Principia Discordia

My taxi sped down 635 heading west towards DFW airport.  I was going twenty miles per hour over the speed limit.  Going so fast was probably a little dangerous, but it was three in the morning and we were the only traffic on the highway so I wasn't worried about a cop stopping me.

I adjusted my rearview mirror to get a good look at the customer in the backseat.  The interior of the cab was pretty dark.  The only light came from the dim glow of the dashboard-mounted computer screen and the streetlights we passed under every few seconds.

The man had short, dark hair.  He had dark eyes and a round face with a nose that was big but fit his face.  He wore a light grey suit with a dark red tie.  Something about him was off though.  He was pale, but his paleness didn't look like it came from a lack of sun.  It looked like he was sick or he had something weighing on his mind.  He acted like he couldn't get to where he was going quickly enough.  He fidgeted nervously when he wasn't checking his watch.  Of course I've had my fair share of impatient pricks, but they usually didn't get wound tight until we hit traffic.  This guy was wound tighter than a drum from the get-go.

I had picked him up at an office building downtown.  He threw the backdoor open, jumped into the backseat, and told me "DFW" before I could even ask him where he was headed.  He put a small overnight bag on the floorboard between his legs and a black shoebox in the seat next to him before closing the door.  I put my cab into drive, heading east out of the downtown area and towards the nearest highway.

"Business trip?"  I had asked, trying to make some light conversation.

"Yeah.  Yeah.  No.  I mean no," He answered.  He checked his watch.

Okay.  "Where are you flying to?"

"Burlington.  Vermont."

I drove underneath the highway, took a left turn, and then went up a ramp to get onto Highway 75 heading north.

"Ah, I thought you had a weird accent," I told him," You're from there?"

"Yeah.  Well, just east of there."  He checked his watch.  "Is there any way you can go faster?"

I exited 75 onto 635 heading west.  "I'm going as fast as I can, my friend.  When's your flight?"

"Four."

I laughed.  "Don't worry.  I'll get you there with plenty of time to spare."

He checked his watch.

I drove on heading west down 635 in complete silence.  I mean so quiet you could probably hear my thoughts if you listened closely enough.  I slowed down to a respectable speed once we neared the left turn that leads directly to the airport's toll booths.  As we passed the booths I asked him which gate.

"B13," he answered.

"B13? You sunk my battle ship."  I gave a big, cheesy grin.

Nothing.  Not even a chuckle just for the sake of being nice.  What a prick.

We pulled up to the gate's entrance.  I put the car into park.  Checking the meter, I tell him the fare is sixty-three dollars and fifty cents.

He threw open the backdoor.  Quickly reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet, took out a bill, and then put his wallet back into his pocket.  He threw the bill at me, grabbed the bag from between his legs, and then jumped out of the cab.  Slamming the car door shut, he started running towards the airport's automatic doors.

I picked the bill up off the seat where it had landed and took a look at it.  My heart felt like it skipped a beat.  A hundred dollar bill.  I quickly opened my door and stood up, looking over the cab's roof.

"Hey mister, you gave me way too muc-" He had already disappeared into the building.

What a tip!  On second thought, maybe that guy wasn't so bad after all.

I stuffed the bill into my pocket before sitting back down in the driver's seat and closing the car door.  I checked the clock.  Three thirty-nine.  I checked the dashboard-mounted computer screen to see if dispatch had any work for me.  Nothing.  Oh well.  My shift ended in a little over an hour anyways so it's probably for the best.  Nothing ruins my day like having to haul someone a long distance away right before my shift ends.

I put the cab into drive and headed north towards the airport's exit before taking a right onto 635 going east.  I looked down at my fuel gauge.  Almost empty.  Good.  There was a nice gas station a few miles down the highway that gives a discount to cabbies who haul people to and from the airport.  That was the perfect excuse for me to laze around until my shift was up.

I pulled into the gas station and parked the cab at the closest pump.  Bright, white light flooded into the car from the gas station's roof above the pumps, causing me to squint for a second while my eyes adjusted.  Turning off the car, I threw the keys into the passenger's seat before opening the door and getting out.

I opened the latch on the side of the car then unscrewed the gas tank cap.  Turning back around, I took the company's credit card out of my wallet and swiped it through the machine.  I selected the correct type of fuel then grabbed the gas pump's nozzle and placed it in the car's tank.  I held down the handle and flipped the underneath tab that kept the fuel going without me holding it.  After a second or two the sound of fuel being pumped into the car started.

I turned around to sit back in the driver's seat to relax until the gas pump was finished but something caught my eye.  I looked through the backdoor's window.  A black shoebox sat on the backseat.  That guy had accidently left it behind.  Shit.

I opened the back door, grabbed the box, and then returned to the driver's seat.  I put the box on the passenger's seat.  What was I going to do with it?  The man had to be long gone by now.  I didn't pick him up at his place so I couldn't drop it off there.  Should I just toss it in the trash?  Nah.  It could be some invaluable family heirloom.  I guess I'll have to take it back to home base and give it to the company's lost and found desk.  I definitely wasn't looking forward to that.  There was no way my boss wouldn't find out about it.  And when he did I could expect him to throw a fit about how careless I am.

I picked up the box and put it on my lap.  I decided to check to see what was in it.  Maybe there would be some kind of identification.  If there isn't and it doesn't look valuable I'll just throw it away.  I don't want to get on my boss' bad side.  Again.

I took off the lid and tossed it into the passenger's seat.  Well, the contents definitely weren't valuable.  A box of letters.  I sat the box in my lap and picked up the letter on top.  The return address stated someone named Samantha O'Hare .  The mailing address was to someone named Jon O'Hare.  It's a shot in the dark, but my guess is Johnny boy was my customer.

I held the envelope in my hand, thinking about taking the box to the address listed.  I could.  But my shift was almost over.  Plus the address is way on the other side of Dallas.  It'd take a good forty-five minutes to an hour to get there.  And there's no way the company would pay for a joyride so the gas spent would be on my dime.  Nah.  I don't make nearly enough for that.  Of course, I could use the generous tip the guy left me to pay for the gas.  Nah.  I'd much rather pocket the money.  Plus it's not my crap so why should I care where it ends up?

I quickly flipped through the box of envelopes.  There was a book's worth of letters there.  Each one was dated a week after the last.  This Samantha girl must've written them like clockwork.  I thought about putting the box up and throwing it out later, but my curiosity was starting to get the better of me.  With so many letters surely there'd be something interesting to read while I wait to go home, right?

I put the box to the side and took the letter out of the envelope I held in my hand, placing it to the side afterwards.  I quickly read the letter.  It wasn't very long.  And then put it back in the box, taking out the one written a week later.  Each one was relatively short although their lengths varied.  They were pretty mundane.  She essentially recounted what happened during the week before in the small town she lives in.  After reading almost half of them I started to get a clear picture about the girl's life.

She's Jon's sister.  She still lives with their parents.  Most of what she writes was fairly boring.  She goes to the local high school and plays on the school's soccer team.  She hangs out with her friends most days of the week.  Like most kids she doesn't get along too well with her parents.  She seems to be quite the morning person.  She likes to wake up early, well before the sun rises, because she enjoys the peacefulness of it before everyone starts to wake up.  She likes to paint which she does in the mornings when she's not studying for school.

Outside of her family and friends the only other regular name that pops up is a man in his early thirties named Mark.  He's her neighbor, living across the street.  He's a science fiction writer who is famous in the New England area.  He's the Sunday school teacher at a Catholic church called Saint Mary's.  He also writes the pamphlets and newsletters for the church.  He wakes up early in the morning to go jogging so she often sees him when he's stretching or warming down after the run.  She usually waves at him from her window.  Sometimes she'll go out and talk to him.  She even jogs with him every now and then.  It sounds like he's a surrogate father, in a sense.  Since she doesn't like to talk to her parents, she usually talks to him especially after Jon moved to Dallas.  He's apparently a good listener and doesn't judge her unlike her parents.  Although she does get the feeling she annoys him sometimes when she wants to talk while he's trying to exercise.

I put the last letter I read next to the box and rubbed my eyes.  I guess I was wrong.  There wasn't anything interesting.  I looked in the box.  There were still a little over a third of the letters left.  In my mind I weighed the pros and cons of giving up reading the rest versus continuing on.  I wanted to give up.  But my curiosity was still urging me on.  Whatever.  It's still better than zoning out, I guess.

I picked up the next letter and read through it.  The date on it read September 1, 2012.   My heart raced a little.  Now it was getting interesting.  The usual mundane details were replaced with some small town news.  It seems that some locals were hiking through the heavily forested hills that surround the town.  They went pretty far off into the wilderness when they ran into something quite interesting.  They found the old, mostly intact ruins of a cathedral that no one had known was there.  Stapled to the letter was an article from the local newspaper announcing what they found.  The local historians don't know for sure but think that the church was built by the French since it looked to have been built before the English controlled the area.  If that's the case they probably built it to convert a local group of natives called the Abenaki.  Interestingly, the church isn't a simple wooden building.  It was built out of stone like a lot of old churches in Europe.  That's quite a rarity in the New World, especially in a place that was so remote at the time.  No one knows why they built such a church.  The article also contained a picture of the smiling couple that found the church as well as a poor quality, black-and-white picture of the church itself.  The image of the church gave me a strange feeling.  I don't know if it was because the quality of the picture was so bad, but it looked rather sinister.

Any negative feelings I had were drowned out by my excitement though.  Even though there was a lot I don't know I've always had an interest in history.  And the uncovering of a mysterious church was about as good as it could get.  I felt pretty envious in fact.  It must be so great to actually be there and see it in person.

September 8, 2012.  Samantha talks about how St. Mary's Church is buzzing with excitement over the discovery.  Father Paulson, apparently the priest in charge of St. Mary's, has visited the ruins and given them his blessing.  The church is even planning a celebration in honor of the "town's Catholic history."  Samantha admits that even though she hasn't been to Mass in years even she has been caught up in the excitement.  Stapled to the letter is another article that rehashed the information from the last article but included a new photo taken from inside the ruins.  The picture is of a fairly intact mural that is a painting on the inside of the church of an unknown priest blessing an Indian.  The caption identifies the Indian as most likely Nescambious, the leader of a tribe of Abenaki who aided the French in their battles against the English.  He was even knighted by King Louis XIV and was known among the English as a "bloody devil" for often massacring women and children.

A mass murderer gets blessed by a priest?  That's organized religion for you.

September 15, 2012.  Samantha states that the celebration was a big hit with the town.  She states that Father Paulson has visited the ruins more and more.  There are even whispers that he's thinking about holding Mass in the ruins once they repair it a bit.  She then says that she went out to talk to the neighbor Mark about it one morning since he was so close to the church.  She was disappointed that he had visited the ruins once but doesn't want to go back.  He never gave her a real reason why.  He just said he had a bad feeling about it then went on his jog before she could ask any other questions.

September 22, 2012. Samantha says that Father Paulson and some members of the congregation have started repairing the ruins of the church.  They practically spend all day there.  Even some of her classmates go there after school to help out.  She hears that at the rate they're going the church should be serviceable within a few weeks since most of the damage was only due to half the roof collapsing.  Everyone in the town is excited because they're building it to look exactly like it probably looked when it was new.  Father Paulson specifically asked that it be completely authentic, using the same processes the French would've used during that time.

September 29, 2012. Samantha states that the word on the street is the repairs are almost nearly complete.  Father Paulson has even started performing special nighttime services after the day's work is finished for the congregational members and children who are working on the church.  He has also decided to live in the ruins for the time being, setting up a cot in a small room in the back of the church and bringing in some supplies such as food, water, and toiletries.  His reasoning is that he's getting older and the hike to the church through the woods, which takes a couple of hours, drains him too much.  The priest in charge of St. Mary's during Father Paulson's absence has expressed some worry that he hasn't seen any of the members at Mass since the work began, but he knows they will return once the job is complete so he's not terribly concerned.  She ends the letter by saying that their parents have even helped out with the repairs some, and that true to his word Mark has yet to return to the ruins despite everyone else's interest.

October 6, 2012.  Samantha says that the church's repairs have been completed.  Father Paulson has been holding services every night.  More and more people have started going to the new church.  She says she decided to go to a service at St. Mary's.  She notes that the church was nearly empty.  It felt weird.  The priest performing the service appeared upset that so many people had left.  Mark looked disappointed even though he wouldn't admit it to her afterwards.  Rumors were running wild about what Father Paulson was doing at the ruins.  Most of them were pretty silly, ranging from animal sacrifice to alien abduction.  She ends the letter by stating that a lot of the people are becoming nervous about the apparent split in the community.

I wondered why people would be so uptight about another church in the town.  How typical.  People don't like what they don't understand.  I picked up the next letter.

October 13, 2012.  Samantha opens the letter by stating that the mood in town has changed for the worse.  The priest in charge of St. Mary's had Mark write an open letter to the community urging those who had left to return.  She hadn't read the letter, but she heard from her friends that it wasn't hateful or aggressive.  They said it was just a friendly plea, stressing certain quotes from the scripture.  Neither Father Paulson nor his congregation has responded to the letter.  However, something about them has changed.  Even her parents, who leave every night after the sun goes down to attend services at the ruins, have changed.  She says during the day they seem so lifeless.  They have conversations with you.  They go to work and see friends after the business day is over.  But there's something missing.  It's like they're going through the motions.  They'll laugh if you tell a joke.  But it's like they do it not because they thought it was funny but because they were expected to laugh.  At night it's like they return to normal.  They laugh and joke and seem to have more energy once the sun goes down as they head off to services.  She says that dinner has become increasingly awkward.  Her parents have been urging her to go with them to the ruins.  They seem so normal when they ask.  But when she refuses it's like they return to their lethargic state.  She says it almost feels like they're just pretending to be normal to try to trick her into going with them.  After dinner, they leave for the ruins without saying goodbye.

Wow that's weird.  It almost sounds like they're drug addicts.

October 20, 2012.  Samantha claims that Father Paulson's congregation continues to change.  They've started to regain their personalities and life, she says, but something is off.  It's like they've become cruder.  They act rude just for the sake of hurting you.  When you get upset they just laugh at you.  Samantha says that when one of them approach people who don't go to the ruins for service the people leave instead of interacting with them, and that she has stopped eating dinner with her parents because they're so cruel and gross now.

October 27, 2012.  The letter is frantic, jumping from subject to subject without much cohesion.  It sounds like she had a scary week.  She says earlier in the week that the town seemed so empty.  Most of the people stopped driving their cars altogether.  They walk everywhere now.  The only people driving were the police and the few people who don't go to the ruins.  She went to school and there were so few students and teachers that they put all of the grades into just a handful of classrooms.  Father Paulson's congregation had pulled their children out of school a while back so there weren't many people to begin with.  But now there are even fewer.  Nobody knows where everyone is going.  She thinks they're tired of the town's atmosphere and leaving.  Samantha then states that a few days ago she was eating a peanut butter sandwich in her bedroom for breakfast while she was writing this letter when some movement outside her bedroom window caught her eye.  She looked outside and saw Mark coming out of his front door to go for his jog.  She waved at him.  He smiled and waved back.  She watched him for a second as he sat down on his driveway to stretch before turning around to return to the letter.  But before she turned away completely something caught her attention.  She looked out the window again.  A police car parked in front of Mark's driveway.  Two officers quickly got out of the car and approached him as he stood up.  Mark was smiling as it looked like he greeted him.  One of the officers said something.  Mark's smile turned to a frown, as if they told him news that worried him.  The officer who was speaking to Mark gestured towards Mark's front door.  Mark shrugged and led them into his home.  It seemed like an eternity had passed before the front door opened and the two officers stepped out into the darkness of the predawn morning.  It was still pretty dark.  The only light came from the streetlight a couple of houses down the road and the nearly full moon.  She says she couldn't tell for sure, but it almost looked like the right cheek of one of the officers had a cut on it.  The two officers looked completely emotionless as they walked to their squad car.  Samantha waited until the car drove off and was out of sight before she quietly opened her bedroom window, climbed outside, and ran across the street to Mark's house.  All of his lights were off.  She went up to his front door and lightly knocked.  She waited for an answer.  Nothing.  She then rang the doorbell a few times and waited.  Nothing.  She then went to the closest window on her left and looked into what she knew was his living room.  It was hopeless.  The inside of the house was pitch-black.  She wouldn't be able to see anything.  Once more, she went to the front door and rang the doorbell.  No answer.  She stiffened.  She thought she heard a car coming.  So she ran back across the street, climbed through her bedroom window, and then closed the window behind her.  She ends the letter by hoping that Mark is alright.

I held the letter in my hand, lost in thought.  Are the local police a part of whatever was happening at the ruins?  It all sounded so ridiculous.  But why would Samantha spend over two months lying to her own brother?  Does she just have an active imagination?  Is she trying to get her brother to move back to Vermont?  That idea sounded even more ridiculous than religious nut jobs taking over a city.

I put the letter down in the passenger's seat of my cab.  There was now a small mound of letters there.  I reached into the shoebox to pull out the next letter.  The box was empty.  I started to panic a little.  That's it?  That's how the story ends?  I don't even find out what happened to Samantha?  Damn.  I felt a little disappointed.

CLICK.  The metallic noise was so loud I thought it was a gunshot.  My cab shook slightly.  I jumped a little, the hair standing up on the back on my neck.  All I could imagine was that it was someone about to attack me.  My mind came back to reality.  I started laughing.  It was the gas pump.  My gas tank was full so the pump's nozzle automatically shut off.

I took one more look at the pile of letters and shook my head.  I wondered how it all ends.  Then I stood up out of the driver's seat, walked over to the pump, removed the nozzle from my cab, and returned it to its holder on the pump.

RECEIPT? Y/N

I hit the yes button.  Then I quickly turned around and screwed the gas tank's cap back on before returning my attention to the pump.

The receipt quickly printed, sliding out of the machine like a tiny white flag.  THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS.  HAVE A NICE DAY.

I took the receipt and put it in my pocket.  Sitting back down in my seat, I shut the cab's door.  Digging through the pile of letters, I found my keys at the bottom.  I started my cab and set the heater on its highest setting.  Winters in northeastern Texas aren't ever truly cold, but on some nights the chill can get to you after a while.

I reached over and picked up the black shoebox.  I figured I'd keep the letters.  Such a strange tale deserved better than ending up at the bottom of a dump.  Plus the police might come looking for them if it turns out to be true.

Holding the shoebox in my left hand, I reached my right hand over to start picking up the letters until something caught my eye.  I could've sworn the white bottom of the box shifted a little as I switched hands.     Taking a closer look, my heart felt like it skipped a beat.  It wasn't the bottom of the box.  It was a folded piece of white computer paper.  How could I have missed that?  I took out the paper and quickly put the letters into the box before setting the shoebox back on the passenger's seat.  I unfolded the paper.  Unlike the previous letters, it was an email.  A short email.  It was so short that it could easily be mistaken for a blank piece of paper if you weren't paying close enough attention.

I began reading it.

Friday, December 14, 2012 12:46:09 AM

From: "Samantha O'Hare" <patsgurl97@hmail.com>
To: "Jonathan O'Hare" <johare@metrocorp.net>

Subject: HELP

Bubba help me. Theyre monsters. Theyll kill me.  Hiding in HH high.  Theyre looking for me.  Please come.  HELP

December fourteenth?  That's today.  What the hell is going on?  I immediately thought of that customer in his business suit running into the airport.

I sat at that gas station lost in thought for what seemed like forever.  Suddenly I became aware of just how long I had been parked there.  I put my taxicab in drive and left the gas station.  Turning right onto the service road, I drove down before taking the first ramp onto 635 heading east.  My car raced down the highway.  Every now and then I glanced at the shoebox sitting silently in the passenger's seat.  I couldn't help but think of Samantha.

Ooooh!!!  I like this!

enjoyed by me as well

bloody cliff hanger

Thank you so much for the kind words, guys.   :)  I was honestly afraid nobody would like it, lol.

I think it's great!

You're building suspense incredibly well.

Thank you so much!   :)

IF YOU DON'T FINISH THIS I WILL REACH THROUGH MY COMPUTER AND STRANGLE YOU.  THAT IS HOW MUCH I AM ENJOYING YOUR STORY. :crankey:

I concur.  your continued well-being is on the line here.

I'd like to join this angry mob.

Write or die.

Whoa, that was AWESOME. I swear to bloody hell, I was preparing a snarky reply to 3 word story and you completely hijacked me with this... I started reading and forgot all about what I was doing before that moment! Very very well done. Keep going or you'll deal with an angry lynch mob, and that's just me.

Quote from: FROTISTED FUDGE CAK on November 27, 2012, 03:42:21 AM
Whoa, that was AWESOME. I swear to bloody hell, I was preparing a snarky reply to 3 word story and you completely hijacked me with this... I started reading and forgot all about what I was doing before that moment! Very very well done. Keep going or you'll deal with an angry lynch mob, and that's just me.

That is exactly how I ended up in this thread too.

 :lol:  I'll keep writing! I swear!  And I'm glad I got some of you with the title.  It made me laugh to think you would groan when you saw a three word story thread. :lol:

And this might sound stupid but thank you all for the support.  You guys have no idea how much that means to me.

I say we kill it and extract the sweet story meats directly from its brain!

Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 27, 2012, 03:49:28 PM
I say we kill it and extract the sweet story meats directly from its brain!

:lulz: :lulz: :lulz:

Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 27, 2012, 03:49:28 PM
I say we kill it and extract the sweet story meats directly from its brain!

:lol: :lol: :lol:

Quote from: holιst on November 26, 2012, 07:32:53 AM
I couldn't help but think of Samantha.

AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?

BUMP

I apologize for not posting sooner guys.  While I was writing some more, I got a bit stuck.  I couldn't decide exactly where I wanted to take the story and how I wanted to write it.  So I decided to write some unrelated short stories until I could figure out what to do.  Of course, having never even come close to having something resembling disclipline/self-control, I was sidetracked by the stories and completely forgot about the fact that I had been writing some more to it.  So again I apologize for making you guys wait.  I'm going to return to the story and get some more of that out to you guys as soon as possible.

In the meantime I'll post a couple of the short stories I wrote.



Stormy nervously sat in the hospital's waiting room next to a police officer wearing a grey uniform.  Her face was buried in her hands.  It took everything she had to keep from crying.  Her life had been turned upside down since she arrived home from work just a few hours ago.  It all began with two simple words:  "Knock.  Knock."

The rest was a blur. 

She remembered calling the police.  The looks of horror on the officers' faces.  The grey ambulance pulling up to the house.  The paramedics strapping him down and taking him away.  The questions.  God, the questions.  It was like the officers were mapping every second of his life.  Does he have any paraphernalia?  I don't know.  Where was he when?  I don't know.  Where could he have picked it up?  I don't know.  Does he know any other infected?  I don't know.  You know it's contagious, right?  Yes.    Do you think it has spread to you or your children?  No.  The next thing I knew I was in the hospital waiting to hear if I would ever have him back.

The waiting room door opened and a doctor wearing a grey lab coat stepped in.  His eyes quickly scanned the grey room before locking on to the woman sitting next to the police officer.

"Mrs. Weatherby?"  He asked.

"Yes?  How's my husband?  Is it curable?  Please, doctor.  Please tell me you can help him," she said as she stood and took a step towards the doctor.  Her stomach was in knots, but she refused to show it.  She had to be strong.

"I'm afraid it's worse than we thought.  He's . . . The illness is pretty severe."

"Oh God."  She couldn't help it.  The tears started streaming down her cheeks.

The police officer stood up and comforted her.  Looking at the doctor, he said," I was afraid of that.  When I arrived at the residence he was . . . I'm not sure how to describe it.  He was making some kind of strange sound.  It was like he couldn't breathe or something."

The doctor nodded.  "Yes, that's a common sign of the illness."

Stormy used the grey sleeve of her blouse to wipe her nose.  She asked the doctor," Can he be cured?"

"I'm not going to lie.  It's unlikely he will be cured, but we're going to try everything we can to get your husband back to normal, ma'am," the doctor answered.

She felt the tears swelling up again.  "What is it, doctor?"

"We don't actually know the specifics yet.  We believe it's some form of infantilism.  We can't be sure at this moment.  We're going to keep him here as long as it takes to find out though."

"Is there any way I can see him?"

"Ma'am, it's contagious so-"

"Please, doctor.  I need to see my husband one last time."

"Very well.  I'll see what I can do."

A few minutes later the doctor led her into the depths of the hospital.  At the end of a grey hall they waited as a security guard unlocked the door to her husband's room.

Sunny stepped into the room.  There he was in his hospital bed wearing a grey gown.  They had raised the front of the bed so he sat upright as if he were sitting in a chair.  She caught a glimpse of his face.  It was terrifying.  The corners of his lips were raised into some kind of U shape.  There was something strange and scary about his eyes.  It was too much for her to bear.  She turned and ran out the door.

She took the long way home.  She needed the time to think and calm down before she faced her . . . their . . . children.

She parked her car in front of her two-story, grey brick house.  She got out of the car.  She walked to the house.  Opening the front door, the sight of her two young boys wearing their grey school uniforms greeted her.

"Is daddy going to be alright?" one asked.

"I'm afraid daddy is going to be gone for a while," she answered.  Just having to say that almost made her heart break.

The two kids were crushed by the news.  They felt horrible.  They felt normal.

"Now go outside and play until it's dinner time," Stormy ordered before going up the stairs to her bedroom.

She opened the grey door to her husband's closet.  On the way home she thought she had remembered him having two boxes that he told her never to open.  Surely they held some answers.

She soon found them.  Two medium-sized, bright green boxes.  She instantly knew she wouldn't like what they contained.

She opened the first one and the sight of the box's contents made her heart sink.  It was all of his paraphernalia.  It was the reason why he had the sickness.  She didn't want to touch them, but she had to see what he had.  A rubber chicken.  A bright red nose that honked when pinched.  Glasses with slinkies on them that make it look like your eyes are popping out.  A flower that squirted water.  And a DVD about someone named Dave Chappelle.  She didn't know who he was, but she could guess that he was one of those sick freaks who loved to go to clubs all over the world to spread the illness.

She put the first box to the side and grabbed the second.  She opened it.  She nearly jumped out of her skin as spring-loaded plastic snakes shot out of the box.  It was too much for her.  She curled up into a ball and started wailing.

A couple of hours later after making dinner for the kids, showering, and putting on her grey nightgown, Stormy laid down in bed.  After such a horrible day she really needed to relax so she turned on the television and turned it to the evening news.  Story after story passed as she started to fall asleep.  BREAKING NEWS:  Man murders and eats family.  Schoolgirl commits suicide after being the target of a bully.  Deadly drugs are crossing the border at increasing rates.  Car crash leaves little boy motherless.  Drone strike kills 30 insurgents, including 27 children.  Later we'll tell you how breathing too much air will shave years off your life.  And now a word from our sponsors.

Stormy heard the news as she drifted off to sleep.  It made her feel horrible.  It made her feel good.  And for the first since she got home from work she knew everything would be alright.   

You've heard them before.  The story of the disembodied head.  The ghost in the attic.  The haunted hotel.  The hook on the car door.  The dead hitchhiker.  We've all heard countless ghost stories.  And like you I thought they were all a load of crap.  Stories told to scare anyone stupid enough to believe them.  But that was before I had a truly horrifying experience.  An encounter with the entity known as Branded.

I was in Phoenix, Arizona, a common stop on the pilgrimage to the Holy City.  I stood on a sidewalk, trying to decide where I should go from here.  I took my wallet out of my back pocket and checked to see how much money I had.  Just a single dollar bill.  I guess I had used up all my money.  So a bus or taxi was out of the question.  I could hitchhike.  But the idea of ending up naked and face down in a ditch wasn't too appealing.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

I coul- Wait, what the hell is that sound?

I turned around.  I wasn't expecting to see anyone so the figure that greeted me made me jump a little.

It was the strangest sight I had ever seen.  His face was marked by a toothy, open smile.  His eyes stared straight at me.  They were dead-looking but at the same time they looked like they could be full of amusement.  He sat on a rusted bicycle.  Every inch of the bike was rusted as if it had been at the bottom of an ocean for years.  Even the wheels were warped.  How he was able to ride such a bike, I didn't know.  But the strangest part about him was the fact that he wasn't moving.    I don't mean he wasn't riding the bike.  I mean he was literally not moving.  He wasn't breathing.  He wasn't fidgeting.  He wasn't even using his leg to keep him from falling over.  Both his feet were firmly planted on the rusty pedals.  It was like he was frozen in time.

The sight made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.  I turned back around and started walking away.  Maybe if I acted like I wasn't scared he would leave me alone.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

Oh God.  I quickly whipped around.  There he was.  In the exact same position.  Only this time he was a little closer to me.

"What do you want?"  I shouted at him.

Nothing.  He just stared at me.

"Leave me the hell alone!"

I turned back around and continued walking.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

Shit.  I walked a little faster.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

My skin started to crawl.  My heart beat faster.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

Screw this.  I started running.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

Oh God, he's keeping up with me.  I tried to run as fast as I could.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

My legs were burning.  My heart sounded like it was in my ears.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

I cursed myself for not losing weight.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

My legs felt like wet noodles.  My heart felt like it was going to explode.  I became light-headed.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

My vision started to blur.

Squeak.  Squeak.  Squeak.

I collapsed.  I didn't even feel it when I hit the sidewalk.  I was beginning to black out.  As my consciousness faded, it was all I could hear.

Squeak . . . Squeak . . . Squeak . . .

Darkness.

When I woke up it was night.  It would've been completely dark had it not been for the streetlight above.  Branded was gone. 

My head was swimming.  My chest burned.  It felt like someone had gone Kathy Bates on my legs.

I heard a jingling sound as I stood up.  What's that?  I reached into my pocket and pulled out four quarters.  What the hell?  I pulled out my wallet and opened it.  My dollar was gone.  I didn't know what else to do.  I put the wallet back in my pocket and slowly staggered down the street.

So if you're in the Phoenix area, be careful or he might find you.  I don't know who he is.  Or what he is.  Or where he came from.  Or why he's there.  All I do know is if you're unlucky enough to run into Branded, he will change you.