The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

*** The Dress.



I awoke to the sound of her heels on the stair. It must have been the creak of the door that actually woke me, but it was the click of metal on the terracotta tiles that brought me to.



The faint light from the open door surrounded her slender form like a glow to my light-starved eyes. Her face had that enigmatic smile that she always wore when she entered my little kingdom and looked down at the husband that she kept for her private use and torment in the cellar beneath the house that we had bought together.



As I looked through the bars of the cage I could see that tonight she was wearing that long dress that I had bought for her, the one that we always called the ‘hope and charity’ dress because it was for charity events that it was intended. Smooth silk, unadorned and flowing like liquid over her slim figure.



At last she stood before the cage and passed a hand over her long curls. It was a little habit of hers that used to so enchant me. Now it left me breathless with desire. How I longed to return to those simple days when every instinctive move of her body and head was a signal of her love for me.



The love that had turned to hate.



Maybe not exactly hate, more distaste…



“Darling,” she said, “I just thought that I’d look in on you for a moment before I went out. It always fills me with such joy to be able to keep you up to date with my love life.”



I nodded but the gag in my mouth prevented words of contrition tumbling from my lips.



Her slender hand moved a stray curl from her cheek as she spoke.



“Do you remember Ken Halderwell?” she asked rhetorically. “Well we have arranged to meet tonight and then perhaps go to the theatre. Who knows what will be happening after that, though I think that the fact that he has booked a room at the Savoy may well mean that I won’t be back until tomorrow.”



I tried to speak but only a whimper issued from my lips.



“Oh, darling, are you hungry or thirsty?” she asked in a mock concerned tone. “Perhaps we have time for you to drink a little?”



I tried to shake my head but she just ignored the movement and turned to get the tube from the hook on the wall. When she had attached the tube to my gag her hands closed the covers over my eyes and smoothed over the leather with a firm motion to make the Velcro take grip.



“That’s better. You know that you are not allowed to see my body any more, not since you decided that there were other women besides me!”



I heard her slip off her dress and then a slight tugging at the tube as she got herself comfortable. I tried to move my head but she had already hooked it with a ring at the top of the cage where I crouched as the first of the liquid entered my mouth.



I heard the water leave her body and pour into the funnel and her sigh of release as she enjoyed relieving herself for my benefit. As I struggled to swallow she chuckled to herself.



“That’s so much better now. I really didn’t want to go out with all that inside me. I will feed you tomorrow and tell you all about my adventure, so get yourself in the right frame of mind because I would not want you to cry again like the last time.”



I heard the click of her heels on the stair, the slight creak of the door and the turn of the key in the lock and then I was alone in my darkness.



*** The Plan.



The house was paid for, the car was paid for, but the rest of our lives was a mass of bills that we paid as they became due. I suppose that is one of the consequences of working for a software firm. The money arrives in gushes as the work is finished and the salary is paid in bonuses and shares in the software.



If it sells, then you are rich.



If it bombs then it’s nose to the grindstone.



After a year it became clear that the company was going to fold with huge debts unless it was bought out by one of the larger sharks in the pool. My share of the company was twenty per cent. That meant that I had a fifth of the profit and a fifth of the debt! The trouble was that the debt was eight million and the profit was measured in hundreds of thousands.



It was my wife, Eve, my lovely wife who came up with the insurance scheme as I sat one evening trying to make sense of the company accounts.



“Life insurance,” she had said as she looked at the balance sheet that I had sketched out on a piece of A4. “We transfer everything into my name, we insure you for a load of money and then you die!”



I looked up at her, shocked.



“I have to die to get us out of our money problems?” I asked incredulously.



“Don’t be silly darling. You don’t die, you disappear and then I claim the insurance. We hide you abroad or in the cellar and wait until the money comes and all of the company debts are declared invalid due to your death.”



“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Eve,” I said doubtfully. “How long does it take?”



“Seven years. But that is seven years abroad, darling,” said Eve seriously. “You will find work under an assumed name and I will guard the fort and visit all the time!”



“I’m not sure,” I replied.



But the idea took root as the debt mounted. We arranged the insurance, a sum of six million with payments of five thousand a month.



“At this rate we will have to move in the next three months,” I said. “There is a panic at the firm because we only have enough money in cash to operate another six months. After that it’s bankruptcy and the end of it all…”



“Then we should really get a plan together and decide how you are going to die!”



“Abroad, on holiday? Perhaps if we go to Greece or somewhere that the police are not too efficient?”



“So we send someone in your place. Then he disappears and then travels back under his own name. Then we sit it out.”



That was the plan.



Simple and rounded.



There was no great problem finding someone to go abroad for ten thousand, but first we had to prepare a sort of priest hole for me to hide in, at least for a month or two.



Our old Victorian house had two cellars. One was entered from under the stairs and formerly served as a larder and wine cellar. The other was the small coal cellar that was at the front of the house. A door in the kitchen led down the steep steps into a dirty space that was high enough to walk in but was really only four by four yards in area.



It had one advantage, the door could be concealed behind a fitted kitchen unit that slid aside and the lack of windows did not betray its presence.



I am not much of a handyman, a do-it-yourself guy. I am happier with a computer keyboard than a screw driver, but I cleaned the space out, tiled it over and fitted a sink and small toilet ready for my stay in hiding.



I went on holiday.



Actually I bought the tickets for the ferry and trains and then passed my passport to my wife.



“Tomorrow night you move into the cellar, honey,” she said, “and then we begin the plan. Three weeks wait and we will go on a holiday together and escape for a while we figure out how to pass the seven years! I was thinking the south of France, but perhaps Spain is a better idea?”



That day a delivery van arrived and dropped of a massive box. My wife got the deliverymen to take it down to the cellar for an extra twenty pounds tip.



“What the hell is that?” I asked.



“It’s something special for you to help you pass the time while you are in our little priest hole. We will open it tomorrow night when we move all the other furniture ready for your stay.”



The next day I went to the office and tried to behave normally. I must have succeeded because we went for a quick drink at a local bar before driving home.



She was waiting for me in her sexiest dessous.



“I think a small drink is in order and then you will spend your last night on earth in heavenly company,” she joked. “I think that you should have a last meal and a last fuck before you die!”



She poured me a whiskey and I sipped it whilst admiring her exquisiteness. In a corset of red satin, sheer stockings and high heels she was a picture of all that I desired in a woman.



I laughed at her joke.



I should have cried.



*** The Cage.



I awoke with a terrible headache. I could not remember what had happened after the drink. I opened my eyes, but I was in the dark.



It was pitch black.



I stretched out a hand and found cold metal. I knelt on the hard wood on which I was lying and hit my head on a low ceiling. It did not take long to realise that I was in a cage, a prison that was not even large enough to lie in. Metal bars fenced me all around, through which I could just pass my hands to feel that the cage lay on a cold tiled floor.



The thumping of my head subsided as I lay still wondering what had happened.



There was a creak of a hinge and a little light entered the room from the top of the stairs. I looked up and realised that I was in the cellar that I had, myself, prepared.



A pile of cardboard lay leaning on one wall and I recognised the box which had been delivered had contained this cage. With a click of her heels my wife came down the stairs. She was still dressed in her dessous, a picture of pure allure.



“What have you done?” I cried out to her. “Why?”



She just smiled and flicked her hair.



From her décolletage she pulled a small piece of paper and waved it in front of the bars of the cage.



“Do you know what this is?” she asked lightly.



I looked at the paper and recognised the logo at the top of the paper. ‘Hotel Thistle’.



“It is the receipt for the hotel where I stayed just three weeks ago,” I said as I looked into her eyes.



“Might I ask who you were with?” she asked in a sweet voice.



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“Ken Halderwell of course,” I replied hoping that the lie would pass muster.



“Oh! Ken?”



“That’s right, honey. We had our meeting with Logical Software Solutions in Manchester and that’s where we stayed.”



“But, there is a little problem, honey, with your story,” she said.



“Mmm,” I replied.



“Ken was in London that day because I bumped into him and his girlfriend in Harrods, so I ask again. Who were you with?”



“Honey, please let me out of here and we can discuss this through.”



“What is there to discuss?”



The Hood.



The next time that she came to the cellar she was in her jeans and a loose knitted top. In one hand was a large shopping bag, in the other was a box cutter. She wore flat soled trainers and her hair was pulled back into a long plait.



I looked up hopefully as she came to the cage and kneeled just out of reach.



“I have decided that I am going to enjoy punishing you for your little indiscretions, honey,” she said as she pulled a metal dog dish from the sack. “You see, I have been checking through more of the bills and credit card statements and I now realise that my suspicions were right. My little hubby was having an affair which seems to have been going on at least a year or two. What do you have to say about that?”



“I am so sorry…” I started.



“Not as sorry as you are going to be!”



“I love you and only you!”



“Is that so?” she said as she pulled a loose black leather bag from the shopping bag. “Then put this on! If you love me.”



She stressed the word ‘love’ with a smirk.

Harry didn't sleep well, or very much anymore. His wife of almost 10 years became his dominant mistress after the kids went off to college and the kinky pair finally had the house to themselves. It was initially his idea, to become a full time submissive, however he had no idea how intensely his wife would assume the roll and take over completely.



Once she started locking him up in the closet, she threw out all his clothes and started buying him skimpy little leather harnesses and outfits to wear. She sold his car, and even called his company to take early retirement for him with the monthly severance package that would provide lifelong cash payments to help give them the financial security needed to keep him not working anymore.



One of these benefits was the installation of the MANHANDLER 6000. Cindy liked it because it took all the work out of keeping him teased, tormented, aroused and horny, while denying him the pleasure he used to get from masturbating a dozen times a day behind her back. It also kept him off the new internet, and away from the countless men and women he used to carry on cyber sex with for hours on end. She suspected he'd been cheating on her as well but never could prove it. Now she didn't have to.



Harry was kept naked all the time now, except for the leather cuffs, and collar riveted onto his body. A nasty little steel cock ring and ball separator never came off. Thanks to the new formula long term viagra plus he was force fed every day, he'd had an erection for almost three months now. His balls had swollen nearly double in size. This was from the sexual supplements he consumed and the constant forced cum extractions he was subjected to.



Cindy led him on all fours out of the cage she kept him in inside her closet. She was proud of this one. Barely 4 feet long, he was backed into it every night on his hands and knees. Mounted on the rear wall was now a 10 inch fat rubber dildo that he forced into his own ass as he was pushed into the cage. He spent every night terribly plugged, his first one was only 6 inches and there was still bigger ones in his future, Cindy was going for the 14 incher but she was in no hurry to open him up that much just yet.



Mounted into the wall right next to the entrance to the kitchen was the MANHANDLER. A magnificent piece of equipment, it would keep him struggling in agony for hours with no supervision required. On his side facing the dining room, the machine was designed for Harry to be on his knees. She couldn't even remember the last time she saw him standing. Harry knew what his every day consisted of, still, he struggled and pulled on his leash, whimpering and begging through his gagged mouth not to be plugged in again!



"That resistance will get you an extra hour today" Cindy scolded.

"And I think a nice long session on the ASS WHIP will convince you to be a little more appreciative of all the attention you get around here!"



Softly sobbing, Harry crawled forwards and with his wife's help, slowly slid his drug induced morning piss hard on into the cock receptacle in the wall. He groaned softly at the initial soft moist tube surrounding his cock. It was softer and warmer than any women he'd ever felt, but it would soon become his worst nightmare. Cindy reached down and attached the testicle clamp around his balls designed to hold him firmly pressed against the machine.



While she was back there, she injected a glob of electrically conductive gel into him and pushed a huge butt plug into his asshole. She watched him struggling, grunting and even sobbing for a moment, at the horrible instant and painful stretching of his insides. While the massive plug was more than enough to over fill his ass, there was a 8 inch finger sized probe on the end of it that snaked deep into his guts.



Cindy plugged the plug into the machine and stood up. She wrapped the leather straps around his legs and waist that would hold him firmly pressed against the wall, then pushed his chest against the machine. His nipples contacted two 2" diameter discs as she strapped his upper body in place.

"I think we'll do some titty tickles today" she announced.



Harry just looked up and moaned softly in despair. A steel cable was pulled out of the machine and attached to his collar. Before retracting it into the machine, Cindy opened a cabinet above the MANHANDLER and paused a moment. She looked at her trembling poor husband, and pulled out a fat 8 inch dildo. The look on Harry's face was priceless! Tears filled his eyes but he dared not say a word. Cindy pushed the feeder dildo onto a tube sticking out, then twisted it and locked it onto the front of the machine.



"You want NINE? Cindy growled!



Harry just moaned softly and opened his mouth. Cindy pulled the 7 inch dildo he'd had in his mouth all night and laid it on the counter behind her. As Cindy retracted the cable on his collar, Harry's head was pulled forward and the entire 8 inch rubber cock disappeared into his mouth and down his throat! Cindy just smiled at the sight of her poor slave husbands sexy lips stretched around the fat base of the dildo.



She could see the bulge of it in his neck and watched him helplessly swallowing in response to its unmoving presence. He blushed at the humiliation of it, and gulped noisily in response to the damn thing stuck in his mouth.



That's when she told him about the kids! He was well secured and unable to do anything but struggle and grunt. His arms were bent at the elbow and secured wrist to elbow behind him. His ass was stuffed and his cock was buried in the wall in front of him. A secondary harness was wrapped around his head so he couldn't do anything but stare straight ahead at a small video screen in front of him.



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"Don't be such a baby" Cindy giggled.

"Mark is 20 now and Sue is almost 21, They've known about you for several months now, and they can't wait to assist with your training!"

"I'm afraid college wasn't their thing" She continued.



"They'll be moving back in until they can find jobs, of course, that could take months!"

Around the corner from where Harry was well secured and waiting, Cindy opened a panel on the wall and folded down the MANHANDLER'S control panel. Everything the machine could do was handled from that single panel. Cindy clicked it on, and the computer's sexy female voice greeted her.

"Good Morning Cindy" the machine said.



"I detect your slave is in place, erection insertion confirmed, anal insertion confirmed and electrical connections are ready for operation. I also detect upper body contacts, and a feeder device is connected and ready. Please program your desired functions."

"Ready Honey?" Cindy said softly.

Top 10: The Drowning of Natalie Wood



In November 1981, news broke out that sexy Oscar-nominated actress Natalie Wood has died from drowning. The incident happened on Saint Catalina Island where Wood, her husband Robert Wagner, and movie co-star Christopher Walken were having a party. Investigations showed that Wood was drunk and that she accidentally fell from the 60-foot yacht.



Natalie Wood

Natalie Wood in Gypsy 1962

Wood was reportedly angry over a fight between Wagner and Walken, which prompted her to either leave the yacht or secure a small boat when she suddenly slipped and fell off the yacht. An account from a woman who said to have heard cries that fateful night said that there were cries from a woman around midnight. Another voice was replying, telling her to take it easy and gave assurance that she will be rescued.



However, according to the woman, the “help me” voice was unemotional so she dismissed what she heard. Days after, when she learned it was Wood who drowned, she felt guilty for not being able to help her.



Official reports said that Wood was intoxicated and she slipped off the yacht while boarding a dinghy or small boat. Until this day, rumors still surround her “mysterious” death.



Top 9: The Unknown Landing of D. B. Cooper



DB Cooper

Drawing of DB Cooper

This is the story of a hijacker who jumped off from an airplane and hasn’t been seen since. D. B. Cooper or Dan Cooper is the pseudonym of a hijacker who leapt from a Boeing 727 on November 24, 1971. When the aircraft was passing Pacific Northwest, he jumped off the rear air stair wearing a parachute.



He was able to make off with ransom money of $200,000. Nine years later, a boy reportedly found a $5,800 worth of soggy twenty dollar bills in the Columbia River. The serial numbers were exactly those of the ransom money. Did he survive that fatal jump? Nobody knows.



Top 8: The Existence of Pope Joan



An Englishman by the name of John Anglicus was unanimously elected as head of Roman Catholicism when Pope Leo IV died in 853 A.D. He was known as Pope John VIII, who ruled for about two years.

Pope Joan

Pope Joan as the Whore of Babylon.

Then one day, as he was riding to Lateran, he stopped by the side of the road and gave birth! He was a she. She was in fact Pope Joan.



Some say that upon discovering the truth, the people of Rome stoned her to death and dragged her behind a horse. Some say she was sent to a convent and her child became a bishop. At first, the Catholic Church seemed to recognize this account, especially with some 15th century documents as evidences. However, in the 16th century, the existence of Pope Joan was denied.



What is the truth behind this? You be the judge, as no one has been able to unearth the truth to this day.



Top 7: The Journey of Amelia Earheart`



Amelia Earheart

Amelia Earheart with President Hoover

On July 2, 1937, Amelia Earheart attempted to travel around the globe and land back in California. However, this plan was not successful as her plane mysteriously disappeared after leaving New Guinea. She lost communication with her co-pilot and she was never seen again.



There were various theories about Amelia’s disappearance. For instance, a famous theory stated that her plane may have crashed in the Pacific due to lack of gas or aircraft malfunction. This theory has not been proven and to this day there have been no plane remains found.



Another theory stated that she was held captive by the Japanese in the Marshall Islands. These people were said to believe she was a spy, which may have prompted them to imprison or possibly kill her. Today, a new theory says that Amelia’s remains were found on Gardner Island in the Pacific Ocean.



Top 6: The Identity of the Babushka Lady



When former President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, a woman who was wearing a brown overcoat and a scarf was spotted near the car of President Kennedy. She was called “The Babushka Lady” because her attire resembled the style of Russian grandmothers called babushkas.

Babushka Lady

The Babushka Lady

The lady was holding something believed to be a camera. She took a lot of photos of the crime scene and she reportedly even remained in the area though others had already fled the area. After some time, she reportedly went towards Elm Street.



When the Federal Bureau of Investigation saw her in many photographs, she was asked to show what pictures she has taken. She never did.



Seven years after, someone named Beverly Oliver claimed to be the Babushka Lady. Her stories, however, had a lot of inconsistencies. She was a fake. The real Babushka Lady’s refusal to come out and offer her evidence proved to be a great mystery for all.



Top 5: The Sick Zodiac Killer



The Zodiac Killer was the sickest, scariest and most horrendous serial killer there was in the late 1960s. He left Northern California shocked, traumatized and forever haunted. He claimed the lives of at least five people. There are also other suspected victims.



Zodiac Killer

The symbol used by the Zodiac Killer

What was distinct about The Zodiac Killer is his signature symbol, a crosshair-like sign. He would always affix this to his letters. This person sent a series of mocking letters to the press, such as to editors and lawyers. These included four cryptograms. Among these, three have yet to be studied.



One of his letters stated how he followed his victims, who were mostly girls. He pretended to be a nice guy until he had the chance to bring the girl to a dark area where he implemented his dark plans. Her throat was slit open as she was helpless. More letters from him followed in which he recounted and told in detail what was happening to his hostages.



In March 2007, the case of The Zodiac Killer was reopened in San Francisco and in other jurisdictions as well.







(Think this is gruesome… then read about the Top Ten Most Horrifying And Gruesome Murders.)



Top 4: The Fate of Pharaoh Tutankhamen



TutMask

Mask of Tutankhamun

When the remains of King Tutankhamen were recovered, it was first thought that he was murdered. The young king had been dead for more than 3,000 years already. However, his death remains one of the most controversial in archeology. An x-ray analysis of his mummy 28 years ago revealed that he may have died because of a blow to the back of his skull. Who was the murderer? This mystery has persisted even until today.



The theory that he was murdered was challenged by a director of an Egyptian Museum. He suggested that the boy might have died of lung disease or a brain tumor. One of these could have caused the lump on the back of his head. Much historical research and historical studies have been done through the years about King Tut. However, they led to no conclusions.



Top 3: The Breakdown of Bruce Lee



When the famous martial artist Bruce Lee was dubbing some sounds for his film Enter the Dragon on May 10, 1973, he felt exhausted. He went to the bathroom and when he returned, he collapsed, vomited, and suffered convulsions. The doctor at once gave him a drug to reduce the swelling in his brain.

Bruce Lee

The Way Of The Dragon 1972.

He gained consciousness and was able to return to work.



Bruce Lee accomplished a lot before the fateful night of July 20, 1973. He was at the house of a Taiwanese actress named Betty Ting-Pei. Bruce Lee had developed a headache and wanted to rest. The actress gave him Equagesic, a strong type of aspirin. He fell asleep around 7:30 p.m.



When Bruce was not able to attend a gathering at 9 p.m., actor and friend Raymond Chow went to Betty’s house as the actress told him she couldn’t wake up the actor. In the Intensive Care Unit, Bruce Lee received electric shocks, drugs, and other types of emergency applications, but nothing worked. He was pronounced dead.



A lot of speculations surfaced regarding his death. Some people said that he was killed by jealous film rivals, while others maintained that he was killed in a fight. Medical experts concluded that he died from hypersensitivity to the drug Equagesic. Some even felt that Betty purposely gave him the drug so that he will never wake up.



Top 2: The Siren Marilyn Monroe



In August 1962, the sexiest and the most alluring Hollywood siren Marilyn Monroe shocked the world. She slipped into a coma that night due to an overdose of sleeping drugs. She never woke up again.



Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn Monroe in The Prince and the Showgirl

Some witnesses said at that night, they saw an ambulance secretly taking Monroe to a nearby hospital before they returned her to her Los Angeles home. Her house companion Eunice Murray was said to have discovered her body and then called her psychiatrist Dr. Greenson. The doctor arrived at the actress’ home and found her nude, lying face down. In her right hand was a phone. Upon examination, the doctor found that she was dead.



Allegedly, some things were removed from house, such as her diary, and some notes that could have helped solve the case. There are actually several theories about her death. Some believed it was a suicide. Apparently, Robert Kennedy, John F. Kennedy’s brother, delivered the message of JFK saying he has rejected her. Murder was also speculated.



Top 1: Jack the Ripper



His victims were mostly prostitutes whose throats were cut off and whose bodies were mutilated. Just minutes after the ‘Ripper’ left the crime scene, their bodies were found. Through a letter sent to a newspaper, the killer claimed to be “Jack the Ripper.” All of these murders happened in 1888 at the East End of London.



Since then, there have been lots of stories, movies and books about this criminal. As he has been a symbol of great terror and mystery, ‘Jack the Ripper’ is the classic whodunit character—the center of an enduring quest to find the face of one of history’s unsolved mysteries.



This terrifying character suddenly came out of the fog, killed on a rampage, and disappeared faster than dust. He then increased his criminal intensity and destroyed his next victim more violently.



Today, around 120 years later, the police still haven’t been able to identify or convict anyone for the ‘Ripper’s’ crimes. The tales of how he killed his victims as well as the photographs are still alive, but the case is still open.

The girl who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with is dead. I sit zombied out in a Calgary hotel room before the funeral. The television is on. Nick Drake's Pink Moon is being used to sell efficient German automobiles. The car commercial is followed by another advert; some new drug will help people overcome social shyness. The side effects are shitting yourself and losing your hair. This does not make me happy.



I make use of the mini bar. Look at myself in the mirror. I'm dressed in black in the land of Leonard Cohen.



There are reasons for life and death; I just haven't figured them out yet. Every generation has to discover it for the first time, like sex. The thing is though, there is supposed to be a pattern. I can't find one. Answers elude me.



When I was ten I had two dogs. I grew up in an isolated antiquated farmhouse built in the 1800's, quite old for the new thinking United States. Most of the kids I went to school with all lived in recently built identical structures that practically touched each other. This was the dream house people wanted, everyone the same, sprawling suburbia and the great white flight was on.



Our house was big, made of stone, and drafty. All my peers had air conditioning. They were afraid to come over to play and my parents were too busy commuting into the city to drop me anywhere interesting. Not that the fields and river that surrounded the house were boring. There was a lot for a young boy to do. I just had to do it alone with my two German Shepards, Nokia and Aero.



Nokia was as black as our midnights in the country with just a hint of white around the paws. Aero was pure silver with crystal blue canine eyes. These dogs were like Gods. They were my world. My favorite show was not Lassie as you might think, but Fury, same concept but with a horse. I could understand the relationship between a boy and his animals.



Then one night the sauna caught fire. My dad had gone out and lit it up. He was back inside drinking some wine and waiting for the sauna to sweat. It was his normal routine. Only this time something sparked inside the sauna igniting the shed. I was looking out the window of our house trying to see where my dogs were when I saw the flames. I yelled to my dad.



"Dad! Hey, dad, I think something is wrong with the sauna."



"What?" He asked.



"It's heating up."



"It's supposed to be heating up."



"I mean it's on fire. It's all orange."



"What?"



He jumped up and looked out the window where I was looking. He saw the flames right away, roaring into the night sky. The sauna was already lost. My dad ran to the phone and called the Fire Department anyway. I didn't know what the panic was about; the fire was contained. I was thinking it would just burn itself out.



But the Fire Department came with two big trucks, lots of hoses and gruff burly men who sprayed the sauna until it was nothing more than a smoldering pile of ashes. I was outside, at a distance, watching with curious entertainment when I heard Nokia whimpering by the side of one of the fire trucks. I ran over to him.



"What's wrong, boy," I asked. "What's the matter?"



I saw Aero lying in the snow underneath one of the big trucks. Even in the dark I could see the black blood. I put my arms around Aero and tried to help her. I didn't know what to do so anything seemed appropriate. But it wasn't. Aero was crushed. Maybe moving her made it even worse. Soon my dad was helping me. He knew before I did that it was too late and that even though Aero was still breathing she was dying. One of the firemen put her out of her misery. Mine was just starting.



Nokia wouldn't eat. He stopped playing in the field with me and refused to go down by the river. He died a few months later of natural causes. I asked my mom about his death. She explained Nokia died of a broken heart. I wondered why I wasn't dead also.



Time went on and I grew more alone becoming selfish and sufficient, connecting with only a few people. After High School and a year at college I moved to Paris. In my first week I found a job at a wine store in the 14th Arrondissement. It was a way to pay rent, learn French and discover simple pleasures in life.



I made deliveries to restaurants and participated in a wine tasting every Thursday night. Those nights were attended by plenty of pretty girls. A lot more swallowing than spitting was going on and soon the cheese was eaten and the wine drunk and the women loosened up. These affairs never went anywhere. I took long solitary walks along the Seine.



When it was time to complete my scholastic studies and stop learning about life I enrolled at a private university. Arab Princesses would sit in class with bodyguards and wannabe Supermodels studied French in between photo shoots.



I enjoy female beauty as much as wine but I never put the effort into meeting these girls. I learned after some talks they were just aesthetic outer casting with an inside void. Besides, I had Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, and of course, Miller and Hemingway were my gurus and their memoirs my bibles.



When my grandfather died I was celebrating a New Year with an architect friend. We were skiing Mont Blanc and munching on fondue every night until I got a phone call from my roommate in Paris.



I remember sitting on Grandpa's lap as a little boy. He was, like all loyal Wisconsinites, a very devoted Green Bay Packers fan. Since there were many lean years of disgusting losses we always focused on the first two Super Bowl wins and coach Vince Lombardi. These talks were not just sport but a philosophy on how to live life.



Then there was our special talk, the one that was even more exciting than the Super Bowl victories. The freezing Ice Bowl played on the frozen tundra of Lambeau field, when Bart Starr slid under the hated Dallas Cowboys defense. It wasn't the game itself that excited me. For some reason I liked what came after.



"So it was cold grandpa?"



"It was freezing!"



"And the cars in the parking lot?"



"The cars wouldn't start."



"Why?"



"Because it was so cold that all the batteries died."



"Then what happened?"



"Well, some guy came out with a tow truck and started jumping all the cars for twenty dollars a pop. That was quite a lot of money back then."



With Grandpa dead I started to question about heaven. Like most kids, I went to Sunday school with much disinterest. I had heard better stories before. Now I was starting to wonder.



Heaven is a place people go when they die. Was grandpa up there seeing every thing I did? Was he watching over me with a smile of approval if I was bedding a beautiful woman or scowling down if I was jacking off? There would be more occasions for grandpa to frown. I wasn't actually living up to the myth of Vince. This led to guilt and a self-deprecating consciousness a young man going through imposed angst could do without.



I will always remember the day I heard Sam was coming out of remission and getting sick again. It wasn't fair. I don't mean that it wasn't fair to Sam, this twenty-five year old kid, who played collage football, loved to fish and still read every book I ever loaned him, was cut down to half his size and was dying of Leukemia. Of course it wasn't fair. But Sam went through all the agonizing side effects of chemotherapy already and fought the disease and won.



The doctors said if the cancer didn't come back within a year they rid Sam's body of the killer. It had been a year and a half when it came back. Sam lived a few more years after that, even getting married and carrying on with his life. But it still destroyed him.



Where was the order in that? Sam was big and strong and intelligent and thoughtful, articulate like a modern day Kerouac. In the end his voice box collapsed and he couldn't talk.



My grandfather I could accept, had to accept because that was the cycle of life and death. This wasn't. And it pissed me off. I could go down the pub and click my Guinness in Sam's memory. Tell myself he was dreaming with the fishes and smoking pot with Buddha and at peace with the situation. It didn't stop how mad I was though.



Now I am waiting for her funeral.



I met Sarah at the French Open. Right from the start we were all wrong for each other. She was a jock. I was a reader. She got high on a smashing backhand. I got high on red wine. She was twenty. I was thirty. It was thrilling how perfectly well we fit together. We both made each other feel love. And that is the reason to live.



I went to Roland Garros with a friend who had an extra ticket. Never much of a tennis fan, I thought I would go to see what the fuss was about. Sarah was playing on a small side court. She was losing and she was loud. Once a prodigious sixteen-year old star rated third best in the world she had been struggling of late and her ranking dropped into double figures.



The first thing I noticed was the swearing. "Fuck! Fuck it! Fuck!" I thought it funny at first. Then I noticed Sarah's athletic lithe body sweating through her skimpy top and short skirt. I took a seat in the first row, right behind where Sarah sat between sets.



"Not going so well?"



Sarah turned around and spat out her water at me.



"Fuck off."



I don't know why I didn't just leave. During the next game when Sarah served an ace she blew me a kiss. She rallied from behind and won the match. That night I went back to her hotel. By Wimbledon we were in love.



Caught in the whirlwind bliss where the lust turns to true love we discovered we were perfect for each other. And even though it was ideal, life isn't. Our favorite movie to watch together was Princess Bride. We wanted to be that fairy tale couple. Unfortunately, we lived in reality.



Sarah continued to struggle on the circuit. After a year things got tough, with us always being apart. Tennis players are an incestuous group with the promiscuity of people on holiday. I put it down to all the travel, flying on planes and sleeping in hotel rooms. Sex helps with the tedium and isolation. Sarah started seeing a tennis coach.



Sarah still called and e-mailed everyday and we saw each other when it was convenient. She sent postcards stating I was her one true love. I told her she was young and in a difficult situation. She had to go her own way. We fought over whether I should wait for her. There were many tears.



I just had to wait for her with faith and frustration. Time would soon be on our side. We would end up together because love finds a way she explained. There was that bond. Real soul mates no matter how trite that may seem.



A month ago, she called me crying and told me I was the only one who ever heard her. She still needed me to hear. I was so mad about the other guy who had advantage of geography that I didn't send her a Valentine's Day card. She was killed in a car accident two weeks later.



I look at my reflection and open another tiny bottle of vodka. Sarah and I had talked about death before. She joked that if a tragedy ever happened to one of us it would have to happen to me, because I was too sensitive to lose her. We also agreed that life was like tennis. After the last point that's it. Set and Match. Game over. So it is important to play well.



Now I have to question my beliefs. And come to peace with the way it ends when a life is cut short, and all the messy ties that remain for the ones left behind. I saw the tennis coach last night at her parents' house. I didn't stay long. I can't worry about that. It would drive me insane. I have to hold on to what I know we had. Hopefully after time the sharp pain will turn to a controllable dull ache.



I need to focus on the afterlife. Sarah said everything happens for a reason. I can't see any logic behind this. Certainly it isn't to test me. These last few weeks I have been searching without an answer.



I'll never receive another e-mail from Sarah, laugh out loud or sleep with her again. The person I was most passionate about has been taken from me. I'm in love with a dead girl. I can't comprehend her passing. It's like counting to infinity.



Sentient beings must have a soul. Sarah can't just become extinct. It's not a matter of changing convictions to ease my suffering. I have to believe I will see her soon.



I would give anything for one last conversation, even if only to yell and ask why. But really I need a kiss. Sarah was right. I'm too sensitive to live without her.



- written by McCutcheon

Hello, my name is Mariposa Concepcion Delgado. I am a 16 year old resident of Bilbao, Spain. For a few months last year I was dating an American boy named Joey Romanzi. He looked Italian. He was rich. He drove a Ferrari. I was in love.



My family did not know what to make of it. I had fallen in love with an American. Sometimes there was the air of a scandal. Of the whole family, only Joey's father spoke proper Spanish. Mr. Romanzi was an architect overseeing construction on the new convention center in downtown Bilbao. It was a grand project.



I first met Joey last Easter while skiing in the Alps. I complimented him on his car, as he drove it into the parking lot. He complimented me on my English, which I learned in school. That night Joey took me down the mountain into town for drinks. We laughed and talked all night. He kissed me tenderly before retiring to bed. I was hot for him because Americans excited me. His body was muscular and lean. His family, however, was fatter than most I have seen before. Joey assured me that this was normal.



We had sex the next morning after breakfast. Joey was not the best in bed; he fumbled around and sometimes tried to enter the wrong hole. But his mistakes were honest and I loved him anyway. Sometimes he was too passionate for his own good and would shoot off way before he should have.



I am young but still I have had other lovers. My first was my cousin Olmo from Madrid when I was 13. We were friends as long as I can remember, so doing it was easy and natural. The relationship lasted until he got a proper girlfriend a year later. I cried when I found out.



My second lover was my first real boyfriend, Luis. We met at a discoteque when I was 15 and made out without stopping until 6AM. Then he took me home and fucked me all morning. He wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to tell my parents I slept at my friend Alameda's house.



Luis loved to dance and do a lot of drugs, which I liked, until I rationalized that he was 32, unemployed, and had no future. I broke up with him and he cried. He loved to lick my pussy, something I can't get Joey to do at all. At 18, I guess he was still to young. He never complained when I sucked his penis, though. In fact he groaned with pleasure like a bear.



Joey and I dated for seven months before Mr. Romanzi invited me to visit them at home for the Christmas holidays. I was so happy to finally go to America! The Romanzi's were going on a cruise. My parents didn't want me to go at first, but they consented because the Romanzi's were rich and respectable, even if they were so fat and American.



The Romanzi's home was in Manhatten. It is a much larger city than Madrid, which I had previously thought to be monstrous. The Americans have really done something over there. The Romanzi's lifestyle was eating, watching television, and talking about skyscrapers. They lived in an apartment on the top floor that overlooked the city. The view from downtown was so imposing it made me dizzy.



We traveled to Fort Lauderdale the next morning. No more tall buildings! The cruise ship was called the Millenium X and it was the biggest and dumbest looking boat I had ever seen. Joey and I shared a cabin. It was small but we had our own balcony with wooden lounge chairs. I would read and Joey would smoke cigarettes and stare out into the endless blue ocean.



At worst I felt a little seasick. At best I felt like the fat girl from the Titanic, Kate Winslet, who fell in love with Leonardo di Caprio. Joey was no Leonardo di Caprio, but I think I am definitely prettier than that ugly bitch in the movie. When Leonardo fell in the icy water he should have sliced her open with a saber and climbed inside to keep warm like Han Solo did with the ton-ton in The Empire Strikes Back.



For Christmas we exchanged presents. I gave Joey a bottle of Dolce & Gabana perfume so he could use it instead of his stinky American Old Spice. When we got back to our cabin I gave him his real present, a blow job and a copy of the Kama Sutra. He gave me a box of expensive chocolates. I quietly flushed them down the toilet one by one. Can you imagine? Giving a young girl food on a cruise where there is already so much to eat! What did he want, for me to be as fat as his sister?



Joey was normally a big eater, but he especially loved seafood. He ate for every single meal shellfish and salmon. He said it made him a better lover. I don't know if it was the Kama Sutra or the shellfish but something was working. After dinner one night, he made me cum three times in one hour which was a record for him.



On the third day we docked in Nassau. At a restaurant Joey ate oysters against the advice of even the waiter and got really sick. He had a fever and even threw up blood. Joey felt so bad he wouldn't even let me please him orally. Finally, the doctor moved him into the infirmary where he spent the whole next day. That's when all the bad stuff started happening.



I guess all the girls in bikinis and the warm weather started to affect Mr. Romanzi, because later that same day when I returned to my room he was inside it in his bath robe with a bottle of champagne. He said he came down to see how I was doing and asked me to join him for a drink. Not wanting to appear rude, I accepted and drank two glasses. He told me it was a shame that a nice girl like me was wasted on such an inexperienced boy like Joey who doesn't even know not to eat oysters in the Bahamas.



I admitted that Joey was a little thick-headed. As soon as I made this confession, Mr. Romanzi pulled out his penis and asked me to suck it. He looked so weird, like a hairy Italian Buddha. I missed the sex from Joey and figured that being a naughty girl was okay because after all it was Mr. Romanzi who paid for the whole cruise. And he was also so old, and horny with a fat, ugly wife. Why not make his Christmas a truly merry one? When I started to suck his piggy dick that's when Joey walked in and screamed!



No one else in the family suspected anything at dinner because they beleived Joey was still in the infirmary. Mr. Romanzi and I searched for him for the rest of the night. Mrs. Romanzi found out later that Joey checked out of the infirmary at 5:00 PM and then started to get nervous. She started looking for him as well. Nobody knew what was happening. At midnight the Romanzis' went to bed. I stayed up crying because I felt responsible for the whole incident. I needed to find Joey and apologize for sucking his father's penis.



At last just after dawn I found him near the front of the ship in the 'CREW ONLY' section. He was standing on the railing like Leonardo di Caprio, but he didn't look nearly as sexy because the Millenium X was plastic and round instead of metal and pointed like the Titanic.



When I called his name, Joey turned around in shock to look at me, twisted his knee and fell off the ship. He didn't scream and I didn't hear a splash. I screamed enough for both of us. Terrified, I ran to the back of the boat. I was still hoping he would be okay. He wasn't. I saw a smooth trail of purple water flowing behind the cruise ship...out to sea.



- written by Sloth

SOHO: THE LOFT APARTMENT



SHARED BY PETER PARKER



AND HIS WIFE, MARY JANE.



11:15 PM



Mary Jane Parker is all wide green eyes and red curls. Her gold star earrings tremble. Her face twisted in pain as she struggles to breathe, her legs kicking wildly as the white gloved hand lifts her up by the throat.



"You really shouldn't leave windows open, sweetie. Even on the fourth floor.-" MJ futilely struggles to touch the carpet with the tips of her toes- "You never can tell what the cat might drag in."



Through the pain, MJ manages to glare at her attacker and gasp, "Wh-Why don't you just drag yourself back out, Felicia! T-To the alley!-" The grip around her neck tightens. MJ croaks- "Where you belong!"



The Black Cat's grip turns into a vice. Mary Jane can't breathe. She expects to hear the sounds of bones snapping any second. Then, with frightening speed, Felicia's right hand smashes into the wall an inch away from MJ's face. "No-" Felicia says hurling the model/actress onto the couch, sending cushions flying- "No. I won't hurt you. The Black Cat is above that sort of thing!"



"This-oonf!-" MJ grunts as she lands- "I-Isn't hurting?!"



"I'm not here about pain-I'm here for love!" Felicia says. "The love I shared with Spider-Man. I was confused when I broke off our affair and moved to Europe. But then I realized my mistake, that Spider-Man was the only one for me-and I was the only one for him."



Black Cat slides her right leg out into a half split. Bringing her left knee up and leaning forward on her hand-her balance is perfect and she glares at MJ as if ready to pounce.



"But when I got back, I found that he'd made a mistake, too!" Felicia says. "He'd married you on the rebound! He'll come to his senses eventually…but that doesn't mean I can't help him along. Even if it does mean working with that sleaze."



Rubbing her neck, MJ coughs, "Wh-What sleaze?"



Felicia's catty smirk.



"You'll find out soon enough."



That's when Mary Jane notices the container in Felicia's right hand. Considering Black Cat's skin tight costume, MJ has no idea where it had come from. It looks like an old abandoned can of spray paint, all tin and rust, and scratched on one side of the container are the letters: P Y M.



"So what?" MJ says. "Your master plan is to vandalize the place? Spray your initials on the bathroom wall? For a good time call Felicia at…"



What MJ is wearing right now is a yellow T-shirt with Spidey's mask in a perfect circle imprinted on the front. The shirt stretches tight against her large breasts and curvy hips, and past those hips are nothing but long bare legs and pink gym socks.



"…listen Felicia," MJ continues. "I was just about to make myself some hot coco. If you put your little toy down right now, I'd be willing to share. I'll even give you extra marshmallows."



A pause.



Then, in one fluid motion, Black Cat slides back up into a standing position. Her eyes dark and never leaving Mary Jane, she nods.



It's after MJ has walked past her and into the kitchen that she hears Felicia say, "You dare condescend the great Black Cat?!"



So silently Felicia had moved, Mary Jane jumps hearing the woman right behind her. And, as she turns, once again Black Cat grabs her by the throat with Mary Jane holding a coffee cup in each hand.



The canister is an inch away from her face.



Black Cat's thumb presses down on the nozzle.



Hisssssss.



Mary Jane's pink gym socks slide down her shins and puddle at her ankles.



MJ coughs. "Wh-What are you doing?!"



Hissssssssssss.



MJ keeps coughing, taking in even more of the strange metallic scent.



"*cough* *cough* Stop it! *cough*"



Her tight shirt isn't tight anymore. It's baggy. It hangs loose at the neck, it hangs down over her bare shoulder.



Black Cat stops the spray and releases her grip. She's looking MJ up and down. Her smile. She's obviously amused.



"Hmm," Felicia says, "Still sexy. Just a little flatter. A little more narrow. Not quite as…tall. Not really a woman anymore, are you dear? More of a…"



MJ still holding a mug in each hand. Her T-shirt hangs almost to her knees. Her slender hips-her lime green thong falls to her ankles.



"…girl," Felicia says. "But don't take my word for it. See for yourself."



Felicia holds up a silver serving tray that had been sitting on the counter. MJ stares at the soft doe-eyed teenager staring back at her. All innocent, immature, naïve. She couldn't be more than seventeen. This couldn't be her!



"H-How?!" And her voice is high-pitched. Girly. It sounds ridiculous.



And Black Cat is laughing now.



"Hmm, I wonder how Peter will feel about spending his life with a silly little teenager instead of a real woman," Black Cat says with a cough.



"I'm not a teenager!" Mary Jane yells. The valley girl quality to her voice not very convincing.



"Oh no?"



And with that Black Cat swipes three precise slashes with her claws and Mary Jane's T-shirt falls to shreds.



Standing there naked, in the silver platter, MJ can see. She can see her slender teen body. She can see the pert B cup breasts that should be heavy C's. And, disbelieving, and although it gives Felicia even more to laugh at, MJ reaches up and clutches her breasts with each hand, the coffee cups crashing to the floor.



"Felicia," MJ says, "you can't play with people's lives like this!"



"Oh no?" Black Cat says. "But it's oh so much fun!" Then, looking MJ up and down a second time, she adds, "My benefactor said to leave you in your late teens. But I'm really not one for taking orders."



In a flash, the can is back up.



"Besides," Felicia says, "My poor misguided Peter might still find you attractive at this age."



MJ tries to run, but trips over her own panties and oversized socks, barely catching herself on the bar, and taking a huge breath of relief just as Felicia sprays more of the metallic scent.



"*cough* *cough* No!" MJ cries as she stumbles backwards, her bare feet on the cold linoleum, her voice cracking just a little.



Naked, the whole kitchen gets bigger all around her. Her breasts dwindle in her hands-in mere moments the perky B's shrink to little more than fried egg A's with puffy pink nipples poking out between her fingertips. Her legs go scrawny and awkward. In between them, the waxed red pubic hair in a thin straight line looks silly. MJ can see her face in the platter, and the red lipstick, the eyeliner, it all looks silly, like a little girl out for Halloween, with a few zits popping up for good measure. Finally, still stumbling backward, the thirteen year old loses her balance completely and falls flat on her boyishly thin behind.



But there is something else.



The hissing has stopped.



And so has the laughing.



Mary Jane looks up. Felicia is staring down at herself in horror. Her once skin tight black cat suit with the white fur trim hangs loose. Her once fabulous mane of white hair is gone-cut cute and shoulder length. Where her impressive cleavage once held up the V cut front, the front now falls open, her small boobs hanging out.



"I'm-" Black Cat coughs.



"About sixteen years old," MJ says. Her voice fading into prepubescence as she loses another year and the pubic hair between her legs vanishes completely.



"This can't be!" Felicia shrieks. She's drenched in her costume. The left side of her mask slides down her face. Her white gloves all wrinkled and falling off. Her whole costume all wrinkled and falling off, and Felicia dropping the can with a loud clang as she struggles to hold it up.



"What did you think would happen spraying that crap all over the place like that?!" the twelve year old redhead demands in her girlish twelve year old voice.



"Shut up! Just shut up!" Black Cat screams back at her, her own high pitched teenybopper voice not much more impressive.



With all the shouting, neither of them notice the dull hissss coming from the broken canister.



"This is all your fault!" Felicia screams.



"My fault?!"



"You stood in the way of the true love Spider-Man and I share-" now Black Cat is stalking towards her "-and now look what happened!"



Mary Jane is pulling herself back up. "You're insane!"



And the accusation seems to fit Black Cat even more than usual. By necessity Felicia has already shrugged off her costume, awkwardly clomping her way towards MJ, completely naked except for her oversized white boots. But it's more than the odd sight of the nearly nude white haired teen with the black mask still hanging halfway down her face that strikes Mary Jane. It's her eyes.



No longer do those blue eyes hold cold, calculating obsession. Now they're all crazy, jacked up on hormones, full-on teenage crush eyes. Eyes that lack what little restraint maturity had lent Felicia.



"I'm insane?!" Felicia demands, kicking off her boots and grabbing the redhead by the hair before she can get to her feet. "I'm insane?!-" and she's dragging MJ back across the kitchen, with the naked little twelve year old futilely clawing and pulling hair and kicking to no avail- "Just look at me! Why would Spider-Man ever love me now?! I'm just a kid. And it's all your fault!"



By the time she'd dragged Mary Jane to the dining room chair, Felicia, at sixteen, still maintained much of her girlish charm. MJ, however, who had taken two direct blasts from the canister in the face, finds herself small and frail and with a chest as flat as a boy's as she slips down past eight years old.



Felicia hardly has to push to force the little redhead over her knee as she sits.



"Let me go! Let me go!" Mary Jane howls and squirms against Felicia's bare legs.



Then she feels the first smack on her delicate bare bottom and she howls some more.



"It's all your fault!" Felicia declares again with another smack. "It's *smack* all *smack* your *smack* fault! *smack*"



And MJ who finds her feet can't even touch the floor anymore as she falls back in time to five years old, kicks relentlessly in the air, feeling, in more ways than one, completely overwhelmed. Whatever dignity she might have hoped to maintain is lost as she cries and wails like a little girl.



"Stop it! Stop it!" she yells. "You can't do this to me! I'm a grown woman! Stop it!"



"Hmph! Grown woman?" Felicia laughs. "Why don't we let your hubbie decide, hmm? Good luck trying to keep my man when you're not even old enough for a training bra."



Felicia loosens her grip and Mary Jane scampers to the corner, both hands holding her sore red behind.



Then Felicia stands up.



And the room is bigger.



Even bigger than when she pulled the redheaded brat to the chair.



Then her eyes dart to the still leaking canister.



"No!" she screams. "No! It can't be!" And, still without a stitch of clothing, the now thirteen year old Black Cat runs to the open window and leaps out into the night.



NEXT ISSUE: A KNOCKING



AT THE DOOR. PLUS THE



MYSTERIOUS OWNER OF



THE CANISTER REVEALED!



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JUL



NON-MUTANT MAYHEM!



the AMAZING SPIDER-MAN



SECOND CHILDHOOD!



PART 2 Of 6



A WHAT IF? COMIC.



SOHO: 11:45 PM



A young girl crouches naked in the rain in a dark New York alley. Her soaked white hair clings to her face and the back of her neck. She's shaking, but it's not because of the cold. It's the memory…



She'd almost broken her neck jumping out the apartment window. Her balance, she'd discovered slipping off rock and brick and just barely able to maneuver herself into landing on the canopy over the front entrance, had become almost as sophomoric and inexperienced as her now thirteen year old body.



Her bare feet splashing through puddles as she ran down the sidewalk on skinny legs. Even running, she caught the glances of the people she sprinted past. The men she sprinted past. An hour ago they would have been counting their lucky stars to see her running down the street in her birthday suit-now they were only shocked and concerned. Worried. Worried! As if she needed some man to worry about her!



Huffing, her face was hot and red by the time the woman caught hold of her. Some saintly faced type in her early thirties.



"Are you alright, sweetie? Are you okay?"



"Let go of me!" Felicia spat at her.



"Are you okay? Is someone after you?"



The woman held tight to her arm. The thirteen year old naked and furious and blushing madly as more and more of a crowd gathered.



"Let go of me or I'll make you let go!"



"You're staying here, young lady, until you tell me what's going on."



And Felicia attacked.



A series of ineffectual tugs and slaps. Her diminished strength: pathetic and adolescent. Worse, it seemed like she didn't even know how to fight anymore. As much as she struggled and hit, the woman kept hold of her arm with ease.



This couldn't be happening!



She was hitting like a… Like a-



"-Who is this girl?" a man asked.



It was only because of the concerned citizen distracting the woman and her rain water slick skin that Felicia managed to slip free of the woman's grip.



She heard the shouts behind her. They only made her run harder, biting her lip to keep from crying.



All that embarrassment. All that turmoil of impotent teenage emotion. And now she is here. A ball of anger and fear and vulnerability.



Crouching with the alley's opening to her back, she hears the footfalls. They stop a few feet behind her.



"You didn't tell me it would affect me too," she says, her voice mousy and small. She cranes her neck: the man holds a black umbrella and wears an Armani suit and black trench coat. Felicia turns back to the darkness.



"You were instructed to leave her in her late teens," he says, reaching into his coat pocket. Water pools off his umbrella.



"The Black Cat doesn't follow instructions."



"Is that who you think you are? All I see is a pimply faced little girl cowering in the rain."



"I don't have pimples."



"No? Still, you see my point."



"Even at this age I could claw your eyes out before you knew what hit you."



"Ah. I see. And how about at this age?"



Whatever it was the man pulled out of his pocket begins to hum. But not from behind her. The shrill screech is inside her head, trembling throughout her body. Inside her head, inside her chest, but the world all around her grows huge.



Her dripping breasts go small and flat-her nipples pink and puffy. Her hair, pigtails. Her body, small and childlike-sexless. Pubic hair gone, in between her tiny legs is all pink.



"No! No! No!" And the six year old Felicia Hardy is throwing a tantrum.



She gets to her feet, shivering violently in the cold, her flesh covered in goose pimples. The little girl turns on the man just as he's stuffing a silver device back in his coat.



"When you've gotten over your insolence, you can find me here to make your apologies." He drops a business card at her feet. "Pray when you do I'm in a better mood."



So full of juvenile rage and frustration and fear. So overwhelmed by her humiliation and the size of the world and the size of the man, little Felicia Hardy watches him walk away.



Then she bends over and picks up the card.



MEANWHILE: AT THE DOOR TO



THE LOFT APARTMENT



SHARED BY PETER PARKER



AND HIS WIFE, MARY JANE.



Sue Storm checks the coordinates against her GPS unit. She looks at the door. Apartment 331. This is the place.



For years they'd thought all the tainted batch of PYM particles had been accounted for and destroyed. It wasn't until tonight, when Reed was at Oxford lecturing on artificial intelligence, and Johnny was out with some new girl, and Ben was who knows where? that Sue received the call at the Baxter Building: someone had used one of the canisters. Pressing down on the nozzle had activated a hidden homing beacon, and Sue had quickly suited up and headed out.



What she's wearing is black latex outlined with white spandex. A V cut bottom clings to the top of her curvy hips. Her top, cut in the center leaving her stomach and belly button exposed, stretches tight against her ample breasts with the number "4" printed between them. She wears white knee high stockings and white silk gloves that end just past her elbow.



She knocks. She listens.



Nothing.



She knocks again.



This time, maybe, the muffled sound of someone crying.



It's good enough for her. Sue holds her hands up and wills her force field forward, blowing the door clean off its hinges. Darting into the room, she looks left then right: the living room, the kitchen, nothing. Then she notices the cracked aerosol can lying on the kitchen floor.



"Damn!" she mutters, throwing a force bubble up around her.



Whatever her exposure to the PYM particles, the effect seems minimal.



Inside, the crying is louder. Sue makes her way down the hall toward the sound. And, in the bathroom, she sees it: a child with red curly hair, five maybe six years old, naked and standing on her tiptoes to see herself in the mirror.



"Are you alright little-"



Sue Storm stops as the girl turns to look at her, smeared tear stained makeup still caked on the girl's face.



"You're not a little girl are you? You're-"



"Twenty-six years old," the girl says. "Or I'm supposed to be."



"Hmm, yes. Those PYM particles can be such tricky things, can't they?"-a man's voice.



Sue jerks back around. At the end of the hall a blond haired man, his hair slicked back, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed. A black suit, a black trench coat. In his hand, a silver controller with a small antenna poking out in three different directions.



"Who are you?!" Sue says.



"I know that voice!" the girl in the bathroom gasps.



"You responded far faster than I anticipated. Bravo. Still, were you wearing that protective bubble of yours when you came in?" He looks down at the device. "Hmm, I see not. I'm afraid you've been infected. We're going to have to get you some help."



Sue raises her eyebrow and drops her guard. "It was only minor exposure. A few weeks lost at the most. Nothing to worry about."



"Funny thing about PYM particles," the man says. "They enter the body, they discharge, but they never exit. They simply lay dormant. Which means, if one were to send out a signal specific to your DNA, one might recharge the dormant particles. Reactivate them, causing additional effects."



Sue throws her hands up a second too late. In a haze of humming, in what seems like an instant, Sue's force field is gone, her powers' nonexistent, her gloves bunched up and hanging off, her stockings fall to her ankles, her latex suit hangs on her like a tarp, showing off all the wrong places-what once showed her belly button now shows the bare spot between her legs. Her neckline, her bare flat chest and shoulders.



The Invisible Woman is no more. In her place, a helpless blond haired seven year old girl.



The man strolls past her without another word. Standing in the bathroom door he smiles. "Well, well, Mary Jane Parker. Whatever am I going to do with you?"



Staring at him, wide eyed, Mary Jane manages to croak only two words: "Jonathon Caesar!"



NEXT ISSUE: PLANS ARE



MADE AND AN OLD ENEMY



GETS HIS REVENGE.



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the AMAZING SPIDER-MAN



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PART 3 Of 6



A WHAT IF? COMIC.



SOHO: THE LOFT APARTMENT



SHARED BY PETER PARKER



AND HIS WIFE, MARY JANE.



12:10 PM



"You're supposed to be in prison!" Mary Jane says as she stares up all wide eyed at the millionaire who's obsession with her years ago had led to her kidnapping. Just the thought of his hands on her chills her, and now here he is, towering over her, huge, and her naked, bare, small and tiny and helpless.



"Ah, yes, prison," Jonathan Caesar says, still holding the strange metallic device. "I was paroled. It seems I've reformed."



MJ sees the glint of the knife behind Caesar. Little Sue Storm back from the kitchen. A disabling cut, MJ knows. Sue would never kill anyone. She sees the knife raised.



"Try it," Caesar says, "and you'll be in diapers before you even manage a scratch."



Sue drops the knife, her face twisted in terror. All her adult courage replaced with a stomach full of butterflies. MJ knows the feeling.



"Now then-" he says, turning his head to look at Sue-"you've been a naughty little girl, haven't you?"



Silence.



He points the device at her.



"Haven't you?!"



"Yes," she squeaks.



"Say it."



"I've been…a naughty little girl."



"Good. Now go into the living room and stand in the corner until I come fetch you. Oh, and by the way, once I have your DNA logged, this remote's signal has a hundred mile radius, so I suggest I find you with your nose against the wall when I'm ready to leave."



Sue is utterly defeated. Her young face sunken, she turns and walks towards the living room. But before she makes it to the end of the hall Jonathan Caesar adds, "Oh, and Sue sweetie, leave your costume behind. It just doesn't suit you anymore."



Sue goes all red. She'd been holding the latex up as best she could with one hand, protecting what little dignity she had left. A cold look from Caesar and she lets it drop to the ground.



Then, stepping out of her Fantastic Four uniform, she walks bare assed into the living room.



"Now then," Caesar says, turning his attention back to MJ, "what were we talking about before we were so rudely interrupted? Ah yes, prison. Odd, don't you think, that it was your beauty that dictated my actions. Your beauty, my addiction, like someone forced to take heroin, and yet I'm the one who's punished?"



"It's not my fault!"



"No? No, I suppose not. You were born to be beautiful, and us men, well, we're simply pigs about it aren't we? I mean it's not like you wear makeup and push-up bras and short skirts to lead us on, is it? Ah, wait… What's that on your face?"



And then Caesar is dragging her across the room by her scrawny arm. "Don't misunderstand me. It's not as if all that gunk on your face is going to help you now," he says as he runs the bathwater. "I mean, look at you. All flat chested and narrow hipped," he says testing the running water with his finger-not too hot, not too cold. "You might as well be a boy. Still, it's best to break you of the habit early. Into the tub."



"Jonathan stop this!" MJ cries. Tears streaking mascara down her dimpled cheeks, all the while struggling for freedom.



"Jonathan is it? I think not. It's Mr. Caesar to you, young lady."



And with that, Jonathan lifts Mary Jane up as if she weighed nothing at all and sets her kicking and screaming into the now enormous bathtub.



"Oh how the mighty have fallen," he says as he grabs the bar of soap and scrubs her underarms, down the back, lifts her up and scrubs her behind, her bare privates, her legs. "You. You who's gorgeous vision once enslaved my every thought." He scrubs her stomach, her flat chest as she squirms and burns red in embarrassment. "Now look at you. Just a little girl. No power over me whatsoever. Tell me, Mary Jane, how do you feel about staying five forever?"



Before she can answer he cups his hands and dumps water over her head and scrubs the makeup from her face, the product from her hair.



"Jonathan-" she coughs.



"Uh, uh-" he corrects, "-Mr. Caesar."



It pains her to do it, but her scowl only comes across as a pout.



"Mr. Caesar," she says. "Please-"



"-Don't trouble yourself, my sweet. I'm not petty enough to waste such extraordinary beauty over a few hurt feelings. You see, my little device here-" he pulls it back out of his coat pocket "-can also reverse the effects of the PYM particles. With the push of a button I can restore you to your former glory."



For one brief moment Mary Jane feels hope.



"However, since your beautiful face, your spectacular tits and your magnificent ass now belong to me and my little box, you'll find I'm not one to share. Particularly with that picture taking drone you call a husband."



"Really?" MJ says, sounding almost smug. "Perhaps the two of you should sit down and discuss it. You know, come up with some sort of arrangement."



"Your bath is over Mary Jane," Caesar says, standing up. "As is my use of force." He drops his business card on the wet tile. "Call me some time. We'll have drinks. I'll even let you spend the evening as a full grown woman. Until then-" he looks at her "-well, perhaps just a glimpse-" and he presses a button.



The hum again.



MJ tries to focus but it's all vertigo. The room sinking all around her. Growing pains. Her legs get longer. Her arms, her body. She can see her toes, she can see her breasts blossom into A cups, she can see the hair filling in between her legs, then almost to a B cup and it stops and Mary Jane is sitting naked in the tub, a fifteen year old girl.



"Ah, such beauty, even at such a young age," Jonathan says, tucking the remote away in his coat pocket. He takes a moment to take her all in. He breathes. Then he turns to go.



"Jonathan wait!"



He stops.



"…Mr. Caesar."



"Yes?"



"You can't leave me like this!"



He turns his head. "When you choose to be with me, that's when you can be the woman you once were. Whether it is a night on the town, or a lifetime as my blushing bride. Until then…" he pats his coat pocket, "…well, let's just say you're going to get in touch with your inner child. I'll be making sure of it."



Then he's gone.



NEXT ISSUE: MARY JANE



TRIES TO LEAD A NORMAL



LIFE AND THE GAME BEGINS.



MARVEL



COMICS



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PART 4 Of 6



A WHAT IF? COMIC.



SOHO: THE LOFT APARTMENT



SHARED BY PETER PARKER



AND HIS WIFE, MARY JANE.



10 DAYS LATER.



When Peter had first arrived home on that dreadful night he had been shocked, he'd been angry, but, most of all, he'd been supportive. His voice was always calm, confident, reassuring. But MJ knew him well enough to see through that. It was after he'd gone as Spider-Man to tell the rest of The Fantastic Four what had happened to Sue that all the worry came. It took some time and some tears to get Peter to talk about it, but, eventually, Mary Jane forced the confession.



"Reed Richards can't help," he said. "I mean he can help find Caesar-he is helping. But as far as the PYM particles go, he's in the dark. He said all the data up until this point suggests that the particles can't be manipulated after discharging. He doesn't know where to even begin. Which means-"



"-Which means," MJ said, "we have to find the device Caesar is using, or I'm…"



"Or your stuck." Peter nodded. "Don't worry, MJ, I'll find him."



They tried the number on the business card Caesar left. They tried it again and again, but it rang and rang and no one ever picked up. Reed Richards reported that according to both the police and the phone company, the number wasn't registered to anyone. It didn't exist.



After that, Peter was pretty much gone day and night searching. It was partly her fault, MJ knew. She hated being a kid. She hated it. And by the third night she'd gone a little nuts:



She listened through the bathroom door as Peter went on about all the leads he'd followed, about how they'd all gone cold. She half listened, humming to herself and applying lipstick, eyeliner-the works. Jonathan Caesar be damned, she decided. She was still Mary Jane Parker. She was still herself, no matter what she looked like, and she wasn't going to let him rule her life anymore! (Besides, she'd found herself stuck with a major school girl crush when it came to Peter these days; her diary was full of "Peter loves MJ" written in pink and outlined with little hearts.)



She heard Peter lay down on the bed. Her stomach was all butterflies. This was her chance! She stepped out:



A fifteen year old girl with heavy make-up wearing see-through skimpy pink lace lingerie, holding it up with both hands.



"Hey there, tiger," she said.



In his expression, she could see how ridiculous she looked. He was shocked-he didn't know where to put his eyes-it was obvious, he was embarrassed for her.



Her bra cups had slipped down, her pert B cup teenage tits hanging out: a sudden wave of humiliation hit her, like she'd never shown a boy her boobs before. And now, suddenly, she was completely exposed.



Mary Jane screeched and reached up to cover herself.



And that's when her pink panties fell to her ankles. Her garter belt hung slanted off her left hip, her pink stockings hung loose and in bunches.



MJ turned beet red. She wanted to run, but her skinny legs wobbled in her ill-fitting high heels. Like she'd never worn heels before. So she just stood there. One arm covering her breasts, the other between her legs.



Now, alone in the apartment in the afternoon, Mary Jane fights to push the memory aside. Ten days now, she's been stuck as a fifteen year old. Stuck in the apartment with teenage hormones and emotions running rampant-her adult mind fighting constantly to keep them in check.



She'd refused to let Peter buy her some clothes that fit-it felt too much like admitting defeat-so when someone knocks on the door she peers out from the bedroom wearing a T-shirt that hangs down to mid-thigh and a pair of cotton panties she has to hold up with her right hand.



A second knock.



Then the sound of footfalls moving away.



She waits a few more seconds. Her still too small hand unlocks and opens the door. Lying on the ground in front of her, a single red rose and an unmarked envelope.



Sticking her head out into the hall, MJ looks left then right: no one. She scurries to pick up the envelope, the flower. She slams the door. Safely inside, MJ moves to the couch, tosses the rose aside and examines the envelope.



Inside is a folded delicate piece of handmade paper. Handwritten on the paper in elaborate cursive it reads: I wouldn't want you to miss your big night. Consider this a gift.



Vertigo. A wave of dizziness. Mary Jane puts her hands to her head. Her T-shirt goes tight. Her panties, tight.



It passes.



Mary Jane looks down.



And she is twenty-six again.



LATER THAT NIGHT:



BACKSTAGE AT THE



BIGGEST FASHION



SHOW OF THE YEAR.



Mary Jane is walking on air in five inch black stilettos. People are buzzing all around her. Hairspray is sprayed, hairdryers blow, combs comb, blush and powder on fat brushes brushed against her cheeks, her nose; all these people, men and women, fussing over her and her unable to keep her hands off herself: checking to make sure she's still all there, to make sure the fifteen year old nightmare is really over.



Her and all the other models are seated in front of huge brightly lit mirrors. Girls are running back and forth, squeezing into dresses, checking their makeup; a din of "Zip me up" over and over again.



"I thought you fell off the end of the Earth."



Mary Jane looks over. It's Stacy Steadman, a black haired slip of a woman.



"I've called a dozen times," Stacy says.



"Sorry," MJ says, "Personal problems."



This show, Mary Jane had never cancelled it, desperately clinging to the hope that Peter would find Caesar, would fix this whole mess before she had to. Now it seemed Jonathan didn't want her to miss the show either-he'll probably be in the audience drooling over her, she knows, but she doesn't care. She'll take what she can get. She'd left Peter a note explaining everything-not that she expected him to see it, his nights getting later and later.



Out on the runway there's already a murmur of excitement, the deep boom of the bass like a heartbeat. And MJ is rushing to take her place. Stacy goes ahead of her, passing through the curtain to a fury of applause while a woman Mary Jane doesn't know zips the back of her strapless black sequined dress up.



Then MJ is walking out onto the runway. A machine gun assault of camera flashes. She walks with confidence; one foot in front of the other; the clicking of heels; the curves of her body shaking with every step.



Through the flood of lights, Mary Jane looks for the creepy obsessed stare, and, although it could be her imagination, through the light, somewhere in the darkness, she could swear she sees a smile.



The cameras flash.



Flash: And MJ thinks of trying on her first C cup when she was seventeen in a Victoria's Secret dressing room.



Her dress feels loose.



Flash: And she thinks of her first B cup in the back of a department store when she was fourteen.



Suddenly strapless seems like a really bad idea. She keeps walking.



Flash: "A" cup at age twelve.



Flash: Training bra at age eleven.



And her dress gives. The front falls and: Flash: No bra at all. Mary Jane is still twenty-six, but now she's standing in the middle of the runway, in front of a hundred cameras, with the chest of a five year old.



Flashflashflashflashflashflashflash.



She screams and covers her little pink nipples with her arms, her dress hugging to her curvy hips as she runs backstage past several confused models and into the dressing room.



The buzz of conversation erupts into chaos. She has to get out of here! She's pushing past the models and the makeup and hair people and the clothing designers to the door leading to the back alley. She hitches her dress up with one hand, all red faced and ready to scream.



Then, from out of a dark corner, Jonathan Caesar steps out.



"Mary Jane," he says.



"Get the hell away from me, Jonathan!"



She pushes open the door. He follows her into the alley.



"Mary Jane, stop."



She ignores him. Her eyes all glassy with tears and frustration.



"I said stop," he says, pressing a button on his silver remote control.



And, suddenly, all MJs experience wearing high heels vanishes. She circles her arms in the air, trying to catch her balance. Her stilettos scrapping against the pavement.



She hears Jonathan approaching as she stands on wobbly legs.



She bends over to take off her heels.



Another press of a button and Mary Jane has the flat ass of a ten year old. Her dress falls to the pavement.



And now she is standing there bent over on weak, unsure legs trying to sort through the tangles of her dress to get to her shoes. In other words, she's stuck: bent over, naked in the alley with the flat chest of a five year old and the bum of a little girl.



From behind her, a flash.



Apparently Jonathan has a camera too.



He walks around to face her.



"I don't know why you keep fighting me. You're only making it worse on yourself."



She manages a hard look up.



"What do you want from me?!"



Caesar smiles his sleazy smile. He holds the silver remote up.



"I want to play a game."



epilogue or what might have happened had the story continued.



And it was a game. MJ sitting at the breakfast table, flat as a board on both ends. Then she's two years old, spilling milk down her chin and shirt, fumbling with the awkwardly large spoon. So she's two years old only now she's got the pussy of an eighteen year old. Her hormones race. She stares at her husband longingly. She needs help getting into the tub, and Peter sees she's wet even before she hits the water. Then she is eighteen again, and things are better for a while. She gets to spend the night with Peter, she gets to go out. At the mall in front of a lingerie shop she finds Caesar-that wide too white smile of his.



"I'll let you stay eighteen another day…if you make a few purchases from the store and put on a private fashion show for me."



Hating it, red with anger, MJ accepts the deal.



Caesar gives her another day. The day passes.



Then, somewhere in the middle of Park Avenue, Mary Jane is suddenly seven years old. Her clothes don't fit, her shoes don't fit, people are gawking at her.



She hails a cab. The driver staring at her in the rearview all the way back to Soho.



The next day, stuck in her apartment again, the phone rings. It's Caesar.



"I'm ready to lend you you're body again. I'll let you stay in your twenties for a whole week. Only this time I want more than a fashion show. I want you intimately. Catch my drift?"



No!



She refuses. She would never cheat on Peter. She tells him so. She tells him to go fuck himself.



A pause.



Then he says, "Ah well, perhaps another time."



The receiver goes dead.



A month goes by and MJ hasn't heard a word from Caesar. She's still a little girl. She's still stuck with the body of a seven year old. She's still staring at the phone. Waiting. Rocking back and forth. Waiting for it to ring. Dreading what she might say if Caesar makes another offer.



The game has most certainly begun, and it is far from over. But that is a story for another time.



For now, fair well true believers, and remember to keep poor little Mary Jane in your prayers.



fin

Warning: Tonight's episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer contains scenes centering around the embarrassment that comes with age regression, and may not be appropriate for our more kind hearted viewers.



Part 1



It was an average day in Sunnydale California. Average, anyway, for a town built on top of the mouth of hell. Demons, vampires, and every other supernatural creature you could pull out of your hat were all helplessly drawn to this place, and trouble usually came with them. With such a wide variety of freaks and oddities constantly on display for the townsfolk, people paid little attention to the three foot tall old man and his unusually large and brutish companion standing in the middle of the local supermarket.



'Be careful with that you ignorant oaf!' Bernard the gnome cried up to Bonk, his pet ogre. 'And hurry it up. The day has already begun to pass us by!'



Bonk gave his usual grunt as he continued unloading the bottles from their crates and stacking them delicately onto the display table. He didn't know what all the fuss was about, there hadn't been any customers anyway, and Bonk had only broken sixteen items from their precious cargo. A personal best for him. Besides, all Bonk really wanted to do was go find some bananas to eat.



It was somewhere around the time he had been carefully mopping up the contents of the tenth shattered bottle that Bernard had decided that not all technology was quite so bad. Plastic was definitely a new wonder of the world worth looking into.



Yes, Bernard thought to himself, plastic and twinkies were definitely the only good things to come out of this century. As he watched his ogre finally finish with the bottles and slowly secure the 'Bottled Water: Free Samples' sign upside-down above their booth he was left to wonder if this plan of his was really worth all this trouble. He would certainly rather be home in his hole smoking his pipe...but then, if he didn't do something soon, he might not even have a cozy little hole to go home to.



The problem, as he saw it, was the latest generation of teenagers. So selfish, so disrespectful. A gnome could hardly find a moments peace with those little monsters running around. Probably wasn't entirely their fault though. If their parents hadn't spoiled them rotten then they might have turned out better. It was bad times indeed, and he was sure the adults now knew how much trouble their bad parenting had caused. But of course they couldn't do anything about that now, so it was up to him to make things better. He would give them all a second chance, and even if they did manage to blunder it once again, a little extra time in diapers should do well to add some humility to those condescending faces. Bernard smiled at the picture in his mind. With only an ogre and a truck full of magic water he would turn the youth of today into the youth of tomorrow.



Eventually the little gnome's thoughts were interrupted as his beady eyes caught sight of his first potential customer. It was still very early in the morning, too early in fact for most shoppers, but this woman was already hurrying through the aisles hoping to get her errands done in time to cook her daughter breakfast and then rush off to work. Further details of her life were brought to Bernard's attention courtesy of gnome magic, and the image of the rebellious teen still asleep in her bed brought a smile to his old face. This would make for a perfect beginning!



His villainous laughter was cut short, however, by the large figure standing dumbly beside him. 'Shoo Bonk, shoo shoo!' The gnome waved his hands in the air dismissively. 'You'll scare her away. Shoo, shoo! Go off and do...whatever it is you do.'



'You want Bonk to go?' The confused question came.



'Yes you idiot! Go, go!'



Bonk needed no further explanation, and with several loud thuds he vanished deep into the jungle of the supermarket only moments before the woman caught sight of the booth.



'Well hello madam! How are we feeling on this fine morning?' Bernard beamed at her approach.



'Fine.' She answered tiredly, tilting her head to read the upside-down lettering. Yes, she had been right...the sign did say 'Free.'



'I see my clever advertising has caught your attention, and so now you must listen to the sales pitch! You are a single mother, yes?'



Prying her eyes away from the sign in surprise, she looked down and asked 'Yes. How did you know that?'



'I think you will find that I know many things my dear. Including how to solve all your problems!'



Joyce Summers lifted an eyebrow. She was definitely interested in hearing this...even if it did turn out to be just another new type of floor wax.



In the distance crashes and screams were heard as Bonk tried to eat a fellow advertiser wearing a chicken suit.



* * *



Buffy's behavior had gone further and further down hill ever since the divorce. Getting kicked out of her first high school had forced Joyce to pack them up and move them to Sunnydale in order to ensure a continued decent education. She had hoped that the move to such a small town would calm her daughter down, but now it seemed they were right back to where they had started...no actually it was worse.



Joyce remembered the scene vividly. That moment of shouting and screaming where she had finally discovered that Buffy was some sort of 'chosen one.' A vampire slayer, something right out of a comic book! She tried to put a stop to it right then and there. Her daughter may be great at fighting ghouls and ghosts or whatever, but she had not yet faced the terrible wrath of a truly angry mother!



Much to Joyce's dismay, her word was not as powerful as she had thought. She had laid down the law. No more fighting demons. But it barely caused Buffy to pause long enough to say 'You can't stop me.' on her way out the door.



That had done it! She was still bigger than her daughter, and it was time she rediscovered who was boss in this house. Grabbing her by the arm, Joyce had started to say 'Oh yes I can!' as she pulled Buffy back, but she never made it through the entire sentence. It was at this point that Joyce received her first taste of her daughter's super hero class strength as she was flung away as easily as a rag doll.



With nearly every parenting tool she knew of defeated, Joyce turned to her last line of defense. 'If you walk out that door, don't you bother coming back.' She hadn't meant it of course. Buffy had to of known she hadn't meant it. But nevertheless, she had disappeared without a trace for three months. Buffy's friends had told her that there had been other reasons for her leaving, but Joyce didn't believe them. She knew that Buffy had done it to punish her, and so far it had worked.



Upon Buffy's return Joyce had been forced to accept this whole Slayer business for fear of having to face another vanishing act. She had smiled as best she could while trying to get back into their old routines, trying to create some sort of illusion of control over her daughter. But in reality she was powerless, they both knew it, and it was driving her crazy.



Well, she had been powerless anyway, but thanks to that wonderful little man at the supermarket it seemed she would finally be able to get things under control. Buffy wouldn't like it of course, but then she didn't have to like it anymore did she? 'We'll see how tough she is when she's wetting her pants again!' Joyce said smiling as she absently pushed sausage links around in their pan.



'What did you say mom?' The slim seventeen year old girl asked as she came walking into the kitchen. Already dressed for school, she wore a skin-tight black miniskirt that was far too short in Joyce's opinion, and an equally revealing top.



'Oh nothing, just talking to myself.' Joyce replied, trying to look busy with the sausage while she eagerly monitored her daughter's activities.



'Not a good sign. You should probably go in and get that checked.' Buffy joked as she peered into the fridge, spotting a rather elaborate bottle staring back at her. 'New brand of water?'



'Yes. The other stuff was starting to taste chalky to me, so I thought I would try something new. It is suppose to be the best on the market.' Her mother replied, trying and failing to contain the nervous excitement that was growing in her voice.



'Cool.' Buffy didn't seem to notice anything unusual, having stopped paying much attention to her mom long ago. Sitting down at the table she pulled the cork out, thinking the company was taking this whole 'classical fantasy' look a little bit too far. In the end it was just water, right?



'You know Buffy,' Joyce began with the familiar words and tone that always meant she was about to suggest an idea Buffy would hate. 'I was thinking about that girl Faith you brought over for dinner a few weeks ago. She is a Slayer too right? Now I know we've talked about this before, but I really think it would be better if you resigned, and just let her take over...'



Not this again, Buffy thought with a silent sigh. After taking a swig of the cool liquid she looked more closely at the label. 'Fountain of Youth.' Large bold letters proclaimed, while underneath it read: 'Water as Pure as Childhood.'



'Hm.' Buffy said thoughtfully after taking another gulp. 'Good water, cheesy slogan.' She announced, holding the bottle up for her Mom to see, hoping to steer her away from that potentially nasty topic of conversation.



As usual her humor was wasted on Joyce whose face showed nothing but a complete lack of understanding before she finally gave up and continued on with her original thought. 'I just think it would be better for everyone if-'



'Look mom.' Buffy cut her off, best to end this as quickly as possible. 'I didn't just wake up one day and decide it would be something neat to do, I was destined to be the Slayer. It's a birthright, and not something you can just quit because your mommy tells you to.' She paused, clearing her throat, wondering what her mother was grinning at. 'So you might as well get use to it because there is nothing you or anybody else can do-' She paused again, this time in mid-sentence. What was wrong with her voice? It had been cracking, and now it sounded...higher? 'There is nothing you can-' She repeated. Yes, it was definitely much higher now!



Joyce watched with pure delight as Buffy's clothes seemed to slowly expand. Her sexy features gave way to the childhood innocence of the ad she had been poking fun at. Her breasts, which she seemed so eager to show off, began to collapse, eventually receding completely into her shrinking chest. 'What's happening to me?!' A seven year old voice squealed, but it didn't stop there. She continued to regress, her limbs becoming short and awkward, her face taking on the cuteness of a toddler. Two years old, Joyce guessed with satisfaction, maybe a month or two younger.



The little girl kicked and squirmed, drowning under a mountain of clothing. 'I was wrong about that skirt Buffy.' Joyce finally commented. 'It definitely isn't too short for you now.'



'Y-you made me a wittle baby?' Buffy asked in the voice of the child she now was.



'Now I don't want you to be mad Buffy. Really, this is for the best.' Joyce replied as she began placing several bags she had been hiding under the sink onto the counter.



Buffy wanted to say something that would get her out of this mess, something brilliant, something that would make her mommy realize how wrong this was. She tried to form the words in her head but she couldn't quite grasp them. It was even harder, she soon found, to try and spit them out. She sputtered out a few garbled syllables before becoming frustrated and simply shouting out 'You're mean mommy!'



'Now lets not have anymore of that sour tone little missy, or you are going to have one sore behind!' Joyce threatened as she produced a disposable diaper and a pink bottle from one of the bags.



Buffy stared at the diaper in horror as she guessed her mommy's intentions. No..no, stop calling her that. Call her the name you used as a big girl. What was it? But no matter how hard she tried it wouldn't come to her. She looked at the pink bottle wondering what it contained, but everything on the label, except the picture of the baby, was complete nonsense. Oh no! She gasped, realizing with horror that she no longer knew how to read.



Well she may have been turned into an illiterate baby, but there was no way she was going to wear that thing! She expressed this feeling in the best way she could by banging her tiny fists on the chair, pointing at the diaper, and shouting 'No!' Another bang with her fist and again 'No! Me don't need a dia-per!'



In one of life's little ironies Buffy suddenly felt a growing warmth underneath her, just as the words had left her mouth. She tried desperately to keep her backside from getting any wetter, but she just couldn't figure out how to do it. A moment later a smell hit her young nose, and Buffy flooded with the embarrassment one feels when they soil their own outfit.



Noticing the stench herself Joyce set the items down on the table, folded her arms, and glared down at the toddler. 'Well do you have anymore smart remarks now little missy?'



She wanted to! She wanted to be brave like she use to be when she fought the bad monsters. She wanted to say something witty and then just ride this storm out until her Watcher, Mr. Giles found out about it and fixed things. But all her clever phrases had been washed away, and all that remained were stupid baby words. The world was so big now, and so confusing. Even the simplest task seemed so beyond her now, and her bum was wet and sticky and just felt yucky, and she was cold, and she just wanted...she just wanted her mommy! And with that, Buffy began to cry.



* * *



It was so humiliating! There she was laying on the kitchen table completely naked, her legs high in the air, with her mommy wiping her messy bottom telling her what a bad little girl she had been. She felt so exposed! Especially in her new helpless, underdeveloped body. She just couldn't stand it anymore! Ooo...but that white powder her mommy was now putting on her from the pink bottle did feel pretty good. Don't say that! What was she thinking?!



Joyce smiled as she secured the diaper onto her little angel. Yes, she definitely liked her much better this way. And fortunately, she had enough of the magic water left to keep her this age for a very long time...or even make her younger. Hmm...that might be a good idea for later, she thought as she pulled a frilly pink dress over Buffy's head. 'Well, what do you think?' She asked, holding up a mirror for her daughter.



It was tacky, lame, something she wouldn't be caught dead in. But it did kind of make her look like a fairy princess, she began thinking as she stared at all the ribbons and ruffles. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and soon she was gushing 'It's the pwettiest thing in the whole wide world mommy!'



'Yes it is darling.' Joyce grinned, obviously very pleased. It had been a long time since her and her daughter had agreed on the quality of an outfit. 'Now lets get you into some play clothes, and Mommy will put a video on for you.'



'No.' Buffy stated firmly. Suddenly very distressed at the notion of having to take her fairy costume off.



'Yes honey, this dress is only for when we have company or we go out. Otherwise you will get it all dirty.' Joyce calmly explained.



'No!' Buffy repeated, this time shouting, and when her Mommy reached for the dress she hit her.



'So you still think you can push Mommy around?' Joyce asked, all the pent up rage from the previous months finally coming out. 'We'll see about that.' Without another word she lifted the now screaming child up off the table and bent her over her knee. To her credit, Buffy kicked and fought as good as any frightened kid ever had, but in the end it was to no avail.



The pink dress was lifted up, the fresh diaper ripped off, and the bare bottom exposed. It only took a few smacks before the squirming Slayer was reduced to tears, shouting over and over again 'I'll be a good girl mommy! I'll be a good girl mommy!'



* * *



A few hours later the young Slayer found herself plopped down in front of the TV in her play clothes watching a Barney video. She hated this guy! She knew she hated this guy...but for some reason she couldn't stop giggling at all his funny jokes and singing alone with all the fun songs. After rewinding and watching the show about five times she felt the now all too familiar warmth spreading through her diaper. Just before she started to cry a voice deep down inside her screamed out 'Giles, please hurry!'



'Hey Cordelia, wait up!'



This was certainly something new, Cordelia thought as she watched Steve, one of the members of the football team, run towards her. Recent events had transformed the once popular prom queen into the school hermit, and hearing her name from another person's mouth was beginning to seem odd.



'Hey babe! How's it going?' The panting jock questioned as he finally managed to reach her side.



'What do you want Steve? Searching for someone to give your autograph to?' She really shouldn't be so curt with the only person who seemed willing to speak with her. But her grumpiness was at a high point this morning, and the cause of such ill feelings was no where to be seen. If she didn't take it out on someone she was going to explode, she just knew it! Besides, Steve was more of a bench-warmer than anything else. Someone she wouldn't have been caught dead with during her glory days.



'Ya, whatever. Look, I was wonderin' if maybe you wanted to go to the dance or somethin'?'



'With you? Are you kidding?'



'Well, I uh...just thought...'



'You just thought what? That my new solitary existence might have rendered me desperate enough to go out with the likes of you?'



'Look... I was just trying to be nice...'



'Why don't you go 'be nice' to someone a little more in your class.'



By this time a few snickers were heard throughout the hallway, and Steve quickly made his exist. But his escape came too late, and Cordelia knew it. Enough ears had been nearby to plant the seeds of rumors. Steve had been walking a fine line between jock and wanna-be, and being turned down by a 'nobody' like Cordelia had just sealed his fate. He would be lucky if he was able to get a date with someone from the math club now.



With that thought she smiled. It was a great start to the day, the pain and humiliation Xander had caused her was forced into the back of her mind...at least for a little while. She couldn't imagine it getting any better.



* * *



'I can't, I'm already late as it is!' He grunted, taking a gulp of the bottled water they had been passing out by the supermarket.



'Come on... Just one more time stud.' Faith smiled coyly from the bed. The covers hid most of her nude form, but gave just enough of a hint of what lay beneath to drive any man wild.



Xander, who had been struggling with his pants, took one look at the expertly designed snare and quickly moved to undo the work he had begun. 'Well if it is only once...or uh, twice more...' He said, tossing his jeans and boxers aside before leaping onto the bed.



With all the extra work that came with being a Slayer in Sunnydale, Faith rarely found time to hook up with her normal selection of guys. But Xander had proved to be a worthy distraction...and with such little experience under his belt, he was still very eager to please.



After doing his best Superman pose, Xander set back into work. He was thrusting in and out of her, his hands rubbing and squeezing various parts. Faith was great, he thought to himself. All she wanted was to have some fun, none of this big commitment crap that had caused him and Cordelia so much pain. After all, they were all still just kids right? Why become so serious so soon? It was insane. Ya...fun, Faith had the right idea.



Suddenly a tingle shot through his entire body. Mistaking it for pleasure, Xander continued onwards...not realizing he had just slipped back a year. From 17 to 16. A few more moments of lustful motion brought another tingle, and another. The 14 year old, so consumed with desire didn't seem to notice. Faith did.



'What, is my boy going soft on me?' She thought to herself, feeling quite less filled up than before. She decided to just keep her eyes closed and pretend she was enjoying it. Maybe he just needed a burst of confidence.



The sight was almost comical. A 17 year old...almost 18. On the verge of womanhood, and already fully developed, moaning and screaming with apparent passion as a 13 year old boy frantically pumped away on top of her.



'OH GOD! YES, YES! YOU ARE THE KING XANDER! YOU MAKE ME SO HOT!'



The 12 year old was now fighting to maintain a decent erection. He was now fully aware that something was wrong, but the confusion of the situation kept him blind for a few moments longer.



Now she couldn't feel anything at all. Damn, she must have worn him out more than she originally thought. 'Now I know you have to have more than that stud.' She moaned erotically, just before opening her eyes.



A naked 10 year old stared back at her with a panic stricken expression. Their gazes locked for a few very long seconds, and then, as if some silent agreement had been reached, both looked down.



It was hairless, underdeveloped, and very, very small.



Faith burst out laughing, and then an instant later realized her folly and tried to contain herself. She was not very successful. 'I'm sorry,' She would begin before another snicker would escape or a smile would crack and lead to a series of giggles. 'No, really I am. It's just-- Oh Xander... I think you're still shrinking!'



Right she was. The few scraps of dialog had cost him another 2 years going on three. Minutes of stunned silence passed with the melting away of age and then finally the changes seemed to stop. At 5 years old.



'Oh, its so...so adorable!' She was still staring at his thingy.



He sat there in silence. His tiny fists clenched tightly shut. His lips pressed together, holding the air inside his lungs. He didn't move, he knew if he did he would lose it. Just hold it together, he told himself. Whatever happened can be reversed, but your actions will be remembered for a long long time. Act like a man, and keep some dig...dig... The word dignity would no longer come to him. Many words suddenly would no longer come to him. Only her laughter, her mean laugher, would come to him. And then he began to cry. He didn't know what came over him...but he couldn't stop.



'Oh, I'm sorry little guy! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You shouldn't feel bad. Look, girls can still have fun with this... Watch.'



His crying had lessened somewhat, and he found himself staring at her naked form. He had never seen anything like this had he? Wait...hadn't they been playing together before he turned into a little boy? He wondered what kind of games people played without their clothes on. With that thought, he decided girls sure were weird.



'This little piggy went to market...' He felt her hand grasp one of his toes. He told himself not to be dumb. That this was a kids game...but boy, it was sure fun! Within moments he was completely enthralled, his tears forgotten as she chanted the all too familiar words.



'...This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none.' His eyes were lit with delight, he was smiling and laughing... And then it happened.



Her hand reached out, grasping his small member delicately between two fingers, she began shaking it as she cried out 'And this little piggy went wee wee wee all the way home!'



He was sobbing again. He no longer really understood the significance of size any longer, but for some reason the embarrassment of lacking it was still there.



In between laugher she blurted out a less than sincere apology. 'Sorry, I just couldn't resist!... No, really I am sorry.' She repeated for the fifth time as she finished pulling her shirt on. She couldn't look at him, already the mirth was obvious in her voice. If she looked at him she would lose control again...and she really didn't want to hurt his feelings...it was just so God damned hilarious! With laughter straining her throat she managed to cough out 'Look, just stay here. I'll go get Giles.' That said, she quickly slipped out of her small apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. He could hear the hearty chuckles just outside, and in the corner of the room a half-empty bottle of water lay long forgotten.



* * *



Cordelia had decided to skip first period. The episode with Steve before school started had been a rare experience that she had decided to savour. Who needed a dull subject like History to go and ruin her new found high? Besides, it seemed like half the school was out sick today so she knew she wouldn't be missed. Probably some big Earth shattering crisis that Buffy and her pals would be working frantically to correct. Oh well, it wasn't her problem anymore.



Unfortunately the time alone had given her mind a chance to wander and, as always, it ended up in the same place. Xander. The little geek had ruined her life. She had it all. The most popular girl in school...guys lining up to go out with her. Then for some reason, some stupid brain dead reason, she had fallen for him. She had kept it hidden for as long as she was able, but eventually the word got out. An overnight outcast was what she became... For a while she tried to go back. She dumped Xander, and her friends accepted the whole situation as a bad case of temporary insanity. But she couldn't stay away... She didn't know what it was about him, but something had caused a hideous streak of individuality and she told off her entire group of friends. She would date whomever she chose, she began. She was much cooler then them because she wasn't a sheep, she had said. Ya right. She may not be a sheep, but she sure felt as dumb as one when she walked in on Xander kissing his childhood friend Willow. Now the popular scene wouldn't touch her with a ten foot poll, and she didn't even have Xander or his small group of losers to hang out with.



Her teeth ground together with anger and pain. She wanted more than anything to hurt him like he had hurt her. It was her new mission in life. One which had thus far gone unfulfilled. And then suddenly, she saw it.



A little kid, not more than four or five years old was awkwardly stumbling through the halls in a set of extremely oversized clothes. Clothes that only Xander would have bad enough taste to wear.



* * *



It had taken a lot of talking to convince the bus driver that he was in fact not running away from home, and that he was just going to surprise his mom, who worked at the school, on her birthday. This statement had gotten a lot of remarks such as 'Isn't that so precious!' and 'What a sweet little boy!' The rest of the ride had been spent listening to an old woman talk about her grandson Bob, who had just turned four, and how he looked so much like him.



It had been a sudden thought that had taken him from the safety and comfort of the apartment. The realization that Faith wasn't the most reliable of people and the possibility that since she found the situation so amusing, fixing it may not be on the top of her list of things to do. So with that idea now running around his juvenile head he braved the public transportation system, which now seemed overwhelmingly large and complex, to get to the school. It had been one of the most terrifying experiences he could remember, but finally he had made it. He had all but completed the journey, and now he was wishing he had just stayed home.



The instant he spotted Cordelia walking towards him he quickly spun around and started heading in the other direction. In the rush losing his shoes, pants, and underwear. Actually with only the huge shirt covering him now he was able to move much faster than before, but that didn't make the thin layer of cloth separating his underdeveloped parts from his ex-girlfriend feel any more comfortable.



Bare feet slapped against the hard floor as he made a clumsy attempt at a getaway. His short legs made little progress, however, before they got tangled up in his pathetic excuse for clothing and sent him toppling forward. Xander felt the cold sting of pain as he struck the ground bellow, combined with a crisp flow of air from behind, where the shirt had flipped up.



For a moment he just laid there crying while his naked bottom stared lewdly up at the figure towering over him.



'Oh my God Xander it really is you!' The laugh that followed held both amazement and excitement. 'Didn't anyone ever tell you its rude to point?'



Xander's frightened mind made one last desperate attempt to get away, but the struggle was hardly even noticed by his captor. He felt large hands lift him from the ground and remove the last bit of coverage he possessed. His squirming ceased as he watched his shirt flutter to the floor, and a look of defeat formed across his juvenile face.



She didn't know why it had happened. She didn't care. Cordelia had witnessed so many strange things during her lifetime here that she had learned it wasn't worth taking the time to question. Either run if its bad, or if its good take advantage of it while it lasts. Yes, this was very good advice, she thought as she held the nude child dangling high in the air of the empty hall.



For a moment or two little Xander was left facing the wrong way, wondering what the hell his newfound tormentor was doing. But when she finally did turn him around to face her he wished she hadn't. Plastered across her face was one of the most wicked and horrifying grins he had ever seen. And then, in a fashion that reminded him of this morning, her eyes fell a little lower...



'Look Cordy, I know-'



He was cut off by her laughter. He wished girls would quit doing that, it was so mean. Xander flushed with embarrassment. He knew he had to find a way out of this before the situation declined further...but his mind was so jumbled. It was so hard to come up with even the most obvious of plans, such as pretending he didn't know who the hell she was, or apologizing and throwing himself on her mercy. No, instead anger welled up in his little frame. In a violent show of emotion he stuck his tongue out and began kicking his pint-sized legs in her general direction.



'Still think you can hurt me 'eh Pee Wee? Well you are going to learn very quickly that physical violence is out of the question...and I don't think Willow is going to be able to find much use for your little thingy. So I guess you'll just have to grin and bear it, if you'll pardon the pun.' She smiled, quite happy with her little joke, and the other little things that were now a part of her life.



'Lemme alone you big poo poo head!' He shouted, his legs flailing about wildly. Poo poo head? God what was he thinking? What kind of insult was poo poo head? He should have called her a booger eater. No, that didn't sound right either... Why couldn't he just make his mind work again?!



'Alright, I've heard just about enough from you!' She fumed in response.



With a jolt he felt himself being carried over to one of the benches. He was thrown around like a rag-doll and when the world finally stopped spinning he realized he was laying across her lap.



'NO! NO! NO!' He shouted, realizing what was coming. But his protests came too late. An instant later he felt her cold hand slap firmly against his bare backside. 'AHHH! STOP IT! STOP IT!' Whap, whap, whap! She didn't seem to be listening.



'I want you to apologize to me Xander. I want you to say you are sorry for being a bad little boy.' She said as her hand continued to spank his backside which was growing redder and redder with each passing moment.



No! Don't do it! That would be admitting defeat! She would finally win! He heard his will shout loudly within his brain. His will didn't last very long.



'OW! OW! OKAY! I'M SOWWY! I'M SOWWY! JUST STOP OKAY?' He blurted out between sobs.



'Tell me that you are a bad little boy. Tell me that you deserve to have your naughty bottom spanked.' God, she was loving this!



This time there was no delay in repeating what she asked. 'I'M JUST A BAD WITTLE BOY! I D-DESERVE TO BE SPANKED! STOP STOP! WAAAAH!'



It was humiliating. Here he was laying across the lap of his ex-girlfriend completely naked while she spanked him right in the middle of the school! Worst of all, he couldn't even stop crying like a baby. Oh please don't let anybody else see this, he preyed. Due to the pain and terror of the situation, he didn't even feel himself lose control until it was too late. And then, as the cruel fact made itself apparent, he couldn't even do anything to stop it. It was all just too much for him.



Cordelia pretended not to notice the warm liquid spreading across her lap. She wanted to make sure the fear lasted long enough to get every last drop. Normally this was the kind of thing that would disgust her. But the fact that she had reduced Xander to wetting himself was one of the most glorious things she could think of. Of course she wasn't going to let the little boy know how pleased she was.



After she was certain he had finished, she let her hand stop in mid-spank as if she had just now noticed something was wrong. 'Why you little shit!' She said in the most angry voice she could muster, given the circumstances. 'Even now, you are still trying to hurt me aren't you?'



'NO! NO!' The child cried. 'I didn't mean to! I'm sowwy! I'm sowwy!'



'So now you expect me to believe you can't even control your own bladder? You're not a baby are you? Little baby Xander who should be old enough not to hold his wee wee in? Maybe we should get you some diapers.'



Xander could only sob in response.



'Quit your crying! You sound more like a little girl every minute. Where's all your witty comebacks now little Ms. Xander? Hmm?' Her mocking words suddenly led to a memory which eventually formed into an idea. It was perfect!



Pulling him off her lap and grabbing him by the hand Cordelia dragged the crying naked little boy down the hall of the school. He was too emotionally shocked to put up much of a fight, but he did almost fall down several times trying to keep pace with her much longer legs.



Eventually they reached their destination. As Cordelia was putting in her locker combination she expected Xander to make another run for it. Too her disappointment, he remained where he was. Well...she could always give him another spanking just for the hell of it she supposed. But then looking at the clock, she thought better of it.



Rummaging through the large bag with the words 'Clothes 'N Stuff' printed on it she soon found what she was searching for. She had stopped at the 24 hour store on her way to school to pick up a birthday present for her little cousin. Originally she had been doubtful about her selection, not really knowing what Beth was interested in. But now as she held up the little pink ballerina outfit, complete with tutu, she realized she had made the right decision.



This time when Xander looked up, he ran.



* * *



Tiny hands rubbed at a very sore backside. All the pink frilly material got in the way, but there wasn't much he could do about it. The outfit was one or two sizes too small for him, but Cordelia didn't seem to mind. He couldn't believe she had dressed him like this...even put a little of her makeup on him to soften his features. He felt like such a sissy! At that moment Xander decided he hated girls.



'Now lets see you dance for me Alexandria...' Cordelia smirked as she looked down at her creation.



'No!' Xander shouted back.



'I said dance, and make it good, or someone is going to be very sorry!'



Frightened, he made a couple of bad attempts. Spinning, jumping, trying his best to imitate those stupid ballet people he had seen from time to time. But her laughter stopped him. He finally gave up, deciding the pain was better than the embarrassment.



Upon his denial to perform further, Cordelia's fierce eyes shot to the clock and then back to the stubborn child. If he thought he was going to get off with just another spanking, he was certainly in for a surprise.



Grabbing him by the wrist she began dragging him down the hall once more. A turn here, a turn there, and then finally Xander saw the door he was headed for. He could no longer read the words printed on it, but he did recognize the stick figure wearing a dress! He tried to drag his feet, to get away somehow, but Cordelia's might was too much for him.



With a shove, Cordelia flung the little boy into the girl's locker room and then proceeded to hold the door shut. If her estimates were correct she guessed gym had probably just ended and many of the girls were already in the shower by now. The voices she heard from beyond the door soon proved her right.



'Who let the little girl in here?'



'I don't know.'



'Hey that's no little girl! That's Xander!'



'Oh my God, what happened to him? And why is he dressed in that ridiculous outfit?!'



'It sure looks like a little girl to me.'



'Let's find out! Someone grab him and pull that thing off!'



She heard him pounding on the door, a final plea for release before he was dragged off by a group of giggling girls. Smiling with complete satisfaction, Cordelia walked away from the door and back towards her locker.



* * *



'A child? Are you sure?' Giles asked in amazement.



As if in answer, the door to the library was pushed open, revealing a nude five year old covering his crotch with his hands.



'Pretty darn sure.' Faith replied as Willow shot up out of her chair.



'Xander, are you okay?' The shy red-head asked with legitimate concern as she knelt by his side. Her and Giles seemed to be the only ones who didn't find the situation at least a little amusing. Oz hid it well behind his calm mask, but Xander was able to decipher the truth. Oz was Willow's boyfriend, and had been just as hurt by the kissing incident as Cordelia had...perhaps more so, since he seemed to really love her. There was just a brief hint in his eyes that betrayed his mocking thoughts...and Xander felt more than a little uncomfortable about him being here.



A blanket was given to him, as well as many questions about how he got to school and why he was naked. He didn't intend to let anyone know about the incident with Cordelia if he could help it, and the story of what happened after he got stuck in the girl's locker room was something he hoped to take to his grave. Painted into a corner, he managed to come up with his favorite childhood excuse of 'I don't know.' It seemed to work. All the grownups just assumed the spell had confused him and let it go. All except Willow. She had known him at this age, and was familiar with such tricks. Thankfully though, she kept it to herself, respecting his privacy.



'Well, this certainly explains all the missing students.' Giles said after things had settled back down. 'Now the question is what do we do about it?'



Ever since entering the room Faith had felt something was wrong, and then suddenly she realized what it was. 'Hey, where's B anyway?'



'B?' Giles asked confused, before remembering what this specific bit of slang referred to. 'Oh um, Buffy... Her mother called and said she wasn't feeling well-' He stopped in mid-sentence as two dots were connected.



'Ya right. I'm thinking it may be a little worse than that.' Faith was heading towards the door before she had even finished talking. They all knew Joyce's feelings towards Buffy's role as a Slayer quite well.



'Yes, you go check it out.' Giles managed to say just as the door slammed behind her. 'The rest of you can help me with research. I think it is safe to say this one isn't going to be easy to solve.'



Everyone was starting into their work when the bell announcing the end of first period rang causing Willow to jump up out of her seat. 'Oh I'm sorry Giles! I can't miss this class! I've got a report to do, and-and-' She stuttered, getting flustered.



'It's okay Will.' Oz said patting her on the back. 'I'll cover for you, I don't think anyone will miss me.'



* * *



The extra ingredients located in the enchanted water were not the actual source of the magic that caused age regression. That came from a powerful artifact the old gnome had recovered many years ago. But certain chemicals were needed in order to hold the spell within the water. One mixture to hold the physical regression, and one to hold the mental regression. And since each bottle had to be mixed on an individual basis, adding the needed components had proved to be a very tedious chore. So after about the 50th bottle Bernard had finally given up and put Bonk his Ogre in charge of the task. A decision that had led to some interesting results.



Luckily the process was fairly simple, and Bonk had been doing unusually fine work. He managed to break about 25% of the bottles, but the ones that survived were done correctly. So with a day of hard work behind him, Bernard had decided to run off to bed and leave his Ogre to finish the job.



Unfortunately temptation got the better of poor Bonk, and he soon found himself consuming the sweeter smelling of the two potions. Since they had not been enchanted yet, the chemicals had no effect on the Ogre besides filling his tummy. Deciding it was best not to tell Bernard about this Bonk continued with his assignment, creating several cases of potions that only half worked.



Willow grabbed one such bottle from her locker and took a big gulp, failing to notice the label in her rush. It was a nice gesture, she thought, for her mom to put that in her backpack for her. The school's fountains always tasted funny, and it was just good to know that even though her mom didn't always show it she was thinking about her.



30 minutes later, Willow found herself sitting in class while her history teacher went on and on about some funny thing that some people did a long time ago. Normally Willow was paying close attention and busily taking notes even though she usually already knew everything the teacher had said. But today was different. More and more of what Mrs. Snider said made less and less sense. At first Willow didn't notice it as she was too busy enjoying the funny tingling that had been dancing around in her head.



'Alright class. Who can tell me what year the Declaration of Independence was signed?'



It was the first question of the class, and instinctively Willow's hand shot up. As always, the teacher smiled and called upon her. She just loved to have someone as smart as Willow in her class... Someone who was so enthusiastic. And Willow loved the praise. Being the top of the class had always made up for her lack of popularity, it was one of the most important things in her life. In face, when she had heard Oz had to repeat a grade due to slacking off all year she had considered dumping him for a brief moment. Of course she didn't, she loved Oz, and he really was smart... He just needed to pay more attention, that was all.



'Willow?' The voice of her teacher brought her out of her thoughts. Oh gosh! She had forgotten to answer.



'Six!' Came her excited voice in an almost childlike tone as she held up five fingers on her right hand and extended her thumb on the left.



'Yes, that's righ-' The teacher began out of habit before the answer even registered. Her sudden pause caused everyone to laugh. 'Uh...no. No Willow... I'm sorry, that's incorrect.'



What was wrong with her? That was so stupid! She asked for a date not your age you big dummy! Wait, what am I talking about? I'm not six... I'm five. Huh? Stop it! You can't be five you're in big girl school!



The average person would be in a state of complete confusion by now. But Willow had been smart even as a kid. She put the memory of Xander as a little boy together with her current situation. And after a few moments of hoping that they could get together and play in the sandbox a little later, she also managed to compare herself to the other big kids and realize it was only her mind that was getting smaller. At this point the smart thing to do would have been to run out of class, and make a made dash for the library where Giles and everybody else was, but there was one thing that overpowered her intelligence. The fear of authority. She couldn't just run out of class! She might get in trouble or something. So she decided to just sit there and try to wait it out. She just hoped it didn't get any worse.



'Willow, would you like to give your report now?' It got worse.



She stood up and slowly made her way to the front of the class, hoping to buy some time to clear her thoughts. Unfortunately, she always sat in the front row when her friends weren't there, so she didn't have much distance to cover.



Standing there, staring at the paper she could no longer read, she tried to come up with something to say. She couldn't believe she couldn't read! How old was she again? Probably at least seven or eight! And now she was the dumbest kid in the class. Quit thinking about it, you're wasting time and everyone is looking at you! What was the last thing you learned? Maybe you can use that. Another tingle in her head, and suddenly she recalled a bit of information. Don't go pee pee in your pants. Mommy had said that was bad.



'Willow dear, did you want to give your report?'



'Umm... I forgot it at home.' She shuffled her feet back and forth, staring down at the carpet. She had never been good at lying.



'Isn't that it in your hand?' The teacher now sounded completely dumbfounded.



'Umm... No, this is a different thing. I don't go pee pee though.' Expecting the usual praise she got from such a statement, she was quite mortified when she received laughter instead. Suddenly she realized what she had just said to all her schoolmates. Her adult mind was able to send warning signals, which translated into utter humiliation, but it was unable to give her any advice on how to fix the situation.



Mrs. Snider stood in stunned silence, while many of the kids laughed and said mean things. She had to think, had to make the bad feeling go away! The only suggestion her mind had to offer was a technique that had worked many years ago... Another burst of laughter shocked her again, and she realized she had dropped her papers and was now standing there sucking her thumb in front of everyone. But the bad feelings that came with the laughter only caused her to suck harder and faster.



No! You're a big girl! You're a big girl! You're a big gir-another tingle brought a new sensation. Her feelings were working exactly like normal. She felt the same emotions she would if she were seventeen standing in front of her peers while sucking her and having an accident. She just couldn't do anything about it. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn't figure out how to act anyway else.



No! No! No! Her mind cried as she felt the wetness flowing between her legs, but that function was no longer under her control. The liquid was now running down her legs and she could hear the laughter of the other children.



'Stop it! Stop it!' She screamed, stamping her feet, and as she did she felt a large load begin to slip out of her backside. She tried to stop it, to clench the correct muscles shut, but it was if they weren't even there anymore. The sticky mess filled the back of her panties, and pretty soon everyone was loudly commenting on the smell.



No act like baby! No act like baby! Me big girl! Me--Ga goo goo mmf! With the loss of coherent thoughts Willow crumpled to the floor and began to cry. The fall had managed to throw her skirt up, revealing the embarrassing brown spot, but any attempts to cover it up came only as random useless squirming.



As her teacher and classmates surrounded her wondering what to do now, she cried all the harder. It was now the only way she knew to communicate her displeasure at being seen like this.



* * *



Cordelia had decided to go to her second period class. She really didn't have anything else to do after finishing with Xander anyway. Besides, it was gym, and she felt like running around and jumping and kicking, or doing whatever they wanted her to do. God she felt great! This had to be one of the best days of her life.



Class was pretty standard except for the lack of students. She kept hoping she would catch another glimpse at Xander. She imagined some cruel girl still tormenting him in the far corner of the gym, but there was no such luck. He was long gone. Oh well, it had been fun while it lasted. She just wished she would have gotten a picture to save the moment forever. If she ever got the opportunity, she reminded herself to take it.



Second period was coming to a close and the girls had retreated to the showers. As she was opening her locker she glanced over at the door and wondered if anyone else would be shoving their little ex-boyfriend in here today. The thought made her smile, but that soon faded when she got a look inside her locker. Someone had taken her bottled water!



'Alright, would little miss sticky fingers please step forward.' She called out to the rest of the girls.



'What's wrong Cordelia?' The voice came from Michelle. A girl even higher on the nerd charts than Willow. She didn't even have a group of losers to hang out with. Cordelia had made sure she stayed that way over the years too. She remembered when a guy had actually been interested in Michelle, so Cordelia snuck up behind her one day when she was talking to him and lifted her shirt up, revealing the stuffed bra underneath. The guy probably would have still gone out with her too, he seemed like a nice enough geek, but she was too embarrassed to talk to anyone for a long time after that.



'Not that its any of your business, but someone stole my water.' She huffed in response.



'Oh, well you can have one of mine.' Michelle said helpfully as she reached into her locker and produced a long glass bottle of clear liquid. 'It's suppose to be the best on the market.'



'Ya, I'll bet it is.' Cordelia replied rudely while at the same time snatching the bottle away for herself. She hated to accept any favors from someone she had tormented in the past, almost made her feel guilty, but she certainly wasn't going to resort to the fountains if she could help it.



Michelle went about her normal business, pretending not to be interested as Cordelia examined the bottle. 'Fountain of Youth: Water as Pure as Childhood.' Hmm, we'll see about that, she thought skeptically before taking a few sips. It wasn't bad, it was even still cold, but she didn't want to look too pleased considering who it was coming from. So she drank just enough to be satisfied and then headed for the showers, unaware that Michelle was watching her with a large smile on her face.



When the little gnome had first scanned her mother's mind, he had found the image of Michelle to be quite pleasing. Shy, respectful, didn't hang out with any trouble makers like that Willow girl did. But the thing he found most attractive about her was the fact that they shared the same problem...today's youth. Hoping to help this sweet child out he had given a bottle to her mother along with a message which she was happy to pass along. A message that contained ingredients for the ultimate revenge. And now Michelle was happy to see all her dreams about to come true.



After stripping off her clothes Cordelia soon found herself embedded with hot water. While in the midst of cleansing she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye and looked over to see who it was. Most girls didn't come near her anymore, it just didn't seem right to stand next to someone you were looking down upon when the fact that they had larger breasts than you was made so painfully clear. Fortunately for Cordelia, her bosom was the envy of just about every lady in the school...and even a few of the guys.



But it wasn't some former friend come to make another Xander joke, that crowd seemed to be busy with something else at the moment. Instead she found Michelle, completely nude and standing right next to her. She couldn't help smirking when she glanced down at the small mounds. She remember the phrase that had been going around for about a year after the 'stuffing' episode. 'Talk about making mountains out of molehills!' Some clever boy had thought up. She guessed Michelle had heard that more times than her own name, and even now it still seemed funny to Cordy.



As the girl looked shyly away from the smirk, Cordelia was left to wonder why she was over here in the first place. Normally she just hid off in the corner of the showers, covering as much of her body as possible with her hands. When the taunts first started she had originally just stopped showering altogether. But after hearing the name 'Smelly Shelly' for about a week she finally just gave up and accepted her fate as best she could. She knew she would be made fun of no matter what she did, so she decided she might as well be clean too.



Perhaps she thought since she had done a good deed, Cordelia would return the favor by being friendly. Well too bad for her. Cordy had learned very well why you don't hang out with losers, and she didn't intend to make the same mistake twice. She just didn't understand why Michelle didn't leave now that she realized Cordelia wasn't going to play ball. And then of course, with that thought came a tingle.



On another day she may have just shrugged it off, like many of her peers had done before her. But she had just spent over an hour with nothing but little Xander on the brain, and the connection was quickly made. Water as Pure as Childhood. Shit!



Her eyes darted down at herself. Was she getting younger? She couldn't tell. Were her breasts smaller than before? She didn't drink that much water did she?



Another tingle.



She had been seventeen now she was fifteen. She could now tell the difference. Like a bird staring into the eyes of a cobra she was frozen with fear. 'No!' She gasped as she felt another tingle bring her down to fourteen. The feminine curves she had once prized above all else seemed to be rapidly dissolving under the merciless water. Tingle. Her body became skinny and awkward, her hips shrinking in forcing her ass to take on a boyish quality. Tingle. She shrunk further down. Please stop, please stop, please stop. She thought over and over again. Tingle. No more, no more! But it was too late now, her fate was sealed. A final tingle brought her down to an even ten years old.



She stood there for a while, just staring at her now sexless body. Her beloved breasts had shrunk away leaving only a small flat chest. The hair was gone from her lower region, allowing a nice view of her underdeveloped parts. She was just a little kid now. With about as much sex appeal as a cardboard box. Wait. What was this sex thing she was talking about? Oh no, she couldn't remember what it was! She just knew it was important too! That the other girls would make fun of her if they found out she didn't know... What was it? What was it?



Her panicked thoughts were interrupted, however, by a series of growing giggles. Looking up she saw Michelle grinning down at her. Wow, her boobies sure were big...she wished that she could someday have some like that. Wait. She did use to have boobies of her own, and they were much bigger than that! Oh no! She was now smaller than the mountain out of a molehill girl!



Michelle noticed the envious gaze and gave a smirk that was oddly familiar somehow. 'What's wrong Cordelia? Not feeling so high and mighty now that you are just a prepubescent little girl?'



Before she could respond she was interrupted by laughter from behind her. Oh anything but this! She thought, recognizing the voices. Her old friends, most of the girls from the popular crowd were all present and accounted for. They had seen the whole thing!



'Aren't you even going to turn around and say hello?' It was Harmony, the girl who had taken Cordelia's place as leader after she had been dethroned. The one who had caused all the ruckus about her dating someone out of the group in the first place. Before her, no one had really seemed to notice. Besides Xander, she hated Harmony above all others.



Taking a deep breath, and preying for the courage she no longer possessed she turned around and faced the group. She had expected any emotion but what she received. Admiration. Suddenly she was star struck. These were the older popular girls, the ones she had looked up to as a kid. The ones she had desperately wanted to impress, to be a part of...and now all those old feelings had returned to haunt her.



The other girls just laughed and tittered like the air-heads they were. But Harmony was different. She had just enough brain power to enable her to take advantage of a situation and rise to the top. And now she recognized the look in Cordelia's eyes. She had seen it a hundred times before on other little girls. Hell, she had even carried it herself once.



By the time Harmony had her plans set out in her mind, Cordelia was blushing fiercely and trying to cover up what little she had with her hands.



'Oh don't be that way squirt. We just came over to ask you if you wanted to come back to the group.' Stunned silence overcame the rest of the girls.



It was a trick. Cordelia knew it was a trick. She had done it to many other kids herself. Make them think you like them, then make a fool out of them. But maybe this was different. Maybe they really wanted to hang out with her. That would be so kewl! Her juvenile gullibility had certainly returned. And she just couldn't believe how excited she was at the potential to hang out with Harmony. Harmony, the girl who had followed her around like a dog for several years. Harmony who had once hung on every mindless word Cordelia had to offer was now the center of her universe.



'Of course you have to pass the initiation first.' The words crushed her. It had to be a trick... They had never made anyone in the past do that except goofy little girls. But no...they could have changed things right? After all, she hadn't been friends with them for a long time.



'What do I have to do?' She asked meekly, in a shrill voice that made her cringe.



'Stand up on that bench and sing 'I'm a Little Teapot.' Make sure you do all the gestures that go with it.'



Just do this one thing and get it over with, she told herself. They just want to have a little fun and then they will think you are kewl for going along with it. If you back out now they'll think you're a geek.



As she stepped out of the shower and reached for her oversized clothes, Harmony added: 'You can leave those where they are.' The other girls giggled in response.



Lowering her head Cordelia stood up on the bench, and softly began to sing.



'Louder!' Harmony ordered. 'And don't forget the gestures.'



'I'M A LITTLE TEAPOT SHORT AND STOUT!' Cordelia bellowed, placing one hand on her hip and the other out like a spout. She felt so exposed! So humiliated! Not only had she been turned into a little kid, but now she worshiped the people she had once hated. And they were taking advantage of it. They were making her do all these embarrassing things and she was taking it. She knew she would continue to take whatever they had to dish out on the off chance they would accept her. But she had to risk it, she wanted to be just like them!



* * *



During the early stages of developing the magic water there had been a few miscalculations on the gnome's part resulting in a weaker version of the formula that could only hold a small portion of the spell. Originally Bernard had intended to throw out the tainted batch, but after all the time and work spent on packaging every individual bottle, he just didn't have the heart to throw out a single case. It didn't matter anyway, he decided, the faulty potion still had enough power to get his point across...



* * *



With the sudden lack of eyes available for research Giles had turned to Amy for help. She was a senior like the rest of the kids helping out, and although her practices in witchcraft had caused them some trouble in the past she still had good intentions.



Using a minor spell to convince her teacher she was in class Amy began working with Oz in the library while Giles went home to retrieve some books he thought might help. Seeing as the two really didn't care for studying that much, it was no surprise that they were soon suggesting that someone make a snack run. As usual a flip of the coin decided who the driver would be, but this time it was the loser who had to stay and continue with the research. Another spell put the odds in Amy's favor, and Oz soon found himself back grinding through the endless tomb of books.



Normally Soda with lots of caffeine was the only acceptable beverage during these save the world sessions, but the little man at the supermarket had been very convincing. Particularly in regards to the price. Who could beat free? So with a box of donuts, several bags of chips, and a couple bottles of water Amy headed back to the fort.



Before long all her offerings had been devoured except for a single jelly donut which they had learned to save for Giles. A few more books were flipped through, a few more false leads followed, and then Amy was announcing she had to go to the bathroom. Oz thought it was just another way of getting out of work, but he remained silent.



Pulling her pants down the young witch settled comfortably down onto the toilet seat and began to relieve herself. This was sure a drag. She didn't know why she was bothering with the whole mess. With all the protection spells she had placed on herself no magic could touch her unless she willingly accepted it into her body anyway. What she didn't realize, was that she had done just that.



She was just finishing up when she felt a pleasant tingle down below. Looking down Amy was shocked to see the hair on her crotch quickly shrinking away and vanishing from sight. She let out a startled scream, hearing her voice crack as she did. 'What in the hell is going on?!' This time there was no crack, her voice was now that of a young girl just before hitting womanhood.



Frightened, she stumbled out of the stall with her pants still around her ankles. As she reached the mirror she tore her t-shirt and bra off just in time to see her breasts start to dwindle away. In fact, just about every feminine quality soon followed. Curves straightened out, mounds of flesh became flat and boring. As the transformation completed she realized with great horror that except for the small hairless vagina she looked very much like a skinny teenage boy.



The spell had somehow gotten her she thought. But it hadn't worked quite right, she was still the same age, still had her mind...but it was as if puberty had never happened to her!



Suddenly the door swung open emitting two sophomores who had been sluffing class.



'Oh my Gawd! Sick me out!' One of them cried, at first mistaking Amy for a guy.



'What are you doing in here you perv?!' The other chimed in.



In a mad dash Amy pushed past the two and waddled down the hallway.



'Oh my Gawd! I think that was a chick!' The second girl said in amazement.



'You're crazy!' The first replied.



Just as Amy had gotten out into the hall the bell announcing the end of second period sounded. She was desperately trying to pull her jeans up as a swarm of students flooded out into the hall. Her nerves only helped in making the task far more difficult than it needed to be, as did trying to run while she was performing it.



'Hey isn't that Amy?' A girl's voice cried out in surprise.



Eventually the struggle caught up to her and she tripped as a crowd was starting to gather and point. Laying on the ground she finally managed to get her pants up, but had no shirt to cover her embarrassing lack of breasts. As she was fighting to get through the students, her hands covering up that which wasn't there, she heard someone call out 'Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill!'



Oh no! They didn't realize it was a spell that had done it! They thought she had been stuffing all this time! Her face beet-red she mowed through the growing mob and headed for home-base...



* * *



For a moment she didn't recognize the boy standing in the library. His facial hair was gone, his features softened...and since he had always been very short he looked almost exactly like he would have if the spell had been at full power. But it was bad enough as it was. Standing there in the middle of the room with his pants pulled down to the floor, he stared down at his small shriveled up member.



Both stood there in silent shock at what had happened and then the door opened once again.



'I think I may have-' Giles' sentence was cut short as his eyes sent the images before him to his brain. He looked from the flat girl with no shirt on, to the underdeveloped boy with no pants on, and finally to the two empty bottles of water resting innocently on the desk...



* * *



Cordelia was still naked and standing on the bench, singing 'It's a Small World' for the third time. That seemed to be their favorite song. Second period had ended but many of the girls, including Harmony, had decided this was worth skipping class for. The third period bunch had already come through, some of them just snickering in passing, others deciding to stay for the rest of the show.



Everyone else had gotten dressed by now, which Cordelia found to be a mixed blessing. On one hand she was glad not to have the difference between her body and the others made so obvious, but on the other hand being the only one without any clothes on somehow made her feel even more exposed. But hopefully this would all be over soon. How many times could you listen to a naked ten year old sing 'It's a Small World' anyway?



In answer to her question the door to the locker room opened and Michelle stepped back in. Cordelia hadn't even realized she had left, but there she was, and following close behind her was Steve, the guy she had insulted earlier that morning. Wow he was cute! A football player and everything! Cordelia's heart swooned with a major schoolgirl crush and then she realized a boy was seeing her naked!



Stopping in the middle of the song she gave a sheepish smile as she covered herself as best she could with her hands. 'Oh uh... Hi Steve.' She said in her best sexy voice, which sounded more comical coming from the little girl than anything.



'Hey Cordelia. What happened to your tits?' He asked bluntly. He was well aware of what was going on, Michelle had filled him in, but he wanted to make the most of it.



Cordelia winced at this statement. 'I uh-I have boobs... I'm just covering them up, that's all...' She stuttered, not knowing what else to say.



'Oh ya? Lets see 'em.' Without any warning Steve reached out and grabbed the struggling ten year old.



'Hey, cut it out!' She shrieked as he sat down on the bench and held her on his lap.



She gave the best fight she could but Steve was just too strong for her. Pretty soon he had managed to get a hold of both arms and was now firmly holding them apart from the rest of her body. 'There I told you. You're as flat as my little brother.'



Cordelia was on the verge of tears. During this time of her life she had wanted to be older so much, to hang out with the high school crowd, and now the guy she wanted to date was making it painfully clear that she didn't fit in. That she was just a kid. She had to do something to make them accept her, to prove she wasn't just some little girl. Unfortunately Steve wasn't making that task any easier.



She felt his strong hands begin to manipulate her small body once again. When she realized what position he was pushing her into she began to fight with every ounce of strength she possessed while screaming 'No! Please no!' None of it did her any good.



What goes around comes around. The phrase had a whole knew meaning as she found herself laying across the football player's lap with all the people she wanted to impress looking on. No! Anything but this!



His hand stung her backside, but the emotional pain was far worse. She wiggled back and forth in an attempt to find freedom, but it never came. Slap, slap, slap on her tiny behind.



It was all too much for her. Harmony, Michelle, Steve... All the people she had once put down, all the people she had power over. Her mind wretched at the thought of longing for their approval, but it did anyway. She couldn't believe how cool she thought they all were. She knew she shouldn't, she knew she shouldn't care about them, but she was helpless. And now they were all laughing at her, and spanking her like a little baby. All her idols had decided she was a loser worth ridiculing, and so she began to cry, which only caused their amusement to grow.



'See, you're not as grown up as you thought Cordelia.' Steve began. 'In fact your acting more like a little baby than a ten year old.'



This sentence made everyone suddenly stop. Harmony, Michelle, Steve, and Cordelia. They all realized what was going to happen next.



'NO!' Cordelia's shrill voice echoed throughout the shower room as she clawed, and bit, and flung her arms about. The sudden stroke of panic almost allowed her to get away, but Steve was somehow able to get a firm grip around her flat chest and hold her there.



Michelle was already headed towards Cordelia's locker to retrieve the unfinished bottle while the rest of the girls chanted 'Baby! Baby! Baby!' Over and over again. They didn't know the exact cause of the transformation, but by now they had learned to trust in Michelle's ability.



After a swirl of chaotic movement involving a lot of hands grabbing her and laughter surrounding her, Cordelia found herself being held down by several of the girls while Steve forced the bottle into her mouth. At first, she managed to spit a lot of it out, but when Steve held her nose shut and gave her the choice to 'Drink or drown.' She had little choice.



Actually she had considered the second option for a moment, but the pain in her lungs soon made the decision for her. Before she knew it, she had finished off every last drop.



The many hands finished their groping and now as she lay on the floor she could see everyone was surrounding her in a circle, watching expectantly.



Just fight it! She told herself. Mind over magic. Remember, you're a big girl. You can't let them see you as a baby! Fight it! Fight it! Fight- It was both a familiar and terrifying feeling, but this time the flickers of magic eating away at her years seemed to come much faster. Probably because she had consumed more and her body was a lot smaller now.



When the changes began to take place, the snickers and comments shifted to amazed silence. The nine year old felt all the eyes upon her and clenched her teeth shut. Just hold on! Fight it! You're a big girl remember? You're almost nine years old remember? No stop that! Seven is a mature age and you will be that old in only a year or two!



Everyone watched as her body shrunk and the years vanished from her face. Around five years old Cordelia realized she was losing the fight. 'I don't wanna be a wittle baby!' She cried as she darted for the door.



This time the crowd actually parted, too stunned to try and stop her. Need to get to the door! Four years old. Need to go home. Three years old. Need to find mommy. Two years old. And dada. Me go poo poo. With only one year under her belt now she felt herself trip and fall to the floor. The spell finally stopped at its preordained limit of six months.



There was an unusual amount of silence from the teenagers as the infant lay crying on the floor. They might have stood there all day if it weren't for the yellow puddle that quickly formed underneath Cordelia, breaking the tension.



Large shapes loomed over her, she no longer really understood what was going on but her brain was still sending signals of frustration and humiliation so she continued to cry. As she did, she felt her self being passed around the room. Various lotions and powders were rubbed on her, a disposable diaper and pink baby bonnet were then thrown into the mix, and soon she looked exactly as she did seventeen years ago. Michelle had certainly come prepared!



'Well Cordelia, am I closer to being in your 'class' now?' The large figure she had once known as Steve asked as he held her up in the air.



'It's good to see your body now matches the mind of the spoiled brat you've always been.' Michelle added.



Although Cordelia could no longer understand or form words, even in her mind, both students agreed she looked like she was blushing. But whatever feelings rested inside the infantile mind, the only answer she was able to give them was a sudden vulgar stench.



* * *



'Oh hello Faith. I'm so glad you're here!' Joyce's voice was rather unconvincing. 'Please, come in.' Opening the door a little wider she stepped aside, allowing the Slayer entry.



At first Buffy's mom had been so excited over the whole affair that she hadn't thought too far ahead. But after things had calmed down a bit, and little Buffy had settled into her new role, Joyce began to realize that her friends would soon come looking for her. For any other mother in Sunnydale that might not have been a problem, but Buffy's friends were all experts in dealing with problems of the supernatural.



After a little thought had been put into it a plan had been made. It wasn't the greatest plan, but then again Joyce wasn't the greatest of villains either, so she had to take what she could get.



'I don't know what happened.' Joyce confided in Faith. 'She was feeling sick, and then all of the sudden she began to get younger. As you can imagine, I was completely shocked!'



'Uh huh...' Faith was only half listening while her eyes scanned the room for anything out of the ordinary. She didn't know what she was dealing with, or even if Buffy's Mom had anything to do with. But whatever it was, she didn't intend to take any chances.



Originally Joyce had decided she would just lie and say Buffy wasn't home when her friends came snooping around, but then she thought better of it. She needed a more long term solution. Constantly sneaking her baby around and always worrying if someone found out was not her idea of a good time. No, she wanted to be able to dress her up and take her places and show everyone what a pretty little girl she was.



'I know I should have called you sooner. But I really thought that it might wear off. I know that's silly but-'



'Where's Buffy?' Faith asked, rudely interrupting.



'Oh, she's lying down for a nap. This whole experience really wore her out. I don't think we should disturb her, poor kid has had enough excitement for one day. Besides, I don't think she would be comfortable with you seeing her like this.' In reality Joyce had locked Buffy in her room the moment she saw Faith approaching the house. Even at two years old the young girl was still intelligent enough to ruin everything. A situation that Joyce would remedy the moment she got some more privacy.



'Ya, well I really do need to get her down to the library so we can work on fixing this whole mess. Besides, she'll be safer there anyway.'



'Oh yes of course, how silly of me. I'll go get her for you. But first let me get you something to drink. It is so hot outside, you must be parched!' Joyce was already walking into the kitchen before Faith had a chance to object.



Sitting down on the couch she waited for Joyce's return. All she really wanted to do was get Buffy and get out of here, but if hanging around a little longer got her some information it would be worth it.



'Here we are.' Joyce chimed as she walked back in carrying a tray. Setting it on the coffee table she set an empty glass and an unopened bottle of water in front of Faith. Joyce seemed to be drinking the same brand, but her glass was already filled and the bottle was nearly half empty. Actually this was the same bottle Buffy had been drinking from this morning, and Joyce's glass held nothing but tap water.



Faith was about to pick up the glass and continue her questioning when something caught her attention. Fountain of Youth. Wasn't that the same stuff Xander had been drinking this morning? If it had been anybody else Faith would have attacked immediately and asked questions later. But Joyce had always been nice to her, so she decided she had to be sure.



'I'm really not that thirsty...' Faith began as she started to stand back up.



Joyce had never anticipated this wrinkle. Who would turn down cold water on a hot California day? Apparently Faith would. She started into some lame stuttering coaxing, trying to persuade the girl to just give it a try.



'Actually, I've had a killer headache all day. Could you hook me up with a couple of pills before I go?'



'Of course!' Joyce practically jumped out of her seat and darted back into the kitchen. Swallowing pills took water, she had her now!



Opening her own bottle Faith quickly filled her glass and switched with Joyce's. She knew she was taking a big risk drinking anything from this house, but she had to try.



'Is two alright dear? They're extra stength.'



Faith nodded and accepted the medicine. Joyce smiled and drank absently from her cup as she watched the Slayer gulp down both the pain relievers and the magic brew. Yes, she would definitely make a fine playmate for Buffy, she decided.



Both women set their cups down at about the same time. Both had finished off most of their water. Only one began to change...



'Alright, I guess I better get B and get out of here.' Faith said as she stood back up.



Following her example Joyce rose too. 'I really don't think you will be going anywhere little missy.' She declared with a wicked smile which quickly faded. Something was wrong.



Joyce looked down at her hands just in time to see the last of the wrinkles vanish. In only a few short moments the middle-aged woman had already slipped back into her twenties and was still going. She felt the strange sensation of having her breasts perk up to prime condition before starting to vanish completely only a minute later.



Faith watched as Buffy's mom slipped into her teens. The long black skirt and white blouse looked a bit too old-fashioned for the sexy 19 year old, and as the seconds ticked by they didn't fit at all.



Joyce made a run for it as her limbs continued to shrink and thin out. The oversized shoes clumped against the floor, slowing her pace. She lost her skirt and panties just about the time that her breasts receded all the way into her chest. The increasingly large material of her blouse and bra dangled pathetically on her small frame. She let out a youthful cry, only making it a few more steps before losing the ability to walk.



The crying infant was left laying on the floor with her old clothes scattered uselessly around her as Faith dashed up the stairs. It didn't take her long to find the locked door and to smash it in revealing a two year old sitting on the floor playing with a couple of dolls.



A young face that Faith barely recognized turned around to get a look at who had interrupted her playtime. 'Hi Faithy!' The toddler yelled enthusiastically waving her tiny hands in the air.



* * *



'Giles, I found out what is-' Faith stopped short as her eyes took in the scene before her.



Xander was sitting in the corner of the library using the wood they made stakes out of as building blocks. Willow was lying on the floor with a big white sheet fashioned around her as a diaper. She had most of her right hand in her mouth and was busy sucking away. A real baby that Faith guessed to be Cordelia was lying in a crib Giles had probably managed to steal from the home economics room, and Oz and Amy were sitting at a far away desk sulking.



'Yes, we figured it out.' Giles said, motioning to the two empty bottles still sitting on the table. After he returned he had managed to track down the rest of the group and get them all back to the library. By the end of third period school had closed down due to the chaos caused by the water, and the Watcher had had nothing left to do but sit and wait for the Slayer to return so they could go after the culprit.



Putting Buffy down to play with Xander, and her mom in the crib with Cordelia, Faith turned back to Giles. 'Point me at something I can pound.' She said punching her right hand into her left. 'I'm getting real tired of this.'



'I'm right behind you.' Giles replied as the two walked out of the Library, leaving Oz and Amy behind to care for the kids. They didn't seem to be in the right frame of mind for pounding heads anyway. Faith was.



* * *



It was a little past midnight when they reached the old abandoned warehouse. They had been following Bernard's trail all day but somehow he always managed to elude them. Just when they thought they had the jump on him, they would find that he had left ten minutes go. All around town the chase was led, both Faith and Giles were exhausted but they couldn't give up. Every moment counted in Sunnydale, and a few hours rest might give some fiend just enough time to destroy the world while Buffy and the rest of the group was rendered helpless.



Their expectations weren't very high as they entered the rotted building, so it proved to be quite a surprise when the small gnome was found sitting right out in the open.



'Ha ha!' He exclaimed with the point of his finger. 'You fools have walked right into my trap! Didn't you realize my powers reach their peak directly at the stroke of midnight? Of course you are a little late, but you mustn't blame yourselves. I'm a hard one to keep up with, as you well know.'



'Quit the yapping pops, and lets get it on.' Faith replied grumpily as she got into a fighting stance. She was tired, and just wanted to put this old coot to bed before turning in herself.



'Oh my! The odds certainly don't seem to be in my favor do they? Me a poor little old gnome, and you a big bad Slayer. What say we add a few years and a few pounds in the interest of a fair fight?' As the words left his mouth a crystal ball he had been holding in his other hand began to glow.



Almost before she even noticed the new source of light, Faith felt her skirt and top begin to tighten. She looked down at her expanding hips just as she felt her bra snap apart due to her ever-increasing breast size. Most of her other clothing soon followed. Soon she was over two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing nothing but hot pink cotton panties that seemed to be stretched to their limits. And it didn't stop there.



Weight continued to form on her body, all her previous sex appeal was quickly lost in rolls of fat. At the same time age began to cause her now enormous boobs to sag pathetically and her once firm ass was now loose and frumpy. Her body ballooned obscenely out to nearly four hundred pounds causing the last of her coverage to rip away, revealing the entirety of the awful sight. Her hair shortened and curled, wrinkles formed where none had been previously, and before she had even a chance even to scream she was forty-six years old.



'Oh my goodness! I may have overdone it a bit.' Bernard stated as he watched Faith collapse under her own weight. 'Yes, I'm afraid I'm right. You don't look like you're in any condition to fight at all!'



Faith could only groan in response.



The gnome's attention was suddenly drawn from the beached whale to the Watcher who was busily loading a crossbow.



'My, my...I don't think frightened little girls should be playing with such dreadful weapons.' He commented, and once again the orb flashed with light.



Bernard was filled with delight as he watched Giles shrink beneath his clothing. His hair turned blonde and lengthened into an appropriate style for the century, while his features began to soften. A lot of height and muscle was lost in the transition and soon his pants and boxers had formed a pile on the floor. His hips widened slightly, and small breasts began to poke out of his chest marking the beginning of puberty. Before long he wasn't even a he anymore. His penis shrank away and vanished leaving only a gawky thirteen year old girl behind.



She was terrified. She had never been so scared in her entire life, and the crossbow was now too heavy to lift properly. But still she forced herself to try.



The gnome noticed her continued fumbling with the loading mechanism and sighed. This one sure had a lot of spirit. Too bad he was forced to crush it. 'Girls your age shouldn't be running around naked! It must be horribly embarrassing for you.'



What in the hell is he talking about? Giles thought. Then suddenly she realized what it was. Looking down she saw the shirt she had been wearing had vanished, as had the pants that had been puddled on the floor. All she could see now was a pair of small developing breasts, and her exposed under region.



Just as the realization came the orb glowed again, causing a very powerful case of teenage modesty.



Oh my God! I'm out here in the middle of nowhere bare ass naked! Her teenage mind screamed. The crossbow landed on the ground with a thud, and Giles' hands were now busy trying to cover up her awkward body.



'Turn around you pervert!' She screamed at the gnome who only smiled back at her.



'Ah ha! You see? Once again I am triumphant! You were no match for my brilliant-' The snap of his arm breaking shocked everyone in the room. Everyone except for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the teenage girl who had just kicked him in the elbow from behind causing his crystal ball to fly from his grasp and smash against the wall.



Bernard fell to his knees and began sobbing over the shattered pieces of his precious orb, not seeming to care about his similarly shattered bone.



Buffy just smiled at him as Angel, her vampire boyfriend, stepped out of the shadows. 'I found a cure.' He stated to the two pairs of hopeful female eyes.



As if in answer to him a warm stream of liquid filled Buffy's panties and began running down her long slender legs. Glancing down at the accident Angel added 'Well...sort of.'



'Mr. Gnome. You've been a bad wittle boy!' Buffy said sternly in her best big girl tone. It sounded exactly like a child doing a bad imitation of her mother after just being scolded.



With a look of rage Bernard turned around and pointed at the Slayer. 'Bonk smash!' He screamed.



From up above a large form came tumbling from the balcony and crashed on the ground below. The battle with the Ogre was short and painless. Although Buffy still had the mind of a child, the age of her body had kicked in her Slayer powers which included fighting abilities.



With his Ogre defeated the gnome shook his fists angrily at his enemies before shouting a command word and vanishing completely. Looking to where the Ogre had fallen, they saw that Bonk was gone too. It was finally over. Or as Angel had said 'Well...sort of.'



* * *



One Month Later



Angel's spell had worked wonders for restoring people's forms. But the minds were another story. Most of the folks in Sunnydale were now 'children at heart.' And the research to fix it was slow going.



Willow, Cordelia, Joyce, and Buffy were all too busy with potty training to be much help. While Xander was busy learning the ABC's.



Although Faith had been returned to her normal state, her obsessive eating hadn't wavered and already she was looking quite chubby. Not even her adult brain helped the cause as most of the day she was content to sit on the couch, watch Jerry Springer, and Eat HoHo's.



With the mind of a thirteen year old girl Giles was no longer much help either. He was constantly fawning over one of the latest women's magazines searching for fashion tips, or talking about a crush he had on one of the boys at school. The word 'hunk' found its way into his vocabulary far too often for anybody's taste.



And although Oz and Amy were now okay, they just didn't have the resources to solve such powerful spells.



But late at night a lone vampire sat pouring over volumes of ancient texts. He would find a cure, he knew he would. It was only a matter of time before the Slayer returned in full force, and all her adventures continued.



The End

PROLOGUE



They called them freaks. Or sometimes circus folk if they were feeling particularly politically correct.



It meant the same.



Harry Waxton, a man no higher than three feet and with a swollen round nose, red and purple and far too big for his face, and crooked yellow teeth that jutted out at queer angles even when his mouth was closed walked the dirt street plucking at his endless supply of black nose hair and caterpillar eyebrows in the pre-dawn light with a pair of silver tweezers.



Anywhere else in the world and he would be gawked at, pointed at, mocked, kicked, beaten, laughed at, children looking away in horror, crying, the kinder ones smiling and nodding as he passed but never looking him in the eyes: one pink and puss-filled, the other black and hollow and dead.



They called him a freak. But here...here!



The calliope played even this early. The smell of hay and animals and sweat. Tents rose like giants from slumber, booths were hammered at, prizes set out, rides were bolted and oiled: Harry stopped for a time and watched a cart spin and whirl and whistle about before vanishing into a dark tunnel. He passed the spook house. Then the fun house...ah, the fun house! Such marvelous horrors and damnations to be found in there. He passed Mezmer the hypnotist's tent, and Madam Marla, the teller of futures that would have never been. A clown flew by him with a series of handsprings, and Harry remembered the last time the crowd had laughed and laughed at the man with the over-sized shoes and the rainbow afro: laughed and laughed as the clown squirted his flower and threw his confetti, none of them realizing that, as the magic crackled, soon they would be the ones who were laughed at...laughed at for the rest of their lives.



Harry Waxton thought on this and smiled. For this was the freaks' great revenge. Over the centuries they had gathered, one by one, the outcasts, the oddities, and the midnight carnival traveled the world: every ride, every game, every prize, every attraction, and, yes, every performer had their curses and their powers, and each would exact revenge in their on special way. Of course, there were always a few who managed to dodge the dark powers, to even harness it for their own purposes and turn it against their peers. The prizes at many of the games, after all, had no will or agenda, they were simply tools. But, somehow, Harry enjoyed this most of all: to see the beautiful people destroying their own ideals.



Lovely.



Harry glanced at his watch. From noon to midnight they would be open to the public. And then the carnival would be gone. Twelve hours. Just enough time to get things done without attracting any unwanted attention.



And with that the tiny ringmaster adjusted his top-hat, twirled his enchanted cane, and walked the dirt road, his coattails bellowing in the wind.



THE CONTROL



Allie Cooper had never won anything. Not in her fifteen years on this earth. She walked away from the ring toss booth still amazed...at how crappie her prize was: a large black box with the words "Sex Control" written in silver letters at the bottom and a pull-out antenna pointing out the front.



Sex remote? Yeah right. Allie had wanted the pink teddy bear. But the guy at the booth told her you needed four rings for the bear, three rings got you the sex remote.



It was covered with knobs and switches and even what appeared to be a tiny microphone, and buttons...lots of buttons: some with words or letters, others with just colors or pictures.



What a piece of junk. It looked like a TV remote from the seventies.



Suddenly irritated, a state the fifteen year old often found herself in, Allie swung back toward the booth and yelled, "Sex control this you big oaf!"



She pointed the weighty gadget.



And hit a button.



The man looked surprised, then angry, then he said something Allie couldn't hear from the distance.



MARTIN'S INTERLUDE



"Oh shit!" Martin Lupus, the proprietor of the ring toss booth said as he realized he'd been shot at.



"It's my turn!" the red-headed girl with the upturned nose and the chocolate ice cream stains around her lips said again. She was pouty and overweight, in jeans and sandals and a T-shirt that boasted more ice cream stains. And her voice was nasal, whiney and so...so powerful.



And martin had an erection. Just the sound of his mistress' voice made him hard and kept him hard. There was nothing he could do about it.



"No," he gasped, shaking his head, fighting it.



And he was naked, save for a dog collar and leash which the eighteen year old now held. And his dick was still hard and people were staring.



"My turn!" she demanded again.



And his dick was so hard it ached and twitched on the verge of release that would not come without her permission.



Reality kept blurring all around him and he fought, and he fought and his booth was gone. And Martin no longer felt worthy to stand upright in the presence of this eighteen year old girl who was now dressed in black vinyl and six inch stiletto boots.



And he was licking her boots.



"Good doggie," she said.



And his mind screamed in horror as he realized how horny it made him to be her doggie, how he wanted to sleep at her feet, to roll over at her command, to eat out of his dog dish and drink out of the toilet, to hump the legs and sniff the butts of strangers and other dogs. These thoughts overwhelmed him and he yelped in pleasure, this naked man with the quivering hard-on, and he almost came--but no, not without her permission. He tried to ask for it, but only barked stupidly over and over and, to his shame, this only turned him on more.



The girl giggled as she watched this mortified middle-aged man fight and fight and lose to his own uncontrollable lust.



"Sit," she said.



And he sat bare-assed in the dirt.



"Good doggie," she said and patted him on the head.



"Now beg."



Martin put his hands in the air and whined.



"Good doggie." She fed him a beef flavored treat from her pocket and he gulped it down and drooled on himself and panted, his tongue hanging out in the hot afternoon sun.



"Roll over... Play dead... Fetch..." Trick after trick, he performed them all, dragging his boner in the dirt. And the crowd that had gathered clapped. He was just part of the show now, just another act. And after the circus left he would go home with the girl and be her dog for the rest of his life, hoping in vain that one day she would point at his forever swollen cock and say, "Ejaculate!"



But, somehow, he doubted that day would ever come.



* * *



And looking on from the distance Allie held the controller tight to her chest. So many buttons to press, so many switches to switch, so many dials to turn. And, with that thought, she vanished into the depths of the circus, watching the people as they passed, wondering, choosing.



She thought of the pink bear. Maybe this wasn't such a bad prize after all she decided with a grin.



12:32 PM



Mezmer grabbed his cane and left, through the back of his tent, to take a walk, his next show would be at 13:00. He blinked his three oddly pale eyes at the bright sunlight. From the front people were still pouring out, it was amazing how many would come to see his shows even though no one 'actually' believed in hypnotism. He smiled a wicked grin as a toddler waddled past him holding the hand of his mother, who crawled on hands and knees behind him. All the while the toddler tried to speak soothing words to her, but those only came out at toddler level. "Must be frustrating for someone who's mind is a least 15 years beyond that" Mezmer mused. They had been the first "participants" of his show that afternoon. His attention was pulled away from the duo by the sound of someone braying followed by a conversation by familiar voices nearby. He could just overhear a conversation between friends that had been to his show. He turned his attention to them to admire his handy work.



A group of four teens stood there, still laughing at the show they'd just seen and been part of after talking to loud. Two attractive girls and two handsome guys.



"Couwd you bewieve that fweak, he actuawwy thought he couwd hypnotize me." One of the boys said and burst out braying. Everyone laughed at him, he thought they were laughing with him, unable to hear the difference between them and himself. The speech impediment had been a nice touch Mezmer said to himself leaning on his cane.



"I have to go to the bathroom, wait for me here" a young girl with pale skin and long blond hair in the group said. "Wait Karen, I have to go too." Another girl, this one with a tanned skin and dark hair, in the group said and followed the blond one.



Karen left the group, walked to the potty's, but instead of going into one walked around to the back, got down on all fours and lift her right leg to pee. She was probably lucky she was wearing a short skirt, only her panties got soaked. The other girl did exactly the same, but was not so lucky, having been wearing tight jeans to show of that hot ass of hers. "eww eww eww, what am I doing!" Karen yelled as she got up and looked at her wet leg. "EW! Sam, what do you think you're doing?!" Karen asked her tanned friend horrified. "I'm relieving myself." Sam simply replied.



Mezmer had been rather cruel to the tanned girl. He'd given her a strange mindset regarding the bathroom, or, maybe more accurately she had none. She would not even think of going to the bathroom, however if someone else said he or she was going, she would immediately come along. The tanned girl would then do exactly what the other did, regardless of age or sex of the person she was copying. Should no one go the bathroom and the pressure keeps building she would eventually wet herself without knowing it. The other girl had just received the bathroom etiquette of a male dog, at least until the point she was finished after which she would realize what she had done. Oh sure, she would probably try and relearn old methods, but that just wouldn't work. Mezmer walked away laughing. "Screwing up people's minds was a tiring yet satisfying revenge." He said to himself.



Behind him he heard more braying as the girls returned to their group.



Mezmer walked past a tent with a sign in front. The sign read "Maze of mirrors, over 5 different routes to 3 different exits." Mezmer snickered he knew some mirrors were cursed and some weren't, it would make for a relaxing spectacle. He took his time here, "Let's see what comes out of there." He observed as a short brown haired women went in.



Sarah walked in. She was alone, her fiance was on a business trip. She loved carnivals, she loved the carnival folk. There was always a warm atmosphere at carnivals and for some reason, she has always been fond of mirrors. Probably because she looked so fine, being a professional swimmer had given her a hot body, a big round firm ass, two perky hand filling breasts and a cute face. The only thing she wasn't so satisfied with was her short brown hair, she preferred it long, but it just doesn't look right on her. She took a left to start the maze, she looked in the first mirror, a distorted her looked back. She smiled. The second mirror showed her really short and fat. "A bit like a dwarf in those fantasy movies." The third mirror showed...her normally "What the hell?" She thought, she leaned closer to examine this reflection better, careful not to touch it. Other than that her chest looked somehow rounder it was a normal reflection. She walked away from the mirror and felt a weird tingle in her but and in her chest. Her bra felt tight for some reason and her but felt like it was bouncing more then it used to. She shrugged and looked in the next mirror. It showed her with a bright pink afro. She burst out laughing "I didn't know mirrors could do that." Wiping a tear from her eye she went through the maze. She did notice an odd pattern, every reflection of her after the last showed her with that ridicules bright pink afro. She walked out of the maze, complimented the maze watcher for his brilliant mirrors and went to the bathroom, ignoring the weird stares she received from other visitors. "Bathroom isn't really the right word" she thought as she looked at the Porto potties. She laid down a bit of paper and sat down for a number two. "Sitting feels weird. Meh, probably because of these things are cheap." She pushed and felt something disgusting fall on her lap. "Eww!" she jumped up and felt her lap. She grabbed a small brown thing. "It looks like a turd!" Disgusted she tossed it into the toilet. Cleaned her hands and lifted her shirt to see if it left any stains.



A little girl with a man on a leash walked by. Mezmer heard a screech from his right.



Her ass was where her breasts were supposed to be, slowly she felt where her ass previously was. "Please don't be..." She touched her nipple. Another scream, she jumped up and bumped her head. Trying to rub the bump she found a big afro in her way.



A man and a woman, fondling eachtother, obviously heavily in love walked into the maze next. Mezmer couldn't wait to see what would happen to them. He was a bit disappointed, the other one didn't seem to have anything weird other then have bright pink and an afro as natural hair.



A man and a rather fat woman, fondling each other, obviously heavily in love, walked into the maze next. Mezmer couldn't wait to see what would happen to them. He was a bit disappointed, the other one didn't seem to have anything weird other then have bright pink and an afro as natural hair. He sighed. He would personally go in after them and make sure those two got what they deserved.



"Man, that maze keeper looked stupid." The fat woman said. "Yes he did Mary. Let's forget about him and enjoy the reflections." Jake said. He looked at his round girlfriend. Sure, most of his friends thought he was insane to date such a fat pig, but he just didn't care. He loved everything about Mary, he loved the roles of fat, the way she could cook and eat, the way her large behind swayed and those lovely eyes in which he could see that she really loved him for who he was, not for how he looked. He was considered one of the best looking guys in school, muscular, but not to much, tall but not to tall.



They took a right turn and went through the usual distortions, long and skinny, really wide (which Jake thought was really funny to see with Mary.) Just as Jake was becoming to get bored and his thoughts wondering he heard Mary laugh loudly next to him. "Look!" She pointed at the mirror next to him. He too started laughing. It showed him with two huge basketball sized tits and upon closer inspection of the mirror, the front of his shirt was a slightly darker colour than the rest, as if it was moist. Then, the laughing stopped. The next mirror showed Mary naked with nothing other than a diaper with a yellow spot on the front. She stood there staring at the mirror. "That's not funny." she muttered. Jake stepped in to intervene, he stuck his arms out to push Mary away from the mirror. He stepped forward, away from the mirror of him with tits and after a short tingle and the sound of clothes being stretched to its maximum his huge tits pushed Mary out of the mirror, the pressure squirting milk on her bare skin. Mary stood there, flabbergasted and dressed in nothing but a soggy diaper.



"What the fuck is happening here?!" Jake and Mary yelled at the same time.



"Nothing" answered the voice of Mezmer. They turned around and looked in horror at Mezmer. And it was nothing indeed.



Jake blinked. Nothing there. What was he doing again? He became aware of Mary looking at him with pleading eyes, he smiled and grabbed one of her roles, pulled her near his tit to have her suckle his milk. As she was suckling he felt his dick harden, he just had to stick it into something or someone as soon as possible. He tried to look at Mary's diaper, but couldn't see past his tits nor past Mary's own fat. He felt her diaper. "Ah, she needs a diaper cleaned, I'll use that as an excuse." He thought and he immediately began urging Mary along to find a diaper.



Mezmer left with a satisfied feeling. Her desiring his milk and his reaction of needing to stick his dick in something was sure to make them freakish enough to get a few laughs.

Brury, Utah. A small town. A twenty minute drive to Salt Lake City from here. The snow had fallen in the early morning. Now, 6:02 pm, the powder still hung thick in the bare branches of the trees and the grass below, and in the streets brown slush splashed to curbs and sidewalks as cars passed by, their headlights blurry in the fog.



Dr. Karen Matheson's office was normally not open this late. As a psychologist, she was able to set her own hours and she liked getting home in time to catch the nightly sitcoms while she ate (tonight she had been planning on rice and fish, and perhaps a glass of wine), then maybe a hot bath and some reading--the journal articles of her colleagues to sneer or nod her head to, or perhaps just a good book. She cherished the time alone after a day of the incessant and monotonous complaints of her clients. Her practice was reaching its tenth year, and she hoped to God she'd have enough money saved to retire before she ever reached eleven.



Karen's finger tapped the oak desk. She glanced at the clock. Mr. Mark Weight sat directly across from her on the oversized blue and white checkered loveseat. He held a gray piece of paper close to him, crumpled between two sweaty palms. Something shaped like a pool ball rested on the second cushion wrapped in newspaper.



"I'm sorry to have called on such short notice," he said. "I'm sorry to have called so late. The police wouldn't listen to me."



"You know my office hours are generally eleven to five, and normally appointments must be made a week in advance, Mr. Weight. We've discussed this before." It was true. If Mark Weight hadn't sounded so panicky on the phone, Karen would have declined the late appointment. All she needed, though, was some nutcase killing himself and mentioning her in the note.



"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that--"



"The police wouldn't listen to you," Dr. Matheson cut in. "Fine. Why don't you tell me all about it?"



Mr. Weight looked down at the paper as if it might tell him what to say. Then he looked back up, back to Dr. Matheson. He leaned forward and in a sharp whisper said, "They know. They know what I've done. They know all about it, and they're coming here!"



Karen sighed.



Mark Weight had started coming to see her five years ago, shortly after his seventeen year old daughter committed suicide. Mark blamed himself for the incident, and apparently his wife did too--divorcing him and moving her and their younger son out of state before the body was even cold. During the years of therapy he'd told Karen all about it multiple times. He'd been too strict, he said. His daughter started acting out, she wouldn't follow any of their rules anymore, and he didn't know how to handle it...so he had turned to the occult.



The man's delusions contained enough complexity and detail to fill a book. The one common thread in all the stories he told involved the manipulation of his daughter's age with some magical device as punishment for bad behavior. It became obvious to Karen early in the man's telling what was really going on: Mark Weight had sexually abused his daughter years earlier, and, upon her death, the guilt for his past behavior was too much for his brain to process, so instead he had created this fantasy as a way of dealing with it.



"Mark," Dr. Matheson said, "we've talked about this before."



"I know." He lowered his head.



"Those stories aren't real. You just didn't know how to handle Serena's death, alright?"



"I received this in the mail yesterday." He stood and crossed the distance between him and the desk and set the gray paper down in front of her.



Karen read the handwritten gold lettering:



Dear Mr. Weight,



As you may or may not know, the torment of your daughter at the hands of the legendary Orb of Etin has become widely known and applauded within certain circles. While we find your recent inactivity quite disturbing, all can still be forgiven.



The Order will rise. And it will begin at the heart of your homeland in Brury.



All activists in age manipulation, whether from this world or the next, will be contacted and required to make a showing. Failure to appear and to offer a demonstration of your talents to the local population within a week's time will result in the most dire of consequences. I cannot stress this last point enough.



The note was unsigned.



Karen looked it twice over. She had long since diagnosed Mark as an untreatable but stable case and had contented herself to an hour's daydream each week as he rambled on, collecting heavily from the wealthy man's medical insurance at the end of every month. But now things had escalated to a whole new level.



"Mr. Weight," she said.



"We locked it in a safe in the basement years ago," he muttered, pacing the office, wringing his hands, "me and my wife...years ago, just before she left. We locked it in a safe. I don't even know the combination. When I got home today, it was just sitting there on my bed along with the letter I'd already thrown in the trash."



"Mark," she said, "I think we need to discuss checking you into a hospital. You need help."



"I don't want to do it. I don't want to."



"I know it's hard."



"I don't want to do it. I don't. But the police won't help me, no one will help me, and they're coming here, and I don't want them to...to do anything to me!" He was back at the couch, he was unwrapping the newspaper.



"It's alright, Mark. It's okay. It's all going to be okay. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, alright?" She was reaching for the phone.



Mark turned around. He held a small black ball in his hand. It looked heavy. "I'm sorry Dr. Matheson, but you're the biggest bitch I know, and I have to do it to someone."



"What are you talking about?"



"You know how this works, Dr. Matheson. When I'm holding this orb, all I have to do is imagine something about someone's age and it becomes true. You never believed all the stuff that happened to my little girl, so now I'm going to show you what happened to her."



Karen stood up. She spoke in a firm tone. "Mark, look at yourself. You're holding an eight ball with the number painted over. Think about what you're saying."



"It was just so easy." He ran his fingers over the black polish. "If you didn't want your teenager having sex, you didn't have to worry. It didn't matter if they snuck around behind your back, you just imagined them being a virgin again and they were."



The first thing Dr. Karen Matheson was aware of was her brow furrowing. Her mind was awash.



"That's ridiculous, Mark," she said, the memory of her last romantic encounter a week ago quite clear. No, not a week, she thought. A month. Yes, it had been a while. At least a year. God, had it really been that long? Five years since she'd gotten laid. No, not even then. Well, she could certainly remember her first time at least. Her parents had been gone for the night--some party--and her then boyfriend, Mike Stewart was his name, had stopped by. He'd brought her flowers, six lilies from a flower shop. They'd sat on the couch in the living room and watched some TV, but it wasn't long before they started fooling around. He squeezed her breasts through her top, she'd pulled down her panties, he'd unzipped his pants, and then they... Wait. Was that right?



The tightening sensation in her crotch marked the return of Dr. Matheson's hymen.



No, she'd never gone all the way with Mike, or with anyone for that matter. Karen couldn't believe it, but it was true. Technically, she was a thirty-nine year old virgin. She'd just stuck with blowjobs her whole life, which she was actually quite good at, average at, clumsy, never done it. The idea of having a dick in her mouth now seemed strange and gross, and kind of scary.



She put her hand to her forehead. She felt confused. "Mark, I think there's something wrong with me. I can only remember giving guys handjobs, well, actually, I've only given one handjob, but I was nervous and couldn't get the strokes down right and the guy had to finish himself. Or is it just that guys do that by themselves? Yes, that's right. I've never given a handjob. I've never even seen a penis in real life. I just stick to dry-humping,... er making out,... er kissing, well not really. I wonder what it's like to kiss a boy."



"Are you finished?" Mark asked.



Karen's head cleared and she blushed as she realized she'd been babbling, as she recalled what she'd just said, as she pieced her own words together, as their meaning struck her at the pit of her stomach: It was true. It was real. Mark Weight had just robbed her of all her sexual experience. He'd reduced her to a shy, quivering awkward virgin.



Despite now being timid in bed, in this office, Karen Matheson was very pissed off.



She screamed at him, she screamed at him with her whole body, it felt like, she was so angry: "You son of a...um... You son of a..., uh, a big poo poo head!"



Mark's fingers continued to caress the orb. "I'd tell you to watch your mouth, but then, I guess you really don't have a choice in the matter, do you? You see, that's how it would work with Serena. She'd use foul language, and I'd just imagine a time when she didn't know any bad words and the problem was solved. Take you for example--"



"--You can't do this to me!--"



"--You're smug, and conceited and judgmental towards everyone around you because you're a psychologist. But then I just imagine the time before you went to college, and now you're not a psychologist anymore."



Karen's head spun. "No, please!" Her credentials vanished from the wall. Then the wall itself vanished. They weren't standing in her office anymore. She didn't have an office anymore. Instead they were back at her place. Not the lavish townhouse that had once been her pride and joy, but an apartment she struggled to pay rent for with her job as a receptionist in a small office for a group of psychologists.



"But then," he said, "You don't teach someone not to be bad simply be preventing them from acting that way. You have to show them how it feels to be treated badly. How their actions made others feel. So, if you made other people feel stupid, I guess I should think a little further back..."



Karen started to cry as she looked down and saw she was wearing a McDonalds uniform. She was a thirty-nine year old high school dropout. Her apartment was gone. She lived in her parents' basement, who were both pushing their mid-sixties. A panicked feeling struck her as she realized she was late for the nightshift at the drive-through.



"This is stupid," she said between sobs. "It's not fair."



"Life's not fair," Mark said simply. The woman's eyes lost their sharpness as her mind reduced to that of a junior high school student. "You'd better hurry, or your boss might yell at you for being late again."



A fear of authority Karen had not felt in years welled up. She thought on her options, on the craziness of this situation, but her intellect and maturity weren't what they used to be. "I hate you!" she screamed with the stomp of a foot then stormed out.



A few minutes later, Mark heard a car start outside and pull out of the driveway. His hands were shaking. The newspaper he'd left on the loveseat was now scattered in Karen's left-open underwear drawer. He sorted the paper from her bras and panties and carefully rewrapped the orb.



He'd done it, he thought. Karen would be in public now, working at McDonalds. And whoever might be watching him, judging him, would be sure to see what he planned to do next...

A TRAVEL agent friend of mine swore this happened to her clients:



A couple from suburban California were vacationing in Jamaica when their room was broken into and everything stolen, with the exception of their camera and their toothbrushes. Considering themselves fortunate to have retained the camera with their vacation photos, they returned home where they had the film developed.



Two pictures were unidentifiable — something like an aerial view of two mounds of earth with a pole in between. They later realized, to their horror, that it was a photo of their toothbrushes up someone's rear end.



(As told by reader Susan Waldron)

IN LIFE, Tom was a good-looking guy who liked the ladies. Once he'd dated all the available girls in the area, he started seeing a girl in the next town -- not knowing she was married. Eventually her husband got wind of what was going on and vowed revenge on the two of them. He told his wife he was going out of town for the weekend, then hid in the woods behind their house. As he'd guessed, that evening Tom showed up to take the lady out. The husband followed them to the nearby Lovers' Lane.



Things were getting pretty hot and heavy (if you know what I mean) when all of a sudden the car door was jerked open and Tom came face-to-face with one very huge, very angry-looking dude wielding a hunting knife.



"Oh no!" screamed the girl who had started all the trouble in the first place. "It's my husband!"



"That's right, you cheating @#%&*!" yelled her husband. "And I'm about to teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" He pulled her off Tom, rammed the knife into her stomach once, and tossed her aside. Then he turned back to Tom, grinning maniacally.



"Don't hurt me!" Tom begged. "I swear to God I didn't know she was married!" But the wronged husband didn't listen. He dragged Tom out of the car and skinned him alive with the hunting knife. Then he went to town and turned himself in to the police.



When the police arrived at the crime scene, they found the woman, who was miraculously still alive. But Tom was nowhere to be found.



They say he's still hanging around Lovers' Lane, waiting to catch a couple and "teach" them the same lesson his girlfriend's husband taught him. He's described as a bloody skeleton in '20s clothes, carrying the knife he himself was skinned with. All the teenagers around here grow up hearing "Don't go to Lovers' Lane if you don't want to be Skinned Tom's next victim!"

A NEWLYWED husband and wife went to Las Vegas for their honeymoon, and checked into a suite at a hotel. When they got to their room they both detected a bad odor. The husband called down to the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. He explained that the room smelled very bad and they would like another suite. The manager apologized and told the man that they were all booked because of a convention. He offered to send them to a restaurant of their choice for lunch compliments of the hotel and said he was going to send a maid up to their room to clean and to try and get rid of the odor.



After a nice lunch the couple went back to their room. When they walked in they could both still smell the same odor. Again the husband called the front desk and told the manager that the room still smelled really bad. The manager told the man that they would try and find a suite at another hotel. He called every hotel on the strip, but every hotel was sold out because of the convention. The manager told the couple that they couldn't find them a room anywhere, but they would try and clean the room again. The couple wanted to see the sights and do a little gambling anyway, so they said they would give them two hours to clean and then they would be back.



When the couple had left, the manager and all of housekeeping went to the room to try and find what was making the room smell so bad. They searched the entire room and found nothing, so the maids changed the sheets, changed the towels, took down the curtains and put new ones up, cleaned the carpet and cleaned the suite again using the strongest cleaning products they had. The couple came back two hours later to find the room still had a bad odor. The husband was so angry at this point, he decided to find whatever this smell was himself. So he started tearing the entire suite apart himself.



As he pulled the top mattress off the box spring he found a dead body of a woman.

A TEENAGE boy drove his date to a dark and deserted Lovers' Lane for a make-out session. After turning on the radio for mood music, he leaned over and began kissing the girl.



A short while later, the music suddenly stopped and an announcer's voice came on, warning in an urgent tone that a convicted murderer had just escaped from the state insane asylum — which happened to be located not far from Lovers' Lane — and that anyone who noticed a strange man lurking about with a hook in place of his right hand should immediately report his whereabouts to the police.



The girl became frightened and asked to be taken home. The boy, feeling bold, locked all the doors instead and, assuring his date they would be safe, attempted to kiss her again. She became frantic and pushed him away, insisting that they leave. Relenting, the boy peevishly jerked the car into gear and spun its wheels as he pulled out of the parking space.



When they arrived at the girl's house she got out of the car, and, reaching to close the door, began to scream uncontrollably. The boy ran to her side to see what was wrong and there, dangling from the door handle, was a bloody hook!

SO-AND-SO'S FRIEND, a girl in her teens, is babysitting for a family in Newport Beach, Ca. The family is wealthy and has a very large house — you know the sort, with a ridiculous amount of rooms. Anyways, the parents are going out for a late dinner/movie. The father tells the babysitter that once the children are in bed she should go into this specific room (he doesn't really want her wandering around the house) and watch TV there.



The parents take off and soon she gets the kids into bed and goes to the room to watch TV. She tries watching TV, but she is disturbed by a clown statue in the corner of the room. She tries to ignore it for as long as possible, but it starts freaking her out so much that she can't handle it.



She resorts to calling the father and asks, "Hey, the kids are in bed, but is it okay if I switch rooms? This clown statue is really creeping me out."



The father says seriously, "Get the kids, go next door and call 911."



She asks, "What's going on?"



He responds, "Just go next door and once you call the police, call me back."



She gets the kids, goes next door, and calls the police. When the police are on the way, she calls the father back and asks, "So, really, what's going on?"



He responds, "We don't HAVE a clown statue." He then further explains that the children have been complaining about a clown watching them as they sleep. He and his wife had just blown it off, assuming that they were having nightmares.



The police arrive and apprehend the "clown," who turns out to be a midget. A midget clown! I guess he was some homeless person dressed as a clown, who somehow got into the house and had been living there for several weeks. He would come into the kids' rooms at nights and watch them while they slept. As the house was so large, he was able to avoid detection, surviving off their food, etc. He had been in the TV room right before the babysitter right came in there. When she entered he didn't have enough time to hide, so he just froze in place and pretended to be a statue.

ONE NIGHT a woman went out for drinks with her girlfriends. She left the bar fairly late at night, got in her car and onto the deserted highway. She noticed a lone pair of headlights in her rear-view mirror, approaching at a pace just slightly quicker than hers. As the car pulled up behind her she glanced and saw the turn signal on — the car was going to pass — when suddenly it swerved back behind her, pulled up dangerously close to her tailgate and the brights flashed.



Now she was getting nervous. The lights dimmed for a moment and then the brights came back on and the car behind her surged forward. The frightened woman struggled to keep her eyes on the road and fought the urge to look at the car behind her. Finally, her exit approached but the car continued to follow, flashing the brights periodically.



Through every stoplight and turn, it followed her until she pulled into her driveway. She figured her only hope was to make a mad dash into the house and call the police. As she flew from the car, so did the driver of the car behind her — and he screamed, "Lock the door and call the police! Call 911!"



When the police arrived the horrible truth was finally revealed to the woman. The man in the car had been trying to save her. As he pulled up behind her and his headlights illuminated her car, he saw the silhouette of a man with a butcher knife rising up from the back seat to stab her, so he flashed his brights and the figure crouched back down.



The moral of the story: Always check the back seat!

Netlore Archive: According to this emailed urban legend circulating since 2000, a woman in California got sick after cutting her tongue while licking an envelope infested with cockroach eggs. A few days later her doctor discovered a live cockroach growing inside her tongue...



I work in a factory and we have 2 employees who used to work in an envelope factory. They told me that when the machine jams up, they use whatever water is handy to thin out the glue. This includes water that they just mopped the floor with. Since then, I've avoided licking envelopes...



1. ) If you lick your envelopes... You won't anymore!!! A woman was working in a post office in California. One day she licked the envelopes and postage stamps instead of using a sponge. That very day the lady cut her tongue on the envelope. A week later, she noticed an abnormal swelling of her tongue. She went to the doctor, and they found nothing wrong. Her tongue was not sore or anything. A couple of days later, her tongue started to swell more, and it began to get really sore, so sore, that she could not eat



She went back to the hospital, and demanded something be done. The doctor took an x-ray of her tongue and noticed a lump. He prepared her for minor surgery. When the doctor cut her tongue open, a live cockroach crawled out!!!! There were roach eggs on the seal of the envelope. The egg was able to hatch inside of her tongue, because of her saliva. It was warm and moist...



This is a true story reported on CNN.



2.) Andy Hume wrote: "Hey, I used to work in an envelope factory. You wouldn't believe the things that float around in those gum applicator trays. I haven't licked an envelope for years!"



3.) To All: I used to work for a print shop (32 years ago) and we were told NEVER to lick the envelopes. I never understood why until I had to go into storage and pull out 2500 envelops that were already printed for a customer who was doing a mailing and saw several squads of roaches roaming around inside a couple of boxes with eggs everywhere. They eat the glue on the envelopes. I think print shops have a harder time controlling roaches than a restaurant. I always buy the self-sealing type. Or if need be , I use a glue stick to seal one that has the type of glue that needs to be wet to stick.

It was Christmas around 6:00 AM. And Desmond was sitting at his couch in depression and sleep deprivation. Behind him was a beautiful Christmas tree with white LED lights and an upside-down star on the top of the tree. Desmond looked down at his coffee table, at the pictures of his new girlfriend, Selina and the divorce papers on top of them. His cat, Lily, slept next to him. A knock at his front door caught his attention; he went to the door and opened it. Standing there was Selina. He invited her in; they went up into the attic. Up in the attic, they sat across from each other. The light spilled in from outside. A shadow of window dividers was silhouetted is against the wall. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Desmond’s eyes are dark blue and Selina’s are green. They leaned their heads together. They spoke not looking at each other.

“She wants a divorce. She knows,” Desmond said. His wife, Ophelia found out that Desmond’s a vampire and thinks Selina would be his next victim. But Selina doesn’t know that he’ll take her into the land of the immortals. She doesn’t even know that he’s a vampire.

“If she wants a divorce, she’ll get it,” Selina’s cold voice muttered.

Desmond closed his eyes, and blood trickled out. He didn’t care; he wanted her to understand his demonic ways. Selina looked at Desmond.

“Your eyes!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m crying,” he paused. He continued, “All vampires cry blood.”

She held her hands to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Selina was in shock. Blood still trickled from Desmond’s eyes.

“LEAVE!” Desmond shouted. “Leave! Leave! Leave!” He felt centuries of hate and self-loathing all at once. Selina went running out of the house. This was a cursed Christmas for Desmond. The next day he spent in self-loathing and despair. He finally cried himself to sleep. He woke up the next morning and looked at his unholy Christmas tree, beautiful white lights glowing in the dark. A blue morning light came spilling into his dining room through windows and a terrace door. He went outside into his backyard, a yard of stones and curly trees. The silvery overcast day shone against Desmond’s skin. He went back into the house and signed his divorce papers.

He took his car downtown to the courtroom. There he saw his wife, Ophelia. She confronted him.

“I wanted to tell everyone that you’re a vampire, but I found I’m not that kind of person in my heart,” she told him.

“I thought we said forever and ever. Did you mean it?” Desmond asked her. She paused and he turned around. He couldn’t bear it.

“Yes,” she remarked. Desmond turned to face her, and he saw fear and awe in her eyes. He took her to the side, where no one could see them.

“Then you want this…” He breathed into her ear.

“Oh, yes!” she whispered. Desmond lowered his head, and he began to bite her neck. She writhed and tried to push him off, but he was like a heavy statue on top of her. Then he pulled away. He left her in a private hallway off the courtroom. Desmond knew that he might regret biting her. Sometimes, they bite you back.



It was Christmas around 6:00 AM,. and Desmond was sitting at his couch in depression and sleep derivation. Behind him was a beautiful Christmas tree with white LED lights and an upside-down star on the top of the tree. Desmond looked down at his coffee table, at the pictures of his new girlfriend, Selina and the divorce papers on top of them. His cat, Lily, slept next to him. A knock at his front door caught his attention; he went to the door and opened it. Standing there was Selina. He invited her in; they went up into the attic. Up in the attic, they sat across from each other. The light spilled in from outside. A shadow of window dividers was silhouetted is against the wall. They gazed into each others eyes. Desmond’s eyes are dark blue and Selina’s are green. They leaned their heads together. They spoke not looking at each other.

“She wants a divorce. She knows,” Desmond said. His wife, Ophelia found out that Desmond’s a vampire and thinks Selina would be his next victim. But Selina doesn’t know that he’ll take her into the land of the immortals. She doesn’t even know that he’s a vampire.

“If she wants a divorce, she’ll get it,” Selina’s cold voice muttered.

Desmond closed his eyes, and blood trickled out. He didn’t care; he wanted her to understand his demonic ways. Selina looked at Desmond.

“Your eyes!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m crying,” he paused. He continued, “All vampires cry blood.”

She held her hands to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Selina was in shock. Blood still trickled from Desmond’s eyes.

“LEAVE!” Desmond shouted. “Leave! Leave! Leave!” He felt centuries of hate and self-loathing all at once. Selina went running out of the house. This was a cursed Christmas for Desmond. The next day he spent in self-loathing and despair. He finally cried himself to sleep. He woke up the next morning and looked at his unholy Christmas tree, beautiful white lights glowing in the dark. A blue morning light came spilling into his dining room through windows and a terrace door. He went outside into his backyard, a yard of stones and curly trees. The silvery overcast day shone against Desmond’s skin. He went back into the house and signed his divorce papers.

He took his car downtown to the courtroom. There he saw his wife, Ophelia. She confronted him.

“I wanted to tell everyone that you’re a vampire, but I found I’m not that kind of person in my heart,” she told him.

“I thought we said forever and ever. Did you mean it?” Desmond asked her. She paused and he turned around. He couldn’t bear it.

“Yes,” she remarked. Desmond turned to face her, and he saw fear and awe in her eyes. He took her to the side, where no one could see them.

“Then you want this…” He breathed into her ear.

“Oh, yes!” she whispered. Desmond lowered his head, and he began to bite her neck. She writhed and tried to push him off, but he was like a heavy statue on top of her. Then he pulled away. He left her in a private hallway off the courtroom. Desmond knew that he might regret biting her. Sometimes, they bite you back.

The woods were dark although the sun was just about to set, layering red clouds over the top of the valley, and Seth hovered just inside the tree-line watching the valley’s margin of safety slowly shrink. Adults and children were tucking themselves in, safe behind their stone walls and cross-barred windows. Adults believed, and they kept their children safe. Seth knew he’d not catch an adult or child out after dark – ah, but the teens. And he licked his lips as saliva loosened his fangs.

The teens believed that nothing bad could happen to them. They believed their parents were fools with outdated and incorrect belief systems. They believed that they were immortal. They were wrong.

As the sun vanished behind the hills across the valley from his hiding place, he sniffed the breeze. He could smell stale human smells left in the outlying fields, but they were overlaid by the smell of dogs, cats, squirrels, rabbits, all the animals surrounding any settlement. All he needed was one teen running late returning from a date. He smiled, a slow and wickedly happy smile; he was in the money. He smelled dinner delivering itself.

As the line of sun-shadow eased away from the tree-line, he glided out of the tree-line accompanying it, a dark shadow hidden in darkening shadows. The shadowed shape of a young girl just on the other side of the line of darkness, a barely lit shadow, hurried towards a distant house. By Seth’s figuring, she had about two minutes to make it into the house, or he had two minutes before he could meet her. He was hungry; it would be a long two minutes.

He counted down the moments as he edged after the scurrying figure… one minute to dinner time … half a minute to dinner time … fifteen long breaths to dinner time … three steps to dinner time. When he reached the three step point, a light suddenly pierced the growing dark, shining bright from the open doorway where a man stood calling to the girl to hurry.

Seth knew that he couldn’t be seen by the man, but he could be sensed by feelings etched into mankind’s DNA over centuries. The man knew he was out there as surely as though the motion sensitive lights surrounding the home were shining upon him. “Hurry Melissa!” the man shouted at the scurrying girl. “Run!” The girl, Melissa, put on a burst of speed, and was almost to the lighted lawn.

One long step to go… Seth chanted in his head, finishing the countdown and the personal race to the finish line of survival.

He reached out as one of her legs crossed over into the UV lights, and snagged her back towards himself, pulling her backwards and away from survival. She screamed and thrashed as his hands tightened on her shoulders, and he gave her a love tap on the temple to stop the noises. He hated noisy food; it tended to pull crazy humans out of their own safe secure homes and into groups. One on one he was unbeatable, except by the specially trained slayers, but groups – more problematic.

The man’s voice carried into the darkness as he screamed the girls name over and over again, but the noise faded away as he moved back into the protective forest. He wanted to enjoy this meal; he hated eating on the run.

Finally he reached his den and set the girl down. Running his fingernail down the inside of her arm and piercing a vein, he sat back and let the sweet bouquet of her blood trickle into his being. He basked in the blood-smell while waiting for her to resume consciousness. It was more fun to kill them when they struggled against his overwhelming strength, so long as they didn’t scream – or beg, or whimper, too loudly.

What felt to him like an eternity passed before the girl’s eyelids flickered, rising and falling minutely against her closed eyes as her body reacted to the danger it felt close; her body wanted to see the enemy it could sense. Keeping watch on the flickering eye-lids, he lifted the bleeding arm to his mouth, and delicately licked at the narrow stream of blood. It was bliss. Ecstasy. Orgasm. All mixed together in the life-affirming substance he craved and had to have to live.

He watched the eyes crack open as the girl felt something wet licking her arm. She groaned and her free hand went to her head. Then suddenly aware of her surroundings, she wrenched her arm away from his grasp; his rusty laugh spoke amusement as she tried to crawl backwards away from him. He had never yet allowed dinner to escape, and this was an attractive dinner. But when there was time, he quite liked playing with his food.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice breaking on the “who,” as though the word she had begun with was “what.”Her eyes got bigger taking his elongated teeth, red blood-shot eyes, and talon-like fingernails which were already stained red with her blood, and her scrabbling backwards motion sped up.

For a long moment Seth contemplated the girl in front of him, observing her as she scrabbled in the dirt trying to get far enough from him to rise and run. He licked his fingers clean of her blood, hearing her heartbeat racing as she realized what he was licking, and what he was.

As she reached the far corner of the cleared space and flipped in place to run he reached casually forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her forward into his embrace. Her struggling resistance almost pushed him to take her then. Her scent—driven by her fear -- was driving him mad with need. He wanted to pull her apart and suck the pieces dry of the precious liquid hidden within them. But equally, he wanted to savor the feeding; to enjoy every moment and every drop which he could tease from her dying body.

She beat uselessly against his chest, vainly attempting to get her knee up to his groin, or to stamp down hard on his instep -- moves taught in beginner’s Self Defense classes – but he held her too strongly for either attempt to be effective. As she sucked air into her lungs and opened her mouth to begin screaming, he tightened his grip around her ribcage, squeezing until he heard the ribs begin to pop as they broke and she emitted a pained wheezing noise of, “no, no, no.”

Her mumbled wheezes of “no” increased marginally in volume and turned into a wheezy scream as he allowed himself to tear her shoulder upon. The flavor of her blood-filled flesh was sweet, but he spat it out and instead fastened his teeth into the exposed wound, letting the running blood ooze down his throat. With each gulp of her blood he felt himself becoming more alive, more strong, more immortal. For a brief instant he was so focused upon the taste and the sensations of feeding that she almost was able to tear free from his grip, but sensing the bunching of her muscles he instinctively forced her to the ground under him.

He was a narrow breath from losing control and tearing her apart immediately, but managed to get his impulses back under control. He reminded himself of his determination to drain her slowly, to make the pleasure last this time since he would have to move over several valleys before he’d find his next meal – news of his attack on a human girl would inevitably be gossiped about and, for a few days at least, teenagers would listen to their parents and be safe inside before dark fell. But he couldn’t resist another quick taste, and fastened his fangs onto the naked shoulder exposed by her sweater slipping to one side as he forced her down. Again he moaned at the sweet warm sensation as he sucked blood from her.

He realized that the girl was no longer moaning or struggling, but couldn’t bring himself to allow her to recover enough to fight him. Nor could he bring himself to pull back from the vein he had found as he took increasingly strong pulls from it, suckling it, thoroughly enjoying the life being passed through it from her to him. All too soon he could feel her heartbeat slowing – too little blood left in her for the muscle to move – he sucked harder. It stopped and he released her into a broken heap at his feet.

Knowing that there was still some blood to be found in her extremities, he soon had her body torn apart, sucking the remaining blood out of each part as he removed it. As he worried the blood from the final elbow joint, he heard baying of dogs off in the distance. They were a long way off still, as were the band of slayers called in to hunt him. But dawn was no longer that far off, and he knew he had to travel a fair distance before dawn caught him, trapping him in whatever shadowy place he could find. So he dropped the joint and looked at the pieces of carcass now littered around him, where he’d tossed the pieces randomly as he finished with them.

If his memory served him right, there was a nice spot outside a small village a few valleys over; though he hadn’t been there for a few years. The humans wouldn’t be looking for him there. And again, he smiled at the carcass of the girl patting his full stomach, he had dined rather well that night, and it would be several nights before he’d need to feed again. He could easily travel a fair distance each night, from gloaming till dawn. He would trust to fate to bring him the next victim, a teen he’d no doubt, who thought himself, or herself, immortal – and who thought vampires a figment – a boogie man – of their parent’s imaginations.

Suze froze in the center of the puddle of light cast by the overhead. It lacked the familiar UV sting on her skin that she felt in the wealthier, newer parts of town. It meant that vampires were able to be in the area, since light itself didn't bother them, only the UV enhancement provided a modicum of safety from them at night. The UV would fry a new vampire, although an older one could stand several minutes as the surface of its skin flaked like a really bad sunburn flaking off. They lacked the blood flow, or so the scientists said, for their bodies to repair light-burns.

She grabbed Daniel's arm as he moved restlessly, edging toward the house they were observing. It was an older one-story in a depressed older neighborhood, lawn just starting to go to seed. and the paint beginning to show the grime of uneven attention. Daniel was anxious to have his first destruction under his belt. It would begin his move from trainee answerable to anyone, to slayer answerable only to the council. It was up to her to prevent him getting killed, or getting her killed by the things they hunted.

She burned between her shoulders. Something felt wrong, and she couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was someone, unseen but there, watching and listening. But even her genetically enhanced eyes couldn't see any movement, nor stillness where there should be movement.

Silently signing Daniel towards the door, they sped across the unmown lawn. As required by Council, Daniel knocked on the door -- no bell, and they waited. Then he knocked louder, and they waited. The requisite third loud knock brought no answer, so she tried the knob. It was unlocked, so she eased it gently open. It always seemed silly to give such notice to a potential vampire, but the Council required humans be allowed to respond. Back-in-the-day she would have just kicked it open, and any human homeowner would just have had to lump the expense caused by sleeping too deep to hear the knocking and leaving an unmown lawn to make neighbors suspicious.

They slid carefully into the cluttered front hall, lights on in standard anti-vampire precaution. Again there was no tell-tale UV sting on her skin from the recessed lighting, and she knew they were facing either poverty or a vampire. Looking for dark spots where vampires liked to hide, they paced quietly down the hall looking into each room as they passed it. The dining room still had dishes on the table, with stale drying food suggesting the report was correct. Although based on her own housekeeping ability, Suze thought wryly, it could just be someone too tired, or too busy to clean up constantly.

The first door to the right of the dining room was a bed-room, and Daniel gestured to the slightly open window that faced the unlit lawn behind the house. A slight breeze was blowing the curtain, and she tensed. It was strictly prohibited to have a window open after dark -- too much like setting raw meat out for a lion. The bed was a dark curtained shape against one of the walls, without the surrounding UV light that most people, even poor people, surrounded the curtained four-posters with. Cheap set-ups were available to provide even poor people some protection. Otherwise, the vamp population would be comprised almost entirely of them. She signed to Daniel that he should pull the curtain back quickly, while she stood at the ready with a hand-held crossbow in one hand, and the razor sharp Bowie (her signature piece) in the other.

Daniel practically ripped the curtains down he parted them so roughly. And he stepped into her path as he did it! She hissed under her breath. Not only would the noise alert any lurkers exactly where they were in the house, but his stupidity could have cost them both their lives; vampires were fast and utterly ruthless when cornered.

"Nothing there!" Daniel announced, and she quickly stepped forward and slapped a hard hand across his mouth, before he could further compound his errors.

When it was clear he got the need for silence, she gestured to the closet. Suze decided that Daniel would open it since he had been the one to announce they were there. He should be the one most at risk.

When Daniel threw the door open, it opened onto darkness. The clothing hanging in it made the corners difficult to see, and she felt -- with an inborn feeling -- that it wasn't empty. She wasn't surprised when the male erupted from the near corner, knocking Daniel out of its way in its dash for the open window and the darkness beyond. An older vampire would have killed Daniel, and come for her, and she silently thanked her Saints for their protection.

Her cross-bow was faster than the vampire, and the quarrel took it in the center of the back, spinning it around as it crumpled. Moving almost as quickly as the quarrel she grabbed its hair and gestured to Daniel to do the decapitation.

Picking himself up from the floor where the vampire had tossed him, Daniel crossed to her, took out his machete, and struck at the vampire's neck. His strike wasn't clean, only going part way through the neck. And she mentally shook her head as he did the second strike of the amateur. His clumsiness caused the stale black vampire blood to spray over the front of her tunic and trousers. She made a mental note to make him pay -- both for the cleaning and the inept decapitation. Even if it was no longer human, it deserved a quick kill.

Gesturing silently to Daniel, they left the body where it lay, and went quickly through the rest of the house, finding no other vampires. Returning to where the body lay, Suze let Daniel bag the head they had to take the head back to the Center with them, to prove dissolution. A cleanup crew would come get the rest of the body for cremation.

"Sucker didn't know what hit him," Daniel bragged to her, strutting up the block to their car. She stalked along beside him silently, wondering what the trainers were thinking, sending someone as badly trained as Daniel out on a call. She noticed that he didn't even keep an eye out for the vampire that had turned the one they destroyed. She knew that all-too-often the sire would be near the new-born vampire. The scientists said it was chance or a genetic group reflex -- not thought or care. She wondered, but knew better than to voice her suspicions that perhaps the vampires weren't the mindless suckers the powers made them out to be.

Arriving at the car Daniel hit the open button on the remote keypad, and threw the head into the trunk. Suze looked around suspiciously; she still felt the disturbing offness --- eyes and ears -- around her. But nothing jumped out at them as they slid onto the black leather seats, and she breathed a sigh of relief to herself that she wouldn't have to work with Daniel again. He just wasn't trained adequately. He could wind up getting the more experienced Slayer assigned to work with him killed if they were foolish enough to step between him and the consequences of his foolishness.

Tuning back in, she realized that he hadn't even realized that she wasn't listening. He thought the destruction was all his, and she was just the admiring adjunct to his performance. "At this rate, it won't take long to take back the night..." he crowed.

She fought the urge to take his head and turned the radio on... loud ... for the drive back to the Center. "Thank God it's not far!" she thought, looking at the buildings racing by since Daniel drove as carelessly as he slayed.

Soon they were walking into the Center building, and she jumped hurriedly from the car once it pulled into the parking lot. "I'll see you in the morning for briefing," she told Daniel, getting away from him while she still had some hold on her patience. She reminded herself that he was not genetically altered for the job. He was at a disadvantage, as were all the non-genetically slayers.

She nodded to the guards who waved her through the security protocol -- no need to check and make sure she hadn't been bit. The vampires didn't like her blood. Hitting the elevator button or her penthouse, she was slightly happier thinking of the rather nasty and invasive protocols that awaited Daniel. Maybe they'd shut him up, take him down a peg. But she would damn well see that she didn't pull duty with him again. He was not only an irritating idiot, he could wind up getting her killed. Humanity was in trouble if he was the best slayer they could produce.

When the heel of her Jimmy Choo’s snapped off and her butt hit the wet pavement with an unceremonious thump, Kitty just knew this was going to be the most miserable night of her life. With a deep sigh she reached down and pulled off her shoes.

“Great, now I’m going to ruin my stocking as well as my shoes.”

If it wasn’t for that chronically immature jerk Jason she would be, at this moment, sitting in a nice warm car on her way home. Instead, Jason had pulled off the road and informed her that since he was the quarterback and they had been dating for a whole month now, she was obligated to put out. He hadn’t reacted well when she had erupted into convulsive laughter; sure he was making a joke. In hindsight he had a limited IQ and virtually no since of humor, so she probably should have known he wasn’t joking. She had still been laughing when he had reached across her and opened up the car door and told her to get out. “You know the drill. Put out or get out,” he had said. This had caused her to start laughing even harder and he had pushed her out of the passenger door. “You’re a real bitch,” he called as he swung the door closed and sped off spraying gravel behind him.

So here she was cold, alone, and now barefoot walking down a dark and deserted highway in the middle of the night. And now it was starting to rain.

“Crap, it’s going to take me all night to get home,” she muttered to herself as she stood and started walking down the road.

She hadn’t gotten far when she heard a car come roaring around a corner behind her. She turned and watched a ’68 Camaro with a jacked-up rear end and supped up engine come screeching to a halt next to her. The passenger side window rolled down and a smiling face called out to her. “Need a ride? It’s starting to rain pretty hard.”

She knew she shouldn’t get in a car with a strange man, but damned if she was going to hobble the fifteen miles home barefoot in the rain. “Yeah, I’d appreciate a ride. Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular. I just like to drive at night. It’s kind of a hobby.”

“I’m going home. Could you drop me off at 733 Elm?” she asked as she climbed into the car.

“Sure, no problem.”

They hadn’t driven far when he turned the car off the highway and onto a gravel road. “Where are we going?” she asked, starting to get a little worried.

“Won’t take long,” he told her, “I just need to get a bite to eat. Haven’t had a chance yet tonight.”

“There’s no where down here to eat. It dead ends down by the river.”

“I know, but that’s ok; I can eat anywhere,” he assured her as he brought the car to a stop behind a stand of trees. He reached down and turned the car’s engine off and shrugged out of his black leather coat. He didn’t seem to care that she was fumbling around in her purse. “Honey, Mace or pepper spray won’t do you any good,” he chuckled as he turned towards her. She screamed when she saw his glowing red eyes and sharply pointed canine teeth. He only chuckled again as he reached for her, “Come here I’m starving.”

“I don’t think so, asshole,” she replied as she buried the wooden spike in his chest. “Pepper spray is for fools. I only carry stakes.”

His look of surprise didn’t last long as he exploded into a cloud of dust.

“Well, at least now I don’t have to walk home,” she said as she brushed the dust onto the car floor and slid over into the driver’s seat. “Always be prepared-my grandma Van Helsing used to say-always be prepared.”

I closed my front door, entered the lounge - and gasped. Jesus Christ! I fought back the bitter-tasting bile flooding my mouth. Counting from one to ten as I slowly exhaled, I took a second look. This time the vomit won, and splashed onto the blood-soaked floor.



My eyes streaming and my knees trembling, I tried to control myself. I forced myself to think back to the first autopsy I’d witnessed – the coroner had said he’d never seen anyone puke so much. I recalled the first dead body I’d seen. I hadn’t been sick that time – but, then, the old lady had just been asphyxiated. Okay, the first victim of bloody, violent murder I’d seen? Decapitation. Yes, I’d heaved up, of course. I can still vividly remember the startled expression on the woman’s face. Now, was I, a big, roughie-toughie police woman going to be bothered by what I saw – and smelt here?



I don’t know where the second burst of vomit came from. I hadn’t even had dinner – and wasn’t likely to now. What a mess to come home to!



Sweating, my throat feeling red-raw, a foul taste in my mouth, realisation suddenly dawned on me. It was the first of April! How had I fallen for it? (Chris would never stop the patronising ‘blonde’ jokes after this - I’d dye my hair dark). It had been a long day...



I shouted, ‘Very funny, Chris. Ha - bloody – ha.’



My ex had obviously taken some stage props from his theatre and had arranged the trick. It was all a sick joke. I glanced at the first ‘butchered victim’.



‘It does look realistic, I’ll give you that – that fleapit theatre of yours must be improving.’ I inhaled deeply. ‘Yep, and the stench is pretty convincing too. And, by the way, you can clean up my house now - this fake blood is going to take some scrubbing. My lounge looks like a bloody abattoir.’



He still didn’t answer.



I snapped, ‘I know you’re there, Chris. You’re the April bloody fool! If you think this is going to make me come back to you, you’re wrong. I might have considered it once, but after this, no way.’



The abdomen was slit open, its intestines spilling out like foul sausages. I felt his eyes on me and knew he had enjoyed my initial reaction.



‘Think this is funny? I remember you crawling around your mother’s floor, your baggy boxer shorts revealing most of your spotty ass as you puked for England!’



I irritably slapped the dummy, and leapt back. It was real! No one could fake the feel of dead flesh. I sniffed lightly. I’m sure I’ll never get used to foetid stenches like that. I gagged, but no more vomit emerged.



So, who were these women? Why the Hell had some maniac chosen my home as the crime scene? Did I know the killer? And, more importantly, was he still in my house?



In policewoman mode once more, I carefully checked each room. The house was empty. It was just me and five dead women.



I decided to take a quick look before calling my colleagues. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise – the gateway to my long overdue promotion. I concentrated on the job in hand, a perfume soaked handkerchief at my nose. Willing myself not to vomit, I looked in turn at each of the five women.



Several of the first murdered woman’s teeth were missing, her face badly bruised. The main blood vessels of her neck had been severed on both sides. Her abdomen had been stabbed and slashed repeatedly.



The second victim’s swollen tongue protruded obscenely, her face battered and swollen. Her throat slashed, her abdomen viciously hacked.



The third wasn’t so gruesome. The only apparent injury was the obvious cause of death. The woman’s throat had been slit.



The fourth made up for the third’s lack of goriness! Of course, he’d used his trademark, the slashed throat. She’d been opened from her rectum to her breastbone, her intestines ceremoniously draped over her shoulder. A cursory glance revealed that one of her kidneys and her womb had been taken. The nose and an earlobe had been removed. The woman’s features had also been disfigured – there were peculiar cuts on her eyelids and cheeks.



The fifth – oh, my God, the fifth! The body was only just recognisable as human. The face had been horribly mutilated. The victim’s ears, eyebrows, cheeks, nose and lips were slashed and hacked away. Her breasts were removed, her abdominal cavity emptied, and huge flaps of skin taken from her thighs and abdomen. He’d played hide and seek with the intestines, liver, spleen, and womb, and placed them in various locations around the body. So, where was the heart? I couldn’t see that anywhere. Before her throat had been slashed, the poor woman had obviously put up a fight – her hands and forearms were covered in wounds.



I felt too much horror to be nauseous. I imagined the deaths of the women. The fifth’s frantic battle for survival must have aroused him to a frenzy of slashing when he had finally overpowered her.



I heard a noise. Footsteps. My heart feeling as though it would leap from my chest, I listened. Heavy breathing. Yes, and whispering. So, he was still there, after all. Where the Hell had he been hiding?



He repeated my name, over and over, ‘Courtney.’ The whispers sounded more sinister than any noise I’d ever heard before. Far scarier than gunshots – even the sound of the bullet that had just missed my spine hadn’t filled me with such terror. Had I survived being paralysed to be mutilated by some deranged killer? I’d certainly fight with all I had. But if I lost, would the killer mutilate me more disgustingly than he’d carved up the last victim?



Exhaling slowly, I remembered my police training. I knew how to defend myself. I was learning kick-boxing and was a Green Belt in karate. He’d picked on defenceless women previously. I will not feel fear, I thought – but I did.



The whispers made my hairs stand on end. ‘Whore.’



I fought the urge to push my fingers into my ears. No, I had to be able to tell where the sounds were coming from. Alone, in the chamber of horrors with a maniac, I began to silently pray. Images of my dead parents and of my ex husband flooded my mind. Chris had been a jerk, but, at that moment, I would have given anything to have his reassuring bulk beside me. I would have even felt glad of his mother’s company – now, that was saying something!



I remembered how Chris had pestered me with telephone calls and letters, virtually begging for a second chance. When I’d threatened to report him for stalking me, he had fallen silent. Would he still want me? Or would he have found another woman? I decided if I came through it in one piece, I’d contact him. If he told me to get lost, so be it.



I heard the killer whisper again, sending new shivers throughout my body.



‘Saucy Jack is going to rip you, police whore.’



I clasped my hand to my mouth. Saucy Jack! Suddenly it all fitted into place. The Ouija Board, the strange message that I’d laughed about the night before, five murdered women: somehow, Jack the Ripper and his victims were in my house! My lovely new home; the Victorian house I’d always dreamed of. But why was he at my home? He’d obviously lived somewhere; perhaps the serial killer had lived there, once…



‘You can’t hurt me,’ I said, struggling to make my voice sound confident. ‘You’re…you’re dead.’



Insane laughter echoed throughout the house.



Trembling, I continued, ‘You butchered five women in 1888. This is 2012 – you, like those poor women, are long dead, pal.’



I waited for his response. Silence.



I thought back over the message spelt out on the Ouija Board. I hadn’t paid it any real attention, thinking that one of my giggling friends had been responsible. It had been a silly evening, the five of us getting drunk, toasting our status as ‘young, free and single’. Now, how had that message gone? I tried to remember.



‘The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing,’ the killer repeated.



I gasped, my heart literally missing a beat.



‘Yes, I can hear your thoughts, bitch.’ The laugh was far more menacing than the words. ‘I know all your secrets, Courtney, you filthy slut. Your husband doesn’t know what a vile mind you have. He thinks you’re not interested in sins of the flesh.’ Again, the evil laugh echoed.



‘Who are you, you bastard?’



‘Wouldn’t you like to know, you whore?’



The laugh didn’t scare me anymore.



I shrugged. ‘No, not really.’



‘They never caught me. Think you can do better?’



‘I was never interested in the case. I thought you were just some sad loser who had to get his kicks from mutilating defenceless women.’



The television exploded, showering the lounge with glass, as it was picked up by invisible hands and hurled across the room.



‘What a mess! How dare you! Look at my home! Blood and guts everywhere and now glass!’ My terror transformed itself into rage. ‘Who cares who you were! Maybe you were a doctor or a barrister or a member of the Royal family or’ – I thumped the wall – ‘AN ABSOLUTE NOBODY.’



The killer didn’t laugh.



‘Show yourself, coward. I’m a woman but I’m not weak like those five women you preyed on.’



I suddenly remembered the tiny bottle of holy water that Chris had brought back from a visit to the abbey at Monte Cassino. (I’d meant to throw it away, but hadn’t liked to, somehow – my only keepsake of our honeymoon in Italy. We had got on just fine for nearly the whole fortnight.) I knew exactly where it was: in the top left hand drawer of the bedside cabinet, beside the vibrator. My obsessive compulsive disorder for tidiness had driven Chris mad, but it had its positive side, after all!



I rushed upstairs, bracing myself to fight the killer at any second, and grabbed the bottle. I had never believed in the power of holy water but I had nothing to lose. It worked in horror films!



Sprinkling the water around the house, I again repeated fragments of prayers that I recalled from my schooldays.



I noticed a shadowy figure materialising in the corner of my hallway. He was using all his strength to defeat me. The huge knife in his hands glinted menacingly.



Throwing the contents of the bottle at the figure, I recalled a line from a play staged at Chris’ theatre once, and shouted, ‘You have no power. Be gone, back to Hell.’



A gust of wind nearly blew me off my feet, and the front door opened and slammed shut. I’ve never been sure if my words, or the forceful way they were delivered, did the trick, but Jack the Ripper and his poor, pathetic victims were gone. And my home was as clean as it had always been.



I thought again of Chris. He was the only person I knew who would believe me. I wanted – needed – him there. My hands still shaking, I found his details in my address book – I’d wondered at the time why I’d even bothered entering them - and dialled his number. As he answered, I broke down. What if he hung up?



‘Courtney? Is that you, babe?’

The butcher came down the hall wearing his blood soaked apron, reeking of pain and death. He had a rough beard that was hard and jagged against the hand. He had long greasy hair that gave an odd shine off of the dim lights of the hallway (although that may just be because of how dirty the lights were). The hallway was either lit in a dirty piss colored light, or covered in a miasma of darkness.



The only thing pristine there was the butcher’s clever. It was cleaned and polish to a shine, it’s blade carefully manicured so it could easily cut paper in one motion. The butcher gripped it with his strong-callused hand. In the other hand was a bucket filled with blood, swaying as he walked. Little bits fell out and splashed over the previous stains, keeping the coat on the floor fresh.



Eventually the butcher came to a door at the end of the long hallway It was made of an old and rotting wood, and he worried about it falling apart and what would happen if it got out.



He knocked twice to let it know he was coming in, not that it mattered. It always reacted the same way, stupid thing. He twisted the knob and let the door gently swing inward. The room was filled with blackness, and in the middle was a small yellow dot floating at about knee height. It bobbed up and down with a heavy breathing.



“Tom.” The butcher said calmly, waiting for a response but like always there was nothing. He sighed and flipped on the light, bracing himself for the noise.



As soon as the light came on the screaming started. This horrible eardrum-bursting wail erupted from a pale creature rolling around in the middle of the room. Its skin was white, almost translucent, as you could see all of its many veins. It was naked and bald all over. You couldn’t see the face as its long bony fingers with over grown nails covered it. But you could see the scars. All over its torso were these white lines and dark spots from happier times like the spots and odd colorings of a cat.



The butcher ignored the thing rolling around in agony and instead focused his attention on the wall; where chains were hanging up the meat. All naked and wide eyed, either staring at the creature or the man in the doorway. He eyed each of them one by one.



There was a blonde, her long hair a tangled and frizzy mess, with large fat breast. But they might have been fakes, as they did not seem proportionate to her very slim, almost starved, figure. There was a man, maybe in his late forties or fifties. His body wasn’t as lean as the woman. He was much chubbier and hairier, with gray patches on his chest and armpits. The thing could only get what it finds in the night so the butcher couldn’t be too picky.



The next was another woman; young like the blond, (it had a preference for grabbing young woman) who was so perplexed by the thing in front of her she could not look away. Finally there was the Asian. He had been there the longest, and instead of looking at the screaming thing he just stared at the butcher with a gaze of more hatred than fear.



“Yes” thought the butcher, “it’s about time.”



He turned off the light and just like that the screaming stopped, replaced with a deep panting as it tried to recover.



“The one on the far right” The butcher said loudly, and he listened to the soft, almost nonexistent sound of movement. Next thing the butcher heard was the combination of chains rattling and the sound of liquid hitting the floor, each creating it’s own echo resulting in a mess of splats. Then a body was tossed into the small path of light created from the hallway. The butcher dropped the bucket and grabbed the corpse’s bruised wrists, and dragged it out of the room. When it was out, he slid the bucket inside and shut the door.



Then there was the sound of liquid spilling everywhere, then choking, and lastly licking; first the crinkling sound against metal, then the rough, ripping sound against stone. When it was done there was a thump against the door followed by a faint raspy whisper.



“T-th-than-nk yo-ou… da-dad-dy-y.”



But the butcher didn’t hear, he was already up in his shop preparing the meat for the next lunch.

It made him feel uncomfortable from the moment it entered the house. The moment he saw it peeking out of its carrier bag as Layla rooted around for the receipt. It even made its way into his dreams. Dreams about a pretty little eleven year old girl lying face up in the water, her hair tangled in grasping tendrils of dark green weeds, the hideous contraption floating independently round her body.



And here it was splayed out like a gigantic dead spider in a contortion of spindly suspender legs and crumpled lace. He approached the bed as if it were an open coffin, a warm dribble beading, then darting down between his shoulder blades as he slid a forefinger under one of its metal adjusters. The silky smooth panel of its gusset shone back at him. He stepped away, rubbing his hands and glancing towards the orange strip of illumination let in from the hall by the slim gap between the door and the wall. Outside, opaque high cloud slipped past unveiling the fat pale face of the moon. Its light washed in through the window, framing the subject in a bone-white grid.



He snatched up a stuffed pink elephant perched on top of a pillow, pinning its stubby body between his knees and yanking at the erect trunk until it finally split from the head spewing a large clump of white synthetic sponge out onto the deep blue carpet. Tossing it aside so that it bounced into a darkened corner, in its place he carefully positioned a framed photograph of a handsome young dog in a red leather collar.



#



Clear yellow sun poured through pert emerald leaves not yet wearied to greyish-green by a summer of heat. Newly awoken brown and cream-flecked butterflies rode a frivolous breeze, whilst from out across the fields there came a plaintive cry, a thunderous chugging and finally the screech of metal as another journey on the heritage steam railway wheezed to an end. Eric sank into a thick cushion of moss clinging to a toppled tree trunk with his hands between his thighs and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He surveyed a trail of pads and claws imprinted deep into the soft sandy earth before him, recalling how fat their dog Connie had gotten when the walks stopped. How her bulging, rheumy eyes burrowed into him sideways from her all-day bed in the old tapestry armchair. The chair where she flopped for what seemed like years, building up a thick layer of fat beneath her tatty golden coat. The chair where she ended up as nothing more than an inanimate block with a head stuck on top. Waiting and waiting and waiting at home while Layla took her love to town. Sinking deep into the fragrant mulch of last year’s foliage, Eric pushed on towards the centre of the wood. Under and over great arches of tangled briars, snagging his jeans and grating a knuckle on the dry scaly skin of a snaking ivy.



Past the gaping wounds left by fallen boughs which screamed like arms wrenched out at the socket and onwards to where the huge oaks kneel with their short, disfigured trunks and twisted branches thrown up begging for forgiveness. To where the mobbing circle of old trees shuffle back to open out a panel of sky framed by a jagged portal of angry dead wood. A panel of sky reflected below by an amoeba-shaped body of turbid water sunk down into the ground.



“Is Mrs Cole right...did they really drown witches there?” It had been a hazy summer’s day over ten years before and the old bag had stopped them yet again to indulge her passion for inflicting morbid folklore.



“Yes, but the whole point is,” continued Layla, crunching down a sizeable lump of shiny red apple, “if they didn’t die from drowning, it was proven they were witches and they had to be burned at the stake.”



Sat on his haunches in the damp grass, Eric peered half across the viscous membrane of the algae-green pool and half up into the pale blue sky of his youth, which, that fateful day, had suddenly rolled and darkened with the asphyxiating closeness of a storm he couldn’t escape. A sensation which clung to his psyche like the horrific sight of blood-stained knickers badly hidden in the wash basket. Like the starving winter blackbird taken from behind by a cat whilst desperately foraging for enough food to see it through another freezing night. The caterpillar that hatches only to be eaten alive from the inside by the larvae of a wasp. The flash of scarlet that washed over Layla’s cheeks and teased a reflexive smile from her lips when she sauntered past a group of older boys, pleated mini-skirt swaying gently from side to side. Her coming home late the following night and stumbling her way up the stairs; a draft of cheap cider and cigarette smoke wafting past him like the gaseous evacuation from a corpse.



#



“Did you get as far as the pond?” Layla turned her attention back to the networking site. A tabby cat with middle-aged spread weaved stiffly in and out of the chair legs beneath her.“Sorry I couldn’t come – I’ll try and get there some other time.”



Eric sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at her back, dabbing his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. Layla’s buttocks, once small and muscular, spread immodestly out over the edges of the cushion, which peeped from under her in little triangles like hands and feet below a dropped piano. Where a lithe, concave torso used to lean over handlebars in countless miles of fluid peddling, now a wad of semi-toned flesh popped out over the waistband of her hot-pants. Replacing the thick ponytail of mahogany waves which bounced along in sequence as she easily outran him along the lane to the ruined church, there was only an easily manageable bottle-blonde bob.



Eventually Layla huffed and shrugged her shoulders as if trying to release the tension caused by her suspicion of his unremitting gaze. She turned round and looked straight at the podgy gargoyle crouched behind her as if passing judgement from some Medieval roof.



“Eric, we need to talk...”



Eric squinted as he recalled them running home saturated one Saturday evening after spending all day building a leafy den with a roof that wasn’t quite waterproof –



“What’s all this weird stuff with the elephant about...?



Tree climbing contests in the park -



“And going into my room full stop...please tell me you didn’t touch my things, my clothes!”



Making a camp fire and almost igniting half the heath land as crackling flames lapped up bracken and bone-dry grass at alarming speed -



“Eric, you’re giving me the creeps grinning like that - I really do think you need to get some help...”



#



Later that evening the hallway was filled with a hot fog as Layla burst out of the bathroom and scurried through the lounge with her robe loosely tied to fetch another bottle of wine. Eric knew the screws on the bolt were loose, so it only took three attempts to dislodge them by ramming his shoulder into the door. The handle bounced a triangular hole in the plaster just above the cream and pink tiles, whilst in the bath tub Layla squirmed and screeched, smooth strips of hair streaking down her ruddy face. But despite the blast of obscenities and the round glass missile of a scent bottle making contact with his left cheekbone, Eric didn’t back away. He simply leaned in and grabbed a matted clump of hair from the back of her head, pushing her face down under the water.



#



The psychologist looked up over her half-moon glasses, her pen scratching only a word or two now compared to the reams of intense scribbling when her patient had first arrived.



“Eric...Layla’s dead. You have to try and accept that.”



With a broad smile he nodded enthusiastic agreement, but her hazel eyes blanked over and she skidded the pad across the desk to her left, exhaling deeply and wringing her hands in her lap.



She watched his gaze wander to the sunny day outside and a peaceful, assured expression sweep across his face. He’d gone off to find his beloved sister again. In an ancient wood with a pond in the middle and an excitable Labrador puppy bouncing round her feet.

Davis sat down heavily letting all the weight of his body and soul crash down on the worn out faux-velvet covered sofa. His wife, Delia plopped down in the matching club chair. Exhaustion swept through their bodies, sweat beaded their brows and worry hunched their backs. Upstairs the racket continued. Delia wondered how long it would be before the cops would arrive this time.



“I hope soon hon. I hope they’ll be here soon.” He reached out a hand to her and despite the fatigue she reached out to him and moved to sit next to him on the couch. The moment she did a piece of plaster fell and landed in the chair.



“Thank you baby.” She patted him on the knee.



“Welcome Del.” He patted her on the hand.



The noise from upstairs was extraordinary. All of the neighbors, who lived on the same block as the unattached single family home, could hear the racket as if it were in their own backyard. Many years ago, when the ruckus first began, the neighbor who lived closest to the retired couple was so tired of being subjected to the repeated screaming and the constant sound of breaking glass and furniture, that they had called child welfare services. Not long after that initial call, the Solants were visited by every single agency in an attempt to solve the problem. None of them had the answer. No one could offer a solution and pretty soon they all went away. Once the neighborhood realized that no one was going to take the child away or could force the Solants to move, they either got used the whole strange mess or moved away. Those that stayed knew that the only thing that worked was a visit from the police. So they didn’t hesitate to call if the noise didn’t die down after a few hours; the Solants just had to keep things…contained until they got there.



The doorbell rang and Davis hollered from the sofa that the door was open. “Thank you Jesus!” Delia whispered as she flicked off another piece of falling plaster from her apron. Officer Grayson and his rookie partner, Officer Sayers, walked into the modest home. When the call came in from dispatch, Officer Grayson, having been to this home on countless previous occasions, knew what to expect and what was going to be asked of him. His rookie partner had no clue. But on the way to the house, he had been briefed by Grayson and given a file to review. Sayers thought that it had to be some rookie joke being played on him so he pretended to go along with the whole thing just to get it over with. He did as he was told while Grayson wound the police car in and out of traffic and down the tree lined streets towards the Solant home.



“Evening folks. How long has it been this time?” Officer Grayson walked in with Sayers standing just behind him.



“Two days, Gray…you want some coffee?” Delia wearily made an attempt to get up off of the sofa but when Grayson shook his head she gratefully sat back down.



“Two days, why did you wait so long?” Grayson took off his cap and peered up at the closed door to a room at the top of the stairs. A peeling yellow rubber ducky sticker still graced the outside of the door. The moment the officers walked into the house the racket had quieted down…somewhat. Now instead of the constant bumping and wailing, only a few thumps and a loud gurgle could be heard coming from behind the closed door.



“Well it’s Saturday and cartoons are on so we were…hopeful.” Davis offered a wan apologetic smile that never reached his weary eyes.



“We were called here for a domestic disturbance. What seems to be the problem?” Sayers walked into the room. A loud thump could be heard from upstairs. Only Sayers looked up towards the noise. Davis, Delia and Grayson just looked at one another.



“New kid on the block, eh?” Davis asked Grayson. Grayson introduced the elderly couple to the young officer with the bright eyes and eager expression. They knew that look and each of them wondered how long that youthfulness would last.



“Yep, they threw him at me as I was on my way here.”



“Well where’s that nice officer Williams? She has such a nice soothing voice?” Delia once again tried to get out of the chair, this time Davis assisted her by giving her a push from the back. The bones in her back cracked as she stood up straight and a welcome sigh of relief came across her face.



“She’s on vacation ma’am.” Sayers answered. He was getting a little annoyed and more confused with this cryptic conversation. “Look, where’s this…” he consulted his notes “…Allison Solant? Is she upstairs?”



“Yes, that’s our granddaughter. She’s upstairs.” Delia answered.



“It says here in the file she’s…” he consulted the thick folder that Officer Grayson handed him “…three years old…okay come on Allison Solant three years old…what do yall take me for? I’m as good as the next guy with taking these rookie jokes but how’d they get you old folks in on this one?”



Before anyone could answer a loud wailing scream pierced the air, followed by the sound of something crashing through the window. Officer Sayers dropped the folder and ran upstairs. He busted through the door with the little yellow rubber ducky taped to it.



“Remember that song I taught you boy!” Grayson yelled after him as he bent down to gather up the folder and papers. As soon as Officer Sayers had opened the door, a pudgy drool covered hand the size of his entire 5’9” frame reached out and snatched him into the room. The door was slammed shut behind him.



Officer Grayson, Davis and Delia remained where they were and waited for the screams to subside, which they eventually did. Officer Grayson sat down next to Davis.



“I’ll go make some coffee and slice some apple pie.” Delia went off to the kitchen.



“So you did you teach him how to sing the song?” Davis asked.



“Yup, on the way here. Told him everything. Hope he gets it right, though. I retire next month, don’t have too much time to train a new rookie on how to handle this.”



After a few moments, the strained tenor voice of Officer Sayers could be heard singing the rubber ducky song while the gleeful gurgle of a rather happy baby could be heard babbling along in tune with him.

It was summertime,1947, and a warm breeze swirled through the neighborhoods caressing old brick homes with white painted porches and radios blasting out tunes by the Harmonicats. Those were the days when milk was still brought to your door in cold sweating glass bottles which the doorman delivered clinking to your doorstep and sleek black cars cruised by on white wall tires blaring horns that really let you have what for.



My father had come back from the war three years before, gaunt and etched, a ghost of the man he’d been -- returned back to us from across some raging ocean surrounded by killing fields, entire countries become crypts. He was further away now than he’d ever been during the war. He drank Schlitz on the porch all day every day, that’s what he did, from sun up to sun down and my mother and I mostly just stayed away.



But I was 13 at the time and it was glorious summer. I spent every day with Tommy Miller, a scrawny boy to be sure, but a renowned hellion. We spent that summer roaming creation. We shot at squirrels and birds in Oakree forest with our slingshots and fished all along the banks of Carr creek, a mobius band of swishing waterfalls and silvery pools. Its creekbed pocked full of deep holes where mighty catfish and river nasties lurked and the days whipped by .



I tell you it was just pure joyful life, and I was alive and it was me and Tommy best friends forever, and that’s when I saw her and everything changed. She wasn’t just any girl, her name was Laurel, and she was the tail of a comet or a shooting star, whispy cold and beautiful. The sky I remember was shouting blue and we were playing baseball with the other 8th graders out on Hest field and she came walking by with a group of girls and I tell you that was it. Man I must’ve looked like a fool standing there with my mouth agape while those girls passed by -- I don’t even remember how the game ended and I don’t remember the next few days. Where those memories should be I see only grey fog and her.



But I remember every bit of the moment I saw her, every second, the way the grass felt between my toes, the smell of dirt and summer and trees and the clenched knot in my stomach. My heart skipping and jumping and stopping and triple beating and I knew from the moment I saw her that I was in love – deep everlasting head over heels love.



Her skin was pale porcelain starlight and her eyes were lightning blue and her pouty lips were promises wrapped in red ribbons and yes sir I tell you I knew it from the moment I saw her, she was for me and I for her and we would marry and have kids and grow old until we faded away into our golden years sipping lemonade on porch swings. Two old farts in love. One of us would go first, probably get cancer, and we’d hold hands in the hospital until twilight called the other home.



And so I planned how to win her and thought myself silly but knew what I lacked in experience I would more than compensate for with enthusiasm.



A day passed then two, two nights of dreams of Laurel. Sweet lark filled dreams of gentle moonlight and grassy green plateaus and starless skies forever. I saw an elk in my dreams, I was the elk and I ran for days and nights through white crystalline snow, lightning beneath my hooves and she was the sun and moon that lit my way.



Til Saturday arrived. It was Saturday june 14, 1947, and not a cloud dare defy the radiance and fullness of that day -- I remember! I had chosen Saturday because I knew there would be a pickup football game down on Brower field. I knew my friends would be there and the other boys from Camry street would be there and we would become clashing titans that day and the gods of Olympus would be watching, they’d be watching as we battled for glory just as we had done every Saturday for the last few months, the gods would be watching but more importantly the girls would be watching too. The, girl, would be watching…



They always came by to watch the games, pretending to be interested in football. I’d told my mother about it once and she said “well now Isaac, girls aren’t interested in football, they are interested in the boys playing football.” It hadn’t made much sense at the time but Laurel had awoken in me an understanding of the nature of boys and girls and that primal desire to love and be loved and I knew then as I know now she had not been interested in football all along, or even boys, she had been interested in me. I was the reason she came to watch football on Saturdays.



I was going to play the game of a lifetime, those boys weren’t going to know what hit em, I would play so well that she couldn’t help but see me and only me. After the game, after I had impressed her, I would ask her if I could walk her home, make small talk, and hold her hand. We’d follow the creek and on the way we’d stop to sit along that old flat rock that perches over the pool where minnows dart like quicksilver and moss sways in the rippling blue water. There is an opening in the trees and when the sun is low enough a dusky orange glow shines through and illuminates the rock and it is warm and beautiful and takes your breath away. My plan was to kiss her at that perfect moment, when the brilliance of it all had taken her breath away so that she we would kiss me deeply and I would be her breath.



And it worked - to a point. I remember playing well although I don’t remember who won nor did I care. Afterwards I jogged over to where her friends and her were standing looking uninterested and I introduced myself to her. It went well I think, or think it must have because although hesitant, she did agree to part ways with her friends and let me walk her home.



And as the sun set in shades of brilliant red and shadows grew long we walked and talked along the soft muddy banks of Carr creek. The lapping musics of gurgling water filled the pauses in our talking and so there were no awkward pauses of the kind you’d expect during inexperienced newly blossomed romances – I had planned well.



She told me of her mother and father and laughed when she spoke of her mother’s new hairdo. She told me how it flipped up in the front like a duck’s bill and when she yelled her husband’s name, Hank, she sounded like a duck. It was funny and we both laughed long and loud.



And so it went until we came to that large flat rock and my palms did grow sweaty then and my heart skipped beats, this was where we’d stop and sit and I’d kiss her in the setting sun. Only there was a hiccup in my plan, she did seem to grow nervous at the thought of dallying too long, of stopping to sit on the rock, she said her parents would grow worried and I understood. My parents – at least my mother- were like to tan my hide whenever I showed up after dark.



So I rushed things and I began to bumble when she refused to sit and stay. I shifted my plans and as she turned to continue walking past the rock and towards home I grabbed her hand to turn her towards me moving in swiftly to kiss her and just as our lips were so close I could feel the warmth of her breath, she pulled away.



Normally one would take this as a sign to stop and adjust strategies but I knew our fate. I knew that we would grow old together and that once I kissed her and made her understand, she would be mine and I would be hers, forever. So I tugged as she tugged and I being the stronger forced her into me and my lips to hers and they touched and even so she struggled until she and we slipped on muddied rocks and fell into the creek. I banged my knee on something sharp and she her elbow on a rock I know for she let out a yelp and I laughed and giggled as we had made a mess of things -- two lovers falling in a creek.



Oh how I laughed and laughed and I knew I must kiss her more and more. She continued to struggle and I knew that in her struggles she was wasting time and avoiding truth and that I must make her see and understand. And grasping her throat with both hands I pressed mightily her head towards the water and she screamed then still not understanding how much she loved me. She struggled like a wild cat, but I laughing and in love knew only the power and joy and strength of unfathomable love. Her screams turned to gurgles as water filled her mouth and her eyes widened lovely gorgeous green and I pressed more mightily and squeezed more tightly as she more struggling gradually died. A stolen breath here a screaming gurgling gasp there and still I pressed – water bending and refracting images of my love basked in orange rays until her porcelain skin and red lips turned blue.



I pressed deeper into the water and I knew she was close to understanding but still she fought so I began smashing my fist into her mouth, punching – my fist rose above the water and rocketed below to pound and smash her mouth and I think I cut my fist on her teeth but I was in rapture driven ecstasy. And then as suddenly as she had fought so suddenly she ceased.



When she became limp and accepting of my love I knew she finally understood. She wanted no other than me and I no other than her and I knew I must find a place to hide her away. A place to keep the world’s prying eyes and jealous heart away. And I did, being so very clever, I thought of a place where no one would look.



I walked along the middle of Carr creek until I felt a sudden drop, a hole wide enough for Laurel, but small enough to keep her cozy.



I cradled her and held her in the light, kissing closed her eyes and kissing her smashed and bloodied lips a broken tooth scratched my lip and I remember my exact words to her at the time for they were my vow, “Goodbye my love I’ll come to see you soon do not be afraid for I will always love you and I will keep the world at bay. I’ll come back and kiss you until my flesh is no longer able but even then do not be afraid for as a phantasm I’ll lay beside you in your embrace.”



I then submerged her below and into that hole and pressed with the sole of my shoe until her body filled that hole and I carried several of the largest rocks I could find and filled the remainder of the hole with them until she was completely covered and safe. You see how much I do care for her don’t you?



Then I went skipping home a boy in love.



And so my secret is revealed and you probably are thinking that I couldn’t be happy because I never get to see my darling love. But I do see her! Once a year on the anniversary of that special day I go to Carr creek and walk into the water until the water is to my chest and I lift the rocks which cover her and bring her to the surface and cradle her in my arms and kissing her renew my vow and make love to her in the light of the moon.



And she grows more beautiful by the year. Although her flesh is gone, we have grown in trust and companionship. For what is love but sacrifice and trust? I have sacrificed my primal urge to judge beauty by the flesh and instead I love her for who she really is. What is devotion if it isn’t unconditional love? I go now for my final visit in this fleshly form. I go to place myself where I belong near Laurel. I’ll find the biggest rock I can and carry it till I am submerged in the hole with my darling and using my last breath and strength I’ll pull that rock over our heads and the deep darkness will keep us for eternity.

Some people are born lucky while others are not and Henry was most definitely part of the latter group. Being out of work and soon to be homeless, this wasn’t how Henry had envisioned the start of his adult life. His sister was moving to Spain to be with her boyfriend and was selling her flat which meant Henry had to find somewhere else to live. But first, he needed to find a job.



After realising academia was not for him Henry had left school at 16 armed with a very strong grade C in Art. He hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to do and had planned on seeing what kind of jobs he was offered before deciding upon the most lucrative and using his wages to buy his one place. Unfortunately the numerous offers of employment that Henry had envisioned were not very forthcoming and he had spent the last few months applying for any and all jobs that came along. Sadly he was either; too young, lacked experience or wasn’t what they were looking for. Things had been starting to get desperate when, on one of his daily trudges down to the job centre he spotted an advert for a clerk at The Body Shop.



Despite lacking any experience, being unable to type, and not having any real interest in cars Henry applied for the job anyway. So it came as a complete surprise when the manager of The Body Shop phoned up to offer him the job. Henry couldn’t believe his uncharacteristic good luck and he had accepted it there and then.



It might turn into something rewarding, he thought to himself as he sat alone behind the Reception desk. This could be a way into mechanics; he could learn the trade, work up to a place in the garage and one day run his own business. He just needed to get some enthusiasm about cars first but that shouldn’t be too difficult. He felt hopeful about his new career but as the first week and then the second week went by without seeing a single engine, his grand dreams started to look a little more distant.



So far he had spent his time just sat in Reception placing orders for customers, taking phone calls and filling in forms. Every time a new order came though, he would pass it to someone in the warehouse to be processed. He wasn’t permitted into the warehouse himself yet and he often wondered what lay behind that plain white door to the side of Reception with the stern sign that read “Authorised Personnel Only”. He could hear muffled voices talking from inside but they weren’t the usual coarse banter Henry associated with garages. This was a specialist operation and so the staff probably had to maintain a high level of professionalism at all times. There was a peculiar smell that came through the door when someone leaned through to take the order sheets. It must be some kind of motor oil or grease, Henry concluded, he would learn all about it in time. He wanted to go back and look but he needed to stay out here manning Reception in case a customer came in. To the public, Henry was the face of The Body Shop, the manager had explained.



Although he was always friendly and extremely polite Henry wasn’t sure if his was the face that the company should really be promoting though. But saying that, his acne was starting to clear up now beneath his glasses and his extraordinary good luck was still with him: Thanks to a chance conversation with one of his customers he now had a room to rent. His new land lady, Mrs Mildred, was a charming old dear who would come in most days to pick up a parcel. She didn’t seem the type to be interested in the automotive industry but nevertheless the warehouse would have a package waiting for her behind the Reception desk most mornings before Henry arrived. So whenever he saw it he knew she would be in later that day. She was as frail as anything but her eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that only old ladies could get away with.



“Oh thank you” Mrs Mildred would say to Henry as he carried the package out to her car. “You’re so kind to help me with this. You know I do really like your arms, so firm and strong. I’ll know where to come if I need to borrow them sometime”. She would proceed to squeeze his biceps and give him a very obvious wink as she hobbled out of the door chuckling away to herself. If she was about ninety years younger Henry may have thought she was flirting with him! Mrs Mildred was one of the nice customers but there were also some unpleasant ones, most notably Mr McRood.







Mr McRood telephoned every day demanding to know where his order was.



“Well, is it bloody there yet?” he had rasped down the phone in a dry gravelly voice on Henry’s first day on the job.

“Err. What is it you want?” Henry had stammered.



“My bloody order! I placed it with you two weeks ago. I don’t know what kind of half-arsed outfit you’re running there but I need it now” he ranted. “The Body Shop; specialists in body replacement services it says here. Hah! Specialists indeed!”



“Erm…” Henry had felt his face flushing red not sure how to respond to the impatient old codger.



“Erm?” Mr McRood interrupted. “Erm? Is that all you can say? Well it’s not bloody good enough”.



Mr McRood proceeded to phone in every day since, becoming ruder and more personal with his insults each time. Apparently his order was very special and needed to be brought in from Cuba and there had been delay’s at Customs which was why it was taking so long. Every day Henry would brace himself for the verbal onslaught from the irate old git and explain again and again that it was out of his hands and there was nothing he could do. Despite his explanations Mr McRood continued to hold Henry personally responsible for the order and the delays and even the political situation in the communist country which had led the to the trade restrictions that were causing the whole problem in the first place!



At last the order arrived; a thick brown package about a meter in length. It wasn’t too heavy and the manager said he should probably take it straight round to Mr McRood’s house as an example of good customer service. Henry felt his stomach drop a few feet at the instruction. This certainly wasn’t how Henry would deal with rude customers when he was running his own business. But, he had to please his boss and so he hauled the parcel into the back of the company van and drove round to Mr McRood’s house.



Although it wasn’t heavy, the parcel was a long awkward shape to carry for any length of time. Henry struggled down the overgrown garden path to Mr McRood’s rickety paint-chipped front door. The small bungalow looked dilapidated and reminded him of the house from the Wizard of Oz after it had landed in that magical land. Henry secretly loved that film but any hint of magic or singing was dispelled by the sense of neglect that hung in the air. A large collection of unopened milk bottles were lined up by the front door giving Henry the sense that no one had set foot outside the door for several days. The doorstep was also littered with a pile of Daily Mail Newspapers and flyers for Indian takeaway’s and pizza delivery companies. The whole bungalow looked as run down, haggard and miserable as Mr McRood sounded on the phone.



Taking a deep breath he rang the bell hoping Mr McRood wouldn’t be in so he could just leave the parcel by the door and go without having to face the miserable old whinger. But as always, he wasn’t that lucky. Henry heard some creaking and groaning of floorboards. Through the frosted glass of the door he could see a shape lumbering down the hallway. As the shape loomed closer Henry started to feel very uneasy about this visit. Some primal instinct was setting off an alarm bell at the back of his mind and he felt an urge to leave the parcel on the step and bolt. He contemplated it for a moment but then the door rattled and the moment was lost. From inside someone struggled to undo a chain before the door slowly swung open on creaking hinges. Henry opened his mouth to introduce himself but the words died in his throat as he looked upon the terrible sight that stood in the doorway. Henry recoiled as the image before him instantly burned into his memory so he would always see it every time he closed his eyes. All he could do was gasp shock like a fish out of water, drowning in air as he stared at the thing before him. The grey sallow face of Mr McRood leered down at him through milky eyes sunk deep into over-sized eye sockets. Thin wispy white hair curled down from the sore encrusted scalp and a lipless mouth formed a leering rictus grin as the thing that was Mr McRood swayed gently in the doorway leaning on a pair of rusted crutches.



Mr McRood was dead!



Henry stumbled back in panic as the rotting stench of the grave wafted out from the open door and Henry now recognised it as the same smell from the Warehouse. He stared at the spectre before him in cold terror before blindly stepping backwards. His brain refused to accept what his eyes were telling him and he forgot about the step and fell landing hard on his back. The parcel fell on top of him preventing him from scrabbling to his feet and running. Henry struggled, panting out a scream but unable to find his breath. The impossible sight of the festering corpse took a shambling step through the doorway and onto the step narrowly avoiding a bottle of silver-top. Towering over Henry it reached out a grey decomposing hand towards the terrified clerk with an animated creak of joints.



“Watch it” the ill-tempered zombie snarled. His dry vocal chords sounded even dustier than they did on the phone. “I’ve waited long enough for that delivery and I don’t want to have to wait for another one if you break it, you clumsy oaf”. Henry could do nothing but gibber like an idiot.



“Here, open it for me” Mr McRood growled impatiently and Henry quickly worked at the tape on the parcel and opened the box with panicked fingers. When he saw what was inside the box he gagged and shoved it away, kicking the box towards Mr McRood and trying to put as much distance between it and himself. There, lying in a nest of bubble wrap and bags of ice was a human leg cut off just above the knee. Mr McRood carefully bent down and picked up the severed limb and for the first time Henry noticed the deceased customer had only one leg protruding from his mouldy burial clothes.



“Good, this is what I wanted” said Mr McRood nodding with a measure of satisfaction. “Now, take that rubbish away with you, I’ve no need for it”. As Henry hurried to gather up the empty box Mr McRood shuffled back inside but paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh, I understand your Mrs Mildred’s latest lodger” he wheezed. “She’s pleased you’ve moved in. She’s wanted a pair of young strong arms for some time now”.



Henry didn’t look back as he scurried down the path to the relative safety van. As he clambered inside and locked the doors he couldn’t help wondering just how unlucky one person could be!

They called her the face in the window. Practically everybody in the neighborhood knew her-the woman who would sit in the upstairs window of her house, looking out into space, oblivious to the world. Some people said she’d gone crazy after her husband had left her, others said that she’d lost a son or a daughter. The truth was, nobody really knew for sure. She was just known as the Face Woman, because her expression was always blank, like a mask.



Jim Heller knew that she had a different name, one that she no longer used, that had been lost to the world. He was the one who brought her food, and took care of the rent. Part of the money came from her social security; he assumed the rest came from an inheritance, or from an insurance policy she had stashed somewhere. She was always dressed in the same simple clothing, although not always the same clothes, so he knew that she didn’t have to spend all of her time in the wheelchair that she used to watch the world outside her window.



“So, how are you today?” Jim asked one Friday afternoon as he stopped by on another one of his monthly rounds. Looking at the window, he added, “The weather’s nicer today, isn’t it? I’ll bet you’re glad that storm is over with.”



She didn’t answer as Jim gathered up the envelopes on her kitchen table. Her face was impassive as always, although he thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Well, I’ll just take care of these, then. See you next month, okay?”



When he was gone, she continued to sit in her wheelchair, looking out her window at the houses beyond. She knew there was a world out there that she was no longer a part of, a world of noise and people-people who brought danger, and did bad things to each other. In her withdrawn silence, she’d wanted no part of that world for years, and tried not to think about what had made her that way.



Long ago, when Jim Heller had been a little boy and she had been the same age then that he was now, she had been different. The world had been different, too, and it had been part of the life she shared with her husband, who’d been her connection to it. It was when the bad thing happened to him that the connection had been severed.



“I need to go out of town for a few days,” he’d said on the last day they’d spent together. “It’s just a short business trip. I should be back Sunday night.”



“Another one?” She sighed. “I was hoping we could go out for dinner this weekend.”



“I know, but the company has been having some problems with one of their suppliers, and as usual I have to go there and straighten things out. I’m sure it’s no big deal-I’ll be back in no time.”



“Well-I guess I’ll see you when you get home, then.” Except that she never did…



The police brought her the news two days later. It didn’t sink in right away, and when it did she thought at first that they must have made some sort of a mistake. He was on his way home, she was sure of it. All she had to do was wait…



She’d kept up a facade for a while, of course. Just to keep up appearances, for her family and friends. But the connection she’d had with their world was already gone. It was gone when they took her to identify the body they’d found; when they told her about the young man with dead eyes whom they’d arrested for his death. And it was gone when she went to his funeral, and in the long, silent years that followed, as she watched the cars and her neighbors outside change.



Or, at least she thought it was.



Then came one cool night when the moon was full, and it was so light that she could see the narrow street in its entirety. She saw two figures that she knew didn’t belong there following Jim Heller as he headed up the street. She wasn’t sure why he was there-it wasn’t his normal visiting day, and at any rate he wouldn’t have come at this hour of the night. But he was there, and he seemed to know the figures that were following him, because he turned to confront them. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the discussion seemed tense. Then the tension mercifully faded as they walked away. Jim watched them go, and turned to leave.



Something stirred inside of her as she watched. At first she’d told herself that she wouldn’t get involved, that she wasn’t part of that world anymore. Ignore them and forget, she told herself. Except that she couldn’t, because she saw the two figures again. They were walking up the street, following where Jim had gone…



She had a cell phone, one that Jim had given her in case of emergencies. She’d never used it, but she kept it on the kitchen table where she kept her mail. She was out of practice; it took some effort for her to remember how to dial 9-1-1. But she did, and when the voice on the other end answered, she knew what to say, and how to say it.



It was her connection to the world, after all.

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:



Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.



"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will you go?"



"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present."



"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."



"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour."



My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.



"It is reaily very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets."



We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.



"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.



"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."



"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult."



"That sounds a little paradoxical."



"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man."



"It is a murder, then?"



"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words.



"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants -- a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts.



"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.



"From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.



"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court."



"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."



"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with 'A Study in Scarlet', to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home."



"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case."



"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."



"How on earth --"



"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."



"What are they?"



"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."



"It was a confession," I ejaculated.



"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."



"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark."



"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty on."



I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence," I remarked.



"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."



"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"



"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."



He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:



Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows: "I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the 3d. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of 'Cooee!' which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter."



The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?



Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat.



The Coroner: What did you understand by that?



Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious.



The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel?



Witness: I should prefer not to answer.



The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.



Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.



The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.



Witness: I must still refuse.



The Coroner: I understand that the cry of "Cooee" was a common signal between you and your father?



Witnesls: It was.



The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?



Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.



A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspiclons when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?



Witness: Nothing definite.



The Coroner: What do you mean?



Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something gray in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone.



"Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?"



"Yes, it was gone."



"You cannot say what it was?"



"No, I had a feeling something was there."



"How far from the body?"



"A dozen yards or so."



"And how far from the edge of the wood?"



"About the same."



"Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?"



"Yes, but with my back towards it."



This concluded the examination of the witness.



"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son."



Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imaginition and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes."



It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.



"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."



"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is entirely a question of barometric pressure."



Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.



"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night."



Lestrade laughed indulgently. "Yau have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She hai heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door."



He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.



"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."



"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You may rely upon my doing all that I can."



"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?"



"I think that it is very probable."



"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."



Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.



"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it."



"In what way?" asked Holmes.



"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and -- and -- well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."



"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"



"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.



"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if I call to-morrow?"



"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."



"The doctor?"



"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nlervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."



"Ha! ln Victoria! That is important."



"Yes, at the mines."



"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money."



"Yes, certainly."



"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."



"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent."



"I will, Miss Turner."



"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.



"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel."



"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?"



"Yes, but only for you and me."



"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"



"Ample."



"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."



I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone hail been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the gray cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence.



It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.



"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."



"And what did you learn from him?"



"Nothing."



"Could he throw no light?"



"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."



"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner."



"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."



"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"



"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."



There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.



"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of."



"An elderly man, I presume?" saild Holmes.



"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."



"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.



"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him."



"Really! Does it not strike- you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"



"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."



"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts."



"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of," replied Lesbiade with some warmth.



"And that is --"



"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."



"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes, laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left."



"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.



Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.



The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees land the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.



"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.



"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth --"



"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again -- of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.



"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our lunchebn. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently."



It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.



"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out. "The murder was done with it."



"I see no marks."



"There are none."



"How do you know, then?"



"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."



"And the murderer?''



"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search."



Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury."



"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train."



"And leave your case unfinished?"



"No, finished."



"But the mystery?"



"It is solved.'



"Who was the criminal, then?"



"The gentleman I describe."



"But who is he?''



"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood."



Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."



"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."



Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.



"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me expound."



"Pray do so."



"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."



"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"



"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."



"What of the rat, then?"



Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of the map. "What do you read?"



"ARAT," I read.



"And now?" He raised his hand.



"BALLARAT. "



"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."



"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.



"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."



"Certainly. "



"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander."



"Quite so."



"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."



"But how did you gain them?"



"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."



"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."



"Yes, they were peculiar boots."



"But his lameness?"



"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped -- he was lame."



"But his left-handedness."



"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at-the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."



"And the cigar-holder?"



"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."



"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is --"



"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.



The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.



"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"



"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal."



"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."



"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.



"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is so. I know all about McCarthy."



The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried. "But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes."



"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.



"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart -- it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested."



"It may not come to that," said Holmes.



"What?"



"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however."



"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."



Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. "lust tell us the truth," he said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed."



"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.



"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.



"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.



"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid hls grip upon me.



"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.



"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't -- it's a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman within hail.'



"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.



"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.



"When we went down there I found him talking with his son, so smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."



"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation."



"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"



"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us."



"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.



"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.' "



James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.

"My dear fellow." said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generation, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."



"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic."



"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."



I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here" -- I picked up the morning paper from the ground -- "let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is. of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."



"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."



He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.



"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."



"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.



"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems."



"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.



"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime thc more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."



He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.



"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."



As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons. entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.



"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?"



"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"



"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"



"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."



"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.



Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank -- that is, my father -- took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you."



"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name is different."



"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself. "



"And your mother is alive?"



"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."



I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.



"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the business?"



"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest."



"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about 60 pounds."



"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a-day."



"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."



A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."



"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."



"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way."



"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."



"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him -- that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."



"No?"



"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet."



"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"



"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know."



"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"



"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer -- Mr. Angel -- was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street -- and --"



"What office?"



"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."



"Where did he live, then?"



"He slept on the premises."



"And you don't know his address?''



"No -- except that it was Leadenhall Street."



"Where did you address your letters, then?"



"To the Leadenhall Street Post-Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."



"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"



"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."



"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?"



"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so l wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."



"It missed him, then?"



"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."



"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?"



"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he couid not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him."



"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said Holmes.



"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it."



"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"



"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."



"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"



"None."



"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"



"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again."



"And your father? Did you tell him?"



"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it.



"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."



"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"



"l fear not."



"Then what has happened to him?"



"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."



"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."



"Thank you. And your address?"



"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."



"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's place of business?"



"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street."



"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life."



"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."



For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.



Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.



"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive."



"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me," I remarked.



"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."



"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."



Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.



" 'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."



"It surprised me."



"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."



"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning.



"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"



I held the little printed slip to the light.



"Missing [it said] on the morning of the fourteenth. a



gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five feet seven



inches in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black



hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers



and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech.



Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with



silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris



tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots.



Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall



Street. Anybody bringing --"



"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued, glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."



"They are typewritten," I remarked.



"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive -- in fact, we may call it conclusive."



"Of what?"



"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?"



"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted."



"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim."



I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of 'The Sign of Four', and the extraordinary circumstances connected with 'A Study in Scarlet', I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.



I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.



A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.



"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.



"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."



"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.



"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."



"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?"



The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door.



"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"



The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.



"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock?"



"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"



"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."



Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am delighted to hear it," he said.



"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious."



"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered. glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.



"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."



Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it."



"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"



"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.



"Oh, it won't do -- really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit down and let us talk it over."



Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. "It -- it's not actionable," he stammered.



"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."



The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.



"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but alfectionate and warm-hearted in her ways. so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself."



"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought that she would have been so carried away."



"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"



Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face.



"It may be so, or it may not. Mr. Holmes," said he. "but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."



"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to --" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.



"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest."



"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I remarked.



"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction."



"And how did you verify them?"



"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise -- the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employee, James Windibank. Voila tout!"



"And Miss Sutherland?"



"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world."

Richard "The Night Stalker" Ramirez, born in El Paso, TX in 1960, is an American serial killer who has raped and murdered more than 25 people, most of them in their own homes. Ramirez was turned on to Satanic worship by his cousin, a solider just coming home from the war in Vietnam. His trial last four years. He is currently on death row at San Quentin Prison in California.

Serial killer. Born Ricardo Leyva on February 28, 1960 in El Paso, Texas. The youngest son of Julian and Mercedes Ramirez, Richard was introduced to Satanic worship and gruesome violence by a cousin who had returned from fighting in Vietnam. He began using drugs at an early age and soon moved to Southern California where he supported himself by breaking into homes and stealing.



Theft turned to violence in 1984. His first victim was a 79-year-old woman whom he first killed and then raped. What followed was a spree of brutal murders, rapes and robberies leaving more than 25 victims in its wake. Most of the assaults took place in the victims? homes, earning Ramirez the name The Night Stalker. A series of clues from witnesses and survivors eventually led to his capture in August 1985.



During his four-year trial, Ramirez drew a cult-like following, many of whom were Satanic worshippers. One of his supporters was Doreen Lioy, whom he married while serving time in prison. On September, 20, 1989, Ramirez, was found guilty on 43 counts, including 13 murders. He is currently on death row at San Quentin Prison in California.

1. John Wayne Gacy, also known as "The Killer Clown," was a husband and father, but he was also a repeated sex offender who victimized countless people during his lifetime. He was caught sexually assaulting two teenage boys in 1968 and sentenced to 10 years in jail, but due to his exemplary behavior as an inmate he was released on parole after serving just 18 months.



Once he was released from jail, Gacy briefly remarried (they divorced when she discovered that he was secretly gay) and became a popular and jovial member of society. He enjoyed dressing up as "Pogo the Clown" and volunteering at children's parties, parades, and other community gatherings. He was a respected businessman and well-liked by his neighbors.



During the six years between the time he got out of jail and when he was finally arrested again for suspicion of kidnapping, Gacy murdered an astounding 33 young men. He buried most of the bodies in the crawl space of his house, in his yard, and later (when he started to run out of space), he dumped them in a nearby river. He would lure hitchhikers, male prostitutes, and other young men and boys into his car or his home, then torture, rape, and murder them.



After he was arrested and the police found the bones in his basement, Gacy issued a full confession and was executed in 1994.



2. Jeffrey Dahmer is one of the scariest serial killers in U.S. history. Over the course of thirteen years, Dahmer murdered 17 men and boys; worse yet, his murders involved rape, dismemberment, necrophilia and cannibalism. Despite the fact that several of Dahmer's victims managed to escape, he was not caught until one victim ran into the street and flagged down a police car. Once inside his apartment, police made a series of disturbing discoveries; Dahmer had been trying to create a "mindless sex slave" by drilling into the skulls of his still-living victims. When they died, Dahmer would perform grotesque acts on the bodies, including sexual assault and in some cases, eating pieces of them.



Dahmer was eventually brought to justice, and on November 28, 1994 he was beaten to death by a fellow inmate at the Columbia Correctional Institution, where he had been incarcerated



3. Ted Bundy was a good-looking guy, and seemed very friendly and charismatic. However, behind his handsome face lurked the twisted mind of a serial killer, and between the years of 1974 and 1978 Bundy kidnapped and murdered 30 young women in the U.S. Those were just the women we know of; experts agree that he could have been responsible for up to forty disappearances and murders to which he didn't confess.



To lure in his victims, Bundy would often pretend to be disabled or would pose as an authority figure. Other times, he would simply break into his victim's homes and bludgeon them to death as they slept. After killing them, he would rape, torture, and dismember them, often keeping souvenirs (like their heads) in his apartments for months at a time.



After a thrilling police chase, Bundy was finally arrested and brought to justice in 1979 and was killed in the electric chair in January 1989, in Starke, Florida.



4. Known as the "Green River Killer," Gary Ridgway strangled at least 71 women in Washington state during the 1980's and 90's. His first five victims were discovered in the Green River, which is how he earned his nickname. He was finally arrested after DNA evidence linked him to several missing women, and he took a plea bargain to avoid the death penalty. In exchange, Ridgway agreed to disclose the location of all of his victim's bodies.



Ridgway would pick up prostitutes and runaways, earn their trust by showing them a photo of his son, and then strangle them either with his bare hands or with ligatures. He would often return to the bodies to have sex with them or arrange them in various poses. Despite having an IQ of only 82, Ridgway managed to avoid being caught for over a decade until he was finally caught in November of 2001.



Ridgway is still alive and serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole in Washington state.



5. Though Ed Gein only confessed to two murders and does not fit the typical definition of "serial killer," his horrific acts have made him the inspiration for countless horror stories, including Norman Bates from Psycho, Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Jame Gumb from The Silence of the Lambs.



Ed Gein lived in Wisconsin with his mother and brother. He was suspected of murdering his brother, but police could not prove it. After his mother died, Gein began visiting the local cemeteries, digging up bodies of middle aged women who he thought resembled his mother, and assembling a "woman suit" out of their skin. He eventually killed two local women, and when police came to his home to investigate they found body parts everywhere.



Police discovered human noses, vulvae, skulls made into bowls, skin masks, human heads in sacks, lamps and chairs upholstered in human flesh, organs in the refrigerator, and a belt made of human nipples.



Gein was arrested in 1957 and spent the rest of his life in a mental hospital after being ruled criminally insane. He died of heart failure and cancer in 1984 at the age of 77.



6. Once listed as America's most prolific serial killer, Henry Lee Lucas killed at least 350 people over the course of twenty years, though he confessed that he was involved in up to 600 murders. Lucas was the inspiration for the movie Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer.



After murdering his own mother, Lucas spent 10 years in jail but was eventually released due to overcrowding. Once he got out, he became a drifter in the southern states of the U.S., making friends with Ottis Toole, a man who would become his accomplice in over 108 murders and other crimes.



In 2001, Lucas died in prison of natural causes at the age of 66.



7. One of the few female serial killers on record, Aileen Wuornos was a prostitute who murdered at least seven men between 1989 and 1990. Actress Charlize Theron won a Best Actress Academy Award for her portrayal of Wuornos in the movie Monster.



Wuornos lived a life of abuse and neglect, having a baby at age 15 (who was put up for adoption) and engaging in an incestuous relationship with her brother. She was briefly married and spent time in jail for petty robberies and assault. Eventually she fell in love with a woman and supported them both by turning tricks as a prostitute. During her years of prostitution Wuornos shot and killed seven men who she claimed were trying to harm her during their sex sessions.



Wuornos was arrested in 1991 and confessed to the murders three days later. She was killed by lethal injection in 2002.



8. Nicknamed "The Vampire of Sacramento," Richard Trenton Chase was most famous for drinking the blood of his victims and eating parts of their bodies. He killed six people over the course of one month in northern California in 1977. Chase spent time in a mental hospital after being caught capturing small animals and devouring them raw, sometimes blending the corpses with Coca Cola in a blender to make a milkshake. After being treated with anti-psychotic medications he was released, and that's when he started killing humans.



Chase murdered six people, including two children, and engaged in sex with their bodies after he murdered them. He would also drink and bathe in their blood and eat their internal organs. Chase was finally caught in 1979 after murdering an entire family. His defense tried to get him a lesser charge due to his history of insanity, but a jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to death by the gas chamber. Chase then killed himself in jail in 1980 by saving up his prescription antidepressent medicine and taking a lethal overdose in his cell.



9. Ukranian-born Soviet killer Andrei Chikatilo was nicknamed the "Butcher of Rostov," "The Red Ripper" or "The Rostov Ripper." He killed at least 52 women and children between 1978 and 1990 and was convicted in 1992 and executed in 1994.



Chikatilo first killed a 9 year old girl in 1979, and during the experience he discovered that he could only achieve sexual satisfaction by stabbing and slashing women and children to death.



Chikatilo was in and out of jail and suspected of crimes for many years, but there was never enough evidence to put him away for good. Finally, in a well-orchestrated police snare, Chikatilo was caught in 1990 and eventually confessed to killing 36 people. He was charged with killing 53 women and children between 1978 and 1990 and was convicted of 52 murders in 1992. In 1994 he was executed by a single gun shot wound behind the right ear.



10. Between 1974 and 1991, Dennis Rader killed at least ten people in the Wichita, Kansas area. Rader was known as the BTK Killer, which stands for "bind, torture, kill." Rader also sent notes to local authorities and media outlets describing the killing process, taunting them for not catching him. It was these letters that lead to his eventual capture in 2005.



After Rader kidnapped his victims he would bind them and strangle them until they passed out. Then he'd let them wake up and do it again, repeating the near-death experience and getting sexual gratification from it. He would eventually strangle the victim to death and masturbate into an article of their clothing.



Rader was caught because police were able to extract a deleted file from a floppy disk the killer had sent them. On the disk was information about Rader's church, an organization of which he was an active member. It was DNA evidence that eventually busted Rader, and he later confessed to the crimes. He was convicted of 10 counts of murder in 2005. He is still in jail serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole.