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Most recent 20 results returned for keyword: Left Eye (Search this on MAP)

https://plus.google.com/102172679025881072159 Jani Verkkomäki : Murukahvia silmään apu aneurysmaan (left eye blind syndrome healed by coffee eye drops).
Murukahvia silmään apu aneurysmaan (left eye blind syndrome healed by coffee eye drops).
1 hour ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/113519724101403197380 Jani “Markus” Verkkomäki : Murukahvia silmään apu aneurysmaan (left eye blind syndrome healed by coffee eye drops).
Murukahvia silmään apu aneurysmaan (left eye blind syndrome healed by coffee eye drops).
1 hour ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye : Mining revenue isn't coming in from where you would expect.
Mining revenue isn't coming in from where you would expect.
Mining division significant contributor to Oakbay’s operations
In an attempt to highlight that its revenue is largely driven by private-sector deals – with government contracts accounting for only 8.9% of revenue generation – controversial investment holding company Oakbay Investments has released its first annual results for the year ended February 29. The group’s mining division contributed R1.1-billion out of the R2.6-billion in revenues for the year. Oakbay’s mining division’s largest company, with 2 780...
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

New House Plan HDC-1216-1 is an Easy-to-Build, Affordable 3 Bed 2 Bath Home Design.
This home provides a great use of space, innovative features, and the popular split-bedroom floor plan. This design features a great room which opens directly into your dining room/breakfast area. From the dining, your family has easy access to the large patio, which can be easily built as ...
2 hours ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

100% FREE Dream Home Success Kit from HousePlanGallery.com
description for your awesome landing page
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye : https://plus.google.com/+Localseoshop/posts/RfdBkVjEMsK
https://plus.google.com/+Localseoshop/posts/RfdBkVjEMsK

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Google+ is a place to connect with friends and family, and explore all of your interests. Share photos, send messages, and stay in touch with the people and topics you care about.
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

Want Some Outdoor Living but Not Sure What Kind? Get Inspiration Here!
Designing a patio and outdoor space can be challenging. If you aren't sure what you want your outdoor space to be then you've come to the right place. We found this article with 75 different outdoor space ideas. We hope you find something that suites your fancy!
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

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You need an iframes capable browser to view this content. You need an iframes capable browser to view this content. You need an iframes capable browser to view this content. You need an iframes capable browser to view this content. Please press the likes buttons. Thanx.
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

Beny Steinmetz
Beny Steinmetz - #1694 Billionaires, #1680 Real-Time Billionaires
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https://plus.google.com/113731433447606626436 Fetty Wap's Left Eye :

Want to Make Your Living Room Elegant? Try These Ideas! | Dryer Vent Cleaning Services in Baton Rouge, Hammond, & Lafayette, LA
Living rooms are the heartbeat of the home. It's where we actually live and interact as a family. In order to help you spruce up your living room and make it
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https://plus.google.com/111876301164618152563 Lizzy Beth : I thought this might help a few people that are going through the #mandelaeffect right now. Its a #poem...
I thought this might help a few people that are going through the #mandelaeffect right now.
Its a #poem

Hi folks. Here's the poem I promised.
(Sorry for any (and all) spelling and punctuation mistakes)
Reason for poem?
This is how I felt for the first month of realizing the #mandelaeffect
You can share if you like or you could copy text for safe keeping.
Just press down on the poem for a second and press "Copy Text".

The Mandela Effect Poem
----------------------------------------------------------------
I have to tell you something.
Something you may not understand. My first question is....
"Did I do this to myself when I opened up my penal gland?"...................

One day I was fine
And the next day I felt like crying.
I'm not ill.
I can think logically, still.
I'm not crazy.
I don't know what else too say to make you believe me.
You ask me for proof..
But how am I supposed to do that when I don't even know the truth?

One day I woke up and almost everything I knew was wrong.
I tried searching for groups and places to talk about it....
But I still felt as if I didnt belong.
I'm so confused
And when I talk about it with you I feel mentally abused.
You talk me down instead of helping me find the truth.
I'm not sure why you don't understand.
This is not something that I had planned.

Why islands are disappearing and the world maps doesn't look right is beyond me.
All Im doing is telling you what I see.
Why everytime I talk about it you get mad?
Do you really thing that all of this makes me feel glad?

I've never been like this before and it's not just me. Its half the world.
I talk about it but you just ignore me.
How is that helping me?
How am I supposed to be happy?

Mirror mirror on the wall
Has NOT made me the happiest of them all.
Berenstein bears is now gone
When its been Berenstain bears all along?
And Forrest Gump always said "Life IS like a box of chocolates. You never know what your gonna get".
But some how we forget?
Its almost like the soul has a button that says "reset"
And everyone tells me not to fret.
I have a feeling people won't be happy until I to forget.
I truly am being affected.
Some of the feelings I get from people are.....
Disrespected, disconnected, effected, detected, and rejected
But somehow the Mandela Effect makes me feel selected and protected.
I can't explain it but M.E alone has me feeling not so neglected.....

Its something you need to experience to understand.
Its not something others can access on damand.
Im also NOT in some "dream land"
And The Mandela Effect has more then just a few changes. You can't count them on one hand.

There's a list of about 100 changes that I have noticed.
You become really unfocused.
My "story" goes like this......
Meditation is the key to happiness I was told.
So, of course, that was my goal.
After awhile I felt enlightened
And moved onto opening up my pineal gland but after a while I became frightened.
Half way through my session
My left eye tightened.
My pupil was forced to the left.
Just like someone with a very lazy eye.
I had to stop the session and to my surprise a bunch of bright colors reside.
Flashing blue and greenish light
With a black whole right in the middle.
I thought that if I closed my eyes it would stop little by little.
Instead I got terrible headaches.
I researched to see if anyone could relate.
Everytime I sat up my head felt like peanut brittle.
It lasted 3 long days and researching it felt like a riddle.
I gave up research until YouTube gave me a suggestion video.
At first the title made me giggle.
It said "Sex and the city changes"
I was thinking "Wait its called 'Sex IN The City'. When did they make this outrageous arrangement?".
I clicked the video.
I didn't know what to think after watching it.
I researched the topic and felt like I was falling into a never ending pit.
Sort of like Alice In Wonderland.
Except this wasn't "pretend".
This is very real my friend.

I learned about the other Mandela Effects.
I felt like I was going crazy and that I needed my head checked.
Lets face it.....
It does sound crazy and unexplainable.
At first I was thinking I was unstable.
Until I found proof.
Go onto websites and always look at the URLS...
Opps?
Go onto Youtube, Instagram or even on Facebook
Does it make sense that over 92,000,000 people just see what they want to see and so, it was overlooked?
But what about the products and toys we own
With the spelling we all know?
I hate to break it to you but this isnt some game show.
This is our lives.
Its sad to think that if we want abit of truth
We have to look really hard for the old archives.
Its abit funny people dont see this.
Even older shows have the name right.
How many times have each of us heard another tv show or movie quoting the correct spelling?
It keeps recurring
And people keep ignoring.
Now, Im not into converting.
Thats not why Im writing this.
This poem is something I did for me.
Some of it helps me lift pressure off my chest.
So I wont feel so depressed.
You should try it.

Peoples "stories" should always be accessed.
Even if they are anonymous.
People wont feel so alone.
They wont feel like everyone they can trust is now gone.
Maybe it will help them feel positive.
It may also help with self-confidence.
We are nearing the end of this poem but I think it will help a few of you feel not so lonesome.
Our hearts are always open.

Lots Of Love

MandelaEffectIsReal / Facebook.
Community Owner
5 hours ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/114105354193417931020 Felix-the-mercenary : [Update] QUOTES: "sup", "time for some chaos", "tick tick tick boom", "blah blah blah", "I didn't do...
[Update]

QUOTES: "sup", "time for some chaos", "tick tick tick boom", "blah blah blah", "I didn't do it", "holy crap that was awesome"
NAME: Felix King
NICKNAMES: Psycho, The King, The Dreadful King, Wrench
AGE: 17
SECURITY: Straight
CRUSH: None open
REPUTATION: Middle
PERSONALITY: Crazy, silly, weird, energetic, calm, always sleepy, short attention span
ABILITIES: umm does sleeping count?
WEAPONS/EQUIPMENT: A butterfly knife and throwing knives
LIKES: Sleeping, eating, skateboarding, playing video games, comic books, the band Slipknot, when people he doesn't like get hurt
DISLIKES: Most popular trends, and people who that's it
CLUBS: None he's not that social
FRIENDS: he only has like five
ENEMIES: A lot let's just leave it at that
FAMILY: Just
BIRTHDAY: August 5th
ZODIAC SIGN: Leo
HEIGHT: 6'2
WEIGHT: Around 160 he doesn't really know
HAIR COLOUR: black
EYE COLOUR: His left eye colour is blue and his right eye colour is green but when he's pissed they turn red
BIO: "Well I was born in the U.S. and at the age of five I moved to Montreal Canada then when I turned fifteen I moved here so I do kinda have a French Canadian accent."

5 hours ago - Via Community - View -
https://plus.google.com/110946025226895537842 Scott Jr Love - Turnbull : Story for Wolf.exe Hi I'm Raptor Groove. My parents named me that because that was there favorite animal...
Story for Wolf.exe

Hi I'm Raptor Groove. My parents named me that because that was there favorite animal but one night changed it all. Me and my dog named Rap was watching a horror movie Rap wasn't scared at all so was I, Horror movies are my favorite hobby that's why I love it so much. At the end of the movie was a jump scare of a face that looked alot like my dog but I shrugged it off as a coincidence. But Rap went in my closet I didn't mind much but tomorrow Rap wouldn't come out of the closet I was worried,so I tried to comfort him but he just keeps on going to another room I got really worried now and tried to search how to make a dog get out of the closet no answers came up but one why I got confused so I called my friend over who is also a veteran, when my friend also named Jay got here he said "What's the problem" I responded back "Rap won't get out the closest and when he does he just moves to another closet" "Oh"Jay said "Oh doesn't sound good" i said worried Jay responded with a smile "He's going to be find"Jay tried to grab Rap but Jay got bit very hard "Fuck!!!!" Jay shouted in pain I was very confused why Rap did that he's a very good dog and he likes Jay usually Rap like Jay when he sees him but this time is different I saw his tail go black I was very confused at first but then I remembered that he had a very creepy smile for a split second before going in my closet I was wondering if that movie had something to do with dogs so at night when Jay was gone I searched online to find anything but all I found was a sentence that said why did you search for this I found this weird so I went on yahoo answer's but all I found was you lost the game I was really confused about this so I went to check on Rap all for of his paws were black I got kinda scared so I went to bed but while I was asleep I herd nosies that said Wolf.exe and save Rap but I shrugged it off as part of a nightmare but when I woke up Rap looked different his fur was black and his skin was white I was freaked out so I called 911 when the police came I showed them the body of Rap they said is this a joke I responded with no I said that he looks like a wolf now they said there going to take Rap to the hospital I said be careful but before they can get to him he jumped at the police officer killing them one by one I was freaked out when he turned around his eyes looked completely different his left eye was big it had blood coming down from his eyes and red smoke going up his right eye was a red pupil and the rest of his eye was black he was walking towards me I got scared so I backed up he was still coming towards me I yelled fight it Rap fight it!! he jumped on me I was crying up in tears but then suddenly Rap got off he was fighting it I know I can't help so I had to save my self I ran in my car drove as fast as I can I can hear the fighting inside I can only hope that Rap fights it but legend has it that Rap couldn't fight it and is still trying to find me in the coniferous forest wich he did. I was scared ans when he found me he ripped me into shreds biting my heart ripping my brains and left it there just so evreyone can see it


So how do you rate this story
6 hours ago - Via Community - View -
https://plus.google.com/115616628057555256257 David Pellot : Cavalcade September 2016 Issue "Timekeepers History Moments" On August 31, 1980, representatives ...
Cavalcade September 2016 Issue

"Timekeepers History Moments"


On August 31, 1980, representatives of the communist government of Poland agree to the demands of striking shipyard workers in the city of Gdansk. Former electrician Lech Walesa led the striking workers, who went on to form Solidarity, the first independent labor union to develop in a Soviet bloc nation.

In July 1980, facing economic crisis, Poland’s government raised the price of food and other goods, while curbing the growth of wages. The price hikes made it difficult for many Poles to afford basic necessities, and a wave of strikes swept the country. Amid mounting tensions, a popular forklift operator named Anna Walentynowicz was fired from the Lenin Shipyard in the northern Polish city of Gdansk. In mid-August, some 17,000 of the shipyard’s workers began a sit-down strike to campaign for her reinstatement, as well as for a modest increase in wages. They were led by the former shipyard electrician Lech Walesa, who had himself been fired for union activism four years earlier.

Despite governmental censorship and attempts to keep news of the strike from getting out, similar protests broke out in industrial cities throughout Poland. On August 17, an Interfactory Strike Committee presented the Polish government with 21 ambitious demands, including the right to organize independent trade unions, the right to strike, the release of political prisoners and increased freedom of expression. Fearing the general strike would lead to a national revolt, the government sent a commission to Gdansk to negotiate with the rebellious workers. On August 31, Walesa and Deputy Premier Mieczyslaw Jagielski signed an agreement giving in to many of the workers’ demands. Walesa signed the document with a giant ballpoint pen decorated with a picture of the newly elected Pope John Paul II (Karol Wojtyla, the former archbishop of Krakow).

In the wake of the Gdansk strike, leaders of the Interfactory Strike Committee voted to create a single national trade union known as Solidarnosc (Solidarity), which soon evolved into a mass social movement, with a membership of more than 10 million people. Solidarity attracted sympathy from Western leaders and hostility from Moscow, where the Kremlin considered a military invasion of Poland. In late 1981, under Soviet pressure, the government of General Wojciech Jaruzelski annulled the recognition of Solidarity and declared martial law in Poland. Some 6,000 Solidarity activists were arrested, including Walesa, who was detained for almost a year. The Solidarity movement moved underground, where it continued to enjoy support from international leaders such as U.S. President Ronald Reagan, who imposed sanctions on Poland. Walesa was awarded the 1983 Nobel Peace Prize, and after the fall of communism in 1989 he became the first president of Poland ever to be elected by popular vote.

On August 31, 1777, Samuel Mason, a Patriot captain in command of Fort Henry on the Ohio frontier, survives a devastating Indian attack.

The son of a distinguished Virginia family, Samuel Mason became a militia officer and was assigned to the western frontier post of Fort Henry in present-day West Virginia. In the summer of 1777, with the colonies fighting a war for independence, Mason feared attacks by the Indian allies of the British. He was proven correct on August 31, 1777, when a band of Native Americans from several eastern tribes attacked the fort.

The Indians initially fired only on several men who were outside the fort rounding up horses. Hearing the shots, Mason gathered 14 men and rode to their rescue; this was exactly what the warriors hoped he would do. They ambushed the party, killing all but Mason. Badly wounded, Mason escaped death by hiding behind a log. A second party that attempted to come to his rescue suffered the same fate as the first. All told, Mason lost 15 men, compared to only one fatality among the attackers.

Mason recovered from his wounds and continued to command Fort Henry for several years. Following the end of the war, though, he fell on hard times. Repeatedly accused of being a thief, he moved farther west into the lawless frontier of the young American nation. By 1797, he had become a pirate on the Mississippi River, preying on boatmen who moved valuable goods up and down the river. He also reportedly took to robbing travelers along the Natchez Trace (or trail) in Tennessee, often with the assistance of his four sons.

By the early 1800s, Mason had become one of the most notorious desperados on the American frontier, a precursor to Jesse James, Cole Younger and later outlaws of the “Wild West.” In January 1803, Spanish authorities arrested Mason and his four sons and decided to turn them over to the Americans. En route to Natchez, Tennessee, Mason and his sons killed the commander of the boat and escaped.

Determined to apprehend Mason, the Americans upped the reward for his capture, dead or alive. The reward money soon proved too tempting for two members of Mason’s gang; in July 1803 they killed Mason, cut off his head and brought it into the Mississippi territorial offices to prove that they had earned the reward. The men were soon identified as members of Mason’s gang, however, and they were arrested and hanged.

On September 2, 1969, America’s first automatic teller machine (ATM) makes its public debut, dispensing cash to customers at Chemical Bank in Rockville Center, New York. ATMs went on to revolutionize the banking industry, eliminating the need to visit a bank to conduct basic financial transactions. By the 1980s, these money machines had become widely popular and handled many of the functions previously performed by human tellers, such as check deposits and money transfers between accounts. Today, ATMs are as indispensable to most people as cell phones and e-mail.

Several inventors worked on early versions of a cash-dispensing machine, but Don Wetzel, an executive at Docutel, a Dallas company that developed automated baggage-handling equipment, is generally credited as coming up with the idea for the modern ATM. Wetzel reportedly conceived of the concept while waiting on line at a bank. The ATM that debuted in New York in 1969 was only able to give out cash, but in 1971, an ATM that could handle multiple functions, including providing customers’ account balances, was introduced.

ATMs eventually expanded beyond the confines of banks and today can be found everywhere from gas stations to convenience stores to cruise ships. There is even an ATM at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. Non-banks lease the machines (so-called “off premise” ATMs) or own them outright.

Today there are well over 1 million ATMs around the world, with a new one added approximately every five minutes. It’s estimated that more than 170 Americans over the age of 18 had an ATM card in 2005 and used it six to eight times a month. Not surprisingly, ATMs get their busiest workouts on Fridays.

In the 1990s, banks began charging fees to use ATMs, a profitable move for them and an annoying one for consumers. Consumers were also faced with an increase in ATM crimes and scams. Robbers preyed on people using money machines in poorly lit or otherwise unsafe locations, and criminals also devised ways to steal customers’ PINs (personal identification numbers), even setting up fake money machines to capture the information. In response, city and state governments passed legislation such as New York’s ATM Safety Act in 1996, which required banks to install such things as surveillance cameras, reflective mirrors and locked entryways for their ATMs.

On September 4, 1886, Apache chief Geronimo surrenders to U.S. government troops. For 30 years, the mighty Native American warrior had battled to protect his tribe’s homeland; however, by 1886 the Apaches were exhausted and hopelessly outnumbered. General Nelson Miles accepted Geronimo’s surrender, making him the last Indian warrior to formally give in to U.S. forces and signaling the end of the Indian Wars in the Southwest.

Geronimo was born in 1829 and grew up in what is present-day Arizona and Mexico. His tribe, the Chiricahua Apaches, clashed with non-Indian settlers trying to take their land. In 1858, Geronimo’s family was murdered by Mexicans. Seeking revenge, he later led raids against Mexican and American settlers. In 1874, the U.S. government moved Geronimo and his people from their land to a reservation in east-central Arizona. Conditions on the reservation were restrictive and harsh and Geronimo and some of his followers escaped. Over the next decade, they battled federal troops and launched raids on white settlements. During this time, Geronimo and his supporters were forced back onto the reservation several times. In May 1885, Geronimo and approximately 150 followers fled one last time. They were pursued into Mexico by 5,000 U.S. troops. In March 1886, General George Crook (1829–90) forced Geronimo to surrender; however, Geronimo quickly escaped and continued his raids. General Nelson Miles (1839–1925) then took over the pursuit of Geronimo, eventually forcing him to surrender that September near Fort Bowie along the Arizona-New Mexico border. Geronimo and a band of Apaches were sent to Florida and then Alabama, eventually ending up at the Comanche and Kiowa reservation near Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory. There, Geronimo became a successful farmer and converted to Christianity. He participated in President Theodore Roosevelt’s inaugural parade in 1905. The Apache chief dictated his autobiography, published in 1906 as Geronimo’s Story of His Life. He died at Fort Sill on February 17, 1909.

On September 6, 1915, a prototype tank nicknamed Little Willie rolls off the assembly line in England. Little Willie was far from an overnight success. It weighed 14 tons, got stuck in trenches and crawled over rough terrain at only two miles per hour. However, improvements were made to the original prototype and tanks eventually transformed military battlefields.

The British developed the tank in response to the trench warfare of World War I. In 1914, a British army colonel named Ernest Swinton and William Hankey, secretary of the Committee for Imperial Defence, championed the idea of an armored vehicle with conveyor-belt-like tracks over its wheels that could break through enemy lines and traverse difficult territory. The men appealed to British navy minister Winston Churchill, who believed in the concept of a “land boat” and organized a Landships Committee to begin developing a prototype. To keep the project secret from enemies, production workers were reportedly told the vehicles they were building would be used to carry water on the battlefield (alternate theories suggest the shells of the new vehicles resembled water tanks). Either way, the new vehicles were shipped in crates labeled “tank” and the name stuck.

The first tank prototype, Little Willie, was unveiled in September 1915. Following its underwhelming performance–it was slow, became overheated and couldn’t cross trenches–a second prototype, known as “Big Willie,” was produced. By 1916, this armored vehicle was deemed ready for battle and made its debut at the First Battle of the Somme near Courcelette, France, on September 15 of that year. Known as the Mark I, this first batch of tanks was hot, noisy and unwieldy and suffered mechanical malfunctions on the battlefield; nevertheless, people realized the tank’s potential. Further design improvements were made and at the Battle of Cambrai in November 1917, 400 Mark IV’s proved much more successful than the Mark I, capturing 8,000 enemy troops and 100 guns.

Tanks rapidly became an important military weapon. During World War II, they played a prominent role across numerous battlefields. More recently, tanks have been essential for desert combat during the conflicts in the Persian Gulf.

On September 7, 1813, the United States gets its nickname, Uncle Sam. The name is linked to Samuel Wilson, a meat packer from Troy, New York, who supplied barrels of beef to the United States Army during the War of 1812.Wilson (1766-1854) stamped the barrels with “U.S.” for United States, but soldiers began referring to the grub as “Uncle Sam’s.” The local newspaper picked up on the story and Uncle Sam eventually gained widespread acceptance as the nickname for the U.S. federal government.

In the late 1860s and 1870s, political cartoonist Thomas Nast (1840-1902) began popularizing the image of Uncle Sam. Nast continued to evolve the image, eventually giving Sam the white beard and stars-and-stripes suit that are associated with the character today. The German-born Nast was also credited with creating the modern image of Santa Claus as well as coming up with the donkey as a symbol for the Democratic Party and the elephant as a symbol for the Republicans. Nast also famously lampooned the corruption of New York City’s Tammany Hall in his editorial cartoons and was, in part, responsible for the downfall of Tammany leader William Tweed.

Perhaps the most famous image of Uncle Sam was created by artist James Montgomery Flagg (1877-1960). In Flagg’s version, Uncle Sam wears a tall top hat and blue jacket and is pointing straight ahead at the viewer. During World War I, this portrait of Sam with the words “I Want You For The U.S. Army” was used as a recruiting poster. The image, which became immensely popular, was first used on the cover of Leslie’s Weekly in July 1916 with the title “What Are You Doing for Preparedness?” The poster was widely distributed and has subsequently been re-used numerous times with different captions.

In September 1961, the U.S. Congress recognized Samuel Wilson as “the progenitor of America’s national symbol of Uncle Sam.” Wilson died at age 88 in 1854, and was buried next to his wife Betsey Mann in the Oakwood Cemetery in Troy, New York, the town that calls itself “The Home of Uncle Sam.”

On September 8, 1974, in a controversial executive action, President Gerald Ford pardons his disgraced predecessor Richard Nixon for any crimes he may have committed or participated in while in office. Ford later defended this action before the House Judiciary Committee, explaining that he wanted to end the national divisions created by the Watergate scandal.

The Watergate scandal erupted after it was revealed that Nixon and his aides had engaged in illegal activities during his reelection campaign–and then attempted to cover up evidence of wrongdoing. With impeachment proceedings underway against him in Congress, Nixon bowed to public pressure and became the first American president to resign. At noon on August 9, Nixon officially ended his term, departing with his family in a helicopter from the White House lawn. Minutes later, Vice President Gerald R. Ford was sworn in as the 38th president of the United States in the East Room of the White House. After taking the oath of office, President Ford spoke to the nation in a television address, declaring, “My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over.”

Ford, the first president who came to the office through appointment rather than election, had replaced Spiro Agnew as vice president only eight months before. In a political scandal independent of the Nixon administration’s wrongdoings in the Watergate affair, Agnew had been forced to resign in disgrace after he was charged with income tax evasion and political corruption. Exactly one month after Nixon announced his resignation, Ford issued the former president a “full, free and absolute” pardon for any crimes he committed while in office. The pardon was widely condemned at the time.

Decades later, the John F. Kennedy Library Foundation presented its 2001 Profile in Courage Award to Gerald Ford for his 1974 pardon of Nixon. In pardoning Nixon, said the foundation, Ford placed his love of country ahead of his own political future and brought needed closure to the divisive Watergate affair. Ford left politics after losing the 1976 presidential election to Democrat Jimmy Carter. Ford died on December 26, 2006, at the age of 93.

On September 11, 2001 at 8:45 a.m. on a clear Tuesday morning, an American Airlines Boeing 767 loaded with 20,000 gallons of jet fuel crashes into the north tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. The impact left a gaping, burning hole near the 80th floor of the 110-story skyscraper, instantly killing hundreds of people and trapping hundreds more in higher floors. As the evacuation of the tower and its twin got underway, television cameras broadcasted live images of what initially appeared to be a freak accident. Then, 18 minutes after the first plane hit, a second Boeing 767–United Airlines Flight 175–appeared out of the sky, turned sharply toward the World Trade Center, and sliced into the south tower at about the 60th floor. The collision caused a massive explosion that showered burning debris over surrounding buildings and the streets below. America was under attack.

The attackers were Islamic terrorists from Saudi Arabia and several other Arab nations. Reportedly financed by Saudi fugitive Osama bin Laden’s al Qaeda terrorist organization, they were allegedly acting in retaliation for America’s support of Israel, its involvement in the Persian Gulf War, and its continued military presence in the Middle East. Some of the terrorists had lived in the United States for more than a year and had taken flying lessons at American commercial flight schools. Others had slipped into the U.S. in the months before September 11 and acted as the “muscle” in the operation. The 19 terrorists easily smuggled box-cutters and knives through security at three East Coast airports and boarded four flights bound for California, chosen because the planes were loaded with fuel for the long transcontinental journey. Soon after takeoff, the terrorists commandeered the four planes and took the controls, transforming the ordinary commuter jets into guided missiles.

As millions watched in horror the events unfolding in New York, American Airlines Flight 77 circled over downtown Washington and slammed into the west side of the Pentagon military headquarters at 9:45 a.m. Jet fuel from the Boeing 757 caused a devastating inferno that led to a structural collapse of a portion of the giant concrete building. All told, 125 military personnel and civilians were killed in the Pentagon along with all 64 people aboard the airliner.

Less than 15 minutes after the terrorists struck the nerve center of the U.S. military, the horror in New York took a catastrophic turn for the worse when the south tower of the World Trade Center collapsed in a massive cloud of dust and smoke. The structural steel of the skyscraper, built to withstand winds in excess of 200 mph and a large conventional fire, could not withstand the tremendous heat generated by the burning jet fuel. At 10:30 a.m., the other Trade Center tower collapsed. Close to 3,000 people died in the World Trade Center and its vicinity, including a staggering 343 firefighters and paramedics, 23 New York City police officers, and 37 Port Authority police officers who were struggling to complete an evacuation of the buildings and save the office workers trapped on higher floors. Only six people in the World Trade Center towers at the time of their collapse survived. Almost 10,000 other people were treated for injuries, many severe.

Meanwhile, a fourth California-bound plane–United Flight 93–was hijacked about 40 minutes after leaving Newark International Airport in New Jersey. Because the plane had been delayed in taking off, passengers on board learned of events in New York and Washington via cell phone and Airfone calls to the ground. Knowing that the aircraft was not returning to an airport as the hijackers claimed, a group of passengers and flight attendants planned an insurrection. One of the passengers, Thomas Burnett, Jr., told his wife over the phone that “I know we’re all going to die. There’s three of us who are going to do something about it. I love you, honey.” Another passenger–Todd Beamer–was heard saying “Are you guys ready? Let’s roll” over an open line. Sandy Bradshaw, a flight attendant, called her husband and explained that she had slipped into a galley and was filling pitchers with boiling water. Her last words to him were “Everyone’s running to first class. I’ve got to go. Bye.”

The passengers fought the four hijackers and are suspected to have attacked the cockpit with a fire extinguisher. The plane then flipped over and sped toward the ground at upwards of 500 miles per hour, crashing in a rural field in western Pennsylvania at 10:10 a.m. All 45 people aboard were killed. Its intended target is not known, but theories include the White House, the U.S. Capitol, the Camp David presidential retreat in Maryland, or one of several nuclear power plants along the eastern seaboard.

At 7 p.m., President George W. Bush, who had spent the day being shuttled around the country because of security concerns, returned to the White House. At 9 p.m., he delivered a televised address from the Oval Office, declaring “Terrorist attacks can shake the foundations of our biggest buildings, but they cannot touch the foundation of America. These acts shatter steel, but they cannot dent the steel of American resolve.” In a reference to the eventual U.S. military response he declared: “We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”

Operation Enduring Freedom, the U.S.-led international effort to oust the Taliban regime in Afghanistan and destroy Osama bin Laden’s terrorist network based there, began on October 7, 2001. Bin Laden was killed during a raid of his compound in Pakistan by U.S. forces on May 2, 2011.

On September 11, 1777, General Sir William Howe and General Charles Cornwallis launch a full-scale British attack on General George Washington and the Patriot outpost at Brandywine Creek near Chadds Ford, in Delaware County, Pennsylvania, on the road linking Baltimore and Philadelphia.

Howe and Cornwallis spilt their 18,000 British troops into two separate divisions, with Howe leading an attack from the front and Cornwallis circling around and attacking from the right flank. The morning had provided the British troops with cover from a dense fog, so Washington was unaware the British had split into two divisions and was caught off guard by the oncoming British attack.

Although the Americans were able to slow the advancing British, they were soon faced with the possibility of being surrounded. Surprised and outnumbered by the 18,000 British troops to his 11,000 Continentals, Washington ordered his men to abandon their posts and retreat. Defeated, the Continental Army marched north and camped at Germantown, Pennsylvania. The British abandoned their pursuit of the Continentals and instead began the British occupation of Philadelphia. Congress, which had been meeting in Philadelphia, fled first to Lancaster, then to York, Pennsylvania, and the British took control of the city without Patriot opposition.

The one-day battle at Brandywine cost the Americans more than 1,100 men killed or captured while the British lost approximately 600 men killed or injured. To make matters worse, the Patriots were also forced to abandon most of their cannon to the British victors after their artillery horses fell in battle.

On September 11, 1915, Collier’s magazine publishes the second in a series of three essays on automobile travel by a not-yet-well-known writer named Emily Post. The series, called “By Motor to the Fair,” told the story of Post’s 27-day drive from New York City to the Panama-Pacific Exposition in San Francisco. The next year, Post published her first nonfiction book: the well-received By Motor to the Golden Gate, an expanded account of her trip. Later, of course, she went on to become one of the world’s most famous and beloved authorities on etiquette.

In 1915, motor travel–especially cross-country motor travel–was all the rage. The Great Northern Railway had adopted the slogan “See America First!” in 1906, and other railroads, resort operators, national-parks advocates, and guidebook writers soon joined the campaign to lure well-to-do tourists to the western United States. (It didn’t hurt that Europe, the traditional holiday destination for these travelers, was at war and thus closed to casual visitors.) Hotels, gas stations, and roadside restaurants popped up practically overnight, clamoring to serve these westbound adventurers, and magazines–many of them heavily dependent on car-related advertising–tirelessly hailed the joys of modern motoring.

On April 25, 1915, Emily Post, her son Ned, and her cousin Alice Beadleston set off for California. Ned was the driver; Alice was tucked in back with the luggage. They arrived in San Francisco on June 8. (The actual drive took 27 days; the travelers spent the rest of the time sightseeing, visiting, and waiting for car repairs.) Post traveled in style–her editor at Collier’s had told her to return to New York as soon as conditions became the least bit uncomfortable–and the trio kept to good roads, good restaurants, and good hotels. “She conveys the impression,” wrote one reviewer, “that Job, with a soft ash-pile to sit on, even though he did have boils on his neck, didn’t begin to have his patience tried as do those who plow through muddy or dusty roads, and creep tired and weary into dank hotels where drab waiters offer soggy food.” In all, the trip cost about $1,800.

By Motor to the Golden Gate was reprinted in 2004.

On September 17, 1862, Confederate and Union troops in the Civil War clash near Maryland’s Antietam Creek in the bloodiest one-day battle in American history.

The Battle of Antietam marked the culmination of Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s first invasion of the Northern states. Guiding his Army of Northern Virginia across the Potomac River in early September 1862, the great general daringly divided his men, sending half of them, under the command of General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, to capture the Union garrison at Harper’s Ferry.

President Abraham Lincoln put Major General George B. McClellan in charge of the Union troops responsible for defending Washington, D.C., against Lee’s invasion. McClellan’s Army of the Potomac clashed first with Lee’s men on September 14, with the Confederates forced to retreat after being blocked at the passes of South Mountain. Though Lee considered turning back toward Virginia, news of Jackson’s capture of Harper’s Ferry reached him on September 15. That victory convinced him to stay and make a stand near Sharpsburg, Maryland.

Over the course of September 15 and 16, the Confederate and Union armies gathered on opposite sides of Antietam Creek. On the Confederate side, Jackson commanded the left flank with General James Longstreet at the head of the center and right. McClellan’s strategy was to attack the enemy left, then the right, and finally, when either of those movements met with success, to move forward in the center.

When fighting began in the foggy dawn hours of September 17, this strategy broke down into a series of uncoordinated advances by Union soldiers under the command of Generals Joseph Hooker, Joseph Mansfield and Edwin Sumner. As savage and bloody combat continued for eight hours across the region, the Confederates were pushed back but not beaten, despite sustaining some 15,000 casualties. At the same time, Union General Ambrose Burnside opened an attack on the Confederate right, capturing the bridge that now bears his name around 1 p.m. Burnside’s break to reorganize his men allowed Confederate reinforcements to arrive, turning back the Union advance there as well.

By the time the sun went down, both armies still held their ground, despite staggering combined casualties–nearly 23,000 of the 100,000 soldiers engaged, including almost 4,000 dead. McClellan’s center never moved forward, leaving a large number of Union troops that did not participate in the battle. On the morning of September 18, both sides gathered their wounded and buried their dead. That night, Lee turned his forces back to Virginia. His retreat gave President Lincoln the moment he had been waiting for to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, a historic document that turned the Union effort in the Civil War into a fight for the abolition of slavery.

On September 27, 1779, the Continental Congress appoints John Adams to travel to France as minister plenipotentiary in charge of negotiating treaties of peace and commerce with Great Britain during the Revolutionary War.

Adams had traveled to Paris in 1778 to negotiate an alliance with France, but had been unceremoniously dismissed when Congress chose Benjamin Franklin as sole commissioner. Soon after returning to Massachusetts in mid-1779, Adams was elected as a delegate to the state convention to draw up a new constitution; he was involved in these duties when he learned of his new diplomatic commission. Accompanied by his young sons John Quincy and Charles, Adams sailed for Europe that November aboard the French ship Sensible, which sprang a leak early in the voyage and missed its original destination (Brest), instead landing at El Ferrol, in northwestern Spain. After an arduous journey by mule train across the Pyrenees and into France, Adams and his group reached Paris in early February 1780.

While in Paris, Adams wrote to Congress almost daily (sometimes several letters a day) sharing news about British politics, British and French naval activities and his general perspective on European affairs. Conditions were unfavorable for peace at the time, as the war was going badly for the Continental Army, and the blunt and sometimes confrontational Adams clashed with the French government, especially the powerful Foreign Minister Charles Gravier, Comte de Vergennes. In mid-June, Adams began a correspondence with Vergennes in which he pushed for French naval assistance, antagonizing both Vergennes and Franklin, who brought the matter to the attention of Congress.

By that time, Adams had departed France for Holland, where he was attempting to negotiate a loan from the Dutch. Before the end of the year, he was named American minister to the Netherlands, replacing Henry Laurens, who was captured at sea by the British. In June 1781, capitulating to pressure from Vergennes and other French diplomats, Congress acted to revoke Adams’ sole powers as peacemaker with Britain, appointing Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, John Jay and Laurens to negotiate alongside him.

The tide of the war was turning in America’s favor, and Adams returned to Paris in October 1782 to take up his part in the peace negotiations. As Jefferson didn’t travel to Europe and Laurens was in failing health after his release from the Tower of London, it was left to Adams, Jay and Franklin to represent American interests. Adams and Jay both distrusted the French government (in contrast with Franklin), but their differences of opinion and diplomatic styles allowed the team to negotiate favorable terms in the Peace of Paris (1783). The following year, Jefferson arrived to take Adams’ place as American minister to France, forming a lifelong bond with Adams and his family before the latter left to take up his new post as American ambassador to London and continue his distinguished record of foreign service on behalf of the new nation.

On September 25, 1957, under escort from the U.S. Army’s 101st Airborne Division, nine black students enter all-white Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. Three weeks earlier, Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus had surrounded the school with National Guard troops to prevent its federal court-ordered racial integration. After a tense standoff, President Dwight D. Eisenhower federalized the Arkansas National Guard and sent 1,000 army paratroopers to Little Rock to enforce the court order.

On May 17, 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled unanimously in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka that racial segregation in educational facilities was unconstitutional. Five days later, the Little Rock School Board issued a statement saying it would comply with the decision when the Supreme Court outlined the method and time frame in which desegregation should be implemented.

Arkansas was at the time among the more progressive Southern states in regard to racial issues. The University of Arkansas School of Law was integrated in 1949, and the Little Rock Public Library in 1951. Even before the Supreme Court ordered integration to proceed “with all deliberate speed,” the Little Rock School Board in 1955 unanimously adopted a plan of integration to begin in 1957 at the high school level. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) filed suit, arguing the plan was too gradual, but a federal judge dismissed the suit, saying that the school board was acting in “utmost good faith.” Meanwhile, Little Rock’s public buses were desegregated. By 1957, seven out of Arkansas’ eight state universities were integrated.

In the spring of 1957, there were 517 black students who lived in the Central High School district. Eighty expressed an interest in attending Central in the fall, and they were interviewed by the Little Rock School Board, which narrowed down the number of candidates to 17. Eight of those students later decided to remain at all-black Horace Mann High School, leaving the “Little Rock Nine” to forge their way into Little Rock’s premier high school.

In August 1957, the newly formed Mother’s League of Central High School won a temporary injunction from the county chancellor to block integration of the school, charging that it “could lead to violence.” Federal District Judge Ronald Davies nullified the injunction on August 30. On September 2, Governor Orval Faubus—a staunch segregationist—called out the Arkansas National Guard to surround Central High School and prevent integration, ostensibly to prevent the bloodshed he claimed desegregation would cause. The next day, Judge Davies ordered integrated classes to begin on September 4.

That morning, 100 armed National Guard troops encircled Central High School. A mob of 400 white civilians gathered and turned ugly when the black students began to arrive, shouting racial epithets and threatening the teenagers with violence. The National Guard troops refused to let the black students pass and used their clubs to control the crowd. One of the nine, 15-year-old Elizabeth Eckford, was surrounded by the mob, which threatened to lynch her. She was finally led to safety by a sympathetic white woman.

Little Rock Mayor Woodrow Mann condemned Faubus’ decision to call out the National Guard, but the governor defended his action, reiterating that he did so to prevent violence. The governor also stated that integration would occur in Little Rock when and if a majority of people chose to support it. Faubus’ defiance of Judge Davies’ court order was the first major test of Brown v. Board of Education and the biggest challenge of the federal government’s authority over the states since the Reconstruction Era.

The standoff continued, and on September 20 Judge Davies ruled that Faubus had used the troops to prevent integration, not to preserve law and order as he claimed. Faubus had no choice but to withdraw the National Guard troops. Authority over the explosive situation was put in the hands of the Little Rock Police Department.

On September 23, as a mob of 1,000 whites milled around outside Central High School, the nine black students managed to gain access to a side door. However, the mob became unruly when it learned the black students were inside, and the police evacuated them out of fear for their safety. That evening, President Eisenhower issued a special proclamation calling for opponents of the federal court order to “cease and desist.” On September 24, Little Rock’s mayor sent a telegram to the president asking him to send troops to maintain order and complete the integration process. Eisenhower immediately federalized the Arkansas National Guard and approved the deployment of U.S. troops to Little Rock. That evening, from the White House, the president delivered a nationally televised address in which he explained that he had taken the action to defend the rule of law and prevent “mob rule” and “anarchy.” On September 25, the Little Rock Nine entered the school under heavily armed guard.

Troops remained at Central High School throughout the school year, but still the black students were subjected to verbal and physical assaults from a faction of white students. Melba Patillo, one of the nine, had acid thrown in her eyes, and Elizabeth Eckford was pushed down a flight of stairs. The three male students in the group were subjected to more conventional beatings. Minnijean Brown was suspended after dumping a bowl of chili over the head of a taunting white student. She was later suspended for the rest of the year after continuing to fight back. The other eight students consistently turned the other cheek. On May 27, 1958, Ernest Green, the only senior in the group, became the first black to graduate from Central High School.

Governor Faubus continued to fight the school board’s integration plan, and in September 1958 he ordered Little Rock’s three high schools closed rather than permit integration. Many Little Rock students lost a year of education as the legal fight over desegregation continued. In 1959, a federal court struck down Faubus’ school-closing law, and in August 1959 Little Rock’s white high schools opened a month early with black students in attendance. All grades in Little Rock public schools were finally integrated in 1972. "We're the Timekeepers, and now you know a moment in history."


And now, Cavalcade presents a sneak preview of Season 2 of "The Cemetery"

The Ghostess said, "Care for a scare???"

David Pellot presents:

"The Cemetary"


"Confessions of a Victim"

Written by A.A. Earl


"I know it must be hard for you, after everything that has happened, Brody. It always pains us when we have to make victims such as yourself relive such traumatic events, but please, can you help us by telling me what happened?"

Brody Williams, a boy of fifteen, sat shivering, seated at a metallic table in an interview room, a cup of cheap coffee steaming up into the cold air. "It's cold," said the boy. "And dark."

"Yes, I know. Sorry, but our heating's under maintenance. I could get you a blanket if you're suffering."

The boy sighed. "No, no, it's fine." He slipped his hoodie back on and zipped it up to his neck. He had always been the tough jock at school, surrounding himself with friends that looked up to him, admired him. He was the cool kind, everyone said, but now he looked up at the female officer with eyes of a frightened child. She was around her late thirties or early forties, her hair brown and straw-like; she wore little to no makeup.

Brody went to cup the coffee with his hands, but they were shaking so badly he feared he might spill it. He could still hear the screams, screams of fear and pain. God, the blood. So much blood.

It had happened in the cafeteria. Somehow the weakling boy with the curly red hair and acne-covered skin had managed to lock all the exits, preventing anyone else from getting in or out. Brody could see it now--the machete hacking away, the limbs flying off from the bodies of the students he had known and talked to, laughed or joked with, all of them lying in pools of blood and mangled flesh and tissue. He heard the girls scream--but it was Brody Patrick Rivers was after.

His eyes watered as the female cop listen to him, looking at him sympathetically. "I used to hurt him, call him names. He was always a weak little shit." The cop shuffled uncomfortably at that.

"What sort of thing or things did you used to do to him, Brody?" she asked softly.

"You know, like, typical stuff, I guess. Push him over, shoulder bashed him, knocked his books out of the dweebs hands and kicked him over when he bent down to pick them up. I shoved him in his locker, once. Poor Patrick was in there until the next morning."

"He had been in there all night?" The cop seemed to find that reprehensible.

Brody seemed distracted, fearful. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

"Judy. Officer Judy, homicide."

"Officer Judy, am I in trouble here?"

She smiled warmly. "No, Brody. I just need to investigate what happened. That way we can seek the proper justice."

"But Patrick's already dead. I told you: he shot himself with that handgun."

Judy looked sad for a moment. "The whole incident was tragic; it should never have occurred. But please, tell me what else you did, or what you said other kids did to him."

"Is this being…you know, like, recorded?"

Judy nodded politely. "It is. Don’t worry, it is merely to get your statement. After that, you're free to go."

Brody pondered, looking around the dark room. He'd never been in a police interview room before, and nor had he ever been in a police station in his little Midwestern town. "Well, you know, I once stuffed him in a trashcan--"

"Wouldn’t he be a little big to fit in a trashcan?" She made a note, scribbling something down.

"Well, like, we were in elementary then. He was scared of, like, being in closed spaces. What you call it? Amnesaphobic or something?"

"Claustrophobic?"

"Sure, something or other. A few kids thought it would be fun to put him in closed spaces like that."

"Do you feel bad about locking him in a locker, when you knew previously that he was deathly afraid of small spaces?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Officer Judy made an almost disgusted face. "Did you not think it cruel to do that, Brody?"

"It was only meant to be a bit of fun, though."

"You think it was fun for Patrick Rivers to be stuffed for seventeen hours in a locker? Do you realize how terrifying that must have been?"

The boy looked despondent, ignorant in his teenage attitude. "Like…I dunno."

"What are you afraid of, Brody? Spiders, snakes, the dark, rejection? Maybe you're afraid of your father beating you, and feel a foreboding sense of dread every time he has a drink?"

That took Brody back, and suddenly he felt uncomfortable in this dark room, where moonlight shone dimly through the cell bar windows. In fact, he was beginning to struggle to comprehend how he had gotten to the station; he didn’t remember walking in. Maybe he was just so nervous he was forgetting things. He was tired, though, and felt lightheaded, as if he were recovering from a rough night of drinking.

He started shivering again. Judy pushed the coffee toward him. "Maybe you should drink this, it'll help warm you. He did as he was bid, and took hold of the cup with both hands, and sipped it. 'Damn, that tastes pretty good, actually' he thought. "Feel a little better now?" Judy said, smiling. Brody nodded, so Judy pressed on. "Tell me, why did you like to bully--or liked to watch people bully--him?"

"I dunno, like, it made me feel strong, like, I guess."

"How did you feel when you saw him with that machete and handgun?"

"Pretty darn scared, I guess." Brody began to shake uncontrollably, slightly going into a panic attack, something he had never experienced before.

"Hush now, drink some more coffee," said Judy, and he did. His nerves calmed a little. "Tell me about the massacre, if you can, please."

"It was lunchtime. We were in the cafeteria. I was talking to my friends. And then I heard the screaming…the horrible screaming! I thought someone had played a practical joke on a girl by throwing a fake spider in her hair or something. But, like, when I turned around when the screaming got worse, I saw that little ginger freak with blood on his face. I thought it was another practical joke, like he was dressed in some Halloween costume, dressed like Freddy Krueger and stuff. Like, then I saw the girl with her arm sliced off, and everyone was screaming then. God, it was awful. The other kids were thundering at the cafeteria doors and emergency doors, trying to get out. But they couldn’t…they'd been padlocked.

"Then I saw him, laughing as he did it, hacking and slicing away at us kids. One of us tried to disarm him, but he had a strength we never saw in him. Blood was everywhere, running down the hall like a river, bits of hacked-off flesh and fingers and bone. Then the shots came. He shot at me…I remember." Brody paused, feeling a revelation come to the forefront of his mind. "Yeah. He shot me, I remember the pain. Then someone grabbed him. God, like, I remember the look of murder in his eyes, eyes of some animal or crazy person, like. His white t-shirt was covered in blood…and I could smell him, smell his B.O. He always smelled bad, the fat dork. And then he shot himself, right in the head."

Brody felt tears filling his eyes, running down his face.

From nowhere, a box of tissues was pushed in front of him. "Hush now, it's all over. You have nothing to worry about, Brody. Drink some more coffee, and you'll feel better, you'll see."

His left shoulder began to throb and sting. For what reason, he did not know. "Ah!" he cried. He saw black wetness seep through the cotton of his hoodie.

"Looks like your wound hasn't healed properly yet," said Officer Judy. "You might need to go back to the hospital."

And suddenly, he remembered. He remembered being in severe pain, panic filling the hospital, cops coming and going, shouting, screaming, his mother crying. Blood, blood, blood everywhere! "I was in hospital," Brody said. "I remember. But I don’t remember being discharged or anything."

"You weren't, Brody. We had to speak to you, to understand what had happened. I need to speak with you."

Brody looked fearful, confused. "I…I don’t…understand." That fear was coming back now, the fear of the cold, dark four walls closing in on him. Had he been drugged? 'The coffee!' he realized, and threw the rest of it against the wall at the side, the plastic cup lightly clattering to the ground. "Where in the hell am I?!" he screamed.

"Hush now, no need to get erratic. I'm sorry, Brody, if these questions are troubling you. It's just…well, I feel for you, Brody. I have a boy around your age, and I would hate for him to go through such horrible things that you've gone through. Would you like to see a picture of my boy?" Officer Judy pulled out her wallet, took out a photo, and slid it over to Brody.

When he--in his panicked state--looked down at the photo, it was a photo of Officer Judy wearing casual clothes, smiling with her arm around her son…"The hell?!" he whimpered. He saw the boy in the photo; red haired, chubby, greasy skin and covered with acne. "Patrick?!"

"It is such a troubling thing to lose a son, you know," said Judy, standing up, seizing the photo, and placing it back in her wallet. "I'm sure your own mother will miss you dearly. If only she knew what a nasty piece of shit you really are. But you don’t have a mother, do you, Brody? Just a drunken dad who likes drinking and beating you."

Panic stricken, Brody fell on the floor shaking uncontrollably, convulsing, bleeding from his nose. 'The coffee!' It had been drugged, as he had been drugged at the hospital. "We'll need to have a word with you about the attack, Brody," Officer Judy had said, before placing a cloth of chloroform against his mouth.

The walls began to close in all around him. He felt woozy, sick, like his head was between a vice, his head being crushed. Judy had disappeared from the room. "Cry or scream all you want, it makes no difference, Brody. No one will be able to hear you in these woods." This was no interview room, just a cabin or bunker made to look like an interview room.

The walls closed in on him, crushing his body, and Brody screamed in agony, his nose bleeding profusely. It leaked onto the floor were his head was. And he saw it. 'The blood! Oh, god, the blood!'


"Half Souls"

Written by Fictafic


They walked towards the house, as it began to rain. Behind them, the remains of their car burnt mildly, until the rain put out the fire. Cynthia looked at Sam and then at the house. They were stranded, but the house didn’t seem like an option she should take.

The house stood a few feet off the road. It stood tall, casting an imposing shadow on the trees that stood to its right.

Lightning struck and lit up the house for a second. Cynthia grabbed onto Sam’s hand. The vines that curled round the house scared her.

“I don’t like the feel of this place,” Cynthia said.

Sam looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes. He smiled.

“There’s no need to fear,” he replied. He tried to assure her that she was safe.

The last house they saw was more than four miles back and the road ahead looked deserted. Their only shelter from the rain was in the house they now stared at.

Sam dragged the bags as he continued toward the house. Cynthia tagged along unwillingly. In the house, a light appeared at the top window. It lingered for a minute, and then it disappeared.

“Someone is home,” Sam said.

Cynthia looked at Sam, then at the house and back at Sam. The light appeared by the window a second time, and Sam could see the frame of a woman. He tried to wave at her, but the light disappeared again.

The stairs creaked as Sam and Cynthia climbed to the front door. Sam knocked on the door while Cynthia looked around them.

By the northern side of the house, Cynthia saw a swing move up and down as if someone sat on it. Lightning struck and Cynthia saw a child on the swing. The child stared at her.

“Sam!” Cynthia gasped.

The door swung open, and Cynthia turned to see a woman standing by it. She stood, holding a lamp in her hand and staring at them. Her hair was gray, and her left eye was a mass ball of white tissue. Cynthia stared at the woman. The woman smiled coldly, revealing a set of brown teeth.

“Welcome to Half Souls Inn,” the woman announced.

She shifted to her side, giving Cynthia and Sam room to walk in. Cynthia looked back at the swing but couldn’t find it. The swing was gone. In its place was a pool of water. Cynthia stared at it in fear. She failed to notice time pass.

Sam called Cynthia a second time before she realized they were waiting for her. The woman stared at her calmly. Cynthia looked at Sam, then at the road. The rain was becoming heavy. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed and stepped into the house. The woman closed the door.

Inside the house, the woman walked with them to the desk that stood by the stairs. The interior of the house looked a bit pretty. Sam looked at Cynthia and smiled. She smiled back weakly. The woman explained that their electricity supply had a little problem but would soon be fixed. Sam had no problem with that. He just needed a place to rest his head and change into some dry clothes. By morning of the next day, they would be on their way home.

Cynthia looked around her. Lamps hung on the walls and up the stairs. Underneath each lamp, she saw the portrait of people hanging in frames. Beside her, Sam reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He fished inside it for the amount required and paid the woman. As the woman handed the key to Sam, Cynthia saw the people in the picture look at them.

“Oh God!” Cynthia gasped, as she turned towards Sam, grabbing his arm. The woman stared at her coldly. Cynthia wanted to get out of the house, but Sam would not move.

“Come on, it was just the light casting shadows,” Sam said as they climbed the stairs.

The woman walked before them, as she escorted them to their room. Behind her, Cynthia tried to control her fear.

At their door, the woman asked if they would need anything. Sam said they were fine. The woman nodded in understanding, and then descended the stairs.

Sam gently closed the door and turned to look at the room. The room didn’t look bad. Aside the bed, there was a table by the wall and a lamp on it. The bed was well made and the sheets were clean. Cynthia stood by the wall, with her arms wrapped around her. Sam smiled at her. With time, she would see that there is nothing to fear.

Cynthia saw that Sam’s mind was made up. She walked towards the bathroom, to take a look at it, while Sam threw the bag on the bed and opened it.

“Sweet,” Sam called from the room. “I seem to have forgotten my bath bag downstairs.”

Cynthia rushed out of the bathroom as Sam closed the door and descended the stairs. She walked to the door and pulled it open. She was not going to stay alone in the room.

Instead of the stairs, a brick wall stood before Cynthia. She stepped back into the room, looking around her. A portrait hung on the wall, by the bed. The woman in it stared directly at her. Cynthia stepped to her right and watched the woman’s stare move with her. Terrified, she walked backwards, further into the room. The woman still stared at her.

Cynthia stopped. Someone stood behind her. On her shoulder, a drop of blood fell, followed by two more. She slowly turned around.

Her terrified scream never left her lips. Cynthia fell to the ground, a pile of charred flesh. On the stairs, a new painting appeared with Cynthia’s face on it.

*

Downstairs, Sam stood confused. The reception hall was no more. He stood in a hallway longer than the house could possibly accommodate. Down the hallway, a baby cried from one of the rooms within the house.

“Hello!” Sam called as he walked down the hallway, toward the cry.

Along the hallway, Sam found vacant rooms with open doors and blood stained walls. The cry of the baby became louder. He got to the room and found it open too. Inside the room, a woman attended to the baby. She turned and stared at Sam coldly. Sam apologized for intruding and almost turned back into the hallway. He noticed blood drip down the woman’s neck and looked closely.

“Is everything alright,” Sam asked as he stepped into the room. A chair stood in his way. He bent down and shifted it to the side, then stood erect to look at the woman. The woman and the baby were gone.

Sam walked further into the room, confused. He turned back towards the door and gasped. The woman stood before him, with the baby in her arms. The door slammed shut. Sam looked at the door, then at her. She looked up from the baby to Sam’s face and smiled coldly.

“You belong to us, now.”

The lamp in the room went off.


"Return of the Naked Werewolf"

Written by Patric Quinn


Vlad sat up with a sigh, his white fingers folding over the edge of his coffin, and stared at Harold. “Do you know what time it is, Harold? The sun just went down. You know, at my age, our age, I don't jump the minute the day is gone.”

Harold shifted between edgy and embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Vlad, but tonight is another full moon. And I get itchy, my skin does, because I don't spring that thick fur anymore. Who ever heard of a naked werewolf?”

“You don't howl anymore either.”

“Or sprout those killer fangs.” Harold looked so disheartened Vlad felt sorry for him even though 'sorry' wasn't in a vampire's stock of feelings.

“When the moon turns full I get this terrible urge to be out preying on victims.”

“You tried that already, Harold. You can't chase victims using a walker.”

“I've been practicing with a cane.”

“That's not much better. We both have to face the changes that come our way. Look at me.”

“What about you?”

“Are you losing your memory, too?” said Vlad, his comment short and sharp. “Oh, I'm sorry, Harold. I didn't mean to bite your head off. But I told you about the mad doctor over on Fleet Street. The dentist?”

“What about him? I know you went to him.”

“A dentist, Harold,” he said impatiently. “He works on teeth. My teeth are important to me. What good is a vampire without his teeth!?”

“But he fixed them.”

“No! No! He ruined them. Or half ruined them anyway. I had a cavity in one of the crucial teeth and he was supposed to fill it. But he drilled the wrong cavity all out and filled up my collection system all the way up through the tooth. Solid! It won't suck anymore.”

Harold looked at him, trying to take in the import. Vlad had, indeed, told him this before, but Harold had been thinking of his own problems. “So, where are you at now, Vlad?”

“Pretty hard up, I'll tell you. Only one tooth sucks in blood. Get it? That means I have to get two victims for a full load. At our age? Do you have any idea how tough it is to get two victims in one night? It was like you trying to attack that young girl in the park and getting tangled up in your walker. And the real cavity still hurts.”

“Yeah, that walker thing was embarrassing. Especially, when she came back and helped me up on the park bench. But I'm trying a cane now. I can move faster.”

“Can you howl?”

“No howl. Maybe a little growl.”

“Little?”

“Little.”

“Are you horrifying?”

“My bones stretch a little and get a little out of shape….like some monster.”

“All just a little,” said Vlad in summation. “And you don't sprout thick, wild fur either?”

“No fur.”

“And you want me to go with you tonight?”

Harold nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we can go together. You'll be slow, too.”

“And you? A little bent with the full moon, no howl, no fangs, no fur, no lope. And naked. And a cane? You'll make a hell of a fearsome werewolf, Harold.” Vlad smirked. “Maybe some new kind of monster?”

“Don't make fun, Vlad.”

“If someone sees us out, they'll think I'm walking my dog...or walking something.”

Harold wasn't happy with Vlad's sarcasm, but was happy to be out under the full moon. He felt stirrings of old feelings as they walked. The vast park was like another country with the tops of tall buildings overlooking its distant borders. The moon made most things visible in this darkest part of the night. Harold saw the movement of something white in the distance, but coming toward them. He watched until he was sure it was a human. “Do you mind if I take this one, Vlad?”

Vlad sighed as he stared across the moonlit park at the figure. “Looks like a nurse. In the white uniform. Just getting off duty. Or going on. Okay, she's your victim,” he said and with a whoosh turned into a bat and skimmed away into the trees.

Harold watched her come closer and tried a howl at the moon to terrify her, but only the driest croak squeezed out of his throat. He stumbled through the shadows of the trees to pursue his attack, but his bent werewolf legs ached and tripped him up. He probed with his cane to stay upright even to move slowly after his victim. And it was 'after'! He had been so slow going after her that she had passed. She seemed to glance into the darkness in passing as if she heard him stumbling around in the trees. And then she was too far ahead for him to hobble fast enough to bring her down. And then she was gone.

Harold stood in the shadow of the trees dazed and disconsolate with his failure. No victim, no claws, no fangs, no howl, no fur. No horror. A whoosh in the darkness and Vlad was standing in front of him. Vlad didn't need to say anything, he could see the failure in Harold's slumped figure and downcast eyes.

“Harold, snap out of it. I see a cop coming along the walk. Just strolling his rounds, but he can't see you like that.”

“Like what?”

“With no clothes. I'm sure he's never seen a naked werewolf before, but he won't care about the werewolf, he will care about the naked you. Here, take my cloak. It's long enough and will cover you from top to bottom. Well, to your ankles anyway. Maybe we can get away with that.”

“But what about how you're dressed? Are you going to be in your underwear?”

Vlad smiled. “No, my friend. Vampires always wear crisp, spiffy tuxedos under their big black capes.”

Then, Harold smiled. “And you better wipe that blood off your chin”

They strolled past the policeman, nodded, said “Good evening, officer.” Harold was a bit wobbly, bare-pawed and leaning on his cane, but they were so polite the cop just tipped his club to his cap and nodded as they passed.

“So?” said Vlad.

“So. Nothing. She got away.”

“Too fast for you?”

“I can't fly like you.”

“I've only got half a bite. Tonight I'm only halfway there.”

“So, where do I find victims? Maybe senior citizens? Like me.” Harold croaked what was left of his howl. “Would they be slow enough? And where would I ever find senior citizen victims in the middle of the night? All wrinkled...not very juicy either.”

“I have to go find the other half of my night. You…?”

“Yeah, I go home. Failed again.” Harold looked devastated. “What am I going to do, Vlad?”

Vlad shrugged. “Maybe you should start writing your memoirs, Harold. You used to be a pretty scary creature.” Vlad heard the disconsolate sigh from the shadows.

"Vlad, was I really scary?"

"You, Harold? Were you scary? Ah, Harold, you were the bounding, howling, horrifying, most terrifying menace in the night. No monster was scarier than you."

Vlad thought he heard a throat-clearing or a little chuckle in the dark as Harold hobbled away.


"Nesting Doll"

Written by L. Christopher Hennessy


The cottage was made of stone and log, with a thatch roof, and never a day went by without it being warm. That was her father's doing and Truda loved her father, Martin, dearly. Her mother, Meredith, she tried to love, but that woman was distant, some might say, “ Cold. “ She was more often than not having hateful thoughts toward her.

Meredith was barren and Truda took the blame for that. Her mother had referred to her in secret as a witch since her birth and it was her father's rationality over religion, which some called blasphemy, that had them relocate when Truda was ten. He built the cottage from the ground up, collected the animals, and grew what he could, so they could eat.

The Winters were cold, but the remaining seasons were wonderful. Truda was allowed to wander where she pleased, except for in the woods. She had only done it once and wasn't there for long, not even lost. Her father found her catatonic and staring skyward. When he touched her shoulder, she shrieked so loudly, it caused a ringing in his left ear, which would nag him for the rest of his days. What she had seen she could not remember.

“ Those woods are alive and not in a good way, “ her father said. “ They will gobble you up, my child. Not even I want to go there. “

It was 1646, Virginia, in the New World. Truda was born here and her mother and father rarely spoke of their voyage. All she knew was that it had been cold, wet, rough, and a lot of people died. Martin had tried not to doubt God's plan, but some knew that he did.

Truda had just turned fifteen, was raven haired, blue eyed, at a good age for marriage, but she refused the idea, and her father joked that she was a little old woman in herself. He wanted grandsons and there were many eligible Christian boys in town, just six miles away. Her mother told her that witches and whores never marry.

Things at the cottage changed after her mother went missing.

Truda stayed there, by the fire, while her father followed her mother's footprints toward the woods. He was gone for the night and she was too terrified to sleep, not even the scriptures bringing comfort.

On the second day he returned carrying Meredith in his arms.

“ Cover your mother's nakedness, “ he said, exhausted, Truda at the ready with a blanket.

At dusk, as her mother slept, Truda saw the Jackalope, the horned one, scurry across the yard. She told her father, but he angrily dismissed her as having a madness, like her mother. Never had he spoken to her like that. For the first time she had a hateful thought toward him.

Soon, the hens had stopped laying, the cows were dry of milk, the horses died, and the grain stores were developing rot.

Mist hung low in the morning and Martin crawled over his sleeping wife, climbing from their bed. He dressed himself, instead of waking Truda to help him. Then, he noticed wet footprints, which seemed to manifest by themselves, upon the stone floor, in the middle of the room. They hadn't been there a moment ago.

Meredith murmured in her sleep.

He followed the footprints to the main door. Slowly, he opened it, and now saw hoof prints. He followed them to the middle of the yard, to where they vanished amidst the mist.

“ There's the devil in my house, “ he said to himself, horrified.

In a fit of rage, driven by terror, he stormed inside, dragging Truda from her bed. She screamed as he threw her from the cottage. He forced her to look at the hoof prints and dragged her by her hair to where they ended. She saw no hoof prints.

“ This is your doing! “ he yelled at her. “ Your mother always said you were a witch! You said you saw the Jackalope! “

“ I'm not a witch! “ Truda yelled back. “ You're as mad as she is! She was lost in the woods, not me! I see no hoof prints and so what of the Jackalope? “

“ Explain this! “

“ I've never been lost in the woods. You said the woods gobble things up! “

He grabbed Truda by her hair again and dragged her kicking and screaming to the woodpile, yanking the axe from the chopping block. He placed the cold, sharp edge of it to her forehead.

“ If you're a witch, I will split your skull! “ he roared.

“ No, Father! I'd rather you banished me now! “

“ And I will hunt you with my axe! “

From inside the cottage, they heard Meredith scream. Martin threw the axe down.

Truda grabbed the axe and tossed it away.

“ They've both gone mad, “ she wept, getting to her feet.

She followed her father inside.

Meredith writhed in agony in the bed, Martin trying to comfort her. She pushed suddenly, as if in labour, then relaxed, and sighed, falling back into a deep sleep. He threw back the covers. Behind him, Truda gasped, covering her mouth.

Resting on the sheet between her mother's legs, in a small pool of blood, was a black hen's eggs, warm, and hard as stone.

“ I told you, “ Truda hissed. “ There's your witch! “

“ Quiet! “ Martin ordered. “ I must get rid of this, take it back to from where it came. The devil is in my house. I trust neither of you. This is what I get for doubting God's plan. “

Later, when the mist had lifted, Truda watched her father take the egg to edge of the woods, and bury it. She was having hateful thoughts, her scalp still burning.

Truda was asleep and her mother was watching her. It was a misty dawn the following day.

Meredith dis-robed and in a trance slowly turned. She went naked through the cottage to the door and into the yard. She could hear a baby crying, crying near the woods.

As she crossed the fields, the mist parted for her, and the crying lead her to a spot in the ground. She fell to her knees and started digging. The closer she got to it, the crying intensified, and then there it was, the black egg. It was still warm, hard as stone.

She rubbed it against her cheek, and cooed, “ My little one, it will be all right. Mother will take you home. “

A weight exploded through her head, blinding her, and she felt it again, convulsing now, the egg cracking, spilling blood onto the soil, to mix with her own.

Martin held the axe, looking down at her. It was an effortless kill. Convinced the witch was dead, the curse would be lifted, the rot would be removed from the grain, and the livestock would produce again.

He reburied the pieces of egg and grabbed dead Meredith by an arm and dragged her into the woods. Her burial would have to be done before Truda awoke. She was not to see this.

Back at the cottage, still in her bed, Truda cried out, arching her back in pain, having a seizure. It only lasted a moment and she fell back into a deep sleep.

Martin was washed and sitting by the fire reading the scriptures. It was close to midday and Truda was wide awake now.

“ I've slept too long, Father. “ she said. “ I apologise for my laziness. Shall I check for an egg? “

He scowled at her, “ Is that an attempt at humour, my daughter? This is not a day for laughter. It is a day for mourning. Your mother has died and at dawn was buried. “

Truda was lost for words and went into the yard. The day was warm. Her mother was dead and she felt nothing. She could see no sign of a grave and the axe was missing.

She ran back into the cottage, and asked, “ Where's the axe, Father? “

Martin had it resting across his lap, the book of scripture tossed on the floor.

“ It's right here, my daughter, “ he said, with a crazed look in his eye, “ safest in my hands. “

“ Where's mother buried? “

“ In the five points of the woods, as she wished, when she whispered it in my bad ear, while I slept. “

“ You're a mad man. “

Truda dashed for the door and Martin chased her. He couldn't believe how nimble she was on her feet. She ran in the direction of the town, six miles away, and only looked back once, to see her father collapse to his knees, exhausted, pointing the axe at her.

He cried out, but she was too far away to hear what he said.

At dusk, she entered the town, and requested to meet with the magistrate. Her request was granted, but only for a moment.

He was an elderly man, easily prone to superstition.

“ What counsel do you seek, young woman? “ he asked. “ I know you by your parents. Your father is a doubter. Speak quickly. “

“ My father has gone mad and murdered my mother. He is on his way here now. I'd like to testify to witchcraft. “

“ Witchcraft? That's a confronting testament to make against one's kin. What proof have you? “

Truda reached into her apron pocket.

On the magistrate's desk she placed a black hen's egg, warm, and hard as stone.



"This has been the Ghostess inviting you to join us next time for another night of horror at the Cemetary, until then, Good Fright", the Ghostess said as she blew out the candle that faded black the credits roll

Executive Producer: David Pellot

Executive Consultant: Abigail Colodner

Don't miss the Season 2 premiere of "The Cemetery" this September on Cavalcade!


From the friends of "Cait the Great"

"Mark & the Hopper Family"

Created by David Pellot

It was a brisk fall day in September, as Aggie the family cat was helping Mark raking the leaves to make a big pile. Laurie, Mark's older sister was looking at the apple tree in their backyard to see if they are ripe.

Aggie climbed the apple tree and carefully walk on the branch, and when her paws touches the bark of the tree, some of the apples fall to the ground. Soon Laurie collected enough apples to make apple cider. "Thanks Aggie", said Laurie. "Good work Aggie", said Mark.

Pete and Francis, Mark and Laurie's parents invited to the kitchen where they enjoyed a warm slice of pumpkin pie and a cup of apple cider as the family watches the Chicago Bears play football on television. It was truly a cool Autumn day for the Hopper family in Evanston, Illinois.

"Cavalcade Bookshelf"

"The Woman In Cabin 10" by Ruth Ware

From New York Times bestselling author of the “twisty-mystery” (Vulture) novel In a Dark, Dark Wood, comes The Woman in Cabin 10, an equally suspenseful and haunting novel from Ruth Ware—this time, set at sea.

In this tightly wound, enthralling story reminiscent of Agatha Christie’s works, Lo Blacklock, a journalist who writes for a travel magazine, has just been given the assignment of a lifetime: a week on a luxury cruise with only a handful of cabins. The sky is clear, the waters calm, and the veneered, select guests jovial as the exclusive cruise ship, the Aurora, begins her voyage in the picturesque North Sea. At first, Lo’s stay is nothing but pleasant: the cabins are plush, the dinner parties are sparkling, and the guests are elegant. But as the week wears on, frigid winds whip the deck, gray skies fall, and Lo witnesses what she can only describe as a dark and terrifying nightmare: a woman being thrown overboard. The problem? All passengers remain accounted for—and so, the ship sails on as if nothing has happened, despite Lo’s desperate attempts to convey that something (or someone) has gone terribly, terribly wrong…

With surprising twists, spine-tingling turns, and a setting that proves as uncomfortably claustrophobic as it is eerily beautiful, Ruth Ware offers up another taut and intense read in The Woman in Cabin 10—one that will leave even the most sure-footed reader restlessly uneasy long after the last page is turned.

Published by Scout Press

"A Great Reckoning" by Louise Penny

#1 New York Times bestselling author Louise Penny pulls back the layers to reveal a brilliant and emotionally powerful truth in her latest spellbinding novel.

When an intricate old map is found stuffed into the walls of the bistro in Three Pines, it at first seems no more than a curiosity. But the closer the villagers look, the stranger it becomes.

Given to Armand Gamache as a gift the first day of his new job, the map eventually leads him to shattering secrets. To an old friend and older adversary. It leads the former Chief of Homicide for the Sûreté du Québec to places even he is afraid to go. But must.

And there he finds four young cadets in the Sûreté academy, and a dead professor. And, with the body, a copy of the old, odd map.

Everywhere Gamache turns, he sees Amelia Choquet, one of the cadets. Tattooed and pierced. Guarded and angry. Amelia is more likely to be found on the other side of a police line-up. And yet she is in the academy. A protégée of the murdered professor.

The focus of the investigation soon turns to Gamache himself and his mysterious relationship with Amelia, and his possible involvement in the crime. The frantic search for answers takes the investigators back to Three Pines and a stained glass window with its own horrific secrets.

For both Amelia Choquet and Armand Gamache, the time has come for a great reckoning.

Published by Minotaur Books

"Born To Run" by Bruce Springsteen

“Writing about yourself is a funny business…But in a project like this, the writer has made one promise, to show the reader his mind. In these pages, I’ve tried to do this.” —Bruce Springsteen, from the pages of Born to Run

In 2009, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band performed at the Super Bowl’s halftime show. The experience was so exhilarating that Bruce decided to write about it. That’s how this extraordinary autobiography began.

Over the past seven years, Bruce Springsteen has privately devoted himself to writing the story of his life, bringing to these pages the same honesty, humor, and originality found in his songs.

He describes growing up Catholic in Freehold, New Jersey, amid the poetry, danger, and darkness that fueled his imagination, leading up to the moment he refers to as “The Big Bang”: seeing Elvis Presley’s debut on The Ed Sullivan Show. He vividly recounts his relentless drive to become a musician, his early days as a bar band king in Asbury Park, and the rise of the E Street Band. With disarming candor, he also tells for the first time the story of the personal struggles that inspired his best work, and shows us why the song “Born to Run” reveals more than we previously realized.

Born to Run will be revelatory for anyone who has ever enjoyed Bruce Springsteen, but this book is much more than a legendary rock star’s memoir. This is a book for workers and dreamers, parents and children, lovers and loners, artists, freaks, or anyone who has ever wanted to be baptized in the holy river of rock and roll.

Rarely has a performer told his own story with such force and sweep. Like many of his songs (“Thunder Road,” “Badlands,” “Darkness on the Edge of Town,” “The River,” “Born in the U.S.A,” “The Rising,” and “The Ghost of Tom Joad,” to name just a few), Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography is written with the lyricism of a singular songwriter and the wisdom of a man who has thought deeply about his experiences.

Published by Simon & Schuster

"Woman of God" by James Patterson & Maxine Paetro

St. Peter's Square, Rome.

White smoke signals that a new Pope has been chosen.

Is it possible that the new Pope...is a woman?

The world is watching as historic crowds gather in Rome, waiting for news of a new Pope, one who promises to be unlike any other in the Church's history. Some followers are ecstatic, but the leading candidate has made a legion of powerful enemies who aren't afraid to kill for their cause.

Faith has never come easy for Brigid Fitzgerald. From a difficult childhood with drug addled parents, to a career as a doctor on the front lines in Sudan, to a series of trials that test her faith at every turn, Brigid Fitzgerald's convictions and callings have made her the target of all those who fear that the Church has lost its way—dangerous adversaries who abhor challenges to tradition. Locked in a deadly, high-stakes battle with forces determined to undermine everything she believes in, Brigid must convert her enemies to her cause before she loses her faith...and her life.

Spanning the globe--from the drug dens, high-powered law firms, and churches of Boston to the horrific brutality of a civil war in the Sudanese desert to the beauty, violence, and spiritual enlightenment of the Holy Land--Woman of God is an epic, thrilling tale of perseverance, love, trust and nothing less than what it means to live in a fallen world.

Published by Little Brown & Company



Cavalcade and You Tube present:

"Parodies of Music Videos"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-DULuxosWs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=heLdYpu3v9A

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbKV4YzLP4o

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFwc75xmv2U

In honor of Halloween, we asked our Cavalcade stars about their favorite Halloween costumes, favorite Halloween candy and their favorite horror movie for Halloween.

Tommy Parker: (favorite Halloween costume?) (
favorite Halloween candy?) (favorite horror movie for Halloween?)

Allison Parker: (favorite Halloween costume?) (
favorite Halloween candy?) (favorite horror movie for Halloween?)

Caitlin Emmit Bay: (favorite Halloween costume?) (
favorite Halloween candy?) (favorite horror movie for Halloween?)

Mark Hopper: (favorite Halloween costume?) (
favorite Halloween candy?) (favorite horror movie for Halloween?)

Alexandra Bay Birkenstock: (favorite Halloween costume?) (
favorite Halloween candy?) (favorite horror movie for Halloween?)

This month, Cavalcade is celebrating Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I'm Allison Maureen Parker, and I was wondering if you have any story ideas about breast cancer that I would be in, maybe in a movie comic or a guest star in a episode of a fictional tv show, feel free to e-mail your story idea to cavalcadian@gmail.com or abigabor@gmail.com Either way, I can't wait to hear it from you guys. Thank you.

The Ones to Watch: Ellie and Alice, "The Macintosh Girls"

First, the older sister

Full name: Eleanor (middle name beginning with the letter F) Macintosh

Date of Birth:

Birthplace:

Pet:

Hair Color: Blonde

Eye Color: Blue

Parents: (first names of mom and dad, mom's occupation, dad is a radio talk show host)

Favorite Foods:

Hobbies:

List the awards that Ellie achieved in:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

Favorite Crush: Thomas Marshall Parker (were there many pictures or posters of Thomas' movies or tv shows?)

Next, the younger sister

Full name: Alice (middle name) Macintosh

Nickname: "Pest", which is not true

Date of Birth:

Birthplace:

Hair Color: Blonde

Eye Color: Green

Favorite Foods:

Hobbies: Ballet, (other hobbies)

List the awards that Alice achieved in:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

List any ballet or school performances that Alice was in:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.

Best Friends: Allison Maureen Parker, (Tommy's younger sister) and of course my big sister Ellie.

What was the best moment in Allison Parker's life? (give exact details like a day in the life of Allison Parker, like when she was an infant or the day of the baby contest, beginning the time when Allison wakes up through the time when Allison goes to sleep)


In Loving Memory Of Pascuala Fuentes (Godmother of David Pellot)


The Ghostess said, "Care for a scare???"

David Pellot presents:

"The Cemetary"


"Country Clubbing"

Written by kade32


Far off, the swamps echoed with the blood-curdling yelps of bloodhounds. For on this dark night, the chain gang was searching for one escaped convict.

CONVICT: "Gotta stop...rest...eat...hungry! Hungry!"

As if in answer to his wild, breathless babbling, a light breaks through the darkness.

CONVICT: "A shack! They'll have food! I'll kill 'em! Kill 'em dead! Stupid rotten people oughta be dead fer just livin' in this smelly hog slop! This here cypress stick'll make me a good club! Beat their brains out! Beat 'em out dead!"

"Woman! Gimme that there food! I'm hungry!"

The convict quivered and convulsed with the excitement of food at last! Food all for him and no one else! Him alone!

Alone?

It stood huge and ugly. It was a man. The dead woman's man. His face would scare the wits out of any striped skunk. And it did.

CONVICT: "Oh nooooo! Git away! Don't touch me! I-I didn't mean to hit her! I wuz hungry! Honest! OWWWWWWWW! HEEEEELLLLPPPP! It's th' devil himself! I ain't ready fer ya yet! Ya gotta ketch me! Lemme outa here!"

Back out into the darkness and the swamps, he ran. Even the hounds would be better for him than this ghoulish-looking monster.

CONVICT: "Heh! Heh! I can out-leg him, the stumbling idiot!"

Yet he still followed...with the club!

His wild running brought him back onto the path of the baying bloodhounds. Their throats sore and eager for a swallow of flesh.

CONVICT: "My legs! Can't move 'em! I'm exhausted! No, no! It's QUICKSAND! Gotta pull up! I'll pull up this tree. Climb it so the dogs cain't git me!"

"At last! No muddy earth nor dawg kin eat me! AAEEE! It's a rat! It's got me! Help! It's a filthy possum! I'll fling ya to the dawgs! While they eatcha, I'm skedadlin'!"

Yet he still followed...with the club!

CONVICT: "If thet crazy critter thinks he's gonna ketch me, he better get a boat, 'cause I'm travlin' on water from here on out!"

The convict waded into the black swamp water after a floating log that would carry him to freedom.

CONVICT: "Can't see too well! This log'll do. A 'GAAAAATTTOOOOORRRRR!"

With crazed strength, the convict grabbed a dangling vine and climbed to safety.

CONVICT: "'Gator bait, I ain't gonna be!"

Yet he still followed...with the club!

As he untangled himself from the vines that twisted around his arms and legs, one vine began to slowly move.

CONVICT: "Oh good lord! A snake!"

True! It was a snake. A long, brown and yellow cottonmouth snake. And it sank it's teeth into the convict, ejecting it's stored up venom.

CONVICT: "You did it! You bit me! You !?*#$! I'll teach ya!"

In his fit of fear and anger, he beat the reptile to death.

CONVICT: "I'll kill ya! Kill ya! Kill ya!"

Suddenly, the swamp answered back to him with a wild hum of gnats and mosquitoes. Followed by pursuing bats, flapping and frightening the convict deeper into the swamp. He ran wild. Fear, now, had control of his criminal brain. Only instinct kept him fighting to escape the murdered woman's man.

Yet he still followed...with the CLUB!

The Okefenokee had now sapped all of his energy. He couldn't go on. This was it.

CONVICT: "He's gonna git me. Git me like I got his wife! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt her! Let me live! I don't wanna die! Don't use th' club! Stay away! Keep away! Don't kill me! It'll be murder! You'll be a murderer! HELP! PLEASE HEEELP!"

MAN: "Uh, here's ya club, mistuh. Ya fergot an' left it way back at muh house."

CONVICT: "I...heh, heh...I forgot my...heh, heh...club. Isn't that...heh, heh...funny? I...heh, heh...FORGOT my...heh, heh...ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"


"The Silent Treatment"

Written by kade32


Once upon a time, long, long ago, huddled on a bed in a cabin high in the mountains, a king lay stiffly, rigidly, not daring to move, not daring hardly to breathe, not daring to do anything except wait and listen and know that if he heard it again, that if it started again, that maddening sound, that his mind would surely snap and he'd rave and rant and finally fling himself from the cliff outside down into the final silent peace called death.

And as the king lay there in that quiet dismal far-away cabin far from the sounds of his kingdom, he thought about how it had been before this. Before he craved utter and complete silence. He thought about the Princess Genevieve. Pretty little Genevieve.

GENEVIEVE: Daddy! My cat! I...I...

KING: More wine! More food! Come, musicians! Play! Jesters dance! And you! You, little wench. Come here.

The queen, Genevieve's mother, had died with her birth, but the infant had not replaced the emptiness that had been left in the king's heart. So the king had surrounded himself with a song and merriment and a court of beautiful, laughing woman to help him forget.

CONCUBINE: The king is hot-blooded this day.

KING: I'm always hot-blooded with you, Morganna.

GENEVIEVE: Daddy, my cat! It's caught in the ivy vine!

So orchestras had played and jesters had squealed and the ladies of the court had laughed and chattered and whispered coquettish things into the king's ear. And the palace had been filled with noise. The noise of gaiety and fun. Loud noise, drowning-out noise, drowning out a little princess's plea.

GENEVIEVE: ...caught in the ivy vine outside the tower window, daddy! Please help me rescue her, daddy! Daddy? My cat! Daddy?

CONCUBINE: A hot-blooded man is a real man, your majesty.

KING: Kiss me, wench.

The din of self-indulgence had echoed through the palace as the Princess Genevieve had shrugged and turned at her father's indifference and climbed the long winding tower steps, the tears streaming from her eyes.

GENEVIEVE: He...He never listens! He never hears me! He never hears anything I say!

The little princess had mounted to the tower window, determined to rescue her trapped pet herself. She'd reached out coaxing loving arms as the melee of noise drifted up to her.

GENEVIEVE: Here, pussy! Please pussy! Come to Genevieve! Please.

But she leaned out too far. She slipped from the tower window, clawing, catching herself on the ivy, clinging there precariously, high above the din. And she screamed.

GENEVIEVE: Daddy! Help me! Daddy! Help!

But the king had not heard his little daughter's cries. Her childish screams had not been able to penetrate the merriment and cavorting noise that reverberated through the throne room.

KING: More win! Play! Sing! Louder! Louder!

And so, the princess, Genevieve, had hung there, crying for help, until her tiny fingers had weakened and grown tired and lost their hold on the twisting vines and she plunged downward, shrieking.

GENEVIEVE: YAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Then, suddenly, a strange silence had fallen upon the castle as the echoes of a plunging dying shriek had faded away. The kind had stood up, his mouth quivering, his eyes wide.

KING: What...what was that?

SERVANT: It's the princess, sire! She's fallen from the tower window! She's...dead!

The king had not heard his daughter's plea, her cries for help. The king had been surrounded with ear-splitting noise. And now, the noise and his daughter had both died away.

KING: Genevieve! sob Genevieve!

After the princess's death, the king had ordered the orchestras disbanded, the jesters stilled, the laughing women of the court away. The king had wanted silence now. A silence of mourning.

SERVANT: Your majesty, I-

KING: Shhhh!

And so, months had passed. The mourning period had ended for the people of the kingdom. Once more, church bells had tolled and oxcarts had rumbled and the people had gone about their business. But for the king, the mourning period had not ended. It would never end. Each sound that reached the king's ears brought with it the echo of a girl's shriek of death.

KING: Stop it! Stop that clattering!

SERVANT: Yes, your majesty!

The conscience-striken king had grown more and more sensitive to noise as time had gone by. A dreadful silence had come upon the palace. The servants, wary of incurring the king's wrath, had been forced to move about the marble halls in their stocking feet. A nervous care was taken to see that no unnecessary sound made or else.

MAID: Oops!

KING: Blast you, clumsy! I want it quiet!

But even with the dead stillness surrounding him in the palace, the king had not been satisfied. In the town far below, the tolling of the church bell had grated upon his acutely sensitive ears.

SERVANT: It's a wedding, your majesty. The people are rejoicing.

KING: Order the bell silenced! Have it removed and melted down! I can't stand the noise!

The people of the kingdom were not happy that their glorious bell could no longer sing out. But what could they do? The king had ordered silence and the king was the king.

KING: What is that? What's that hammering and clanging down there?

SERVANT: It is the blacksmith, sire. He is tempering the horseshoes...

KING: Order him to stop! Order him to stop immediately!

Then the king called his royal prime minister.

KING: Issue an order! There will be no noise! I want silence, do you hear? Silence? Anyone who dares defy me will be thrown in irons!

PRIME MINISTER: Yes, your majesty.

The blacksmith had been ordered to stop his anvil hammering, thereby forcing him to close down. But he had been arrested when he tacked up his notice.

BLACKSMITH: But I only-!

GUARD: Silence, idiot!

Merchants had been forced to abandon their oxcarts as a means of carrying about their merchandise, because of the racket the wooden wheels made on the cobblestones.

GUARD: Get down off of there! You're under arrest!

MERCHANT: Please have pity!

Carpenters were forced to give up the trade, because their sawing and nailing irritated their king. Building was halted.

CARPENTER: My roof leaked! I had to-!

GUARD: Come with us! It's the dungeon for you!

Finally, the sound-sensitive king had looked out over his silent kingdom from his silent palace and nodded in relieved approval. Now all was quiet. Now all what still. And then he heard the babble. Like mice in walls, the chattering, the distant sounds of voices.

KING: Order them to stop talking!

PRIME MINISTER: Yes, your highness.

Talking was outlawed. The people had taken to whispering. Anyone who accidentally talked in a normal voice was immediately carted off and his tongue cut out. The king looked out over his silent kingdom from his silent palace and he nodded. And then he heard the hissing. The sibilant murmurs like wind-blown leaves.

KING: Order them to stop whispering!

PRIME MINISTER: Yes, sire.

And so, all whispering had been banished from the kingdom. The people had taken to writing communication between themselves. Everyone carried implements with them. And the king looked out and he heard the scratching, the rubbing of chalk on slate like summer rain.

KING: Order them to stop writing!

PRIME MINISTER: Yes, your majesty.

Now the people could do nothing but sit and stare at each other. And the king looked out over his silent kingdom and he heard the faint sighs, the sucking in and expelling out of air from their lungs like spring breezes.

KING: ORDER THEM TO STOP BREATHING!

PRIME MINISTER: But, your majesty!

The king raved and ranted, insisting upon the order.

PRIME MINISTER: But, your majesty! If the people do not breath, they will die!

KING: Then let them die! I WANT SILENCE!

And over the silent, silent kingdom, his voice carried like an echo.

VILLAGER #1: Did you hear?

VILLAGER #2: The fool has gone far enough!

The prime minister had shuffled off on padded feet and the king stood in the silence and listened, waiting for the sounds of the breathing that drifted up to him from the kingdom below to stop. But instead, he heard a stirring.

KING: They're talking! They're whispering again!

And the stirring had become a murmur and the murmur a humming and the humming a roar and the roar had thundered up the mountain toward the palace.

KING: Silence! Silence, you fools! Go back! Go back and keep quiet!

The thunder had been so loud, it drowned out the shrieks of the king. The thunder had been a thousand angry voices, a thousand pairs of angry feet. The carpenters, the blacksmiths, the merchants and leading them, a craftsman named Mason Higgins. Mason Higgins had clutched a small box in his hands.

HIGGINS: Swim the moat!

VILLAGER #3: Lower the drawbridge!

The thundering people had stormed the palace and overpowered the guards and stampeded through the marble halls and found the king.

VILLAGERS: There he is! Get him! Higgins, the box!

KING: Oh, lord! The noise!

The king had been forced to the floor and the people had done things to him with knives and needles and threads and Mason Higgins's little box. So, once upon a time, a king lay stiffly, rigidly, on a bed in a cabin high in the mountains where his people had exiled him. He lay, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to do anything but wait and listen and know that if he'd hear that sound again, just once, he's go out of his mind. It wouldn't happen as long as he lay still. It wouldn't happen as long as he wouldn't move. The king knew that. He suffered hours of torture time and time again during his brief exile. He'd born up under the maddening sound until it stopped and he found out! He found out that if he moved, it would start again!

So he lay stiffly, like stone, like silent stone and he watched the spider. The silent spider on the ceiling spinning it's silent web. And he watched the web lengthen and the spider drop, inch by inch, lower and lower, until it hung just above his face. And he still did not move. He just prayed. He prayed that the spider in the silent, silent cabin would silently climb back up it's silent silken thread, instead of...instead of...Oh, lord! The spider was coming closer, closer, closer to the king's face.

And then it touched him and he shuddered and screamed and swung at the spider and the silence was destroyed. That sound! That maddening sound began again! That incessant maddening tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The sound that was driving him out of his mind.

KING: No! No! NO!

The sound coming from the special metronome time-piece Mason Higgins had labored over, ever so quietly, after they made him close his shop and stop his clocks. The metronome time-piece that wound up automatically at the slightest, slightest movement and took hours to run down. The metronome time-piece they seen inside the king before they had gone back to their normal noisy routines living happily ever after.

While the king went off the deep end...off a cliff.

KING: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!


"The One That Got Away"

Written by Denny Johnson


Jeffrey Dahmer certainly went down in history.

As usual, for a few short days, the Tabloid newspapers had the edge. The regular news media filed stories daily - the Tabs' worked on a weekly deadline. With a story moving this fast there was no time to look back. The body count was growing each day as police pieced together Dahmer's ten-year rampage - with the bones and flesh that remained.

Terrified Traci Edwards was nearly the twelfth victim. Only he escaped a hideous death at the hands of the cannibal killer Dahmer, who confessed to the mutilation-murders of at least eleven men and boys. Traci was held prisoner in Dahmer's apartment of horrors - an apartment littered with human skulls and body parts. Finally after hours at the knife-edge of death, he fled half-stripped, bleeding and handcuffed into the street, where he flagged down a passing police car.

When freelance reporter Denny Johnson was assigned to the Dahmer story the tabloid M.O. ran true to its peculiar form. Johnson was thinking front page, not tomorrow and local, but next week and national. To perform this magic Denny would prospect for any small nugget the gold-rush-media-frenzy had overlooked the first day. That nugget which would still be news seven days later. News even to the media that covered the story from the start.

The first day after the story rocked the world, the Journal ran a small page one article on Traci Edwards and his escape - here was Johnson's nugget. The account of Traci's getaway was short and shallow. It was dwarfed by the huge headlines and photos of Dahmer's arrest and victims' IDs. Other reporters pursued grim body counts, grieving relatives and daily news conferences. There was no information about Traci's experience inside the apartment with the murderer - no inside story. Denny's assignment was to find the one that got away.

It would be a week before the media would turn back its collective attention to Edwards. By then Traci was on a plane home to Texas and, ultimately, jail. Johnson had them scooped.

The Journal article mentioned that Traci Edwards lived in the same neighborhood that the bodies were discovered. Denny headed to a saloon in the vicinity. He ordered a bottle of beer and lit a Marlboro. He made small talk about the murders with the bartender and a few of the lunchtime customers from the block. He didn't learn too much new until a man in uniform at the end of the bar, piped in his two cents worth - the needed information. "I know where the guy lives," said the postman on a break. And, after a few well-placed beers, the mailman agreed to deliver Denny to Edwards's apartment.

The neighborhood was declining ethnic. Bungalows mixed with apartment buildings and the occasional two-flat wood frame house. Traci lived in one of these, a brown two-story in need of repair. Paint was chipped, wood was peeling, and a few broken windows were visible from the street. Paint flaked from the railing as they climbed the deteriorated front stairs of the house and the postman pointed out Edwards's name on the rusty mailbox. He said with a slight slur, "Edwards lives upstairs. Good luck. I deliver your magazines each week to every old lady on my route. We'll be looking forward to your story." He winked. "I usually read them before I deliver them."

Edwards didn't answer when Denny rang his door bell. A quick search up the back stairs of the house and a peek through the rear windows indicated that no one was home in his apartment. The downstairs' neighbor confirmed he hadn't seen Traci in awhile.

Denny parked his rental car out in front of the house, switched the ignition to accessories, tuned the radio to the local news channel - and waited. Sitting the stakeout isn't romantic, it's cruddy. Every time a metro cop passed him by, they eyed him suspiciously. They knew who lived there and they knew Johnson was a reporter. He just looked like one. Denny was hot and hungry. There was no bathroom available, and he was running out of cigarettes. The bad characters in the neighborhood knew he was there in ten minutes. They figured he was a cop. Hours later, Traci still wasn't home. He was obviously lying low somewhere else. But by that time, Denny was familiar with everybody in the neighborhood, hooking, selling drugs, or beating their wives. He noticed over time a middle-aged fellow carrying a bucket who seemed to be the janitor at the building across the street. Denny approached him with a $50 bill outstretched.

The man was standing in the courtyard of one of the larger red brick buildings on the block. He wore blue jeans and a dago-t that displayed an ample beer belly. He was nearly bald, what hair he did have was matted and dirty. He was sweating profusely. The janitor eyed the $50 closely and told Denny that he knew Traci from around the neighborhood. "Yeah," said the man. "And I seen you sitting over there. I figured you was something like a reporter, or a FED maybe. I know most the local cops. Didn't think you were a new guy - your hair's too gray."

Denny wondered aloud if many reporters had been in the neighborhood. He himself had seen very little action that day around Edwards's apartment. "Not hardly any reporters today," the janitor said, "but you know that yesterday they was all over the place like maggots for dinner at Jeffrey Dahmer's." He laughed; it was a nasty sound.

Johnson grinned. The black humor mill was already to work. "Do you know if any of the reporters talked to Traci," asked Denny.

"No. The little creep was doing his best Houdini," said the janitor. "What about that fifty?"

"Do you know Traci well?" asked Denny.

"What about that fifty?" said the janitor again, wiping the sweat from his face with his arm. Denny handed the $50 over and the man snatched it away and stuck it in his Levis. He wet his lips - the pump had been primed. "I'm the maintenance engineer for this here building," the man said using his thumb to point out the fact. "I been working here a long time. I got plenty of stories. Seen some crazy shit around here."

"I'm sure you'd make a good book," said Denny, "but right now I need to know where I can find Traci Edwards."

"Yeah, yeah, slow down, I'm getting to that. We all know him around here, he's lived here a couple of years already. That's a long time in this neighborhood. We seen his picture in the paper yesterday, and on T.V. Before he was just a punk, now he's a big squeaking deal. Everybody's looking for him, because he almost gets himself killed and eaten by some freak. All I can say is, Duh."

Denny promised to quote him. And another $50 bill to match if he could get to Edwards - and let him know that he would pay $1,000 for his exclusive story. He gave the janitor his phone number and went back to his hotel. Three hours later his phone rang. Cash money gets everybody talking.

Traci agreed to meet the next morning at Denny's hotel; he wanted all the money up front. Denny told him it would be $500 when he showed up, the remainder when the interview was over. Traci reluctantly agreed. He was anxious to tell his story, as long as he was well-paid.

Denny contacted his office and by dawn the next day a photographer from Chicago was on the scene. He and Denny made their plan in the early morning light over room service coffee. The story would be a first-person account of Traci's experience. The photog would shoot candid photos of Edwards. At 10:15 a.m. everything was ready.

Traci was about 5'5" but sturdily built - a real fireplug. Denny guessed he might tip the scales at 160 pounds. When he showed up that morning at the hotel he was wearing a white t-shirt, pants, Nikes, and a blue "Georgetown" sweatshirt with matching baseball cap. He told Denny that he was 22, and an army brat. He arrived with another young man whom he introduced as his friend Jeremy. Breakfast, packs of Kool cigarettes and pots of coffee were perks Traci demanded for his story. On the other side of the room, the photographer discretely snapped images of the scene with a telephoto lens.

Edwards was well-mannered and surprisingly articulate. They sat around the coffee table in the living room of the spacious suite the paper had provided for the interview. The table was littered with coffee cups, half-full ashtrays, the daily papers and a tape recorder. Another table nearby held the spent, spotless breakfast plates that Traci and Jeremy had cleaned with their fingers and the last bit of toast. In one corner of the room a large color TV, muted, was tuned to CNN.

Denny's tape recorder was running. He handed Traci five crisp $100 bills. "Just start from the beginning," said Denny. "Tell us all you can remember, and then we'll ask a few questions to clear anything up later."

Traci rolled the bills, stuffed them in his pants pocket and sat back nervously in his chair. With a cigarette shaking in his hand, he closed his eyes and concentrated. The vivid memories flooded into words. "I haven't slept in two days," he began. I can't believe that this happened to me. There was no clue. I looked into the eyes of the devil and saw death.

"Believe me, God delivered me from Satan. I'm still in shock. I can't trust people. And when I do try to sleep, I wake up in a bolt, sitting straight up in bed - wet with sweat. I'm still scared to death. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder." Traci paused, taking a few rapid puffs off his cigarette.

"I was in the mall when Jeffrey Dahmer showed up and asked if I wanted to have a party," Traci said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "We all knew him from around the neighborhood. There was no way to guess he was a maniac. He was just an ordinary guy. I didn't think too much about him either way.

"We never thought he was gay or anything out of the ordinary, because the people on the block where he lived just never would have tolerated him. They don't like gays in that part of town. If they had thought that he was gay the guys in his neighborhood would have messed him up. They jump guys like that over on his block. It's just not accepted.

"The whole area is loaded with gangs and stuff so I guess nobody really knew that he was gay, or into that kind of lifestyle. He just couldn't have survived if anybody knew about him," Traci emphasized that last sentence with another nervous glance at the camera. Denny wondered if he spoke from experience.

"'Let's get some girls and all go down to the lake and have a party,' Dahmer said, 'I got a hundred bucks, I'll buy the beer.'

"I was broke," said Traci, shrugging. "It sounded like a fine idea to me. It was hot and sticky and a party at the lake would be good. We walked to the liquor store and he got the beer. Dahmer said he had to stop by his apartment to change clothes. He was still in his blue work suit with his name 'Jeffrey' embroidered over his pocket."

The interview was interrupted momentarily when a loud knock on the door announced room service - more pots of coffee, and another pack of Kool's.

Denny now believed Edwards was lying about his motives. He guessed as he walked around the hotel room stretching his legs that Traci knew what was happening when he accepted Dahmer's invitation to the apartment. At least Traci thought he knew what was happening. He didn't know about the eleven that had proceeded him to Dahmer's for a visit. As it turned out, Denny's instincts rang true.

At the time he met Dahmer in the mall, Traci was a street-wise punk fleeing a Texas arrest warrant on charges of raping a teenage girl. Traci had been around, he was aware. But that day in the mall neither of the two men knew what they were up against. It was Cannibal Killer versus A Clockwork Orange. But at the moment Denny's suspicion was that Traci was of the bi-sexual persuasion and that he knew full well that Dahmer's offer of free beer and a party didn't include the company of women.

Settling back into his chair, Denny eyed Traci and Jeremy as they poured themselves fresh cups of coffee, adding lots of sugar and cream, and clinking their mugs with their spoons as they stirred. Denny suspected that Edwards probably went to the apartment to earn or steal money - by whatever means necessary. Knowing, or at least thinking he knew what Dahmer was up to. After all Traci was broke and he knew Dahmer wasn't. Dahmer's M.O. was to offer his victims money so he could take sexy photos of them. Most agreed to the bargain. And money was the major motivator with Traci. He lived pretty much from day-to-day. Denny believed Traci went to that apartment to play Dahmer for a sucker and, boy, was he surprised.

"It was really hot," Traci said lighting a cigarette from the recently-delivered pack, which now nestled in the neck of his t-shirt. "Everything seemed pretty normal, I had never seen where he lived and when we first got there it looked like a pretty nice place. We went in the back exit of the two-story apartment building and the stench hit me right away," said Traci.

"Damn, what's that STINK? I asked.

"Dahmer just brushed it off. He said there was a problem with the sewer in the building. As we walked down the hall, the stench made me want to gag." Traci wrinkled up his face. "I said let's just grab a beer and get out of there, and he said: 'That sounds good. I can barely stand the smell myself.' He said it was the sewer, and I've smelled some pretty raunchy sewers before, so I just assumed he was telling the truth."

Traci leaned forward in his chair, his voice lowered dramatically. The droning monologue was hypnotic. Denny concentrated, realized that they were on the portal, the point of no return. The photographer had stopped taking pictures and listened quietly from the edge of the bed. "His living room was tiny, but air conditioned. A small unit buzzed in the window. The dark colored drapes were drawn and the intense sun outside locked out. We sat down on his couch and popped open the beers. He had a beautiful fish aquarium and the colors of the fish were stunning in the darkened room." Traci let out a sigh.

"As I looked around and my eyes began to adjust I could see the living room walls were covered with photos and drawings of guys working out." Traci's demeanor suddenly changed. He became impatient, almost brisk. "I hoped Dahmer would hurry and change his clothes and we would get out of there. It really stunk, and it was creepy somehow. I didn't feel right.

"Dahmer told me he had all the drawings because he was a member of a health club. He was in pretty good shape, his arms were muscular and toned; he was wiry. We were sitting on opposite sides of the couch, but it was a fairly small couch and there really wasn't much space between us. He said some of the fish were piranha, and he told me how they like to eat each other. We sat there for awhile, making small talk about when he was in the Army and stuff," Traci said, his voice falling again into that hypnotic drone and, again, abruptly breaking off, as if he were trying to shake off a fatal sleepiness.

"He was pretty boring and if it wasn't for that beer, I would have beat it. In fact that's what I was thinking," Traci said, his voice angry and hard. "But this guy was such a professional. He was way ahead of me. Before I knew what hit me, he had a handcuff on my wrist and a big-ass machete sticking me up in my armpit. Right up under my heart!" Traci clasped his hands over his heart and twisted his body wildly in the chair.

"He said, 'If you don't do what I say, I'm going to kill you.' He said, 'I've done this before. Don't make a move because I can kill you,' he snapped his fingers, 'just like that!'

Denny was concerned for Traci's well-being. The boys breathing was labored, his eyes watered. He noticed Traci's fingertips were stained yellow from the tobacco, and he also noticed how his hands shook. He suggested they take a break, but Traci waved him off with a better-to-get-this-over-with look.

"The machete was army issue - heavy and effective. Black handled with a long silver, double-edged blade." Denny was amazed at Traci's recall and his descriptive powers; it would make his job all the easier. "It felt as if it had been sharpened to a point that would split hairs. I'll never forget what that blade looked or felt like." Denny guessed he would remember, too.

"It was all so quick, he was experienced, and he had practice. It was all in one motion. I had the beer in my hand, and I'm talking about fish, and in an eyelash - boom! - the handcuff was on my wrist. And the tip of the blade was stuck in me. I looked down and I could see through my shirt. I was bleeding." Traci caressed the bandage under his t-shirt.

"Then his eyes changed," Traci said. "Maybe the sight of red blood did it."

The room came to attention. Denny glanced quickly at the tape recorder; he didn't want to miss a word of this. The photographer rose from the bed, thinking of picture possibilities. Even Jeremy held still, looking interested.

"At first I couldn't face him," Traci said, fervently, "but God made me look right into his eyes. It was like confronting the devil. Pure and simple. Dahmer looked nothing like when we first met in the mall. He had changed completely. He had transformed somehow into evil. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had killed.

"Damn! I knew I was in trouble. A chill ran down my spine when I realized that the rankness in that apartment wasn't coming from any sewer - it was the smell of death!" Traci's eyes were wide and Denny looked over his shoulder just to make sure Dahmer wasn't standing behind him.

"He kept telling me that he was going to kill me. For an instant I felt incredibly stupid," Traci said, spitting out the last word. "Then I realized I had no time to retrace my steps. I knew I'd been smelling death all along. And it was sitting right next to me.

"I've had martial arts training, and I know how to take care of myself. I'm a strong man, but he was just as strong. It was so surreal. He couldn't quite force me to get my other arm around so that he could handcuff me. He didn't hit me. He kept telling me, 'C'mon, c'mon, let me get your other arm.' But I kept resisting, wrestling it away." Traci mimicked his panicked movements, twisting and pulling his arm close to his body. He stopped as a new, more macabre thought dawned on him. "Dahmer was trying to sweet talk me into my own murder."

Two short rings on the hotel telephone shook everyone back to the present in the hotel suite. Denny reached the phone just as it rang a second time. It was his editor checking on the progress of the story. In a few moments Denny briefed him on the situation, and told him that he would be filing his story later that day. Traci and the others politely ignored the conversation.

Turning back to the group, Denny interrupted their small talk with a question to Traci. "Through all this time, you never once yelled for help? It was a pretty well-populated building," Denny went on, "didn't you ever consider screaming for your life?"

Traci turned sullen. "I was already bleeding from the cuts in my underarm," he said. "That knife seemed as sharp as a razor. They put eighteen stitches where he cut me. There was no doubt in my mind that if I had raised my voice he would have stuck me dead right then.

"Dahmer told me to stand up and he led me across the room by the handcuff. The knife was firmly stuck in my armpit. I told him, 'you don't have to try and hurt me, I'm not going to fight with you.' I tried to reason with him as he pulled me through the door into a scary scene." Give me details, Denny prayed silently. Traci didn't disappoint him. "The bedroom, just off the living room, was gloomy and foreboding. The dingy gray walls were plastered with nude pictures of men in all types of disgusting sexual poses. I'd never seen anything like it before.

"But I didn't look for very long," Traci said. "I couldn't take my mind off of the knife. The blade felt hot as fire. Every time I'd catch a glance of it, it was looking bigger and meaner. Meanwhile, Dahmer was going through these wide mood swings. He'd whine a low moan over and over. One minute he'd be as cool as a cucumber and the next minute his face was screwed into the devil's mask telling me how he would kill me and eat me. He kept telling me that you just can't trust anybody anymore, you can't believe people. I told him, man you can trust me. If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have come here with you. 'You'll never leave here,' Dahmer said. 'It won't be long, I'll show you. I'll show you things you won't believe. You'll stay here with me.'"

Traci's monologue broke off with a cough. He sipped his coffee, grimacing at its lukewarm sweetness. Traci looked up and Denny noticed his eyes seemed out of focus. But as long as the story is clear, he thought.

"The bedroom was dark except for a lone light in the corner and a television set on the other end of his small single bed," Traci recited the details. "A video tape of The Exorcist was playing on the TV. Dahmer pointed at the television and told me, 'This was the best movie ever made.'

"I almost laughed. This guy thinks he's a movie critic," Traci said.

"The windows of the bedroom were blocked and I could see that he had security alarms hooked to the window sills. Nobody could get in or out of the place without an alarm going off. I was trapped. There was no escape from this room. I looked at the bed. There was a huge stain on the bed sheet. I guessed it was a bloodstain, but it had turned to a tarnished brown color," Traci said, his face pale at the memory. "I was beginning to lose it. The smell. The sounds of the T.V., and Dahmer. It was all getting to me. I felt dizzy and disoriented.

"Then I saw it - a hand was sticking out from under the bed." Traci's eyes were clenched shut so he didn't see the excited grin Denny aimed at the photographer. "I could see the end of it. It was just a hand on the end of a small piece of arm. At first I couldn't convince myself that it was real. It looked like something you might buy in a trick shop. But it was real.

"I wanted to throw up, but I couldn't. Just a dry retch was all I could manage. 'Don't be sick," Dahmer whispered wetly in my ear, 'I'll take care of you.' He pushed the knife harder and cut me with the blade a little deeper. He forced me to sit down on the dingy bed - and he sat down next to me."

All eyes were riveted on Traci. "Next to the bed Dahmer had a small file cabinet. He reached over and pulled open one of the drawers. Inside the drawer was a human skull."

"Jesus," Jeremy said. It was the first time he'd spoken. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked across the room to the bathroom. "I don't want to hear anymore of this."

Denny ignored him. "Go on," he urged Traci.

Traci blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Dahmer rubbed the top of the skull while he stared into my eyes. He said that I looked a lot like the men on the wall, but that I had a better body." This was said almost proudly. "He kept telling me I was very beautiful, it was as if he were talking to a woman. I was freaked out, but I kept focused on his eyes, looking for a chance to bolt out of the hellhole. I knew the man was possessed.

"'I'll let you go if you just let me put your other hand in the handcuff so that I can take some nude pictures of you,' Dahmer told me. 'Let me be more in control. Let me take some nude pictures of you, then I'll let you go.' I guess I was in shock by this time. All the while he was stroking me slowly. My legs, my back, my head. I just kept talking - talking about anything to keep his mind off what he might have planned. He was holding on tight to the handcuff and once in a while he'd shove that huge knife further up into my armpit." Traci winced in memory of the blade.

"I said you've got to trust me, I'm not going to leave you, I'm going to stay with you. I tried to reason with him, but I could see that he was going to do what he had to do. He wasn't buying it. He said, 'you're persistent aren't you? You're real good - but you're going to stay with me forever.'

"I knew right then this guy's going to kill me. He put the knife right in my groin, and pushed steadily on it."

In the hotel suite, Traci started to cry. He was phony all right, but the tears and shaking were real. He had experienced genuine terror. Even more horrifying was the realization of what he had escaped from - how close he had come to his own end.

"Every so often, Dahmer would open the file drawer and rub the skull, then he'd look back into my eyes," said Traci, his voice breaking again. "He was going through some type of ritual. He had done this before. Then he pulled some Polaroid pictures of dead men out of the file cabinet.. The bodies in the photos were decomposed, and Dahmer told me, 'You'll look real good this way. You'll look better than they did.'

"Then he put the knife deeply back into my armpit and ordered me to lay down on the bed. The pain was searing," Traci said. "I laid down on my back and he lowered himself slowly down on top of me with his ear to my chest. He said he wanted to hear my heart beat. He told me he wanted to see how my heart looked. Then he said that he wanted to eat it."

Denny let out a little yip which startled everyone. He could see the headline: "Killer Wanted To Eat My Heart!"

Denny apologized and made a pretense of checking the tape. Traci resumed. "I told Dahmer that I had to go to the bathroom. And, if he let me, I'd come back and take off all my clothes so he could take photos. I was trying to buy time, but I was already beginning to feel like a dead man.

"While I was going to the bathroom he stood right there with me watching and keeping that knife in my armpit. When I finished, I unbuttoned my shirt all the way down, you know, to make him think I was going along with him. I said, let's have another beer. He went to the refrigerator and got two, dragging me with him by the end of the handcuff. The kitchen was filthy. There were pots and pans with disgusting gunk in them everywhere. He wanted to go back in the bedroom. But I said, it's cooler in the living room, let's have the beer in there. I noticed that he wasn't sticking the knife so close to me and I thought he might be getting drunk," Traci sounded hopeful for the first time in his narrative. "He just kept telling me how pretty I was and how I had such a nice body. But he never tried anything sexual with me. I guess that came later. He told me he liked to keep bodies around. He said he liked it when they didn't move or struggle.

"We went back to the couch and I sat down real comfortable-like. I made him think I was right at home, but I was watching his eyes every second," Traci said. He sat forward in the chair, his hands resting on his knees, and talked into the tape recorder. "Dahmer said he'd soon show me things I'd never believe. He asked me if I was drunk, and then told me he'd been drinking all day. I told him I was woozy. Then he started weaving back and forth, not saying anything, just humming in a low tone. It was like he was in a trance.

"I finally decided that this guy was going to have to kill me. I wasn't going to give in to him. I thought to myself, he's going to have to stab me or whatever, but I'm going to try to get out of here. I figure I'm going to die either way.

"The fish tank was blocking the front window, and there was no window in the bathroom. I wasn't going back in that bedroom. I couldn't see how I could get out. I told him that I had to go to the bathroom again and this time he let me get up from the couch by myself. I thought to myself, now's your chance. In an instant I grabbed my bag and shot for the door. He reacted like in slow motion. I got to the door and turned the dead bolt. It clicked open.

"Just then, Dahmer grabbed hold of my arm. I turned and hit him flush in the face with my fist and kicked him backward. He reeled and I never looked back. He underestimated me, and it was his undoing." Traci grinned.

"I bounded at top speed down the hallway, whizzing past a few folks who were walking the other way. 'What's wrong?' they asked, but I never even slowed down. I flew through the front door of that building in a flash and at last took a deep breath of sweet, fresh air. I ran into the street with the handcuff still dangling from my wrist and immediately spotted a police cruiser.

"There's a guy in there trying to kill me! I gasped at the officers inside." Denny thought that was probably the first time Traci had actually sought out the police. "They led me back in the building and we went up to Dahmer's door. And he opened it like nothing had ever happened. Of course, after the cops took a quick look around, well, Dahmer was history."

Anything else was anticlimactic and Denny and the photographer fiddled impatiently with notes and film as Traci came to his conclusion.

"Later as I sat in the squad car, shaking with fear and thanking God that he had delivered me from a human devil, the whole impact of what had happened took me over. I started to cry and babble like a baby."

Traci attempted a pious mien as he moralized. "I thank God I'm alive, and I pray for all the poor souls that visited that apartment before me - and never left. I know that God sent me to get this guy. It was my destiny to put him away."

Denny didn't ask many questions during or after Traci's narrative. Sometimes you just need to let a story tell itself. Traci's retelling of the story had immersed the hotel suite for more than two hours. For a few minutes it was quiet in the room as each man digested what he had just heard.

Denny jotted down a few more notes and handed Traci the remaining five one-hundred dollar bills. He was officially paid-in-full for his contribution to journalism. Traci pocketed the money as he got up from his chair, and he and Jeremy gathered their things to leave.

"If I were you," Denny told Traci at the door of the suite "I would use that $1,000 and get yourself a good therapist - you're going to need it." Denny knew he'd have trouble sleeping.

The following week, when Denny's front-page story broke, Traci's photo was plastered over the cover of the paper. In every supermarket and drug store across America the colorful headlines shouted for attention. And an off-duty cop in a Texas Wall-Mart spotted Traci's face in the paper instantly. The policeman had filed rape charges against Traci two years earlier, and had been looking for him since.

(He'd found his man in the check-out line.)


"The Stones"

Written by Fictafic


I watched a small family move into the house across the street a few months back. We learnt they were called the Stones. They did not relate with the neighbors and seemed to love the dark, and the solitude of their house. We thought that to be weird and tried to engage them in conversations, but they looked at us like we were the walking dead. With time, we all learnt to live without disturbing them. They had the right to live their lives the way they wanted, as long as they did not break any laws.

Some days I felt them stare at me from their windows as I went to school. I became scared and stole a look their way once in a while but they never batted an eyelid or took their gaze off me. They just stared. I told Father about the stares one night over dinner and he was angry. He stood from the dinner table, intending to walk over to their house but Mother stopped him. She would not allow that or allow Father to carry out his threats. She promised to talk with Mrs. Stone.

“She would understand,” Mother said. “She should understand.”

Mother went to speak with Mrs. Stone the next day. She didn’t say how their discussion went, when she returned. She just told me I had nothing to worry about anymore. They would not disturb me again.

A few days later, Mother and Father travelled to Florida to visit granny, who we heard had been hospitalized. I heard a knock on the door the next day and opened the door to see Mrs. Stone standing at our doorstep; her back to the door and her face to the street. She seemed to gaze at a black cat which sat on their porch. She turned toward me, giving me a cold stare, and then smiled calmly; her lips parting, to reveal a set of brown teeth. I swallowed hard in fear, and her smile was gone. She asked for Mother and said they had some issues to discuss. I told her Mother could not come to the door. She was still asleep.

“I see,” Mrs. Stone replied.

She stared past me into the house, and I moved to block her line of sight. A smirk appeared on her face and then it was gone too.

“I’ll be back when they return,” I heard her say as she walked away.

I returned from school late that day. I had earlier stopped over at Evelyn’s house. Mother and Father were due to return home that night, so I felt there was no need to rush home. I looked around me as I got close to home. I had a feeling I could not quite understand. The night had already settled in around me. I opened the door and stepped into the house. There seemed to be an electrical fault within it. There was no supply of electricity. I tapped my phone and walked towards the kitchen using the light the screen provided. There was a flashlight in the kitchen cupboard. I pulled it out and turned it on.

Upstairs, I heard some footsteps, then mother’s voice as she giggled.

“Mum!” I called.

There was silence within the house.

“Up here darling,” I heard my mother’s voice call.

I walked toward the stairs, wondering why mother had not called when they got home. I gently climbed up, and walked to their room. I knocked on the door but heard her voice call from the attic.

“Up here darling,”

I walked towards the attic stairs, wondering what mother was doing up there that night. The door downstairs opened and I stopped.

“We are back,” I heard Mother call from downstairs.

I turned around and ran as a creature came charging at me through the open attic door. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could. I heard a muffled squeal behind me, then the sound of the attic door creaking, as it slid shut.

Power was restored within the house as I made contact with Mother in the living room.

“What is the matter?” Mother asked, as I panted in her embrace.

Father had been bringing in the luggage and left the door open. In the street outside, I saw Mrs. Stone stare at me coldly. She stood a few feet from the street light, with folded arms. I tapped Mother lightly. Mother turned towards my stare but Mrs. Stone was gone.

I still feel them stare at me as I go to school every morning. I try not to show how scared I am, but I know they see it.

Yesterday, Father returned home with some good news. He has been transferred to New York and we are to move with him. I seem to be the happiest, which surprises both Mother and Father. They think I would have fought the move because of the friends I am to leave behind.

I would miss my friends, but I need my peace back. A tap on my shoulder always wakes me up at 5 am every morning to the sight of Mrs. Stone sitting by my bedside, apparitions walking through my bedroom walls, a crow perching outside my window, or my name written in blood all over my room. Mother and Father don’t see it. They don’t know of it. They don’t hear my screams when I wake up and they don’t see the writings either. Maybe I’m going crazy. I do not know. Only the move to New York would tell.

I don’t wish to tell anyone about it. I once told Margaret and she too began to experience it every morning. Yesterday, I heard she was detained in a psychiatric facility and kept under watch for being suicidal. I wish I never told her.

I sincerely hope no one reads this. I am only writing this to ease the burden that I feel. I hope I find peace in New York. Maybe distance would lift whatever has been done to me.


"She Really Hates Kids"

Written by L. Christopher Hennessy


She yelled so awfully loud... like she was right in my face, you know?


My friend Ryan and I were about twelve and we had been to see Batman at the cinema. Jack Nicholson was awesome as the Joker and as we walked home we kept trying to laugh like that, swapping lines from the movie.

It was late and my stepfather was supposed to pick us up, but he never arrived, more than likely too drunk to drive. We waited around for him, but when the town clock tolled at midnight it was obvious he wasn't coming. Ryan offered to call his parents, but being so young, and out so late, it seemed more adventurous to walk home.

The main street was well lit, so we agreed to stick to it. Ryan's concern was walking past the park. Street lights were few and far between from there and most people stayed clear of the park at night, especially since the MacKenzie baby drowned in the pond, and they said the child could be heard crying sometimes. I told the kids at school I'd heard it myself.

We crossed the street to avoid the park. I stopped to tie my shoelace.

A slight breeze whipped through the tree tops, branches creaked, and one of the park lights began flickering.

Ryan said, “ Hey, Joey... Notice there's no traffic? “

I did notice and it was really quiet, too, but then again it was after midnight.

He said, “ If I hear a kid cryin' in that park, I swear I'll shit my pants. “

“ Can you hear that? “ I asked.

“ Hear what? “

“ Your imagination playin' tricks on you. “

“ But you said you heard that kid's ghost. “

“ Yeah, I did, but I didn't see anythin', and no-one believed me anyway, except you. “

We kept walking and made it to the corner. My house was half a block away, but Ryan still had two blocks to go, past the high school.

He looked back at the park and gasped. I saw it, too. More lights were flickering.

“ I don't want to walk home alone, “ he said. “ I'll give you five bucks to walk with me. “

“ Yeah, okay, “ I said, “ but I'm not holdin' your hand. “

At the high school, Ryan looked back at the park again. He looked frightened now. Every light in the park was off and it was pitch black.

“ It's nothin', “ I told him. “ Happens all the time. I see it from my bedroom window. The council needs to clean that place up. It's a dump. “

“ A dump where babies drown and their ghosts cry in the night. “

We kept walking and turned the corner. Ryan was relieved to be so close to home. He gave me the five bucks. Easy money.

Not far from his house was a little white chipped paint cottage, with a wire fence and rusty gate, and no curtains in the windows. All the lights were off and as we walked past an old lady started yelling, “ I see you there! Don't you knock and run! Don't you dare! “

“ That's freaky, “ I said. “ She sounds really angry. Old people should be asleep at this hour. Lets go have a look. “

I started towards the gate, only joking, and Ryan grabbed my arm, saying, “ Don't, man. That's too much. She might call the cops. “

“ Don't you knock and run! “ she yelled.

“ She really hates kids, “ Ryan said. “ I've heard her before, but never seen her. “

His mother and father were still up when we arrived. They were disappointed that we had to walk. We should have called them. They offered to let me stay, but I declined, and just wanted to go home.

“ See you tomorrow, “ Ryan said, closing the door.

As I walked home, I had to pass the cottage again, and sure enough, she was still yelling, but then she stopped, as I stood at the gate.

I heard her say, “ I'm cold and can't get up. “

Now I was worried. What if she was injured? She might die and I could have helped.

I opened the gate and left it open, approaching the house. She sounded like she was crying now. At the front door, I knocked lightly, saying, “ Hello? Do you need me to get you an ambulance? “

“ I'm so very cold, “ she said.

“ I can get you help. “

I went to the window and peered inside. As my eyes adjusted, I became aware of something, and every bone in my body wanted to run.

“ I see you there! “ she yelled, but I couldn't see her. “ Don't you knock and run! “

The window boomed and cracked. I fell backward, gathered my feet, and didn't stop running until I got home.

My mother was in the kitchen as I came through the back door.

She said, “ You're as white as a sheet. How was the movie? “

I ignored her and went directly to my room and sat on my bed, grabbing my knees to stop them from shaking.

That house was empty.




"The Petting Zoo"

Written by Peter de Niverville


At first Johnson thought it was a joke. Speeding down the country road the crude sign was only a blur. But it was that one word. Slowing down, he swung the Lexus onto the paved shoulder. In the rearview mirror, he could see it clearly. The sign was tacked to a stick that was stuck in the ground just beyond the paved shoulder.

Shifting the powerful car into reverse, Johnson jammed the accelerator down. The tires squealed and loose gravel flew as he tore back up the road. Screeching to a halt, Johnson stared at the faded handwriting:



ELSWORTH'S FAMOUS
SPIDER PETTING ZOO
5Ms Next RT


Spiders fascinated Johnson. One summer, when he was eight, a large gold and black spider had taken up residence underneath the shingles by the back door. Every morning, Johnson would gather up ants in a jar from a nest in the scrubby woods behind his house. One by one, he would drop the wriggling insects into the web.

With lightning speed, the spider would spring from her hiding place and race towards the victim. Sinking her fangs into the ant, she would retreat, waiting for the poison to take effect. When the ant slowly stopped struggling, she would climb back down and delicately wrap her prey in a white shroud.

This continued until, one day, his mother caught him. "What a cruel little boy you are," she scolded between clenched teeth as she pummeled his backside. He could still feel the shame of being spanked.

Years later, in a rare moment of remorse, Johnson wondered what it was like for the ant. Trapped…helpless…waiting for the spider to return. Did they know fear or horror? Or was that something only humans experienced? The insect brain was too small he told himself. Or so he hoped.

Five miles, thought Johnson, This side trip might only add another half hour or so to his journey. He would still have time once he got to his motel to have a shower. The dinner meeting with the buyer from the supermarket chain wasn't until 6 o'clock and it was only 4 now.

Coasting forward, Johnson scanned the road looking for the turnoff. About one hundred yards ahead, he saw a lane that intersected with the highway. Flicking on his turn signal, he shot a quick glance at his watch.

If I don't find it in fifteen minutes, he promised himself, I'll turn back.

Accelerating smoothly, he turned onto a well-paved secondary road with deep ditches on either side. Punching the buttons on the CD player, he stretched his arms, settling back into the soft leather seat. As the throbbing beat of Queen filled the Lexus, his mood lightened - an unexpected adventure in an otherwise boring day.

Johnson hated his job. Endless meetings with bad food and balding buyers. Too many drinks and too many hangovers. He was packing on the pounds, too. I have to get back to the gym, he reminded himself.

The only redeeming feature of his job was that he was good at it. Top sales rep for the last three years. I should have been an actor, he told himself. Instead I'm selling toilet paper and tampons to these turkeys.

As the needle on the speedometer crept higher and higher, the neatly kept fields and freshly painted houses became a blur. Mile after mile slipped by. Johnson felt that he and the car had become one, soaring along like a hawk on a summer breeze.

But his mood soon soured. The condition of the road deteriorated. Asphalt gave way to chip-seal, which gave way to gravel; and, finally ended up as dirt.

Johnson jumped on the brakes when a huge pothole emerged in the center of the road. Cursing the delay, he checked his watch again. It was almost 5. The long drive down the country road had dulled his sense of time. I better turn around, he cautioned himself.

As he studied the road ahead looking for a safe place to make a U-turn, he saw it. An old farm house set back from the road. If it hadn't been for the pothole, he would have missed it completely. By the mailbox, a freshly painted sign read:

ELSWORTH'S FAMOUS
SPIDER PETTING ZOO
OPEN YEAR ROUND
ALL VISITORS WELCOME


This must be the place, he concluded. Carefully turning up the heavily rutted lane, Johnson wondered what he would find. Perhaps one of the locals playing a joke on the tourists, he mused.

Tall grass slapped at the bottom of the car and rusted barbed wire clung to rotted posts that ran alongside the lane. In the untilled fields, scrubby bushes had sprung up like mushrooms. Johnson tried to imagine what the farm looked like in better days, but it was impossible.

When he reached the top of the hill, the farmhouse looked even more decrepit. Blistered paint hung from the wooden shingles and there was a disturbing sag in the middle of the roof. What once had been the side garden was now occupied by tall thistles and a mass of tangled timbers indicated the former site of the main barn.

Except for the glass still being intact in the windows, the house looked abandoned. Where is everybody? thought Johnson. In response to his question, an old woman dressed in a black skirt and a woolen sweater stepped out the side door. She was gnarled and withered like the lone apple tree that stood in the yard. Johnson guessed she must have been at least 70, maybe even 80 years old.

"What you want?" she spat.

Turning off the CD player and rolling down the car window, he replied, "Is this the petting zoo?"

"That's what the sign says, don't it?"

Ignoring her rudeness, Johnson continued, "Are you open?"

"I'll git Jake. He out back choppin' wood."

He watched as she shuffled down a dirt path and disappeared around a corner of the house. Charming, thought Johnson.

Opening the car door, he stepped out. Despite the poverty, the farm had a certain rustic appeal which reminded him of the house that he grew up in in the country.

But there was something odd. Something missing. Where are the flies? thought Johnson. On most farms the low buzz of the black swarms was constant. But here there was none. Except for the moaning of the wind, it was quiet.

Perhaps it was the lack of animals, he thought. Or maybe it was the stiff breeze at the top of the hill that kept them at bay.

Glancing at his watch, he frowned. It was after 5 o'clock. If he did not get back on the road soon, he would be late for his appointment. Either that or skip his shower. After driving all day, Johnson did not want to skip the soothing ritual.

Taking one last look around, he reached for the handle of the car door. Just then the old woman reappeared and behind her an even more wizened up old man wearing faded blue overalls and a nicotine-stained undershirt.

Stopping at the corner of the house, the old man spat out a long jet of chewing tobacco on the ground. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he paused momentarily to study Johnson.

Speaking to the old woman, he said in a low tone, "Thought I heard a car come up."

"Wants to see yer spiders," she said before she turned away and went back into the farmhouse, letting the screen door slam behind her.

"You wanna see my spiders, young fella?

"Sure if you're open. How much?"

Looking over the Lexus, he scratched his ruddy face and said, "Fifty bucks."

"Fifty! That's ridiculous!"

Shrugging his shoulders, the old man said, "Take it or leave it. I got work to do."

Then he spat out another long jet of chewing tobacco and turned to go.

I can't leave now after coming all this way, thought Johnson. Taking another quick glance at his watch, he said irritably, "All right, all right. But this better be good!"

The old man smirked and licked his lips as Johnson whipped out a crisp fifty dollar bill from his wallet. Johnson did not like the old man's greedy look and hastily shoved his wallet back in his pants pocket.

"Thanks," said the old man sarcastically, snatching the bill from Johnson's hand. Looking it over carefully, he folded it up neatly, stuck it in his pocket and said, "Follow me."

The old man led Johnson down an overgrown path to a shed at the back of the farmhouse. Inside, the dim glow of fluorescent tubes highlighted the dozen plywood shelves that ran along the walls. In contrast to the rest of the farm, the shed was neat, almost antiseptic in appearance. Sitting on each shelve was a glass terrarium filled with twigs and rocks. In the case closest to Johnson, a small garden spider was spinning a web in the corner.

"That's an orb spider," said the old man.

"I know," said Johnson, annoyed by the interruption,

"You know spiders?'

"A bit," replied Johnson. "I used to study them when I was a kid."

"I bet you're the type that liked to feed 'em, eh? Catch bugs, drop 'em in. See what happens. Fun, ain't it?"

Suddenly Johnson was uncomfortable. How did he guess my secret? he wondered. Johnson felt the warm rush of blood to his neck and ears as he started to blush.

"No need to be ashamed, young fella. All kids do it. It's natural."

Trying to change the topic, Johnson asked, "You been at this long?…keeping spiders?"

"Yeah, I been at it awhile. Most folks are scared of spiders. Not me. Me and spiders git along real good."

Johnson turned back to watch a large black spider in another case sucking up the half-digested slurry of its latest victim.

Trying to be polite, Johnson asked, "Bet you don't get many visitors here…being so far from the highway."

"Don't need 'em," said the old man. "This is just a sideline." Pausing for effect he added, "I breed 'em."

Johnson looked puzzled.

"For the college," explained the old man. "They use 'em for research."

"Does it pay well?"

"Good 'nuf…Ah, they don't know squat 'bout spiders!," said the old man, spitting on the floor. Johnson looked down and saw that a streak of the sticky black tobacco had splashed on his shoes.

"I been doing research of my own," said the old man proudly. "Spiders are jes' like any other critter. Cows, horses, dogs - they're all the same. Breed the best with the best and you git the best…Or the…," the old man's voice trailed off as he started to laugh.

There was something about his tone that made Johnson uneasy.

"You wanna see my prize winner?"

Johnson looked around.

"Oh, she ain't here. I keep her in the barn. She kinda makes these critters nervous. I can't say, I blames them. Wanna see her?"

The way the old man said it, the question sounded more like a challenge.

Johnson hesitated. He wanted to say no, but he could not let the old man see he was afraid.

"Sure," answered Johnson. What could it be? he asked himself. A tarantula?

With the old man in front, they went down a lesser-used path to a small barn behind a stand of trees that made it invisible from the farmhouse. A shiny new lock on a rusted hasp yielded to the old man's key.

"I don't like kids messin' with my stuff."

The ancient wooden door swung open. Inside it was pitch black. Johnson hesitated. What was it that made him apprehensive? His mouth felt dry and he tried to swallow.

"Go on in!" taunted the old man as he shoved Johnson through the door.

Stumbling on the raised sill, Johnson fell to one knee ripping his pants. Damnit, he cursed.

"There's a light switch ahead of you," the old man reassured him. "Jes' pull the string."

The stench of moldy hay made Johnson gag.

"Where is it…the spider?" he called out.

"She's in the back. You can't miss her."

"Where's the light?"

"Right in front of you. Can't you see it?" mocked the old man.

Johnson stretched out his hand. At first, he could not feel anything. Then slowly groping the air in, he caught hold of it. Johnson's heart leapt in relief. But there was something strange. The line didn't feel like string. It was sticky like a…

Pulling the line, Johnson knew he had made a mistake. Something rustled in the rafters above him and bits of straw floated down.

Johnson bolted for the opening.

"Enjoy yourself!" cackled the old man as he slammed the door and locked it.

"Let me out! Let me out!" shouted Johnson, pounding on the door. "Let me out, you old buzzard!"

But it was no use. The dried-out wooden door was like iron. Pausing to catch his breath, his fists throbbing, Johnson looked around. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. What appeared to be a black chasm was, in fact, the side entrance to the barn. There must be another way out, he thought. But where?

In the gloom, he could see that beyond the entry way there was a large open space. And beyond that a boarded-up window through which thin shafts of sunlight streamed.

Great! All I have to do is cross the barn, pull off one or two of those boards and climb out, thought Johnson. Then I'll show that old man. Fifty bucks! He'll wish I had never stopped.

Then he heard another rustle overhead and more straw floated down.

"Who is it? Who's there?" he called out.

I'll bet it's that old man, thought Johnson. He thinks he's going to scare me.

"Sure! You just keep that up, old man," Johnson called out again. "Let's see how much laughing you do when I bash your face in."

But first, I've got to get to that window. Be careful, he cautioned himself. This barn must be full of junk. Don't want to fall down and get hurt.

Despite the heat in the barn, he shivered. Licking the sweat off his upper lip, Johnson slowly picked his way across the wide wooden-planked barn floor, being careful not to trip. Shadows of old machinery and tools loomed around him. A leather harness that hung from the wall looked like a hangman's noose.

There was a peculiar smell, too. It reminded him of a package of chicken that he once left in the trunk of his car on a hot summer day. It was the sickly, sweet scent of rotting meat.

Oh, gross! muttered Johnson. There's a dead animal in here.

In less than a minute he had crossed the barn and was standing in front of the boarded-up window. Blocking his exit were three boards nailed haphazardly into the frame.

Either the old man was too weak or too lazy to drive them all the way in, concluded Johnson. I can probably pull them off with my bare hands, he smiled triumphantly.

The first board was half-rotted and fell apart in his hands. Light streamed in as it came away from the frame. Then he shifted his attention to the second one - the board in the middle. If he could get this one off, he could easily climb out.

But this board wouldn't be so easy. It was like the old door of the barn, dried out and as tough as steel.

Gripping the board with both hands, he began pulling. The nails squealed in protest and the board started to move. Only a little bit further, grunted Johnson. The thought of throttling the old man excited him. Just a bit further....another half inch. He could almost feel his fingers closing around the old man's scrawny neck...the eyes bulging...the tongue sticking out. Another half inch...!

Then it stopped. Desperately, Johnson yanked at the board, but it was no use. It would not yield.

I need more leverage, he said to himself. Balancing on one foot, he braced his other against the window frame and started pulling again. The muscles in his forearms and back bulged as he strained against the board. Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. Come on, he pleaded with the wood. Come on.

In his frustration, Johnson did not hear the soft tap...tap...tap on the floor behind him. Tap...tap....tap. Like a blind man with his cane. Tap...tap...tap. Then it was too late. It struck.

The force of the attack rammed him face first up against the wall knocking the wind out of him. Warm blood trickled from his nose and ran down his cheek.

What was that?

Turning around slowly, he could see, in the light from the window, his attacker. It was crouched inside an empty stall along the opposite wall. The legs tensed ready to spring. It was a spider. No doubt one of the old man's experiments. But this was no ordinary spider. It was huge. About the size of a pit bull, with legs that extended out three or four feet on either side. Its eyes stared coldly at him.

Johnson did a quick tally of his injuries. Except for his bloody nose, he was unharmed. Perhaps the large size of the creature made it difficult for it to mount an attack, he conjectured. Possibly it did not even recognize him as prey.

Spiders normally eat moths and insects, he reminded himself. Not human beings.

When he was a kid, Johnson liked to throw twigs into a web just to see the spider's reaction. Invariably, after pouncing on the object, the spider would pluck it out of the web, turn it over and drop it on the ground. Johnson hoped this spider would show the same lack of interest.

From its vantage point at the other end of the barn, the creature seemed puzzled - unsure of itself. Spiders are cautious, he told himself. It's waiting for me to make the next move. Although every fiber in his body screamed run, his brain told him stay still. The spider was too big and too fast to out-run.

I need a weapon, he told himself. Quickly looking about, he saw the rotten board from the window lying at his feet. It was about two feet long with a jagged point at one end. It'll have to do. Slowly, he bent down to pick it up.

The spider crouched low, like a sprinter, ready to strike again. Johnson froze - his fingers only inches from the board.

"Easy girl," he whispered softly. "Easy."

The spider relaxed, but not completely. Deliberately, it began to move forward. Tap...tap...tap. Johnson was amazed by the creature's grace. Like a ballerina tiptoeing in from the darkened wings of a theatre, it was a marvel of beauty and design. The body, covered by fine grey hair, had the look of velvet, while the eight legs that extended from the thorax provided speed and balance.

As it approached Johnson, the spider carefully extended one foreleg towards him. Johnson quickly knocked it away with his hand. The creature stopped and cocked its plate-sized head to one side. The eight eyes looked like black fists. Then the leg came forward again. At the tip, Johnson could see the spike-like claw for catching prey. It touched his left shoulder. Through his jacket he could feel the sharp point digging into his skin. Johnson winced and stepped backwards into the wall. But there was no place to go. Slowly, the other foreleg came forward. Johnson recoiled, trying to ward off the attack with his free arm. But the creature was too strong. It brushed his arm aside, as if it was a piece of lint, and planted a second claw into his other shoulder. Johnson cried out, "Help! Help!"

Then the spider reared up on its hind legs, forcing Johnson to his knees. For a brief moment, he and the creature looked into each other's eyes. It was almost like love. Then he saw the six-inch fangs that extended from the head. Drops of venom gleamed in the half-light. He watched in fascination as the cruel daggers arched high over him; then he screamed as they plunged deeply into his chest. Instantly, white hot pain ripped through his body.

Then it was gone. The spider had retreated back to the stall. Johnson knew that he only had a minute or two before the poison paralyzed him.

This is it! he said to himself. My only chance.

Ignoring his wounds, Johnson turned back to the window. Grabbing at the board, he yanked and pulled, to no avail. Already the venom was having its effect. His hands were numb and his arms felt like lead. Gasping for air, he threw himself at the boards again and again. But it was no use. He was beaten. Great sobs shook his body as he slumped to the floor.

This can't be happening to me, he protested. It's ridiculous.

Looking back at the spider, he could see that it still had not moved. What is she waiting for? he wondered. Why doesn't she finish me off?

He soon had his answer. Shimmering like a great overcoat, there was something on the spider's back. It moved and undulated like a small wave flowing back and forth. Then a piece of the wave pulled away and dropped to the floor. It was another spider, only a lot smaller - about the size of a rat. Johnson recalled that some spiders carry their young on their backs. Horrified, he realized that he had stumbled into their nursery and it was feeding time. Another one dropped to the floor and then another. Soon there was a long line of spiders slowly crawling towards him. Through fading eyesight, he saw the first one reach his foot. Tentatively, its foreleg probed the air, until it found his leg and patted it. It was light and delicate like the touch of a child. Johnson opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. The last thing Johnson saw before he lost consciousness was a spider tearing a piece of flesh from the back of his hand.

Back at the farmhouse, the old man picked up the whisky bottle from the kitchen table, poured himself another drink and plopped down on the ancient Lay-z-boy recliner.

"How long it take, Jake?" asked the old woman.

"Not long," he grunted. "They ain't et since Sunday."

"Git a better sign. Attract mo' folks."

"Nah, the sign's okay. Anyway, we don't need a crowd," said the old man, taking a long, hard swallow.

"What yer goin' do with his car?" she asked, standing at the window admiring the now ownerless Lexus.

"I hear young Dougall needs one for runnin' moonshine. Willin' to pay a good price, too," said the old man.

"Won't he ask questions?" wondered the old woman, pouring a drink and easing herself down onto a dusty couch.

"Nah. He don't care," snickered the old man. "I'll talk ta him tomorrow. Meanwhile, pass the remote. Let's see what's on Dr. Phil."



"This has been the Ghostess inviting you to join us next time for another night of horror at the Cemetary, until then, Good Fright", the Ghostess said as she blew out the candle that faded black the credits roll

Executive Producer: David Pellot

Executive Consultant: Abigail Colodner

Supervising Producer: Alexandra Borrie

Abigail Colodner as the Ghostess


"Tommy Parker's Apple Pie Recipe" (from his mother Bonnie)

1 recipe pastry for a 9 inch double crust pie
1/2 cup unsalted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 cup water
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
8 Granny Smith apples - peeled, cored and sliced

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F (220 degrees C). Melt the butter in a saucepan. Stir in flour to form a paste. Add water, white sugar and brown sugar, and bring to a boil. Reduce temperature and let simmer.

Place the bottom crust in your pan. Fill with apples, mounded slightly. Cover with a lattice work crust. Gently pour the sugar and butter liquid over the crust. Pour slowly so that it does not run off.

Bake 15 minutes in the preheated oven. Reduce the temperature to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Continue baking for 35 to 45 minutes, until apples are soft.


"Mark & The Hopper Family's Apple Pie Recipe"

1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
6 to 7 cups thinly sliced peeled tart apples
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Pastry for double-crust pie (9 inches)
1 tablespoon butter
1 large egg white
Additional sugar

In a small bowl, combine the sugars, flour and spices; set aside. In a large bowl, toss apples with lemon juice. Add sugar mixture; toss to coat.

Line a 9-in. pie plate with bottom crust; trim pastry even with edge. Fill with apple mixture; dot with butter. Roll out remaining pastry to fit top of pie. Place over filling. Trim, seal and flute edges. Cut slits in pastry.

Beat egg white until foamy; brush over pastry. Sprinkle with sugar. Cover edges loosely with foil.

Bake at 375° for 25 minutes. Remove foil and bake 20-25 minutes longer or until crust is golden brown and filling is bubbly. Cool on a wire rack. Yield: 8 servings.
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https://plus.google.com/101299293050189294653 Cheese Acres Farm : #TuesdayTrivia Did you know that when a person cries and the first drop of tears come from the right...
#TuesdayTrivia

Did you know that when a person cries and the first drop of tears come from the right eye, its happiness. if it from left eye, it’s pain?
Hm, I guess I need to pay attention next time I'm squalling. 😉
6 hours ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/107023206830539767118 Annoying Dog : shhhhhhhhhh the pure child is sleeping shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hes not really pure go along...
shhhhhhhhhh the pure child is sleeping shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hes not really pure go along with it

Name: "my name is Sosa shu Yami"
Age:17
Nick name: " just call me shu"
Sexuality: "Im ~Pan~ sexual" *he said in a flirtatious way"
Crush: "ive had none people never like my personality"
Friends: "I guess i don't have anymore, lets just say they've moved on" his left eye flashes red
Fusion group: "nahh i dont need one i'm strong enough on my own"

Parents: "I never knew them i was given to a lad at a young age as was experimented on"
Siblings: "i dont have any that i know of unless they were raised with my parents"
Anyone else related?: "nahh not really most likely there dead then"

Personality: "i guess you could say i'm dark, creepy, fearless, Ahhh and flirtatious, alittle bit two faced i have a few soft spots hardly any"
Power: "aww saying it wouldn't be fun" when he was experimented on he was given a sort of eye that's not his own but made its way to his blood stream and took over his body but he lives as a mix of those to people now but gave him magic he cant control at times and every once in awhile will lock himself somewhere and cry because the magic takes him over
Guild: "i'm dark" he used to be light befor magic took over and he sealed a contract with his magic
Transformation: "i can fuse with people without the proper amount and i can manipulate people at times" he manipulates you and makes you pass out as his eye flashes
Aura pet: a big griffin appears and carries you somewhere to rest and then goes over to shu and bits his neck to get payback
Special attacks: he can maintain fusing with nico's evil side without going insane
Enemies: None
(pictures not mine)
6 hours ago - Via Community - View -
https://plus.google.com/100238502870213248079 Richard Christiansen : A husband leaves for work one Friday afternoon, But instead of going home, he stayed out the entire ...
A husband leaves for work one Friday afternoon, But instead of going home, he stayed out the entire weekend with the boys spending all his wages.  When he finally got home on Sunday night, he was confronted by his very angry wife..  'How would you like it if you didn't see me for two or three days?' He replied: 'That would be fine with me.' Monday went by and he didn't see his wife. Tuesday and Wednesday came and went and he didn't see his wife..by Thursday, the swelling went down just enough for him to see her a little out of the corner of his left  eye!
7 hours ago - Via Reshared Post - View -
https://plus.google.com/118270839186342264968 Keith W Henline : I was watching Hellary on the NBC news when her left eye did this and I could not believe it so I rerun...
I was watching Hellary on the NBC news when her left eye did this and I could not believe it so I rerun it a couple of times right at the 52 second mark her left eye goes from normal to this... WTF? Is she a cyborg?
7 hours ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/104557940228490794630 Tony Rothgeb : A husband leaves for work one Friday afternoon, But instead of going home, he stayed out the entire ...
A husband leaves for work one Friday afternoon, But instead of going home, he stayed out the entire weekend with the boys spending all his wages.  When he finally got home on Sunday night, he was confronted by his very angry wife..  'How would you like it if you didn't see me for two or three days?' He replied: 'That would be fine with me.' Monday went by and he didn't see his wife. Tuesday and Wednesday came and went and he didn't see his wife..by Thursday, the swelling went down just enough for him to see her a little out of the corner of his left  eye!
7 hours ago - Via Reshared Post - View -