Sitting on the couch and savoring his coffee, Mark reached for the remote and tuned the TV to ESPN to watch the previous night’s sports highlights. Even with all the sports action on the television and caffeine coursing through his system, Mark felt his eyelids begin to droop. He chugged the rest of the coffee, went to the kitchen to start another pod, and punched Keith’s number into his phone. It came back with a busy signal, which let him know that his friend was now up and ready to tackle the day.

  He waited until the coffee was ready, then headed for the shower, quickly cleaning himself up, feeling much more awake as the hot water washed over him. Mark toweled himself off, dressed quickly, and tried calling Keith again. This time, the phone rang on the other end of the line, but after four rings, it went to voicemail. He waited a moment and dialed again, only to get the same result. This time, he left a message. “Hey, mate, it’s Mark. I’m heading your way now. See you soon.”

  While he was sure everything was fine, a small knot began forming in his gut. Mark was convinced that he was unnecessarily worried about his friend, but he had a niggling feeling that something was off. He tried calling one more time, and when the voicemail kicked in again, he snatched up his car keys and bolted for the door. “I’m coming, Keith, and you’d better not be drinking.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keith looked on in horror as the grey fingers drummed against the side of the urn. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to talk himself down. This is not real, and it will not break me. I’m having a hallucination, and it will not break me.

  He looked again, and the fingers had become a full arm reaching out of the urn. The hand landed on the table, scrabbling around for purchase as the thing looked to extricate itself from inside the vessel fully. It grabbed onto the edge of the table and began to pull, the skin around the knuckles cracking open to reveal bones that looked as sharp as incisors.

  Rooted to the spot, Keith watched as the body emerged from the urn, elongating to force itself through the small opening. He thought of Mr. Fantastic from the comic books he read as a kid and almost laughed, but as the body coming out of the urn began to take shape, all thoughts of humor left him.

  The thing was old, its skin hanging loose and looking like wet leather, wrinkled and malleable. The arms and legs were long and thin, the bone joints exposed as its flesh continued to tear and repair. A pair of small breasts sagged and leaked viscous black fluid from the nipples, and while it was all horrifying, it was the face that finally sparked Keith into action.

  The thing emerging from the urn was Mary Godelj. She grinned widely, revealing a set of blackened teeth sharpened to points, when she saw the look of recognition on his face. “Hello, boy. I told you there was nowhere to hide.” Mary turned her head to the side, her neck splitting open as she did so, revealing the axe wound inflicted by Rebecca Mills all those years ago.

  Keith looked around, desperate to find something with which to protect himself, and his eyes fell on the knife he’d used to open the box.

  Following his gaze, Mary saw the knife and looked back at Keith, an evil glint in her black eyes. “Take it, boy. It’ll make the game much more fun.” Now fully out of the urn and standing on the table, she kicked the knife, which flew across the room and landed at Keith’s feet. “What are you going to do, little one? Are you going to run and hide again?”

  Keeping his eyes on the hag, Keith reached down and grabbed the knife, gripping the handle tight as he willed his hand to stop shaking. “What do you want from me?” he screamed.

  “I want to finish what I started. I took your father, put the poison in your mother, and now I want you, little one.” She pointed at him with a long, bony finger. “Once I deal with you, the house will be mine again.”

  “You can’t have it. You’re going to need to go through me to take it.”

  Mary hopped off the table, her long toenails digging into the hardwood. “That’s the spirit. Shall we begin?”

  THE THIRD STRAIGHT traffic light turned red, leaving Mark fuming behind the wheel. “Oh, come on,” he said, banging his palms against the steering wheel. While waiting for the lights to change back to green, he tried calling again but only got a voicemail.

  THE VIBRATION OF THE phone on the hardwood floor caught Mary’s attention. Reaching up, she grabbed a handful of grey hair and pulled her head back into its rightful position. She reached down and flipped the phone over, revealing the name “Mark” on the screen.

  Keith thought about making a move to grab the phone, but he was too slow.

  Mary picked it up and crushed it in her hand, pieces of glass and plastic flying in all directions. “Oops,” she giggled. She tossed the remaining phone pieces aside and said, “Where were we? Oh, I remember now. Playtime.”

  When she charged, Keith’s brain finally kicked into action, engaging the fight or flight mode that sent him running for the front door. Mary blocked his path, throwing her body against him and knocking Keith to the floor.

  “There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. You’re mine now.”

  Scooting along the smooth floor on his backside, Keith held up the knife. “Get the fuck away from me. I’ll kill you again, just like my mother did.”

  “She didn’t do a very good job, did she? Then again, she never knew what she was dealing with.”

  Keith continued to move backward and eventually reached the door leading to the storage space under the stairs. He threw the door open, grabbed the key, and locked himself inside. Through the small gap between the base of the door and the floor, he could see Mary’s feet, those long toenails poking into the tight space.

  Everything went quiet for a moment, and then Mary began to whisper, speaking in an ancient and hypnotic language. The cramped space grew warmer as a pulsing red light cast an eerie glow. Keith whipped his head around, looking for the light source, which he discovered emanating from the strange symbols he had seen on the night of his father’s murder.

  The paint began flaking off the walls, revealing more of the symbols, all of which shone as bright as neon lights. The door started to rattle, the hinges groaning in protest, and then the handle flew off, missing Keith’s head by a matter of inches.

  Mary pulled the door free and leaned down to peer inside. “There you are, boy. Come on out of there and prepare to die.”

  MARK TURNED HIS CAR onto Keith’s street, the tires screeching as he took the corner much too fast. He eased off the gas pedal and returned to a speed that wouldn’t have the neighbors thinking it wise to call the police and report the crazy drag racer on their street.

  Looking ahead, he saw Keith’s car parked out front. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The parked vehicle meant that Keith was home, but had it been gone, it may have explained why he could not answer any calls. He decided it was a good sign, but that all changed when he pulled into the sidewalk and saw the front door of the Mills’ house sitting wide open.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Keith winced in pain as Mary wrapped her hand around his ankle and tugged, trying to extricate him from his hiding spot. He slashed at her arm with the knife, opening up a serious gash that seemed to have zero effect. He sliced again, cutting deeper and feeling the blade connect with bone. That got her attention as she howled in pain and released her grip.

  “You like that, bitch? Come get some more.”

  Mary stood and ran toward the dining room, her toenails tippy-tapping on the floor. Seeing his opportunity, Keith dove out of the storage space and headed for the front door. He knew the cops would never believe his story, but he’d worry about that once he got free.

  Just as his hand brushed the doorknob, he felt a tug on the back of his shirt. Keith fell backward, arms pinwheeling as he fell. He went down hard, his tailbone striking the hard floor and sending a jolt of pain up his spine.

  “Not so fast, little one. Don’t you want to have a drink with your Aunt Mary?”

  Keith spun around, swinging the knife, which Mary easily dodged. In her hand, she held a bottle of bourbon with the top off. Keith could smell the scent of liquor drifting out of the bottle, tickling his nostrils and making his mouth water. He licked his lips, imagining what the amber liquid would feel like sliding down his throat.

  “NO,” he yelled. “THIS WILL NOT BREAK ME.”

  Mary cackled loudly, her head flopping sideways again as the wound in her neck reopened. Black blood seeped from the injury and trickled slowly down Mary’s body, the sticky discharge oozing into the folds in her flesh. She ran a finger through the blood and touched it to her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head as she savored the taste. “I think I’ve discovered the perfect mixer.” She placed her blood-soaked digit into the bourbon bottle and swirled it around, mixing it with the liquor. “Are you ready for a drink, little one? You know you want it.”

  Mary placed her foot on Keith’s chest and forced him into a prone position on the floor. He stabbed at her leg, the tip of the knife catching bone and wedging itself inside the hag. The wound closed quickly, and no matter how hard Keith tugged, the blade would not come free.

  “That hurts, boy, but it’s nothing like the pain your family put me through. They tossed me out on the street like garbage, me boy and me. THEY TOOK MY HOME!!”

  Keith shook his head frantically, sending beads of stinging sweat into his eyes. He blinked furiously. “No, they didn’t. It was the bank. They did it, and they foreclosed on the house.”

  “Do you think of me as stupid, boy? I understand how the world works. We all blame others, refusing to take ownership of our actions. I am no different. I blame you and your family for what happened to us. The time to pay is now.”

  The pressure on his chest tightened as Mary pushed down on Keith’s chest. “I’ll leave,” he gasped.

  Mary stared at him, unblinking.

  “I’ll leave today. You can have the house. I don’t want it.”

  Mary tapped her index finger against her lips, her tongue darting out for a taste of blood and bourbon cocktail. “I do not accept this offer,” she finally said.

  “Please,” Keith begged. “I don’t want to die.

  “Death is not so bad. It’s how it comes that is the difficult part.” She smiled. “Your death will not be pleasant.”

  The pressure on his chest became almost too much to bear, and Keith began to see black dots dance before his eyes. He reached for the knife handle and pulled again, crying out in frustration as it refused to budge.

  “Open up, little one,” Mary said as she tilted the bourbon bottle and let the liquid fall.

  Lips closed tight, Keith turned his head to the side as the alcohol splashed down on his face. The bourbon spread out in all directions, like tributaries of the Nile, with some of it touching his lips. He became dizzier still as the fumes reached his nostrils, and he could feel the darkness closing in.

  “I told you to open up,” Mary screamed, stomping down on Keith’s chest. His mouth flew open involuntarily, and the alcohol made its way inside. He coughed and sputtered, but the steady stream continued unabated, like some alcohol-fueled water torture.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Keith felt a hand close around his neck. He prayed for death, hoping Mary would crush his windpipe and put him out of his misery. Instead, she lifted him as though he weighed nothing, tossed his limp body over her shoulders, and carried him upstairs.

  As they passed the front door, Keith made one last desperate grab for the handle. He managed to get a firm grip, but as Mary headed upstairs, he let go, the door swinging wide open. Tears burned his eyes as he saw his shot at freedom slip away.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Mary dropped Keith on the floor and placed the now empty bourbon bottle beside him. She moved quickly, stepping into the master bedroom and removing the sheets from the bed, which she tied together with a sturdy knot.

  Keith watched her work, unable to move as the alcohol took hold and made his head spin. A ringing sound filled his ears, but through it all, he felt calm, the booze working as a sedative of sorts. It was a familiar feeling and one that brought a certain level of comfort.

  The hag wrapped one end of the bedsheets around Keith’s neck, attaching the other end to the railing running across the second-floor hallway. “Are you ready to die, boy?

  Blinking slowly, Keith nodded and said, “I’m coming, Mom and Dad.”

  Mary crouched beside him and lifted his chin so that she could look him in the eye. “No. There is nothing but eternal darkness at the end of this world. There are no pearly gates and no family reunions. It’s the end of everything.”

  “I know I’ll see them,” Keith slurred, eyes glassy.

  “Have you died before? I have, and I know there is nothing. What you see and feel now will be your last.” She pulled the knot around Keith’s neck tighter and lifted him, holding him aloft for a moment before letting him drop.

  For the slightest moment, Keith felt as though he was flying. Everything around him slowed to a snail’s pace, and he could pick out small details: the family picture hanging on the wall by the living room; the small divots in the hardwood made by Mary’s toenails; Mark’s car pulling up out front. He thought another chance for escape was coming, but then the sheet pulled tight, and the nothingness Mary predicted came crashing down hard.

  MARK LEAPED OUT OF the car and bounded up the path, heart threatening to burst free from his chest. He ran into the house, shouting, “Keith, are you here? KEITH.”

  His feet went out from under him as he slipped in the spilled bourbon, and when he fell, he noticed his friend hanging from the second-floor railing. Picking himself up, he ran upstairs and tugged on the sheets, pulling his friend up, inch by inch. Eventually, he managed to get Keith over the railing and onto the floor. Mark tried to remember what he’d learned in CPR class, but when he saw the angle of Keith’s neck, he knew that none of it would work. His friend was gone.

  Mark pulled Keith’s limp body into his lap, the smell of bourbon wafting off it. He then noticed the empty bottle and put two and two together. Guilt coursed through him, and he berated himself for leaving Keith alone on his first night back in a house he had fled from five years earlier. His friend would still be alive right now if Mark hadn’t been so selfish

  As he rocked back and forth, holding tight to Keith, he spotted movement downstairs. Peeking through the railings, he noticed an urn, the vessel wobbling as though someone had bumped against the table. Mark felt a chill go up his spine, but then he realized that the front door was still open. “It’s just the wind.”

  OFFICER DARBY CLOSED his notebook and placed a large hand on Mark’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself. Even if you had stayed, he would have done this at some other time.”

  “He seemed so happy yesterday. I don’t understand.”

  The cop looked back at the house with a grim expression. “Some places are rotten. The bad seeps in and clings like mold, affecting everyone who breathes it in.”

  “Do you need anything else from me?” Mark asked. “I want to go home.”

  “We’re good here. If we need anything else, I’ll call you personally, but it’s pretty obvious what happened here. This case is as good as closed.”

  As Mark trudged back to his car and drove off, Darby stepped back into the house and watched the coroner place Keith’s dead body in a bag. As they wheeled him past, the cop muttered. “I was pulling for you, kid.” He looked around the house and shuddered. “I thought you were going to make it, but this place is rotten.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The realtor removed the sign from the lawn and tossed it into the back of his SUV. He was still surprised that someone had come along and bought the property. Between the murder and the suicide, the house was spoiled goods. With no family to claim the place, it had fallen into the hands of the state, who had quickly given it to the real estate firm that paid his checks. Being the newest member of the team and the low man on the totem pole, Bryce Taylor got the Mills account. He had heard them all laugh behind his back, but they weren’t laughing now/ “I showed them,” Bryce cackled, rubbing his hands with glee.

  “Did you say something?” the buyer asked.

  “What? Uh, sorry, no.” The dude gave Bryce the creeps, but full payment in cash and a delicious commission made it easy to overlook the buyer’s weirdness.

  Bryce walked over to his client and handed over the keys, noticing for the first time that he held an ornate-looking vase under his arm. “Getting ready to decorate?” the realtor asked, nodding at the urn.

  “Something like that,” the man replied, not once tearing his gaze away from the house.

  With the sale complete and the money in the bank, Bryce felt emboldened. “I have to ask you why you bought this place. I mean, everyone knows the history.”

  The man turned to face the realtor and smiled. “Things like that are of no consequence to me. I deal with the dead daily.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Funeral director. I wanted a place my mother and I could call home, and the price was perfect.”

  Bryce shuddered, desperate to be away from the man and the house. “Well, I hope you’ll both be very happy here, Mr. Godelj.”

  The man’s grin grew wider still. “Please, call me Enis.”

  ~~~If you enjoyed visiting the Liquor Shop, you might be interested in adding some flowers to your purchase. Below, please find an excerpt from my Flower Shop Series novella titled Black Roses:.

  Chapter One

  DALE DARLING STOOD outside his flower shop smoking a cigarette and feeling like he had been punched in the gut every time a pedestrian or car passed by with nary a glance in his direction. In truth, folks ignoring the business was all too common now, but that didn’t make the pain of the perceived snub any less hurtful.

  The Darling Buds flower shop had been a huge hit from opening day. Dale’s experience in accounting and his wife Cynthia’s life spent in retail had served them well. Still, it had all turned sour when the city decided to build a bypass road that directed traffic away from the historic downtown area of Franklin.