“It’s kind of freaky, isn’t it?”

“Oh, honey, it’s just a piece of art. Don’t judge it just because it’s from a different culture.”

“It’s not the culture–“ but Marie had already walked to another section of the antique store. Christopher was left talking to the statue, and, alone, he grew more uncomfortable. “I just don’t like the way it’s looking at me,” he muttered.

It stood upon stark, white legs that were so thin, Christopher expected them to snap the moment he turned away. Pallid, blue veins crept up the length of its limbs. Its entirety was ghastly and emaciated.

On its face was a malignant smile, wide to its cheeks. The teeth in its mouth were unusual; large, seemingly too large for its mouth. Red lines, small and dark, streaked from it’s thin lips like legs on a spider, as it’s skin was designed to appear dry beyond the point of good health. A lighter hue of red coated the statue from cheek to chin like blood on the face of a hyena.

Christopher, however, studied its sealed, unknown eyes with unease. He wondered what color might be hidden beneath those deathly eyelids.

Who would make this thing? he thought.

The statue’s hand was outstretched and its fingers, twice as long and half as thin as Christopher’s, were motionless as if the grotesque thing was waiting to receive something.

A plaque stood before it with an inscription that read:

Found in an underwater tomb near text that translated to,
  “Do this: offer not a prayer, but give a coin
and it will grant a wish of anything.”

Any wish? he thought with his hands in his pockets. He scanned the surrounding aisles and collections of antiquities, trinkets, and junk. He failed to find Marie, his wife of three years.

With resigned melancholy, he contemplated his unhappiness. He loved her, and, for a long time, he considered the two of them brought together by a force stronger than fate. But as they settled into normalcy, she invested herself more so in her career than in his heart. Christopher returned from his office to a lifeless house five nights a week. Sometimes six.

So when he looked at the monstrosity in front of him, holding out its ghoulish hand for a coin in exchange for a wish, he shrugged and thought, Why not?

From his pocket, he produced a quarter and placed it in the statue’s palm. With a moment of thought, he released the coin. “I wish I didn’t have to be alone all the time.”

“Chris,” came his wife’s voice behind him. “You’re still looking at that?”

“Yeah, but I’m ready to leave if you are.” He smiled and took her hands in his. “Besides, it’s our first day off together in a long time. We can go anywhere we want. How about lunch at that new tapas restaurant on Seventh Street?”

“Actually,” she said, rubbing her thumbs on the inside of his palms, “I just got a call from work. The case I’m working has just moved to trial and I need to be there for the defendant.”

An emptiness swallowed Christopher; he anticipated this day for two weeks. “You have to spend the day with paperwork instead of me?” he asked, looking down at her hands. “It’s just that . . . I feel like we haven’t spent a lot of time together in awhile.”

“I know, honey, but things are going great for me at the firm and this case may mean a lot for my career. I promise we’ll get a full day to ourselves soon.”

“Alright, just don’t come home too late.”

“I won’t,” she said, and kissed her husband quickly. “I’ll see you when I get back!”

“I’ll be rooting for you.” Their hands separated as she turned and walked out of the store.

He sighed, watching the familiar sight. When she was gone, Christopher turned back to the statue, but its palm was empty. Great, he thought, searching the floor, my quarter’s gone; now I won’t even get that wish.

With a grunt of frustration, he weighed the idea of putting in a few extra hours at the office. At least it was better than moping in front of a TV all day. Shuffling toward the exit, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the office. “Greg, hi. Is it alright if I come in and finish that project I’ve been working on?”

#

The windows of the intra-city bus had a strange tendency to distort Christopher’s vision. Crammed between the window and an oversized man in a suit two-sizes too small, he peered at the sidewalks, watching no one in particular. He rolled through each green light, making better time than other days when he was required to work, and leaned his head against the glass. Half asleep as they crossed over Seventh Street, a curious pedestrian brought him back to his senses.

At first, he thought the man was naked. The man’s skin was extraordinarily pale, but before Christopher could get a better look, the bus passed over the next intersection.

That was weird. Since the man was gone, he settled back into his seat.

At the next intersection, however, Christopher eyed the man again. Obscured by the crowd and his distance from the bus, the pale man was difficult to discern. He was slightly taller than the rest so his head was visible over the crowd. The man was facing him, but the distance make his eyes difficult to see.

How is this guy running so fast? He marveled at the unusual man.
But he was gone again as the bus moved forward. At the third intersection its brakes squealed as it stopped at a red light. Christopher spotted the man about twenty meters across the street and tapped the shoulder of the large stranger next to him. “Do you see that guy?” he asked, pointing toward the crowd. “The guy with no shirt on.”

Leaning over him and squinting through the window, he replied, “No, I can’t see him. Why?”

The bus lurched forward when the light turned green, then pulled to the right of the road and stopped.

“I dunno, it’s like he’s at every intersection. Well, never mind; this is my stop,” Christopher said, squeezing himself into the aisle.

He spent the rest of the afternoon at his office computer assembling a presentation, playing solitaire, and banging his head against his desk. Occasionally he left his cubicle to watch the street six stories below him. At about six o’ clock, the floor director approached him with a cup of coffee.

“Decaf, Chris?” he asked with a pronounced Jersey accent.

“Thanks, Donovan,” he said, grimacing after the first sip. “Mhm, you know I love the corporate tar and garbage roast.”

Donavan chuckled. “My pleasure; it’s the least I can do for you coming in today. You know you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at the street. “But it’s not like I had anything better to do.”

“I thought you were going out with the Missus today.”

“Me too, Don. But she got called into the firm.”

“Well, that’s what you get for marrying a lawyer.” Donovan put his fist against Christopher’s arm and pushed him, smiling with warmth. “You’re a great guy, Chris. She’ll figure out how damn lucky she is to have you and then she won’t be able to take a case ever again.” He noticed Christopher’s gaze planted on the street below. “What’s got your eye down there?”

“There’s a guy down there and I swear he’s been following me. Do you see him? He’s just standing there, staring up at me, right next to the bus stop across the street.”

Christopher downed the rest of his coffee as his friend studied the bus stop. It was difficult to see anyone clearly from six stories up. “You mean the guy in the pink shirt?”

“No, the pale guy next to him, without a shirt on.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t think so. Look, Chris, you’ve had a rough couple of weeks. It’s the stress. You’re eyes are making a fool out of your head and your head is making a fool out of you. I suggest you go home, have a couple beers, maybe do something really great for your wife so she’ll know how much she means to you. Did you get that presentation done?”

Christopher nodded.

“Good. I’ll talk to the boss, get you the next three days off.” Donovan took the empty cup from Christopher’s hand. “As your friend, I can’t bear to see you moping about the place. And honestly, as your superior, I can’t have you working yourself into the dirt all sad like this. Go home and take it easy for awhile.
Though the prospect of returning to his house, locked and with no lights on, had little appeal, Christopher was ready to escape the confines of the office. “Sure, Donovan,” he said. “I guess I just need some time to relax."

#

On the bus ride home, Christopher nestled into his seat by himself and, clearing his mind, caught a few winks of sleep.

When he arrived at his house, just outside of the city, he called his Marie, but her phone was turned off as usual. Listless, he shut every blind, put four Yuenglings in the refrigerator, and watched his television in his underwear.

A few hours later, Christopher woke up to four empty bottles beside him on the couch. The clock across from him read eleven. Sitting up and turning around, he saw that Marie’s house key was still absent from its hook. “Damn,” he said to the empty hook, the locked door, and the empty house.

With a sigh he recycled the bottles, turned off the television, and trudged up the stairs. Beside his bed, he prayed half-heartedly, just wanting the day to be over.

“Thank you, Lord, for the day.” Christopher paused as he imagined which words he should say. “Please make tomorrow a better one, and please send Marie’s defendant to prison as soon as possible so we can spend a day together. Amen.” Without another word, he crawled up and dropped facedown on his pillow. He didn’t even pull the covers over himself before falling asleep.

#

Something cold touched his ankles when he awoke in the black of his room.

He faced the ceiling, dazed and unsure of the time. His sight was blurred from sleep, but he saw what looked like fingers, thin and gaunt, tapping his ankles.

Christopher shook his head, clearing his vision, and gazed at the form looming over the foot of his bed. It watched him like a ghost, its body famished, skeletal fingers grazing the surface of Christopher’s skin. Its facial muscles contorted around a wide, malicious smile, and its massive teeth were so white that they seemed to glow. A patch of darkness was encrusted across its cheeks like a smear of blood.

Its eyes were open and bulging. They radiated in a sickly hue of plum, like fluorescent bruises, with minuscule red pupils drilled into their centers.

A detonation of terror exploded through Christopher’s veins, igniting his muscles, throwing him backwards and splitting his head against the bed’s headboard. “What the hell!” he shouted, his voice cracked and frantic.

When he jumped, the thing at the foot of his bed vanished. Frenetic, Christopher jerked his head from wall to wall until he saw it there, rematerialized, leaning toward him at the side of his bed.
Its hands stalked forward as the thing reached over him, curling its lanky fingers behind his shoulders. Christopher shrieked, “Marie!” flailing and crying out. Some thick drop of liquid seeped onto him from its face as it pulled him upward.

“Togetttthhhheeerrr,” it wheezed through its teeth.

Christopher fought and flung his limbs around with incensed panic. “Oh God, Marie, help!”

Like a spider at a fly, it enclasped him, bringing Christopher’s face to its chest. Its gangly arms enwrapped him so closely, that it’s fingers crept around and clutched his face. The thing snatched him up with a strength impossible for something with such a stark form.
Christopher screamed at the pressure, but his face was compressed into its ribs, muffling his outcries. With the snap of his shoulder blade, tears of pain welled out from his eyes onto the arid skin of its chest. Another crack and he screamed louder, then another, and another.

Tighter and tighter it grasped him, its freakish smile growing wider as his body crunched like an eggshell.

Christopher’s fighting slowed, and his howling attritted to whimpers inaudible against the body of the ghoulish thing.

When his resistance ceased, it lowered its chin to the top of Christopher’s head and hissed in a fading whisper, “Togetttthhhheeerrr.”

#

Sometime later, a key turned in the lock of the house’s front door. Marie entered, and with a stretch and a yawn, placed her key upon its hook and locked the door. Humming a pleasant tune, she made herself a cup of tea. Long day, she thought. I wonder what Christopher will say when I tell him that I single-handedly won the case.

Marie made her way to the bedroom, keeping the lights off to let Christopher sleep in peace. Her mind was set on the morning as she slipped into her nightclothes and slid under the covers.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a great day,” she whispered softly with a gentle smile. She faced her husband who laid quietly next to her in the pitch darkness. “I’ll see you in the morning.”