mockingly.

Not that he cared. He gave a toss about Cowen and his ability to churn out hits quicker than randy rabbits shagging on speed. The only reason he had taken the three hours’ drive down to the middle of bumblefuck to Cowen’s office was that he had to. His second stint in rehab in less than three months hadn’t exactly endeared him to his editor and it was made quite clear that, if he cocked up again, his next career probably revolved around mopping the men’s room at the local dosshouse. A year ago Dunning had downed vodkas with Keith Richards and here he was now, conducting something that not even by the widest stretch of imagination could be called an interview, with the new patron saint of musical divs for the weekend supplement.

“Jesus.” Cowen diddled with a fountain pen that looked more expensive than Dunning’s car and whole wardrobe combined. “If I had a recipe for writing hits, I’d bottle it, sell it and buy me a fucking Maldivian island. I just write the kind of songs I’d love to hear and hope there are enough people whose taste matches mine.”

When did “taste” become a synonym for lowest common denominator? Dunning thought.

“And I put heart in it. Soul. That’s the most important part–soul. It doesn’t matter if you prefer rock or country, rap or techno, whatever. If there is soul in the music, it will reach out and touch your soul.”

And if I had a square asshole, Dunning pondered, maybe I could shit a TV set.

But though he knew intellectually that Cowen’s music was crap, there was something addictive about it. When he caught one of the songs on the radio, his brain told him to change the station, but his fingers were too busy snapping to follow the task. Sometimes, God help him, he was still humming the dammed tune hours later. The saccharine ballads almost put him in a diabetic coma, yet Dunning felt strangely moved by them.

Right now, he just felt uneasy. For all the costly furniture and high-end technology the office felt frowsty and in the afternoon light Cowen looked as artificial as his songs.

Maybe he was an Auton.

It was time to end this farce. With a classic question, straight out of The Moron’s Guide to Interviewing.

“So, Cyril, where do you get your ideas?”

“I’ll show you.” Cowen grinned and produced a silver box from the top drawer of his desk, engraved with two golden entwined Cs. “Risk a glimpse?”

Dunning frowned, a tad amused. “Sure.”

Cowen opened the lid, took the .38 out and shot Dunning two times in the chest.

Dunning jerked spasmodically before going rigid with shock. The next thing he saw was Cyril Cowen kneeling next to him, holding a dictating machine close to Dunning’s mouth, hitting the REC button.

“Now this will be the recording on which all the other tracks are laid down,” he whispered. “The sound of your last breaths, of your soul leaving your mortal shell. But you will live on. In a song. And your soul will be reaching out to every other human soul. Close your eyes, my friend. You’re going to be a hit.”

Three receptionists sat behind a small desk in identical black skirts and maroon blouses. As one, they turned to him and smiled. Such white teeth. Michael stepped to the counter.

“I received this card in the mail,” he mumbled, holding it out for inspection.

“Wonderful, Mr.…?” queried the one in the middle, who glanced at the card then handed it back to him.

“Rea.” Michael put the card in his messenger’s bag.

“Rea,” she said, smiling again. Her hair was black as a cat’s. “You are expected. Please have a seat, and Mr. Holmwood will see you shortly.”

Michael sat down. There was nothing on the table: no magazines, no newspapers, and no books. Michael glanced at the walls–no windows either. He sighed. I hate being alone with my thoughts.

“Is there something we can get for you, Mr. Rea?” This one had hair like carrots and gold spun together.

“No, thank you,” Michael said. She winked at him.

“Are you absolutely sure?” the third receptionist inquired; her hair was the color of ice.

“Yes.”

She licked her pink lips with a small, narrow tongue. Michael stared.

The door behind the reception area banged open and a swarthy man stepped out, wearing a grey wool greatcoat. He glared at his receptionists. “Come right in, Mr. Rea.” His voice was smooth as synthetic motor oil. “I apologize for my staff.”

The office was smaller than the reception area and just as spare. Michael sat down on one side of an antique desk–the only furniture in the room besides the two chairs now occupied by Mr. Holmwood and himself. A fluorescent light overhead provided illumination.

“Now, Mr. Rea,” Holmwood began, “you have debts. That is why you are here. Before you say anything, however, I want you to know that no matter how significant your debt load may be, no matter how dire your finances–we can help you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Michael began pulling documents from his messenger’s bag. “I can barely afford food.” He passed them over to Holmwood, who reviewed each in turn, silently and carefully.

After a time, Michael coughed. “Well?” he asked. He could not believe that he had watched Holmwood read for twenty minutes in silence.

“These papers represent all of your finances?”

“Yes.”

“All of your debts?”

“Yes.”

Holmwood placed the papers on his desk. “Your private educational loans, they are eating you alive.” Holmwood attempted to smile sympathetically, but the effect was grotesque. Holmwood’s teeth were lightly stained, but not with the yellow of age.

“Private creditors tend to be quite unforgiving in these circumstances. Educational loans are worth far more than even credit card debt. Consequently, negotiation is unlikely to succeed.” Holmwood slid the papers back over to Michael. “Additionally, it is quite unlikely that another institution would loan the funds you require to pay off this debt.”

Holmwood leaned back in his chair, steepled his long fingers.

“So, what can you do for me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Michael’s face turned the color of rubies. “I just sat here and you told me that no matter what you could help me.” He started to rise.

Mirth lines creased Holmwood’s face. “Calm down. Allow me to finish. There is nothing to be done with your debt, but I can help with your finances.”

Michael paused. “I knew you were a shyster–”

“I can help, Michael.” Holmwood stared into Michael’s face.

“…Yes?” he asked. Holmwood had lovely eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Holmwood said, smiling. A pair of crusted fangs protruded from under his upper lip. “I think that we can cut down on your expenses considerably.”

The spring flowers and birds that had been evident seconds ago were now nowhere to be seen or heard. This fact made her shiver as she rung the ancient doorbell. All around the world continued, cars drove by, the wind rustled through the trees. Around the building, everything seemed dead. Detached from the world, much like the occupants.

Julia walked down the draughty hallway to the common room where a familiar sight awaited her. Zombie-like geriatrics lined the walls, all sat in cushioned hard-backed chairs, all staring inanely into space. It was both scary and depressing at the same time. All of these zombies had once been full of life, just like she was now.

She spotted her grandma in her usual seat by one of the three televisions that no one watched. Quickly walking over to her, Julia kept her eyes averted from the other room occupants. After saying hello she carefully hooked her arms under grandma’s armpits and helped her up. She would take her out to the visiting room, where it was lighter and they could have some privacy.

Settled on a pink sofa, grandma pulled the same thing as always from her green cardigan pocket. “This coin is what brought me and your grandfather together,” she declared fondly, passing the half crown to Julia.

It was a lovely story, told with real emotion. Her grandfather had purposefully dropped the coin by grandma’s feet to start a conversation. They had courted for months then married the following spring. After the story Julia watched as her grandma’s hands dropped into her lap and her head lolled backwards. Initially shocked she’d witnessed her dear grandma passing away, Julia relaxed as the light purr of her snores reached her ears.

Not knowing what to do, Julia got up and wandered around the room. She walked to the window and looked out onto the seemingly endless grounds. She shuddered as she noticed a dark shadow thrown across the grass and flowerbeds. It was nothing except the shadow the vast building cast with the sun behind it, but it still unnerved her.

A loud bang from somewhere unnerved her further. She quietly slipped over to the door and peered out into the hallway. There was a man pushing a trolley towards the kitchen. She was just about to return to grandma when something fell out from the side of the trolley. Julia involuntarily gasped–it looked like a shriveled arm. Julia ducked back inside the room, fearing she had been seen, or heard. Quickly getting ready to leave, Julia didn’t hear him approach. The kitchen knife slid into her chest like butter. Collapsing, blood pooling around her, she had one thought.

Grandma wasn’t next after all.

My wife says that my childhood was too happy, and I haven’t experienced enough in life, which is apparently the fucking key to writing a good story. She told me I needed to have more life experiences. She even decided to give me the life experience of being left for the mailman. What a kind gesture.

Luckily, I fixed my writing dilemma. Well, Joan and I fixed it together. She helped me by just being herself, a lying whore, who by the way has gotten so fat that I’m no longer attracted to her anyway. The fat pig.

She came by to get her things yesterday, and I was waiting for her. She entered the house and immediately started an argument. She kept on and on, so I hit her in the mouth as hard as I could. It felt so good that I just kept punching. I realized this was the life experience I needed. I studied the horror on her face, trying to capture every single detail as she fought back, screamed, cried and begged me to stop.

I forced her into the bedroom, and located my practically new hunting knife. I used it to cut her throat as deep as I could. She never let me go hunting anyway; I might as well get some use out of it. The look and smell of her blood was incredibly vivid, and different. It didn’t come out the way it’s often depicted in films. Instead of flowing smoothly, it was more sporadic and uneven. It sprayed out with each heartbeat. There was so much information to use! Joan was right; I just needed some life experience.