Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford

is deep red, too much like the corn-syrup mixture I use. The blood drips from his palm, down his arm and collects in a little puddle at his elbow. I can smell it. Over the greasy smell, there is a faint scent of copper. Not corn syrup. I take a step closer to get a better look. The blood pours out little holes in Colt’s hand.
    That dumbass must’ve been cutting himself again … poking himself with a knife.
    The skin around the holes is sunken. Jagged and black. They’re bite marks. A faint growling gives away the culprit: Brock.
    I don’t know where my dog came from or if he’d been there the whole time. His sudden presence makes the hair on my neck rise.
    Brock looks bad—flies buzz around his confused face and his hair is matted and missing in some parts. His wounds have turned black, and it looks like something has chewed the tip of his tail off. I don’t want to consider that he probably did it himself. A thick foam covers his lips, tinted red. He looks hot and tired, but he bares his teeth. His hair stands on end.
    I turn back to Colt. Despite Brock’s terrible appearance, it’s been a long time since I’ve been so happy to see him. Once again, he is my savior. My best friend.
    I feel my lips curl into a smile. Every color but red seeps out of my vision. I watch the scene with a Hellish camera filter. It feels good to be possessed. I let out a deep breath and walk past Colt. I want to run up and kick him when he’s down. Maybe slash him with a knife. But later. I put my hand out for my dog to come, ready to shower him with all the treats his heart could desire. He just stares at it. Even when he notices that it’s me, he doesn’t lower his lips. His teeth remain bared.
    I pat my lap. Brock still doesn’t move.
    From behind me, Colt says something. I turn around and see that he’s reaching out to me. He’s asking for help. I notice the tears on his face. I want to point and laugh. I want to hold him by the collar and scream “ BOO HOO! ”into his face so he feels the heat of my demonic breath. Briefly, he seems to recognize me.
    (You can’t be in our movie)
    The moment passes and he’s back to the smelly, greasy psycho who almost killed my brother. And the asshole wants me to help him because my dog, a dog he was planning to slaughter, bit him. Every cell in my body fills with tangible hatred. With my headphones in, I pretend that I don’t hear his pleas, and, without helping him, I walk up the stairs and slam the door behind me.
    I leave him alone with Brock.

Letter from a Lost Boy
     
     
    I wake up this morning to find an envelope on my windowsill. It is made of black paper with my name written in white. It’s covered with drawings of skulls and bones and headstones. Inside, the letter is simple and written in jagged cursive.
    It’s Brian’s handwriting.
    I can’t bring myself to open it immediately, so I watch it from my closet while getting dressed. Watch it from my bowl of cereal. The areas between the white become eyes. Black eyes have overtaken my dreams lately.
    I turn it over in my hands a couple of times, making fingerprints in the dust left by the windowsill. I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. All my fears come true: on the sheet of paper are the five worst words imaginable, followed by a horrible frowning face.
    I know about the videotape.
    I reread the line and put it away. The waning sun filters into my room, but instead of warming me, it only serves as a reminder of my brother’s new omnipotence. I close the blinds, shutting out whatever ghoulish world Brian has become a part of.

Midnight Movie
     
     
    I wake up in Brian’s room. Not sure when I fell asleep. Can’t even remember how I ended up here. Still, better than my own room. No closet monsters in Brian’s room. Red digits from his clock read 10:14 pm. It tastes like I’ve been eating trash in my sleep. My throat’s dry, and my stomach aches. Heavy bass pounds the ceiling. I push the blankets off and