Cindy James

Does it count as suicide
if you're killed by someone else
living inside your own head?

"Cindy, dead meat soon."

I wonder what my Psychology teacher
would think of that.

Charles Ashmore

Mystical happenings stole Charles Ashmore?
Don't be ridiculous.
Obviously, the Wicked Witch
sent her flying monkeys.

La Papessa

"Duos habet et bene pendentes."
Oh, Pope Joan, if only you hadn't gotten pregnant
and had that baby in a papal progression--
or even if you hadn't lied in the first place--
the subsequent popes needn't have been

felt up by a cardinal.

Lord Darnley

So he was the second husband to die under mysterious circumstances.
And he was close to the throne she wanted.
Right. She didn't know about the murder. Sure.

After all, haven't you ever played chess?
Queens are vicious.

Mata Hari

"Harlot, yes, but traitor never."
"Merci, monsieur."
Open robe.
Tailored suit with white gloves.
Funny,
but the details seem more concerned with what she said
and what she wore to the execution
than whether or not she was actually guilty.

Pickens County Courthouse

Mekong River

After causing mischief along the road
I took my apprentice and went to the river
to see if I could fool them on another continent.

Which I could.

Coffins of Barbados

Nobody knew if it even happened--
but if it did,
I think there was a back door.

(Sneaky.)

Wanet McNeill

The reason I was so disturbed
--the reason I started those fires--
was not because of the divorce:

it was because my parents were cruel enough to name me "Wanet."

The Shepherd Healer of Greece

I was quite possibly the only one in the courtroom
who didn't give a damn about the miracle.
I mostly just felt bad for that stupid lamb.

Omm Sety

Riddle me this, Dot:
Was it better being dead?
Because it seems sort of like a cheap shot,
seeing as you came back crazy.
(Or magical. Who the hell even knows?)

I mean, you didn't precisely have a normal life.
You did, after all, name your son Sety.

The Green Children of Woolpit

I was depressed, too, but I didn't let it destroy me.
And even though they thought I should be happy,
when the green faded, I cried.

The Poe Toaster

Stakeout.

That's how you try to solve a mystery when you're just a vaguely fanatic fan of Poe, when you simply cannot stand to not know who celebrates him every year.

The Poe Toaster would be mine, damnit.

I had all I needed to last me the night: a collection of Poe's complete works, a flashlight, a pillow, and a blanket emblazoned with a raven atop a bust of Pallis. And some raisins. For rations.

For this I had waited years. From my first reading of "The Raven" in my seventh grade English class, I had been a Poe addict, devouring his stories by the handful, methodically knocking back his poems. I hadn't been able to stay away. I had read biographies, analysis, novels with merely the name "Poe" in the title. I had scoured every reading for an allusion, for mere mention of his name.

Bella in the Wych-Elm

Luebella in the wych-elm. And Bella wasn't a spy and Bella wasn't a witch but Luebella was a mother--science proved that.

So when they were looking for who was writing the letters, they should have known it was Bella. Ghost Bella, Mother Bella--no spy, no witch. And maybe Bella wanted her baby. And maybe Bella was just angry.

And maybe she wasn't in the wych-elm on purpose. Maybe something happened by accident.

Who Put Bella in the Wych-Elm? Nobody knows.

The actors bow at the curtain call.

Angélique Cottin

April 16th and still no sign of a return. That would make it six days, then. Angelique was starting to grow brave. And for the first time in her life she touched her sister's baby.

Nothing.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

We played cops and robbers on February 14th, never knowing because (let's face it) the St. Valentine's Day Massacre was pretty obscure, as far as history went. And I got a five on the AP US History exam.

And yeah, maybe playing cops and robbers was a little immature for seventeen, but you always do immature stuff when you're trying to get the girl. Besides, it was sort of fun. You didn't get too many excuses to be outside in the middle of winter. It was nice to be out here without having to worry about getting sunburned, and hiding back and forth with her. One cop. One robber.

Who even cared if it was stupid? We were just kids, as far as anyone else was concerned, and we were having fun. And I got to tackle her to the ground like this was football and then she hardly had any breath to laugh, but couldn't help but laugh anyway.

Maybe we were just in the mood because it was Valentine's Day, but did that make it any different? It was still good.

We didn't think about any victims of anything, that day. We just lay laughing in the grass.

Redpath Mansion

Just because I was there doesn't mean I know who did it.
I told the police that.
And they laughed at me and didn't arrest me for shooting my aunt and cousin.

But family reunions are awkward nowadays.

Typhoid Mary

The conspiracy theorist sat up in his apartment and twitched. She traced with her best pen around all the spots, and the pen scratched her just enough to make the ink burn. That probably wasn't making her better, but then again, the burning was better than the fever and the sweating and the shaking and everything else that game with this accursed disease.

At least she controlled the shaking. And the theorist had to control everything. That was why she lived in this stupid hole with the thick cement walls and the twenty-seven fire alarms that would set off sprinklers in three point four seconds and sixteen flares that would start fires if she ever needed her house to be simply gone. That was why she had the glass knife that she could sneak through metal detectors in a place in the lower half of her back where she could reach it at any second. And who cared if she couldn't ever really slump in a seat? Who cared if she had to sit straight as an arrow even on the couch? It was good for her posture, anyway.

The conspiracy theorist would have written to the government if she'd trusted the government. She'd have written to her mother if she trusted her mother. Hell, she'd have written it to herself just for the sake of writing if she thought it was safe to write it down at all.

Because the theorist was positive that stupid Mary woman had done it on purpose.

Babushka Lady

I was no grandmother.
I wrapped the scarf around my head.
I tucked the gun into my pocket.

But someone beat me to it.

Black Dahlia

Before there was Elizabeth Short there was Marion Parker, who had her eyes wired wide.
Wired wide but not wired, for Marion Parker was dead.
Kidnapped and dead, Marion Parker was thrown out of a car, but the car was not parked, not parked for Marion Parker.

Her father paid.
Her father paid twice, because Marion Parker was dead.
And wrapped up tight.
With eyes wired wide, so she would appear alive.
She was not alive.

Marion Parker was snatched from her school, was snatched willingly enough, with a bundle of lies and a car.
(At this point, the car was parked, indeed.)
And Marion Parker went and her twin Marjorie stayed and Marion went and found out the identity of her kidnapper.

That's why she died, she did.
If Marion had been ignorant, she needn't have died.
Ignorance is bliss, bliss, bliss.

But poor Marion opened her eyes and found them open for a deathtime.

The Voynich Manuscript

I giggled over the paper
and practiced my letters:
age five--
and just for fun,
I made up new ones.

And I never knew
that someone might think
this meant something important.

The Mary Celeste

I was buzzed.

Somehow, I didn't think ghosts could get buzzed.

It was the earthquake that had done us in. The earthquake and the smell together. But the captain was determined and so onward we sailed, sailed to the Sea of Gibraltar. And when you're dead and so you cannot even escape with death and you have a detrmined captain who won't even let you stop sailing to properly enjoy your death and you have no choice for the rest of eternity you can only do one thing:

Clearly, you can only drink.

And it wasn't necessarily because we wanted to escape, though that was certainly why we'd drunk when we were alive. Now we drank for the habit, for the ghost of a taste we could feel on our tongues, for the memories of what used to be.

The Mary Celeste had been doomed and none knew why and none knew how but the ship had certainly been cursed.

We hadn't sunk. We hadn't caught the wrong end of a sword.

No other ship had taken us.

And yet not a one of us had survived.

It was curious. Curious, indeed.

If we drank enough of the rum and gin we had left--not enough to last us a century, certainly, but the habit of drinking was hard to break--we could get a slight buzz off what once would have us puking our innards over the side of the sweet Mary Celeste.

It was a refreshing feeling, in the face of an eternity.

I was buzzed.

Stonehenge

Hello, my name is Wally Wallington and I would like to tell you a little bit about myself.

I really like Stonehenge. Golly, I think Stonehenge is great. Really, I think it's really, really, really great. And then I had this great idea. And the great idea was that I could build a Stonehenge right in my own backyard!

Wasn't that wonderful? I really thought it was wonderful.

Don't you think it's wonderful?

Anyway, as we all know, making a Stonehenge is no easy feat. And I did not think my neighbors would appreciate it if I just started making a lifesize Stonehenge. It would block all their sun! So I decided to make a Stonehenge that was big, but not too big. In fact, you might say that it was just big enough. And so it was. Just big enough.

And I'm not going to bore you with all the technical details, but you should know that I had a lot of VERY IMPRESSIVE pulleys. You'd be surprised how impressive they were. I mean, I know it's not surprising that I could do something impressive--but this was impressive for even me.

And then I let some children run down a hill on their tiny, tiny legs.

THE END.

(Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)

Grigori Rasputin

I despised Rasputin Music stores.

The poster had me as a DJ, spinning those infernal tables. It was a mockery, a simple mockery. I would damn California to hell for this. Damn California to hell.

I had been great. A healer. A wizard unquestionably, yes, but not the kind they all thought. I had not brought down the Tsar. I had run.

I had run, and California had dragged my name through the mud. The world had dragged my name through the mud. They had made films about me, written books about me, but it was this accursed music company that I hated the most. This was the only thing in years and years that had ever made me want to curse them to the deepest pits of despair, use every power I had to destroy them.

I would not stand for this mistreatment. I would not stand to be so mocked. The name Rasputin would not be defiled. I stood there, clenching my fists so hard that my fingernails cut into my palms. Flecks of blood fizzled on the floor.

My blood was, quite literally, boiling.

A darling little sales rep with a darling little bob tapped me on the shoulder with a broad, friendly smile to ask if I needed her help.

I fried her on the spot.

And that is how I became the Rasputin of legends. And I found I sort of liked it.

Bimini Wall

We had gone to see the Bimini Road. At least, that's what we told ourselves. A historian and an anthropologist didn't just go on vacation without seeing something academically interesting.

We sounded like a bad joke: "A historian and an anthropologist walk into a bar in Cambridge and walk out to the Bahamas."

It actually happened. We'd actually done that.

The idea of leaving, of just leaving, was exhilarating; the reality of having actually done it was intoxicating. The historian held me by the waist as I jumped from rock to rock--the top of the wall, the road, whichever it was. I found myself not caring how this got here.

My feet were bare. I only had one dress--I'd bought it this morning. It was thin and flowy and made me feel beautiful and cool in the heat. "It's hard to believe that we're here," the historian whispered in my ear. We hadn't told anyone we were going until we were gone. Then I called my assistant and he called his assistant to say we weren't being academics today.

"I can't believe I'm here with you," I whispered back. I had known the historian for less than forty-eight hours but I was almost giddy with love.

The historian loved me, too, I could tell. It was magical. Simply magical.

Sort of like the Bimini Road.

Marfa Lights

...and some nights,
my apprentice and I sit on the side of the road,
and shoot up flares into the sky.

I love being a ghost.

The Dyatlov Pass Incident

The mountain at night wasn't necessarily a safe place. To be perfectly honest, nowhere was necessarily safe, especially at night.

But then again, that was all speculative nonsense. I had been on many a mountain before, for many a night.

That night, it was frigid.

I can hardly remember their names, now. Igor was one. Another Yuri, like me. Six others. There were nine of us. Two women. Seven men.

The Lead Masks Case

August 20, 1966

It was a nice day. The weather was windy. Decided to go fly kite. Got kite out of garage. Walked to local park. Found two dead men.

Found two dead men.

Found two dead men.

Found two dead men.

August 20, 1976

It rained today. Marilee didn't finish filing the papers. Wanted to be payed overtime. I refused. Walked to double-session with Dr. Ten years ago today.

Yde Girl

"We hereby offer to thee, the gods, this girl."

I cried under the hood.

"May she serve you well in your lands."

The noose was tight around my neck.

"Her soul is steady but her body infirm and we cannot keep her."

My back was bent.

"Please accept this hair as a preparation for our offering."

The smell of burning hair--my hair, shaved from only one side of my head--choked me.
A human sacrifice is never pretty.
She's always the one that none of the men want.
She's always the one that nobody likes.
Me.

And then they tightened the noose around my neck until I couldn't breathe and I convulsed but with no strength because I couldn't breathe and I fought them as they picked me up and grasped breaths I could because they weren't pulling any tighter but my fighting was too weak because I'd always been weak.

I was still alive when they threw me into the bog.

Jeannie Saffin

Kaspar Hauser

Once upon a time
(my Grandmother told me)
there was a boy
who lived in a box.

(And in that box it was dark and there was nothing to do and the box was small and the boy didn't fit so he slept sitting up and they fed him bread and water and nothing else and sometimes they drugged him to wash his hair and clothes and clip his nails.)

When the boy came out
(after sixteen years)
he had certain abilities
that seemed magical.

(He could hear things near and far, soft and loud, and he could tell metals apart without even looking at them, a talent useful for a chemist or jeweler, he felt that the metals were pulling at him as if he were a magnet and he could get drunk from the very smell of wine.)

I found these talents amazing
(so did my Grandmother)
and we marveled
and chuckled.

(And then the next morning, my Grandmother locked me in the box and said she'd see me in sixteen years.)