It was close to closing time.

“Just be aware, madam, that this one has an inner slip.”

“Thank you,” I said calmly and pulled the curtain across. “I don’t expect it will fit, but…”

“Our sizes are quite generous, madam.” She smiled sweetly but I knew…

Generous for stick insects, I thought…

It was Wedgwood cotton; you know, the kind that’s cool and creamy and pale, dairy-maid cheesecloth and meant for summer–the perfect dress for such a hot day. I just knew it would have a soothing, fresh linen feel so I whipped off my clothes down to my underwear and slipped it over my head.

It was like being underwater, swamped by a sudden wave of frothy white. I could see the light above but I couldn’t get there. Between me and the light, a swathe of thin white cotton veiled the way. So I pulled upwards on the neck, back over my head to examine the inner workings.

“How are you getting on in there?”

The assistant was blond, slim, attractive. I couldn’t possibly admit…

“Fine.”

Once more I put my arms inside the dress. I could put them straight up through and out the neck. Carefully I lowered the opening over my head. It was like being wrung in a mangle. Something was twisted so the dress wouldn’t pull down and the more I pulled the tighter the twist became. I tried twisting it in the opposite direction. It didn’t work. Not only that but now I couldn’t get the dress to come back up over my body and the thin strip of silky connective ribbon threatened to strangle me. I swear this damned dress is haunted. At last a twist in the direction of spin loosened the garment’s grip and I was free.

“Any use?… Call if you need help.”

In your dreams, beanpole.

The only way to get in, it would appear, was to go in arms first. This time I made sure the inner slip was entirely in line with the dress. I looked down through. I looked up through. There was no one in there–nothing. It was as empty as a magician’s casket.

“Right,” I said with renewed determination. I raised the garment above me with both arms wide apart and in line with the sleeves. In this way the dress ought to slip down over the head as a natural consequence of the arms drawing into the sleeves. It worked–at first.

But the slip contrived to cling to my body and as I pulled the dress down, it protruded out of the head hole and covered my face. I couldn’t get at it now since my arms were outside of the dress–out and up to the sides like a Frankenstein monster. My head was so thoroughly encased in the ectoplasmic white cotton the only sounds I could make were muffled and indistinct. The head hole was blocked. The skirt fell over me like a tent. “Hemph,” I called. “Hemph!”

A sharp pain crumpled me. It was in my back, then my head, as if some evil had slipped inside me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

It was the dress or me.

I became the Hulk. I heard seams rip and cotton tear. I flung my shoulders wide, hit out and recognized the sound of splintering glass. I wrestled the dress to the floor. And that is how she found us, the dress and me, engaged in mortal struggle. And she tried to make me pay, pay for the damaged dress, the wrecked changing room, the broken mirror. Bad luck. Very bad luck for her.

I expect they’ll find her tomorrow, tied up in the back of the shop with that malevolent dress. She may survive the night but I don’t give much for her chances. That damned dress is evil, you see… haunted… I’m sure of it.

This bed, it feels strange, the sheets are not fresh-smelling like my own. It’s dark outside. The shadow to my right seems to be following me, or am I following it?

I feel so vulnerable. Alone. Naked.

I hear a knock on the door. A man enters, holding an item in his hand as he calls out my name. I don’t know him, yet he acknowledges me by my first name. Why is he here? He’s coming closer. I can just about make out his face from the amber glow of light that seeps in from the open door, striking the side of his unshaven cheek.

He is a large man, and he is asking me to take this item from his hand. He tells me to drink from this small white cup. To avoid a confrontation, I do as he says. I should attack him and rip out his heart, my mind gestures, but I will not. Why should I bother with someone who is only here in my dream? He will be gone soon, and then I can go back to my happy place, where my soft plush rug fills the floor with its gentle touch under the soles of my feet.

He interrupts my thoughts, trying to get my attention. I ignore him, drinking the remainder of whatever concoction he placed in this cup, crushing it in my hand as he raises his eyebrows at me, as though he despises my action. He now walks away from me. I can hear him lock the door. Finally, he is gone. I lie back in bed. I close my eyes; my mind tells me to rest, young man, go to your happy place. I am finally home.

He paused, thought for a moment, then picked up the clippers and hid them in his apron pocket. His wife would be home soon.

The guards are located at different checkpoints on the outskirts of the city. They stand near the antediluvian tollbooths. Clutching guns and rifles, they stand tall, like ancient centurions, in front of the blockades. The guards won’t allow anyone to leave or enter the city. I got other plans.

My name’s Joseph Cox. I’m a scientist. Got three PhDs in biochemistry, theoretical physics and microbiology. Gonna get through the blockade and make it to Time Town. Got a few toys that’ll help me achieve these goals.

I stop a hundred feet from the guards. On my shoulder is a gas mask hidden in an open black bag. In my hands is a mammoth water gun. They stare quizzically at me.

“Look!” I shout as I point my gargantuan water gun at the cloudy sky above. I pull the trigger, launching a water-filled poison into the air. I put on my gas mask and watch the contaminated water sail high then rain down on the guards.

The guards laugh maniacally. Yet once they inhale the toxic air, they fall to their feet. Within seconds, all the guards lie unconscious on the ground. Will they die? Some may. The others will wake up in a few hours.

Don’t have time to move the cars in the blockade. Got to get to Time Town before dark. I steal one of their cars. The keys are still in the ignition. I drive north to Time Town in Lake George.

I arrive in Lake George before sunset. I ask a stranger for directions to Time Town.

“It closed down many years ago.”

“The place has sentimental value.”

He gives me directions. I get there in a few minutes.

In Time Town, an old amusement park, I find a locked gate that blocks the entrance. I squeeze through a hole in the gate, clutching a .45 Magnum.

I go through an open door into the main area. The Time Machine ride is still there, a special elevator into the past. I press a button and the elevator opens up.

Suddenly, a gang of six teenagers enters the area, pointing their guns at me.

“Who are you?” a tall muscular gang member asks.

“Just a guy longing for the past.”

“You got the killa virus?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“No.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Too bad.”

He grows a wicked smile. “You think you can kill all six of us with that .45?”

“Yeah. You better get out of here, punk!”

I look at the kid and see madness and rage in his alien eyes. I shoot him dead. The others freeze.

“We’re leaving, sir. We got no argument with you.”

“Okay. Drop your guns.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot us?”

“No.”

They drop their weapons.

“Turn around and start walking.”

As they saunter off, I blast each coward to kingdom come.

“Yeah, I got the virus. Before it destroys your body, it attacks your mind. That’s why I killed my wife and two daughters. Even now, I see them coming at me. They bite me and try to eat my flesh. I beat them up. But they won’t stop. So I blow their brains out.”

The dead kids are my gourmet dinner. After a full meal, I enter the elevator.

The elevator descends rapidly. Below, I hear the shrieking sounds of alien creatures. Maybe I’ll find the cure, or have one helluva midnight snack.

“I’ve got her,” I answered, “in a cage on my back seat.”

“A cage?”

“A shoebox. It’s got holes in it, though. She can breathe.”

“It’s a rat.”

“Yes, she is a rat.”

“Has it chewed through the box?”

“Can she do that?”

“It’s a rat.”

“Oh. Well.” I walked to the car and peered into the back seat, and the box sat, undisturbed. I opened the back door and picked up the cardboard, light, and saw the hole in the bottom, the hole in my back seat, leading into the trunk. I popped the trunk, and out she jumped, scurrying past and into the brush.

“You horse’s ass,” he chided me, and I felt like a child, ruddy cheeked and sobby and short of breath.

“I’m sure I can find her, or, well, sir,” I answered him, “I’ll go and get you another.”

“No, no, too late now. I’ll have to find something else for dinner.”

“You were going to eat her?”

“I was going to eat it, boy, I was going to eat it.”

She looked up at him. “Well, I guess it might cheer me up a little.”

“Great,” he exclaimed. “It’s a party like no other.”

They entered a beautiful mansion overflowing with birthday decorations. But Taylor noticed that the entire decor was in black.

“Carl,” Taylor remarked as she pointed her finger. “Even the cake is black. It has black frosting.”

“Cool, isn’t it?” he laughed. “The guy’s over the hill.”

After cake and champagne, Taylor was still wiping black frosting from her mouth as Carl led her into a large darkened room dotted with large sitting pillows.

“There he is,” Carl said. “See how old he is? He gets to go first.”

Taylor watched the old man approach a black counter and the person behind it gave him a black goblet.

They watched him quietly walk to the corner of the room, reach into the goblet, and put something into his mouth. Then he collapsed.

“What happened?” She whispered.

Carl grabbed her arm and they both approached the same counter.

“One razorblade and one cyanide please.”

The man handed Carl two black goblets. Carl smiled and gave one to Taylor.

“Well, Taylor,” Carl commented. “I told you there was no other party like this.”

As they sat down on the black pillows, he pulled out the razorblade from his black goblet and angled it against the inside of his thin epidermis.

“Here, you watch me first, and then it’s your turn.”

Before she could speak, he had the razor deep inside his flesh.

“Carl, no,” she pleaded as she turned her head away from him.

By the time she looked back, his second wrist was slashed and he was lying on the floor.

Taylor turned her head to and fro to comprehend what was happening. One couple was popping pills and guzzling them down with bottles of alcohol. Another couple was twisting rope around each other’s necks. Then Taylor saw a man who was alone, placing a gun inside of his mouth.

Taylor gasped at all the horrific sights that surrounded her. She was trapped inside a wonderland of death.

She quickly realized that it wasn’t a birthday party.

It was a death party.

That explained the black decorations.

She sobbed as she stared at Carl’s lifeless body. She knew that there was no chance of saving him. There was too much blood on the floor.

She knew that Carl had problems, but not to this extent. She thought she knew him quite well, but sadly, she didn’t have a clue.

But what about herself? She wildly thought. Carl knew about her problems and at least she was honest and up front about them. It wasn’t fair that Carl was hiding secrets from her.

She was alone now, disappointed and devastated.

What was Carl thinking? That they would both die here together? As she sat in the roomful of madness, it was all so clear now. After witnessing the countless people around her ending their lives in various ways, she saw this wasted insanity from a different perspective. It was horribly different seeing it rather than thinking of it. She was repulsed by the sight of it and covered her face.

Taylor ignored the black goblet that Carl had given her.

She knew deep inside that she had to escape the suicide room.

She slowly stood up and quietly walked towards the doorway, desperately depending on the darkness in the room to assist her.

Suddenly, a man stopped her.

“Sorry, lady,” he said. “Once you come into this room, you can never leave… alive.”

He pointed his finger. “The black counter is on your right.”

My wife inquired, “Should we have another baby?” Before I filled her glass with wine, I splashed purple liquid into my goblet. The cheap bouquet smelled earthy, with just a light sting of alcohol. We both licked our lips in anticipation.

“Was that a question or a comment?” With the knife, I sliced the rump, and laid a tender piece onto her plate, to join the vegetables below her eyes. A dabble of honey finished the meal. While I began to eat, my bride told me what she meant.

Showing a lot of teeth, she said, “What would you do if I got pregnant, and we–you and I–had another baby?” She poked her meat playfully. “Neither of us liked the tantrums that our first baby threw, but we did like the presence of the baby.” With eyebrows lifted, she said, “Didn’t we?”

Chewing heartily, I said as though I’d hoped she’d get pregnant like she’d gotten thirteen months ago, “Sure we did–we both did.” I swallowed loudly, enjoying our feast. “Besides,” I added, “our next baby should taste just as delicious as this one does.” My lovely bride nodded happily; so did I.

Edmund tried to recall when he had last seen Ms. Berkley visiting her husband’s marker. Surely she would have been in her nineties by then. Edmund had stopped counting his own birthdays after he had become a nonagenarian. After a certain age, what did it matter anymore?

His mind drifted back to when he and Ms. Berkley would share a few words each day, and early in their friendship, Edmund remembered thinking she could have passed for his mother, had Mother lived that long. Edmund had been a young boy during his mother’s trial. The town’s elders had pressured him into given testimony, and later that same day, they made Edmund light an area of dried wood, igniting the pyre. As the flames kicked to life, Edmund stepped back, his mother’s eyes catching his. A heavy weight descended in Edmund’s chest then, bearing on his ribcage and weakening his knees. Only when Mother began to scream did his burden lift.

I was so young, Mother, Edmund thought. Please, forgive me!

He didn’t want to ponder that anymore. And besides he was here to see his wife, Eleonora–not brood about the past.

Eleonora rested at the top of the slope and Edmund’s ancient bones climbed the hill without hardship. He had enjoyed a lifetime without physical discomfort, having never needed the services of a doctor. His only experience with doctors had been when Eleonora was dying with the cancer. Edmund didn’t like to think about how Eleonora had looked when she died and had chosen to remember her healthy spirit and beauty.

Edmund reached his wife’s stone, sitting on the damp grass. After all the years, he still missed Eleonora and loved her as much as he had on their wedding day. He never considered suicide, fearing Hell, though he did hope he would die in the cemetery by his wife’s side. Could there be a more fitting place?

The sun registered the passage of yet more time, shadows of the forest creeping along the hill. During the long, slow hours, Edmund wondered about his mother’s ashes. He never knew what had been done with her charred remains.

A horseless carriage backfired on the distant dirt road, pulling him away from those thoughts. No Luddite, Edmund knew progress was as inexorable as Nature. A few months back he had viewed his first moving picture and, stranger still, he had read in the papers about the Wright Brothers’ successful test of a flying machine in Kitty Hawk.

As darkness came, Edmund spoke the words he always said to his wife.

“If my mother’s spell ever breaks, Eleonora, I will see you again. The wait seems insufferable, but my moment will surely come.” He placed his lips on the mossy, cracked stone. “Until tomorrow, my love.”

Time had faded the etchings on the marker, but Edmund knew the words by heart: ELEONORA CLEMM, born April 1684, died October 1733.

The shock should have made him faint, but no joy. He tried holding his face together with his softening hands, but it was hopeless. It was like somebody trying to piece a ruined cake back together.

Soon, Matthew’s head was a featureless and fast-liquefying hunk of meat, and the white of his ribs was beginning to show through. He started making the most revolting noise–a weird and senseless gurgle that put Mr. Jackson on his backside. He didn’t have the chance to go green; he was watching his breakfast run into the gutter before he knew it.

The sounds are what I remember the most, and I’ve heard that said before. Shrieking agony is replaced by a warbling cry of fear. Finally there’s a kind of soggy moaning, and fortunately for Matthew, that didn’t take long to come. By then, a pool of… of… of I guess an innocent kid just earning a bit of pocket money was trickling into the road. In it was something vaguely human-shaped and held in place by the rags that were once his clothes. In the past, I’ve heard of bone fragments being pulled out of the mulch. It’s never a lot, but it gives family and friends something in the ground to visit. On this occasion there was nothing tangible. What was left, or rather what Matthew left behind, was simply hosed into the drain by the responding fire crew.

This has been happening a lot recently. Experts are referring to it as “autodigestion.” Vague, I know, but what would you call it?

The locals were suspicious of the new water treatment facility in the valley. They smashed it out of commission and burned the director’s house to the ground, but these awful things keep happening. I don’t know what to think. What I do know is that I started with a tickly cough last night, and I’m heading to hospital right away. Christ, I hope it’s not too late.

That’s why Douglas is here, too. He needed to rent in a location where people were unlikely to ask questions and even less likely to provide answers if someone inquired.

Douglas pulled a lit Dunhill up to his mouth with his left hand. After reaching his lips it stopped smoking and the embers tripled in brightness. The cigarette had noticeably shrunk when he lowered it again. After looking at it he tossed the butt into the street and stood.

He walked to the side of the warehouse and glanced at a Lexus sedan backed up against the building. He always drove the Lexus here. It was a bit aged and less flashy than the car he drove to work. With a nod he turned the corner and stepped into the warehouse.

Inside, he walked to a coat stand and grabbed a surgical apron. After the apron was on he began methodically scrubbing his hands then covered them with gloves. He thought about work while doing this.

He thought of monotony as he continued to prepare. He thought of stuffing saline orbs into the open bloody cavities carved beneath the teen breasts of rich Malibu dilettantes. He thought of the middle-aged white men with Rolexes who paid for them. Some were rich daddies buying high school graduation presents for their little girls and others were rich daddies buying birthday presents for themselves.

Finished prepping, Douglas began walking into a larger room sectioned off with semi-opaque plastic tarps and thinking about how his golf friends would react if they ever knew of his moonlighting activities. He probably wouldn’t go to prison; some kind of mental rehabilitation center seemed more likely. People don’t understand beauty.

Coming to the last section of tarp he paused and pulled his mask on before entering. In the center of this brightly lit and sterile makeshift room was a woman. She was unconscious, unclothed aside from a pad draped across her chest, and fastened securely to an old steel gurney.

Douglas moved to her side and removed the surgical pad. Her ribs were exposed. Below her breasts her skin tapered off and seemed to bind with her exposed and dark red rib meat. In parts the white bone was barely visible. Scar tissue encircled these wounds on both of her sides and then joined the hardened tissue around her belly area.

This would never heal, not the way people thought of healing anyway. Dr. Douglas Dean had been working on this for Jane for almost nine months now. It was more beautiful to him than the removal of both ears of a man last year, or even the claw-like rendering brought to a middle-aged woman’s foot the year before. This was true beauty in surgery. This is the private vision of a beauty which is only conceived in the mind’s eye of the particular client.

This type of surgery in pursuit of perfection is unique. This is daring and about applying a degree of creativity to plastic surgery which the masses just cannot understand. This is about releasing the beauty within us all, or at least within those with the sense to seek out Dr. Dean’s special services.

He watched her chest flex with an inhale. The ribs pushed outward, stretching the scarred tissue and oozing droplets of blood. Parts of her rib cage darkened and others lightened with her blood flow. Her bones seemed to want to burst free. Underneath the surgical mask Dr. Dean grinned.

She would never wear a bikini again, not while society’s concept of perfection was so shallow, he thought.

Then the doctor resumed his work.