The Marriage Conference

Another Short Horror Story From The Killers Inside Anthology

Continuing on with the four stories of mine featured in Killers Inside, we come to the short story, The Marriage Conference. This was inspired by an actual marriage conference that I attended at a church somewhere, some years ago. As I stood there waiting for it to start, the idea came to me.

I hope you enjoy it!

The Marriage Conference

By Nicholas Catron

Lazlo Richards sat on the edge of the bed, watching his wife tear through their walk-in closet, desperately trying to find the “right” outfit. He wanted to roll his eyes, to shake his head and tell her it didn’t matter, that she would look great in anything that she picked out, but he knew better. It’s not like she would listen to him anyways.

He was dressed in a simple pair of blue jeans, and a red and black plaid button up, with black shoes and a light grey jacket. As usual, his hat was slightly crooked, as well as his glasses. Glancing down at his phone, he noted that it was almost 7:00pm, the time they were supposed be arriving at this damned marriage convention at the local church.

They didn’t often attend church, and he himself had never gone to this one, just wasn’t his thing as he liked to say, but his wife Fanya wanted to go. Wanted to work on their marriage. So, there he was, watching the time tick away as his wife slipped on a dress, then pulled it off, put on a pair of jeans and a Wonder Woman t-shirt, then took them off. She stood in front of him, half naked and flustered, more concerned about her outfit and how people would see her, than the actual convention.

She slid back into the jeans and Wonder Woman t-shirt, fixed her hair, pulled on a pair of white Chucks, grabbed her purse and coat and smiled at Lazlo. “I’m ready,” she said with finality.

“Finally.”

She laughed and slapped his leg, then walked out the room. Lazlo followed, zipping up his jacket and heading downstairs, out the front door and into their car. The church was only a few minutes away and surprisingly, they arrived right on time.

Growing up, he’d had always thought that churches were either massive stone constructs that looked like they sprung up from the earth to look down with judgement and severity, watching the tiny humans that meandered about their sinful lives; or much smaller, wooden buildings that were painted white, had a single steeple with a bell, and simple folks in suits and sun-dresses that filed in to be eaten alive by the wooden structure. Food for the All Knowing One.

Of course, none of that were true he knew, and as they parked the car, stepped out and walked toward the church, he found himself in awe of the beautiful architecture that lay before him. The building was big, built from solid, rough-hewn timber and river rock while massive glass windows made up the front and far side. Yellow-diffused lights poked up from the manicured gardens along the walkways and hung down from the beams overhead, providing an almost surreal, unnatural light that gave the exterior a haunted feel.

The inside was even more incredible, more of the same style of architecture; multiple double-sided fireplaces that roared with warmth and light, a simple dark carpet that didn’t distract the eyes, big plush chairs that looked so comfortable he had no doubt if he sat in one without a coffee in hand, he could easily fall asleep. The vaulted ceilings had beams running this way and that with long-cabled lights beaming dirty yellow light through heavily diffused shades, bringing a comfortable ambiance that was inviting, welcoming. Though he wasn’t exactly into church, he instantly fell in love with the building.

“You know, we can always tell the new-comers here, because their heads are always tilted back, and their eyes glued to the ceiling. See those wood slats, at the very top of the ceiling? Beautiful, right? If we knew how much that was going to cost before putting those in, we probably wouldn’t have done that. But the Lord said to put them in, and we listened. Hi, my name’s Rick. I’m the youth pastor here,” a man said, standing next to Lazlo and just barely in his periphery. Lazlo and Fanya both looked him, an eerie sort of air circling the man, something that Lazlo couldn’t explain, or even understand but the man just seemed…weird.

Short, maybe a few inches shorter than Lazlo, with brown hair parted down the side and a green and white plaid shirt, the man offered a hand and a broad smile. Lazlo reached out, shook the man’s hand and noted in his mind that it was a good, solid handshake. He liked that.

“Lazlo. And this is my wife, Fanya. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Rick, the weird youth pastor with a good handshake and broad smile, turned slightly to the side. “We had it built back in 2008 and since then it has become the pride and joy of our congregation. Are you two here for the marriage conference?”

“We are,” Fanya said, her own smile spreading like a flash flood across her face.

“Well, welcome to our church and I truly hope that you enjoy the conference and consider making this your home away from home. We’re serving dinner now if you’re hungry, just grab a plate and have a seat at any of the tables. Again, we’re happy to have you with us,” Rick said and gave a slight nod, turned, and found his way to a small group of people who all appeared to know one another.

Lazlo shrugged his shoulders and looked at his wife. “Hungry?” He asked.

She nodded, and they wandered over to a small cluttering of tables full of food, refreshments, paper plates and plasticware. One table had a small sign on it with towering trays full of deserts and pastries. Lazlo looked at the sign and chuckled. “Newcomers? I’m guessing these are only for people who’ve never been here before?”

“Probably. Maybe its their way of enticing us to join the church,” Fanya said with a low laugh and bright smile. She grabbed a plate, snatched a few pastries and found a table by the tall windows looking out over the church grounds and parking lot. Lazlo grabbed a crunchy looking donut hole and a napkin, a cup of coffee and then joined his wife.

“Are you not hungry?” she asked. He shook his head and popped the donut hole in his mouth. Once finished, he noticed a small metallic tinge on the back of his tongue, not exactly the best aftertaste for a desert, but it was free, so he couldn’t complain. He sipped his coffee, careful not to burn his tongue. Fanya devoured her plate.

Rick appeared over Fanya’s shoulder, his broad toothy grin glinting slightly in the yellow light. “Well, how is everything? Good I Hope?”

Fanya looked up and chuckled, trying to match his grin with her mouth full of food. “Oh yes, it’s wonderful, thank you.”

“And what about you Lazlo, how did you find the food?”

“It was great, thank you,” he said, smiling back at Rick, though wondering why the man was hovering. Hadn’t they just left him? If it wasn’t for his wife signing them up for this damned event, he could be at home, playing video games and drinking beer. But no. She wanted to work on their marriage and thought that a marriage conference at some church he’d never been to would be the perfect way of doing just that.

Rick still stood, watching. Looking down at them, his glassy eyes seeming to gaze past them, right through them, as if they weren’t even there.

“So, uh, is the conference starting soon?” Lazlo asked. Rick didn’t answer, just stood, staring. He glanced across at Fanya, her eyes half open and head drooping forward slightly. He swore he could see drool spilling out of her lips. “Fanya? Are you okay?”

She nodded her head ever so slightly and some garbled grunt of words fell out of her mouth. He was about to reach out to his wife, to push her back a little and try and look into her eyes, but gravity felt wrong, like it was coming from the side and the next thing he knew, he was sliding sideways to the chair next to him. His hand caught the table, but a wave of nausea hit him so hard it was everything he could do to keep himself from painting the table in bile and half-digested food.

“I’ll be right back, Fanya. I need to use the restroom,” he said as he pushed himself up from the table. The world spun like a horse on a merry-go-round, up and down, round and round, not slowing down or speeding up, just a steady twirl. Stumbling to the side, he tried to let gravity lead him to the restroom as he zigzagged his way through the small groups of people scattered about the main lobby.

He found his way to an empty stall, the bathroom being immaculate and shiny with bright LED lights in frosted sconces above the mirror, the light reflecting and sparkling off white tile and white painted walls.

Pulling the door closed behind him and latching it, he fell to his knees and lurched forward, the contents of his stomach slamming hard into the inside of the toilet bowl. He retched. Puked. Vomited his guts out, a sharp pain clawing at his stomach like some disembodied hand, scraping and scratching at his stomach lining.

He wanted to curl up and die, but he couldn’t. Fanya was out there, looking half dead with that weird youth pastor, Rick, just hovering over her. So fucking strange.

When his stomach contents finally stopped their exodus, he fell over on the floor and let the cold chill of the tile soak into his clothes and skin. He let out a sigh and smiled slightly. It didn’t take long before gravity returned to normal and he was pulling himself up, unlatching and opening the door, and shuffling to the sink.

Once his mouth was rinsed out, he grabbed a paper towel and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then looked in the mirror. He was pale and dark circles had formed under his eyes. Food poisoning, he thought. It has to be.

Fanya.

Oh fuck! Fanya!

He made his way out of the bathroom and found the lobby empty. Running his hand through his hair, he looked around, didn’t see anyone. He went to his table. His wife was gone and the table clean.

Spinning around, he walked as fast he dared to the sanctuary, where the conference was to be held. The sanctuary was a large oval shaped room with terraced seating areas that led down to a low stage. Speakers were installed in the rafters above and along the walls in various places allowing for near perfect acoustical range. Tables with black tablecloths had been setup all over, surrounded by people who appeared to be engrossed with the speaker.

The speaker. It was Rick, the youth pastor. He was introducing someone Lazlo didn’t recognize. Then again, he didn’t recognize anyone but Rick.

Lazlo walked quietly to the left to get a better view of the room, searching for his wife in the sea of tables and bodies. He couldn’t see her, she wasn’t there!

Frantic, he raced across to the other side, then moved down a few rows until he was close to the stage. A few heads turned to him, their faces quizzical yet not angry. No one said anything to him and Rick finished his introduction as a tall blonde woman took the microphone from him and he left the stage, walking right for Lazlo.

As he approached, he set his hand on Lazlo’s shoulder. “Are you okay? You don’t look very good.”

“Where’s my wife, where’s Fanya?”

Rick’s head cocked to the side as a light smile graced his features, soft and inviting. “Oh Lazlo, she didn’t seem to be doing very well so we took her somewhere to lay down.”

“Where?”

Rick put his other hand on Lazlo’s other shoulder, they were face to face and Rick leaned in close. “Don’t worry about it Lazlo, she’s in good hands. Maybe you need to lay down too. That would probably be best.”

Lazlo leaned in even closer, their noses almost touching. “What the fuck are you talking about, man? I asked you where my wife is at and you give me some bullshit, round-about answer. Take me to her, now!”

Rick smiled. A long, broad smile that showed all his teeth. His breath smelled of smoke and roses. “Okay Lazlo, I’ll take you to her. No problem at all. And when we get back, you can enjoy the conference.”

He led Lazlo back out the sanctuary and into the main lobby, turning left and moving past the bathrooms. They walked past a double-sided fireplace, built of river rock that stretched all the way up to the ceiling. The fire was blazing and as they walked, Lazlo tried to soak in the comfort of the passing heat.

It was short lived.

They stopped in front of a regular looking door with a sign that read “Staff Only”. Rick turned and looked at Lazlo, his head cocked slightly down and his ever-present smile growing. “Now, as you can read, this door is for only staff. It leads into the inner sanctum of our church, and I have to ask you to respect that. Do you understand?”

Lazlo didn’t know exactly how to answer. No, he didn’t understand what he meant. It’s a fuckin’ church, what the hell would he need to respect to deserve a speech like that? He nodded. “Sure, whatever you say, man.”

“Good,” Rick said, his smile growing even bigger, stretching past what should be the constraints of human skin elasticity. He grabbed the handle, turned, and pushed the door open and stepped in, Lazlo in tow.

They were in a long hallway with a polished concrete floor, black doors lining the right side and maroon carpeted walls. The ceiling had recessed can lights every so often that barely provided enough light to see where one was going. Lazlo hesitated. He wasn’t a coward by any stretch of the words but something about the corridor didn’t fit right with him. It was as if the walls and ceiling closed in on him with every step.

“Hey, you okay?” Rick asked.

Lazlo looked at him, blinked twice then nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’m okay.”

“She’s down this way, c’mon.”

As they walked, the click of their shoes died in the carpeted walls, no echo, no reverberation, nothing but the click and then dead silence until the next one. Lazlo heard a quiet scratching noise from one of the doors they passed and looked at the back of Rick. He didn’t stop, didn’t appear to notice, so he ignored it. It’s just a church anyways, right?

At the sixth door, they stopped, and Rick pulled a jumble of keys from his pocket. Sifting through the jingling metal, he found the right one, shoved it in the lock and turned. The door clicked, loud. Much louder than Lazlo had expected. So loud that it rung in his ears like a church bell on Sunday morning.

Rick swung the door inward; the room beyond was black, so black it was as if it ate light. “She’s in there, laying down. Go on, see for yourself,” Rick said, pointing into the infinite black.

“Uh, in there?” Lazlo took a stuttered step back, gazing into the room and gasping for a breath that seemed to flee from his lungs. Something was in there alright, but it couldn’t be his wife. Something was waiting for him in there, and it was evil. He could feel it.

“Yes, in there. Now, hurry up so we can get back to the conference. That’s why you’re here, right? To work on your marriage?”

He looked at Rick and realized that he hated the man. Actually hated him, something about him. Something was way off.

Fuck it. He stepped in.

The black of the room was thick, almost inky, not allowing his eyes to penetrate its depths, even after he stepped through the threshold. He heard a shallow breathing that sounded familiar, maybe his wife really was in there? Maybe he was just paranoid. It was a church after all, and these were all God-fearing Christians, right?

He stretched his arms out and felt around in the empty space for something, anything to help guide him. The breathing grew louder with each step he took into the deep black, and he tried to walk toward it. Glancing back at the light from the hallway, light that refused to come into the room, he found Rick was gone. He expected to see him standing in the doorway, offering words of encouragement and telling him to hurry up, but no, he was gone, and Lazlo was alone. Alone besides the breathing.

His steps were hesitant, sliding his feet on the floor slow and careful, not daring to pick up his feet. The floor was slick, as if it were linoleum, which seemed a bit weird to him. Why not carpet? Were they in some bathroom or something?

At one point, he found the floor tilted down slightly and as his foot slid, it moved across some sort of small grate or drain. Metal with pours or holes. He bent down and ran his hand across it. It was metal but covered in some sort of sticky liquid. Rubbing his fingers together, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled metallic, like a penny.

What the fuck?

He wiped the sticky liquid on the floor but not enough came off his fingers. The breathing grew louder for a moment, then was followed by a gasp and a squishy, wet noise. Then silence. Wiping his fingers on his pants, he turned in the direction of the now silent breathing and began to move. Slow. Quiet as he could be. Hands out in front of him, reaching and grasping for anything in the infinite black.

And then he felt it.

Skin. An arm or a leg. He ran his hand up it and found a shoulder. His hands moved fast, searching for something familiar. Searching for his wife.

From the shoulder he found a neck and a stubbled face with a large nose and short cropped hair. A sigh escaped his lips as he realized it wasn’t his wife.

The breathing started up again, this time further away. He leaned down, putting his ear to cold lips, and listened. Nothing. No breath from the person laying in front of him. He ran his hands along the arm again and found it cold and stiff.

He jumped back.

The breathing grew louder.

The man he found was dead, laying on some sort of table. The sticky liquid was his blood.

The breathing was moving closer.

Lazlo backed away, this time quicker, not quiet. The door was still open.

He turned and ran for it, but a hand caught the back of his neck, squeezed like a vice, lifted him from the ground. Squealing, he kicked his feet, flailed his arms, squirmed his body, trying to break free from this steely grip.

Hot breath blazed across his neck and ear. “I didn’t say you could leave,” a voice said, quiet and raspy. The hand dropped him, and he fell to his knees. Reaching back, he rubbed his neck and then jerked forward toward the door. Crawling as fast as he could, he was almost there. The light beyond the door was brighter than anything he could imagine; a beautiful life-giving light that meant safety and escape.

A hand grabbed his ankle just as his head poked out of the room. As it pulled, he slipped, and his chin hit the linoleum floor. Bright lights danced behind his eyes for a moment and he was dragged back into the room, the raspy voice chuckling between labored breaths.

Sliding across the smooth floor, he reached out and grabbed at anything he could, but nothing was there. He slid across the drain, blood smearing his clothes, but his hand found a metal rod. A leg for the table. Lazlo held on for dear life.

The hand that pulled him squeezed tighter and jerked, yanking his leg, trying to break him free from the table. Lazlo’s other hand grabbed onto the table leg and found a wheel at the bottom. It wasn’t a table at all, but some sort of gurney.

His leg pulled away from the rest of him and he let out a cry, his hands slipping free from the gurney. The pain in Lazlo’s leg shot up his hip like lightening and he found himself sliding across the floor so fast, his head began to spin. He crashed into a wall. Hard.

The world was dark, darker than the room and even in that darkness, he saw black spots popping in and out of existence. Bright stars flashed, and a hand grabbed his throat, picking him up and sliding him up the wall. The bright stars flashed faster, and the spots came in greater numbers as the breath was squeezed from his throat. Lungs burning and aching for oxygen, he heard himself gasping and gurgling. He was going to die. In some church. At a conference.

But where was his wife?

Fanya.

He can’t die, he hadn’t found her yet.

Flailing his arms and kicking his legs out, he tried to break free or in the very least, loosen the man’s grip so he could breathe.

His foot connected with something soft and he heard a grunt as the hand let go and he slumped to the floor. The man’s breathing was louder but stuttered. Lazlo gasped for each breath he could take, grateful for the oxygen he was able to receive. A hand grasped at his shirt but had not the strength to hold him and Lazlo backed away along the wall.

Forcing himself to his feet, sliding up the wall, he reached out and found the man hunched over and he realized just where he had kicked him. A raspy laugh found its way out of mouth and he turned to the side slightly and then kicked as hard he could, connecting with the mans face. He heard the man crumple to the floor and then he kicked again. And again. He didn’t stop until he was out of breath, unable to kick any more.

He slid to the floor and heard the man’s labored breathing, but he knew he was safe. After what he just did to the man’s face, he had nothing to worry about.

Lazlo allowed himself time to catch his breath and then crawled to the man and searched his pockets. He found a keyring full of keys and a pocket knife, which he shoved into his own pockets. Standing up, he marched out of the room and glanced up and down the hallway. He was alone.

To his left was the way he came, so he turned right and went to the next door. Trying the handle, he found it locked but after a minute he had used the right key and opened the door. It was black as a moonless midnight, but he found the light switch and flipped it on.

Bright light flooded in so fast that it stabbed at his eyes, forcing him to shield them with his hand. What he saw in the room forced him back against the opposite wall. Within seconds, vomit retched from his throat, painting the floor. He was hunched over, hands on his knees, breathing hard between each blast of bile.

When nothing more refused to come out, he made the mistake of glancing up, the scene searing itself into his memory forever. The room was white. White linoleum floor, white glossy walls, white ceiling. All of it painted in blood and limbs, torsos and intestines. Innards on the outside.

Lazlo looked away, clenching his eyes shut. He couldn’t look.

Fanya.

What if Fanya was one of the bodies? What if that asshole in the other room dissected his victims in this room? What if Fanya was one of his victims?

He opened his eyes, stood up straight and walked into the room, the sour taste of bile coating his tongue. The room was worse than any horror movie he had ever seen. Looking around, he tried to find his wife amongst the wreckage of body parts. Moving throughout the room, he bent down and looked at faces on severed heads, looked for familiar parts of his wife but she wasn’t there. In fact, no adult was there. All the body parts, all the heads, the blood, everything, belonged to children.

The realization hit him so hard he stumbled backwards, tripped on a leg and fell into a pile of torsos and intestines. Vomit tried to come out again, but there was nothing left. He was shaking. Could barely breathe. He rolled over in the mess of flesh and blood and crawled out of the room, his eyes stinging and blurry from the tears, his stomach wracked with stabbing pain.

By the time he made it out of the room, he was out of breath. He let himself lay on the floor for a moment, unsure of what to do and unable to think. Who the fuck are these people?

He didn’t want to know.

Time ticked by, fast or slow, it didn’t matter, until finally he let himself stand up. He was covered in blood and God knows what, stomach emptied, mind racing and he still hadn’t found his wife.

He had to find her.

Continuing down the hallway to the next door, he stood in front of it, keys in hand. His mind told his arm to extend, for his hand to put the key in the lock and then turn. Nothing happened though. Lazlo stood there, motionless, staring at the black door, slight tremors pulsing through his body. It didn’t matter that he needed to find his wife, that logic told him to check every door until he found her. None of it mattered, not at after the last door.

A sound slipped through the door. Slight, almost imperceptible, but it was there, and his ears caught it, like a little child chasing butterflies. It came again. A whimper.

Fanya. It has to be.

Fumbling with the keys, hands shaking, he tried to find the right one, pressing keys into the keyhole, only to find they didn’t fit. What the fuck?! Again and again, he tried different keys, sometimes the same one, not believing it didn’t work. Then one did. It slid in smooth and easy. He turned it, heard the telltale click of the lock disengaging. His hand went to the handle in a flash, but then, he hesitated. He didn’t turn it.

He couldn’t.

What was on the other side? Another dead body? Another room full of dead bodies? Could he handle what he found?

Fanya.

He turned the handle. The door opened slightly and he gave it a slow push, letting the dim light from the corridor shine into the dark room. The whimpering turned to a loud gasp then hushed silence. He reached in, running his hand along the wall until he found the light switch, then flipped it on.

The bright fluorescent lights flickered on and filled the room with their glorious artificial illumination, revealing a scene that, surprisingly, was less horrific than what he anticipated. Fanya was there, strapped to a gurney and dressed in a long white nightgown. Her hair had been pulled up into a braided crown on her head, while her wrists and ankles were held down with heavy leather straps and buckles.

He almost cried out. Almost rushed to her in a moment of unhinged levity and joy, but he didn’t. He stood, glancing around, looking up and down the hallway. He peered into each corner of the room, without moving, waiting for just a moment to make sure that everything was okay. That no crazed psycho was going to jump out and get them.

He waited.

“Hello?” Fanya said, her voice quavering and quiet. Lazlo, wanting to rush in, still hesitated. How could he explain the blood? In the end it didn’t matter, they needed to escape. Carefully, he moved into the room.

“Fanya, it’s me honey, your husband. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Her head shot up as much as it could, moving back and forth as she searched for her husband. “Lazlo? Is it really you?”

He stepped into her vision and stood next to her, gazing down with wet eyes. “Yes dear, it’s really me. I’m going to get you out of here, we need to hurry.”

Fanya smiled. Not a full smile, but a half-crooked smile filled with empty faith and fear, but a smile nonetheless. Lazlo unbuckled the straps on her wrists and ankles, and then helped her sit up. Her eyes went wide, and her hands shot to her mouth as she gasped. “What happened? Are you okay? Is that blood?” The questions came flooding out.

He set his hands on his wife’s shoulders then gently kissed her forehead. “It’s okay. I’m okay. This isn’t mine. Don’t worry about it, we need to leave,” he said, his voice soft and steady. She smiled again, this time a full, real smile, then slid off the gurney. Lazlo took her hand and led her to the door.

Glancing down the corridor, he didn’t find anyone. It was as if it should be. Rick would be in the conference, thinking that Lazlo was dead. He didn’t know they were about to escape.

Pulling her arm, Lazlo led his wife down the corridor, back toward the lobby. As they passed the two open doors, he did his best to keep his wife from seeing the carnage that lay inside. They reached the lobby and quietly slipped through it toward the front doors. Strategically placed speakers echoed the talk that was being given inside the sanctuary; the speaker extolling upon the virtues of marriage and how to maintain and keep one. Lazlo wanted to vomit again.

They passed out of the front doors and into the cool night air. Crickets were chirping and every so often a car would drive by, its engine roaring as it sped past the church. Without hesitation, they broke into a sprint, reaching their car as fast as their legs could go. They ripped open the doors, jumped inside and before Lazlo could shove the keys in the ignition, he heard his wife scream. A bright light flashed behind his eyes and then, darkness.

***

Lazlo woke up with a splitting headache. His blurry eyes stared into some sort of brown and black abyss. Blinking, he forced himself to focus while in the background, a booming voice declared and commanded words that he couldn’t quite make out. He heard a gasp, and then a cry that turned into a whimper followed by a deafening cheer.

What the fuck? He tried looking around but couldn’t move his head. He tried raising his arms and legs, but they were held down. There was nothing he could do.

Youth Pastor Rick’s face popped into his vision. He was smiling, a big toothy grin that stretched impossibly long across his skinny face, as if his mouth wrapped all the way around to the back of his head.

“And tonight, a special treat!” He declared. “As two become one in marriage, so shall this sacrifice be!”

The crowd cheered even louder, further leaving Lazlo confused and unsure of what was happening. Rick’s face disappeared and then the world began to move. He was looking up at what appeared to be wooden beams and girders but was replaced by a roaring crowd. Inside the sanctuary.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed out. Tables filled with cheering parishioners, all smiling impossible smiles. He felt a pressure on the sides of his head for a moment and then it was gone, something was pulled away. He tried turning his head and found it was free to move. He looked around, tossing his head back and forth, trying to understand what was happening.

And then he seen her. Fanya. Strapped to a gurney that was standing upright. The white nightgown she wore was stained red and her head had dipped low, as if her neck was unable to support the weight of it.

“Fanya? Honey? Are you okay?”

The crowd laughed. Rick stepped into his vision again, blocking the view of his wife. “You killed her, didn’t you? You sick fuck!”

Rick joined the crowd in their laughter and raised a long, crooked knife, blood dripping from its blade. Words came from his lips in an echo, but the voice wasn’t his. It was deep, guttural, almost inhuman. He was speaking in a language that Lazlo couldn’t understand.

And then, he raised the knife, the blade glinting in the light. Lazlo watched but couldn’t comprehend what was happening. None of it could be real. He was actually at home dreaming, nothing more. Just a nightmare.

The blade came down and into his chest and searing pain shot through his body. A moment later he went numb and light began to fade into nothing more than a tiny spot. Memories played through his mind at the speed of light; memories of his childhood and college years. Memories of his parents, his wife and kids, and even some memories of a long road trip he took by himself. Then the memories stopped, the light disappeared, and Lazlo was no more.