Field Notes: You don''t get a career day, or time off for good behavior. History is full of monster hunters, but only a select few outside the Foster family could be called monster assassins. Monster hunters have to work with faulty information. They dedicate their lives to what they call their craft because they feel destined to stand out, even at a great expense.


    Fosters throughout history have earned the title Monster Assassin because monster assassinations are all covert operations. They are quick and subtle, and they keep the real bad guys in check. They have incredible weapons, and they work best as a unit or team. Monster hunters often attempt to use magic to exploit their foe''s weaknesses. Monster assassins do not have direct access to magic. Otherwise, they’d be M.A.G.E magicians or, quite possibly, a witch or a wizard. They do, however, have some kind of connection to a ranked magical user who serves as a benefactor and guide for plausible deniability in the event an assassination goes south. If you want to avoid a public spectacle, do your homework and try not to act like you know everything.


    It''s important not to be the nosy neighbor, right?


    Dad dedicated his time, and as I expected, he jumped in and took care of Lauren''s car, which became a labor of service and took nearly an entire day to fix. Tony and I carved out time to tackle our homework, and we saw firsthand what it was like to have such a large-scale police presence. During the day, the campus acted and functioned as if the police weren’t even there. There were no incidents, but people were uneasy. A few new emails came out offering counseling services and encouraging people not to stay out too late, especially with Halloween coming up.


    When we weren’t doing runs through town, we monitored news reports and poured over new shipments of family journals and diaries. Mom doubled down to get the ones we had onto their next destination. Plenty of family members did not like if shipments arrived late. There always seemed to be a new journal with information that someone along some branch of the family line was curious to look at. They were even more intriguing and mysterious if you looked deep enough into their antics and shenanigans.


    Two days after meeting Lauren, I awoke to see frost on the ground, but that had disappeared, and Pop arrived in his gray truck to help Dad finish working on Lauren’s car. I had offered to help, but Tony had beat me to the punch, and said I could take the last few journals Mom had asked me to review.


    With nothing better to do, I settled in and began pouring over the writings of Alice Foster, who I came to find out had been a renowned model and was somewhat of a celebrity. There had been columns written about her, and she had quite an eye for 20s-era fashion coupled with a Heidi Lamar-level intelligence. Throughout her life, she had reached a level of popularity that made her life comfortable, and if it hadn''t been for the monsters and subterfuge, she might have reached a level of true public stardom. Alice knew her way around the theater and among the socialites of her time. Her name alone got her into lavish places, and she could get anything she wanted.


    That kind of access. I marveled at her descriptions. The gender roles of the time really gave her a chance to face her encounters with no threat of suspicion. Alice played her part, and as I surveyed the names, I laughed at how she had a monster mafia lurking behind every corner. She had cut out articles and had included telegraphs from her contacts and associates warning her to be careful. Alice, as a woman of station had bodyguards, but they were for show because she was the real threat.


    I flipped to the next page, passed a few inserts, and continued to read.


    Each time I go into the street, I must remind myself to look at the crowds that flock beside me. They are not monsters worthy of condemnation. They are people who I have inspired or have become the center of their attention and affection. I admit that I am displeased by the fanfare, but I am troubled that there are those who attempt to push themselves on me. It’s difficult not to confuse admiration or lust or the hunger of a vampire. Or the attitude of a goblin, and I hesitate to say much about trolls. When I am attacked, I must chalk up the experience to a weary admirer or a stricken fan. I try to smile because I am not living a lie, and I refuse to give in to the pressure.


    Alice''s flowery character bled through her words with theatrical flair, and she loved her life. For the first decade of her duo career, she worked hard not to let her popularity inflate her ego, and she used her skills to hide her weapons in a surprising number of places. She knew how to capture one''s attention on and off, and her artistry gave the term diva a whole new meaning.


    There are always a select few who squander the opportunities of their station. But why not? They certainly aren''t of a high caliber when they reap the benefits of their unique heritage. I don''t know why mere mortals try anymore. Perhaps that''s my family''s task. Could we be the ones destined to make sure true evil doesn''t dominate?


    Alice, the subsequent entries conveyed details and narratives about her exploits and adventures that cast a new light on the 1920s. Some of her most detailed accounts covered moments where Alice speculated that camera film affected ghosts and phantoms while filming a movie I had never seen or had heard of. Alice was the first, to my knowledge, to fight against a series of possessed objects, creatures, and mirrors, and she, along with her brother and cousin, Together, the three of them dealt with intense pressure and multiple crises, which led to the rise of numerous prominent figures and the Great Depression. Alice wrote about each experience and gave details regarding where the family decided to leave, multiple cashes of information including blueprints, pictures, and considerable evidence of shady individuals involved in several schemes, several of which had escaped their attempts to subdue or slay them. I made notes about the locations, then placed the journal in the box along with the others I''d already completed.


    Alice, it would have been a pleasure to get to know you.


    I put the journal back in the box and placed my notes in my desk drawer. The locations were interesting, and if we had the time, we could masquerade as a vacationing family to check them out. It was equally likely that other family members had attempted, would try to make an attempt, or had cleaned them out and had no intention of sharing the results. Fosters, we have a healthy sense of competition, but everyone wanted to find the bundle themselves, and since my childhood. If we ever found it, no one was super eager to share.


    A car honked, and I hurried to the window as it decelerated right outside the house. Dad came into view from the garage in his oil-stained coveralls. He looked like a real handyman, and I stared at a glossy sports car that settled into position by some decorative stones and plants Mom had set up between the driveway and the grass.


    I quickly put my shoes on and hurried downstairs.


    As I came into the garage, I found Lauren and a round-shouldered man with gray hair, who I assumed to be her dad, walking around the car with a dumbfounded expression. Dad was in the middle of some explanations, and I was impressed, but not surprised, by how much the three of them, Tony, Pop, and Dad, could accomplish in a short amount of time. Otherwise, we have to explain the scorch marks, fist prints, and any number of odd things monsters tend to do to cars if given the chance.


    “Now, I don''t have much experience with custom bodywork.” Dad was explaining as I came within earshot of the conversation. Dad had several workbenches and multiple toolboxes. The workspaces were neat and had been cleaned up. Meanwhile, there was a pile of scraped parts beside a dirty bucket along with a variety of cardboard boxes and a growing glacier of plastic wrapping.


    “Mr. Foster,” Lauren’s dad exclaimed with some shock in his voice. It was a reaction Mom had worried about. What would the neighbors think if the Fosters kept long hours? What would it say if we never checked at a doctor’s office, or asked for advice about a good mechanic in the area?


    Mom was our medic and Pop or Dad typically addressed vehicle trouble and home repair. She had a point, especially since we were living beneath the guise of a typical urban family with kids in college. We were covert assassins, but not government assassins.


    “I am speechless for what you’ve done,” Lauren’s dad said, “and I’m deeply grateful.”


    I beamed at Dad who pulled out a rag and cleaned off a smudge by his thumb. Mom and Dad had talked at length about our cover, but as it turned out Mom’s fears were unwarranted. Unlike the big cities, if neighbors found out you possessed help skills like plumbing, car or house repair, most people would actually call you for help before calling the professional companies. It helped us blend in, in place of being the robust neighbors that people talked about, but no one had really gotten to know because we kept to ourselves.


    “I noticed some cosmetic issues near the bumper,” Dad explained. “I did what I could to buff it out and blend it in. I got into the engine, and I double-checked the connections along with the cylinders, filters, transmission, brakes, starter and alternator, and battery connections.”


    “That’s pretty thorough,” Lauren’s Dad said, “any idea what was wrong?”


    Dad shrugged and played it causal, exactly as I expected him to. “My best guess is at some point, something got up in there and did a number on a bunch of small components, and it had some trouble getting out. Do you live in a subdivision or out on the hill?”


    “Out on the hill,” Lauren’s Dad said, “Gosh darn it, I’m sorry sweetie. I should have listened to your mom when she mentioned getting new rodent traps for the garage.”


    “That would be a great idea,” Dad said, “but for the moment, I’ve replaced some things like a fan belt, and those brake pads were a little rugged. I’m pretty confident you should be able to get her back on the road, and she should run like a charm.”


    I held back and chuckled at Mr. Jones''s slack jaw and wide eyes, and I stopped myself from commenting on Dad’s infomercial voice. Dad double-checked his hands, hurried them, washed them in a sink in the corner of the garage, and then held out the keys. Lauren and her dad exchanged glances, and with rosy cheeks, Lauren stepped forward and bowed her head in thanks as she took them. I couldn''t tell if it was that sales pitch or his perceived position. That they had found themselves in that was throwing him off. After a moment, Mr. Jones took Lauren''s keys and glanced at the car. He looked stunned, bewildered, amazed, thankful, and cautious.


    “If you would like,” Dad continued, he stepped over and opened the door, ‘I’m in no rush so if you’d like to take it around the block, please do, and you can let me know that everything is working properly.”


    “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Mr. Jones said, I kept my expression blank, but I found deep amusement when I recognized the look. He was in awe of the garage.


    Every time, I thought, Why is the size and style of someone’s garage like a badge of honor?


    He was a businessman; the sports car indicated that, and it was clear he did pretty well. Dad had told me we had been fortunate to land the house, which had been built by a real care guy. Lauren jingled the keys and looked at her car in astonishment.


    “I don’t know as much about cars as I’d like to, but I can tell you put a ton of energy and material into the repair,” Mr. Jones began, but he seemed a little at a loss for words. Both men didn’t come off as competitive, but at the same time, we had done the Jones family a favor, and as Mr. Jones scratched at his chin, took a new look at the garage along with the pile of parts and the plastic. This was a modern day mission of honor. Mr. Jones was trying to figure out what to do next.


    “Mr. Foster, I’m flabbergasted and floored at your work.” He motioned to the coveralls and the mess. I settled in and tried not to look too proud or pleased. “We appreciate the gesture, and we were really in a bind.”


    He clapped his hands together, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. “Thank you for your help.”


    Dad chuckled, then gave the comment a friendly wave, “I had a blast, and I really enjoyed taking on a problem. It''s on every day I get to work on cars. We drive them around, but sometimes they don''t break until the worst possible moment.”


    “True,” Mr. Jones said, “and that was certainly now. I hated picturing my little girl stranded, but it did my wife and me a lot of good knowing she had friends in town. We’ll let you all get back to your day. The last few nights have been tricky, and we have a lot to do today. Can you send me the bill for all of this? I definitely want to pay you for the labor and parts.”


    “Nope,” Dad said, raising his hands like he was under arrest, and then he brushed the notion away. “I wasn''t keeping track and always picked up spare parts occasionally. Believe me, there was no trouble.”


    Mr. Jones looked defeated, but I can tell you he looked grateful. Despite what we do and what we know, it pays to lend a helpful hand. Mr. Jones pressed a bit more, but with relaxed shoulders and a smile, I knew Dad wasn’t going to budge, and while I didn''t know what the Jones did for a living, I knew he certainly wanted to make up for what he perceived as an inconvenience.


    “How about lunch?” Lauren suggested


    By this point in the conversation, Mom had wandered out and fell in love with the idea of getting together with some neighbors after sharing a few particulars. After a few phone calls, I found myself, along with my parents and Tony, outside the Cow Trail. A Western saloon-inspired restaurant set a few blocks north of campus beside a dental office, a few apartments, a movie theater, and a spectacular candy store. A family filed out as we congregated and I caught brief smells and music slipped through the crack between the doors.


    “Haven’t we been here before?” Tony asked.


    “A long time ago,” Mom said.


    “It''s not exactly easy to eat out,” Dad said, “but this is a great way to build rapport in the community, and it''s what we need to circumvent any suspicion that may come our way.”


    “Just plan to finish everything,” I whispered to Tony.


    Tony grunted. “Ya I know.”


    We were twins, but we were in sync on this situation. We didn’t often eat out just in case we had to bolt before we could finish. There were a few incidents where my mouth still watered from the leftover containers we had either discarded or lost when our target tossed, smashed, or bulldozed our vehicle with nothing more than brute force.


    “I’m ready to see a menu, I’m hungry,” Tony said smugly as we passed through the swinging saloon-style doors. A few feet past the entrance, I spotted a community billboard brimming with ads, posters, and notices. Most were outdated, but I saw the axe murderer campus bulletin and my stomach sank.


    I’m responsible for the nightmares people will have because of that picture.


    “Emma?”


    I pulled my attention to Mom who shot a glance at the bulletin board and then smiled at me. Now inside, we were greeted with louder and continuous Western-inspired music from a piano beside a small stage. A girl in a tight blue dress sat at the piano. She had slender arms and a fluffy feather danced and bobbed back and forth as she hit each chord and added some flourishes as she reached a climax. The floorboards creaked, but no one seemed to mind as the lady gave a “Ye Ha”


    About half of the roughly two dozen people, a combination of couples, trios, and small groups, all cheered or echoed the exclamation. The ice in their glasses raddled, and some even toasted each other before setting in to finish their meal.


    “Read them and weep boys,” an older man dressed as a cowboy hollered as he threw down his cards and started ranking poker chips towards an already decent pile stacked awkwardly in front of him. His competitors threw down their cards in defeat. The winner stuck his tongue out and gleefully pulled the chips to his side. The players stood and moved around a mixture of saloon girls wearing fluffy sleeves and corsets, along with some girls wearing cowboy boots, matching hats, spurs, and in place of a holster for a gun. The restaurant had created a holster-apron combo so they could wait on the circular tables in the middle of the room, along with rectangular tables they had placed against the wall.


    “Howdy,” a cowgirl called. “Are you passing through or here with a party?”


    “The Jones?” Dad said.


    “Right,” the cowboy said; she pointed across the room, past the bar, where I spotted a few additional tables and where the walls were covered with maps, taxidermized animal heads, rifles, pistols, and large antler racks.


    We followed the directions and Lauren’s father waved us over. The three Jones sat at a table visually sandwiched between two wooden columns with chips, cracks, faded paint, and rusty-looking nails, where I assumed actors or people wanting an experience could put their hands on while they ate. I laughed at a solo cowboy hat that seemed quite lonely.


    “Howdy!” a saloon girl said with her hand on her hips and an accent that undoubtedly came from the old 80s.Western movies. Her lipstick was pristine, but she did twitch a little at her choker that hadn’t been fastened properly. We accepted our seats as she took a quick lap around the table, pitching a few specials and answering questions about the lunch options. As she came back around, stopping just short of the hatless column, she pulled a pencil from her bun at the same time producing a notepad to take down the orders.


    “Can I get you all started with some drinks from the bar? Or would you like to jump in and get the kitchen going to wrestle up some grub?”


    “I think we’re ready,” Mr. Jones said, outlining his order, followed by his wife and Lauren. I quickly scanned the menu and gave them what I wanted, and my parents and Tony followed suit. Once all the orders were placed and noted, it only took a few minutes before our table became littered with appetizers at Mr. Jones''s request. The girls cheered and happily brought out everything from hot buttery dinner rolls to fried mac & cheese balls, along with seasoned cheese-covered bread sticks and small bowls of baked beans.


    We ate in silence, which occasionally broke with small conversation and I cheered along with everyone else when the staff rang a bell and the servers yelled, “Ye Ha!”


    “Wow, that smells good,” Tony said. After the third Ye Ha. This was one louder as three servers came over to our table laden with food trays.


    “Alright, folks, let''s make sure we have everything.”


    My stomach stirred with delight while the waitress double-checked each order to make sure it got to the right person. I inhaled the spicy grilled chicken and steam rising from the plate, tickling my nose, and it made my mouth water. Then, the rich chili jostled in the bowl, and the spaghetti variation on their menu named Cowboy Delight looked delicious to the point where I could taste the spices in the air. We shifted the brand-new drinks around the ice cubes pointed against the side of the cups, and I could see droplets of butter on the bread rolls. I didn’t realize how hungry I was and was ready to eat.


    “Let’s dig in,” Mr. Jones said.


    We passed the plates around, and each aroma was rich and enveloped my senses. I reeled with delight at the savory and sweet scents. The whole table looked like something you would have seen in a commercial.


    “So, Emma,” Mrs. Jones said as the waitress bumped a set of swinging doors with her hip before disappearing down the hallway marked kitchen and bathrooms.


    “Lauren told me you''re a student too. What are you studying?”


    I shrugged, cleared my throat, and quickly dabbed at my lips with a napkin. “I’m sadly one of those people who aren’t quite sure right now. So, I''m just doing general classes online.”


    “There’s no reason to rush,” Mr. Jones said as the pianist rose and graciously bowed. A few people clapped, and she took a small step down, keeping her skirt off the floor. Like a princess she waved to a few nearby families and clapped a hand across her chest as a little girl timidly hurried over a handed her a follow.


    “It’s smart to think about your options.”


    “Quite so,” Dad said. “we’re quite proud of her.”


    The pianist beamed and waved with a bit more gusto before excusing herself down the hallway. After a few bites and half of my drink later, I felt my stomach harden. I almost couldn’t finish; it was so delicious. Mom made fantastic food, but it had been a while since we’d had restaurant food.


    “In the next year or two, I’ll narrow down my decision and then start taking some specialized courses,” I added, setting my fork down, and I focused on my drink to my stomach for a break. “I’ve had a lot of fun seeing what’s out there, and to see how well I can take on new stuff.”


    “That’s the only way to know,” Mr. Jones said, cutting into a thick steak smothered in sauce. “You’ve got to experiment-”


    “She’s got a few special classes where-” Mom said, but she stopped and toppled toward the table. Loud, obnoxious chords filled the dining room and were followed by thick bangs, sharp clangs and many off kilter notes played in quick succession.


    “What is that!” Lauren exclaimed.


    I watched silverware spill across the table, and various people cried out and rose to their feet in alarm and distress. We all searched, and then our attention returned to the piano, only it was the girl pianist from earlier. This pianist, a man in a bolder hat and tailcoat, sat slouched on the bench. The appearance was Vaudeville funny, even though He kept his back toward all of us. The new pianist really put his heart into each movement and dramatically play with a lot of class and bravado. Physical humor was definitely his skill, but he couldn’t play the piano, at all.


    “Stop!” A patron yelled.


    The pianist didn’t acknowledge the request and second passed before a small group of men; sons and husbands rose and headed to the hallways to look for a host or a member of management. Instead, as two gentlemen rose to confront the pianist, I stiffened as he moved his arms back and forth. They wobbled and arched like noodles or a jump rope if one end was whipped with enough force. He was either really bad and performing, or this was all some kind of show.


    The two men stopped as the pianist shifted gears and immediately began to play calmly, almost classical music. The change was so abrupt, that the two men exchanged glances and they stayed put for nearly a full minute before returning to their table.


    The pace was good, and he had a few hiccups with wrong notes, but it wasn’t anything an uninterested listener would have picked up on or anything most people would complain about.


    “That was odd,” Lauren said, helping herself to another roll. “and certainly a rough start.”


    “Please don''t do that again.” Someone called out as Lauren spread some honey and butter across the roll. The pianist made no acknowledgement of the comment, but he maintained the softer repertoire and the mood was quick to settle down. As we progressed through our meal and crossed the typical conversation topics, politics, local events and some speculation about the axe murderer, I watched Lauren sink into her chair. She stirred her food around but had seemingly lost her appetite.


    I took a drink, polishing it off as Lauren glanced over her shoulder and her shoulders rolled inward and she assumed a hunched position. I took a bite and began looking for a way to jump into the conversation in order to change the subject, but then Lauren sat up. She took her fork and happily put a bite in her mouth.


    I bit down on my fork. What was that?


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    A quick look around the table told me that neither set of parents, nor Tony had picked up Lauren’s abrupt mood change. It had been quick, but over Mrs. Jones shoulder I saw a couple where the woman’s foot twitched beneath the table, while the man gripped the tablecloth in what some would think was an effort to steady himself. There were other small clues, and they all seemed innocent by themselves.


    BAM! CLANG! SWISH! BRRRIIINNNNGGG! BONK! DUNK! DUNK!


    The dining room exploded in an uproar. The chords became louder and far more uncomplimentary. Several patrons slammed their hands down on the table, while chairs squeaked across the floor in rapid succession as individuals stood up and yelled as pianist who continued his makeshift composition, unaware of the discomfort and the protests.


    “I’m sorry Fosters,” Mr. Jones said with his hands over his ears, “This hasn’t been allowed during the other times we’ve been here.”


    “I believe you,” Dad said, who also had his ears plugged. “The food is really, good!”


    By now the disruption had attracted the server’s attention. Four saloon girls hurried to the more visually aggravated tables, and it only took seconds before certain groups were given to-go boxes. Two servers hurried to the pianist and they both placed a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t stop. One tapped his shoulder and leaned closer to get his attention, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.


    “Here comes the sheriff,” Mrs. Jones said.


    The pianist stopped when a tall man with broad shoulders and snow-white hair hurried out from the back hallway. He looked like Colonel Sanders after serious weight training. The disgruntled look he had was enough to chill a forest fire. The pianist spun on the bench as he made his approach. The sheriff didn’t say a word, but the pianist finally seemed to get the hint. He kept his head down and clasped his hands together in a pleading manner.


    “I bet they regret hiring him,” Mr. Jones said.


    “Most likely,” Mom added.


    “I hope so,” Dad added.


    Now that the music was over, the servers proceeded to take orders and offer apologies to the crowd. The pianist spoke and prayerfully pleaded with the sheriff who remained silent, but he had a firm expression, and he had his arms folded across his chest and quite happily shook his head. I wasn’t sure what the pianist was saying, but the sheriff was going to budge.


    “That seems like a losing argument,” Tony whispered to me.


    I nodded. “He seems ashamed.”


    But I wasn’t entirely convinced, but this didn’t seem like something they would have planned as an in-house show.


    The pianist held up one finger and then pointed at the piano. He turned on the bench and held his hands up, but the sheriff dropped his hands and had them balled into fists. He shook his head, stomped his foot in protest. The impact was hard that it made his spurs jingle. By this point, there were no side conversations, and the sheriff probably wanted to address the unprofessional behavior in his office. The servers watched and tried to engage the crowd, but most people wanted to see how this was going to end. The pianist turned away from the keyboard and the sheriff muttered something as he pointed toward the double doors and the employee hallway.


    “Is he that oblivious?” a server whispered to another as they passed our table, “who in their right mind would let someone that bad play a piano?”


    “No idea,” the other server replied, “I don’t know who that is. Melissa is the only pianist I’ve ever seen play.”


    “She’ll probably had job security,” the first added, but she trailed off and gave me a smile when she realized I had heard what they said. Finally able to continue with my meal. I took a few bites and watched the pianist sink of the piano bench and with exaggerated motions he moved with long steps, similar wavy noodle arms. After a few steps, he put his bowler hat across his face as he headed to the employee hallway, vanishing from sight.


    “I really wouldn’t want to be him right now,” Tony said. As the sheriff moved through the dining hall with clasped hands, he offered apologetic words and some placating gestures. As he finished each conversation, the manager took a professional bow and motioned to the table. Soon, the whole fiasco seemed resolved, and patrons returned to their personal conversations and meals. The sheriff maintained a presence in the dining room, while servers refilled drinks, brough out new plates of appetizers, or small portions of a select set of their dessert options.


    “No kidding,” I added as a face leaned out from the hallway, and like a cartoon character, the pianist slipped up against the wall and, like a thief prowling through the night. He slid across the wall, tip-toeing with exaggerated movements heading back to the stage. Once he was back by the piano, he stuck out his tongue, wiggled his fingers and got close enough to slide the bench out with his toe. A few patrons had caught on and pointed it out. The pianist sat down, and adjusted his bowler hat which was followed by stretching his fingers and quickly massaging his wrists.


    “Why?” Mr. Jones said. As the sheriff charged through the dining and in a feat of anger. The sheriff seized a hold of his lapel, and he had no remorse or mercy as he dragged him across the room and back down the hall.


    “Is it just me,” Lauren said, “Or does it seem like a choreographed show.”


    “A show that needed more rehearsals,” Mr. Jones replied, “and maybe a focus group. You’re not going to get repeat customers with that kind of nonsense.


    “Here you go, folks,” our server said, directing another server who carried a tray. “Compliments of the management.”


    “Thank you,” Mr. Jones said. As the plates came down, I glimpsed selections from their dessert menu; a cinnamon and chocolate cake, cookies, ice cream, and what looked like rice pudding. The waitress came around and placed the selection in front of each of us, and I could see an awkward, rosy tint flushed across her cheeks.


    “We’re sorry about the ruckus,” The waitress said, trying to act casual, but this was an impromptu script, and she was determined to get it right. “We really want to provide an enjoyable meal experience. Thanks for coming, and we hope that-”


    The server trailed off and brought her hands to her face and her tray clambered to the floor. The reaction caused a stir and a few yips of surprise. I twisted in my seat and standing with stains and pours of multiple meals was a lone waitress. She had brown hair, and her blouse and skirt were drenched, and she trembled with outright terror and unfettered embarrassment.


    “Oh, that poor dear,” Mrs. Jones said.


    She looked about to be somewhere between sixteen to eighteen years old. The tray hung loosely between her fingers, and her lips trembled as she tried to hold back her emotions. Mom and Mrs. Jones rose, but multiple other waitresses hurried over, scooted chairs and a table out of the way, and two began to clean up the mess, with a third escorting the distressed waitress out of the dining room.


    “I''m sorry,” she said breathlessly.


    “Its alright,” a server said, “lets get you cleaned up and we’ll get this straightened out.”


    “This isn’t going to help the reviews,” Tony said, and I watched at least a dozen people typing on their phones or were discreetly making phone calls, despite the gestures from their family members or associates to not doing so. The reviewers and talkers looked visibly annoyed, but they signed off or ended the call. Once the mess was cleaned up and the tables were reset. The sheriff came around and personally seemed tense as he visited with a few families. As new groups, from families to couples, strolled into the restaurant, the sheriff personally came over and escorted them to their seats. He only left once a new wave of servers flawlessly served their orders and when new orders were taken.


    “It seems like this place has had serious issues to sort out,” Mrs. Jones said.


    “They’re probably just new on the job,” said her husband, helping himself make a chocolate cake. “Public image is one of the most crucial elements in a business, and training takes time. I would definitely make sure everyone is aware of the rules but they’re not just doing food, anyone can do food. Look at this place, they’re selling an experience. They’ve got taxidermy animals realistic art, and I’d say these tables and chairs are close approximations to what I’d assumed establishes had in the Old West. They’ve got cowboys playing poker and even nails to hang your hat. Part of me wouldn’t mind getting one.”


    “Dad,” Lauren said. “you want a cowboy hat?”


    Mr. Jones shrugged. “Why not. I bet I could pull it off like the sheriff. What about you Jim, can I call you Jim? Would you wear a cowboy hat to the office?”


    “Sure,” Dad replied, “and in the right kind of environment. I would consider it and it definitely makes a statement.”


    “Like you’re rowdy and unbecoming.” Mrs. Jones said.


    “That’s a bit unfair,” Tony said.


    “I agree,” Mr. Jones said, “a cowboy hat. That is the kind of thing that makes a statement.”


    And with that the debate was in full swing. The parents began to explore the little they knew about the Old West along with reading popular Western fiction and when they watched old John Wayne movies. As the conversation reached a peak when they considered famous people outside the genre of a western who occasionally wear cowboy hats. I looked back toward the hat I had seen when we had arrived, but it was nowhere in sight.


    Weird?  I hadn’t seen it fall, nor had anyone picked it up. I scanned the ground near where I seen it and it wasn’t behind a chair, or beneath one of the few tables nearby.


    “Has anyone seen a cowboy hat?” I asked. “I thought I saw one on the nail right there.”


    My parents shook their heads, but Mr. Jones motioned over my shoulder. “Looks like there is a donkey-wearing one by the window.”


    “What? Its on a donkey.” I scooted around in my chair and sure enough. In a corner by a window sat a taxidermy donkey wearing the hat.


    “Someone must have put it there,” I said, “I saw it hanging up.”


    “Makes sense,” Mom said, “Its certainly funny.”


    “Well, I might just have to get one for Halloween,” Mr. Jones said, “We''re going to have a booth at the upcoming Halloween carnival. We’re going to have some games, you know, the simple prices for Dollar raffle tickets and we’re also going to have some prizes worth some money. This will be a big step, but I’m hopeful for a positive outcome.”


    “Are the big prizes an incentive for new clients or for services?” Mom asked.


    “Yes and no,” Mr. Jones raised his hands like a magician about to do his big trick. “I don’t think about it as a marketing ploy. Instead, I want my clients to think about it as a reward and a signal of appreciation. We are grateful that you trust us. Typically, booths only give coupons, but we’re raising the bar by having a drawing that will send a family or A small group, even perhaps a few couples, on an all-expenses paid trip to Maui.”


    I glanced at Mom, who raised an eyebrow, and a smile perked across her face while she spread jam across a roll. “That’s what I’d call a stellar enticement.”


    Mr. Jones beamed with pride at the idea. “You’ve gotta spend money to make money, and sometimes it pays to set up a good self-image. And I''m hoping to spearhead a new way to get clients, and I hope it might become a way to promote worthwhile causes. What do you think about this, Jim.? For example, would you ever want to go public and become a professional mechanic?”


    My dad had a black belt in conversation, and I caught a twinkle in his eye. Mr. Jones was a good salesman, and he recognized Dad’s skills. If he was going to let him pay for his work, he was going to try to compensate Dad in another way.


    Dad cleared his throat, “For now, I’m quite satisfied with what I have, but taking things to the next level, a grand prize, is a good way to get people talking. It sets a precedent, but if they see you care about your presence and abilities, the experience you''re trying to sell. I don''t know why people wouldn''t flock to your websites or locations. I found-”


    Ping.


    I ducked my head to the side and pulled my phone from my pocket. I put in my code but stopped when a light flashed across my vision. My attention passed by the Donkey, but this time the hat was gone.


    Now that’s weird.


    I scanned the floor near the window. No one was seated there, and I had just seen it there a minute ago. How would it disappear without me seeing someone take it? I slid my chair and scanned the floor a bit further along the floor, thinking it was likely that it could have been kicked or that it had fallen and ended up beneath a table.


    There was nothing.


    “Emma?” Dad said, “Everything good?”


    I nodded, “I just got a message that’s all.”


    I scrolled through my messages, but I felt a chill and then my body stiffened when I made eye contact with a Jack-O-Lantern wearing the cowboy hat and a bandana that had been wound up with a small corner sticking out. The whole thing looked like a cheesy way to make the pumpkin look like a desperado.


    The lights?  I recognized them from the Jack-O-Lantern I had seen in the back of the garbage truck. The light twinkled and shimmered, but I didn’t get a sense that any glass or reflective surface had been put into the eye sockets. The afternoon’s dull gray skill enhanced the glow. I turned my phone off and I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I watched a few cars zipped down the street, and I spotted multiple people rushing past the window. There were one or two people at first, but then I saw a trio followed by a young family. All of them were eager to move but seemed panicked or tense about something. Once my line of sight cleared, from where I saw I could see the dental’s office front door and I watched three people rush onto the sidewalk wearing the splash papers. The dental patients waved their arms over their heads and split in multiple directions. They were soon followed by the hygienists or people I assumed to be their receptionists who looked nervous but bewildered at the occurrence.


    I glanced toward Tony, who was chewing, and I reached to tap his shoulder, but as I did, I dropped my fork, and it clinked against my plate when I spotted a glossy puddle at least a foot across the floor partially hidden by a larger table compared to ours. As a waitress headed to one of the new families, I rose to my feet. She had a beaming smile, and multiple plates set on a round serving tray, which she balanced with expert skill. It was right in her path. There was no chance of avoiding it.


    She’s going to fall. “Look out!”


    I heard her boots click down on the floor, and she stumbled but caught herself while recoiling in alarm. The conversation halted, and I had all eyes on me.


    “What the devil!” The waitress yelled.


    I pointed at the floor and the waitress put her serving tray down and came a few steps closer to investigate. When she realized what she avoided.


    “Hey Hank!” the flustered waitress called to the bar. “We need to a get a sign on this here wet spot. Someone could break their neck!”


    She looked at me and visibly her heart rate dropped and after a second’s composure. The waitress quickly distributed the meals, and a second one came over and they chatted in hushed voices. A family requested to go boxes and a third joined the duo and got a Wet Floor sign in place as a warning.


    “Way to pay attention,” Mom whispered to me with a hand on my shoulder.


    “Why does everything seem to be going wrong with this restaurant?” Lauren asked. She didn’t look particularly interested in an answer, but something weighed heavily on her.


    “It certainly is a bit odd, sweetheart,” Mrs. Jones said, sounding tired as she stirred her food with an awkward hand gesture. “I can''t imagine so many bad things happening in such a short time.”


    “Everyone has their off days,” Mr. Jones interjected, awkwardly scratching his neck and dancing in his chair. “Like I said, I''m sure after a little while, this staff will iron out the kinks and sort out the issues. I bet, you know, they just recently hired some new people, and they''re still learning the ropes. So, Mr. Foster, what do you think?”


    Dad set down his fork, having finished his meal.


    “Hey, Mommy,” A child cut in as Dad moved his straw around to take a drink. “Look, there''s a princess out the window.”


    “That’s nice honey,” the mom said with a faint stutter.


    I looked back at the window, but I didn’t see a woman in a ball gown and a tiara. Instead, the desperado Jack-O-Lantern was now hovering a few inches above the windowsill.


    Something was definitely wrong here..


    I rubbed the condensation between my fingers and glanced at my parents, hoping to get their attention. But their attention and Tony’s were on the Jones, who had each gone pale, and they had bags beneath their eyes.


    “Well, look at the time,” Mr. Jones shouted awkwardly, bringing his fist down against the table. He nervously fumbled with his pockets, pulled out his credit card, and hurriedly waved the waitress over.


    “Everything is on,” Mr. Jones stammered, becoming increasingly agitated. “is on, us! Please and get the check back quickly.”


    “I didn''t realize you had a schedule.” Dad began. But. But they had trailed off as Mr. Jones shot him a forced smile, and he began to fidget uncomfortably in his seat, and his fingers danced across the tabletop. If he needed to go to the bathroom, why not just excuse himself. What was with the awkwardness all of a sudden?


    “It''s nothing,” Mrs. Jones said, looking around the dining room as other people appeared equally over-anxious, tense, stiff, jiggery and the abrupt attitude change had confused their respective companions who were asking questions and encouraging their friends and family to sit down.


    “I just realized,” Mr. Jones said hastily, pushing his chair back. He rose, nearly knocking into the table beside ours. “I have to, no, we must do the thing.”


    “That’s right.” His wife said, who, in her own way, was sharing in the in the anxiousness? I quickly glanced at Lauren, who did not appear anxious, but the color had drained from her face again, and she had begun to shiver like she was stuck outside without a proper coat. She rubbed her hands across her arms and looked exhausted and she was ready to pass out.


    Alarmed but wanting to provide the best service, a waitress hurried over and offered some take-home boxes. Saying extraordinarily little, the Joneses scooped their food into the boxes, Mr. Jones signed the receipt and the three of them headed for the door.


    “Come to our booth at the Halloween carnival,” Mr. Jones called back to us as he shoved the receipt and his card into his jacket pocket. He didn''t offer a wave or a goodbye.


    “We''ll see what we can do,” Dad called back but his reply had fallen on deaf ears as the Joneses were out the door along with several other customers, all desperate to get outside. We stayed at the table and several servers came back into the dining hall and huddled together as a member of the kitchen staff, several saloon girl servers and the sheriff himself all pushed to get outside.


    “That was odd,” Tony said. “Not socially odd. Creepily odd.”


    “You’re not wrong,” Dad said, “This must be round 2. Let’s get going.”


    Mom quickly secured our leftovers while Dad moved to the window. We didn''t have the best vantage point, but we could tell that many people were flooding the street.


    “Wait, I saw a Jack-O-Lantern,” I said quickly, “It had glowing eyes like what I saw in the garbage truck.”


    I spun in a circle, looking for where it had ended up. It had to be here somewhere. “It had glowing eyes just like the decorations in the garbage truck.”


    I stopped and pointed as the howler hat pianist scooted a table out of his, the desperado pumpkin clutched in his gloved hands.


    “There!” I said, “The bad pianist has it.”


    My family focused on my gaze, but I had a few steps on them, so I rushed toward the door and the remains of the customers, who were all frantically trying to get out the door. There weren’t many by now, but they were not playing nice with each other.


    “I knew something was off,” Dad said. “On the prowl, all of us.”


    Something was certainly off as the pianist twisted, lurched with an inhuman level contortion skill. People screamed as they bumped into each other and the simplest things seemed to induce a full-fledged panic. The pianist’s skills gave him a moment’s head start and he wasted no time spinning, and turning through the crowd that was spreading up the street from the neighboring businesses, apartments and people in the parking lots.


    “Sorry, coming through!”


    I pushed people into others as the crowd began to bottleneck. In each individual case, I figured some would try to retaliate, but no one did. There were people standing almost like statues, staring blankly into the distance. There were groups huddling beside benches and near their vehicles, but for some reason they wouldn’t get inside.


    “Its!” a man repeated over and over. His teeth chattered and there were goosebumps on his arms. There were other close by, some were muttering, but I could understand anything they were saying.


    “Hey!” a guy came out of his apartment, “what are you doing by my car!”


    “AH!” The new guy jumped back as the person he addressed took one look at him before bolting away at a full sprint. I moved away from the restaurant and watched some cars come down the street. A few of the drivers honked as groups of people stalled on the crosswalk.


    “Move!” bellowed a driver. He smacked his horn and made some rude gestures. By the time I reached the crosswalk. One man had his window rolled down and was yelling at the top of his lungs, but the people on the crosswalk didn’t say, or do anything.


    “Move people!” one driver yelled, but he choked when, CRASH!!!


    My foot scratched the road, and I immediately pulled back and sounds split the crowd, and I reacted to a rear end collision. The impact set off alarms, and I could see smoke seeping out from under the hood of the second car. A telltale sign that the driver had no been paying attention given the state of the traffic and the sheer quality of people present.


    The two drivers got out and initiated what promised to be a solid standoff. Each driver looked to be in their 30s and came at each other with their fists clenched.


    The men stared each other down. They both looked like they could hold their own. I waited, and then they both began to tremble. Their jaws dropped, and then both men screamed in terror and bolted in opposite directions, leaving their cars wide open and the engines running.


    Now clear, I hurried across the street and spotted the bowler hat and tailcoat wadded up in a flower box near the dentist’s office. The pianist’s limber frame shouldn’t be too hard to spot, but there were so many people.


    Even if they were fast, they wouldn’t have- I moved up against the wall and I had to acknowledge that it was possible to move unrealistically fast, especially if the pianist hadn’t been human.


    I headed down the block and glimpsed Mom and Dad cutting through the crowd. They got stonewalled every few feet as the majority of the crowd appeared adamant to move in the opposite direction. A second later, I spotted Tony diver down a side street. I pulled out my phone and dialed Dad, linking Tony in on the call as well.


    “What do you see?” Dad asked all at once. There were a few more collisions and crashes and multiple groups fleeing the street frantically screaming. I covered my ears and Dad asked some more questions, but it took several seconds before I understood him, and before I could reply.


    “Everyone is doing their best to get as far away from here as possible,” I said. “I haven''t seen.”


    My shoe kicked a pebble, and I heard the idling of an SUV down an alley near a cupcake store. I immediately pulled back and then risked a glance.


    “Emma,” Dad asked.


    I didn''t immediately reply, but I knew he could see me, so he was waiting for any information to influence their next move.


    “Are we good?” Tony asked. “It’s a mad house the next street over and people look like monkeys in a tennis court.”


    The SUV idled casualty and I saw no movement or activity, so I inched closer to the building to evade any suspicion if the occupants hoped to have been there unnoticed. A causal glance wouldn’t have found it overly concerning, but this situation was not normal and the mere presence of a black SUV sitting down of the most ghetto alleys the city had certainly cranked up the, “I am evil” meter.


    “I’ve got activity down an alley by Sunrise Sweets,” I hissed. “Super spy level suspicion and I think they’ve been here for a while.”


    “Did you get a license plate?” Tony asked.


    My hearing focused on the engine, and I heard the doors open, but then they quickly closed. They might be on the move.


    I spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll try. I think they’re about to leave.”


    “Do not go down the alley,” Dad said quickly. “Let''s do the slip-twist.”


    “We don''t have time to set up an approach,” I said. At that exact moment, I heard something impact a plain metal trash can. I looked past the dumpster and saw two distinct shadows hovering near the back. I clocked a new wave of horrified pedestrians and as they reached me, I ducked in among them and used them as cover to approach a nearby dumpster. There were no shouts, warnings or accusations at the same time I had no idea if anyone followed me, and I hadn’t taken a count.


    “Mission accomplished. I’m by the dumpster and-” I hissed and slightly gagged as I pulled out my phone and turned on a video. I curled up into a ball and began to shake. It seemed like a reasonable condition to recreate if I needed to blend in with the crowd. Once the fleeing groups passed and the street cleared. I heard voices. I attempted to zoom in and inched closer, while keeping my arm close to my chest. I wanted to be able to hide it if anyone confronted me.


    “What are they saying?” Dad asked.


    “No clue,” I replied.


    The engine was pretty strong, and I knew people were talking but I could barely distinguish any word or phrase to make out any clear thought. I audibly recognized their footfalls and could hear the rush of hush whispers. There were even sounds that seemed like the subjects were moving boxes or large containers. I shifted my phone position, cupping the camera circle between my fingers and kept myself completely stationary. I didn''t look up. I couldn’t risk it. All I was going to do was count the seconds and let the video do my work for me. Even at a bad angle, if they thought they were alone and unobserved. It was the best chance we had for them to give some crucial to their plan away. If these beings caused panic, they had a goal and wanted to watch things take place. Yes, they would be distracted. Yes, they would probably ignore me but when you''re attempting to spy on any kind of monster, remember they don''t act like humans. They don''t react like rational, sane individuals.


    Monsters. They’ll attack!


    “Emma, what do you see?” Dad said in a whisper.


    There was concern in his voice. But I couldn''t risk offering any reply, and Dad knew that getting emotional was putting me in danger. I continued to count the seconds and ignored any impulse to move as pain built up in my knees and thighs and down my lower back. The smell was beginning to scratch against my nostrils, and it created waves down my throat. It also didn’t take long before the smells started to mount, creating discomfort that I was unprepared to deal with for a long period of time.


    “Let''s go,” I heard a voice hiss a few feet away. Someone had approached the dumpster where they hadn''t come close to seeing me.


    A woman''s voice said with a definite air of authority.


    “We''re running behind schedule,” A spry voice cut in. There was a child-like energy to it. A little nasally or accented. It seemed like a voice someone would use to perform for children, narrating books or a little kid playing. If it wasn''t for malice and the cutting threaded around each of his comments. The assessment created a face in my mind, and I pictured that voice as the pianist who had caused that disruption in the restaurant. We''re running behind. What did he mean by that? We figured they had a timetable, but what sort of task were they trying to accomplish? That’s what I needed to know.


    “No, Frankie, we’re not.” Said the woman. Her voice was faintly accented, but nothing was recognizable. “Everything is going according to plan. I need you to take your part to the next stage.”


    “Mezzaro won''t be pleased.” This was the first voice. So, I could tell that there were at least three people present. I repeated the name, mentally locking it into place. Mezzaro, Mezzaro. It was odd, but it was something that I felt I needed to remember.


    “He is naturally grumpy, Someone.” The woman replied. That was the second name that struck a chord. Someone. That meant Amy One’s fellow shapeshifter and possible enemy was in town as well.


    I froze, reviewing the dialogue I’d heard. Was the woman talking Suzy Sourblood, The Dark Witch?


    “He''ll get what he''s after, and I don''t care if I screw up his timetable a little bit. I have waited far too long, so stop now. I''m done waiting. I''m going to take what I want.”


    “If you ask me, doing that will be your funeral,” said Frankie. “What I''m here to do, what you need me to do, so I''ll get on it. Otherwise, I’m going to start composing your eulogy.”


    I heard something change hands, and then the woman laughed. She laughed in a familiar and spine-tingling way. The traditional cackle of a witch.


    I heard the footsteps move away, and I moved to my knees and ducked my phone out to catch the SUV. I barely moved it out and listened to the engine Rev as the SUV backed out and disappeared down the opposite street. I was grateful they didn''t come any closer to me.


    “Dad,” I said. “I can confirm all three of our targets have been here.”


    “All three,” Dad repeated sternly. I heard traffic noises, and he told me they needed to take cover. That was a brilliant idea. We had no idea why they were here and what they were doing.


    “Yes,” I said, feeling exhausted and my throat constricted as I gagged. I wanted to forget the dumpster, and I knew the queasiness definitely wasn''t a food coma. Suzy, the dark Witch, was here. Someone, the shapeshifter, was here. And I''m going to guess that the pianist who stole the Jack O Lantern cowboy was named Frankie.


    “I have a small conversation on my phone, and we''ll need to review it for any further clues.”


    Dad coughed. “Let''s get back to the car right away. There''s nothing more we can do here.”


    “Are the Joneses alright?” I asked.


    “He''s honking his horn and looking beaten at his steering wheel. They’re stuck in traffic.” Dad replied. “As far as I can tell, they''ll be ok as long as this panic hasn’t spread.”


    “We better stick to the back roads,” Mom said from behind Dad, “We’ll go slow through the residential area.”


    “Agreed,” I said, “and I’m on my way.”