The crackling of the campfire kept us warm. Dad told me that dry wood was the best kindling one could ever find on a camping trip. They burn easily, and they keep the fire going for longer. Now, finding them is a different story. It was raining all week, so the branches and the leaves were damp. Our family ended up spending the whole afternoon scouting for dry wood. “Welcome to the backcountry,” I said.

  I told Dad many times, warning him not to plan our camping trip in September, because it would rain like hell. I don’t like rain. They’re cold. They’re messy. And it takes forever to dry your clothes if the rain ever catches you off guard.

  “No worries, sweetie! We Canadians pride ourselves on our gorgeous natural splendor! And that treasure must be explored to be found! Whether it’s rain or shine, the mountains or the lakes, we scavenge and we spelunker!”

  He was always an adventurous man. Perhaps Dad felt stuck working a desk job, so he needed the release. I always thought he was sort of heroic, filled with courage, no matter what stood in our way.

  Mom didn’t object. She loved him for his spirit, so she never complained about the less-than-ideal weather. She was always calm and adaptable, no matter the situation. Sometimes, I wish I inherited her patience.

  Emma was excited and giddy. She was skipping the whole time from the hiking trails to the lakes, never tiring or missing a beat. She sang an old nursery rhyme, over and over, and if it weren’t for the northern wind muffling her singing, I would’ve taught her a lesson in etiquette. Hiking etiquette. First rule: Shut up.

  But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her singing.

  We all sat around the warm fire, and any worries of freezing were extinguished. Dad was recounting tales of his younger days, when he and his buddies were travelling all over Europe. From the emerald-green isles of Ireland to the regal, gothic cathedrals of Germany, he described every landmark down to the last minute details. I loved his stories, and I still do.

  Emma and I were sitting on Mom’s lap, happily listening while she combed our hair. Her eyes were shut, just so she could imagine Dad’s stories better. But even without sight, she knew exactly how to braid our hair and where to pluck the gray hair strands. Her soft hands felt like the finest silk pillow, and I slowly, slowly dozed off, resting my head on Emma’s right shoulder. Everything felt alright, even if only for a moment.

  My eyes were flash-banged to the sight of the pale, peeling bedroom wallpaper. I knew I needed to replace it, but the motivation escaped me. Blinking myself awake, I ended up catching a peculiar itchiness. Instincts compelled me to rub that weird itch away. And upon touching my eyelids, I felt a wet, damp liquid, itching, aching, and longing. And I remembered the campfire, the camping trip.

  It was just a dream.

  Of course.

  These dreams happen often. It’s the beast. He haunts me at night, flipping through a recording of that same day, over and over, until the sun awakened me. On some night, I would see Emma’s severed head on a stick. On other nights, it was Dad’s. Sometimes, it was Mom’s. And in every dream, I always feared that the head on a stick would resemble my Asha. It’s fucked up. That birthday-obsessed demon had murdered them, and he’s still out and about. I prayed that Asha would never get hurt by his hands, but she was strangled until she wept, and I couldn’t save her…

  But last night’s dream was different. No scattered body parts or blood. Just the campfire. And my family was there with me. They were fine and well, laughing and living their best lives.

  Although the tear stains have dried, I couldn’t scrub them off. Gosh, I looked like one of those emo goth girls. But I also resembled a ghost. Heh. I should become one. Perhaps then, I can fly up there and find Mom, Dad, and my dear sister Emma.

  Has anyone ever told you that reality is scarier than dreams? I sincerely believe that. Because last night, one of my worst nightmares was coming true. There he was, the monster, sitting in Asha’s room, and playing games with her! Knowing his idiocy, BP must have thought he was being sneaky, crawling behind my back to harm my last family. So, I stood watching. Observing. I was willing to stay the whole night, ensuring the demon would beg me to stop if he so much as grazed Asha.

  Surprisingly, he kept playing the game. And having a blast, too. I saw Asha climb onto her bed and fall asleep at some point, ignoring the demon’s late-night gaming session. Of course, I couldn’t just leave then; the monster was still in the room. So, I kept watching. And watching. And observing. In the end, neither Mr. BP nor I got any sleep.

  I just came home a minute ago, dropping Asha off at school. BP went out to buy some birthday decors or something. He’ll come back. The Divine Flame can be activated remotely; I tested it after he left the driveway, and heard a distant screaming. My eyes still ached, though. It really sucks. But you know what? I’m just gonna live with it. I’m gonna swallow the pain. As long as the demon is under my control, he will hurt no one else. I will sacrifice my soul, my body, as kindling to the fire, to burn the demon forever and ever, so that no other innocent child will have to suffer. Everyone will be happy. I will be happy. Yes, I’m happy. I’m content. Everyone’s safe. I did it. So, I should be happy…

  Aren’t I?

  “Ding, dong!”

  Oh? The doorbell rang out of nowhere. Who could be visiting so early in the morning?

  ☆☆☆

  Ode to Madeline: Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

  “Ding, dong!”

  I should open the door.

  Hold on.

  What if it’s Brad? What if Brad’s recovered? And now he’s coming after me again? I should get my shotgun, just in case.

  Wait.

  What if it’s the mailman, or just some salesman? Going door-to-door? Wait, I should check the peephole.

  I leaned in close, and two figures came into view. A woman and a man. They were wearing strange uniforms. The man had normal grayish-brown hair, but the woman had red-dyed hair. The hair fell to the right side of her head, and the other side had a faded cut. The woman’s eyes had thick mascara, and her lipstick was a magenta mixed with red. I also spotted silver piercings on her ears and nose. She looked like she played in a heavy metal band. Oh, no. Who are these people? Hoodlums? Robbers? Delinquents? Government secret agents?

  Pshhh. Nah. This isn’t a Jamie Bond movie, right?

  So… The only logical thing to do here is to greet them, I guess. Yes. Greet them like a normal, unsuspicious, law-abiding citizen. I gently turned the doorknob and put on the most innocent smile I could, but I don’t think my voice was convincing enough.

  “Hello? Who…?” I said. I would have finished that sentence if it weren’t for the sunlight shining straight in my eyes. Luckily, the two figures were blocking most of it.

  “Hello, Mrs. Balcom. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman said, tipping her hat. “We have some questions for you… If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I’m sorry… Who are you?” I asked, though I kinda have an idea.

  They’re the police, of course!

  “Government agents, ma’am.” The woman was still bowing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Well, fuck me.

  On her uniform, I could see an emblem of some sort embroidered on the fabric. It had two wings around a sword, or a dagger? I’m not entirely sure.

  “I see. Well, please come in,” I motioned them in, though my instincts were screaming: “No!” I quickly brushed off the thoughts. Rejecting them would scream suspicious, and I don’t want to risk anything.

  I shouldn’t be nervous, but I just shot a man in his genital area yesterday, so I should be a little on edge. I mean, what if they ask about Mr. BP? Damn. I should have demanded he wear a human disguise all the time! He’s out right now, and I don’t think he’s stupid enough to show his ugly demon form. But what if he came home and took it off?

  Why are they really here, though? Why are they… Oh, wait. OH NO! THE NEIGHBOURS! SHIT! I totally forgot about them! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! Goddamn it, BP! Why did you have to eat them????

  “Are you alright, Mrs. Balcom? You look quite pale,” the uniformed man said. His voice sounded deeper than I thought.

  “I am fine. You guys need some refreshment? I have some coffee blend,” I smiled, trying desperately to appear normal.

  “That would be splendid. Thank you very much,” the man smiled in response.

  “Please make yourself at home,” I turned around and speed-walked to the kitchen.

  Alright, Madeline. Slap yourself together! Urgh! AH! OW! Okay, stop! Owww… I shouldn’t have slapped too hard. Now my palm’s hurting, too. Damn it! Okay, just make the blend now.

  So, I slapped together some plastic cups and heated some instant coffee. Okay, okay… Hoooooo… Haaaaaa… Breathe in… Breath out… Deep breathing exercise… Yes. I feel alright now…

  I placed the trays of plastic cups of coffee on the guest table, silently cursing myself for not getting fancier porcelain cups. But Asha could have gotten hurt if they broke! I know, I know! However, the plastic cups make me look disrespectful to the guests!

  “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Balcom.” The woman sat a bit straighter in her chair. “Please take a seat.”

  I sat in the farthest chair next to the window. This way, I can face both figures at once. Bear with me here, I’m trying to observe them, okay?

  “Now, if I may introduce myself, I am Lieutenant Laura Barak. This is my partner,” she turned to the man, who was waving at me and smiling, “Luke Darnell, Second Lieutenant.”

  “You can call me ‘Luke.’ Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Balcom,” Luke lowered his head, putting his right hand on his chest.

  “Lieutenants”… These guys are high-ranking officers. This is rather surprising. I thought my case was more ‘local,’ maybe? I mean, shooting my ex in self-defense or investigating missing person cases sounds like something a neighborhood doughnut-loving cop would be assigned to. Not government agents, right? Or have I watched too many movies? Hmm…

  “Before we begin the questions, allow me to share some context.” Laura picked up a black briefcase, taking out weird pictures of a symbol, pictures of men in suits, and placing them on the table, facing me.

  “Have you ever heard of the Black Samba Triad?” Laura asked, pointing at a symbol of two snakes. I’m guessing that’s the gang’s logo?

  I shook my head no.

  “Ahem. I see. The Samba Triad used to be one of the most notorious criminal gangs based in Hong Kong, causing unthinkable levels of destruction while evading the law. They would kill mercilessly, taking young Chinese girls from their families and trafficking them to Canada. I apologize for the sensitive topic. Are you okay with me continuing?” Laura clasped her hands together, her eagle eyes staring at mine.

  “I’m okay,” I nodded and gulped.

  “As dangerous as they were, nobody would dare interfere with their business. Not even the government was willing to step in,” Laura stopped to point to another picture. “However, that would all change on the evening of October 21st, 1998.”

  “What happened?” I stared at the image. It featured some sort of building interior? Like a warehouse. The picture was black and white, so it was hard to recognize anything.

  “This was the Triad’s main base of operation. It used to hold all 5000 of their members,” Laura tapped on a specific blob on the picture. “You see this, ma’am?”

  “What are they?”

  “Ash. Piles of ash.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Laura handed me the pictures. “These were ash piles. Of burned remains.”

  I audibly gasped. Wait… So this means…

  “On that evening, ALL 5000 members of the Black Samba Triad, including their leader and high-ranking executives, were incinerated until their bodies were unrecognizable,” Laura spoke slowly. “The heat used to kill them must have been near 2000 degrees Celsius. Their weaponry, their stash of $20 million in gold bars, the cameras, and their armoured vehicles were all melted into liquid. Of course, with cameras all burned off, no footage was ever captured of this attack.”

  “Oh, my god.”

  “We suspected that it might have been a rival gang attack. But judging from the near-catastrophic level of damage, no criminal gang could have amassed such power. But then, we found that October 21st just happened to be… the birthday of the Triad leader’s five-year-old son.”

  Okay, that seemed random.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

  “If this really was a gang attack, the leader’s son would be a prime target. Thus, harming the boy on his birthday would be an effective method of psychological warfare. Alas, if the little boy was what they were after, the firepower seemed far too unnecessary. If one rival gang had this much power, all the other organized crime groups in Hong Kong, not just the Samba Triad, would be completely erased.”

  “Who could have d-done this?” I stuttered.

  “It could have been one single individual. It could’ve been a group of people. We’re not sure,” Laura answered, turning to Luke. “But over the next 10 years, we found some huge clues. Luke, show her, please.”

  “Roger,” Luke dug into the briefcase, pulling out a laptop. He scrolled down for a while and stopped until his eyes caught something. Then, he turned the screen toward me, showing an MP3 recording.

  “Mrs. Balcom, this was a recording of a conversation between the Triad leader and an unnamed individual. We traced it to a burner phone inside the leader’s personal penthouse. And we suspect that this might be the one responsible for the massacre. Please have a listen.”

  He pressed play.

  “Yes, yes, when?” A man could be heard talking to someone.

  I could hear a muffled sound of someone responding to the leader, though it was very distorted.

  “COOL… BIRTHDAY… GOATS…”

  “Okay, yes. Very good.”

  “CANDLES… BRING… GOAT MILK…”

  “Top-notch? Very nice. Will you come at 7? Yes. Yes. I will pay in full.”

  “AWE… SOME….”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure Luo will have a great birthday. Thank you very much.”

  “Click!”

  The audio ended there.

  “Luo was the name of the leader’s son. He was also killed inside the warehouse,” Luke answered as if he had read my mind.

  “Wait, so who is this? Who was talking with the leader?” I puzzled.

  “We assumed the leader was hiring a birthday service,” Luke flipped through a small notebook. “Like, say, a birthday cake order… Or a party decorator? The details were vague.”

  “However!” His eyes lit up. “A low-ranking Samba Triad member was calling the Hong Kong police to seek help, and this was what we got.”

  He pressed play on another audio file.

  A man was yelling in Cantonese, but an English voice translation was layered on top of it.

  “HELP! PLEASE! I NEED HELP! AAAAAAAAHHHH!!! WAIT, NO, PLEASE! DON’T—”

  A sound of something clattering in the background, layered with more screaming.

  Then, I heard the “vrrrrrmm” of a saw going off.

  “OHOHO! IT SEEMS YOU STILL CAN’T FIT INSIDE THE BLENDER, AFTER ALL! No biggies. I’LL JUST BUZZSAW YOU TO BITS, BABY! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Holy BUDDHA, I LOOOOOOOOVE ASIAAAAAAAA!!!!!!”

  “Click!”

  The audio ended there.

  That voice.

  That unmistakable voice of a birthday-obsessed demon.

  Well, fuck me.

  That was Mr. BP.