Tales of the Blood Moon

A Good Day After All

Sweat rolls downmy face as I struggle to control the single engine plane as itrumbles, wobbles and vomits a long stream of black smoke. I have noidea how to fly a plane, so I'm summoning as much of my magicalknowledge as I can muster to make it happen. Considering thecondition of the plane, I think I might be doing more harm than good,but I don't really have any other choice. I started off thinkingtoday would be a good day, but I've since changed my mind about that.

The plane managesto hold together long enough for me to make a skidding, fishtailedlanding on a dirt airstrip located in the center of a large field,bordered by thick woods. Looking out the windshield of the planethrough the dust and smoke, I can see a moving truck sitting nearby. The truck has been newly painted, but the name of the moving companyto which it previously belonged is still slightly visible. Thetruck's driver exits his vehicle as I throw open the door of theplane. He walks over to me and offers to help me unload my cargo. Iaccept his offer, but warn him that things in here are...messy. Heshoots me a sly smile and tells me that won't be a problem. He stepsup into the plane and, true to his word, helps me carry my heavy,ornate crate out of the plane and into his truck without asking me somuch as a single word about why both the pilot and co-pilot are deadand skinless on the blood-soaked floor. Much to my surprise, healready has another crate in the back of his truck. The other crateis plain and nondescript, roughly the same height as mine but almosttwice as deep. I inquire about the unexpected cargo, and I'm assuredits destination is along our route and will not cause us any delay.

With everythingsafely in place, I join the truck's driver in the cab and we rollaway, leaving the plane and its unfortunate occupants to be dealtwith by whichever unlucky soul fate sends their way. We stop afterseveral miles, in a very average-looking housing development, todeliver the other crate. The driver doesn't ask for my helpin moving it and I don't offer. He steps out of the back of thetruck, carting the crate on a hand truck. An attractive, young womananswers the door, pays the driver in cash and he walks the crate intoher house. I'm not sure what she's up to and I don't really care. At this point I just want to get where I'm headed so this day can befinished.

The driver returnsand, after several more miles, we arrive at a rough-lookingneighborhood. Weathered row houses line the cracked, litteredstreets. The driver stops and points at one of the houses. It'scertainly nondescript, I'll give the clients that much. He offers tohelp me with the crate and I accept. Once we're at the door I thankhim for his help and he takes off. I ring the doorbell.

One of the clients- the father - answers the door. He helps me maneuver the crate intothe house where I find the other client - the girlfriend -glaring at him from across the room. The house is unfurnished andsmells of fresh paint. The father owns a construction company thatspecializes in fixing up old houses and reselling them. He's setaside this place for us to resolve his problem. The father and Imanage to maneuver the crate down the stairs and lay it down in thecenter of the basement floor.

Our story beginswith the father, himself a direct-to-video child star of the early80's who grew up but then had similar acting ambitions for his son. The son manages to become an actor, just like his father, but theacting business is tough. By the time the son turns nineteen, hiscareer prospects are ice cold and he's shacked up with the girlfriendwho, it turns out, is quite the irresponsible party girl. The son'snew agent, Jodi, gets him an audition for a role and, according tothe police, he accidentally shoots himself while practicing at homein front of his bathroom mirror. Seems simple enough, except thefather blames the girlfriend for the son's death. The father claimsthe girlfriend loaded the gun herself. Jodi, the son's agent, toldthe father that the life insurance policy she helped the son take out(at the girlfriend's suggestion) named the girlfriend as thebeneficiary and the girlfriend got greedy for the cash. Thegirlfriend denies she ever did such a thing and says the father musthave stopped by and loaded the gun when the son wasn't looking,probably because the father was disappointed the son would never bethe next De Niro. Through one of my contacts in the entertainmentbusiness, the girlfriend is handed my number and told I have a way offinding out just who is responsible for the son's death. Shepresents it to the father, who is eager to settle things once and forall, and here I am.

"Now," I sayas I pull a green, permanent marker from my pocket, "you bothunderstand how this works?"

"Hey," thefather says to me, "that marker's not permanent, is it?"

"Of course not,"I lie, as I begin drawing a large circle on the floor around thecrate. "I'll restate the rules just to make certain both of youfully comprehend what's about to happen: You'll both step inside thecircle. Once inside, my associate will emerge from the crate anddetermine who is innocent and who is guilty. Once we've determinedthat, my associate will feast. The circle will prevent the intendedmeal from escaping. Understood?"

Usually it's atthis point that one or both parties call the whole thing off, butthese two just glare at each other and insist I move things along. Ishrug and finish the circle. I've already gotten my fifty-thousanddollars so, not really caring which way things go from here, I usherthe pair inside.

"Truthflayer!"I intone. "Emerge and show us the truth!"

I lean against thebasement wall as the lid of the crate opens and Truthflayer'sforelimbs slowly emerge. I've never seen Truthflayer's entire body,but he (it?) has two forelimbs like a praying mantis, exceptTruthflayer's are about eight feet long, jet black and shiny. Truthflayer has a taste for human skin, as my now-deceased pilot andco-pilot discovered when the dumbass co-pilot decided to sneak a peekinside the crate while I was napping. I had no ward for protectionso Truthflayer could have killed me too but, since he didn't, he toldme I owe him one. That was when the day first started to go bad.

There isn't muchlight in the basement. There is very little light making its way inthrough the two small basement windows and the only artificial lightdown here is provided by a very dim bulb. Still, the light issufficient for the shadow of Truthflayer's limbs to be cast on thewall beside him. I lean forward a little, because I truly enjoy thispart.

Truthflayer'sshadow seems to shimmer for a moment, then it begins to fade, as ifmelding into the wall. The cement blocks beneath the shadow begin toexpand into a human form. Pebbles of cement and clouds of dust fallas the cement shape forms into a figure which strongly resembles theson. Once the resemblance can become no more striking, the figureopens its eyes and the cement crumbles to the ground, revealing theson (or, more accurately, a visible version of the son's spectralself).

From deep withinthe crate, Truthflayer's sharp, hissing voice commands, "Tell uswho it was that killed you!"

The son points atthe girlfriend saying, "I was at home, practicing loading andunloading a revolver for an audition. I had just unloaded all of thebullets when my agent called. I hung up the phone after aboutfifteen minutes, then went to the bathroom and stood in front of themirror so I could see what I looked like when twirling the gun in myhand. The gun went off. She and I were the only ones home."

With that, the sonsimply vanishes. I push off the wall and walk to the edge of thecircle.

The father yellsat the girlfriend as she steps out of the circle. He tries tofollow, but finds he can't.

"What the hell?"the father shouts. "I'm innocent and that greedybitch is guilty!"

"Yes," Iexplain. "Truthflayer prefers to eat the innocent, hence hisname."

The girlfriendsmirks as the father is impaled and hauled, screaming, into thecrate. She's happy because her bisexual lover is also the son'sagent and the two of them worked out this whole plan. The agent andI have known each other for years, so the agent knew who to call toget rid of the father. The girlfriend was well-aware of what wasabout to occur down here. She is, however, in for a couplesurprises: One: The agent made sure that it was she, not thegirlfriend, who is signed as the beneficiary although she had the sonlie to the girlfriend, allegedly to protect his own interests. Two: Since the agent has informed me (to the tune of $10,000) that sheisn't going to share the cash, I shove the girlfriend back inside thecircle and incant the words that seal the ward. Truthflayer'sforelimbs emerge, dropping the skinless corpse of the father justoutside the crate. The forelimbs lunge at the girlfriend, tatteredremnants of the father's skin flapping against the chitinousextremities. The crying, protesting girlfriend is snatched backwardthrough the air and into the crate. Now I don't owe Truthflayeranything and I made $60,000. Who knew this would turn out tobe a good day after all?