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Doo-dee-doo-due-do-eee…
    Lon’s Instant Message ringtone was the opening bars to Toccata und Fugue in D minor by Johann Sebastian Bach, the ubiquitous aural introduction to horror radio plays, B-movies and TV commercials for haunted houses. Pedestrian, he knew. But his head wasn’t too bloated for irony.
    He reclined on his futon, smiling at its charming creak, and resumed play in iTunes, thus spilling the ballet suite from Swan Lake through his wall-mounted speakers. The melancholy theme never failed to remind him of Dracula , director Tod Browning’s 1931 masterpiece starring Bela Lugosi.
    Lon cracked his knuckles as he eagerly read the IM, a beckon from the screen name GothkGrl. “Are you there, my dark prince?” was scrawled in purple zombified font.
    ‘Twas the fair Elizabeth, the love of Lon’s life. Their affair had begun with flirtatious missives on sundry occult forums and blossomed into six months of heated IMs.
    He was working up the nerve to call her, but never mind about that.
    “Good evening, my grotesque beauty,” Lon typed with a mischievous grin.
    As he awaited her response, curiosity led him to open his Internet Protocol tracing program. The surge to his Of Wolves and Men website had come from the northeastern United States. New York and DC. Maybe An American Werewolf in London had run on cable.
    “Evening, hardly,” Elizabeth responded. “I’m five hours hence from slumber. And my harridan host womb woke me at an unconscionable hour this very morn, blasting her loathsome radio.”
    He loved it when she got bitchy.
    Lon began typing an in-depth description of the travesty he’d suffered at the Magic tournament, but he froze when he heard the cellar door open. It could only be one of two people, and the heavy footfalls suggested the greater of the two evils. He quickly shut his monitors and speakers, leaving his lady love in mid-sentence, rolled under his covers, faced the wall, and feigned sleep.
    The bottom of the stairs always took Frank by surprise. The oaf caught a bookcase and paused for a moment, probably ogling one of Lon’s Lord of the Rings action figures. Several of them had hackjob superglue repairs from Thanksgiving, when Frank had stomped on them during a drunken rant. Great night that was. Lots to give thanks for.
    Frank came closer and stood next to the futon, looking down on Lon. “You ain’t a-sleepin’,” he said in a questioning tone.
    Lon wished he could cough up his hatred like some kind of diseased sputum and spit it right in Frank’s face. He was also coming to despise his mother for bringing him into this hell, no matter how damn lonely she’d gotten. And for being so stupid that she didn’t see Frank for what he really was.
    “Maybe I’ll just take one of these here action dolls if you ain’t awake.”
    If Frank was going to take one of his collectibles, Lon wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’d learned that lesson on the ass end of more than one beating.
    His stepfather stood over him for a good, long while, breathing unevenly through his drunkenness. Was he going to pass out, or did he fall asleep on his feet? Or was he imagining something disgusting?
    Time passed—seconds felt like minutes.
    Could Frank tell he was awake? How long had it been?
    Lon felt himself slipping into helpless despair. What was this creep going to do? Why wouldn’t he just leave?
    Lon’s mind always wandered back to the same hole: What had he done to deserve his life? He couldn’t convince anyone to like him. Not the kids at school, not Frank, not even himself.
    Maybe he deserved these beatings.
    The wait was maddening.
    Finally, Frank shifted. His leather boot creaked out one final threat. After another moment, he turned and plodded up the stairs.
    Lon fought as hard as he could, but still the tears came.

    Two
    Akron, Ohio
    December 31
    6:14 a.m.
    “Lon, could I see you up here?”
    Lon stirred to consciousness, hoping he’d dreamed that voice.
    “Lon, could I see you up