Haunted

HAUNTED

Haunted people? Sure, they seem to be everywhere.

Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Tales about them are always good for campfire stories.

Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of.

But haunted pens? And I don’t mean pig pens or baby pens (though that sounds ridiculous, too). I mean writing pens.

Yeeeeah, right.

That’s what I would’ve said, too. Would’ve.

Before I found that damn pen.

It was nothing much to look at. It read BIC, SoftFeel, med. It produced black ink. Well, at first, anyway, when it was trying to pass itself off as a good, nonthreatening, nonhaunted pen.

I was out for a jog. It was a crisp fall day; the leaves' colors had just peaked. I rounded my block, and there, right in the gutter, was the pen. It was nice and shiny and looked brand new. The cap was even on.

You probably wouldn’t have picked it up.

You’re you.

But I’m me. Linda Lou. And I picked it up. I’m forever losing pens, and having another around was always nice.

I put it in my pocket and went on my merry jog.

I paid bills later that night and sent out a couple of birthday cards. Got out my checkbook and a whole mess of envelopes and stamps.

And, of course, my “new” pen.

It wrote nice and smooth. There were no inkblots, no choking, no messy swirls.

After I was done, I addressed the envelopes and put stamps on them. I stacked everything really nice on the kitchen counter. I don’t remember where I put the pen. And then I went to watch TV. The shows were good, nothing extraordinary.

And then I headed back into the kitchen for a glass of water before bed.

The pen was on the floor.

I frowned and bent down to pick it up. I put it on the counter, and that’s when I noticed the note, written in beautiful, flowing cursive, no less.

Hello, Linda! Thanks for picking me up. We’ll have fun!

I blinked and re-read the note. And then I got scared. I thought someone had broken into my place, that someone was playing games with me.

My first instinct was to search my apartment but then I realized just how stupid that was. I’m one of those people who yell at the movies: “No! No, you freaking idiot! Don’t run up the stairs!”

And so I scurried right out the front door and into the hallway of my apartment building.

It was near midnight, and I was in my faithful jammies--old, blue sweat pants and a white T-shirt I’d had since my high school softball days.

There’s a big, gold-plated mirror in the hallway, and I studied myself for a moment as I tried to catch my wits.

I’ve always considered myself pretty good-looking, but the reflection greeting me was just as frightening as the note.

I was unnaturally pale. I looked like I’d just seen a ghost. My eyes were big and round. My blond hair was mussed from my evening on the couch.

My gaze fell to my sock-clad feet, and I suddenly felt like a fool. “Go back in,” I coaxed myself.

No, I thought. You know what you saw. Someone’s in there. Or was in there, anyway.

I took a deep breath. What was a girl in my situation supposed to do, anyway? I was 25 and two weeks new in town. Town being Washington, D.C., and me being a newly arrived congressional aide. I lived in a Capitol Hill rowhouse that had been converted into apartments.

And I was shy. Painfully shy. Meeting new people was nerve-wracking for me. I certainly wasn’t going to go knocking on doors at this hour. I considered calling the police. But, somehow, I knew I’d be making a fool of myself. My next thought was to call my sister back home.

But when I heard light footfalls ascend the steps below me, my heart froze.

What if the writer of the note was returning to kill me?

Panting heavily, I stepped back from the mirror and forced myself into the direction of the staircase. No matter what, I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

And then I saw the most beautiful man and woman coming up toward me. They were laughing and giggling like friends or sweethearts do. The man was tall and chiseled. He had wavy brown hair and wore corduroy pants and a white sweater.

The woman was so stunning she took my breath away. She had brown hair too, but hers was so dark it was almost black. Her eyes were green, and her smile somehow managed to be coy, friendly and slightly feral all at the same time. She was wearing a charcoal business suit that hugged her long, lithe body in all the right places.

I know I looked like a fool.

I knew that my mouth was probably dangling wide open.

And that I was in my pajamas and socks.

But I was unable to move.

The beautiful man and woman reached the top of the stairs and looked at me.

The man furrowed his brows.

But the woman smiled at me, and good God ... if I’d thought she was beautiful, now she was just absolutely, impossibly stunning. “Locked out?” she asked. Her voice was so soft, so smooth, so rich ... all at once!

Somewhere, vaguely, in the cobwebs of my mind, I remembered the note.

I decided not to tell them about that. Please. I still had some sense about me.

But, of course, what I ended up doing was not much better. “Kind of locked out,” I mumbled.

“Kind of?” The woman kept grinning. “Well, hey, Byron and I can help you get back in.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “No! But thanks for offering.”

The man’s furrowed brows deepened. “Uh—well, all right. See you.” He turned to leave, but the woman didn’t budge an inch.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Do ... ah, have you been fighting with someone?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “No. I just wanted fresh air."

“Ah.” She nodded. “Well, the fresh air’s outside.”

“Right. Right. I knew that. I was just on my way out.”

“Without shoes?” She glanced pointedly at my sock-clad feet.

The man mumbled something under his breath.

“I’ll be all right," I said. “Hey, thanks. See you around.” I threw them both a little wave and rushed down the steps.

I still had no idea what I was doing. Come to think of it, that’s been true since I was born. So, anyway, I stopped in front of the row of mailboxes at the front of the hallway.

I thought again about calling my sister. But she’d be all grumbly and pissed at being woken up.

“Crap,” I muttered. “Crap, crap.”

And then I heard her come down the steps. I met her eyes, and my heart froze again.

“Hello,” she greeted me. “Come on, tell me what’s really going on. Spat with your boyfriend?”

I looked away.

“What?”

I glanced back at her. “I live alone. No boyfriend.”

“So what is it? You’re worrying me.”

“Oh, it’s ...” I flapped my hands. “It’s nothing. It’s silly. But, you know, uh ... I’m fine. Really.”

"I'm Victoria," the woman said. “Want come up to my place?”

I was horrified. “What? Oh, I couldn’t. I’m sure you and your husband need to get to sleep.”

“Him? Oh, that mean old lug’s not my husband. He’s my brat of a brother. Little brother. He’s visiting. Come on. He’s gone to bed, but I’m a night owl.”

I was not sure how to reply. Like I said before, I’ve never been good at meeting people. And I certainly wasn’t used to perfect strangers inviting me in. And the timing seemed too coincidental. What if this woman and her so-called brother were involved with the note? What if she was luring me in with her big smile and friendliness?

My brain was jumbled with thoughts, but finally I found myself saying, “Have you ever ...”

“Have I ever what?”

“No. Never mind.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“All right. I was watching TV all night, and I think someone broke into my apartment. Maybe he’s still there. I don’t know.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide. “Did you call the police?”

“No."

“Why not?”

“What am I going to tell them? That I was watching TV and went into the kitchen to see a note that hadn’t been there before?”

"Well, yeah!"

I swallowed. You would have called the police. You're you, but I'm Linda Lou. Silly, stupid Linda Lou.

“What did the note say?” Victoria asked.

“Ah ...” I couldn’t remember exactly. “Something about being picked up and doing what I was told.”

Victoria frowned. “Let’s call the cops.”

“No. They’re going to think I’m being silly.”

“Who cares? Come on.” Victoria reached into her pocket and came up with a sleek little cellphone. She handed it to me. “Call the cops. “

“I don’t know the number,” I protested lamely.

“Call information, then.”

#

The minute I laid eyes on the policeman who showed up, I knew I was in trouble. He looked to be close to retirement. He had big, red-veined eyes and a bulging beer belly. He walked with a lazy, shuffling gait. It was nothing I could put into words, exactly, but I just knew he wouldn’t believe me. He’d claim I’d written the note myself and that this was all a ploy for attention.

I led the policeman and Victoria to the front door of my apartment, and he asked me what I had been doing before I saw the note.

“I ... I’d been watching TV all night. And then I was about to go to bed. I went into the kitchen to get some water, and right on the counter was a note. A note that hadn’t been there before.”

“What’d it say? You recognize the handwriting?”

“It was ...” I paused a moment, marshalling my thoughts. “It was beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy. Flowing cursive. And, uh ... it said something like ... ‘Thanks for picking me up. Now do what I say.’ Something like that.” I shrugged apologetically. “I don’t remember it word for word.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” the cop said, and he went into my apartment.

I stayed behind, in the building's hallway.

Foreboding washed over me.

He’s not going to believe me. He’s not going to believe me.

“Show me where the note is.”

“Shouldn’t you go through the place first, see if anyone’s there?” I suggested.

The cop growled. “Let's do this my way, lady. All right? Where’s the note?”

“On the kitchen counter. I ... can you find it? I don’t want to go in the apartment.” I glanced at Victoria, and she gave me an encouraging smile.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to go in, either.”

The cop sighed and disappeared from view.

He was back a minute later. “There’s no note, and nobody in the apartment.”

My jaw fell open. “What? No note?"

The cop scowled. “Lady, we’re busy people, you know. I could write you up for this. Making a false report.”

“You’ve got to believe me!” I protested. I whirled to Victoria. “Don’t you believe me?”

She nodded. “Linda’s telling the truth," she informed the cop. "Look, whoever wrote the note must’ve taken it with him. We’ve been downstairs a while. There’s another way out of the house, another staircase down that hall. It would’ve been easy enough.”

The cop barely glanced at Victoria. “Like I said, we’re busy people. We don’t have time to deal with the likes of you. Consider this a warning.” He shuffled his way to the staircase, and his heavy footfalls reverberated in my ears for a long time after he had left the building.

“No note,” I whispered. “There was a note.”

“I know, I know,” Victoria said soothingly. “I believe you.”

I looked at her, fear almost choking me. “What do I do?”

“Stay with me tonight. Byron’s sleeping on the couch, but we can share my bed.” She flashed me a reassuring smile. “I won’t bite.”

My chest tensed, and all of my earlier suspicions of Victoria came flooding back.

What if she was involved with the note? What if Byron was the one who had removed the note?

She arched a fine, delicate eyebrow. “Well?”

I couldn’t think. She seemed nice. But something about her was off. Something about her gave me the willies, especially now that she had invited me to stay with her.

And she was so beautiful. Beautiful women have always scared me. I’m not sure why. But beautiful women always seem to get their way.

This one would not, at least not tonight.

“I couldn’t do that,” I mumbled. “I couldn’t impose on you.”

She waved her hand. “It’s no imposition. Or ...” A thoughtful gleam entered her eyes. “You stay in my apartment. I’ll stay in yours, keep an eye out.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“I ... I ... I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. But thank you for the offer. Yeah.” My confidence increased with each word I spoke. I was taking charge, finally. “I’m just going to go in and get my things. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do.”

Victoria watched me intently, and my stomach tingled as her eyes bored into me.

Beautiful women always get their way.

Victoria flipped back her hair. “All right. That’s a good idea. Uh ...” She gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I can see you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. You’re smart not to.” Her lips formed an approving smile. “But, uh ... well. I hope I’ll see you around. Want to do dinner tomorrow? Byron and I will cook for you at my place.”

I had the most overwhelming urge to say no.

But at the same time, I wanted so badly to say yes.

However, the thought of just sharing dinner with this gorgeous woman sent my stomach into knots. This wasn’t something shy, timid, nervous me could handle.

My indecision led to a long, awkward moment of silence.

“All right,” Victoria said finally. “Come by at 7 if you want to. I hope to see you then. I’m in 504.” She gave me a smile and a wave, then she was gone.

I stood in place for quite a while after Victoria returned to her apartment.

504.

Only three doors down. It was a shame I didn’t already know my neighbors. But that’s how it had always been with me.

I turned to my own apartment door. The cop had left it halfway open, and I took a small, mouselike step.

There had been a note.

I had seen it with my own eyes!

I swallowed and crossed into my apartment. The lights had been on when I’d scurried out earlier, and they were still on. Holding my breath, I made my way to the kitchen.

There was no note.

Just like the cop had said.

Another kernel of suspicion wound its way into my mind. Had the cop taken the note himself, figuring its convenient disappearance would save him a bunch of trouble?

No. Now I was truly being ridiculous!

“Calm down,” I told myself. “Get what you need, then get the hell out of here.”

My first stop was my bedroom, where I planned to change out of my pajamas. I flicked on the lights, and there, in the middle of my neatly, perpetually made-up bed, was a stack of yellow post-it notes. On top of it was the pen I’d found earlier.

The post-its and the pen had not been there before.

I froze.

And I stared.

504. That was where Victoria was. All I had to do was turn around, and I could be at her place in five seconds.

But.

But.

I couldn’t trust her. Couldn’t trust her brother.

As if I were in a trance, I stepped toward the bed. I shifted the pen aside. Sure enough, on the top note, was a message in that beautiful cursive.

Here is the first thing I want you to do, Linda. I’ve been lonely. Get me some more Bics. I want friends.

I blinked. I re-read the note, the words blurring in my confused brain.

And then the pen moved. It rolled itself over to the note.

It righted itself and wrote, Please. Please, do this Linda. We’ll have fun!

“Oh, God,” I gasped. I stepped back, my eyes widening in horror. “Oh my fucking God.”

The next thing I knew, I was rapping frantically at Victoria’s door.

#

Byron answered first, and his eyes were full of sleep. “What is it?” he grumbled. “Quit making that racket.”

I ran past him into the living room. “Oh God, oh God.” My breaths came in heavy pants. “Where’s Victoria?”

Just then, Victoria appeared in the doorway of the living room. She wore a white T-shirt and plain black boxers. Her hair was tousled, and she rubbed at her eyes.

But when she saw me, she became instantly alert. “Linda! What is it?”

“The pen, the pen!”

"What?"

“The pen’s the one who wrote the note!”

“Well, uh ... ah.” Victoria gave a little, confused cough. “The pen?”

“I went into my bedroom! And there was a note. Another note! And then the pen ... it just started writing on its own!”

“Victoria.” Byron’s weary voice sounded on my left.

Victoria threw her brother a smile. “Hey, go sleep in my bed, all right?”

“Yeah, OK,” he mumbled. He made his way past Victoria and into her bedroom.

Once Byron had gone, Victoria clasped her hands together. “Now, what exactly happened?”

I told Victoria my tale, where I had found the pen, everything, my words tripping over one another. Two minutes later, I was out of breath, and she was studying me with ... I don't know.

It was as if she believed me.

“Take me to the pen,” Victoria said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I just want to see what’s going on.”

“Uh huh.” I ran my horribly dry tongue over my lips. “I’m not going back there.”

“OK. I understand,” Victoria said, and her eyes gleamed. It wasn’t an evil gleam, or even a menacing one-just ... spooky. It sent chills up my spine.

She was curious. Genuinely curious. Not afraid. That unnerved me.

“Stay here,” Victoria told me. “I’ll be back soon.”

Off she went, walking tall and strong, with nary a trace of apprehension.

I wasn’t sure what to do while Victoria was gone, and I prayed she would be back soon. But what if the pen got her?

Impossible. How does a pen “get” a nearly 6-foot-tall female who seems as strong as an ox?

But I knew there were ways. Pens made good weapons. I imagined that little grayish-black Bic stabbing Victoria through the heart, and I shuddered. What had Victoria been thinking, going off by herself?

I remained rooted in her living room. I wasn’t going after her. No way, no how. I was not setting eyes on that pen again if I could help it.

Several painfully long minutes passed, and no sounds reached my ears.

Then Victoria was back.

Somber.

Not frightened, but not happy, either.

One of her hands was behind her back, and she brought it in the open to reveal the pen.

I shrieked. “Why’d you bring that back here?”

Victoria furrowed her brows. “Linda, don’t be scared. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s just lonely.”

“He? He?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “The pen is a he?”

Victoria frowned. “Well ... maybe not. The writing is feminine.”

I gaped at her. “This is just a game to you. You think I’ve gone crazy. Fine. Fine. Whatever. Just, please, humor me. Destroy the pen. Burn it. Make sure it’s gone forever!”

Victoria stared at me. “Destroy it? I couldn’t. Just because it’s different--”

“Destroy it!” I screamed. “Please. Just do it.”

“Linda. Calm down and listen to me.” Victoria held her hands up, and she had a rationality in her voice that was sorely missing from mine.

I didn’t care. There was nothing she could say that would make me listen.

“Linda, he wrote to me,” she pleaded. “He just wants someone to write back.”

I laughed to cover my growing disbelief and confusion. “This is a dream,” I muttered. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve fallen asleep watching TV on the living room couch. You don’t exist. Byron doesn’t exist. And that’s just a normal pen, not a crazy, haunted pen.”

The pen tumbled from Victoria's hand and found a sheet of paper. It wrote industriously.

Despite myself, I had to see what it had to say.

"Forget Linda," the pen wrote. "She's a party pooper."

I gasped indignantly. "Am not!"

"You should write your answer," Victoria chided me. She jotted: "Just give Linda some time. Please? I really like her."

I stared and blinked at Victoria's words.

I really like her.

"Do you like me, Linda?" Victoria asked.

Yes, yes, yes.

"I do," I squeaked.

"This pen brought us together. The least we can do is get it some friends, hmm?"

I thought a long, long moment.

If I said yes, would that be crazy?

Maybe so. Probably.

But was being crazy so wrong? It was better than being some boring congressional staffer.

I could have Victoria. And a ...

A haunted pen?

The pen wrote, "I'm pretty cool."

I stared at its words. Beautiful, flowing calligraphy.

Maybe if it could teach me to write like that ...

My heart pounded, and I told Victoria, "Yes, we should get it some friends."

Somehow, I managed to invite Victoria back to my apartment. The pen came with us.

Now, many months later, I still wonder if I am dreaming. I hope not—-I love Victoria, our growing brood of pens, and being crazy.

THE END

Guardian Angel

GUARDIAN ANGEL

My name is Gabriel. I’m a guardian angel who watches over children. Not to toot my own harp, but I’m good. Really good. I’ve been doing this for seven years, and not once have I failed in my mission. You can’t say that about most guardian angels, bless them.

I love my job, and I consider myself truly lucky to have watched over and taken care of all these wonderful children. I only handle one—-well, OK, sometimes two or three-—at a time. My current charge is a 5-year-old boy named Billy. I hate to play favorites, but, well, I’ll admit this: Billy’s my favorite thus far. There, I said it.

I’m not sure what it is about him, but there’s some ethereal quality that sets him apart from the other kids. Billy’s a darling little cherub. He has golden, tousled blond hair, and his eyes are clear blue. His voice is so sweet, so innocent.

He suffers, though, and it kills me. His father treats him so badly. I don’t know how his kindergarten teacher can ignore those telltale bruises on his arms and legs. Maybe she’s like Harlan, too. An abuser. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit. The horrors I’ve seen over the years from all sorts of people, rich and poor, young and old… But Billy is a truly brave boy. He keeps smiling and going and laughing. He’s a fighter.

I haven’t been able to do anything substantial about his situation, but that’s going to change today. This is Billy’s big day, and I’m so excited-—both for him and for me. I know he’ll be confused at first, maybe sad, even, to be away from his abusive home. It is the only life he has known. But like all the other children, he’ll come to love his new home and his new playmates. His life will truly begin, and no one will lay a hand on that innocent child again.

That’s right-—today, Billy ascends to Heaven.

What is Heaven like for children? Well, in a nutshell, it is wonderful! Completely wonderful, at least when the confusion of being in a new place wears off. There is food (pizza! candy! cake! chips!) aplenty and all the TV anyone would care to watch. But, don’t worry-—Heaven is educational, too. The kids take classes and put on plays. They participate in sports. Their brains don’t rot, and they become astounding physical specimens. There is no pain and no suffering. I couldn’t be prouder of the role I play in bringing the children to their eternal place.

I’ve spent the past few hours getting Billy’s spot in Heaven ready. The other kids helped, too. I’ve tried so hard not to betray just how much I care about Billy, but I think the other children sense it. I’m going to have to figure something out-—like I said, I hate to play favorites. I know, I know—-I should stop worrying. I’m probably being paranoid for no reason. But, hey, I’m a guardian angel. I have to worry, hmm?

Right now, I am watching Billy wake up. Most mornings, a fight between his parents starts his day off with a bang, and this chilly December morning is no different. His father has just slapped his mother because she forgot to sew a loose button on his shirt.

“I can’t go to work like this!” Harlan roars. “Fix the button now!” He is a big, tall man, teetering on obesity. His skin is pasty pale, like it’s never seen the sun. His hair is limp brown, and his eyes are stupid and thick. He has a piggish nose and a high voice. I don’t know how he got Donna to marry him. She is dull and washed out now, but she used to be beautiful. I’ve seen the pictures. She could’ve been in movies, even. There’s one photo that particularly haunts me. It’s of Donna, when she was 15, with her mother. They’re on a boat at the lake. They’re laughing. They’re carefree. They’re beautiful. They’re full of spirit and promise.

The Donna I know is not the same person in that picture. I am glad I will save Billy from Harlan's curse.

“I’ll fix the button now, Harlan,” Donna whispers.

Harlan jams the shirt in Donna’s face. “Hurry,” he hisses.

Harlan is a banker. He is a big, important banker used to giving orders. Donna starts on his shirt, and he thunders to the bathroom.

Billy stirs. His long, light eyelashes tremble, and his lids flutter. His blue eyes peek out. He’s awake.

He lies in bed for a few moments. He is silent. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking.

I wish I could reveal myself to him now and tell him everything will be all right.

But I cannot, not just yet.

Billy hears his father tear into his mother. She hasn’t finished her task in time. Harlan slams Donna against a wall, and Billy winces.

It’s something no child should ever have to hear, and my heart breaks for this beautiful blond boy.

Harlan thrusts Donna against the wall again, and Billy reaches for his teddy bear. A sad smile steals across my face. Billy loves that bear. His name is Moe, and he’s old. He used to be Donna’s. Moe is missing one ear and patches of fur. Still, his face is serene, and he’s soft and comforting. I think Billy will miss Moe most of all when he ascends. I’ve considered coming back and getting Moe once Billy is in Heaven. It’s against the rules, big time. Still, I just might do it. We’ll see.

Billy kisses Moe and climbs out of bed.

I look at the clock on Billy’s nightstand; it’s a big digital clock with red numbers. Billy’s known how to tell time since he was 4; he’s an incredibly smart child. He’s also running late. He seems to realize this too, and he frowns. He won’t have time for breakfast—-it’ll be another hungry morning for him.

Billy's frown turns into a little smile.

I can't help but grin. Perhaps Billy is thinking that he will run into that nice man. That nice man, of course, is me. On mornings when Billy doesn’t get breakfast, I sneak him a Pop-Tart or a granola bar during his walk to school. For those occasions, I make myself visible and dress as a businessman.

Billy pulls off his pajamas and throws on sweat pants and a T-shirt with practiced ease. He grabs his little blue backpack from a chair.

The bedroom door flies open, and Billy jumps straight up. He gives a little cry.

“What you doing, boy?” Harlan hisses.

“Getting ready for school,” Billy whimpers.

“Did you brush your teeth, huh, boy?”

Billy slinks back and shakes his head.

“Then do it!” Harlan yells. “Jesus Christ, do I have to tell you to do every little thing?”

A blackness swells within me. I don’t like it when the Lord’s name is uttered in such a way.

Billy winces too. He averts his eyes, and my heart fills with love for him. Billy has never said the Lord’s name in vain. Billy is such a good, pure boy.

Billy disappears into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and kisses his mother goodbye. He and Harlan leave the house together. Billy gets into Harlan’s car, and my heart thuds.

This has never happened before.

Billy always walks to school. Greenfield Elementary, in this quiet residential neighborhood, is four tiny blocks away. Why is he riding with his father? Billy was supposed to ascend to Heaven during his walk to school.

No matter. This does not rattle me. I simply just misunderstood God's instructions. Billy will ascend after school.

#

I am not the stereotypical white-robe-wearing, halo-headed, winged angel that has become a part of popular culture. Most angels aren’t. Sure, some like to have a little fun, and they dress up in that garb. But it’s rare.

Being an angel is a pretty isolated job, too. We get our orders and follow through. We have little contact with one another. We each live in our little part of Heaven. Our missives from the boss, from the big man, from God, whatever you call him, usually come in the form of phone calls. Yep, phone calls. Cellphone calls, to be more exact. Sometimes, we’ll see the boss in Heaven. Not often, though. He’s out and about a lot.

He handpicks all of the angels. Some of them are old as dirt, and so is he. Others are new and young, like me. I don’t know exactly how old the boss is, but he’s older than the universe, right?

There’s something about him, some vibe he gives off, that puts me at ease. Whatever questions I have don’t matter.

I grew up reading the Bible and going to church. When it came my time to ascend, I was only 15 years old. I accepted my calling with grace and dignity. The boss was so impressed that he offered me the opportunity to be an angel right on the spot.

Wow!

The memory, the honor of it, still sends chills up my spine. People, including my own parents, always thought I wouldn’t amount to anything. My teachers said I was slow, and I was always bullied in school. Through it all, I sought refuge and comfort in the Bible and in God.

I always imagined God as a huge man, perhaps 7 feet tall, with long, flowing locks and a snow-white beard. I wasn’t disappointed. He is all I imagined and much more. He has lively, twinkling blue eyes and a mischievous grin. He made me feel right at home, yet he made it clear he wasn’t my friend, if you know what I mean. He was a parent figure. I had rules to follow, and as long as I obeyed them and kept doing so, I would be rewarded.

One of the angels, a wiry fellow named Jamal, told me what happened to Azrel, who disobeyed the boss. What Jamal said was so horrible, I blocked it out. The boss doesn’t need to worry about disobedience from me. He never will. Still, I’m tempted to grab Moe, Billy’s teddy bear. It would really help ease Billy’s transition. I could have Moe waiting for Billy in Heaven! How awesome would that be? God wouldn’t mind too much, would he? But of course he would. He views all sins equally.

Still, as I wait near Billy's school for his dismissal from kindergarten, Moe weighs on my mind even more.

Maybe God will call soon, and I can talk him into it ...

Yes. That’s it. He’ll call. All I have to do is wait and have faith.

#

But God does not call. At 2:30, the school bell rings. Seconds later, children, many of them laughing, stream out of the sprawling, red-brick building. A line of school buses awaits them, and an even longer procession of yawning housewives and scowling househusbands wait in their cars. I’ve already eyed the vehicles, and there’s no trace of Harlan or Donna.

Billy will be walking home as he always does.

He sets off, a small, lone figure weighed down by his blue backpack. And this child is only in kindergarten! The schools are giving out too much homework.

There is no spring in Billy’s step, and why should there be? For all he knows, this afternoon will be like all the others. He’ll arrive home to his bruised mother, whose dull eyes would only see the people on the TV screen. She’ll barely acknowledge Billy. He’ll have to fare for himself until his father clomps home from yet another draining day at work and takes out his frustrations on his wife and son.

I take a deep breath and peek around. I am on a sidewalk, invisible as always. No one’s watching, so I make myself visible. I am dressed as the sharp businessman who sometimes slips Billy breakfast. I have black hair, spiky and ultra-cool. My eyes are green, so dark sometimes they appear black. I am tall and muscular and handsome. No one from my pre-angel life would recognize me.

The Gabriel they knew was short, pudgy, ugly.

The crossing guard waves Billy across the street. I keep an eye on the boy and take a roundabout path to meet him. Once the school and the guard are out of sight, I am ready.

“Billy!” I call out.

The child stops and cocks his head. He turns toward me, and light floods his face. “Mr. Arch!” he cries. He is so happy to see me. “Do you have a Pop-Tart?”

I go over to him. “Not now, sorry. Hey, how was school?”

Billy furrows his brows and pushes a mop of blond hair out of his eyes. “Hey, I’ve never seen you after school before.”

I grin. Didn’t I tell you this was one smart kid? “I got out of work early. Hey, I have an idea. Wanna hear it?”

Billy bobs his head eagerly.

“My car’s right over there, at the curb.” I point toward a red Cavalier. “I’ll take you for some ice cream. Isn’t that better than Pop-Tarts?”

Billy hesitates. “I’m not supposed to go with strangers.”

“But you know me. I’m not a stranger. So, how about some ice cream?”

Billy contemplates some more. I do not rush him. He will say yes.

And he does. “Okaaay,” he answers. “Chocolate?”

“Whatever you want, my boy."

Off we go. “You’ll love Heaven,” I tell him as we get into my car.

Billy doesn’t hear. His eyes are closed, and he’s already dreaming of chocolate ice cream. His ascension has started.

#

Days pass, and Billy is still distraught. He has not calmed down like the other children did after their ascensions. They and the other angels tell Billy that Heaven is a great place, that he’ll live like a king and be able to do anything he pleases.

Billy says he pleases to go home. The oldest child in my group, Chas, a red-haired boy of 14, frowns. “Anything except that,” he clarifies.

I ask if having Moe will help. Billy just stares at me and trembles. He’s scared of me now, and it breaks my heart. I do love this boy so.

Word about Billy's difficulties gets around to God, and on the seventh day after Billy’s ascension, the big man glides in, his hair and beard flowing behind him. He heads straight to Billy. “Child,” God says. “What’s wrong?”

The tears in Billy’s eyes evaporate immediately. His face is pale with fear. “You’re not God,” he whispers, defiant.

The boss arches an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know,” he admits.

I do not understand this. The big man has always put me at ease, from the moment we met, from the moment I ascended. He puts everyone at ease. Except this little Billy.

I can tell this unsettles God, too. He strokes his long beard and stares at the little boy under him.

“Billy,” the boss finally says. “You read the Bible, don’t you? You say prayers with your momma. You go to church with her.”

“Momma says Heaven is nice and cool, and everyone flies around and no one’s hurting. Momma says Grandma and Grandpa are in Heaven. This isn’t Heaven! Grandma and Grandpa aren’t here!”

“Your momma was wrong,” God replies evenly.

Anger flushes Billy's cheeks. “My momma wasn’t wrong!”

The boss snickers. “I think you need to go to that other place, where the bad children go.”

A cold fear grips my heart. I want to tell God to give Billy a few more days. He’s just a boy. A scared, confused little boy who wants his teddy bear.

The boss is looking at me. “Gabriel,” he barks. “Something on your mind?”

“I think ...”

“Yes?”

“Let me get his teddy bear. It’ll help him feel right at home.”

“No,” God growls. He crosses his arms. “I’m not going to break the rules for this child.” He snaps his fingers, and a dark, hooded figure rushes in. “Take Billy to that other place.”

“No!” I cry.

“Don’t you dare challenge me,” God hisses.

My stomach churns as the fire of truth overtakes God’s eyes. He has tested me, and I have failed. God knows what is best. Always. Always. I will pay the price for questioning him.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper.

“Take Billy and Gabriel to that other place,” the boss commands.

I wet myself. I am so scared.

“God, no, please, God,” I beg. “I don’t want to go to Hell!”

#

Now I am strapped into a gurney. In minutes, I will die from lethal injection. There are curtains around me, but in my mind's eye, I see what is happening just outside. People file into the room and sit. They stare at the black curtains, wondering when they will get to see me. Their faces are big, curious and fearful. Some have hate in their eyes. Others have love and compassion. I wonder if Billy will come. I wonder if Harlan and Donna are still together.

I am not sure how many years have passed since I last saw God, but I still feel him with me. I hope I’ve done enough to regain his trust.

The police said I kidnapped Billy. They also said I killed Chas, that beautiful red-headed 14-year-old boy, and 18 other children, over seven years.

The police said I kept the children in my basement without food or water and that I starved them to death. What rotten nonsense. I explained to the police that I was a guardian angel and that my mission was to bring Billy to a better place. I told them about my fall from God’s grace. The police just laughed. They asked me to identify God and the other angels from a book of pictures, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

They also said they had a witness who saw Billy get in my car. At my trial, Billy testified, and he had Moe in his arms. Doctors and scientists also testified about DNA and blood matches from the other children. Newspapers said I was the furthest thing imaginable from a guardian angel.

I have looked in the mirror many times since I was sentenced to death. I am no longer handsome. I am the pudgy, ugly Gabriel of old.

I have prayed to God every night since he banished me. I have called out to him to forgive me. “Please, God,” I begged night after night, my hands clasped together as I kneeled at my bed. “Dear Lord, forgive me. I did not mean to question you.”

He has yet to answer me.

I will admit I am confused. I thought I had already ascended. Why am I about to ascend again, then? Why did God breathe life back into my mortal body? I try not to dwell on this. God works in mysterious ways, and I certainly will not challenge him again. I only hope that after I take my last breath, I find myself back with him, this wise man who puts me so at ease. I do not want to find myself with the red-faced, horned man.

I refuse to allow myself to think about what happened to Azrel.

Now, big needles poke my veins. I keep my face still. I do not look at the men who are doing this to me.

If this is what God wants, I shall do it without complaint.

The curtains fall away, and I allow myself to scan the people who have assembled.

Billy, Billy. Is Billy there?

A group of red-headed people is up front. I remember them from the trial. Chas’ mother weeps pathetically. My heart goes out to her. This woman, in the name of God, pleaded for my life during the penalty phase of the trial. She said the jury was wrong. They should have found me insane. She said I was sick and that I did not know what I was doing. Even now, she weeps for me. She will go to Heaven, I am sure of it. She has a kind heart. Chas will be so happy to see her.

And then my gaze locks onto Harlan. He is squinting at me from the front row. I stifle a cry. I don’t know how I overlooked him before. He is as big and as mean-looking as ever. Donna, little and frail, sits with him.

Billy, Billy!

Where is my favorite child?

There is a young man at Donna’s side. He is rail-thin. He seems to be barely out of his teens. He has dirty, limp blond hair, and acne chokes his face. He isn’t Billy, is he? Not my beautiful, innocent Billy.

The young man meets my eyes for just a second. I know those blue eyes, even though there is no fight in them.

My heart falls. Yes, this young man is Billy. He has come to say goodbye, just as I hoped he would. But he is distorted now. Harlan has killed Billy, like he killed Donna. Even though they breathe, they are dead inside.

The air around me changes. The process of putting me to death is about to begin. I squeeze my eyes shut before anyone can see my tears. My beautiful Billy.

A thick, gravelly voice asks if I have any last words.

I dare not speak, lest anyone discern that I am crying. I do not want people to think I am crying for the wrong reasons. I am not crying because I feel sorry for myself, or because I finally accept whatever guilt they are trying to foist upon me.

I am crying for Billy, the beautiful, pure, sweet child who is dead inside.

He should have stayed in Heaven.

THE END

The Doctor

THE DOCTOR

Light glared off the doctor’s bald head. He was a short, sallow man with beady dark eyes. His white lab coat was much too large for his small frame and nearly spilled onto the sterile white floor.

The doctor was in possession of not-so-good news.

The girl had been bad, very bad indeed. She flinched when the doctor knowingly narrowed his eyes at her.

He tingled in anticipation of giving this news to the girl and her mother. Perhaps to compensate for his shortcomings or to give him a handful of power in a world where looks are so important, the doctor liked pointing out to people just how bad they were and just how many grievous sins they had committed.

And the girl in front of him was as naughty as they come.

She was only 12 years old. Her hair was mostly the color of strawberry, but it would probably be more blonde than red in a few years. Her eyes were an emerald green, and baby fat gave her face an innocent, angelic look.

But she was no angel.

She was pregnant.

And there was her mother, standing anxiously behind the girl.

Poor mother.

She had been so worried about her only child; why was Ashley throwing up so much? Why was Ashley fainting every other day? Why was Ashley so pale?

The doctor didn’t much like Karen, the mother. For one thing, her fingernails were so long and sharp that they were true claws. And they were painted such a garish, blinding red the doctor could hardly see past them. No, the doctor could not imagine himself with the mother.

But he could see himself with the girl. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure he’d be thinking about her when he got in bed that very night, and his hands would crawl into his boxers. He would groan with pleasure…

“So?” asked the mother, and she squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “Did you find out what’s wrong with Ashley?”

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, as if he was not able to bear the burden of his knowledge any longer. “I did. I found out what’s wrong.”

The girl's eyelids fluttered. She wanted to disappear.

The doctor smiled.

The poor, clueless mother.

Karen spoke in an impatient rush. “Well? What is it? Will Ashley be all right?”

The doctor frowned in pretend thought, all the while enjoying the moment.

Just how would Karen react?

They were so unpredictable, these hillbilly mothers. But the doctor got the feeling he would enjoy this particular scene.

“Well.” He cleared his throat.

He slowly ran a finger over his clipboard.

And finally, he had wrought all he could from the moment.

He opened his mouth, not caring that he was exposing crooked little brown teeth. "Ms. Jones, your daughter's pregnant."

The girl’s eyes went wide, as if she couldn't believe the doctor had actually said it, that it's true, yes, yes, it's true, she was pregnant.

The mother’s mouth fell open. Shock paralyzed her whole being. She was quite comical-looking, actually, and the doctor was tempted to laugh.

Yes, the poor woman really had no idea.

Finally, the mother clamped her jaw shut. “Ashley is not pregnant. Don’t be ridiculous! She’s 12 years old! Redo the tests.”

Gravely, the doctor shook his head. “We ran them twice to make sure. There’s no doubt.”

The mother stared and stared at the doctor, and it was all he could do to keep his expression serious.

Finally, the mother turned to her child. “Tell him, Ashley. Tell him you can’t be pregnant. You know how people have babies, right?”

The girl, so small and white and trembling in her chair, cowered under her mother’s probing gaze.

“Well? Tell him.”

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“No? You won’t tell him? What? What?” The mother took a small step back. “Oh, my God. You are pregnant.” Anger began to burn in her eyes. "Pregnant? Pregnant! Oh, I ought to--Who’s the father? Is it that kid Mark you hang out with all the time?”

The girl would not look at her mother.

She steadfastly refused to. She glued her gaze to the floor, her breaths frozen in her chest.

Karen was not having any of it, and she dug a claw into the girl’s shoulder.

The doctor grinned. Now this was more like it.

Ashley yelped in pain, but her high, whinny cry died away quickly.

“Who is the father?”

The girl answered, but barely.

And still she looked at the floor.

The doctor frowned. He could not hear her. That was no good. And so he took a step forward.

The girl’s mother hadn’t been able to make out the mumbles, either, and she kneeled, ever so slightly.

"Bob. Bob," the girl whispered. Pure terror filled her voice, and she shuddered just saying the name.

The doctor held his breath in mouth-watering anticipation.

“Bob?” Karen repeated. And still the doctor held his breath; this would indeed be a day to remember always, for Karen’s voice had suddenly become cold, like little sharp shards of ice. “Bob? You mean my Bob?”

The girl nodded slowly, and she ventured a pleading look at her mother. “Momma, he made me ... he made me.”

“Oh, my God.” Karen fluttered a talon-tipped hand over her heart. “Not my Bob. My Bob! How could you? How could you?” Karen’s face contorted into a grotesque mask. "How could you? How could you? Oh my God, Ashley, how could you?"

The doctor stood, completely stunned, as the mother’s rage grew.

The girl was just as stupefied, for she, too, could only stare, her eyes big, round and fearful, as her mother exploded into a monster.

Suddenly, the doctor wished he was far, far away. He was not enjoying this scene, after all.

He wondered if the mother would ever look at her daughter in the same, loving way she did when they first came in.

Somehow, he suspected not.

And the doctor began to feel sorry for the girl. Maybe he would not think about her in bed that night, after all.

THE END