The Girl Who Dies in a Horror Movie

The Girl who survives in a low-budget horror movie lives in constant fear.

The Girl who dies in a horror movie doesn’t follow society’s rules.

The Girl who survives never ventures out by herself. The Girl who dies goes off

the path alone while looking at her phone. The Girl who survives is an average girl

who looks over her shoulder and knows someone wants to hurt her.

The Girl who dies drinks too much, sleeps too little, drives too fast. The Girl who dies 

thinks life revolves solely around her.

For one girl to survive— must another girl die?

The Extra Who Wears a Red Shirt in a Star Trek Episode|

The Extra who dies first follows orders without question and never says to the Captain, “I’m not descending into that Alien sewer system with throbbing green bacteria.” The Extra blends in, never complains, and greets death like an old friend. The Extra who dies never even gets a name.

The Crew Member in the yellow shirt who survives stays close to Captain Kirk and jokes with the Captain while setting his phaser to stun. The Crew Member who survives has an uncle in the industry watching out for him. 

For this mission to Cassiopeia 5 to succeed-an Extra must fall.

The Person Listed to Die Before his Next Birthday

The Person listed to die before his next birthday on the Southern 

Life Insurance Mortality Table argues that his uncle lived to 96

and smoked 3 packs a day. The Person listed early to die dines on

pepperoni Hot Pockets while listening to conspiracy theories on the radio.

The Person listed to die early makes fun of those who visit their doctor,

floss, get colonoscopies and buckle their seat belts. The Person listed early to die

feeds his gut with grievances. Fuels his rage with ruminations. Refuses to revisit prejudice. Lives in Florida on a gator farm. Rest in Pieces.

Boring as Hell by R.J. Meldrum

The clock ticked away the minutes and hours. It was the loudest noise in the office, but George barely heard it; the sound had long since faded into his subconscious.

The office was large. He wasn’t sure how many people worked there; everyone was tucked into their own individual cubicles. The cubicles were arranged so the workers couldn’t see each other, but some flaw in the layout allowed him to see the girl next to him. He couldn’t see much, just a tuft of brown hair, the edge of a shoulder, the hint of a skirt. He’d never seen her face. He’d never spoken to her, but watching her gave him some comfort. She felt like a friend.

Every day in the office was the same. His in-box was always full when he sat down. It was his job to empty it. He processed orders and dockets. Goods received, goods shipped. It was the same endless routine, but today something was different. George put a completed invoice into his out-box and then paused. He felt more alert, more thoughtful. It suddenly occurred to him he couldn’t remember how long he’d worked in the office. He couldn’t remember how much he got paid. He couldn’t remember what he did when he left the office. Where did he live? Did he have a family? Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he having a stroke? Was it a brain tumor? He stood, his head spinning. He stumbled over to the cubicle where the girl worked.

“I don’t feel well. I think I need help.”

She looked at him, her eyes dull and uninterested. Even in his distressed state, George saw she was significantly older than he’d imagined. Before she could respond, a disembodied voice echoed across the office.

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles.”

George looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m ill!”

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately.”

“Please!”

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately!”

The woman stared at him blankly without speaking. George returned to his cubicle, still feeling unwell.

The next morning, he noticed the woman’s cubicle was empty. He felt a brief sense of disquiet, quickly forgotten, as the drudgery of the day’s work blocked all conscious thought from his mind. But in his subconscious, the questions from the previous day were still there, causing a spark of self-awareness in the endless routine and conformity. His neurons fired, his brain cells reviewed memories and observations. A revelation popped into his conscious mind.

“I know where I am.”

In the distance an alarm sounded and the disembodied voice spoke once again.

“All employees remain seated.  All employees remain seated.”

The voice continued, but George paid no attention. He stood.

“I KNOW WHERE WE ARE!”

There was a soft voice at his side.

“Come this way, George. Please.”

The man next to him was a stranger. Dressed in a neat business suit, it occurred to George this might be his boss. He felt his arm being taken and he was led to a small, windowless office at the side of the main office. He’d never noticed it before. There was a table and two chairs.  The man sat in one and indicated for George to sit in the other.

“This has only happened twice before, George. It is, if the word isn’t slightly inappropriate, a miracle.”

“What?”

“Your revelation.”

“Oh.”

“So, tell me, where are you?”

George hesitated.

“Go on, George, you were brave enough to shout it out to everyone in the office. Tell me.”

“I think…I think I’m in Hell.”

“And why do you think that?”

“It’s the same every day. The same boring, dull endless paperwork. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I live or what I do outside this office. I don’t speak to anyone. It’s the same routine every day. Hell isn’t fire and torture, at least that’d be interesting. Hell is this.”

The man smiled, then leant forward, his hand extended.

“Congratulations George, you’ve just been promoted.”

A Little Conversation by Steven Holding

“Is this seat taken?”

The question pulled Veronica from her thoughts, dragging her back into the world. She had been lost once again, trawling through memories, relishing the images of her childhood as they played out in her mind’s eye. It had, of course, been a long time since she had experienced the sensation of sight. Yet her loss of vision, at one time the cause of great anger, was now, thankfully, no longer such a painful subject for her. Her accident seemed to be part of another life, and with the passing of time and the slow healing of wounds, so she had finally grown comfortable with her disability. She accepted her senses for what they were, and in this she had found some peace. She turned her head in the direction of the voice and smiled.

“No, I don’t believe that it is,” 

She paused, brandishing her cane, the subtle waggle generating a pleasing swish-swish.

“But you’d probably be a better judge of that than I…”

There was a momentary silence as Veronica attempted to gauge the man’s response. A terse cough, obviously forced, told her all she needed to know. She felt the man’s embarrassment, could probably have warmed her hands against his flushed cheeks if she chose to.

“Don’t take offence, I was just teasing… Please, join me.”

Veronica felt the wooden park bench give as the man sat down. Judging by the drastic sag beneath her, he was a man of some considerable weight.

“Thank you” he said. His voice, whilst soft, contained an underlying croakiness. A definite smoker. Despite the overpowering scent of cheap cologne, Veronica could smell the stale stench of tobacco on his clothes.

“Lovely day” he stuttered, “The sun is out, and the sky is blue, no clouds and… err…”

Veronica laughed.

“It’s ok… You don’t have to describe it for me… I can tell it’s a beautiful day…”

She moved her head slowly, taking in a deep breath.

“I can feel the sun on my face, can smell the flowers, the freshly cut grass… I can hear the kids laughing over there on the climbing frame… It all adds up, lets me build a picture inside my head…”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t wish to appear rude…” whispered the man.

Veronica heard the sound of bikes, felt the sudden displacement of air as they sailed past the bench.

“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “No harm done.”

“I would hate to upset you,” he continued, ” I see you sat here every day and you always look so happy…”

Veronica felt her pulse quicken. Slowly, she tightened her grip upon her cane. Something felt wrong. The man, seemingly unaware of her discomfort, went on.

“Strange, I would think, that one who is so…. afflicted, remains so positive…”

Veronica began to stand, pushing herself up from the bench.

“I’m sorry, but I really must be going…”

She gasped as she felt a hand wrap around her wrist. It squeezed tightly, the vice-like grip so strong she nearly dropped her cane. Her legs buckled as she crumpled back down onto the bench. Before she could scream the man was at her ear, the aroma of mint failing to disguise something less palatable upon his breath.

“Know this. In my other hand is a blade. I have used it before.”

Veronica felt the press of metal against her cheek, the kiss of cold steel sudden and terrifying. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. She struggled to control her breathing, panic flooding her body.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

“Just a moment of your time, the lend of an ear if you would be so gracious… Nothing more…”

“Please don’t hurt me!”

“If you do as I say, I will not harm you. A little conversation is all I require, a chance for me to tell you a few things… It’s not too much to ask now, is it? And if you are a good girl, who doesn’t attempt anything… foolish, I see no reason as to why we cannot both enjoy our exchange.”

Even though the tap of her cane upon the pavement told her she was shivering, Veronica could not feel her body. The thought of movement seemed impossible. Everything seemed unreal. She could feel her mind slipping away, her sanity making a slow, deliberate retreat from reality. It was, she knew, essential to her survival that she regained control. She bit at her bottom lip, the flare of pain instant, the taste of blood immediate. The hurt served its purpose, the dull throb in her mouth giving her something to focus upon, pulling her back into the moment.

“How did you lose your sight?” asked the man, his tone now casual, as if the threat of violence had never even occurred.

A… A car…accident,” replied Veronica.

Keep talking, she thought to herself, buy yourself some time.

“I was fifteen. A passenger. My brother was driving. He… He died.”

The man placed a hand upon Veronica’s knee.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice. “God can be… cruel. Don’t you think?” 

“I don’t believe in any God!” she spat, the fury in her voice shaping each word. 

“You would be surprised how many think that, say that, yet in their final moments, almost all call his name. Call for his aid, scream for his mercy… I myself am ambivalent regarding the issue. Maybe he is there, maybe not… If indeed he does exist, he would be the same God regardless of our actions, of our prayers. We may need him, but does he actually need us?” 

Veronica felt tears coming, fought hard to keep them back.

“What do you want from me!”

The man continued, apparently oblivious to Veronica’s questioning.

“Now confession, that’s a peculiar thing isn’t it. Admitting one’s sins, one’s weakness, obtaining forgiveness. I must admit, I find the whole thing fascinating. And even if a man isn’t seeking absolution, even if a man has no faith and doesn’t require the pardoning of God, well, I still believe we all harbour a burning desire to… share. To speak of our sins. One only has to watch daytime television. You see it happening on those awful programmes every single day…”

The man squeezed Veronica’s knee once again. She grimaced as his nails bit into her skin.

“But of course, how insensitive of me. You wouldn’t have seen it at all now, would you?”

The man giggled at his own joke, the absurd, schoolboy shrill of his laugh making Veronica’s flesh crawl.

“And I,” he continued, “I am no exception. I find myself filled with a burning desire to share. An audience is what I require. But due to the nature of my activities, it would be prudent for me to remain anonymous. I require a listener who is literally all ears…”

Veronica could sense the man moving in closer to her. She stifled a sob as he nuzzled against her neck, her body quivering with revulsion as she felt the harsh, sandpaper rub of his stubble upon her cheek.

“Will you listen to me?” he moaned softly, his voice gentle, each word drawn out like the tender declarations of a lover.

Veronica clenched her teeth together, fighting the tidal wave of nausea that threatened to sweep over her, pushing her dread, her horror, deep down into the pit of her stomach. One thought, and one thought only, filled her mind. The same mantra that she had clung onto after her accident, holding on for dear life like a drowning man, clutching at the words to keep her safe, to keep her sane.

I AM A SURVIVOR.

She turned her head, her face inches away from the man’s, the tip of her nose brushing against his.

“Go on,” she said, “Go on you bastard… Speak, if you have to… I will listen…”

The man chuckled, his sour breath stinking, sickening, hot on Veronica’s face.

“There’s a good girl…”

She could hear him smile. He coughed, clearing his throat. 

“I have killed, I have murdered, I have snuffed out life… So many times, so many times…”

Veronica had no idea how long the ordeal lasted, how long the two of them sat there for, for how long the man spoke. Hours? Days? An eternity? Time became meaningless, formless, shapeless, as she endured the man’s speech. A list of atrocities, ceaseless, never ending, pain upon pain, suffering upon suffering. And when she thought there could be no more, there was more. A catalogue of torture so vile, so poisonous, she could feel the evil infecting her, spreading through her like cancer, turning her heart and soul black. She only knew he was finished when she realised he was no longer at her side.

“Thank you,” said the man, “Thank you for listening… Although I do wonder, whatever must you think of me?”

Veronica turned her head towards him. She reached up a trembling hand and wiped away the tears that had been trickling down her face.

“I think…” she muttered, “I think you are the Devil himself…”

The man laughed.

“If there is, as you said, no God, then it would be fair to say that there can be no Devil, don’t you agree?… And who’s to say that I am nothing more than a jolly good liar?”

Veronica listened to the sound of footsteps as the man began to walk away. The click of heels halted abruptly. She knew that the man had stopped and turned around.

“I have so enjoyed our little chat,” he said, his voice brimming with joy. “Maybe, and please do forgive the awful witticism, you will see me again soon?”

As the echo of his steps receded, Veronica let out a whooshing gasp of air. She pulled her cane close to her, gripping it with both hands, savouring the fragile sense of security it gave her. As the sobbing began, her chest heaving, she clung onto her precious words. Words, she now realised, that had power. Words, she realised, that were her prayer.

She was indeed a survivor. And this was what made her so dangerous.

Veronica slowly rotated the handle of her stick. It made a muffled click as she pulled it away from the main body of the cane. The glinting knife that was slowly revealed as she removed it from its sheath may have been small, but she knew that it would be more than enough.

Next time, she would be ready. 

My Girlfriend is A… by David Berger

Vampires! I hate vampires! I mean I really hate ’em. Can’t stand ’em. I end up spending a lot of time around ’em, but they make me crazy!

Okay, okay, I know. I know the facts: They have a super-rare, genetically inherited form of anemia that makes them photophobic, often grows their canines and often makes them kind of tall and pale. And makes them crave human hemoglobin!

And I know that the government uses all kinds of stuff to “cure” it: bone marrow transplants; chemical substitutes; animal blood; all that stuff that doesn’t really work. And all that supernatural stuff about garlic, crosses, that’s bs. A stake in the heart or a silver bullet will kill them – but they’ll kill anyone. I mean, was the Lone Ranger really a vampire hunter? Or maybe with that mask he was one of them! Just kidding.

But I hate ’em. I really freakin’ hate ’em. I can’t stand ’em. They’re boring. All they want to talk about is being vampires. Vampires this and vampires that. Try to get one to talk to you about global warming or chess or … anything.

Okay?  

So, naturally … my girlfriend’s a vampire. But it’s okay: She’s great. Let me tell you about her.

I met Carole in one of those clubs where you go down some steps and you’re in the dirty, cobwebby basement of some building and the furnace is still blasting in another room. How was I supposed to know what kind of club it was? I’m originally from Cleveland. We don’t have those there. Or if we do, they’re underground, like gay clubs used to be. (And to answer your question: Yeah, there are gay vampires.)

So it’s real dark in there. Just candles on the tables and a couple of lights above the bar. The music wasn’t too loud. Not much dancing. Once I got used to the darkness, I saw some really good-looking women: most of them tall, pale and thin, which puzzled me at the time: I guessed they were models or something. A lot of the guys seemed the same way. But sitting in a corner by herself, lookin’ all bored and lonely, was a pretty woman with short, curly blonde hair. Sort of a girl-next-door type. (I’m from Cleveland, remember.) And I went over to her and introduced myself. I’m not shy.

“Hi. I’m Eddie Wallace. Can I buy you a drink?”

She looked at me kind of funny. “And I’m Carole Springer. Sure.” 

“So what’re you drinking?” 

“Just get me an O-Plus. I’m not really into it tonight. And tell Freddy to oxy it.”

So I went to the bar and I said, “Two O-Pluses, please. With oxy.” 

The bartender says, “One of them for you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure you know what an O-Plus is?” 

“Sure. It’s a drink. Some kind of drink.” 

He says, “One O-Plus and one, uhhh, rusty nail. That’s for you. You look like a rusty nail type of guy. ”

“I don’t like rusty nails. I asked for two O-Pluses, with oxy, whatever that is.” I said.

He said, “I know what you asked for. Trust me: You don’t want an O-Plus. And I won’t sell you one, anyway.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Some kind of drug?”

“Take it back to your friend at the table. She’ll explain it to you. That’s 50 bucks.”

“50 bucks!”

“Right, and the rusty nail is on the house.”

Nothing ventured; nothing gained. So I paid him, and I watched him as he opened a refrigerator behind him with a key. He took out a tall silvery canister and poured out a maroonish-red liquid into a heavy cut-glass tumbler. Then, he got a small tank of oxygen and put the hose attached to the valve into the drink. 

“Not everyone likes oxy,” the bartender said. 

“Fancy that,” I said, fascinated by what he was doing. As the gas bubbled into the drink, it got a brighter red. Finally, the glass went into a microwave for 45 seconds. (I watched the timer count down.) I paid the man and headed back to the table with the drinks.

“Freddy wouldn’t give you two O-Pluses, would he?” Carole asked.

“No,” I said. “You know him.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Everyone knows Freddie. He owns the place.”

I handed Carole her drink and sat down. “Here’s to ya,” she said as she raised to the glass to me and drank half of it down.

“Whoa!” I said.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; then she looked me in the eye. “You don’t know what an O-Plus is, do you, Eddie?” she sad. “In fact, you don’t know what kind of place this is, right? You don’t know who hangs out here.”

“It’s a club,” I said. “An average sort of dark, noisy club. You’re an interesting girl; I’m a regular guy.”

“One out of three isn’t a great score,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see the wrought iron ‘V’ by the door as you came in?

“Uh, no.”

“Do you know what the ‘V’ stands for?”

“Victory?” I said, hopefully.

“Guess again,” she said.

“Virgins?”

“Hardly.”

“I give up,” I said.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she said.

“Please.”

“What’s O-Plus? I mean normally: if you read it in a magazine.”

“It’s a blood … . Oh!” I said.

“You got it, buddy,” she said, winking at me as she finished her ‘drink.’

“And you’re a … .”

“You pass the course,” she said, with another wink.

“So what do we talk about?” I asked.

“Well, I could tell you about the carvings on my coffin or the architecture of my grandfather’s castle in Transylvania if you like. Or maybe the difference between the toxic effects of sunlight in Spain and in Florida on us. Or we could talk about you.”

“I’m pretty boring,” I paused. “I’m … an accountant.”

“You’re kidding me,” Carole said. “Look, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I dropped my chin, as if I was embarrassed. She took my hand. “Poor baby,” she said. “Spurned by society. So misunderstood.”

We both laughed. I noticed her touch was cool and her skin was unusually smooth, but then again she was a v … . (Couldn’t quite say the word yet.) So what did I expect? 

“Do you want another O-Plus?” I asked. 

She looked at me with a serious smile. “You sure you can handle it?”

“I can handle it,” I said. 

“Okay,” she said. 

Freddie looked at me skeptically as I arrived at the bar. “What’s the next step above O-Plus?” I asked.

  “A-Plus’s the same as O-Plus,” he said. “Just a slightly different taste, which I know your friend doesn’t care for. Above that’s A-Minus.”

“Okay. An A-Minus and another nail.”

“That’ll be a hundred bucks.”

In for a dime; in for a dollar. I watched, again fascinated, as Freddie went through the moves to make the A-Minus. When I got back to the table, Carole looked at the drink and smiled. It was a slightly deeper color than the O-Plus.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “That’s interesting. And on the first date, too.”

“Is this a date?” I asked.

“It is now,” Carole said. As we continued to talk, her skin began to flush and her eyes became brighter. 

“So I’m an accountant,” I said. “What does a vampire do for a living?”

“I do freelance IT. I mostly work at night, at home, for obvious reasons. I’m not usually out during the week. I’m between jobs right now. Isn’t that delightfully boring.”

“I work with a lot of IT people.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t you prefer I did something mysterious?”

“Like what?

“I don’t know? Designing long, flowing clothes or making jewelry with mysterious dark stones and lots of clunky gold?”

“That would be intriguing. But I’m an accountant. Intrigue … mystery … not a big thing for me?”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“Was once, a long time ago? You?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t generally … marry.”

“But you all do have kids, obviously.”

“Yeah. We do.” She paused. “Y’know, it must be the O and the A you bought me, because this is getting very deep very quickly.” She was talking kinda fast. “Yes, we have kids. But we’re not big on family life. We mostly have kids with each other, but occasionally with normies like you. It’s a recessive gene. We’re slowly dying out. The weirdest thing is when two normie parents have one of us. Not a good space to grow up in.”

“Is that where you come from?”

“Yup,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. My place?”

I took a deep breath. Things were happening very quickly. But a smart, pretty blonde on a weekday night. Even if she was a little strange. Wow!”

A cab to her place in a quiet neighborhood … never mind where. Up the elevator and into her apartment. No black candles; no weird statues on an altar; no strange-smelling incense; no coffin. It was a kinda normal-looking place, kinda small. There were heavy dark curtains over the windows. In a minute we were on the couch, kissing like you always want to kiss. It didn’t take long before clothes started to come off. Carole seemed to become both more intense and more dreamy as we went on. But suddenly, she pushed me away a little.

“Something first,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

She tilted her neck slightly to the left and widened her eyes. “You know,” she said.

“You mean … ?” I asked.

“Sure. Don’t worry. It doesn’t take long. It doesn’t hurt. It won’t turn you into one of us. But it’ll make me sooo happy. And you’ll like it too.”

Like I said before: In for a … .

It was like a long, slow, passionate kiss on my neck. 

“She stopped for a second just after she started and said, “Oh my god: AB-Minus! Fantastic!”

It lasted maybe ten minutes. It was kind of nice, warm and almost sleepy. And when she was done, Carole looked even dreamier and more intense than before, if that was possible. We went on to make love in various ways for hours. It was the greatest … never mind.

Afterwards, we lay in a tangle of arms and legs on her couch, still half dressed, breathing together.

  “You know something?” I said finally.

“What?” Carole said. She paused for a second. 

“You really … .”

“No, please don’t say it. You know I’ll hate it when you say it. Puh-leese!”

“Okay. I won’t say it.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“But I’m thinking it,” I said

“I hate you,” she said, kissing me on the neck.

Jeff’s Coat by Taylor Morrison

“Jeff, please stop hanging your coat on the lamp!” Melinda yelled down the hall. “You’ll knock it over one of these days.”

Jeff had dropped his coat on the lamp next to the front door every day that month without fail. Melinda would come home from working her late-night shifts at the 7-11 to see a dark figure standing in her living room. The sight nearly made her old heart stop, but after her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that it was just Jeff’s coat hanging on the lamp again.

“I’m too tired to walk to the closet to put it away,” Jeff said, appearing in the kitchen, his grey hair brushed back out of his face. Melinda had once thought he was very handsome, sexy even. But now she didn’t find him the least bit attractive, even with his slicked-back hair and nice dress clothes.

“Whatever,” she said, closing the closet door behind her. “I’m running late for work.”

Jeff scoffed, “Like your job is so important! Just stay home and take care of the house; I’ll make the money.”

Melinda crossed her arms. “Excuse me?” Jeff was a businessman at a law firm, doing god knows what. She hadn’t cared to ask in the five years since he’d started working there. “I’d rather work minimum wage than stay home and take care of your sloppy ass,” she barked.

Jeff ignored this and crossed to the closet, where he removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Without a goodbye, he left the house, slamming the door behind him.

Melinda held back tears. The house was a wreck. It wasn’t a huge house, but it had everything they needed. She knew most of the mess was Jeff’s, and she couldn’t bring herself to clean up after a man who’d cheated on her, even if it was six years ago.

She entered the bedroom and booted up the computer. Shed bought divorce forms online a few days ago and felt she’d better print them now before she forgot. Then she put on her shoes and headed for the door.

***

Melinda returned late from work to find the door unlocked. Even when Jeff was home, the door was always locked when she got there. She opened the door and stepped inside. Her heart leaped into her throat. A man was standing in her living room.

“J-Jeff?” Melinda said, fumbling for the light switch. The light came on, and relief washed over her. It was Jeff’s coat again, hanging on the lamp.

“Jesus Christ,” Melinda snapped. Then she was startled again by the loud snore of someone sharply coming awake.

Jeff was asleep on the couch and was now protesting the light being on. “Turn that light off!” he yelled, covering his eyes with his hands. Melinda turned the light off, and with the room back in black, she could see now how she’d mistaken the jacket for a man.

“Jeff!” Melinda snapped, “Just hang your goddamn coat up!” She grabbed it and stumbled to the closet to throw it inside. “And why are you sleeping on the couch?” She returned to the living room to shove him awake.

“What, woman!”

“Why are you sleeping out here?”

“I was watching the news and fell asleep.”

Melinda found the remote and turned the TV on. The room glowed with the soft light of the television. The news was playing just like he’d said, and a breaking story was scrolling across the screen.

“Tennessee Strangler strikes again.”

“Wow,” Jeff said, “they’re still talking about it.”

Melinda watched the TV for a few more minutes before turning it off. “Go to bed,” she said, placing the remote back on the table. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Jeff got up off the couch and walked to the bedroom. Melinda was starting to remove her shoes when she heard an audible gasp.

“Melinda?” he asked, coming back out of the bedroom. “What is this?” He was holding several pieces of paper—the divorce papers she had printed earlier.

“Oh.” She had completely forgotten about them.

“You want a divorce?”

“Maybe.” Melinda held back tears.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Jeff spoke up.

“I love you,” he said in a whisper. “I love you; please don’t leave.”

Melinda let a few tears spring from her eyes before speaking. “Then why are you so mean?”

Silence fell once again. Jeff walked across the room, grabbed his coat, and exited the house. Melinda had seen him do this before on many occasions, but this was the first time it stung.

She sat on the couch, weeping into her hands for about an hour before turning the TV on as a distraction. The story of the Tennessee Strangler was still in big text moving across the screen, which made Melinda get up and lock the door.

The next morning, she woke to the sound of the dishwasher. It was odd to her, as she hadn’t been the one to turn it on; it almost sounded foreign.

“Jeff?” Melinda walked out into the kitchen and saw the place was spotless, as was the living room. Jeff came out of the bathroom, holding a toilet brush and smiling.

“One second,” he said, putting the brush back, then returning to hug her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been helping around the house.”

Melinda didn’t know what to say. Instead, she hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. He kissed the top of her head and whispered a soft, “I’m sorry,” into her ear.

Later that night, after dinner, Jeff cleaned the dishes and dried them while Melinda put them away. She could see the difference it was making. They hadn’t argued the whole day. Shortly after the dishes were done, Melinda got ready for work.

“I’m gonna head out to the bar for a few hours,” Jeff said as she was getting her shoes on. Melinda gave him a soft kiss and told him to be careful. He said he would, and they made their way out the front door.

Several hours later, Melinda returned home from work to find the front door unlocked again. She would talk to Jeff about that in the morning. She entered the house and was faced with the shadowy figure she saw every night when she came home. That damned coat. He needs to hang it up properly, she thought to herself. Then she saw the lump on the couch. Jeff must have fallen asleep again. To be kind, she didn’t turn the light on but allowed him to continue sleeping. He had to work in the morning, so she would let him get a good night’s rest. She stumbled blindly to the bedroom and quickly fell asleep.

Melinda woke the next day a little after eleven, wondering why Jeff hadn’t said goodbye to her. Even when they were fighting, he still made an effort to tell her bye.

Maybe I slept through it, she thought. She walked to the closet to get her slippers when she saw Jeff’s coat. It was hanging in the closet right where she usually put it after removing it from the lamp. Only last night she’d left it where it was. And didn’t Jeff take it to work? It was forty degrees outside.

Melinda walked into the living room, and her heart sank. Jeff was lying lifeless on the couch, his eyes bulging, and dark red and blue marks laced around his neck. Melinda covered her mouth to stifle a scream. That’s when she realized Jeff’s coat wasn’t on the lamp. The figure she saw in the dark last night, the man-shaped shadow. It was a man.

Melinda ran to the bathroom and puked into the shiny clean toilet Jeff had scrubbed the day before.