Philip Fracassi

hours interviewing and debriefing me to learn everything I knew about Hell and the demons. They provided a therapist to help me recover from my horrendous experiences and adjust to my new life back on Earth. She recommended that I document my life as a slave. This book is my story: the autobiography of my life as a slave on Hell.

1 The Hunt

MY PARENTS, Robert and Mary Chapman, met while first-year students at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. He studied wildlife biology while she studied anthropology, concentrating her studies on the history and culture of the native Inuit. Although they had grown up in the Lower 48, they fell in love with Alaska and decided to remain after graduating.

Dad had hoped to obtain a job as a wildlife biologist, but such jobs were rare and paid little. Mom had an even harder time finding suitable work. So, when my maternal grandfather died two years later, my parents decided to use her modest inheritance to buy a dry cabin and live a subsistence lifestyle. They would hunt caribou and moose, trap small game for furs and food, and fish for salmon during spawning season.

Mom and Dad eventually bought a cabin on the north shore of the Kobuk River. Only seven miles upstream of the tiny town of Kobuk, the house was close enough to make buying provisions easy. The town’s simple landing strip also made visiting relatives practical and would enable evacuation in case of a medical emergency.

Miles from their nearest neighbors, the cabin was also isolated enough to offer all the seclusion a family could ever want. Nestled between the nearby river and the Brooks Range a few miles to the north, my parents had found the home of their dreams. later, and we grew up in some of the most beautiful land imaginable. The chores were many, the work was hard, but the rewards of freedom and the wilder-ness’s majesty made the hardships well worthwhile. I loved the life and couldn’t imagine ever leaving it.

This story begins when Sarah and I were fifteen. It was early August, and the Chinook salmon were running up the river to spawn. After breakfast, Mom and Sarah were going fishing. Dad and I had built a fish wheel, an ingenious tool that automatically catches the salmon. An underwater fence forces some of the fish towards the wheel that the river’s current turns. Baskets attached to the wheel’s rim scoop up the fish and dump them into a box. Mom and Sarah were going to carry the salmon back to the cabin, clean them, and hang them up over a fire in our smokehouse. Their work would ensure we would have plenty of smoked salmon to eat during the long Alaskan winter.

While they were fishing, Dad and I would hunt moose and check our traps for small game. We took our rifles and headed upriver away from town. We left our dog, Sergeant, behind so her barking would warn Mom and Sarah of any bear that might be attracted by the smell of our fish.

We started by checking our traps, but they were empty. Not a single one had been tripped. And we didn’t spot any small game even though we didn’t talk, and we walked carefully to avoid making any unnecessary noise.

When it was nearing lunchtime, we turned around and headed back to our cabin. This time, instead of following the river trail, we hiked up towards the nearby mountains forming the southern edge of the Brooks Range. As before, the area seemed completely devoid of animal life, which was pretty unusual. We’d typically see something, even if it was too far away or on the far side of the river.

About halfway home, we spotted the remains of a bull moose that had been recently killed. Because the bears were busy with the salmon, we initially thought it had

been brought down by wolves. But it wasn’t. Enormous chunks of flesh had been removed in single bites, and the bites’ edges were too clean to have been made by wolves or bears.

It was strange that we couldn’t identify the tracks in the soft ground around the carcass. There were many large and small hoof prints, but they were shorter and rounder than moose and elk tracks.

Stranger still were the giant paw prints from the carnivore that had brought down the moose. Easily twice the length of wolf prints, they had only three toes, and the separate claw marks were much longer than wolf or even bear claws. Dad, the biologist, was stumped. The prints didn’t seem to belong to any Alaskan wild animal or to any animal for that matter. The only tracks he could think of that were even somewhat similar were those of ostriches, emus, and cassowaries. But the claw marks were too short for ostrich and emu tracks, and the cassowary only has one claw that long, not three. “Dad, how about a really big dog?” I asked. “Maybe a Newfoundland had lost a toe.”

Dad shook his head. “Can’t be. See how the toes are arranged symmetrically? And besides, why would a dog have the same toe removed on each paw?”

“What about a dinosaur?” I suggested jokingly.

Dad actually considered it for a second before answering, “You know, it does look a little like a theropod footprint. It might have been a reasonable hypothesis if it weren’t for the little fact they’re all extinct except for the birds. No, this has to be a hoax. Someone’s trying to start a rumor about a strange beast roaming the Alaskan wilderness. Probably wants to draw tourists hoping to catch sight of the mythological creature.”

“But Dad, what about the bite marks?”

“My guess is that they used a curved knife to make them. Still, whoever did it did a good job. They had me going for a bit. Come on, let’s head home and tell the girls about our mysterious find.” So, we hiked back to the cabin and had lunch with Mom and Sarah. They told us about the baskets of fish they had caught and cleaned. We told them about the moose kill we’d stumbled on, the strange tracks, and the huge bite marks. Mom agreed with Dad that it would probably turn out to be a hoax, but Sarah wasn’t sure what to think.

After lunch, Dad and I headed out again to see if we’d have any better luck hunting. We didn’t. The animals, both big and small, were still missing, and we were once more forced to come back empty-handed. I did, however, carry my camera with me and took some pictures of our find. For a laugh, I figured I would upload them onto Facebook the next time I was back in town where I could get internet service.

2 Demons in the Dark

SERGEANT, our three-year-old German Shepherd, woke me from a pleasant dream by barking her head off and scratching at the cabin door. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was just after three in the morning, and much too early for her to need to be let out to do her business. She was also far too excited for that to be the problem.

“What is it, girl?” Dad called. “Are the raccoons back again?”

Sergeant ignored him and continued barking.

I thought I heard a deep growl coming from outside my window. “I think it’s a bear, Dad.” I groggily dragged myself out of bed, stepped into my slippers, and headed downstairs.

Dad was already there, taking his hunting rifle down from its home over the fireplace. He checked it to ensure it was loaded while I pulled Sergeant back from the door.

Grizzlies occasionally break into empty cabins looking for an easy meal. Still, I’d never known

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one to bust into one that was occupied, and a dog could usually be counted on to keep them at bay. Besides, it was late summer when their food was plentiful.

“What is it, Robert?” Mom asked. She was halfway down the stairs with Sarah just behind her. “Probably just a bear,” Dad answered.

We had a thick solid door with a strong lock, so I wasn’t too concerned. I just hoped that it wouldn’t break a window because I’d be the one Dad would send into town to buy the glass to replace it.

Boom! The door rattled as something massive struck it. Sergeant growled, jerked her collar out of my hands, and bounded to the door. She pawed at it, barking like mad.

I was just about to run forward and grab her when there was a deafening bang. Ripped right off its heavy hinges, the door flew across the room, knocking Sergeant sideways and narrowly missing me before crashing into the dinner table.

Dad raised his rifle and fired just as a huge, wolflike creature charged into the room. The bullet struck it squarely in the middle of the chest, dropping the monster to the floor.

We all gawked at the nightmarish beast lying at Dad’s feet. We’d never seen or even imagined such an animal. Easily four times the size of a timber wolf, the beast had neither fur nor anything you could call skin. Its massive brick-red muscles and yellowish bones and tendons were clearly visible as were the finger-long fangs and large, triangular teeth in its gaping mouth. Its yellow eyes with horizontal pupils stared blankly up at us while it bled blood the color of crude oil.

“What the hell is that?” Dad exclaimed as a second such beast burst into the house and bounded over the body of the one he had shot. Before he could react, it sank its teeth into Dad’s neck and shook him like an orca shaking a seal. Hellhound on Hell

Several things happened almost simultaneously. Mom and Sarah screamed. The gun flew out of Dad’s hands and slid past me into the kitchen. Sergeant whined and bolted out the door as I sprinted to retrieve Dad’s rifle. Grabbing his gun, I started to turn back to face the monsters when someone yanked the rifle right out of my hands. No, not someone. Some thing!

A grotesque, little, ape-like monster no more than three-feet-tall stood in front of me holding Dad’s rifle in one hand and a sword to my neck with the other. The imp had short little horns and stared at me with yellow, goat-like eyes. Like the hellhound, it was totally naked and seemed to have no skin covering his heavily muscled body.

Perhaps those huge muscles were what made me feel certain he was male despite his lack of any obvious indicator of his sex. The imp grinned, flashed an impossibly wide mouth full of shark-like teeth, and shook his head. His intent was unmistakable.

Philip Fracassi’s is the award-winning author of the story collection Beneath a Pale Sky, which received a starred review from Library Journal, was named “Best Collection of the Year” by Rue Morgue Magazine and was nominated for a Bram Stoker award.

Philip’s debut story collection, Behold the Void, won “Best Collection of the Year” from both This Is Horror and Strange Aeons Magazine.

His current and upcoming novels include A Child Alone with Strangers, Gothic, and Boys in the Valley. Philip’s books have been translated into multiple languages and his stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Best Horror of the Year, Nightmare Magazine, Black Static, Southwest Review, and Interzone.

The New York Times calls his work “terrifically scary.”

Uncaged welcomes Philip Fracassi

Welcome to Uncaged! Can you tell readers more about your latest book, A Child Alone with Strangers?

Thanks for having me. After having published a few novellas, two short story collections and a couple dozen stories, I’m excited to have my first trade novel hitting the shelves. A CHILD ALONE WITH STRANGERS is a big, throwback, old-school horror novel. What folks would call a “doorstop” book, coming in at 600 pages. It’s the kind of novel readers can get fully immersed in, spend time with the characters – good and bad – and go on a journey with young Henry, big bad Jim, and the mysterious creature in the woods. It’s a crime / horror hybrid in many ways, and there are monsters and human monsters and everything in-between. I hope folks have a blast reading it.

In August, it was announced that a short story of yours, Death, My Old Friend was optioned for film and you were also going to write the screenplay. How do you have to approach writing for a screenplay vs. writing a novel?

Yes, my short story “Death, My Old Friend” was optioned and after meeting with the director and producer a few times they offered me the job of writing the screenplay, which I just turned in a few days ago! I’m excited to see what the director does with the material.

As far as approach, it’s really not too different as to how I approach a novel. Since I’ve had a couple screenplays produced, for companies like Disney and Lifetime Television, I’m no stranger to the format. When I start a screenplay or a novel, the first thing I do is create a robust outline of beats (i.e.

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plot points) that take the story from A to Z. When writing a big project, I like to know exactly where it’s going before I start. I don’t want to think about “now what?” once I’ve started. I want the freedom to write great prose (for a novel), or great dialogue and action (for a screenplay). Once the writing actually begins, of course, the similarities stop. The actual writing of the two formats is night and day. Completely different beasts. A screenplay is all about structure, dialogue, and action. A novel is all those things woven within an intricate tapestry of prose, inner thoughts / feelings, and characterization.

What is the most difficult scene for you to write? What is the easiest?

Since I write horror, there are a lot of times things can go from bad, to worse, to unthinkable. And there are times when what happens to the characters can be difficult to write about. My characters, and stories, are typically grounded in very real life, real emotions. So when something horrific happens that might fall under the “trigger warning” variety for some readers (i.e. assault, torture, abuse) it’s not easy, or fun, to write about. But I pride myself on trying not to be gratuitous, or to have that kind of action for no reason. It’s always in service to the story, and the story always comes first (even if it means I know I’ll catch hell from some reviewers).

The easiest scenes for me are the ones involving fully-fleshed-out characters having “a moment”. Meaning, an emotionally-impactful scene between two or three characters when, for example, they’re coming to a realization about themselves, or each other. These are typically heavy-dialogue, emotionally-wracked moments that I tend to fall into, and really enjoy exploring the depth of feelings these characters I created go through. It’s also very rewarding.

What are you working on now that you can tell us about?

feature screenplay for DEATH, MY OLD FRIEND. My next big project is writing a new novel that will be released by Tor Nightfire (US) and Orbit (UK) in the summer of 2024. It’s a period piece involving some AWOL soldiers, a witch, and a whole mountain of horror. That’s how I’ll be spending the next 4-6 months.

Do you base any of your characters on real-life people?

No. Never. I’d say that I pull from my experiences to make my characters feel fully-formed. A tic of someone I knew years ago might end up being a character trait, or a funny way of wording something a friend or family member has used in the past might go into the character stew, but the characters themselves are wholly fictitious. I will caveat that by saying, in my short stories, I’ve drawn directly from experiences I may have had with someone from my past; something I felt worth exploring. But that would be as close as I get.

What behind-the-scenes tidbit in your life would probably surprise your readers the most?

A lot of readers seem surprised when I recount my background since it’s been so strangely diverse. I’ve worked in film and television production, on and off, for thirty years, for example. I was a music executive for nearly a decade. I owned a bookstore for many years. I was in marketing for a while, among a litany of other jobs like overnight security guard, stock boy, and telemarketing. I’ve had a rich, diverse life, but have never wavered from the dream of being a writer. Now that I’m doing it full-time, I have to work twice as hard to make sure I can keep doing it.

Which comes first, the plot or the characters in the planning stages?

I would say the idea comes first. Meaning, the acorn of something that I’ll plant in my brain and wait to see if it grows. If nothing sprouts, I usually move on to another idea. If I can’t stop thinking about it and it expands like a great oak, it’s time to organize that idea into a story. When I sit down to outline the idea, the characters typically bloom simultaneously with the plot. I need the

What are some things you like to do to relax when you aren’t writing or working?

I do a lot of reading to relax. I have a large library of books to choose from and like to be reading from 10-12 at a time. That way I have the luxury of reading what I feel like reading, and not being beholden to the same book or story every time I sit down for a couple hours to read. Other than that, the occasional thriller on Netflix or whatever. During football season I watch a lot of the games, although my team is terrible so I’m not sure how relaxing it is!

What’s your favorite holiday? Do you have any special traditions?

Funny thing about me (one of many) is I don’t like holidays. I don’t even like weekends. I get a bit neurotic about always wanting to push my writing career forward, and the idea that everyone is stopping for a predetermined amount of time makes me crazy. If it were up to me everyone would work every day of the year. I love getting stuff done. So, sadly, no special traditions. I’m usually finding someplace quiet to write or read a book.

Do you prefer ebooks, audiobooks or physical books? Are you reading anything now?

I’m a big book collector, so am a fan of real books. I like the design, the weight, the feel of the pages, the smell. That said, I’m no stranger to ebooks or audiobooks, and they can be excellent options when the situation is right. But generally speaking I want to hold the darn thing.

What would you like to say to fans, and where can they follow you?

I’d love to say a huge thank you to anyone who has ever taken a chance on one of my books. I’m very in touch with my readers, and am always excited to hear feedback about my work. There’s a wonderful fan group on Facebook called “Fracassi Freaks” that started up about a year ago and now boasts hundreds of members. I’m an active participant and do a lot of exclusive offers, giveaways, and spill insider information on my projects. Otherwise, you can find me on Twitter and Instagram. My website (www. pfracassi.com) has a newsletter, a blog, and updated information on all my books, stories, podcast, and movie news.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from A child Alone with Strangers

A Child Alone with Strangers Philip Fracassi Horror

When nine-year-old Henry Thorne miraculously survives an accident that claims his father’s life, he finds himself…changed. Upon waking from a coma, he can now read people’s thoughts, “see” their feelings. While Henry recuperates, and grapples with his newfound abilities, his family is compensated a small fortune by those responsible for the accident. The highly publicized case catches the eye of lifelong criminal Jim Cady, who hatches a plan to kidnap Henry for ransom. When Jim’s plan goes into motion, Henry is taken, hidden in an abandoned farmhouse surrounded by miles of forest, while Jim and his crew wait for the drop. But upon arrival, Henry’s abilities alert him to something surprising and horrible. They are not alone. Henry connects with a strange force living in the woods, using that bond to wreak havoc against his captors. Unknown to Henry, however, is that the ancient being has its own reasons for wanting the interlopers gone. There is something hidden beneath the house, tucked away in the dark, damp root cellar...wait-

Excerpt

Exclusive Excerpt A CHILD ALONE WITH STRANGERS Copyright ©2022 by Philip Fracassi

Wilson Tafferty was done with kids. Done with their condescending, disrespectful remarks, their long, snarky glares as they watched him work. Picking up their filth.

But mostly, done with their gum.

If he had to scrape one more petrified pink ball of Bubble Yum off a desk bottom he was gonna make one of them little squirts swallow it.

They were nothing but a bunch of pack animals, shitting everywhere and on everything. Vandals, all of ‘em. He knew it was Bill Hartnett, that little bastard, who broke the window outside Room 230. He knew it was him. He wanted to say something to the little punk, grab him by the collar of his windbreaker and shake the truth out of him. But no, he had done what he was supposed to do Stay Connected and told the main office. Of course, the main office only asked the kid, “Did you break that window?” What’s a boy gonna say? “Yeah, sure, that was me. What, did I forget to run over here and tell you all that? I’m sorry, but yes man, yessir, that was me all right. Funniest thing, I threw a baseball at the sucker and I’ll be goll-damned dipped in honey if that frackin’ thing didn’t crack like Charlotte’s motherfuckin’ web.” Nah, he just looked at the vice principal, Ms. Terry, a pretty little thing that all the older boys got crushes on (and some of the teachers, to boot), and gave her big eyes and said, “Nooo mam, not me. I have no idea how it happened.”

When the boy had left the office, Wilson had been right there waiting. Waiting to see the smug little bastard’s face crunched up into tears, all red and humbled like the little shit-stain he was. But he hadn’t been crying. He wasn’t even worried. When he’d gone by Wilson, the boy smiled at him. Not a cruel smile, not even a mean smile. Just a hey, what’s up ya old piece of shit kinda smile. Like he didn’t give a damn whether he was the floor janitor or a mutt waiting to be let outside. Wilson figured he was lucky Billy-boy didn’t smack him on the rump as he went by, all friendly like. Yeah, yeah, he was sure sick of those kids. But soon it’d be summer, and Wilson would be cut back to parttime, and he’d go see his sister in Sacramento. Take the bus up most likely, make a vacation out of it. Stop in that garlic town, or do some wine tasting up there in Napa. Hell, maybe it was time he listened to Barbara and move out there and live with her, Robert and the kids. Sis was still young and healthy, a working girl, and Robert had more money than those kids could spend in a year of playing in the arcade or buying all them new clothes they were so proud of. They could take care of him, sure. Even had a room there for him, all done up like a mini-apartment.

He could retire.

Hell, yeah, he liked the sound of that more and more. Yessir, re-tire. Sounded real nice.

But then he’d remember who he was, and how he was. About how when he’d visit, he’d stay a week or so… and he’d get itchy. Cagey, like. Ready to move on, get to work, take care of things. He supposed that meant he wasn’t ready to retire. Retire meant you could do nothing and not give a damn that you weren’t doing nothing. But for Wilson, that kind of thing got old real quick. Plus, the school needed him. He’d been there twenty-three years. More than anyone but that wonderful old lesbian Ms. Auerbach, the English teacher. She’d been at Liberty since the 1950’s and showed no sign of slowing down, no sir. He’d miss their coffee times if he retired. Miss seeing the other teachers, too, some of whom were friends. He’d miss Principal Hodge and Ms. Terry, both of who were real kind, and easy on the eyes, yessir. Ms. Terry, that was.

But he sure as hell wouldn’t be missing those kids. Hell no. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be missing their gum, their nasty looks and their even nastier graffiti. Not that. Not a scratch.

Wilson looked up, surprised to see he was almost back home. He’d walked to and from the school, a good mile, twice a day, every weekday, for every one of those twenty-three years. He knew the walk so well now he was surprised he didn’t look down and see a curved groove in the sidewalk from the path he’d tread. He knew the walk so well he swore to heaven he could have done it blindfolded, without slowing a step or bumpin’ a knee.

Well, it would be good to get home. It was Friday, and that meant he could sleep-in a bit tomorrow, at least until Fix woke him up wanting her breakfast. Damn cat knew how to open cupboards and windows, how to lift the toilet seat and do her business in a box the size of an Oxford dictionary, but the dummy couldn’t feed herself if her life depended on it. For that reason, and that reason alone he was sure, old Fix kept Wilson around. Put up with him, as it were.

Wilson laughed to himself. By God he was turning into a bitter old pill. And him still a few good years shy of seventy. Too young to be so damned cranky, he thought. Well, he’d take care of that old cat when he got home, and then he’d make himself a little something, nip a little more of the Amaretto he’d been given as a Christmas present from Principal Hodge and savored and saved like it was heaven’s own elixir, which in many ways he figured it was. It surely was.

He pulled the heavy ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the lobby of the small 12-unit building, almost as beaten-down and old as he was, and headed for the stairwell; still too proud, after all these years, to use the elevators for what a single flight of stairs would accomplish just as well. He thought of the warm liqueur waiting for him, and it brought a smile to his face. The faces of Bill Hartnett and all those other grimy little bastards faded away with each stair he climbed to his second story apartment, toward As he rounded the stairwell and came up onto his floor, he paused. Now that’s funny, he thought. Why all them damned lights out?

It was nearing seven o’clock, and the sun was settling into the Pacific, but the hallway window in Wilson’s building faced east. So there was hardly any light coming through there now, and the fluorescents lining the hall were all – oddly – off. Wilson knew there was no switch for the lights, he also knew for a fact they was all on a timer. And the timer, all year-round, was set for 5 p.m. sharp. On at 5 p.m., off at 9 a.m. in the morning. Been that way every day since he moved in. But now… now they were all, most certainly, for no good reason he could fathom, off.

He craned his neck up toward the third floor, could see the hall lights spilling onto the stairwell above. He looked down to the first floor, not trusting his own memory at the young age of 67, and saw that, yes, like he’d thought, those lights were going strong, too. So not a power outage. No, no… it was just his floor that was off. His floor, along with the three other folks and families that lived on this level, that had been left in the dark.

“Humph,” he grunted, debating whether to go back downstairs and call the super. But it was getting late, and he’d had a long day, and he could all but taste that sweet, warm Amaretto on his dry tongue. Hell, if he could walk from Liberty Elementary School to his home blindfolded, through busy streets and around all them other obstacles, then he could surely make it the fifty paces to the end of the hallway and the door of Unit 8. Yes, yes, he liked the sound of that. The lights could wait. He’d tell that janitor part of his brain to shut the hell up, because the non-janitor part of him wanted to turn on the television, kick up his feet, pet his kitty, and have himself a little nip of the sweet stuff. Yessir, time to get home.

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Wilson waved a hand casually, letting the universe know that it could go on and fornicate with itself a good long while, and made his way down the shadowy hall to Unit 8.

A few feet from the door, he pulled out his massive ring of keys once more, extended the thick bunch of metal from the retractable-string of the clip on his belt, and began feeling for the right key with the pads of his weathered fingers.

But God it’s dark down here, he thought, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck come to half-mast. He scolded himself for getting the willies, but he’d never been fond of the dark, truth be told, and he didn’t much like walking through…

Something creaked behind him.

He turned, his mouth hung open, his eyes wide. The hairs on his neck were at full attention and saluting now, and the gooseflesh crawling up along his arms were marching right along to whatever bugle his frayed nerves was blowing.

“Probably that damn cat,” he mumbled, referring to the Willoughby’s fat orange tabby, the one he and Fix didn’t care for; no sir, not a bit. “Run on now,” he said, trying to sound strong. To sound in control.

His voice sounded like a dead thing in the empty hall.

At the far end, past the stairs, he could see the window and the day outside turning the color of a plum, and now even the stairs themselves were nothing but a fuzzy shadow at the end of a long dark tunnel. “This is bullshit, is what this is…” he said, and turned for his door. Moving quickly now, he pulled the keys away from his belt once more, his fingers moist, and the heavy ring of metal got loose, slipped and zipped back to slap his bony hip. “God DAMN,” he said, more loudly than he’d intended, hearing the first jingles of fear in his ears, the first fingertips of dread walking up his spine, sharp nails at the end of strong fingers crawling like a spider onto the back of his neck.

Fumbling, he jerked the keys out again.

There! There was that noise again.

But this time Wilson didn’t turn, he could feel the right key in his fingers, like a magician pulling the right card from a thick deck. He gripped the key and thrust it cleanly into the deadbolt, twisted it, then pulled it out and stuck it into the handle down below. With a turn of the handle and a shove the door swung open and Wilson all but leapt inside, slamming the door shut behind him and springing the bolt before…

Something grabbed his leg.

He kicked out, screaming. “Aaahh!” he yelled, twisting so violently he felt something tweak out of place in his back. He pushed his shoulder against the door and flipped on the light, praying oh god in heaven please let the lights come on.

And they did.

“I’ll be double-dipped damned, Fix!” he said as he stared down at what had reached out for his leg in the dark, his heart hammering in his thin chest. “Damn it, cat, you nearly killed me.”

Fix, overly eager to see the man who brought him food, sat innocently on the linoleum of the kitchen floor, a few feet of safety between him and the human’s boot, which had so rudely shoved him away. Fix licked attentively at one forepaw, eyes veiled, not giving two-shits for the scare he’d put into good ol’ Wilson.

Wilson felt blood pounding in his temples, and realized he wasn’t breathing. He let out the held breath, and it came with a gush sound. His chest relaxed, his heart slowed, and he felt his body lose the tension. He unclipped the key ring from his belt and dumped

the thick wad of metal unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter. He bent down, stroked Fix’s head. The Siamese, as if just now deigning to acknowledge the old man, looked up at him with her lovely blue eyes, meowed a few times, then upped and did some figure-8’s through his legs. The universal sign that it was feeding time, and if the old man did what needed to get done, there’d be no problems.

“Okay, okay, my friend,” Wilson said, and moved into the kitchen to retrieve a can of tuna-turkey pâté for his kitty. “You first, then me. I see how it is,” he said, and smiled as he pulled open the cupboard.

When he turned back around, the smile fell from his face like an anvil slipping off the ledge of a high cliff.

A man stood in his kitchen.

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