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.”

I thought you all might like to see the trophies that are now winging their way to their rightful owners. These acrylic beauties were designed by me and brought to reality by LazrArt. And of course, as promised, they’re accompanied by the DVDs of Ninjas vs. Zombies and Ninjas vs. Vampires, as well as the Ninjas vs. Zombies comic book issue #1, all courtesy of Justin Timpane and Endlight Entertainment. Here’s a candid photo of the packing carnage:

One last time, congratulations to Jasmine Gould, Michelle King and Justin Pollock. Enjoy your prizes!

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.

Pulling one’s soul out is not an easy thing to do. I had to first bait it, with prayers and healthy food and good deeds, like helping the little old woman (they’re always little and old, aren’t they?) carry her groceries to her car because the acned, freckled teenage boy who was supposed to do that was out smoking pot behind the grocery store.

I know because I sold it to him.

I read on the internet that you can tell once the soul is properly baited and ready to be caught because you will get a warm fuzzy feeling inside you and it will be confusing because it won’t have anything to do with sex or alcohol or a really large gulp of too hot coffee.

The next step, once I felt this accurately described warm and fuzzy feeling, was to pull it out. I sat down on the toilet seat, spread my legs like a man, and tilted my head back and opened my mouth wide and flared my nostrils. I reached up with my right hand and stuck it inside my mouth, all the way down until I caught the first fluttering of my soul inside me. Souls are soft and warm to the touch, so it was easy to distinguish between the soul and the other interior organs.

When I pulled it out, there was a pain inside, like the ripping off of an old band-aid under which the wound is still raw. I relished the feeling. It made me giggle.

My tools were all set up for my first soulless adventure: razors and drugs and pornography and large bottles of self-hatred and low self-esteem, which were sold together online for the sale price of only twenty dollars.

I pulled my soul out of my body, sat it down, and said to it: “Watch.”

All the young men lined up in hopes of having the first dance with her. Selecting the tallest among them, the woman waltzed so gracefully that the other dancers ceased their gyrations so as to view perfection. She twirled about, her feet barely touching the floor. The dance over, the man led the woman to her seat and collapsed into the one next to her.

Again the male attendees lined up before her. This time she chose the shortest one. The next dance was a fox trot. As the couple swept around the floor, their speed increased alarmingly. Moments later, the man crumpled to the floor, never again to rise. The woman then latched on to the handsomest young gallant as the band launched into a brisk tango. He, too, fell to the floor, where he remained.

One by one, the woman grabbed hold of a young man, dancing each to his death. The other women stood stunned. With no men left, the vision glided over to the French doors and vanished into the night.

“Another day in paradise,” she whispered to herself.

In the kitchen, a sterile-looking newscaster droned on and on about the past day’s events: a 747 crashed off the eastern coast, killing sixty-nine; the price of crude oil was expected to top $140 a barrel; a house fire in Wabash Valley claimed the life of a young woman.

Carolyn shook her head in disbelief. Nothing but bad news. It seemed the whole world was going to hell. There’d be no need for a killer virus, or alien invasion, or doomsday asteroid. Mankind would be able to end the world all on its own.

Carolyn finished her cup of lukewarm coffee, and shuffled out the door.

It was a warm day with hardly a cloud in the sky. It was enough to instill envious images of tanning on a beach or sitting outside a downtown café sipping a cold margarita into the work-weary minds of rat-race slaves. And Carolyn was no exception. She watched the beautiful landscape rush past the car’s windows as she motored along.

While adjusting the radio something caught Carolyn’s eye in her rearview mirror: smoke. Her eyes darted between the road in front of her and the swirling column of jet-black smoke behind her. It seemed to be coming from The Hill, a recent development project of lower scale housing.

And then a strange sensation overcame her. She tried to ignore it, but it was insistent.

She felt warm. Too warm. Panic gripped her, and she immediately flipped on the A/C in a desperate attempt to cool down.

And then another feeling hit her, one of helplessness and resignation. She felt like a light switch being switched off. Or more accurately like a dimmer switch, slowly, gradually sliding down until the light surrendered to darkness.

With each passing second, Carolyn lost more and more of herself to the unnatural feelings. Her car rolled to a noisy stop, gravel on the shoulder crunching under her tires as she tried to focus on the familiar scenery outside the windows. Her purse fell off the seat, and spilled most of its contents across the floor. She gazed down at her belongings.

The first thing that caught her eye was her wallet. It was splayed open, revealing her driver’s license. She always hated her picture on the card. And below her picture was her address: 7401 Marian in bold, black lettering.

7401 Marian? Where was that? Was that where she lived? Why couldn’t she remember?

A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the rising pillar of black smoke again. But now it was closer, only a few hundred yards behind her. She could smell it too, an acrid, charred stench with a hint of burning flesh mixed in.

Was the fire spreading?

No, it wasn’t the blaze that was moving. It was her. She was steadily being drawn backward toward the inferno.

A peaceful revelation overcame her then, peaceful despite the dreadful realization that came with it.

7401 Marian was her address. It was where she lived. It was where she died.

A house fire in Wabash Valley claimed the life of a young woman.

Why hadn’t she realized it before?

A house fire.

The fire that she couldn’t escape. The fire that was pulling its own back into its deadly embrace. The fire that she had become a part of.

Carolyn closed her eyes as her car slid into the flames.