To the casual observer, the misguided fools who would dare venture into the basement of the crumbling old undertaker's shack situated in the midst of Lucky Enough Cemetery, Fleck Ralston would appear to be dead asleep.

Though the girl can best be described as feral and a lunatic mess, the Fleck that journeys through the In Between spaces is a different animal altogether. Sure, she's still as mad as a bag of wet cats, but she carries herself with a charismatic confidence, her wild cloud of blonde curls tamed and straightened, her flesh scrubbed free of the dirt and dust and blood that plagues her physical form.

Here she sits in a room.

There is nothing altogether special about this room; wooden floors and green stucco walls, its furnishings consisting of a long floor lamp and an overstuffed black couch.

Dressed in a gown of white linen, a pink sash drawing a line around her waist, Fleck sits with her back straight. A large book rests in her lap. She keeps her large, keen blue eyes trained to the faces of an audience that only she can see, and when she speaks she does so without her usual trembling cadence; her accent reminiscent of a southern drawl long since extinct.

"Good evening gentle people. Tonight I share with you a tale guaranteed to curl your hair and submerge your slumber in sinister nightmares."

Silk gloved hands open the book carefully, as one may caress a favored lover.

"Some people find roses lovely; their thorns and their colorful, fragrant blooms a safe mixture of pain and pleasure. The romatic's go-to gift and the gardener's joy. But as with everything, roses are not always what they seem."

She brings the book up and blows away a handful of dried blooms the color of old blood from its pages.

"Tonight I will you tell you a tale that I like to call 'Rose Red, Corpse White'."

Before this pocket of strange reality fades complete, something in the corner grabs Fleck's eye.

"Ooo! A mouse!"

Roses were Tomas' lifeblood but he didn't hold the enthusiasts love of them. He regarded them with dollar signs in his eyes and the delightful chime of a cash register playing in his ears. They did nothing for Tomas but line his pockets. When the blooms dropped, he snipped their orange red hips and sold those by the pound. When a plant would die or simply not grow to Tomas' standards, he would have them culled and their wood salvaged.

He did not sing to them and would fire his employees for trying. They grew lush, surely, but only because they were doused with the most expensive fertilizers that he could buy.

But standing in the forest facing The Lady's garden, even Tomas was in awe of how large and full her roses were.

He had heard tale of the good Lady Holly Phillips for years, but it had been confined to legend. A hardy climber, its blooms were large and white streaked blood red and its canes were such a dark green that they appeared black. From where he stood, his mouth dry and his heart pounding, he could actually see it sprawling along a trellis in The Lady's garden, its beauty putting those around it to absolute shame.

If he could get just one clipping then he could make a fortune.

The Lady, her mate and her child were gone; he had seen them leave with his own two eyes, and such a thing was so rare that Tomas knew that he had better act fast. So with his pruning clippers in hand, he began to circle the grounds in search of thin spot in the rugosas, a space just big enough to wriggle through.

Alas, they were packed so tightly that they filled Tomas' head with doubts. He had been foolish enough to wear shorts, a fact he was now cursing over, and of all of the roses, the rugosas possessed the worst bite.

"Time to **** or get off of the pot, Longthorn."

Taking a deep breath the man pushed himself through one of the clumps of thorns and he paid dearly for it. They slashed at his legs, grabbed at his clothing and embedded themselves deep into his flesh. By the time he had broken through, the roses no worse for the wear, he looked as if he had been caned and felt each agonizing sting with crystal clear clarity.

But his want, no, his need to get his hands on Lady Holly overshadowed the pain and, sadly, any streak of a caution he may have had. He trampled over a delicate clump of fledgling Griff's Reds in his haste to reach the fabled climber, stomped upon an unfortunate Maggie and broke several large canes off of an ancient Alba. They did not leave him unscathed, however, their thorns aiming to parts of Tomas' legs already marred by the rugosa to draw a series of pained hisses from the intruder.

But it was worth it. Standing in the shadow of Lady Holly Phillips, Tomas could only stare. Yet just as he reached his clippers up to snip a tiny tendril from the rose, footfalls reached his ears and turned his legs to concrete.

Finding his nerve once more, Tomas turned his head, only to find the roses swaying in the breeze, their blooms bobbing precariously close together as if to whisper secrets about Tomas that no one else knew. A deep breath steeled him and cleared his mind and one snip sent one of Lady Holly's dark fingers plummeting into the palm of his hand, the impact separating a few of her candy cane colored leaves and leaving them to be picked up by the wind.

When he turned to leave, he heard it again; footfalls, closer now. He looked around in desperation but saw no one, though his greedy gaze lingered upon a rusted shovel laying nearby. Closer. Closer. He rushed over to it, his entire being suddenly struck with fear, and gripped its handle.

Spinning around, the ancient head struck something hard enough to crush it, and it was only when The Lady's body hit the ground that Tomas realized that the impact had shattered her skull.

Fleck smiles a sweet smile and closes the book as lovingly as she had opened it.

"Wasn't that a good story? The Lady's garden still exists if you care, or dare to go see, and they say that the Lady Holly Phillips has grown even larger. Like all things, roses sure do love to eat!"

The little blonde traces her finger along the mouse's back, the poor animal pale beneath its fur and bloodless. She trains her eyes upon the unseen audience.

"Until next time, pretty little things, and remember lest you end up like our Tomas that monsters, like roses, can be beautiful."

(WARNING. Hi there! The following story may contain triggers, and nothing Louie believes reflects what I believe. He's a whole lotta d-bag.)

They call me Louie, and maybe they're right. My mother, may she rot, gave me up the moment I slipped into this landfill of a world. I've been Billy and Samuel, but Louie, you know, I think it has a nice ring.

I'm not the most interesting fellow, at least if you met me at my day job. I'm what most people call a paper pusher. I'm a cog in the corporate machine. I sit in a cubicle all day, doing what any good part should, just biding my time until the fat cats decide that my part in the machine needs to be replaced.

But at night? I do God's work. This world you know, it's disgusting. We human beings, we're disgusting. What separates us from lesser animals could feel a bucket. But you know what animals don't do? They don't take money in exchange for sex.

I mean, I can't blame the johns. They're doing what nature wants 'em to do. Call me a pig if you want. I've been called worse. The fact of the matter is if women want to be treated as equals, then they should stop using what's between their legs to make a living. Get a real job.

Like me. I'm a good little cog.

They're rust in the machine, and it takes one faulty part to send any good running machine to the junk yard.

What I'm doing? It's merciful.

The papers are calling me the new Jack the Ripper, and maybe they're right. That guy? That guy had some good ideas, but he stopped. Me? I'll keep going until they catch me.

The first girl, you should have seen her. Straw blond hair and such a sweet face. She seemed so bashful, but she knew what she was doing. She told me about her parents, about how they abused her (and you know, I was abused too, but you don't see me hooking). It was like she trusted me, and I'm not going to lie, Ol' Louie here almost felt bad for her.

Almost. I made it quick, because I'm good with a knife and I know where to hit to minimize suffering. But she bled like a stuck pig, but who cares? Another hooker dead. The News Cogs have better things to worry about.

Honestly? I didn't even pick up on anyone's radar until the fifth girl, and that had been clean. If it hadn't been for that damned woman and her stupid kid walking through those woods, she probably never would have been found.

So yeah, what I do is important. I've got vacation time coming up, so I think I might head over seas. Portugal, maybe. I think they might need my help.

Sometimes I feel like I'm choking, dig?

I feel like a fish trying to get back to water through dry sand, and each grain has a human face. I know I'll eventually make it back to the water, make it back to my hotel room, but man, the journey is a bitch.

I've been rumbling around the city for a few hours. Grabbed a bite to eat, bought myself a shiny new dictionary. They offered me some port, which this place is lousy with, but I have to keep my mind sharp. Ol' Louie here doesn't do drugs or drink. I like to think I get high on life.

By the time I find me next target, I can't even remember the floozy from the hotel's face. I can hear sirens nearby, but those could be for anyone, you know? Still, it's nice to imagine that those coppers are about to admire my handiwork.

I could get used to this traveling stuff.

But anyway, I turn a corner on my way back to my room and what do I see? The most darling little trick these old eyes have ever seen. Swear on my mother's grave, may she be dancing with the devil's pitchfork in her back.

She doesn't know that I see her- I'm getting good at that. Even in a place where everybody stares, I'm still about as invisible as a fart. There and gone and forgotten quickly. She's a classy tart, the outfit she wears probably costs as much as my paycheck, and it's about as out of place in this alleyway as a mustache on the Mona Lisa.

She's shorter than her mark, so short she has to stand on tiptoes to do whatever she's doing to his neck. I can't see. She's got hair like the other girl; long and dark and thick. But the guy, ya know, poor fellow, he looks drunk or high, but whatever she's doing, he's enjoying it.

She's probably on drugs too, now that I think about it. She's too pale, needs a bit of meat on her bones. Maybe take however much she's dropping on that get-up to get a tan and a meal.

But here's the weird thing, alright? I've got ten kills to my name; not the most prolific, but better that Jack the [Bleeping} Ripper, and I can tell when a guy is gonna walk off satisfied from the encounter, get a bit to clingy or introduce his trick to his fist.

This guy though, he walks away as if he's a ghost. It's like he's floating without his feet touching the ground. Almost like a zombie. I can't explain it, but I know it's gonna nag at me. No one should look that peaceful unless they're dead.

So I try to get a better look at this broad, and she wipes her mouth. Why? All I seen her do was give Happy Boy a hickey, and what kinda mess could that have made? It's off putting, and I hate that feeling. I hate feeling like I'M the bad guy, but it's something I can't shake.

But what's this? She's looking at me. Right at me. There's no fear in her eyes- pale as hell, just like the rest of her- but a certain degree of smugness that makes me wanna skip the knife in my belt and go for her throat with my teeth. What does she have to be smug about?

Too many questions. I need to get back to the hotel. I really do. I'll run into her again, I bet I will, this place is small, but right now I have to jet. If I don't move, if I don't keep moving until I hit that bed, I'll have to think about how I'm feeling.

And honestly, right now? I'm scared.

I don't like being scared.

I didn't even bother going out the next day, just had my meals delivered to my room. Somehow I knew that my girl didn't really jive too well during the day. By the looks of her skin, chickadee was a night owl. Sun worshipers don't get that pale, but I can respect that. I'd spent my teenage years as a basement dweller; shock, right? But whatever.

I had a feeling that that was the night I'd rip her from the Machine Divine to give a purer soul a chance to thrive. I waited around the alleyway where I'd last seen her and I didn't have to wait long, and you know what? Luck was shinin' down on Ol' Louie, because she was heading my way.

Did she think I was a pimp? (Probably not). A john? (More likely). I could feel the fear I'd felt the night before rearing its head, but the excitement I felt over what I was about to do struck it down nice and quick. I felt less like The Chose Mechanic then and more like something else. Something feral and mean, and for some reason that feeling coincided with a story I'd heard from my grandma when I was just a snot nosed curtain climber.

She had said that coyotes would trick dogs. They would lure them into the forest, act for all the world like they wanted to play with the dog, and then once they got the poor bastard got him far enough away from home, those coyotes would tear him apart.

For some reason, I felt like one of those damned coyotes, swear to God.

As my fingers traced the cold steel in my pocket, she stopped maybe two feet in front of me and looked up at me with these big booboo eyes and that same knowing smile. I had wanted to carve that damned smile off her face and the thought sent a shiver up my spine. I wet my lips with my tongue.

"Do you speak English? I'm really lost." I put on my very best flustered schoolboy expression and simpered appropriately. "Could you help me?"

You know how little kids look at cocoons? Like they just can't figure out what the hell is inside of one? Yeah, that was the look I was getting from her. Not the disdain or disgust that I was used to. That? That was too clinical. It was jarring enough to send my thumb slipping across the knife's blade.

That was my mistake. I thought she had disappeared. POOF! Just like that. I felt something move in my pocket and turned around..and that's when the contents of my stomach nearly rocketed to the seat of my pants.

She hadn't disappeared. She had just moved so fast that I couldn't see her. My heart felt like a cracked out lab rat running on a wheel and my facade of baffled tourist crumbled. I hate being scared, I've said that, but even though one half of my brain was trying to tell me that what I had seen was impossible, the other half was screaming at me to run. To run and hide and hope to God that this little she-beast couldn't find me.

But I didn't listen. I reached for my knife just as my eyes caught the glint of its steel blade elsewhere. I was frozen. In a split second I watched her hand guide the knife home, right through my left cheek, and the pain was so big and so bright that I stumbled back. I'm sure that I screamed, but who would come to help me?

I was far from home and no one even knew I was missing.

As I looked up at her, watched her raise her bloodied fingers to her lips and saw the two men from the bar come out of nowhere to stand at her side, I realized with crystal clear clarity what I truly was.

I was no mechanic.

I was no coyote.

I was the damned dog.