Fall, 1988
Aaron flipped through the Thursday afternoon newspaper, tossing aside
the sections he didn’t care about: local, sports, weather. Classifieds.
Finally.
He thumbed through until he reached the personal ads.
“Single female, 37…” Skip.
“Female with a pre-started family looking for…” Next.
“Female, single, 24, new to the city, looking to make new friends and
maybe more. I can be whatever you want me to be…” Too good to
be true.
He sighed, highlighted a few maybe‑promising ads, and decided to
sleep on it. Tomorrow he’ll make some calls and see if he could score a
date. He tossed the classifieds into the basket by the kitchen counter
and plopped down in front of the TV.
He scanned through channels, skipping sitcom reruns, romance movies,
and creature features. Eventually he left the TV on some random station
and got up to take a piss. He kept the bathroom door open — he lived
alone, with nobody to answer to…or share his bed.
This was Aaron: late thirties, maybe early forties, data entry
manager at a big office. His life was predictable, quiet, and
lonely.
He was mid‑stream when he heard a voice from the living room:
“Are you lonely? New in town? Looking for that special someone? Don’t
spend another weekend alone — come on down to Midnight Rendezvous, 3891
West Greenwood Drive. Browse our catalog of hungry, single women, all
waiting to meet you. Don’t delay. Your love match awaits!”
Aaron shook off as fast as he could, splashing the floor in the
process, and hurried to jot down the phone number and address.
He called, expecting an answering machine. Instead, someone picked up
immediately and booked him an appointment for tomorrow morning.
“Play your cards right,” the voice said, “and you can have a date
with Ms. Right by 7 p.m.”
Damn. This had to be a scam. Or an escort service.
He grabbed the phone book and flipped to the yellow pages. Nope;
listed right there. Established 1973.
Aaron looked at himself in the mirror: Buddha belly, uneven mustache,
frizzy yet thinning hair. He tried a few push-ups, then experimented
with hair gel. Nothing helped.
If he actually got a date, he’d need professional help.
He called his cousin Mingo and made an emergency appointment, lying
and saying he had a hot date so Mingo would squeeze him in.
Now all that remained was a visit to this…hook‑up club. Or
matchmaking business. Yeah. That sounded better.
The next day.
Aaron made himself presentable after calling in sick. It was Friday:
his department wouldn’t combust without him for one day. He drove to a
shopping strip, found the address, parked, combed his hair and mustache,
summoned his courage, and walked inside.
A woman at the front desk, late twenties or early thirties, looked
up. “Can I help you, hon?”
“Yes. Aaron Baker. Ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Tyler.” He
offered his hand, but she was already typing.
“Take a seat. The doctor will be right with you.”
Aaron sat and flipped through magazines. Odd; for a business
targeting single men, the waiting room was full of glamour and fashion
magazines for women. Twenty minutes passed. He was about to leave when
the secretary finally said, “The doctor will see you now.”
She escorted him down a narrow hallway to a small room.
“What exactly…what kind of doctor is he?” Aaron asked.
She gave him an annoyed look.
A voice behind him answered, “Doctor of love. And music. Got a PhD in
music theory, but I know all the right notes to pull in the ladies.”
Aaron turned to see a short, stubby man with shaggy hair. Standing
next to him, Aaron felt like a giant.
“Dr. Tyler,” the man said. “But I also go by Doc Jazz. Good to meet
you, mister…?”
“Aaron. Delighted.” He had to look down to make eye contact. “So, how
does this work? Do you have a catalog or pictures or something?”
“We’ll get to that,” Dr. Tyler said. “But first, I need to ask you a
few questions. Get to know you and your needs. So…what are you looking
for? Love? A wife? Girlfriend? Something fringy?”
Aaron shoved his hands into his pockets. “I want someone to go out
with. Paint the town red. Do things.”
“Uh-huh. So, a girlfriend.” Dr. Tyler scribbled notes. “You’re not
looking to settle down? You don’t want kids, do you?”
“Oh God, no. No single mommies. I want a woman who’s…unattached.”
Aaron waved away the very concept of “child energy.”
“Got it. All the fun, no baggage.”
On his pad, Dr. Tyler wrote:
Wants to ride but not pay for the ticket.
“I think I’ve got the one for you. But let’s go through our current
selection. I have a database on my Springwood computer. You familiar
with computers?”
“Yes, I’m a data entry manager for—”
“tsk, tsk. I don’t need your life story. I need a decision. Here’s
the selection for tonight. Just press the left or right arrow to
browse.”
Dr. Tyler stepped aside so Aaron could sit at the desk and scroll
through a database of women.
Aaron browsed like he was picking wine. Short hair, long hair, puffy
lips, sharp cheeks, brown eyes, green eyes, tall, short: so many
choices.
“They’re all available tonight?” he asked.
“Yes. But if you need assistance, I have someone in mind who’d be
perfect for you. Wait one minute.”
Dr. Tyler stepped out.
Aaron kept browsing until the faces blurred together. Then Dr. Tyler
returned, pushing a TV cart with a VCR. He popped in a tape and turned
on the screen.
A woman appeared.
“Hi, I’m Tanya. I’m new to the city. I’m from Marlin Bay but grew up
all along the gulf coast, from Destin to Coralyn Bay. I’m twenty-four,
looking for new friends and…who knows?”
Aaron was mesmerized. “Who’s that?”
“Your date, if you want,” Dr. Tyler said, eyes twinkling. “Say the
word and I can arrange a meet-and-greet at Dale’s Coffee Bar in an
hour.”
Aaron took a breath. “What’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“Yeah, this is too good to be true. Let me guess: twenty-five bucks
an hour? A finder’s fee?”
Dr. Tyler switched off the TV and opened the door. “Aaron, if you’re
not happy with our services, you’re free to leave. Not once did I or my
secretary mention price, did we? We are not an escort service. Our
ladies are real people with real feelings. I make my money from
advertising and consulting. Matchmaking is my gift to humanity. I won’t
stand for insults. So please leave.”
Aaron stood. The faint image of Tanya lingered on the screen.
“No. I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. It’s been so long since I…”
Dr. Tyler patted him on the back. “I get it. Dry spells. The old
snake full of venom. I get it. Now, I can’t promise anything, but I can
arrange the introduction. If you’re still interested?”
“Yes.”
“My secretary will give you the directions. Good luck, and may true
love find you.”
Aaron was escorted back to the waiting room. He knew immediately he
needed to get to Mingo’s salon. He needed to get his hair, face,
everything spruced up. Tonight, could be his lucky night.
Mingo’s Salon — Crosstown Expressway at South Point Drive,
around noon.
“I’m telling you, honey,” Mingo said, spinning a mirror around his
client’s towering hairdo, “if he doesn’t notice what you’ve done with
your hair, he doesn’t deserve you.”
The woman’s hair looked like a beehive crossed with a can of Aqua
Net.
“Oh, Mingo! I love it.”
“Of course you do. Now go sit under the blower by the mantle and let
it dry. I’ll see you in a minute. I love youse!”
Aaron walked in, and Mingo spotted him instantly.
“Ay, Dios mío! I told you to stop wearing baseball hats. They’re bad
for your hair. Look! Mira: right at your crown, it’s pulling out all the
good hair!”
“Mingo, come on, it’s not that bad.” Aaron immediately tussled his
hair in the mirror and folded his hat nervously. “So, uh…I got a big
date today. Coffee. In an hour. I was hoping you could…you know…style my
hair. Make me look like Roger Moore.”
“Cousin, I can’t promise miracles, but I can get you to look like
Sean Connery.”
“Dr. No?”
“Never Say Never Again.”
Aaron twisted his hat in his hands.
“Don’t worry,” Mingo said, patting his shoulder. “He was still a stud
in that movie. Now come on, let’s get started. You don’t want to be late
for your coffee date, huh?”
Aaron sat down and watched as Mingo went to work, using his bare
hands like a sculptor shaping clay. Aaron noticed Mingo hadn’t washed
them first, but it didn’t matter; the man was an artist.
Mingo grabbed a comb, mousse, gel, and finally scissors.
“Hey—HEY! Not too much!” Aaron said.
“Shhh.” Mingo silenced him with a look.
A few minutes later, Mingo stepped aside and revealed his
masterpiece.
“Primo, cousin…if she doesn’t fall head over heels for you, then she
must be dead.”
Aaron stared at his reflection in awe. Sean Connery never looked this
good. He smiled, nodded, handed Mingo a twenty, and stepped out to meet
Tanya.
Later that evening.
Aaron stopped by his apartment to change clothes and splash on some
designer cologne. He left his hair exactly as Mingo styled it and headed
to Dale’s Coffee Bar, finding an empty table. A barista glanced over,
and Aaron motioned that he was waiting for someone.
Twenty minutes later.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked.
“No, my date is on her way. Must be running late, you know women, ha,
ha—” He realized too late the barista was a woman. She scowled
and walked off.
Forty-five minutes later.
“Now?” she asked again.
Aaron checked his watch. “She must be stuck in traffic.
Something…”
An hour and a half later.
Aaron walked up to the counter. “Give me something with alcohol.
Anything.”
“We don’t serve alcohol,” the barista said, “but I have a lovely
rum-raisin flavored coffee if that helps.”
“Sure. Just pour it over my head.”
He sank onto a stool. The barista felt sorry for him and made the
drink with extra syrup, only charging him for a regular cup.
Aaron took his coffee outside. The evening breeze whooshed by,
ruffling his comb-over which was starting to frizz out. He sipped and
tried not to think about how the night had already collapsed.
“Why…why does this always happen?”
He fought back a tear; then saw a pair of legs beside him.
“What always happens?”
Aaron burned his tongue as he looked up. A stunning woman stood next
to him. Not Tanya.
“What…waa…?”
She sat across from him. Mid-to-late twenties, brown hair, green
eyes.
“I mean, you look like the kind of guy who had a rough day. Are you
okay?”
“Yes. Long day. Disappointing. But the night is young, as they say.”
He checked his shirt for spills.
“Abigail,” she said. “But I prefer Abby.”
“I’m Aaron. And I prefer…Aaron.”
Abby giggled, covering her lips with her fingers as if hiding her own
nerves. “Totally. Mind if I join you? I was supposed to meet a guy:
Dave, Davey, Davey Boy, something but he stood me up. So, I’m trying to
take my mind off things.”
Aaron nodded and motioned for the barista to come out. She looked
surprised, then gave him a discreet thumbs-up.
Abby sat and immediately pulled out a clam-shell makeup compact,
touching up her face. Aaron figured she was fighting her own
disappointment.
“What a fool,” he thought, stealing a glance at her upper half. His
eyes drifted, but her eyes pulled him back: green, almost
glowing, like emeralds.
The barista approached with her notepad. Abby turned her head at a
sharp, almost unnatural angle.
“I’d like an espresso,” she said, “but not in those tiny shot
glasses. Bring it in a large coffee cup. Piping hot.”
The barista started to explain that espresso wasn’t served that way;
but one look at Aaron convinced her not to ruin his night. Aaron slipped
her a twenty for the trouble.
“Sure. A mega-espresso. Coming right up.”
“Make it hot. Like super-hot.”
Aaron took tiny sips of his coffee, unable to stop watching her.
“So…you like things piping hot?”
“Damn, why did I say that,” he muttered to himself.
Abby smiled and closed her compact. “Sure. What’s the point of cold
coffee? I hear in Seattle they make coffee with foam and sprinkles and
other stupid things. Can you believe it?”
“Right. Next thing you know, they’ll add syrup and other crap like a
milkshake. It’s coffee, not a carnival.” Aaron’s eyes bulged as he hid
his cup and took baby sips.
“Your mega-spresso, hun,” the barista said, handing over a large cup
filled with steaming espresso. Some spilled on Abby’s hand.
She didn’t flinch.
Abby took a huge gulp. “Now that’s hot.”
The barista made eye contact with Aaron: there was a moment of
sympathy until:
“Thank you! Now GOOD-BYE!” Abby snapped, her eyes shifting color for
a split second. Aaron chalked it up to nerves.
The barista left. Abby watched her with a flash of jealousy. Aaron
hid behind his cup. No woman had ever been jealous over him before. He
didn’t know how to process it.
He lowered his cup. Abby held hers just below her lips, one hand
reaching across the table to touch his.
“Sorry if I seemed abrupt,” she said. “But I had one date slip away,
and I’m not about to lose another. Sometimes, if you find a good thing,
you should take it. Claim it. Make it yours. Don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Aaron said, letting her touch his hand. Her fingers were
soft, deliberate. She knew what she wanted.
“So, Abby…tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The usual. Where you’re from. Family.”
Abby finished her mega-spresso and leaned back. “I’m from out of
town. A small island off the French coast. Ever heard of Nyxara?”
“No.”
“Good. Of course not.”
“Are you French?”
“No. My family is from the sea, in a manner of speaking. My mother
tried everything to keep my father around, but he was obsessed with his
work. I tried to follow in his footsteps. No luck.”
Aaron thought, Great, another one with father issues. But he
leaned in. “It’s okay. I get it. Family, right? You try so hard to
please them and nothing’s ever good enough.”
“You have no idea,” Abby said, crossing her legs and showing a hint
of thigh: redirecting his attention with surgical precision.
“So…family? Brothers? Sisters?”
Abby looked irritated. “I have a lot of sisters. Brothers…ugh. Don’t
remind me.”
She leaned closer. Her eyes commanded attention. Her voice was
seductive in a way that felt like caffeine, chocolate, or salty
fries—the more you had, the more you wanted. Aaron realized he should’ve
suggested a restaurant.
“I was born and raised here,” he said. “I have a cousin I’m close
with, despite our differences.”
Abby raised an eyebrow. “Brothers? Sisters? Girlfriends?
Children?”
“No, no, no, and hell no.” Great, Aaron thought. What if
she wanted kids, you schmuck?
Abby leaned in. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Sure,” Aaron said.
His stomach growled loudly. She heard it.
Abby laughed. “How about we go down the street? There’s a fish and
shrimp shack. They have the most delicious fries, kind of like
deep-fried potato spears. Interested?”
“Puck yeah—I mean, yes.”
Aaron wiped his sweaty hands and stood. Abby led the way so he could
regain his composure.
Tanya stood him up but Abby found him. Cute, funny, strong,
confident, and she knew exactly what she liked. Independent. Big family,
though…
Abby and Aaron went to a little shack that served only fish and
shrimp but had the biggest fries he’d ever seen. Abby had a huge
appetite: she tore through a bucket of shrimp and fries, yet she was
impossibly fit.
After dinner, they spent the night roaming the town: drinks, dancing,
and finally an all‑night theater showing the latest
masked‑man‑with‑a‑hatchet thriller.
Odd that Abby wasn’t scared. Most women either avoided horror movies
or used them as an excuse to lean in and test their date’s courage.
Abby laughed and criticized the masked man’s technique, his posture,
his weapon handling: acting like she wanted to fight him.
She turned to Aaron. “Remember, I got brothers. I tussle with them
all the time. Wimps.”
Aaron looked disappointed. Abby noticed. She waited for the right
moment, then pretended to be scared and buried her face in his chest.
Aaron wrapped an arm around her.
That’s more like it, he thought. She was putting on a façade
to mask her insecurities.
Aaron decided he wanted to have a little fun. “Hey, if you want… I
have a VCR at my place. We can watch Creeper or Terrorville 2, if you
like those kinds of movies.”
Abby smiled. “Normally I’d say no, but…I don’t know. I feel like I
can trust you. Right?”
“Right. No cheap moves, just cheap movies. I promise.” His heart was
pounding.
“Sure. Let me step to the ladies’ room to freshen up, and let’s
go.”
Aaron nodded and watched her leave. The movie was still in its third
act. He should know better; but something inside him wanted to show
dominance. He’d give her a scare. A harmless prank. A good scare.
“Don’t do it.”
Aaron turned. He swore he heard Mingo’s voice. No cousin in sight;
but on his left shoulder, a tiny winged version of Mingo appeared.
“Don’t do it. You’ll scare her away. Just let her be her. So what if
she likes horror movies? She likes you more. Don’t ruin it.” Angel Mingo
patted him on the shoulder like he would a puppy.
“For once, I gotta agree with the prissy little man.”
Aaron turned to his right shoulder and saw himself.
“Sorry,” the red, cigar‑smoking version said. “Didn’t mean it like
that. But a devil’s gotta devil, right?”
“Look, buddy,” Devil Aaron said. “I know you blame me for your stupid
decisions, but I’m telling you: don’t. In fact, call it a night. Stop
before you ruin a good thing.”
Aaron scowled. “Aren’t you supposed to talk me into doing bad
things?”
Devil Aaron blew smoke in his face. “Free will, remember? I just
suggest. And I suggest you listen to the little tulip over there.”
“Hey! Angel, not tulip!”
“You’re not even dead, so pipe down!”
Abby returned. “Ready whenever you are.”
Aaron wiped imaginary dust off both shoulders. “Let’s go.”
A few minutes later.
Aaron unlocked his apartment and flipped on the lights. Thanks to his
mother’s constant nagging, the living room was spotless. The bedroom…not
so much. Luckily, he didn’t expect the night to end there.
Not yet, anyway.
Abby set down her purse and browsed his shelves of VHS tapes.
“Make yourself at home. Let me step out for a second.” She nodded.
Aaron went to his closet, grabbed a catcher’s mask and chrome plastic
hatchet. He hesitated then decided to go through with the scare. If it
was meant to be, it was meant to be.
He flipped the breaker, plunging the apartment into darkness.
“Aaron! I think you tripped something! Aaron?”
Abby waited in the living room. She heard a scuffle down the hallway.
Something huge and wet hit the floor.
“Aaron? That’s not funny…Aaron?”
She summoned her courage and moved toward the hallway. It was pitch
black: she had to feel along the walls. Something shifted in the dark.
The hairs on her neck rose.
A door slammed open. A large figure in a mask and hatchet lunged
out.
Abby fainted. Her head hit the cold floor.
WHACK.
“Oh shit! OH SHIT!”
Aaron ran back, flipped the breaker, tossed the mask and hatchet
aside, and rushed to Abby. Something wet pooled behind her head.
“OH SHIT! I’M SORRY! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE!”
Blood flowed from the back of her skull. She wasn’t moving. Worse…she
wasn’t breathing.
Aaron panicked. Instead of calling for help, he called Mingo.
“Come on, come on…Mingo!”
“Hi, sorry to be missing your call. I am out and about so leave me a
message and I will call youse back at my earliest convenience, chao
pescal!”
“Shit!”
Aaron had heard stories of guys accidentally killing a hooker at a
party but nothing like this. His mind spiraled.
He called emergency services. Busy signal. Automated message. Stay on
the line.
Finally: “9‑1‑1, what is your emergency? Hello? Hello?”
Aaron froze. Just before the operator hung up—
“Yes, I think…my girlfriend had an accident. The lights, the breaker
tripped, and I think she was trying to go to the bathroom or something
and she slipped and fell and—”
“Sir, calm down. Where is she now?”
“In the hallway. I don’t know what to do.”
“Is she breathing? Check for a pulse.”
Aaron leaned close. No breathing. No pulse.
“Nothing. Please get down here as soon as possible!”
Suddenly, Abby’s eyes snapped open.
“HHHARRRRRRR!!!!”
“Oh shit! OH SHIT! ABBY, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
it!”
“Why did you do that?”
The operator listened, taking notes: beginning to suspect domestic
violence.
“Why did you let me fall? Does it give you pleasure to see me
hurt?”
Aaron realized he was still on the phone and hung up.
“Abby, I’m sorry. I was just trying to scare you. You were talking so
big at the movies, I wanted to—”
Abby’s eyes dimmed. Her smile sharpened.
“I forgive you, darling. I like a good scare. Do you like a
good scare?”
Aaron’s mind raced. Abby stood, moving closer.
“I said…do you like a good scare?”
“I think I just had one. Enough for a lifetime…”
He dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor.
“Then let me make you feel better…” Abby’s voice echoed
unnaturally.
“Abby, I think we should go to the emergency room; get you checked
out—”
She placed a hand on his chest. Her eyes began to glow.
“What is happening…?”
The glow intensified. Something pierced her skin. Her hair and facial
skin slid off, revealing a dark purplish, obsidian face with
yellow‑orange eyes. Her skull fractured open, revealing a lure. Her face
elongated. Fleshy skeletal hands with talons grabbed him.
Fifteen minutes later.
Police rushed up the stairs and broke down the door.
Blood in the hallway: later determined not human. A purse and
belongings from a female visitor. Evidence of foul play.
In the bedroom: a horrific scene. A supposed copycat killer mimicking
the masked‑man‑with‑a‑hatchet movie. But the wounds weren’t made by a
hatchet — they were made by razor‑sharp claws, larger than a Kodiak
bear’s, and teeth like a giant barracuda.
Police were baffled. Something had come in and killed two people; yet
only one body was found. The other, an unidentified “Jane Doe,” was
missing.
A few days later.
Dr. Tyler reclined in his chair, feet on his desk.
“Yes, yes. Sorry for the short notice, but Tanya was
double‑booked…uh‑huh, no, you did great work. For real. Just lay low for
a couple days. I sent you some new magazines — make yourself a new face,
you’ll be fine. Trust me. Sure, sure, I’ll let Tanya know you had the
bigger challenge. Yeah, put some ice on it, it’ll scab up. Gotta go,
another client coming in…what? No, this one’s mine. Okay, bye.”
A frumpy woman entered with her son, a man in his thirties.
“Hi, Dr. Tyler. This is my son Holt. I was hoping you could help him
find a date. I tried everything, but you’re our last hope.”
Dr. Tyler smoothed his eyebrows, picked up a catalog of his latest
“beauties.”
“Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”
