They weren't pilot tricks, or a scam, or just an outright lie. They were actually haunted,

a cursed, possessed, and we saw them in spades. I'd never wondered where my brother got

them. Evil books and rings and mirrors that showed dead women, dolls that moved in the

room, and Ouija boards that did that too. He'd always brought them, sourcing them from all

over, and I'd always distribute them, first online, then in a brick and mortar shop in

New Orleans. We had done well for ourselves, better than well. Then he brought me the talking

to Rizadal, the one that spoke not of being pampered and having a type has changed, but

of death and blood and raw, pulsing horror of what lies beyond. I wish I'd listened to

Marcus, which had never pulled that dull string and listened to a scream and scream.

I'm serious Anna, Marcus was saying as he regarded the blonde head blue eyed to Rizadal

in a pink dress. This one is… he drilled off, looking at the spotlighted doll crumpled

ominously on the work table, which hinted one of our cramped stock room. I looked up at

my brother, who looked so much like me when his face screwed up into a tied knot. I'd

always resented him for taking all the good genes two years before I was born. He was

nearing forty, handsome as ever, tall, strong, with a firm sculpted face beneath a jet of

black hair. I was slightly puffy, my face more moon-like than Greek sculpture, and where

his eyes was tamed and everlessly cool, my hair frizzy and same mess did me no favors.

Marcus blew a sigh, corkscrew his fists into tied eyes. When they came away, I saw just

out burned out he looked. His eyes were shot through with red, his cheeks were gaunt, hollow,

and he badly needed to shave. He looked like hell, which was odd. My brother never looked

like hell. Just don't tell you with it, he finally said. But he'd up out front and leave

it alone. Our stock had never scared me. Our messy store, more

...