Cliff Barlow

“Are you in pain?” Yes.

“Listen man. I get paid Tuesday,” I lied. “You give me that bag, and I’ll pay you double.”

“Are these two lovely children yours?” I asked. “Something like that,” he replied.

It was appearing to him nightly and telling him to do awful things in a high pitched voice that he described as “how a person sounds when they breathe a balloon.”

As I begin to move the body of the homeless man, I snap awake.

“Meet me at our special place. Don’t be late.” #creepy

I slowly inched my way toward the closed closet door. I opened it. Blackness greeted me. With my free hand I pulled at the string to turn on the closet light.

This conversation had taken a decidedly dark turn that I was in no way prepared for. A lump formed in my throat. Was this some sort of joke?

I was very much looking forward to a week all to myself. My own private vacation.

This shack was ancient and decrepit. It must have been abandoned for at least the better part of a century, maybe even more.

There aren’t enough words in the English language for how embarrassing this picture was.

Straining to eavesdrop on their devious plans, I heard three words that caused a cold sweat to form on my brow: Thompson Funeral Home.

Unforgivable.

It’s not every day you get to meet someone famous…

My life was perfect. Then it began.

As this realization seized me, Gran’s first sentence whispered to me on her deathbed repeated in my mind.

“You’re going to regret talking to me like that. I want to have fun, and we’re going to whether you like it or not. Tommy too.”

I pulled up the sheet and shined the light under the bed. I got down on my knees to take a peek. Before I could look, the nails dug deeply into my arm.