"The Evils of Polka Dots"

“And polka dots. Be sure to watch out for polka dots.”

I lowered the notepad I was writing in to my lap and turned my face to my old aunt. “Evil? What are you talking about, Aunt Catherine?”

The woman across the table was more than sixty years older than me, but still she looked at me with child-like eyes. “It’s a little-known fact that polka dots are the most evil thing in the known universe, Maggie. Never forget that.”

“How could polka dots be evil?” I asked, closing the notepad. I was definitely not writing anything else until she answered. “And besides, you told me that no magic is good or evil on it’s own. You said that it’s the user of the magic that chooses good or evil.”

“What patterns have we already covered?” Aunt Catherine asked, pointing at my notepad.

I groaned. It would be like her not to answer my question until I answered hers first. So I flipped my notepad back a page to where I had started writing a few minutes before. “Lesson three: magic in patterns.”

“Beautiful rendition of the title,” she said with a smirk.

“Plaid and tartan: holds enchantments of heightened physical abilities,” I read from the paper. “That’s why Scottish and English warriors wore it as part of their military uniforms for hundreds of years. Until people stopped believing in magic.”

“And part of why socks are still patterned with argyle today,” Aunt Catherine put in. “Be sure to add that part.”

I wrote in the margin as she spoke, then read more from my notes. “Houndstooth: power of persuasion. Someone working magic through houndstooth becomes very easy to follow.”

“Only black-and-white houndstooth,” Aunt Catherine corrected. “That’s why you see it so frequently on business attire. Someone wearing blue houndstooth can make their words have the opposite effect of what they say. And red houndstooth… well, that just looks ridiculous.”

I scribbled more notes next to what I had already written.

“And under that,” Aunt Catherine added. “Be sure to put, ‘Polka dots: pure evil’!”

I wrote what she told me. “Aunt Catherine, why are polka dots evil?”

“Why is the sun hot? Why is rain wet? We’re not meant to understand everything, Maggie. Some things just are.”

I wanted to tell her that I had learned why the sun was hot and why rain was wet in 6^th grade science class last month, but I held it inside. Instead, I asked, “If plaid holds physical enchantments, and houndstooth can make a person more convincing, what does magic worked through polka dots do?”

“Exactly what I told you. It does evil,” she replied, curling her hand like a claw when she said evil. “No matter what you try to do with your magic through polka dots, it comes out evil. Trying to make your friend lucky? They’ll get bad luck. Trying to get rid of an itchy rash? You’ll catch a worse rash. Trying to get school cancelled for the day? It’ll get smashed by an asteroid.”

I looked up from my notepad long enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s happened!” Aunt Catherine insisted. “Polka dots are no laughing matter! They’re seriously bad news! Why do you think they were so big in the 1950’s? We were in the middle of the Cold War! Everyone was having dark thoughts!”  

I knew nothing about the 1950’s, and I had no idea what a ‘cold war’ was, but if Aunt Catherine said so, then it made sense. I jotted it down on my notepad. “Hey Aunt Catherine,” I began. “Why does magic flow so easily through patterns?”

When she smiled, the lines beside her nose deepened. But instead of making her look older, they actually made her look more vibrant, more full of life. “Why, the same way everything flows through colors and patterns, Maggie,” she replied. “For example, describe what you’re wearing today.”

I looked down at my shirt. It was bright yellow, and on it there was a cartoon of a walrus with a huge handlebar mustache and a top hat. “Well, I’m wearing my fancy walrus shirt, a jean skirt, and gray leggings.”

“Why did you choose to wear those this morning?”

“Because it’s Monday, and fun clothes always cheer me up on Mondays, because otherwise it’s the worst day of the week.”

She lifted her eyebrows and gestured with her index finger. “See what I mean? Colors and patterns have a great effect on our emotions! Another example: when you think of people who are sad, like at a funeral, what color are they always wearing?”

“Black,” I responded instantly. 

“Good,” Aunt Catherine replied. “But black is not always a sad color. Black is reserved, inward-seeking. It doesn’t see to impose on others; it simply wishes to be itself, accepted. On that idea, what color is a bride’s wedding dress, usually? And what is it made from?”

“White,” I replied. “And usually something smooth, like silk or lace.”

“White is an extroverted color,” Aunt Catherine said. “White wants to be seen, to be heard. And magic worked through those slick fabrics repel other things – bad emotions, bad luck, bad magic – which only makes white that much more outgoing.”

I nodded, enthralled by her story-telling. “Tell me some more!” I prodded.

Aunt Catherine nodded sharply with her forehead. “Why? You haven’t written down what I just told you!”

I looked down. Though I hadn’t realized it, my notepad and pencil had fallen to the floor.

“Are you the next Weaver Apprentice, or ain’t ya?” Aunt Catherine said, but there was some laughter in her voice. “How am I going to teach you about the forces of creation and destruction, light and darkness, order and chaos, if you don’t write any of it down?”

I laughed a little and stuck my tongue out at her, but wrote down everything she had told me about weddings and funerals and black and white. “What about paisley? You know, the pattern on handkerchiefs? What kind of magic can you do with paisley?”

A sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, you’re not ready for paisley yet, sprout. That’s advanced level stuff. We’ll be lucky if we make it to gingham today.”

I playfully rolled my eyes at my great aunt, but continued to write as I hung on her every word. After all, I liked the Weaver Apprentice lessons. And, the longer she and I talked, the longer I got to put off doing my math homework. Win-win!

"Scrap Paper" - A "Sleepwalking" short story, by Graham Patrick Smith

Saturday, February 15th, was the four-year anniversary of the day I started on what would become Sleepwalking, the first novel in my young adult series, Who Was Veronica Dawson? Ronnie has come a long way in four years; four novels completed, gaining a literary agent, losing a literary agent, and starting the whole 'seeking publication and representation' process anew. 

In honor of Ronnie's fourth birthday, I wrote a new short story starring her. I hope you enjoy it. 

Oh god. Oh god, he noticed me staring. Oh god, oh god.

My breath quickened and I felt my heart thundering in my chest. I felt my face start to grow hot, so I quickly tried to bury it in my copy of Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry. I hoped it looked like I was absorbed in the book and not the boy sitting one row and one desk to the left of me.

Jonathan McGregor had sat in the same seat since the first day of school, and I had purposely taken the seat one row behind him, one desk to the right. It gave me a beautiful view of the side of his face, his awesome hair, and his muscular shoulders and arms.

And, of course, his butt, whenever he got up to sharpen his pencil.

Minutes before, I had been found myself in my usual trance of watching him instead of paying attention to Mr. Edwards, my English teacher. Jonathan’s pencil had slipped from his hand, bounced on the eraser, and flipped back into my shoe.

He had turned, looking for his pencil.

Our eyes had met. For one long, slow second, we were locked on to each other.

He had leaned for his pencil the same instant I had, on instinct alone. Our eyes had finally departed when I picked up his pencil by the eraser and handed it to him. He had taken it without our fingers even coming close to touching.

“Thanks,” he had said softly, in his gentle baritone.

My lips had stopped working and my mouth had filled with sand, so I had simply mumbled and retreated back to my book. When I looked up to Mr. Edwards, the page number that was written on the board was not even close to where I had opened the book.

Oh god, he knows. He knows, I continued to panic. He knows I was watching him all class period. He thinks I’m a total freak.

What was I going to do? I couldn’t just let him walk out of English class thinking I some kind of weirdo stalker. Even if that’s precisely what I was acting like.

What does it matter if he saw you? I asked myself. Just enjoy the view. You still have fifteen minutes of class to admire him.

I thought my inner monologue was trying to make me feel better, until it added, It’s not like it hurt your chances with him. You had zero chance of him liking you before, and you still have zero. Nothing lost, really.

I didn’t want to believe it, of course. I wanted to have hope that, for once in my life, the cute boy that I crushed on would actually return my feelings. Too often I daydreamed about having someone walk me to class, greet me in the morning by the attendance office, and kiss me good-bye when we got on separate busses at the end of the day.

My skin broke out in gooseflesh as a cold sweat started forming on the back on my neck. What would it feel like to kiss Jonathan McGregor?

Not like you’re ever going to find out, the voice inside of me said.

Something inside me flared to life, and I thought defiantly in reply, Oh, yeah? Watch me.

While the rest of the class continued to read, I rummaged around in my backpack until I produced a piece of lined paper. It was crumped and had been battered by weeks of textbooks, and it had some notes from Algebra scribbled on it from a few months ago. It would do.

Still trying to hold the book open with one hand to give the illusion that I was actually doing classwork, I smoothed out the paper with my arm and pulled a red pen from my pocket.  Before my brain could catch up with my gut impulse, I poured out my heart in red ink.

Jonathan,

Confession time. I think you’re really cute. Actually, I’ve thought you’re really cute since the beginning of the school year. Seriously; I just thought about kissing you, and I got goosebumps all over. I want to get to know you better. And then we can… you know… see where things go.

~ Ronnie (the girl behind you, to the right)

When I stopped to catch my breath, I was mortified at what I had written. The mean voice in my head was laughing hysterically at me when I wadded it up and shoved it back into my backpack. If anyone would have walked by and seen it, I would have been absolutely mortified.

That might have been coming on a little strong, I told myself. Try it again.

Mr. Edwards called for an end to the silent reading and started asking discussion questions, a telltale sign that we were in the last five minutes of class. I was running out of time to get it right.

I rummaged in my backpack again until I found another piece of scrap paper. Without bothering to smooth it out, I started writing. This time, I made a conscious effort to tone down my teenage hormones.

Jonathan,

So here we are. English class, huh? I mean, we already speak English; isn’t that enough?  Ha ha.

~ Ronnie (the girl behind and to the right of you)

I wadded it up and crammed it into my backpack the second I had finished it. The mean voice howled with laughter in my head even before I had produced another piece of wrinkled notebook paper. My pen flew across the paper, scrawling words conjured by my frantic brain.

Jonathan,

Sorry for staring earlier. Well, not really… see, I think you’re cute. So it’s hard not to stare. Sorry if that creeps you out. (Also, not really sorry)

~ Ronnie (the girl behind and to the right of you)

Before some base, lower portion of my brain destroyed the note, I placed it between the pages of my copy of Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and closed the book shut. An inch of paper stuck out of the end of the book, making it completely obvious.

At first, the demeaning voice in my head started laughing again. When I stood from my desk, it’s laughing diminished. And when I stepped forward and placed my book on Jonathan’s desk, so the piece of paper inside was facing directly at him, the voice shrieked in horror.

Oh, wait. That was just my common sense.

What the heck are you doing?! Screamed every shred of common sense in my body.

I was so nervous that it felt like I was tingling all over. But I was in too deep to back out now. Any second, he was going to pick up the book, notice the note I had left him, and finally know how I felt about him.

In the middle of a class full of people.

Oh, god. What had I done?

The flood of teenage hormones in my brain that had made this attempt at flirting seem like a good idea was instantly burned away in an inferno of fear. And not wimpy fear, either, like walking through a dark house in the middle of the night. This was lower-brain-function Fear, with a capital F, like our ancestors had the first time they had to outrun a saber-tooth tiger.

Like the cavemen of old, I was afraid for my life.

A total of three seconds had passed since I had placed the book on Jonathan’s desk. On the fourth second, I reached down to take it again, before I did something even more stupid (although I wasn’t sure how I could possibly achieve that). But also in that fourth second, Mr. Edwards took both books from the desk and added them to the stack in his arms.

In the fifth second, the bell rang to end class.

Time returned to its normal speed. Jonathan gathered his things and left the room with the rest of the students.

Mr. Edward took the stack of books to the bookshelf behind his desk and started placing them inside, where they would stay until they were randomly passed out to the class tomorrow: when someone in class would find my note containing my feelings for Jonathan, complete with mine and his names written on it.

The inferno of turn had turned into a full-blown Chicago fire. And I was Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

Oh, god. What have I done?   

"Coveralls"

I wrote this short story when given the prompt "Soot" by a competitive writing community. I grew up in eastern Kentucky, the mountains of Appalachia, the heart of coal mining country. Appalachia, the mining industry as a whole, and the people associated with both, often get poor publicity. And although prescription drug abuse has infected the area like a plague, most people from the area have always been hard working, salt-of-the-earth individuals, simply providing for their families. Among them are my father and grandfather, who both went into coal mines for as many years as their bodies would allow. My grandfather's name is Elmer. 

"Coveralls" 

His knees ache so badly when he lowers himself into bed that, for just a moment, the releif takes his breath away. The springs creak with his weight. A slow exhale, from a breath he didn't realize he was holding, escapes his lips in time with his body sinking into the matress. 

"Elmer? Did you get in bed with your boot on?" 

He looks down. He's just in a t-shirt and his undershorts, but bunched around his feet are his coveralls. When he'd arrived home, he'd been in such a hurry to unbutton the coveralls and take them off that he hadn't removed his boots. Now the coveralls are bunched around his feet. When he wiggles his toes, though, he can still feel the boots' protective steel plate, laced in place. 

He looks like a banana with a persistent, blue peel. "I did, Betty. I'm sorry. Will you help me get them off?" 

There are footsteps through the house, but it's not his wife that enters. Instead a bright little face, framed by bouncing brown hair, charges into the room. "I'll help you, daddy!" She says, stumbling to a stop by the end of the bed. 

Sweet Cathrine. "Thank you, Kitty," he says with a smile, sitting up and dropping his legs over the side of the bed. His knees make him wince, but Cathrine doesn't notice. She simply busies herself with unlacing the tall books and yanking them with all her might. He still does most of the work, but seeing her desire to help warms his heart like nothing else. 

After all, it's why he goes into that mine every day. 

With the boots now discarded on the floor, he is free to extricate himself from the coveralls. His wife enters the bedroom with their youngest, his son, on her hip. Cathrine wipes her brow with her hand, smearing a black streak over her eyebrows. 

He laughs. Betty frets, with a smile, "Kitty, look at you! You've got coal dust on your face!" 

Cathrine looks at her mother, then he father, and exclaims, "I look like daddy, now!" With reckless abandon she climbs into her father's lap, over his aching knees. He barely notices as he takes her into his arms. 

"Will you make sure she gets washed up before dinner?" Betty asks him, smiling. 

Careful not to make her even dirtier with his own blackened face, Elmer smiles and nods. 

"Hello Darkness, My Old Friend" - A Beck and Tansly short story.

This short story focuses on a character named Beck, whom I've written a little about in previous entries. I've punched out a few snippets of his story, which I keep thinking is worthy of something novel-length. Oh well... maybe I'll get to it one of these days, after I've cleaned the other writing projects off of my plate. 

Title: Hello Darkness, My Old Friend 

Prompt: Phase 

Word Count/Warnings: 575 words, rated PG-13 for some crude inner monologue. 

Author: Graham Smith 

Tansley screams in my ear. I simply pat her back and stroll through the shack once again. “Come on,” I whisper for the seventeenth time. “Just stop crying. Stop crying. Everything is okay. Please stop crying.”

The six-month-old doesn’t understand what I’m saying. That, or she can understand me, and simply doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I know it’s the first one, that’s there’s no real way she can understand me. But, in my delirious state of sleep deprivation, I get a little laugh out of the first thought.

“You can’t understand a word I’m saying,” I coo softly, covering my little shack in five steps again. I happen to glance at the clock radio by the table on my pass, and notice it's three-twenty-five in the morning. I have to be at work in three hours and thirty-five minutes.

In my most sickeningly sweet voice, I say, “If I ever see your mom again, I’m going to beat her in the head with a wrench. Yes, I am. Yes, I am.”

Of course, I will never do that. I am not a violent person, by any stretch of the imagination. But, after her short-lived, despondent attempt at motherhood, Amanda disappeared from our apartment months ago. Unable to raise the baby by myself, I left Tansly with my parents and drove west, finally stopping at a little town in New Mexico, deep in the Mojave desert.

I’m not sure how Amanda found me. But she did, two days ago, and she brought Tansly. After one night together, one night where she waved our old relationship in my face, reminded me of what we could have had together, she disappeared. Again.

And she left the baby with me. Again.

I can’t be late for work again. It’s the only thing keeping gas in my car. The only thing keeping food in my stomach. The only thing keeping me in the pathetic little shack in the middle of the desert.

I have to be at work in three hours and thrity minutes.

Tansly screams louder, for some unknown reason.

“Just shut up and go to sleep,” I whisper soothingly, trying to bounce her a little in my arms. It simply elicits more screams.

I am so sleepy that I can barely stand, but somehow I get the front door open and step outside into the cool evening. Nothing stays hot for long in Mojave nights, so I cuddle the baby a little closer to me in the chilly air. She’s wrapped in a blanket; there’s no way she should be able to feel anything beyond its warm embrace. Still, she manages to find something to scream about.

Tansly’s not hungry. She ate three hours ago, when she first woke up. Her diaper isn’t dirty. She’s just crying the “Screw you, I’m a baby!” screams of an unhappy toddler.

I want to call my mom and ask what to do. But it’s the middle of the night. Not to mention that she’s an hour ahead of me, back in Wisconsin. It’s even closer to morning, for her, although she’s probably been in deep, deep sleep for hours now.

More screaming.

I have to be at work in three hours and twenty-five minutes.

“It’s just a phase, it’s just a phase, it’s just a phase,” I tell myself as I tread, dream-like, semi-conscious, in circles under the clear, black sky of the Mojave. 

12-17-13: My 31st Birthday, the King of Excuses

Holy crap, folks. It's been a while.

Last time I posted, I was getting ready for another Miles for Missions project for the month of November, the proceeds going toward my mission trip to Guatemala in June of 2014. Even though it's usually one of the best months for running in the whole year (weather-wise), I only logged an anemic 56.75 miles in November.

I have a lot of excuses for why November was so pitiful. For one, the weather was terrible. Cold rain and drizzle more days than not. And I feel like I've been fighting off a head cold for three months: nasal drainage and sore throat do not for a pleasant run make.

Then again, these are excuses. I could have hit the treadmill (as much as a despise it) to simply log a few miles and keep in shape. I could have used the stationary bike as a cross-training exercise. I could have done something. But I didn't, and I lost what should have been a phenomenal month, not just for my running but for Miles for Missions.

Short aside: Thanks to the people who stepped up and sponsored me this month! It means so much that you'd be willing to put your hard-earned cash on the line, especially during the holiday season (when dispensable income is so scarce). I sincerely appreciate it, and I'll be sending you pictures from Guatemala.

Aside over.

With November solidly behind me, I look to December to make up for my missed opportunities. It hasn't started out well: I missed the only half marathon I signed up for this fall, the Christmas on the Country Music Highway Half Marathon because of snow and ice storms. Which leaves me without a race until the end of March.

And here I am, on my 31st birthday, wondering if I'm even going to be able to run a half this spring, much less the Flying Pig Marathon this May. All because of missed opportunities.

If there's one thing I have learned over the last few months and years, its that life isn't really linear; it's more like a record, spinning ever so slowly. The needle will eventually get to almost the same place on a record after a full revolution, but it doesn't exactly sound the same. Sure, there are patterns in the rotation, and it's pretty easy to tell sometimes how long it will take the needle to get back around to a familiar place on the black vinyl. But it's not going to sound the same.

I've gotten into vinyl lately. The metaphor seemed solid.

In my 31 years, I've pissed away many things. Mostly time. And, most regrettably, opportunities. And most regrettably among the most regrettable are the times when others have depended on me. I  realize that it's not the end of the world if I didn't raise a lot of money for my Guatemala trip, since the trip is still a few months off and there will be other fund raising opportunities. But it is simply a reminder of the time I waste, the chances I could have had, if I had only taken some initiative.

Obviously, there will always be opportunities in this life we miss. Missed opportunities notwithstanding, there will always be things out of our control that create legitimate reasons to miss chances (I swear I have been fighting the same head cold for three months now. Thanks, Obamacare! <sarcasm>). But I've done a lot of growing over the last few years, what with all the drastic changes my life has taken. I still make excuses for many things, but they're getting fewer.

With some effort, I'll stop making excuses in all aspects of my, beginning with running.

See you all later this month. I'm in no way done with December.

"Bits and Pieces" - a sequel to "Seeing Through the Mask", from Nov. 1, 2011.

My first new short story in too many months! This one is actually the sequel to a story I wrote way back in 2011, called Seeing Through the Mask. I strongly recommend reading it before taking in this story.

Happy Halloween, everyone!



"Bits and Pieces" 

“Jenny?” I cried, trudging up the leaf-strewn hill.  “Jenny! Are you here?” 

The wind kicked up, sending leaves cascading over my tennis shoes.  Briefly my left foot slipped, but I caught myself with one hand before I hit the grass. But not at the loss of my paper coffee cup, which bounced once on the grass before the top sprang off and its contents spilled out all over the ground. 

“Dammit!” I screamed, staring at the steaming place on the dead grass.  I had really been looking forward to that cup of coffee.

But more than that, I had been looking forward to seeing Jenny again. It had been a year since we had laid eyes on each other. I had been looking forward to this day since  we had first met, on Halloween the year prior.

I pulled myself upright again and zipped up my sweatshirt against another sudden breeze.  The trees in the old cemetery groaned and creaked, their damp, dead limbs protesting the movement. The breeze brought with it the smell of dead things: decaying leaves, old moss, and cold stone. 

That was why I always came to the cemetery to write my breed of dark poetry; it always seemed to put me in the mood to contemplate the fruitless dichotomy of life and death.

Most people would have laughed and dismissed my work immediately at the mere phrase “fruitless dichotomy of life and death.” But not Jenny. She was one of the few people who really wanted to hear what I had written, to get to know the deeper me beneath the metaphors.  Even though we had only spent that one afternoon together last year, I knew I had to see her again.

“Jenny, are you here?” I called. “It’s me, Claire. I brought a lot of new material this year.”

I finally crested the top of the hill, the highest point in the cemetery. This was my old go-to spot, where I came every Halloween to surround myself in the macabre. Last year was the first year I had ever been joined by anyone; I had gotten lucky, in finding Jenny.

This year, I wasn’t as lucky. A skinny man sat at the base of the tree. He wore glasses that looked too big for his face, and at least three sweaters against the chill in the air. The result made him look like a turtle, poking its thin neck out from an overstuffed, puffy shell. The frock of thinning hair on the top of his head stood out at comical angles in the breeze.

“Oh, hello,” he said awkwardly, blinking two magnified, muddy-brown eyes at me from behind his glasses. “I heard you shouting. Are you looking for someone?”

As my old introversions took over, I pulled my Chicago Bulls cap down further over my face. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lied. “I… um… I probably should be going.”

I had responded before I had even thought about what to say. I only got to see Jenny once a year; I couldn’t leave yet!  But I didn’t want to sit next to that creepy-looking guy. Something about him gave me the willies. Besides, I had no idea if she would even appear if I wasn’t alone at the top of the hill.

“Oh, it’s okay,” the guy continued.  “I won’t disturb you. You can sit, if you like. I’m not going to be here much longer, and I don’t want you to miss your friend.”

He was sitting in my spot. This was my fifth year in a row at the cemetery on Halloween, and my second year in a row with Jenny. It wasn’t fair that he was taking my spot.

Still, he got there first. And at least he wasn’t going to stay long. Maybe Jenny would appear after he left. “Okay, thanks,” I said. I trotted around to the other side of the tree and planted my rear on the thick roots. From my backpack I produced my composition notebook, the one I had covered with Sharpie doodles of skulls and ghosts. 

Last Halloween, Jenny had showed me that, if I let my eyes unfocus and cleared my mind, I could see the spirits of the people buried in the cemetery wandering around. Halloween night was apparently the one time of the year when the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was  thinnest.  It has something to do with why Mexican culture celebrates the Day of the Dead on November 1^st.

It was also why today was the only day of the year I could see Jenny. 

I had chosen my old spot because of the view it allowed me of the rest of the cemetery. The view from the other side of the tree simply showed off the dead scrub of thorns and weeds that grew at the base of the tree, separating the other side of the hill from the rest of the cemetery.

This sucks, I moped, opening my composition book.

“So, did you say your name is Claire?” The guy’s voice said, from the other side of the tree.

Great. First he takes my spot, then he tries to force me into awkward small talk. I briefly contemplated throwing myself into the thicket of brambles, but then I thought better of it.  “Yeah,” I begrudgingly said, flipping through the pages in the notebook.

“I’d say  Claire is a funny name for a boy, but I’d say you’re probably tired of hearing it,” the guy replied with an awkward chortle. 

My short hair, lack of make-up, and unflattering clothing had yet again brought out the razor wit in the best of society. As if I didn’t get enough of that at school. Then why bother saying it, asshole? I wondered. Instead of retorting, I chose to simply remain silent; with any luck, the guy would take my silence as indication he should leave, and then Jenny would feel free to come out. 

On the most recent page of my notebook, I had drawn a (very terrible) cartoon of me and Jenny, the way I pictured we looked last year at my place on the hill.  Me, in my hoodie and cap, she in her school girl uniform, one knee-length stocking, and one black leather shoe. 

Something like electricity suddenly filled the air around me. It was nothing I could perceive with my normal senses; it had no appearance, no sound, and no physical feeling. But something happened, there in that moment, which made me feel warm and alive and happy again. Like I had felt when Jenny was around. 

At the bottom of the page in my notebook, a single line of beautiful script appeared, as if written by an invisible pen held by an invisible hand.

It’s him.

I froze, staring at the page. I wasn’t afraid. The feeling the air, the way I felt her with my senses in a way that was nearly impossible to explain, told me that she was near. It was the words that she had written on my page that gave me pause. 

When Jenny appeared to me last year, she only had one leg. She said that when she had been murdered, the previous February, the killer had taken her left leg. It was the signature of the Doll Parts Killer. The police had been unable to catch him for more than ten years. Every four or five months or so, another body popped up, each one missing a piece. The police assumed the killer kept them as trophies, like some sick big-game hunter.

My hands starting to shake as the realization of what Jenny had written on the page sunk in. I took a pen from my pocket and scrawled on the page beneath the script:  Are you sure? 

IT’S HIM, CLAIRE.

I stood so quickly that my notebook fell to the grass and I toppled my backpack, spilling its contents at the base of the tree. I stood for a moment, listening, but I heard nothing except for the light echo of traffic from the road, a few hundred yards away. Somewhere among the graves, a crow cawed. 

“So what brings you out here, all alone, on a night like this?” 

I jumped at the voice and spun to find the awkward-looking man only feet from me. He had come around the other side of the tree with barely a sound at all.

The half of my brain that told me to run for my life prevented the half that tried to stay calm from speaking. I choked on some words that slipped from my throat in an unintelligible murmur. The trying-to-stay-calm half gestured at the spilled writing materials.

“Oh, let me help you pick them up,” the man said, taking a step closer to me. He knelt at my feet and started gathering my pencils and books.

Good thing the run-for-your-life part of my brain was still partially in control. I took a step backward, away from the man, which put me nearly out of his arm’s reach when he lunged for me.

He grabbed my left foot and pulled hard, which set me off balance. I fell hard on my butt on the wet grass. He pulled me a few inches closer to him by my foot. He was stronger than he looked.

I screamed and kicked with my right foot. He dodged, faster than a guy who looks so gangly should be able to dodge, and grabbed my right shoe with his other hand. I twisted and kicked my feet, but he had intertwined his fingers with my shoelaces and held tight.

“Stop screaming,” he grunted through gritted teeth, pulling with both hands again. “If you stop screaming, I won’t hurt you.”

I screamed harder as I slid a few inches along the grass, closer to him.  “Help!” I cried, twisting my legs as hard as I could. “Someone! Anyone! Help!” 

On his knees, he released one of my feet and lunged his newly freed hand for my face. I managed to get my free knee between him and me, but he was too close for me to kick my way free.

Then I remembered the pen in my hand, which I had used to write my reply to Jenny’s disembodied message. I thrust as hard as I could and plunged the pen into the palm of the man’s hand.

He screamed and flinched away far enough for my free kneecap to become my free leg. I planted the sole of my shoe as hard as I could into his nose. His head flipped back like a Pez dispenser, and my other shoe was suddenly free of his  hand. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

In the movies, action like that would have bought me plenty of time to run away. In real life, it felt like only a second before I heard footsteps following me down the hill. “Stop running! Stop screaming!” He yelled, his weasely voice full of rage. “You’re just going to make it worse!”

I didn’t realize I was still screaming.

I ran toward the road. If there were other people around, he would leave me alone. Someone would come to help me.

But the cemetery was huge, and the road was a long way away. My lungs burned from the cold air and my legs ached from wrestling with the stranger and running full speed down the hill. A stitch, like a cold knife, tore at my side.

A row of stone mausoleums, each more than ten feet tall and at least as long, came into view. I recognized them: the nine structures made a three-by-three grid. Each held four caskets, one on top of the other.

I darted among them, and when I was sure I was sufficiently hidden, I pressed my back against the cold stone and tried to will my heart to stop pounding in my ears. Behind me I heard shoes come to a stop on the grass.

He’s trying to find the best place to enter, said a voice in my head. It was warm, soothing, and kind.

Jenny! I thought, and I nearly melted from relief.

He’s two monuments to your left, Jenny said. Move around the right side of your block.

I did as Jenny instructed. Somewhere close by, shoes crunched on dead grass. A frustrated grunt met my ears.

Rotate again, same direction, Jenny said. That will leave you facing the road.

Again, I did as she told me. I was now facing the outside of the mausoleums, and I could see the road some hundred yards away.

He’s still looking for you. You have to run for it.

My heart lept in my chest. I can’t leave yet!  I haven’t gotten to see you!

Jenny’s voice was frantic. Claire, you have to go, now! This is your only chance!

But I won’t get to see you for another year! I protested. I felt on verge of tears, and, to my surprise, they weren’t from fear.

There will be many more years! Jenny said. But only if you get out of here alive! I care too much about you to let this bastard have you, too!

You’re the only one who’s ever gotten to know me, I replied.

And you’re the only one who’s ever known me, Jenny said, her voice thick with emotion. But Claire, if you care about me at all, please save yourself! Run!

The conversation had happened in less than the blink of an eye; at the speed of thought. I gritted my teeth, squinted the tears out of my eyes, and ran as if my life depended on it. Because it literally did.

It took the pursuing footsteps a few seconds to figure out which was I was going, but then they thudded behind me. Panic filled my chest and I ran until my heart felt like it was going to explode and my legs felt like they were made of hot slag.

I love you, I thought to Jenny as I approached the cemetery gate and my body screamed for me to stop.

I love you, too, she replied as I stepped past the gate and into the parking lot.

I didn’t stop until I got to the road. When I finally had the nerve to turn around, the man was gone. In full sight of all cars on the road, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911.

Police arrived. Armed, they went into the cemetery to find the guy who had chased me. He was nowhere to be found, but they did recover all my stuff from the top of the hill.

I wanted to go back in with them. I wanted to talk to Jenny again. But they wouldn’t allow it.

My parents showed up. A news crew interviewed me the next morning. A police sketch of the man went on every news station in three states.

I had no idea why the Doll Parts Killer was in the same cemetery as me on Halloween night. I would have asked Claire for some insight, but by the time I made it back to the cemetery, days later, there was no answer from her. 

So I decided what I had to do.

First, I had to find another way to talk to Jenny. I needed her.

Second, I had to catch the Doll Parts Killer.