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a mortal scream cut short.
     J.D. stumbled out of the thicket and ran right into the outstretched arms of the night watchman.
     "Hold it, right there," the old man ordered. The guard's hand was shaking as he withdrew his service revolver from its holster and directed his flashlight to scan the woods beyond. As soon as his light illuminated the broken gate, he uttered "Good Lord, what have you done?"
     He marched us back through the gateway to see the extent of the damage we had inflicted. We reluctantly returned to the forsaken hollow to discover several heavy pieces of the shattered tomb lid lying overturned beside the unearthed grave. The watchman blessed himself with the sign of the cross then slowly crept toward the edge of the yawning tomb. He shone his flashlight into the open grave to find that it was empty, revealing only a gaping abyss of shadows and swirling mist.
     J.D. picked up his flashlight from where he had dropped it, and turned its beam on the monument. The black skull had been replaced atop the marker. I stepped back from the tomb and nearly tripped over Vic who was sitting on the ground behind the gravestone. He was resting against the black monument, leaning back into the shadows, holding the satchel in his lap.
     To this day, I don't know what twisted sense of curiosity compelled me to do what I did next, but I opened the satchel, and as I did, the watchman grabbed Vic by the shoulder and drew him into the light. Vic's face was frozen in a grisly leer, but to our awe and horror, it wasn't from atop his shoulders. His head was severed at the neck, as if torn from his body, and stared out at us from inside the black bag.

Golem
    by Timothy Bennett and Joseph Vargo
    T his is what death feels like. An icy grip seizing my very breath, damming the blood in my head and petrifying my body as I struggle to hold on to life. And the darkness before my eyes, so terrifying and bleak, coldly reflects the image of my death back at me.
     All this I came to comprehend in my final fleeting moments, and with a grim certainty I realized that my demise was inescapable. Does my entire life now pass before me? No. I only see the events that have brought the Angel of Death to my company.
     My 40th, and final, birthday came and went as most have, quietly... until late that evening. A pounding at the side door interrupted my solitude as a delivery person arrived with the unexpected, a crate big enough to hold gifts for all my birthdays combined. A second delivery person was hidden behind the monstrosity. I joined them in bringing the box to rest in the middle of my studio, leaving the crate standing like a wooden obelisk.
     I almost didn't want to open it, wanting instead to relish in my excitement trying to determine what could be inside. As I signed for the crate, I was handed an accompanying envelope postmarked from Jerusalem. The handwriting was familiar, and when opened, the salutation was unmistakable.
     A Gift from the Magi: Happy Birthday Bones. I bartered for this in my usual fashion. Some locals found this in a newly excavated crypt. Four magnificent guardian angels surrounded it on the floor above. You're not that good a friend to pay what they wanted for those, so got this thing from the basement. See you soon. — The Bobcat.
     Bob was my best friend from college, and we kept in touch despite our different paths. He traveled the world searching for the meaning of life, while I remained safe at home letting life go by. Bones. That always made me laugh. Bob always said archaeologists were "doctors of the dead". When I pointed out that his nickname for my profession didn't make any sense, it only seemed to make it funnier to him.
     The coolness of the basement studio didn't prevent me from perspiring profusely as I pried the front of the box off with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. Finally, it fell like the draw bridge