“Deliver Us From Evil” is my novella in the anthology WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE, on sale now from Pocket. I share the cover with two wonderful writers, our own murderous gal Karin Tabke, and MSW friend Roxanne St. Claire. We all delve into something a little new and different by incorporating supernatural elements into our romantic thrillers.

In my story, historical architect and demonologist Anthony Zaccardi rushes to Santa Louisa, California after his best friend, Rafe Cooper, asks for his help. He’s too late to save the twelve troubled priests at the Santa Louisa Mission, and Rafe is in a coma. Anthony is certain a demon is to blame; down-to-earth Sheriff Skye McPherson is just as certain that this is the work of human hands.

This scene comes at the beginning of Chapter Six when Anthony breaks into the mission to search for clues on how to send the demon back to Hell, and Skye confronts him.

Six

Anthony picked the police lock.

He didn’t need his flashlight; the lighting had been restored in the mission. He quickly walked through the kitchen and down the main hall.

The mission had been destroyed from within. He’d seen the destruction earlier when he’d broken in to save Rafe; now the sad reality sank in.

Beautiful artwork, hundreds of years old, had been defamed. Every statue in the alcoves had its head removed. Paintings slashed. This, Anthony thought, was the work of human hands. A demon would crush the statues; humans defaced.

Anthony found Rafe’s room, accurately guessing that it would be closest to the kitchen. There was one small window facing the rear of the mission. A small night-light in the corner illuminated the room with shadows.

Anthony closed the door, looked at the wood. It was splintered and cracked, as if someone had been scratching from the inside. He shined his light on the marks, saw the damaged wood stained with dark blood. Deep gouges, likely made with something metal or hard wood had been used to pry open the door. Now Anthony knew how Rafe’s fingers had been broken, his fingernails torn.

The police had obviously gone through the room. Rafe’s computer was gone, only wires remaining. His files had been rifled through and many had been removed. The drawers of his desk were open.

But the police didn’t know the secrets the mission held, nor the many hiding places.

Anthony traced the ridges of the stone wall. He’d been in many missions, in many ancient buildings. He could find any hiding place . . . there. Around the edge of one stone he found a small, ancient release. A facade for a stone safe.

Sure enough, Rafe had left something in the space. A leather-bound journal. Anthony removed it, put the stone back in place.

Anthony carefully opened the journal, hoping for a clue. Several sheets of paper fell out and he stooped to pick them up.

The door opened and the lights came on.

“I thought you were going to do something stupid.” Skye McPherson stood in the doorway, gun drawn. “You’re under arrest.”

“Don’t.”

“Hand me those papers.”

He did.

“And the book.”

Reluctantly, he handed it over.

“Are you armed?”

“I don’t carry a gun.”

“Turn around and put your hands on the desk.”

“I told you–”

“You expect me to believe you? You broke a police seal and entered this building in the middle of the night. You’re attempting to remove evidence. You’re in hot water, Mr. Zaccardi.”

Help us.

Skye frowned, glanced around the room.

“You heard,” he said, incredulous.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hope claimed a corner of his heart. “You heard the voices.”

“I don’t hear any voices,” she snapped. “Turn around.”

He complied. Her hands moved around his waist, his thighs, his ankles. He wanted to think of her as a cop; he could only think of her as a woman. A woman who didn’t know what danger she was in, nor what power she had.

She removed his cross. “You’re clear, but I’ll keep this for the time being.”

He faced her. She was close, only inches from him as she holstered her weapon. He reached up to touch her face, and she flinched. He dropped his hand and said, “You can’t deny what you heard.”

She swallowed, took a step back. “What’s this?” she started flipping through the journal.

“I suspect it will speak of Rafe’s concerns. He would have hidden his notes if he thought something was going on here.”

She frowned, reading the journal.

“What?” he asked, inching closer. She smelled of pine and soap. All natural. All woman.

“It’s in Latin.”

Latin? Rafe hated Latin. Anthony could practically hear him groaning during class.

She tucked the journal under her arm and looked at the papers.

“What are those?” he asked.

“Copies.”

“Of?”

She didn’t say. He peered over her hands. Santa Louisa Grocery.

“Why would he keep copies of the food deliveries?” Anthony asked.

When Skye didn’t say anything, he knew she had the answer. “We need to work together, Skye.”

Her head shot up. “You said you weren’t a cop. Has anything changed in the last–” she glanced at her watch “–fifteen hours?”

“You need me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“But you know I had nothing to do with what happened here.”

“How? Maybe you were working with your friend Rafe. Maybe you’re supposed to steal artifacts while I’m trying to solve a mass murder. Maybe–”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Ianax.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the demon in the sacristy. Human blood was used, wasn’t it?”

“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”

She had a great poker face, but her eyes exposed her soul, which told him he was right. He also had thousands of years of history to draw upon.

“Ianax was a triple agent, so to speak. He was a spirit on Satan’s side, but attempted to convince St. Michael the Archangel that he was gathering evidence against Satan, all in an attempt to find out how many were staying on the Lord’s side and who were going with Satan. He gave information to both sides.”

She stared at him blankly. “You’re a lunatic.”

He hardened. He was used to people not believing him, but he desperately wanted Skye to trust him. The dead depended on it.

“Ianax was banished to the deepest pits of Hell by Satan when he attempted to overtake Hades. He’s an ancient demon, feeding on hate and revenge. It takes three dark souls and human sacrifice to draw him out.”

“I’ve read thousands of crime reports. There’s no proven case of human sacrifice by Satanists in America.”

Anthony continued. “Your people don’t know everything, and human sacrifice is rarely what you envision. He’s here. You sense it. You heard the voices of those trapped between Heaven and Hell. But you won’t open your heart.”

“You can’t tell me that a spirit killed those men.”

“Not alone, but Ianax was part of the massacre and if we can’t send it back to Hell more people will die.”

“Bullshit. More will die if we don’t capture the people who killed those priests.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“I don’t know what planet you live on, Mr. Zaccardi, but where I come from you put people in prison and they stop killing innocent old men.”

He’d said the wrong thing, but he persisted. “I agree, we need to find the three involved in order to send Ianax back. If we don’t, he will grow more powerful.”

“Why are you so certain there are three people involved?”

“The seal. In the sacristy.” How could she convince this woman what took him a lifetime to learn?

“You look so normal,” she muttered.

A rare anger grew in Anthony’s chest, the rage he fought to keep firmly at bay.

He grabbed Skye by the arms and pulled her close. “If you think this is a game, more innocent people will suffer. I am deadly serious, Sheriff McPherson.”

Her lush mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Let. Me. Go.”

Anthony dropped his hands, the anger washing away in embarrassment. He didn’t manhandle women. It was Skye’s total disdain of him and what he said . . .

He should be used to it by now. Few people truly believed that evil existed. They talked about it, gave it lip service, but didn’t believe in evil spirits, that they could be summoned and used, that they grew more powerful with every moment they spent outside of Hell, feeding on the cruelty and rage and hatred of human beings.

“Trust me,” he said simply, imploring her with his eyes. He saw a hint of doubt in her face, the desire to believe him. Then it vanished.

But hope was all he needed. He’d worked with far less.

Okay, as usual, this is where I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb. Well, that’s not entirely true. I sort of stick out like a sore thumb no matter where I go…lol. Anyway, below is an excerpt from Morbid Curiosity, my latest release. The cover for the book isn’t on the MSW site because Internet goblins keep eating it…I think. That’s the only thing I can figure since I’ve sent it to our web guru a bazillion times and it still isn’t up. No matter, though, for cover or not, you will soon see that there are no hunky guys in the excerpt. No heaving bosoms, flexing pecs, or throbbing members. (I’ve really gotta find me some of those!) Just suspense–at least I think so. Hope you enjoy it!

MORBID CURIOSITY- PROLOGUE
DEBORAH LEBLANC

He had been forced into closets before, but never by a witch. At least he thought she was a witch . . .

Ten-year-old Caster Morbadelli clamped his teeth over his bottom lip and inched his way to the closet door on his knees. In the utter darkness, time and space seemed to go on forever. He stretched out a hand, willing his fingers past his fear to the wooden door that separated him from his father, whom he prayed had not left him behind. The scent of mildew, dirty underwear, and old blood swam in and out of his nostrils and roiled through his empty stomach. A tear trickled past the right side of his nose to his mouth, and Caster flicked his tongue over the droplet, capturing it. He needed to pee.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in the closet, but it felt like an eternity. When he and his father had first arrived at Madame Toussant’s, the sun had been clotted over with storm clouds, which made it feel like late afternoon. But Caster knew better. It had been morning. One of those bad mornings when he woke on his own instead of to the sound of his stepmother’s deep scratchy voice, yelling for him to get out of bed and go fetch her cigarettes in the living room.

She was gone again. He knew it, felt it before he rolled out of bed and crept into the empty kitchen. Knowing the really bad part would come as soon his father woke and discovered she was gone, Caster quickly poured himself a bowl of stale cornflakes. It would probably be the only chance he’d have to eat today. As usual, there was no milk in the refrigerator, so he doused the cereal with tap water and was about to dig a spoon into the swill when he heard a crash from his father’s bedroom. So much for breakfast.

Within a matter of minutes, his father’s curses echoed through their small apartment, escalating in volume and vehemence as he hurriedly dressed, pausing only long enough to hurl a perfume bottle, her hairbrush, a can of shaving cream across the room. Caster knew the drill because they’d been through it so many times before. Once the throwing began, he had about five minutes to dress before his father dragged him outside. The rest of the day would be spent combing the streets of New Orleans, looking for her, something Caster couldn’t understand. If the woman didn’t want to be with them, why did his father keep begging her to come back? He’d never been brave enough to ask that question aloud.

They’d only walked six blocks this time before his father pulled him into a narrow alleyway that ran between two storefronts on Rue Royal. Caster had balked, tempted to pull out of his father’s grasp and run in the opposite direction. He knew they were headed for Madame Toussant’s, and he wanted no part of it. They’d been here twice over the last three months, and each visit had left Caster so frightened, he’d had nightmares even during his daydreams. Toussant’s house was creepy and always filled with weird people who smelled like they hadn’t taken a bath—ever. But willing or not, his father had clamped down on his arm and all but shoved Caster past the white metal door as soon as it opened. He’d gripped Caster’s shoulders firmly, steering him down a maze of dark hallways until they’d reached an opening on the left. Over the opening hung long strands of multicolored beads that sparkled, tinkled and pinged when they pushed past them.

Beyond the beads lay a concrete floor and little furniture. Against the back wall of the dingy room stood a small table that looked ready to collapse under the weight of too many burning candles. Their collective glow highlighted a large picture of a scowling, heavyset black man that hung on the wall just above the table. Caster hadn’t seen this picture during his previous visits, and he wished more than anything he hadn’t seen it now. The man had bushy eyebrows, narrow black eyes, and a wide, crooked nose. A red and gold striped cap sat on top of his head, and it reminded Caster of the hats he’d seen men wearing once at a Shriner’s circus, only this one had a black tassel. The picture revealed the man from the waist up, but even dressed in a white, button-down shirt with a high, stiff collar, he still looked dangerous—evil, like the kind of person who’d stick razor blades in kids’ candy bars on Halloween.

Even more frightening was Madame Toussant, who sat on a bench in front of the candle-strewn table, babbling words Caster couldn’t understand. Her large body swayed from side to side as though to keep time with the sound of her voice.

Madame Toussant didn’t wear a black, pointy hat or have green skin like the witch on The Wizard of Oz. Instead, she wore a dull red bandanna over a shock of wiry black hair, and her skin was the color of roasted pecans. When she finally stood and turned toward them, her dark blue dress billowed around her large body like a wind-worried tent. The whites of her eyes overpowered small irises, and it gave her a stark, wild-eyed look that made Caster think, Witch! To make matters worse, her many heavy necklaces swayed and rattled against her huge bosom when she walked, and something about that sound made his teeth hurt, like he’d just bitten into tinfoil. It wasn’t until she was only a few feet away that he noticed the ornamentation that made up her necklaces—bits of bone, teeth, shale, and a few beads similar to the ones hanging over the doorway. If wearing necklaces of teeth and bone didn’t prove Toussant was a witch, Caster didn’t know what would. He turned to warn his father, to beg him to leave, but before he managed to utter a word, Caster found himself alone. His father had already rushed over to Madame Toussant, falling to his knees, crying for her to help him, for her to bring back his wife, his precious Ann Louise. Amid sobs and near hysterical supplications, the short, square-faced man promised to do anything, give anything to have the love of his life return home.

As Caster watched his father melt into an emotional puddle before the witch, he trembled with fear. He felt abandoned and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. In one morning he’d lost what little family he’d had. His father knelt only a few feet away, but Caster instinctively knew it was not the same man who’d ranted and wailed through their apartment only an hour or so ago. This kneeling man was broken, too broken to think of his son. Too broken to survive.

Madame Toussant stood, watching Caster’s father with her hands on her hips, the whites of her eyes appearing even brighter, larger than before. She shook her head slowly, like someone disgusted over a pathetic sight. Caster took a tentative step toward his father, but stopped cold when Madame Toussant raised a hand in his direction. She peered over at him, lifting her chin and tilting her head slightly as though to size him up. Caster couldn’t read her expression. Was that pity or anger he saw in her weird, large eyes?

Then, without warning, Toussant bellowed, “Renee, Antoine, Marie, tout le monde, viens vite! Vite!”

Caster didn’t understand what Toussant said, but it sounded urgent, and before he knew it, people began pouring into the room from the beaded doorway. Men, women, most of them black, many of them half-dressed, all of them sweaty and barefoot. A few carried strange looking drums, some held thick cords, each decorated with bone, teeth, and shale, just like Toussant’s necklaces. Without instruction, they encircled Toussant and Caster’s father, their feet falling into a slow, shuffling march. Three men sat cross-legged on the floor near the table and placed V-shaped drums between their legs. They closed their eyes and began to beat the taut, weathered skin with their fingers.

It was then that Madame Toussant walked up to Caster, snatched one of his hands in hers, and pulled him toward the back of the room. “Dis not for little eyes to see,” she said, her voice deep and low.

“Let me go!” Caster cried, trying to pull out of her grasp. Her thick fingers wrapped tighter around his hand, and Caster threw a desperate, furtive glance over his shoulder. “Dad!”

“Hush,” Toussant demanded. “You daddy don’t hear nothin’ no how, not wit’ him blubberin’ like a fool idiot over dere. And look at dis, he leave me stuck wit’ you. I tell him not to bring de chil’ren, but he don’t listen. Dat’s not good. Not good for him. Not good for you.”

By this time, they’d reached a warped wooden door at the back of the room, and Madame Toussant shoved it open with a huff, then pushed Caster inside. He barely had time to register it was a closet before he tripped over his own feet and landed on his butt.

“Now listen up close,” Toussant said, glaring down at him with her white, witch eyes and rattling necklaces. “Dis gonna have to do ’cause I got no place else to put you. So stay put up in here, you understand? Don’t matter what you hear, don’t matter what you t’ink you hear, you don’t look. You don’t come out dis closet ’til I say!” With that, Toussant had slammed the door shut, leaving him to the dark and whatever crawled in dirty, mildewy places.

Whatever time had passed between then and now only compounded Caster’s fear. So did the sounds coming from the other room. He heard crying, singing, the babble of nonsensical words, the beat—beat—beat of drums accompanied by the stomp and slap of so many bare feet on concrete. Were all those people dancing? Did anyone even remember he was in the closet? What if Toussant kept him trapped in here forever? He was young but not stupid. He knew Toussant didn’t like him. She might keep him in this closet simply because she felt like it, just like his stepmother used to do. He wondered what trapped people died of first—starvation or thirst. Either sounded like a horrible way to die.

Working hard to hold back tears and keep his bladder in check, Caster inched forward once more on his knees. This time he was rewarded with the feel of the closet door beneath his fingertips. The clamor in the next room was growing to a fevered pitch, and the sounds vibrated through his small body. His stomach felt funny, like someone had filled it with bees and creepy-crawly things. He pressed an ear to the door, hoping to hear his father’s voice amidst the mayhem. What he heard instead was the unmistakable squawk of a chicken, a high-pitched, urgent squall that sounded like a scream for help. What on earth was a chicken doing in there?

Curious, Caster ran his hands along the doorknob, searching for a keyhole he might peer through. There was none. He lowered himself to the floor, lying on his right side, and pressed an eye against the crack beneath the door. It was too narrow for him to make out anything more than an occasional moving shadow, but from down here, the chicken’s squawking sounded even more desperate. What were they doing out there?

When his curiosity could bear no more, he scrambled back onto his knees and felt for the doorknob. He was shocked to discover it turned easily in his hand. The door wasn’t locked!

As if by magic, the door creaked open a couple inches before sticking fast. He remembered how Madame Toussant had to push hard against the door when she opened it earlier. Being inside the closet meant he’d have to pull hard to open it all the way, and that would surely get Toussant’s attention. No matter, at least now he had a bit of light, was able to breathe relatively fresher air, and could see what was going on with that stupid chicken.

Planting his small body between the jamb and door edge, Caster leaned his forehead against the opening and peered out.

Brown bodies were packed together, everyone jumping and dancing with wild, exaggerated movements, arms flinging in every direction, legs and feet rising and falling to a rhythm far different from that of the drums. Some had their eyes closed and their heads thrown back while others had only the whites of their eyes showing. Sweat ran like golden threads down their bodies, and spittle dripped from the corner of every mouth. Some people were completely naked now, and a few men were thrusting the lower halves of their body against women in gestures Caster knew he shouldn’t be watching. But he couldn’t turn away. The raw energy radiating from the group seemed to glue his eyes to their every movement. It wasn’t until he heard the squawk again that he remembered the chicken.

Squatting a little so he had a better angle from which to see past the bodies, Caster caught sight of Madame Toussant—just as she tore the chicken’s head off with her teeth.

Paralyzed with shock and awe, Caster watched as the bird’s wings continued to flap wildly. Blood splattered over Toussant’s face, across the concrete floor, over his father, who lay prone at her feet. No sooner had the bird’s wings come to rest than someone exchanged the dead bird with another live chicken. Once again, Toussant, her eyes now completely white, tore the head off the bird with her teeth. This time, however, she captured its blood in a roughly hewn wooden bowl, then drank from it. When she lowered the bowl, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body began to shimmy and tremble. Pink spittle and blood flew from her lips.

Still writhing from whatever spell had overtaken her, Toussant grabbed a buck knife from the small table bedside her. She let out a barrage of strange words, then dropped into a squat beside his father and with no more ceremony than a loud grunt, Madame Toussant cut the smallest finger off his left hand. The drumming and dancing stopped.

Caster didn’t remember gasping, but he must have, loudly, because everyone except his father, who still lay on the floor unmoving and bleeding, turned to face him. His lungs felt vacuumed of air, and for the life of him, Caster couldn’t remember how to draw in a breath. He watched as Madame Toussant stood and turned toward him, her eyes bright with anger. Caster felt warm liquid trickle down his legs, and the pungent scent of fresh urine snapped him back to reality. He had disobeyed and witnessed something forbidden, and now there was little doubt he would pay for the transgression.

With a whimper, he quickly pushed away from the door and scrambled to the back of the closet. He was trying to hide beneath a smelly tarp that lay bunched up in a corner when someone kicked the closet door open.

Madame Toussant’s large body filled the doorway. The blood on her face, mouth, and hands made her look like she’d just slaughtered and eaten an entire army. She reached for him and with little effort, captured Caster by the collar of his t-shirt. She yanked him to her, and he gagged from the rancidity in her breath.

“What I told you, huh?” Toussant demanded. “Didn’t I say dis not for little eyes to see?” Still gripping his collar, she shook him hard. “Didn’t I say?”

“Y-y-yes,” Caster cried.

“But you gotta look anyway, huh? Curious gotta see, non?” She pulled him into the adjacent room, which was slowly emptying of people. “Den Madame will give you somet’ing to be curious about, little man.” She grabbed his right wrist so tight he yelped in pain. He wanted to pull free but was too frightened to move.

Toussant took the index finger of her right hand and dragged it down both sides of her face, collecting leftover chicken blood. When her fingertip was covered in crimson, she quickly drew on the back of his imprisoned hand. “Tu vouloir chercher mais jamais voir!”

Caster didn’t understand her words or the meaning of the symbol she drew, which looked like a snake eating its own tail, but somehow he knew—he felt—that Madame Toussant had just branded him for life—to a fate worse than death.

Tapped Out
By Natalie M. Roberts

Chapter One

“Uh, Carmen? That hurts a bit. Carman?”

The woman holding the hairbrush over my head—and what looked like a considerable chunk of my hair in her left hand—had a glazed, slightly off-kilter look on her face. I could see her in the mirror we both faced, and it wasn’t a comforting sight.

“Carmen? Can you let go?” It seemed some of my hair was trapped in the brush, too, and it was in danger of joining the hair in her hand. Somehow, I just knew that bald would not be a good look for me. I should have known this would be a mistake.

Since I never had any money, I was always looking for ways to pinch pennies. One of the ways I did that was working in trade. I did something for the psycho dance moms that inhabit my studio, and they did something for me in return. Usually this worked. Sometimes it backfired. The more psycho the mom, the more often it turned into a huge mess.

I’m Jenny T. Partridge, and as you might have guessed, I’m a dance teacher. I live and work in Ogden, Utah, land of the Mormons, lake stink, and winter inversions that bring bitter cold temperatures and zero visibility. Everyone who went through the public school system in Utah knew how the Mormons got here–It was a part of our fourth-grade curriculum. I heard once that the Great Salt Lake stunk because it had no outlet, but my father—a retired school teacher—told me that it was because of the dead plants and animals and the shallow water. Eww. And the inversion? My good friend James Marriott, who just happens to be a very flamboyant gay man, something everyone knows except his Mormon mother, claimed it was God’s curse on Utah for being so culturally backward. You can’t take that too seriously, because of course, James also claims a distant relationship with the very wealthy Marriott hotel chain owners, too. Something I highly doubt.

And I didn’t agree with James that Utah was culturally deprived. After all, we had Ballet West with its internationally known production of The Nutcracker; we had Odyssey Dance with their annual production of Thriller; and they even shot movies down on historic 25th Street in Ogden, which is where my studio was located, just above Priceless Pearls, an antique and pawn shop. Oh, and the lead singer of the new wave-inspired band The Killers is from Utah. Please do not ask me about the Osmonds. I am not going there.

Nonetheless, I didn’t love my home state much during the month of February. Despite the fact it was the shortest of all your calendar months, it could seem very, very long. During an inversion, you could go weeks without seeing the sun—and sometimes your hand in front of your face. Think of an inversion as the thickest of fogs. One that brings bone-chilling temperatures along for the ride. If Stephen King planned to write about a killer fog that came to stay one winter day, froze everything, ate the sun, and turned the residents of a town into raving lunatics, he could come hang out in Utah in the winter.

But, this is where I lived, and where my dance studio was located, and so I had to make the best of it.

Since I had the February blahs, I thought Carmen Jensen’s offer of a free hairdo, in exchange for some private lessons for her daughter Melissa, sounded like a great deal.

Goes to show you what I get for thinking. I probably should have scheduled the appointment for a time before I rearranged the Petites dance, and put her daughter in the back row. Melissa loves to dance, but her body isn’t listening to her brain, and the coordination is not there.

I was all for a love of the art. But when it came to butchering one of my choreography routines, I was just not that sympathetic to a love that isn’t followed by a body able to do the moves.

Melissa was hopelessly uncoordinated. And all the tea in Japan was not going to get her going in the right direction.

So when I rearranged the dance—preparing the team to compete at the Hollywood StarMakers Convention and Competition, which was coming to town at the end of the week—I moved Melissa back to the third row, far right. I understood that this was the equivalent of putting a baseball player in right field, but I always hoped that the psycho dance moms wouldn’t have that same understanding.

They usually did. And Carmen obviously did. Based on the fact I was now missing large chunks of my hair, Carmen was totally clued in to what had happened.

“Uh, Carmen? My hair is attached to my head, and you’re hurting me by pulling it. Ouch. Carmen, it hurts!”

The multi-colored blonde standing over me narrowed her eyes, and I could almost swear evil flashed out from them. We were in the salon she ran out of her house, and I was suddenly fearful she was going to chop me into pieces and hide my body where it would never be found. You might laugh, but I promise, this dance teacher business could be very dangerous.

It hadn’t been all that long since someone killed one of my psycho dance moms and tried to frame me for the murder. It hadn’t been the best time of my life, even though I met a really hot detective because of it. Even with that factored in, I did not want to repeat the experience. I shuddered, and looked up at Carmen. Another psycho dance mom, just like the one that tried to kill me. When I called them psycho, I was not kidding.

Carmen yanked at the brush holding my hair and I winced and cried out.

“Carmen, maybe we should just do this another day, huh? Maybe, say, when you aren’t quite so stressed out?” Or maybe have been dosed with some heavy duty anti-psychotic drugs.

“It hurts, huh?” she said, laughing without humor. “I’m really sorry. Sometimes these things do hurt. Yes, they do. They hurt really, really bad, and then someone tells you ‘Well, sorry. That’s just the way it is.’ That’s life. Life in a nutshell. Sometimes things just hurt.”

“Oh, man, I just remembered, I have a solo lesson. Let’s reschedule this,” I said, anxious to get out of the chair and Carmen’s house before I was completely bald. I tried to stand up, but she still had my hair caught in the brush—that was, the hair she hadn’t already pulled out of my head.

“Nonsense, you said you really needed a change. Some highlights. A few layers would do wonders for this…er…your hair.” She dropped the hair—my hair!–she’d been holding in her left hand to the floor, and picked up a pair of sharp scissors from a rolling tray positioned next to the chair where I sat.

“Yes, but you know how upset these mothers get when…I mean, I really have to….” I stumbled over the words, not wanting to trigger her even more.

“No, no, it’ll be fine. Just sit tight and I’ll make you a new woman.”

Those just might be the most frightening words you will ever hear coming out of a psycho dance mom holding chemicals and garnishing a pair of scissors.

I was in big trouble.