Walker’s Love Connection
Myla

My tail and I always get along.

Until we don’t.

Take now, for instance. I drive my ancient station wagon, Betsy, through the many strip malls and weedy lots that make up Purgatory. My ride is an un-pimped junker whose radio stays eternally stuck on a polka station. As ‘Roll out the Barrel’ blares from Betsy’s tinny speakers, my tail jabs my shoulder in time to the music. This is its way of saying, I’m not happy with our destination.

My tail loathes trips to the Ghoul-E-Mart.

“Come on,” I plead. “I promised Mom that I’d pick up milk from the Ghoul-E.” Technically, our overlords sell us something called white liquid product.

Saying that I’m only getting milk makes zero difference to my tail. Right now, it’s the star of its own little play called, Poke Myla’s Shoulder.

Jab, jab.

“We aren’t going to the Ghoul-E right away,” I explain. “We’ll hit the arena first.”

There’s only one arena in Purgatory—it’s where warriors like me fight evil souls and demons to the death. Is this an appropriate extra-curricular activity for a high school junior? Ah, no. But, that’s ghouls for you. Our overlords see their minions—meaning quasi demons like me—as the equivalent of pond scum.

My tail pauses for a moment as it considers a potential arena visit. Then, it acts in a way that says, what a load of B-S.

Jab, jab, jab.

Clearly, my tail has trust issues. It doesn’t believe we’re going anywhere near the arena. And there are two reasons why I shouldn’t approach the gladiator games right now. First, it’s not my day to fight. Second, even when I am scheduled to go, I should only show up with my honorary older brother, a ghoul named Walker.

But I have plans, people.

Sharkie and Snickerdoodles
Myla

Noo ne noo. Noo ne noo. Nothing to see here.

I sashay along a cracked sidewalk. The sky threatens rain, which is typical for Purgatory. All around me, empty storefronts look out over the deserted street. My destination for today is a little place around the corner. My mouth waters as I consider the yum that awaits me. 

La Ghoule Bakery, aka the only spot in Purgatory that sells freshly-made frosted snickerdoodles. 

And today, I shall get those snickerdoodles in my tummy.

I’m not supposed to be anywhere near this bakery—long story–so I’m wearing a disguise. Pausing before one of the many darkened windows, I check out my reflection. My red hair is hidden under a long blonde wig and floppy hat. My brown eyes are concealed by massive sunglasses. Even my tail is in costume. Namely, I’ve attached a pair of googly eyes to my tail’s arrowhead-shaped end.  

The rest of my outfit is gray sweats with a matching T-shirt and raggedy sneakers, which is the standard outfit required for all quasi demons. All in all, I look great.

My tail shivers, a movement that makes its googly eyes roll around. My tail happens to have a mind of its own. Shivering is a dead giveaway.

“You’re worried.”

My tail bobs up and down. Yes.

“Hey, I get why you’re riding the anxious train to worry town. The chick who runs La Ghoule 

Bakery happens to have a live-in boyfriend that isn’t totally cool.” I make my eek face as I say the words, totally cool.

In reply, my tail tilts its arrowhead-shaped end up ninety degrees and slides back and forth in a pretty good imitation of a certain aquatic predator.

“Yes, the baker’s boyfriend is Sharkie.”

I fight evil souls in Purgatory’s arena. Sharkie is both a ghoul and the emcee for these death matches. We have a healthy hate-hate relationship. 

“But as you can see, we’re both disguised.”

My tail loops the arrowhead end around my ear. You’re nuts.

“It’s not the greatest disguise, but it’s good enough for Sharkie. Probably.” My stomach growls. 

“Hey, a growing girl has needs.”

Saving Mrs. Pomplemousse
Myla

Almost there.

I jog along a concrete sidewalk in one of Purgatory’s swankier neighborhoods. East Malacoda. A light drizzle falls. The smell of freshly-cut grass fills the air. Row houses flank either side of the street—their brick facades buckle with age. I scan the building numbers.

Thirty-two. Getting closer.

As I rush long, I pat the front pocket of my jeans. It’s the spot where I stashed the note from Mrs. Pomplemousse, aka the woman who helped me destroy the evil earl of Acca. I picture the words.

Dear Myla, 

Do not worry if you hear any dark rumors about my person. I am fine. No matter what…

DO NOT VISIT MY HOUSE.

Mrs. P

I ask around. Few people even know that Mrs. P exists. No one shares any nasty rumors about her. 

Which gets me thinking.

The last time I saw Mrs. P, she was acting more than a little bit odd. And now, she wants me not to stop by? That’s the very definition of ‘hidden cry for help.’ I check the house numbers again.

Number Thirteen.

Finally, I’m here.

After rushing up the thin staircase, I reach the front door. My tail rings the bell.

Nothing happens. 

With every passing moment, my pulse speeds a little faster. 

Please, let Mrs. P be alright.