Death Goes Trick or Treating by Crystal Collier

If you’re a normal person, bad caramel corn with give you a stomach ache. If you’re Death, it means there will be Hell to pay. 

Halloween. No one blinked twice as I strolled down the street among the crowd of trick or treaters—all twelve feet of me. The occasional grandparent watched with wide eyes, clearly recognizing I was more than just a big kid in costume on stilts. And really, who doesn’t want to see me? I’m a nice guy. Great sense of humor. Shiny scythe. Not to mention, when we come face to face your troubles are over. Really. I should be a welcome guest in anyone’s home.

But speaking of Halloween…

I swung a glowing pumpkin pail at my side, more excited than I cared to admit and knocked on a door along side several unruly children. They bounced from foot to foot and giggled. I chuckled inwardly with them. They loved tonight almost as much as me, but of course they wouldn’t after this moment.

The door popped open and an elderly woman lifted a hand full of candy. Her eyes jumped to me and grew the size of doughnuts. 

“Trick or Treat,” I said, batting my eyes…which she couldn’t see.

Her hand trembled as she offered me a cellophane wrapped ball of caramel corn. Still warm. Melty caramel overwhelmed me, and I was in my own personal heaven. It was like she knew this was my favorite treat—never mind that I had come to take her through Death’s doorway. 

Maybe I’d let her live another hour for the generous gift.

I tossed a handful into my mouth and savored its caramely goodness, gliding down the suburban street. German caramel. Sticky corn and…something slightly off…

Children flooded around me, dwarfed by my stunning height. That’s when my eye started to twitch. My tongue watered. 

Candy.

I NEEDED candy.

ALL THE CANDY.

Shoving kids out of the way, I sprinted up to the next doorstep. I held my bucket with all the other kids and shouted, “Trick or Treat!” 

The middle aged woman dropped a tootsie roll into my bucket. 

A tootsie roll.

One tootsie roll.

The insult to all things candy. The penny of the money world. The roach of the animal world.

A tootsie roll.

Rage exploded through me like dynamite in a Venetian vase. I lifted a finger and pointed right at her. “Die!”

She swallowed the wad of gum she was chewing, gagged and choked. To death.

“Death to tootsie rollers!” I grinned like a madman and trotted on to the next house like a little girl with pigtails on a spring day. 

Candy bars survived. Licorice depended on my mood. Gum and sucker givers suffered heart attacks, one got death by vacuum cleaner. Smarties got an aneurism, two from me shoving their treats back up their noses. I stretched taffy givers insides until they ripped in half. Hard candies got beheaded, one by the chainsaw he was wielding to scare kiddies, another by the fire hydrant I threw at him. Tootsie rollers spontaneously exploded, bits and pieces flying everywhere like confetti. One even got death by lava lamp, right through the chest. A deliriously happy Death skipped from door to door, loving every moment.

…until…

I woke from my psychotic haze. The streets were empty and dark. Sniffles carried on the wind, doors shut tight and windows covered. I had singlehandedly destroyed Halloween.

How many souls had I sent on before their time? How many traumatized kids memories would I have to wipe? What a mess. 

Caramel corn.

I made my way slowly back up the street, taking note of the names and addresses of my untidy fatalities. Fifty two.

The door cracked open when I knocked a second time, the caramel corn giver’s door. Her silver-gray bob trembled as her doughnut eyes lifted, blood draining from her cheeks. She looked almost as transparent as a spirit. 

Louise Johnston, due to die two hours earlier.

I tapped impatient fingers against my scythe. 

“He said he knew how to cheat death,” she croaked, falling back and lifting her hands as if they could protect her. “I did exactly what he said, put the white powder into the caramel.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of chaos I have to clean up?” I gestured down the street. “I’m not even sure I can put some of them back together.”

Her trembling amplified to a full body shake, the rolls around her jowls jiggling.

I sighed. “Look, Louise, I’m a reasonable guy. Just tell me who it was that gave you this white powder so I can move on here.”

Her Adams apple moved like she was swallowing a cantaloupe and might choke on it. “He said his name was Tom.”

Flames could have spewed out of my ears. They might have. Mr. Undying pain-in-my-rear. The guy who always stayed one step ahead. The annoyance who slit my throat, stole the keys to Hell to rescue his dead girlfriend (who didn’t want him as it turns out), and then tossed my scythe in the ocean. I ended up wrestling an octopus for two days to get the dang thing back. All the while people lived past their death dates and my schedule piled so high that I didn’t get unburied for months. Not that I had to worry about time, but it was non-stop work until every last soul was where it belonged. With approximately 107 deaths a minute, they really stack up. 

Tom.

If it wasn’t enough that I couldn’t kill him, now he was seriously messing with my happy time. 

My teeth scraped across each other like chalk on a board. Time to pin him down in a piranha infested pool. Or maybe chain him to an earth-bound asteroid. Drop him in a steel box filled with flesh-eating amoebas and sink it to the bottom of the ocean. Stuff him down an active volcano… The possibilities were endless.

But first, I had this dung heap to clean up or Hell was going have my skin. I hoped some of those candy givers could survive without bits of ear or lung, because I really wasn’t sure I could scrape the pieces out of carpet and ceiling vents. Although I’d try.

One thing is for certain: I’d never eat caramel corn again.

Source

You can read more of Death and his adventures here:

An Interview with Death

Death Goes to Hell

Crystal Collier is an author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids, with the occasional touch of humor. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE. 

Midnight Session by Stuart R. West

Stay in school. Don't do drugs. Drink blood.

***

As soon as Harry saw the building, he considered the hefty school fee he’d paid wasted money. Tiny bits of green currency floating away on a draft of chicanery. Sucker. Ironic, Harry thought, as the name really fit in more ways than one. Turning away from the industrial warehouse, he yelped, startled at the sight of a brunette standing in front of him, a gotcha grin tugging her cheekbones high.

“Hey.” She clutched her trench coat tightly around her throat. “I’m Katrina.” Even though her name spoke of exotic faraway lands, her accent didn’t travel farther than Chicago.

“Sorry…you scared me. I’m Harry.” He stuck his hand out. Hers felt very cold. Delusional maybe, but he tried to hold onto the notion that his skin was still warm.

“You must be new. We move quietly here.”

“Yeah. Guilty. I’m…pretty new.”

 “Well, c’mon, Harry. You’re in the right place. Don’t worry about the venue. It’s a good class.”

When Harry first saw the flyer for “Vamps 101,” he imagined it to be a stripper school of some sort. But after calling the number, the supportive operator assured Harry it was the right class for him. He needed all the help he could get. This vampire business was beginning to play havoc on his social life.

Katrina rang a bell next to the “Thomason Label” sign and waited. Harry expelled a breath in the cold winter night. Of course he didn’t expect to see his breath, not really. But he looked anyway; old habits die hard.

A night watchman peeked through the window next to the door. “Good evening, Ms. Katrina. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

“Just running late. You know I’d never miss a class.”

“Teacher’s pet!” The watchman laughed.

Katrina led Harry through a maze of upfront offices and hamster-challenging cubicles until they reached a large meeting room. Inside, people had gathered around a back table, sucking out of hospital blood bags with straws and dabbing their mouths with wet wipes. Chairs stood in a row, evenly and precisely as grey tombstones in a military cemetery.

“Class, let’s begin.” A mild-mannered clerk of a man with straw-colored hair wispier than a fleeting dream, commandeered a podium. “Welcome back. I see we have a few new students joining us today.” Behind bottle-thick glasses, he eyed Harry. “I’m Seth. The gentleman to my right is my T.A., Kevin.”

Kevin’s appearance startled Harry. He’d never seen an old-school vampire before--true Transylvanian style, gaunt, bald, the pointed ears of an elf and eyes so pale the pupils barely existed. By way of greeting, Kevin hissed through a mouthful of needled teeth. Ever the accountant, Harry imagined exorbitant dental bills.

“The purpose of our class is to help fellow vampires indoctrinate themselves properly into human society, learning to live amongst them as equals. We have an open forum, so please, if any of you have questions, concerns, challenges, please do speak up.”

Katrina dropped a well-manicured hand on Harry’s knee.

“Now, as you well know,” Seth continued, “we’ve been fighting strongly to put the old stereotypes behind us.” He dropped into a poor Bela Lugosi accent, complete with clawed hands. “I vant to suck your blood.”

Polite chuckles rippled throughout the classroom, a wave Harry awkwardly joined.

“Our goal is to reassure the humans we mean them no harm. Rather than sup on humans, we’ve found other ways to satiate our thirst. For instance, there’s animal blood, hospital donations—”

A little girl, possibly no older than thirteen (at least when she turned), shouted, “But, Seth, animal blood is so gross!”

Seth’s lips tightened into a bone-white scar. “Lucinda, when you were human, you ate beef, correct?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

“And did you like it?”

“Sometimes.” She crossed her arms, frumpy at the world and refusing to be pigeon-holed.

“Well, there you have it.” Seth spread his hands in a giving manner. “Now, if you’re having problems procuring—”

“What about dogs?” asked a burly lumberjack of a vampire. “Is it okay to eat dogs?”

Harry could see Seth’s patience bubbling like a boiled-over teakettle. Briefly, he closed his eyes. Then like a rubber band, snapped back. “Borney, you know better than that. Anything that’s considered a pet is off-limits. Once we officially come out, humans won’t smile kindly on dog snacking. Does that answer your question?”

Borney slid down into his chair, kicking his denim-clad legs out. “I guess.” Harry imagined he had his mind set on a rather plump Dachshund, only to have that meal taken off the table.

A sniffing sound distracted Harry. On the other side of the room, a goth girl and a businessman were smelling the man between them, their noses tracking up along his arms. Disapproving frowns wrinkled their faces.

The man, even paler than Kevin, blurted out, “Leave me alone,” gargling as if underwater.

With a sneer, the businessman jacked a thumb toward the sickly-looking man, virtually ignoring him, and asked, “What’s he doing here, Seth?”

Again, Kevin hissed, possibly an enforcer more than a T.A.

“Devin, I’m well aware of Charlie’s unfortunate living dead predicament. He—”

Ignoring Seth, the businessman spat out, “Zombie!”

“Blood sucker!” gave back Charlie.

Gasps traveled through the room, the seed of a full-birthed crowd riot.

Seth banged the podium with a tiny fist. “Ladies and gentlemen, enough! Please! No ugly names! One of the reasons we’re here is to get past vile name-calling—”

“We prefer to be called living-challenged,” offered Charlie. Even through his wet-sounding, nearly indecipherable words, Harry detected pride. A man who’s fought an uphill battle most of his undead life. However, a bit of his pride sort of dissipated when his ear slipped off, splatting onto his shoulder.

“My apologies, Charlie. Class, from now on, we’ll refer to Charlie’s predicament as ‘living-challenged’. No more name calling. Is that understood?”

Kevin leaned forward, mouth gaping open wide, large enough to inhale a pig. The class quieted.

“As I was saying…” Seth shot the fighting trio a “that’s-the-end-of-that” look. “…Charlie had my preapproval to join the class. He, like us, is persecuted. We aim to end that. Through education, understanding. Getting along as a community. Peaceful protesting, so to speak. Let’s move on…” He scanned the students. His bug-eyed gaze fell on Harry. “Harry’s new. Everyone meet Harry.”

Immediately, Harry loathed the attention, dreading what he knew would come next.

 “Harry…please tell us a little bit about yourself.”

Harry hesitated. Katrina’s hand on his shoulder goosed him into action. “Um…I’ve only been turned for a couple weeks now. It’s hard…tough. I…met a girl in a bar…”

Nods from the men, affirmative sour grunts. The women smiled knowingly. He didn’t want to be a cliché, but that’s apparently the shoe he fit.

“…anyway, it’s been tough adjusting. I’m really not into eating people. Just not my thing. So…any kind of help…” His voice choked off. If he was still capable of tears, surely they would’ve flowed.

Katrina stood first, then the others circled Harry. Even Charlie, the living-challenged person, offered him a hug. A true vampiric Kumbaya moment.

After class, Harry’s spirits (did he still have one?) had lifted. Empowered, he vamped up, and approached Katrina. Not trusting himself around human women, he thought he’d ask her on a date.

“Um, Katrina…would you like to maybe…join me for a cup of coffee?” Immediately, he realized his mistake. A lifetime of human living habits would take a while to shake.

She smiled. “Not coffee. But, I know where there’s a field full of cattle, ripe for the taking.”

As far as first dates went, it hardly sounded romantic. But Harry did feel a little parched.

***

 Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah, I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine Morgan Freeman narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page. 

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

"Dexter meets Dilbert," says Declan Finn, paranormal/action writer. Serial killers have never been so much fun: Secret Society

Brand spankin' new and creeptacular trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway: .

Ghosts of Gannaway.

 

The Last Time by Crystal Collier

June hadn’t punched out yet, wouldn’t punch out yet. She ogled the ID in her mittened fingers like it had more answers than the Bible, but was unable to find a single one.

The camp office behind her was quiet, all lights turned off except for the one over the door, throwing an eerie light across the time-card machine. Her exit. Out of this world and on to the next.

Two weeks ago Camp Thistle had been buzzing, more kids running around than Disney on a holiday. Too many eyes. Tomorrow the manager, Don, would come and close the place down for the winter. Tomorrow condemned this wonderland to silence and doomed her chances forever.

She placed her ID on top of the machine and turned to the brightened doors. June grazed past aisles of never-expiring treats and wood-whittled souvenirs. She’d purchased a few and sent them to her nieces and nephew. Only nineteen, she hoped to have kids one day—but not until she finished school. Which she’d put off this semester after she discovered it…

A bell above the door tinkled as she pushed through and stepped into the snowy night. Stars glimmered above, casting their mysterious light on twelve white-capped cabins and the bordering trees.

Legend said the camp was built next to an Indian burial ground. It was just a story. June had been here six months and never seen any ghosts. Don’s grandson (who had worked here every summer since he was ten,) said he’d heard drum beats while taking hikers through the canyon. He’d discovered a cave there, but didn't actually enter.

He was a wuss.

June rounded the building. Her cloudy breaths were the only disturbance in the evening as she passed the mess hall windows. She stopped at the cellar door that led below the kitchen. Don never let anyone down there for supplies, not even the cook. It had been a sore point during the busiest times when June had to run around the camp to find him so they could start dinner. She’d requested the keys several times. Don refused.

But tonight, with the camp cleared out, she would discover what he was hiding. She lifted the electric screwdriver from below her coat and kneeled in the snow before the door hinges. Her tool whined to action.

Anyone who was deterred by locks hadn’t grown up with her brother. Not that he’d ever been slapped with petty theft, but Mom hadn’t been able to keep him out of the candy closet for sure. Of course, this was a little heavier than the candy closet. She appreciated the criminal implications of her actions, and that’s why she’d waited. When Don needed supplies from town to lock up, she’d volunteered to close things down for him. She’d been nothing but trustworthy all summer. He couldn’t possibly suspect, and now she had the camp to herself.

No witnesses.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling that the old man was standing right behind her, tapping a toe as he waited for her to notice.

She paused and turned. Tree tops, silhouetted by moonlight stared down at her, wind whistling between dark cabins and skimming the back of her neck. She shivered and shrunk into her coat. Winter came to these mountains far too early.

The tool buzzed back to life, shaking her bones and warming her hands. Three screws down, five more to go.

June was not looking forward to putting them back—especially with the wood splintering as the bolts came free. They would never sit right again. She wished she’d considered that. A story around camp said that a kid had snuck down there back in the fifties. He wanted to impress a girl and make her a picnic in forbidden territory—or at least that’s the story the girl told everyone after he went missing. A hundred endings had sprung up for the story: a monster in the basement, being murdered by the owner and served up to the other kids, that he’d been turned into a slave and lived down there still… It had been a scandal, something the local newspapers raved about, but Don had worked hard to make the story go away. Now only a few people knew it. June had made it her business to learn everything she could about the ordeal.

That boy was her grandma's brother.

She slid the last screw out of place and tucked the screwdriver into her pocket. She expected she’d find a normal cellar lined with supplies and labeled boxes of non-perishable food. It was a shame, really. She wanted there to be more to it, but if she let herself believe there was, she’d psych herself out of the next step.

No. Never. She’d come too far, worked the whole summer. This was it.

She pulled the wood away from its frame. It clung to the cement exterior a moment before popping free—like a frog being pulled from its perch.

Five steps descended into the new space. Darkness waited below. But no, not darkness. A sliver of light cut through the murk, the split between two black curtains.

June pulled out her cell phone and cued up the camera. There was no reception up here, but she would take evidence of what she’d seen with her. She owned that much to Grandma Rodriguez.

She placed one boot noiselessly on the first step and hit record, straining her ears toward the light. She ducked into the cavity and took another step. The wind’s warning died, and she descended another stair.

Air stirred from her own breathing, the sound far too loud.

Her boot scraped across debris on the fourth step. She cringed and stopped.

The drapes before her remained still, pitch black as the devil’s eyes. She swallowed and stepped down. Her gloved fingers grazed across the material—as heavy and velvety as a stage curtain. She pulled it back.

Light hit her in the eyes. She squinted.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked full of cans and boxes. The space was about ten feet wide, but as long as the building above. A hallway. The light emanated around a doorway straight ahead and its haunting blue lit the metal frames of the shelves like ice.

Her phone chirped. She swore and hugged it to her chest.

The hall waited, silent.

June turned the face of her phone up. Low battery. No! She was certain she’d charged it this afternoon. All the more reason to get this over with quickly. She hurried forward.

The door handle chilled her fingers through the gloves. She twisted it and pulled.

Light bloomed into the cellar and her jaw dropped.

A giant TV glowed, the final frame of The Princess Bride flashing across the screen. The back of an office chair faced her, two deer-like horns protruding above it. Metal in the corner reflected the movie like second screen: a dented aluminum egg as tall as she was with fold-down stairs ascending into a dark interior. It looked like a spaceship from a seventies movie.

She lifted her phone, but it was dead in her hand.

Someone sniffled and a paw the size of a tennis ball reached for a coke on a side table next to the chair.

“Holly frapaziod!” She jumped back.

The chair whirled around. June bumped into the wall behind her.

A giant rabbit sat in the chair, antlers sticking out of its brow, eyes like back golf balls. He tore earbuds free and his mouth opened.

June grabbed for the screwdriver, trembling. This was it. She’d broken into the cellar only to be eaten by an antlered, movie-watching bunny. But she wouldn’t go down without taking one of its eyes.

The thing hopped out of its seat, standing as tall as her waist. “I have a funny feeling you’re not supposed to be down here.” He sounded like an infomercial narrator. “Did Don leave the cellar door open again? I keep telling him he can’t do that.”

A talking, antlered bunny. Her screwdriver dipped along with her dangling jaw. “You’re a, you’re a—”

“An alien.” The creature winked. “That’s right. Just get it out. I’m Jack, actually.” He extended a paw. “And who might you be?”

Her fingers loosened around the tool. “I’m June.”

“Nice to meet you, June. You know, you’re handling this better than the last guy. We had to ship him off to the funny bin. Poor bloke. But where are my manners?” He waved a paw at the side table. “Would you like a coke?”

She swallowed, feeling dizzy. “The last guy?”

“Oh June, you’re looking a little woozy. Why don’t you have a seat?” He pushed the chair toward her. She collapsed into it. “So nice to have company, by the way. It gets so lonely down here, waiting for Don to round up all the spare parts to repair my ship. Guess that’s why I tried to keep Jeffry here, but as I said, he ended up a bit loony. Must have been the gamma radiation.” He glanced at his Easter-egg spaceship. “Do you know I’ve been waiting sixty years for technology to advance enough for the ship parts I need? We’ve got at least another thirty before someone invents the spacial displacement unit that will get me home, but at least I patched up the radiation leak. As exciting as that is, I like it here on Earth. Funny looking people, but a beautiful planet.”

June’s mouth flapped open but she couldn’t get anything to come out. Jeffry was the name of Grandma’s missing brother. She dropped her dead cell phone.

“Did I drain your battery?” The rabbit asked. “So sorry. My gravinator is being wonky, syphoning energy off everything. Poor Don went through six generators this summer. Can you imagine how terrible I feel? He’s such a nice guy.”

She squinted, fuzzing her eyes and opening them wide again. Yup. Still a giant bunny with horns.

“Say, I’m going to need a new guardian in a couple years,” Jack said. “What do you say? Sound like an entertaining position?”

She blinked at him. He couldn’t be serious. “Do you pay?”

“Sure thing.” He flung a fist at a bag in the corner, a potato sack overflowing with gold nuggets. “I can’t take these worthless rocks with me when I leave anyway. Don seems to like them.”

Why not? Who said she had to go off to college and have babies anyway? June offered a hand. “I think we have a deal.”

“That’s just swell. Why don’t you join me for the next movie—Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

Crystal Collier may spend too many late nights munching cheese and thinking up bizarre story twists, but she does so to appease the scientists locked in her Floridian basement. *wink wink* (Who else is going to finish building her teleportation device?) She figured she might as well make a dime on all that effort and became an author who pens everything from dark fantasy, historical, and romance tales, to inspirational stories and comedy. She has lived from coast to coast and now occupies the land of sunshine with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. 

Check out more of her midnight meanderings HERE.

Dealing with Djinn by Crystal Collier

Fizzing bubbles tickled my lips as I tilted the vial and attempted to ignore the impish smile of the djinn who’d supplied it.

New growth, he’d promised. New hope for the gimp who’d found only a Band-Aid solution in the medical world.

The war took more than just my left foot. It took my dignity. My confidence. My ability to walk through a grocery store without receiving a hundred sympathetic looks or averted gazes. The capacity to run the bases in a Saturday ballgame with the guys, or the power to sweep that special girl off her feet with the ballroom dance moves Mom drilled into my head.

The war took my life.

I closed my eyes and tilted the vial.

“Every last drop,” the creature’s voice boomed.

Peaches and cayenne pepper coated my tongue. Heat sank into my throat. A volcano tunneled its way into my stomach.

I didn’t hear the crash of glass or the maniacal cackle of my supplier, but the cold cement of his compound tomb burned my palms and brow. For the first time I realized I should have settled for the prosthetic foot.  

Six months I’d used the gimp-aid with too many hours of therapy—until I couldn’t stand the chafing pads. Desperate for another solution, I’d explored the possibilities medically, then, finding no viable solution, branched into internet searches which finally led me to the occult. It was on a dark site where I found him (aka, invisible to the public).

Locked in a windowless tower in the Israeli desert, he’d been trapped for centuries, granting the wishes of visitors who placated him with an offering. I brought a plate of cheese. Don’t know if djinn like cheese, but in the middle of a desert, it seemed like a rare delicacy. In return, he offered me a steaming green beaker.

My gut boiled. Tingling fingers crawled up my back and pressed out through my skin. The flesh tore. I screamed and the world went black.

I woke with stale sweat covering my skin, the moon beaming down from above. A jolt shook me fully awake. The guide I’d hired to bring me out the tower dragged me on a wheel-less gurney behind his camel, the ends jouncing off the occasional rock as it left a snaking trail through the sand.

Source

“You wake, crazy man?”

I swallowed sandpaper down my throat. “Yeah. I’m alive.”

“I tell you that place no good. I tell you, stay away.”

I covered my eyes. “How close are we to the city?”

“Close. You fly home and never come back.”

***

I’d been home a day when the itching started. I rolled over in bed, unable to reach the spot in the center of my back, but my fingers brushed over something.

Solid, fleshy, oblong with a solid bone structure. I caught the end and tugged. My back seized. Darkness swirled behind my eyes.

I pushed off the mattress and hobbled into the bathroom. The buzzing neon light illuminated something poking over my shoulder. A single white nub. I turned my back to the mirror, took a deep breath, and twisted to see.

A foot. Perfect. Whole. Sticking out of my shoulder blade, toes up.

I focused on the toes. Wiggle.

They twitched.

I could get over the fact that something impossible hung from my back, looming half an inch over my shoulder, but what was I supposed to do with that? Have it surgically removed and attached to my ankle?

Guess djinn don’t like cheese. Or maybe he was angry I didn’t bring crackers as well. Maybe it was the joke that kept him laughing at night after I left, imagining me trying to function with that thing hanging off my back. Perhaps I should have been a little more specific about where I wanted the thing attached.

My fingers clicked over the keyboard as I searched for an online surgeon. Doctor Tom. I snapped a picture of the protrusion, keeping my face out of the shot for anonymity, and emailed it in with an inquiry. Could he fix me?

No reply.

I’ve been hiding the atrocity under a trench coat ever since. People give me strange looks, but that’s nothing new—the hobbling gimp with a hump. If I dared let anyone see it, can you just imagine the scientists who’d lock me away or the reporters who’d build their careers on my uniqueness?

And that’s what I get for dealing with a demon. Word to the wise, stick to angels and miracles. I’m headed out to meet one next week, I hope. If they’ll let me into the Vatican.

Source

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens everything from dark fantasy, historical, and romance tales, to inspirational stories. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. 

Check out her Maiden of Time series, published by Raybourne Publishing, or a number of anthologies containing her short stories.