“Take one last look at the house,” said Buck.

“Alright, I’m looking,” I said.

“Aren’t you a little bit sad to be going?”

Jamie leaned over the bartop.

“What?” she shouted.

“Two lemon drops,” said the woman, barely audible over the thrum and zazzle of the music.

There was an envelope on Phil’s desk, and a tan smudge ran along the top. Phil touched it with his pinky, and sniffed the residue.

Mallory awoke beneath a willow tree. Her eyes flickered open, and the world around her came into focus.

“Kevin’s house burned down yesterday. Did you hear?”

A spark illuminated Judy’s face, and she took a drag from a cigar.

Starry-eyed Rose Tannenbaum paced beside a tangled nest of wires. Large speakers, battery packs, and heavy microphone stands lined the closet shelves.

How do you market Satan? That is the question Dill Murphy tried to answer when he opened Devil’s Paradise in 2002 in Amherst Pointe, Ontario.

I was raised to see the best in people, even when it isn’t there.

A ghost lives under my bed.