Jesse Sprague's writing, a fusion of horror and scifi, remained an underground phenomenon until the mid 2020's. That changed when the Western Seaboard flooded in 2027 and, as predicted in Jesse's classic "The Hunger," the rising water levels created a zombie-like infection that spread through mosquitoes. Since being popularly touted as a prophet, Jesse's works have grown increasingly dark. Jesse has made no public appearances since 2038, leading to rumors speculating that the writer has joined the growing hordes of infected undead spreading across the country.

When I was ten, I gave up on true love. I can't say exactly when this slide into cynicism began, but it must have been around the time Father started staying late at work almost every night. So I have no exact beginning, but I know the day all my crash into faithlessness completed.

The event started with a box of chocolates. Not the cheap kind from the grocery store or the kind kids give in Valentines from school. No. An expensive box tied with a red silk ribbon. Nor was it a cheesy heart shape. No, it was a square box, black as the sorrow in my mother's eyes when she handed it to me.

"Selene," she said. "Do me a favor, love. Take this to the address on the card. It's only a few blocks away. Just go like you're heading to the park."

I nodded. There couldn't have been more than four chocolates in a box that size. But it was so pretty. I wiped my hands on my jeans to avoid sullying the surface.

"Don't knock, my darling, leave it on the step."

I took the box and let Mother kiss my cheek. Her eyes were pits of misery. I wanted her to be happy again--be the mother I remembered. So I also let her draw me into a tight embrace. But then she let go, suddenly, as if her arms had no more strength in them.

"Who lives there?" I asked.

"Don't concern yourself with that. Deliver it for me, then go along to the park with your friends."

I grinned and tucked the box against my chest. Seeing my friends was a rare treat in those days. Mother didn't forbid it, but I hated leaving her alone. She's always told me I was the love of her life. And I wanted so badly for her to go back to how she had been. My presence was all I had to give.

But I could do this. Like a knight in the fairytales I read every evening, delivering this box was my quest and would make her happy. Afterwards, I could play with my friends without any guilt.

"I love you, Momma!" I called as I ran toward the door.

Behind me I heard her mutter, though I doubt she knew I heard. "I just need to know if it's true...If she responds, I'll know."

I pretended I hadn't heard.

The air outside was so thick with grass clippings that I tasted them. Our two neighbors were both retired and insisted on mowing every Monday. I often watched them as they raced each other--the one who finished first gloated all week.

I ran until all I smelled was asphalt and the heady scent of wisteria from the house on the corner. Bees hummed around my head. Looking back, that was the last happy moment of my childhood. I wish I'd held onto it rather than running headlong toward that address.

As I scanned the numbers above porches and on mailboxes, I figured out quickly which house I was heading to. But the card inside the neatly addressed envelope taunted me, tempted me. Demanded I look. Curiosity overcame me, and I lifted the flap with the address printed on the cover.

I blinked at the precise writing on the card.

To: Elaina

From: Charles

All my love. I can't meet with you this weekend. Perhaps, send me a token to remind me of you?

It wasn't my father's handwriting. I scrunched my face at Father's name on the card. Why would Mother send chocolates to another woman in Father's name? Why did she want the other woman to respond? Wouldn't that mean that Father was in love with someone else?

I closed the card and approached the shaded driveway. I couldn't make out the house from the road. Tall evergreens lined the curb--not cute shrubs--these were twisted foul things with blackberry vines filling any gaps.

The trees creaked and moaned their warning as I approached. I held the chocolates out in front of me like a shield as I stepped onto the driveway.

From there, I could see the house.

The one-story broke through the embrace of the wild, appearing more like the hut of a mountain man than a suburban home. Yet despite this, no clutter lined the yard or drive. Neat rows of planted herbs, fruit trees and vegetables paraded where others would have a green lawn.

I crept through the gap in the firs and slunk down the driveway toward the house. The chocolates provided my excuse for entering this place. I held them aloft in both hands, not daring to lower my arms.

As I approached the porch, clean and bare except for a single rocking chair, I expected the house to smell of mildew and age. But when I stepped up the stairs toward the front door, there was only an oaky tint to the air mixed with a herbal scent that reminded me of Mother's mincemeat pie.

Yet I found no comfort in the familiar smells. My arms trembled, and my legs resisted every step forward, demanding I flee.

Up close, the wood siding was new and unblemished. I didn't understand why it'd looked broken down from the road. It wasn't a large house but it was in good repair. A neat mat of woven reeds sat on the threshold. That seemed to be the place to leave my burden.

And then run.

I stretched out my arm to place the chocolates on the mat. My legs screamed to run.

"An offering of chocolate?" a voice said.

I jumped and turned to find a woman seated in the rocking chair. She wore a flowered summer dress, and to my ten-year-old mind she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Black hair fell in extraordinarily long waves over her caramel shoulders and brushed her knees. Eyes of acid green appraised me.

"Tell me, girl, why are you bringing me an offering?"

The thought came that people didn't talk like that. She reminded me of evil witches from fairy tales, but I didn't voice my thoughts.

"I was supposed to leave it on the porch," I squeaked.

"Place it in my hands, child. Let me see what you've brought into my land." She motioned with her long fingers--fingers with more wrinkles and knots than I would have expected from the rest of her. They were like my grandmother's hands.

I shoved the box at her and then tried to sink into my shoes.

She read the card. One perfect black eyebrow raised. Then she untied the ribbon, opened the box and sniffed the chocolates. Sniffed like a bloodhound on a trail.

"Your mother sent you here with this deceitful ploy?" asked Elaina.

"How did you know?"

"Oh, many reasons, my innocent child. Despite your mother's base suspicions. I've had no illicit dealings with your sire. Also because he is at work and she is home. I wonder if she wishes in her heart of hearts to prove her darkest suspicions or is clinging to the hope of disproving them?"

Elaina stood. She wasn't a tall woman. Mother would have towered over her, but she might have been a giant for how small I felt in her shadow.

"Come, enter my abode, child. A gift calls for a gift. If your mother wishes a sign, let us provide."

Elaina motioned for me to follow and strode into her house. My brain screamed in protest against following. Yet, my feet were Elaina's willing slaves.

The interior was neat as the exterior but packed with objects I didn't recognize. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of various sizes and shapes. Curtains hung in place of doors. A lion's skin runner lay over the wood floor, and next to the mane of this rug, a pedestal stood. A silver chalice on top.

"You're a witch," I said, backing up. Then I spun and found that somehow I'd come to the center of the room. The door out might as well have been miles away. And it was shut.

"There are labels for every being in existence, even those without names," Elaina said. She strode across the fur of the lion and dumped the chocolates into the chalice, with one graceful movement of her crone's hands.