(TTSSC) The Crescent Moon Killer

Mark figured it wouldn’t take more than a couple of strong drinks to get his date drunk, and then he could have his way with her.

The bartender - a muscular, bearded man of about fifty - snatched the ten from the counter, and Mark tucked his wallet back into his beige sportcoat. He noticed a few hooded-sweatshirt-wearing kids making their way into the bar, the first of the college-age crowd to arrive that evening. Probably just meeting here, he thought to himself, because The Crooked Tavern didn’t seem like the kind of place anyone would choose as a destination, not with Boston only forty-five minutes away. No, this modest, dim, candle-lit pub in small-town U.S.A. was the place you and your friends gathered on the way to the big nightclubs, and maybe, if all else failed, the place you ended up at afterwards.

He’d ordered a Long Island Iced Tea for Alicia and a light beer for himself. The bartender slid the drinks forward, and Mark grabbed them with a smile. Pushing his eyeglasses a little higher on his nose, he glanced at the attractive brunette sitting at a table in the center of the room, and then turned back toward the bartender. “I’ll be back for more,” he said with a mischievous grin. Expecting him to grin back, or at least wink as if to say Atta boy, go get her, Mark was struck by way the bartender stared at him silently with a set of cold, blue eyes. Not in the mood for small talk, he guessed. Then he noticed a deep, ghastly scar that ran across the bartender’s cheek, barely concealed by the beard. “Okay then, thanks,” Mark said, and carried the drinks past the dimly lit booths to the small table at which his date sat.

“Oh my God!” remarked Alicia, her jaw dropping open at the sight of the Long Island Iced Tea. “No. No way. Forget it.”

Mark winked. “I thought you wanted to have fun tonight?” Now’s your chance, with Ms. I-don’t-drink-because-it-makes-me-fat working the night shift.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my best friend like that,” Alicia said, and then grinned. “Besides, it’s not her fault she has a problem with her…” Her phone buzzed, so she brought it forth from the pocket of her blue denim jacket. After checking he caller ID, she put it away. “That was just my Mom. I’ll call her later, she always worries.”

And with good reason, Mark thought to himself, silently. “We’ll be home early,” he said. “After all, it’s only our second date.”

Alicia smiled. “So what is it you do again? Sorry, you probably told me before…”

“That’s okay,” Mark replied. “The movie was really funny – you and Tanya were laughing your heads off when I told you about…” he paused, motioning toward the Long Island Iced Tea. “Hey, aren’t you gonna drink that?”

Alicia brought the drink to her lips.”Oh, wow, that’s good.”

Keep going, Mark thought. Let your defenses down. “Anyway,” he continued,”I’m a…”

“Real estate agent,” Alicia said while pointing her finger at him. “Now I remember! That’s it, right?”

“Broker, actually. That, and I run a shelter for abandoned pets.”

“Awwwwww!” Alicia said, and then sighed. “That’s so wonderful, how could I forget that?”

Because you’re stupid, and un-observant. Not to mention naive. “That’s okay, it’s not something I do for recognition. I do it because I love animals, and I can’t bear to see idiots neglect them.”

Alicia leaned forward, and took a sip of her drink, her eyes registering admiration. “That’s so sweet. How on earth is a guy like you still single?”

God, I can’t believe she’s buying this, Mark thought. Across the room, atop a small stage, a five-man band of musicians began sound checks – the evening’s entertainment. Dressed casually in jeans, flannel shirts and sneakers, they appeared to be a local act. “Looks like you got some talent in this town.”

“Yeah, right,” Alicia remarked. “You’re really not from around here, are you?”

Mark noticed the way she rolled her eyes as she said it. “Getting a little bored with the down-home atmosphere, are we?” he asked.

“It’s just…,” she paused, her finger circling the rim of her glass.

Mark’s eyebrows lifted.

“It’s just that I had so many plans. You know, the kind of plans everyone makes: to go to college, graduate, and then find a great job at some wonderful, exciting place like…well, you know. Right?” Alicia looked at him questioningly, as if prodding for some kind of vindication.

“What’s stopping you?”

Alicia sighed. “I don’t know. It’s been so hard, after what happened, I guess I’ve been a little scared about leaving home. I mean, hell, it took me three years just to leave the house again, and another four to even consider dating.”

“What happened?” Mark asked.

Alicia’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “You mean you don’t know who I am?” she whispered.

Of course I know who you are, thought Mark. I know very well who you are, but I want to hear you say it, honey. I want to savor this moment, dear sweet Alicia. “You’re Alicia Tompkins,” he said while straightening his glasses and smiling. “The prettiest girl in Landon, Massachusetts.”

Alicia shook her head, and sighed. “Don’t you watch the news, or read magazines?” Mark gave her a blank look, so she continued, “That’s right, I’m Alicia Tompkins, but to the rest of the country I’m known as the only surviving victim of the Crescent Moon Killer. You’ve heard of him, right?”

“I’m sorry, I’m pretty busy most of the time, so I…”

“No,” Alicia said, grasping his hand with both of hers. “It’s all right, I’m glad. And a little relieved, actually. It’s nice to meet someone who hasn’t heard the story.”

“And you don’t have to tell it to me, at least not tonight,” said Mark, calmly. In truth, it took nearly all his resolve to remain calm, for at that moment he felt like a hungry lion before the prey, crouched and ready to kill. After months of planning – of following her and getting to know her every move, here she sat before him, vulnerable as a lamb before the slaughter. It made him giddy with excitement, so much so he could barely keep it in. Stay cool, he thought to himself. Stay in character. Maintain her trust.

“I might as well,” she said, holding both his hands in hers. “I think you should know. I need you to know, so we can, well, get on with things.”

“Okay then,” Mark replied. “Tell me about it.”


[edit on 11-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

And so she told him her story in lurid detail, how she was grabbed from behind while leaving the video store, the odor of the ether-soaked rag that covered her face, and then blackness. The horror of waking up in the dark only to find herself being dragged into the woods, and how she fought back with all of her strength. The miracle of breaking free with her hands still tied and her mouth gagged and somehow, by divine intervention perhaps, coming across a lonely stretch of road where a passing motorist caught sight of her. Mark listened to all of it, captivated, and by the end his mouth was watering.

“So that’s it,” she said, and finished off her drink.

“That’s it?” Mark asked. “What about him? The killer? Did they…”

“I don’t know,”Alicia replied. “The police never had a good suspect, and I never heard his voice, or saw his face.”

No, thought Mark. No, you didn’t.

“For all I know, he’s still out there, waiting.”

Mark had to pinch himself to keep from smiling, such was his ecstasy. He cleared his throat and asked, “So why do they call him the Crescent Moon Killer? Some kind of lunar cycle thing?

“No,” replied Alicia. “Not that. It’s because of what he carves into his victims’ torsos....” She paused for a moment, and then continued, “before he decapitates them. I thank God he didn’t get that far with me, but he also wears the symbol on a medallion around his neck, like a badge of sorts. I saw it. Here,” she grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, and pulled a pen from her purse. Then she carefully traced a design into the napkin. “I’m not what anybody would call an artist, but this is a pretty good representation, I guess. The police sketch artist was a lot better.” She pushed the napkin forward, and then turned it around for Mark to see.

He studied the outline: a figure of crescent moon overlaid with a small, upside-down crucifix. “Creepy,” he remarked with a false shudder. “What does it mean?”

“Who knows?” Alicia said, disgusted. Maybe some kind of satanic thing, or a code or something like that. Maybe he’s angry at religion…you know, got abused by some priest and now he’s working out issues.” She sighed, sinking back into her chair. “Whatever it is, it’s a curse. My curse.”

But that’s not the symbol, Alicia. Don’t lie to me! You know there was more than that. You’re quite the liar, sweet Alicia. Liar, liar, liar. Mark shook his head. “You shouldn’t say things like that. I’m sure whatever bizarre, twisted reasons he had, it was nothing you deserved. Nobody deserves that.”

Music burst from the stage – a melodic, folksy tune reminiscent of John Denver or Joni Mitchell, with a dark, earthy feel to it. Mark watched the lead singer, a tall woman dressed in western-style jeans, cowboy boots, and a brown leather vest. Underneath the vest she wore a white, long-sleeved blouse. With a weathered, wrinkled face and long gray hair tied in a ponytail, she seemed the very essence of down-home toughness with a touch of the flower-child sixties thrown in.

She brought the microphone to her lips and began to sing. Before long, the audience was captivated by her song; it was a song about the night wind, her smoky voice echoing just a touch of sadness, which gave it all a haunting feel of longing, of heartbreak.

“And that’s not talent?” Mark in a raised voice so Alicia could hear. “Sounds pretty good to me, for a local act.”

Alicia leaned forward and spoke into his ear. “Her name’s Harmony Fairchild. Actually, she’s only lived her a few years, moved up from somewhere down south. Tennessee, I think. I heard she was big in the country music business back in the Seventies.”

Mark held out his hand. “Would you do me the honor of having the first dance?” Alicia smiled, and they made their way to the center of the room, hand in hand. Others began to follow suit. The next song was smoother than the first, the kind of song made for slow dancing, and Mark held his date close, taking in the warmth of her body and the soothing scent of her perfume. It was all so perfect, so wonderful, and yet he felt something else, something he’d rarely experienced in his life – a burgeoning sense of guilt, of regret. Not for what he had done, but for what he was about to do - what he had to do, and this was quickly becoming a problem for Mark because guilt wasn’t part of the plan. Well, well, he thought. Getting a little smitten are we? A little touched? If so, then you’d better get this show on the road now, before your nerve slips.

He considered leading Alicia back to the table so he could order her another strong drink, until he caught sight of the bartender leaning against the counter, blue eyes fixed in their direction, watching them like a hawk. Mark found it unsettling, and so they danced on and on for what seemed like hours, until Alicia finally pulled him back to the table. By that time, the bartender had left.

As the band took their first break for the evening, Mark suggested they skip the movie for tonight, have a couple of drinks at his place, and when she agreed his pride swelled within him because he knew he’d succeeded, nothing could stop this, and it would all happen just the way he’d planned.

Aside from a couple of young men in leather jackets making their way to the entrance, the parking lot was empty. On the way to his car Alicia drew close to Mark, protecting herself from the chill of the autumn night air. A brief kiss followed, and Mark opened her door, all the while the voice within him frantic with excitement.

Almost there! Just get in the car. Get in the car now! Just do it! As Alicia took hold of the inside door handle and began get inside, something gave her pause. “Uh, there’s some books and stuff in the front seat. Do you want me to put them in back?”

Mark stood there, bewildered for a moment. Suddenly remembering what he’d left on the seat, his heart skipped in alarm. “NO!” he said abruptly, and rushed to her side.

“It’s okay,” Alicia said while lifting the books and folders. “I’ll just set them back here…”

NO! NO NO NO DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT !...but it was too late. A page fell from a manila folder, fluttering to the pavement in the moonlight, and Alicia gasped when she saw the illustration upon it. It was a sketch of a crescent moon overlaid with an upside-down crucifix, just like what she’d drawn on the napkin except for one difference: to each side of the crescent moon sat a single, menacing lightning bolt, a detail which the police department had carefully withheld from the media as a way of distinguishing between the genuine killer and any potential copycats, or pranksters.

A detail that, theoretically, only the killer should know.

Alicia backed away from the car, and screamed. The two young men turned their heads at the sound, and approached the car. Mark threw up his hands and spoke in a soft voice, trying to reassure her. “Alicia, honey, calm down. It’s okay, I’m not who you think I am. Just let me explain. Alicia stared in horror at the books and magazine covers that lined the inside of his car: every one of them was about the Crescent Moon Killer.

“WHO…WHO…WHO THE # ARE YOU!!?” she cried, trembling in fear.

“Get away from her,” ordered one of the young men. “Come on inside, Ma’am, we’ll call the cops.”

“I got his license plate number,” said the other while eyeing Mark steadily.

Mark’s hand shuffled around inside his coat pocket, and he brought forth his wallet. “Look . . . Alicia, look. You want to know who I am? Here. “ He held up a small badge with his photograph on it that read, The Newark Examiner. “See? I just want an on-the-record interview, that’s all.” He held out his hands in a posture of innocence. “That’s it, nothing to be afraid of.”

“You filthy son-of-a-bitch!” Alicia shouted, and spat at him. “I told you bastards no! Not ever!” In front the tavern a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, the bartender among them, carefully watching Mark’s every move. Mark stepped toward Alicia, but she shrank away. “Get the hell away from me!”

One of the leather-jacketed young men moved between them. “Get lost buddy,” he said, and shoved Mark backward.

But he wasn’t giving up that easy. “Ten-thousand-dollars!” he shouted as Alicia walked toward the tavern entrance. “Ten now, and twenty-five more when we go to print!” She continued inside, her fist in the air, answering him with her middle finger.


[edit on 11-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

[edit on 8/10/09 by masqua]

“Really, Jack, all I’m asking is another week...and ten grand. I can do this!” The line went dead. “#!,” Mark yelled, and threw a pillow across his hotel room. It struck the lampshade, knocking it against the wall. So what if the guests next door complained? Tonight, he didn’t care. His boss was stupid, and a complete asshole. Mark poured himself another slug of Scotch, and set it down atop the sketch of the crescent moon symbol. He stared at it with contempt, for it had cost him twelve thousand dollars to bribe the sketch artist. Another twenty had gone to the medical examiner for the autopsy photos. One of them showed a severed head. The dead girl’s eyes seemed to gaze up at him, almost mocking him. As Mark swished the liquor around the inside of his mouth, he considered how much he’d be in the hole by Friday.

Still, it would be worth it. To have the hottest story of the year and his photo on the cover of every news magazine in the country would make up for an awful lot of failings - recent ones. He picked up his cell phone and considered calling Alicia again, despite the fact that he’d left three messages already, each one with a higher offer. Anyone can be bought , he thought to himself. All it takes is the right number.

Staring at his phone, he remembered his promise to call his son Justin this weekend. But if he did that, Sarah would complain about the child-support payment, and Mark had blown that already. Six days ago, in fact. He kicked off his shoes and laid back on the couch. Hell, maybe he should just go home tomorrow, and try again in a month.

Yeah, right! Go back to what? He tried to imagine what it would be like to slink back into the office, only to get fired by Jack before nine-a.m. Probably get all of this project’s expenses deducted from his paycheck too, which would leave him dead broke. “Screw it,” Mark said, and brought the bottle of Scotch to his lips. After downing the rest of it, he closed his eyes. A heavy fog of intoxication settled over his mind like a blanket, welcoming him to sleep. He’d figure things out tomorrow.

* * * *

And so he slept - not a peaceful, easy sleep, but a fitful one occupied by harsh images of mutilated corpses and evidence containers and claw-marks etched into cold, muddy soil . They were the very same images that had dominated his thoughts for past two weeks, photos of evidence in a case that had for too long been a dead end for both press and police. And then another, more frightening image formed in his mind, one that clutched his heart with an overwhelming sense of dread: the face of the bartender at the Broken Tavern. The pair of cold, blue eyes focused on him in a way that was terrifying, as if Mark was seeing something he was not meant to see. It made him want to turn away, but this was a nightmare and he couldn’t turn away, and then Mark wanted to scream but found he couldn’t do that either so all he wanted to do was open his eyes...

Mark’s eyelids shot open and he gasped for air, his heartbeat racing with fear. The hotel room about him appeared normal; he was alone. After what seemed like several minutes, his breathing slowed, and his nerves began to calm. No way he’d get back to sleep after that for sure, so maybe he should go out for some coffee or a late-night burger. Besides, his mouth felt dry, parched like the desert, and so he tried to get up off the couch.

Nothing happened.

With a focused effort mark tried to move his legs, and then his arms until he realized that he could sense neither. Was he still dreaming? He didn’t think so, and then he noticed something else; a strong, almost sweet odor lingered in his nostrils. A gas of some sort, but Mark had never smelled this particular one before. Maybe that’s why he was paralyzed - the pilot light had gone out or someone had left a gas valve open. His heartbeat, which had begun to ease only a moment before, began racing again. Then he remembered that his hotel room lacked an oven.

Across the room, a slight movement caught his eye. He focused on the door, and the crack between it and the floor as a small object - a tiny hose - wriggled back outside. Had someone been pumping gas into his room? He needed to call the police. Mark glanced toward the phone which sat on the coffee table, and tried in vain to reach for it. His limbs remained as still and lifeless as a statue. If only he could scream, maybe someone would call 911, but all he could muster was a quiet, barely audible croak.


Then the doorknob began to turn. Terrified, Mark pleaded to the only person he could think of, Please God do something...don’t let him come in...Oh God don’t let him come in make him go away pleeaasse!!! And then the door opened, and an all-too familiar figure stepped inside. The bartender, now in black coveralls and a pair of white tennis shoes, approached the couch followed by two other men dressed in similar garb.

Mark’s eyes widened in horror as the bartender leaned over and observed him momentarily, before turning to one of the other men who handed him a white, damp rag. This he placed over Marks face, and as the ether took effect, Mark’s consciousness faded into blackness.


[edit on 11-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

The first thing he noticed was chicken, or rather the smell of it. Barbequed chicken, to be exact, and upon opening his eyes Mark found himself amid what looked like a very big pot-luck dinner, with rows of tables lined covered with food, and dozens of people milling about. The room itself was a large one, with aluminum walls and a vaulted, corrugated tin roof above. Some kind of warehouse, he supposed, but where?

Still sleepy from the anesthetic, Mark watched the people around him; they all seemed to be quite happy, some dressed in western-style shirts, blue jeans, boots, and the like, all chatting casually about one thing or another, and ignoring him. Pleasant odors of beans, corn-on-the-cob, and apple pie wafted about him, yet he didn’t feel hungry just yet. What was going on? Mark decided to ask someone.

No words came forth, and when he tried to reach outward, to signal someone for help, his arms still wouldn’t move. Yet he could move his eyes anywhere he wanted, and so he looked downward - and when he did he saw that he was sitting in a chair. No, not just a chair. A wheel-chair. Mark’s eyes darted to the side, and he noticed and intravenous line attached to his arm, which fed from an IV bag that hung from a pole attached to the chair.

Mark guessed that some kind of drug was being administered to him via the bag, but why would someone do this? Had he been hurt, in an accident? A small group of children ran past him, laughing and pushing one another as a woman followed close behind, scolding them. Pointing a finger in Marks direction, one of the children laughed and said, “He’s awake!”

Gasps arose from the crowd, and then cheers erupted throughout the grange hall. “Hallelujah!” shouted a large, pot-bellied man in a white polo t-shirt. Mark’s eyed darted frantically about, wary of the strangers who paraded around him. And then a familiar face appeared. “It’s a miracle!” Alicia said, kneeling before him. “We didn’t think you’d wake up in time.” Mark felt the warmth of her hand on his - this was strange, because it meant that whatever drug was being administered kept him paralyzed, but not numb. “The celebration is just beginning,” Alicia said. “It’s a joy that you won’t miss any of it!”

As Mark made another strained, futile attempt to speak, music erupted throughout the hall. The folksy sound of the organ music blended with the guitar and drums were instantly recognizable, even before Harmony Fairchild sang out with her soulful, mesmerizing, voice. It was a different song this time, more upbeat and rock & roll, and Harmony’s voice echoed with an enthusiasm far different than the night before. The lyrics were different as well, for this song was about the rebirth of the spirit, of hope and salvation, a song which enticed those about him to clap along with the steady, upbeat rhythm. It all reminded Mark of a festival, or church gathering of the kind found in anywhere-small-town-America on a Sunday afternoon.

A hand fell upon his shoulder again; not Alicia’s this time, but a stronger, firmer one. As the man stepped forward into Mark’s field of vision, a sudden jolt of recognition and fear clutched his heart. The bartender looked Mark in the eyes and said, “You look frightened. Don’t be. This is a wonderful moment, both for us, and for you.”

“That’s right,” Alicia added, taking the bartender’s hand in hers. “It’s a great honor to be chosen as The Offering. We’ve selected you very carefully. All this has taken a great deal of work, and preparation. Isn’t that right, Dad?” The bartender answered his daughter with a smile.

“And it’s been such a long time since the last one,” she continued. “That’s why this moment is so very special.” Harmony Fairchild walked past with the microphone in her hand, singing, and gently brushed Mark’s hair as the crowd looked on in adoration.

The Offering, Mark wondered? Is that what she called me? His brain raged with alarm, even more so as Alicia’s father took hold of the hand-grips to the wheel-chair and spun Mark around to face the other end of the hall. From the ceiling hung an enormous black banner. Mark instantly recognized the symbol emblazoned upon it: a silver crescent moon containing a crimson upside-down crucifix, between a pair of golden lightning bolts. Alicia stepped into his view again, and smiled.

She lied!, Mark realized. She lied to everyone: to me, the police, the press! The Crescent Moon Killer had only existed as a cover for...His mind clawed for the right term, the right description for what was happening here, and for who these people were. As the answer suddenly came to him, Mark was horrified.

Devil worshipers!

“It’s time!” shouted Harmony, her free hand raised to signal the audience. “Bring forth the Great Transcender of the Holy Dominion. Bring Him forth so that we may gaze upon Him and receive his power.” Her words evoked a thunder of applause. “Bring Him forth, so that we may be healed!” A woman in a paisley dress rushed forth to kneel before Harmony, and wept. Harmony took the woman’s hand in hers. “Oh yes,” Harmony said, shaking her head. “Oh yes honey, it’s time. Feel the power! Let the blood of the Offering fill your soul with light, and you will be saved! Do you believe?”

“I believe!” cried the woman, nodding her head.

“Say it louder woman!”

“I BELIEVE!” cried the woman, and she collapsed onto the floor. Shouts of “I BELIEVE!” rose from the crowd as her body began to tremble, and then convulse. Several others succumbed in similar fashion as Harmony made her way among them, evoking the power of the Great Transcender. Mark watched all of this with shocked incomprehension, until Harmony raised her hand again and issued a command. “Let’s clear a path for the Offering. May he set his eyes upon Him, and rejoice!”

Before Mark, the crowd of faithful fell back, creating a pathway between him and the banner. Now, for the first time, Mark could see what lay below it. It was a rectangular pallet on wheels, and atop it sat a figure covered with a purple shroud. As the music resumed, Harmony sang out again as the worshipers pushed the pallet forward. Closer and closer it came, until it lay only a few feet in front of Mark. As he stared at it, his heart pounded with terror. I don’t want to see it, he thought. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. Unable to run, or do anything about his situation, Mark shut his eyes. A pair of strong hands fell upon his scalp, and the fingers clawed his eyes open.

“Look!” the bartender shouted angrily. “Behold the Great Transcender!”

“LOOK AT HIM!” screamed Alicia. Her command was accompanied by shouts of hallelujah from the frenzied audience. As the purple shroud was pulled from the figure, shrieks of ecstasy filled the grange hall.

Mark gazed upon the figure, terrified by what he now saw. Atop the pallet stood the withered, desiccated carcass of a four-legged animal...a dog perhaps, or maybe a hyena. The creature’s eyes had long since decayed, leaving behind a pair of ugly, dry sockets. Its teeth were jagged and sharp, and the lower jaw hung at a strange angle, as if broken. As cries of joy rose from the audience, Mark’s mind exploded with panic and all he wanted to do was scream. Then he saw the flash of the eight-inch blade approaching his abdomen.

And scream he did.


[edit on 11-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

Nice read - very X-Filesy - I could almost hear the opening music beginning right after he died at the end.



Good work.

Originally posted by mf_luder
Nice read - very X-Filesy - I could almost hear the opening music beginning right after he died at the end.

Good work.

I'm a serious X-files fan, so I consider that quite a compliment. Thanks!

[edit on 12-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

reply to post by Flatwoods


Good read Flatwoods! I didn't expect the whole devil worshiper thing at the end and it was a very good twist. I would love to know what it was on the pallet though. Sounded very grotesque. I believe I would have had that thing re-animate and bite his intestines out. That's just me though. I loved it man, really good. Star and flagged all the way!

Thanks, jackflap. My story was partially "inspired" by a historical account I read with regard the the Convulsionaries of St. Médard, an unusual religious sect that existed in France during the 18th century. As for the creature on the pallet, my idea is that it's an idol of sorts. I'll let the rest be a complete mystery.

S and F.

Well done and thanks for sharing, very cool read.

A very well written twist.
Completely took me by surprise.

Tres cool! I kept popping up ideas on the twist....but wrong everytime.
This one took me from outta nowhere. Great, great story, and excellent writing, by the way. Good luck in the contest!

A great story, I'm sure you will do well in the contest, S & F.

[edit on 25-9-2009 by catalyst2466]

reply to post by ladyinwaiting


Thanks, ladyinwaiting. With so many great submissions by other writers in this contest, I'm going to need all the luck I can get.

[edit on 30-9-2009 by Flatwoods]

As usual, you've managed to pen a rivetting story for the contest. Every scene is portrayed so vividly, every action so expertly detailed that this reader is able to envision extra details within my own mind.

That's what good writing is all about... the ability to evoke images beyond what has been presented by you, the author.

That Mark went from potential killer to victim is a powerful twist.

I'm once again blown away with your abilities as a writer

Most excellent.
There's not much that can creep me out nowadays, having been an avid horror reader for about 30 years now.
Enjoyed, starred and flagged from me.
Thanks.
I.A.