The night before they got called into a secret club none knew about. A Magician and his daughter. Who would have thought a publican had a duality of purpose?

Lying back on pillows raised on the bed frame, he closed his eyes to think about what had happened. One word struck him in particular, being called a fool, not once but twice: coincidence? Or was it the fool? The Joker in the Tarot deck. A power card, a new beginning, and the end of something, but what was the spread? Was the one to make decisions ahead, and at what risk would that mean, or to whom? Was that why the demon incapacitated him? To draw him out of the deck and oversee things, direct the cast, invoke change, and complete the bargain. Or was he just a fool digging his grave and lucky to have escaped tonight with bruised ribs? Either way, he was as good as out of the game now.

He should throw a spread and see what cards came calling. Then again, what if he drew The Fool there, too, along with Death, The Hanged Man or The Devil himself?

He regretted a small laugh, a reminder from his ribs that the cards had followed them around The Black Swan. Black Marsh, Dead Man Walking, The Black and more. Words and runes and a shadow man that was more than a ghost and capable of physicality. Murder they had witnessed under a Hunter’s Moon, coincidence? A Hunter stalking under the proper phase of the moon stalking a bargain breaker if their words were factual. All of it could be lies and deceit to lead them on a fool’s errand.

There would be bitter coincidence, and the laugh and smile faded, a tragedy to follow. Conrad was lost because they entered a place nobody took seriously, hunting a man with a cursed mirror. However, they found much more, and it was only now that the hobby had become real. The devil is in the detail.

Have we chased demons until they noticed and began tracking us?

The Article in the Paper read, “Welcome all adults who want the fun but discreetly”. An intriguing article as I began to read on. Sherry wanted an adventure, but she didn't know if she was bold enough to tend. A Secret club where you had to go thru a personality test to even be accepted in. The rules were strict before entry, when you finally accepted you had to leave your cell phone or cameras at the door. It all seemed very hush-hush. Sherry couldn't go to an event like this without getting her friend involved, she figured Camron could use the night out anyway. But would she be judged for getting Cameron Involved? Sherry calls Camron, she discussed why they should go and if they would have a chance to be accepted. Camron Was all in, she loved a great adventure.

They apply and take the personality test, and both get accepted and have time to get ready. They rent a fancy automobile so they can arrive with class, really didn't matter because the women were made to park and walk a couple of blocks to the actual location. It's a building with one door and a few windows. Kind of a secluded area. What were they walking into they thought to themselves. They knocked on the door twice and sang a tune knocked two more times, that was the secret way. The door opened and behind it was a beautiful woman that had a familiar face. Camron tells me the woman is a Tv star, this secret club was a club where celebrities could mingle and fraternize with normal regular folk. Something new and exciting. We can say and do anything we want with them, except for killing them of course. I was ecstatic, hoping I'd get to meet my favorite celebrities and make out with them. A night to remember I hoped.

“We could call ourselves the secret six?” Selander suggested.

“But there are only five of us,” Nahara pointed out.

“Then we’ll find another!” Selander declared, sweeping sheets of paper about his desk until he found a clean sheet. Then he started brainstorming a list of names.

Nahara sighed, as if all this were some huge inconvenience. Didn’t she know? The name of a secret society was crucial.

“Perhaps we’ll stay more… undetected if we were to refrain from using the word ‘secret’ in the title?” Nigella piped up from the corner.

Selander mentally chided himself. The botanist was so quiet, he often forgot when she was in the room.

“Does it even really need a name?” Masahiko asked, curled quite contentedly before the fireplace like a cat. “Surely an air of mystery would suffice?”

“Of course we need a name,” Selander replied. “All the best societies have names. How else will people know it’s us committing these crimes?”

“Sorry, but…” Nigella raised a hand. “I thought the whole point was that we don’t get caught?”

Selander paused, pen poised over paper. “We won’t get caught,” he said darkly.

Nigella ducked her head.

“This is ridiculous.” Nahara stormed towards the door. “If we can’t even agree on a name, what hope do we have of working together?”

Selander rose from his desk, a dozen ideas already lining up on his tongue, when Nahara opened the door and Oswin fell in the room.

“Christ!” Nahara knelt to catch the smudge of a boy before he could hit the ground. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

Selander helped her carry Oswin to the chaise lounge, gently laying Oswin’s head on the dark navy velvet.

“Make that four of us,” Nahara muttered.

“I’ve got it!” Masahiko clicked his fingers. “We could call ourselves The Sleepers.”

Selander lobbed a paperweight at him.

The day dawned. Bright and cold. Not the sort of cold that leaves your muscles trembling. It was the sort of cold that leaves you feeling empty. Anxious spiders spun their lacy webs in the honeycomb of your bones.

Something is watching you.

It doesn’t want you here.

This is its place and you’re in it.

Get out now before it kills you.

Yet there is nothing there is there?

An empty room yawns back at you, shrugging in confusion. The room knows. Its dark miasma leeching into the cracks in the walls and soaking into the worn rickety boards. Venomous tongues lap greedily at the doorstep, trying to feed on the innocent air that is just out of reach.

You sensed it. They didn’t.

A single step further and you would be at its heart, the pulsing source of the whirling negativity. Your ears flooded with a thundering, pounding, thumping whoosh of blood, it drowned out their words. Through the blinding heavy mist that clouded your vision you saw them stride in slow-motion through that door. They wouldn’t walk out again. Not in the way you knew them, their experience in that room would change them.

Change them for the worse.

Swallowing hard, you forced down the guilt lodged in your throat like a toffee penny, would you be responsible for what happened to them? That’s when realisation raised its weary head, not once had they spoken to you let alone physically touched you. Not even a brushing of your shoulders as you turned the corner in synchronicity.

Their liquid ink waterfall reflected the light as the strands swished unnaturally, unperturbed by the humming breeze. A shy crisp nightgown hung awkwardly from their slender shoulders, not really sure how to conform to the soft curves of a human body. You had felt yourself pinned to the wall by their glowering gaze, soulless and seething. It shouldn’t be possible for a living being to hold such withering intent, everything made sense.

They weren’t living.

They weren’t even human.

They were woven from all the demonic intent that lingered in the shadows.

Shadows.

Now you saw the shadows, reaching out asking to be understood.

Rotating your head clockwise you gazed down and saw your own shadow stretching out behind you. Even you had a dark side, would you be willing to nurture it and let it consume you? A whispering breath tickled your neck, stealing your attention from the what-ifs and into the present moment.

They didn’t have a shadow.

Sifting through the dusty motes you tried to catch a glimpse of them through the streaming golden light.

Nothing.

No one.

“Is it me you’re looking for?” A laugh of sparkling champagne wormed into your finely tuned shells. Spinning around, your eyes glazed over in dizzied confusion unable to focus… “Not there try again.” Once more you chased the voice.

Always searching and never finding.

A deadly game.

One that you were losing.

Then you saw them, her, it, the creature. Standing in the shadow of the unlit stairs, their cascading mane dripped forward partially shrouding their pale complexion. Under hooded lashes they held your stare; you saw them, and they saw through you. Creeping upwards, following the sharp contour of their cheeks, their lips stretched out. Cracking their innocent façade. Deliberately, they raised a skeletal arm, extended a single bony digit. Curling it up carefully, an unfurling fern in reverse, they beckoned you.

Day turned to night.

Trapped under the rafters of hell.

You felt yourself suffocating.

Drowning in poison.

Floundering mesmerised and enraptured.

A single step.

You felt it.

Your left foot raised just a whisker off the stained boards. Extended and lowered itself once more.

Not wanting to be forgotten your right foot hurried to join its companion.

Don’t be mistaken for the wisdom that you lost. You lost it the moment you stepped over the threshold. Into the draughty, isolated shell of a building that once thrived. Now you were its prisoner and you had lost your chance to escape its misery. You gawked too long, you strode too far, you out stayed your welcome.

Or had you?

Soon, too soon, you reached the smirking figure. They knew something; something they knew. Your eyelids bowed, flickered, and rose waiting for their maestro to command once more. “Down,” the word took flight, weightless and hollow.

Pivoting robotically, you faced the gaping canyon. Once uninviting the drop had grown appealing, promises curled through the railings, hope slid down the banister and the empty voice compelled.

How strange it seemed to dream when you were wide awake.

Let go.

Let go of all you know... knew.

It is worthless now, where you’re going you need to be uninhabited.

Again, you strode, only this time your foot never connected to the solidity that was the ground. Instead, it found the silent breath of the emptiness; momentarily buoyant and then it hurled you forward. As if repulsed by your tainted soul. Twisting elegantly like a leaf in a storm you rushed forward eager to greet the evening star.

It didn’t hurt the landing.

You did not hear the sickening crunch of bones crumpling.

Or the squelch of tender flesh being pulverised.

You did not get to witness your organs being laid bare.

Or the gurgling rush of the crimson flood.

You did not get to smell the contents of your perforated gut.

Or the rich metallic sting of life fleeing a shattered shell.

What you did see were a crowd, shuffling closer… closer.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

Came rough rolling syllables.

“Welcome to the Dead Club.”

Came a honey smooth tone.

For that is where you went, and no one would know. No one would find you. Not here in these echoing halls, or callous walls that leaned, or at the bottom of the missing servant stairs. No one would remember of your existence nor would they weep strings of smoky pearl and sparkling crystal. They wouldn’t know…

‘C’mon Georgia, hurry up - and no peeking!’

Fred and Polly had been leading me through the forest for ages. Before we had set off, they had made me put on a blindfold and swear not to try anything. Why? Because where we were going was Top Secret and that was all I needed to know for now.

‘Are we almost there yet, guys?’

I didn’t like how my words came out as a squeak. I had hoped I would be better able to hide my fear, but the warmth of the sun had been gone for sometime now and we were getting precariously close to dinner time. Which meant it was almost night, which meant complete darkness, which meant monsters and ghouls and weirdos roaming around everywhere.

Fred and Polly stopped so abruptly that I almost went crashing straight into them. They started to make strange bird calls, which were answered high above us with similar sounds. Were they communicating with birds? Was that the Top Secret they were going to tell me about?

My blindfold was finally removed and I could see that we were in the middle of the forest, trees and vines all around us. Then we waited. For what, I wasn’t too sure, but I knew better than to ask questions. Fred and Polly were no-nonsense type of kids, and I wanted them to like me.

Out of nowhere a step ladder came unfurling from above us. I immediately looked up but could see nothing beyond the dense canopy of foliage.

Fred jumped up and started to climb while Polly beckoned me to follow as she pulled up the rear. My legs and arms were like jelly as we kept going higher and higher into the treetops. I felt like I was going to faint, but I concentrated extra hard on the soles of Fred’s shoes and kept climbing. We finally reached the top of the ladder and clambered onto the perfectly level plateau that lead into a sort of cubby house draped with translucent sheets.

My mouth formed the shape of an O when I saw what was inside the secret treetop hideout: twenty or so other kids surrounded by books, paintbrushes, pens, paper, xylophones, triangles and various other knickknacks and doodads.

‘What is this place?’

Fred and Polly looked at me triumphantly.

‘This is our Top Secret Club For Special But Unappreciated Children. We’ve gathered the smartest and most creative kids from around town whose parents don’t let them do the things they love.’

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a like a wondrous dream, and now I was afraid I was going to wake up at any minute and be back at home being forced to watch reality TV with my family. But this felt so real that a part of me knew it couldn’t be a dream.

‘But why did you bring me here? I don’t know if I’m very special.’

I looked down and rolled my thumbs around.

‘Georgia Harrow, you’re one of the most special kids we’ve ever met. We found the secret stories you post in the dead of night when your parents are asleep and can’t control what you do. You need to be here.’

I was overwhelmed. I wanted to cry, hug everyone and jump up and down as much as my jelly legs would allow. But instead I sat down at one of the tables next to some other kids, picked up a pen and started scribbling words furiously onto a blank piece of paper.

This is a Secret Club. Really—-secret. It is a club of secrets. Each holds their own. Deep, deep down where secrets belong. They come here for support, to learn how to seal their lips and not let out one word of that dark or light thing kept from everyone else. These are real secrets, for a secret told has power no more. For good or bad, those words are borne. And there’s not much you can say about a Secret Club—-if you say a word, you’re out the door. If they say something to you, it’s also all over. For you and them. The code of conduct is plain: Don’t say a word. No grins, frowns or smiles. Simply remain: dour.

So, the meetings are quite bland. There is no coffee or tea that could lead to chatter. No cocktails or beer that might loosen the tongue. You never look in the eyes of another, eyes can betray secrets louder than mouths. It is only a quick nod and a ‘Good Morning, Day, or Evening’. Then you turn your chair to face the wall. When you feel strengthened again, you stand and walk out the door without a ‘see you later’ nor ‘goodbye’.

It’s so lonely, I wish I could tell the secret of the Secret Club.

Oh, no! The truth is out. Please, oh please—-keep the secret to yourself! All I can plead is in desperation: SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

‘It changes if it’s above the knee.’ Eugene listened to his cousin John explain.

‘It changes!’ John insisted loudly, waving the messy papers in front of his face. ‘It’s different. They pay more if it’s all of the leg. Up to here.’ And he hit the highest part of his thigh with his wrist.

Eugene was quiet, his wide blank eyes peering through the thick, scratched lenses of his horn rimmed spectacles. His cousin sprang up and ushered him to follow him out of the barn. They crossed the field by the chicken coop and entered the tool shed.

‘This was bloody expensive,’ John muttered in his hoarse voice, as he pulled out a brand new chain saw from a black bag, knocking down a load of rusty tools as he did so. Eugene observed him without uttering a word, in his usual blank expression.

As John fiddled with the pull handle and throttle control, Eugene dared a sentence in his faint high pitched voice. ‘Are we going to talk to the group about this?’ His cousin lashed out, ‘I don’t want to tell them anything! They all think they’re so good at everything. Then they don’t dare do anything.’ Eugene thought up a reply, but he didn’t say it out loud. He wanted to remind his cousin why they had started the group, but then he just kept quiet and stared at the floor. He would just ignore all of their calls from now on. His cousin rarely changed his mind. That was the end of that. He wouldn’t go to the next meeting.

‘I’m working Friday night at the disco, so we do this on Saturday.’ The plastic kitchen table wobbled. John showed Eugene the insurance policy contract and beat his finger repeatedly on the paragraphs written in very small print. Eugene squinted, he could hardly make out the words. ‘I’m the one who worked for an insurance. They have no idea how these things go. I do.’ Then he showed him pictures of prosthetics from a handful of brochures. Eugene observed the ancient looking apparatus. Metal, mechanical legs with plastic parts fitted according to the kind of wound. ‘These ones cost a bit less and are easier to use,’ he said pointing at one of the models.

One hundred thousand euros, Eugene thought to himself. And John wouldn’t have to share any of it with the others. It was fair, I mean, in the end it was his leg. And he had bought the saw. His cousin was doing things. The others never did anything. All they did was complain. They just made lists of problems or of things that were impossible because of this, because of that, and for this reason you couldn’t do this, or you shouldn’t do that. Useless. He wished he had never called on the group. He would help his cousin by himself. His cousin deserved his help. And the others would be kept out of this. John worked hard at the disco pub at the doors. Every Friday. Dealing with dodgy, pushy people all the time. Good thing he was so tall.

On that Saturday Eugene came to the barn. John had a fat rope with him and showed him an empty bottle of a liquor he said he had taken from the bar the previous night. ‘I had breakfast with this,’ he laughed, throwing the bottle behind the guardrail. Then he handed the big heavy bag to Eugene and disappeared in the barn.

A massive thud and the crashing of a bunch of objects on the floor. As he overturned some of the vases and shelves he called to Eugene, ‘it needs to look like they came in and made a mess of things!’ After a couple of minutes they drove off to the furthest field in Eugene’s rickety car. ‘When we’ve finished, you leave the car here and go away on foot, then you throw the saw in the river, next to the pilons.’ ‘That’s a pity,’ Eugene thought. ‘It’s brand new.’ John told him how to park the car, perpendicular to the dirt road. He insisted he leave the doors open. Then the two moved into the orchard.

In the central clearing, out of sight, John sat on the floor and began tying the rope around his thigh. ‘This needs to be tight,’ he said. ‘By the way, do you have your phone with you?’ Eugene asked him. ‘Of course I have my phone,’ John exclaimed, irritated. Then he extended his leg and pushed Eugene’s knee onto his shin. The latter held the chain saw in his arms, in a slightly awkward position. His lean body clasping the huge device, next to his cousin’s corpulent form, an almost comical contrast. Eugene realized he had never used one of those before, and held it as if it was an infant he was trying to calm down. ‘Are you going to keep your jeans on?’ he then said, hesitating. ‘Of course! I can’t put them back on afterwards...’ ‘Ok, are you ready?’ The sound of the chain saw motor ripped through the air like a massive wave engulfing the whole valley in an instant.

Eugene knew the jeans were not a good idea. He knew it. Why would his cousin never listen? He never ever took him seriously. But he should. The fabric of the jeans made a huge mess. The saw had trouble cutting through them and got stuck. Eugene had a hard time and he kept having to stop and start, as the mangled flesh kept twisting and tying itself back into the filaments of fabric. After a minute or so Eugene caught sight of John’s face. It was twisted into such a grimace he could barely recognize him. He couldn’t hear any other sound but the motor screaming in his ears, disintegrating his ear drums. John’s tongue sticked out of his mouth like a strange eyeless fish, almost white, his teeth digging into it, almost cutting it clean off. Eugene thought it was quite an amusing expression. Though he could barely see, his glasses were covered in a dark reddish slime.

Getting through the bone and keeping John’s leg still at the same time was the difficult part. The saw kept getting stuck again and he had to give repeated blows. Eventually he managed to cut through the whole thigh, the leg wobbled and assumed an unnatural position and Eugene knew it was done.

John’s huge body was twisted into a knot now. A croaking sound emanated from his throat and he was drooling a brownish substance. Eugene got up quickly the moment he noticed John’s hand clasping his phone. His cousin would soon call the police. That was the idea. And he would tell them someone had attacked him. Perfect.

He gave him a quick wave and rushed off as fast as he could through the fields. Not easy walking through the fallow field, it took him way more than he expected. His feet kept sank into the ground, the saw was heavy, and he kept on scratching his ankles against the lumps of dried soil.

Eventually, he reached the nearby asphalt road. Cars slowed down when passing him. He was covered from head to toe in a brownish black sticky membrane, a mixture of dirt, blood, sweat, bits of skin and flesh which had dried up on his skin in the sun. He must be looking very bizarre, he thought to himself, with a smile.

At the pilons, after a moment’s hesitation, he chucked the saw in the river. As it disappeared in the mud he felt relieved. Everything had worked. Things were good. He was proud he had helped his cousin. Not like the ridiculous secret club members who were always undermining. ‘There,’ he thought as he heard the sirens in the distance, ’John has called them, they’re going to pick him up and take him to the hospital.’ He smiled to himself thinking of the one hundred thousand from the insurance.

John died a few minutes later from massive hemorrhages from the femoral artery. His cousin was arrested and shortly after, imprisoned.

“Jennifer, cancel my 6:30,” I requested into my phone, voice wavering.

“That sounds so formal, dude. What happened to just Jen and Jack? Plus, are you sure? It’s Steven,” Jen replied. Bless her heart, but I could care less if the awe-inspiring, handsome Steven Rawlings wants to suck up to me for two whole cocktails.

Canceling the appointment, I pull out the burner phone I bought at- it’s not important where I bought it.

“3...4...7....” Mumbling the phone number scrawled on my arm, I typed each numeral into the phone.

“This is Joe’s Sweets, what can I do for you today?” A high pitched voice asked across the phone.

“Oh uh, hi. Can I talk to Joe?” I questioned. Instruction guides for this weren’t too specific.

“Well, Mr. Joe is a busy man. Would you like to schedule a meeting?” The secretary queried.

“Umm, yes. Could I come to a licorice meeting with him?” I further prodded.

“Oh, yes. Let me transfer you to line three-BEEEEP,” the secretary replied hastily, and a loud sound on the other end startled my already fragile heart.

“Black or red licorice?” A deep voice asked me on what I assumed was line three.

“Red.”

“Cherry or strawberry?” he asks. What does that mean? Crap.

“Ummm... clarify.” I stutter, hoping the words that came out sounded like a sentence.

“You or someone else?”

“Oh, someone else.” I reply quickly.

“Strawberry. Tonight, 11 on the dot. Back door. Be quiet.” the man whispers into the receiver on the other end of the line, before the distinct click of a hang up dial.

Gathering my belongings, aka the burner phone, a packet of money and information, and my wonderful personality. It did win me a few awards. Golden ones, Jack. Golden awards for my golden demeanor.

Entering through an already opened sliding door at 10:59, I smell the sweetness of citrus, butterscotch, watermelon, cherry, strawberry, and the rest of the contents of your Grandma’s purse.

“Hand over the information.” I hear the same deep voice from earlier. I am assuming this is Joe, but I can’t be sure.

“Ok” About ten voices mutter in the dark, all of them sounding in surprise at the other’s existence.

“Welcome to the Licorice Association. We do con artists, offenders, friends and family.”

“Just do the job man, don’t make this into some society,” someone muttered.

“Murdering someone is a big deal, so I sure will make it some society. I will make this as stressful for you as possible, you’re not the one dying. But you will learn how to make candy today. You chose a strawberry licorice lesson with Joe, so here we are,” Joe replied in a huff, clearly already tired of the man’s resistance.

“Why are we making candy? It’s not going to kill my wife,” one man said, and the rest of us scoffed at him.

“We’re all here for the same reason, don’t get all high and mighty with me!” The guy instructed.

“He’s right. And it is going to kill your wife. In your case, we don’t have to do much dirty work. Give your wife some candy and get rid of the bag it was in. For the rest of you, we will dispose of any evidence at the scene before the fuzz get it,” Joe explained.

Oh. I get it. I hired the most painful hitman for me. Well, I hired the most painful hitman club.

Watching the poisoned licorice ingredients melt and boil in a pot made all of our emotions boil over. The man next to me was making a treat for the guy who hurt his daughter. My selfish reasons for hurting my best friend were making my tears boil over, just in time for the licorice to be combined with starch.

Jenny doesn’t deserve this, but I don’t see a future with her in it. The more successful I get, the more she promises to tell my secret one day. First I have to pay her brother’s bail, next I have to employ her.

My life can’t end with her, so hers will end with me. Twisting the cooled licorice at 3 in the morning really gave me the same perspective, but in a more tired way.

“Pay up and hand over your information, men. Now turn in your strawberry licorice as you think about what you’ve done,” Joe commanded.

As of tomorrow, I’ll have two strikes in the game of murder.

Caesar wasn’t accepted Yet Alexander the Great wasn’t declined The Heroes club accepts if you make history But really it’s if your story is told

So the Allies made it in, they told the world Everything true and documented But before technology could recorded The victors could yet be ones demented

Superheroes can’t really die The other side just knows how to lie So who knows if I have won or lost? I am the narrator, let the other side accost.

May pulled her cloak tighter around her neck. The air was bitter that night, despite the candles glowing and reflecting in the lake like fireflies.

She turned the page of her book and gazed through the flickering light at their paradise. Wilting roses swayed drunkenly, dancing with the musk-scented breeze. Crickets hummed through the oasis, their music making ripples in the honey-like water.

The stars were brighter than ever before and seemed to smile on them.

May sighed happily, regarding the others through the smoke-laden air. There were 6 of them in total. They didn’t have a name, but all were artists of some sort. They would meet in the woods and do whatever they felt the need to do, on nights like these.

She was lifted from her daydream by a heavy splash of water. Laughter rolled through the grove as a figure, Frankie, cut through the molten gold of the lake.

Frankie grinned and gestured for the others to join her before letting herself be pulled back underwater.

Leaving her paperback on the shore, May joined her friends and slid into the depths. She bit back a gasp as the cold soaked through her clothes and started jumping up and down to keep warm.

The group messed around chasing and splashing each other, spraying waterdroplets that turned to amber in the candlelight.

And so they continued, until the early hours of the morning when the strawberry light of dawn floated from the east and the wind grew brighter with the birdsong it carried.

It felt like everything- like nothing else could possibly be as significant as that moment. When nothing existed but them and the stars.