• They say angels do not dream, they have seen heaven and have nothing else to dream of. But I know that demons dream, for I wake to the same dream every night. I walk across the beach as the tide comes in; the silver moon and the soft breeze are my companion on the Savannah shore. I delight in the cool water as it runs across my feet and brings in pieces of driftwood as if offering me gifts. I am happy, for what seems like the first time in my life, I know peace. However, dreams aren’t always what we want them to be, and I know in a moment that he will come across the beach toward me, and I will join the damned. My story started that night, a night that now seems ages ago, but then, time passes slowly when you have nothing to keep track of. I was on vacation in that tiny town off the coast; I spent my days exploring the antiques shops and Bonaventure Cemetery. My nights were spent walking the beaches. I first saw him in the cemetery, he wove himself amongst the willows and Spanish moss, and I think I felt him more than I saw him. It was late afternoon and the air had begun to cool from the stifling Georgia heat. I was enchanted with this place and wanted to breathe in every piece of it until I would have to return home again. I walked among the stones, saying hello to people who had lain there in the solemn earth and embraced death long before life had been breathed into my body. It was then that I first realized I was being watched, his eyes bored through me as if they could bear my very soul for all to see. I shifted uncomfortably and glanced around, catching only a glimpse of a well tailored suit and the smell of expensive cologne on the breeze. My hand fingered the crystal pentacle around my throat as I headed toward the gates and contemplated what I would do about dinner while I tried to shake that feeling of being watched. I reasoned that Savannah was a town bustling with people as well as history, there were ghost stories around every corner, and the dead co-habituate with the living in every well- manicured square of the old town. I walked back to my car and unlocked the doors, standing beside the open driver’s door to vent some of the heat and hopefully cool off the scorching vinyl seats and steering wheel before I had to endure their sun baked sting. My vintage sun dress matched the light blue 1965 Plymouth Fury and I smiled to myself thinking how I must look. I allowed myself little vanity most of the time, but I was so proud of my vintage perfection that I let myself have a glance in the mirror of my car to be sure my hair was still neatly braided down my curvy, slender waist, just touching the gentle slope of my butt, as it had been when I left the cheap hotel. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched so I bit my lip and slid onto the hot seat of the car, shutting the heavy door behind me and locking it. The heat stung the backs of my legs where my skirt ended, and the steering wheel was warm enough that it felt alive in my hands. I reached for the window crank and spun it a few times until fresh air permeated the car. The key slid into the ignition and I brought the Poly-head 318 to rumbling life. I steered my four door land yacht out of the cemetery and headed to my hotel. I parked the beast in the more populated side of the lot and found my way to my hotel room. I sat down on the bed and picked up the phone book, flipping to the restaurants section of the yellow pages. This was the last day of my vacation, tomorrow I would have to pack up and go back to my quietly reserved life as a funeral director, dealing with grief, dressing demurely, and the smell of cavity fluid all beckoned my return to civilization. I wanted my last night in the enchanted town to be special, so my finger moved from cheap to more expensive restaurants, the “call ahead” kind. None of them caught my fancy and an idea brewed in my mind, I would have a picnic on the beach, the moon and myself. I played with the pentacle around my throat again and smiled at my pagan cunning. I dressed for dinner, wearing a deep blue gown with a corset bodice, packed my supplies and got into my car. I rolled down the windows as I drove to my spot on the beach, during the day it was walked and frequented, but at night it had been mine, sole and solitary, my beach. The cool night air was intoxicating and smelled of salt. I parked the car and walked out onto the beach. I ate sandwiches in the company of the moon under the wooden gazebo erected for daytime play; I drank a rich German white wine from a bottle shaped like a cat and became enamored with the sea. I abandoned my picnic and walked amongst the waves along the beach. I was happy, forgetting the horrors of my daily life, my ex husband, and all my sorrows of the past year washed away with the tides. I gazed across the water and felt the peace that I now know only those near death can feel. Before I knew what was happening, he came from nowhere, his fingers ran through my hair and his cologne was mixed with the salty air, as I spun around it was as if we danced, me slowly, and him gracefully and catlike. His eyes glittered hard and golden-brown in the moonlight, his hands felt as if winter would never leave them. His lips were a cruel smile and his hair was glossy black. He reminded me of a hungry panther, and I was his prey. His touch was revolting and sensuous all at once. He was well dressed and handsome, a beautiful and dangerous thing. His voice was broken glass coated in honey, bitter and cutting to my ears as he spoke gently “Luci...you belong to me...”