The Intrusion

by Joel Arnold

Okay, this is where it gets tricky. Confession time. The night I cheated on my wife –

No – let’s save that for later.

The night Mary wakes up and screams “I can hear him! Make him stop!”

“Honey, it’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

She sits up staring blindly as I turn on the bedside lamp, “No, I heard him. I saw him. His shadow – like he was over me, breathing.”

“Settle down. You were having a bad dream.”

“No,” she insists. The bed shakes with her tremors. “No.”

“You were dreaming.”

She starts to cry.

Rapunzel’s Room

By John Dodds

In the showers later, she raised her right arm and examined her armpit minutely. Even after having shaved it yesterday with the LadyShave it still seemed hairier than it should. Normally, at worst, it was like the chin of a cartoon character like Desperate Dan or Fred Flintstone, a constellation of black dots. Now it was almost full length again. The hair had grown long enough to curl into a matted bush beaded with droplets of perspiration. It simply wasn’t possible. Unless it was caused by those vitamin supplements she had been taking. Those, and the performance enhancers so she could work out longer and harder.

Across The Darien Gap

by Daniel Braum

Alexa shuffles on the dance floor with the seven others we’re traveling with. Her long black hair is coated in sweat and Costa Rican grime. She smiles and for a moment I can believe she is carefree, despite all our running and fear.

She keeps her distance from a short Indian man who is spinning in circles with his arms extended and eyes closed. A big, almost toothless grin spreads on his wrinkled old face. He’s definitely had a few shots of guaro too many.

I picked up the seven others between here and San Antonio to bring us to nine. Makes us easier to mask. Harder to scrye. Now we look like just a bunch of nobodies heading to the gap, leisurely. Not in a beeline. Nothing that will call attention to our pursuers.

Memories of the Knacker’s Yard

by Ian Creasey

“How long have we had this one?” I asked, shivering in the morgue’s chill.

“Two days,” the white-coat guy said. I didn’t know his name. I try to remember the lab people and support staff, but turnover’s too high. This line of work burns people out faster than a crematorium on overtime.

“What did you leave it that long for?” I said, annoyed. “Waiting for the killer to turn himself in?”

“We were waiting for the ghost to show up,” he said.

I shook my head in disgust. “Look, when someone’s been murdered, they want us on the case. If their ghost doesn’t turn up in twenty-four hours, that’s because it can’t.”

That was the problem. If a ghost complains that it’s just been murdered, it can help us by describing the killer, or at least telling us about its enemies. Investigating a murder without a ghost is much harder. The slashing was the third this month, all without ghosts, and the eighth this year. Or was it the ninth?

Hell, when you lose count of the corpses, you know you’re losing.