Three supernatural-thrill seeking friends can't seem to dive deep enough into the occult as they toy with Ouija boards, hunt for ghosts in haunted graveyards, and experiment with self-induced trances.

On a late Friday in early March, Mitchell Waterspoon perused the weakly bound and dog-eared gems on display in Nessie’s Book Case. Many days he’d find himself here with breath freshly desecrated from garlic and onions, killing his last minutes of freedom before returning to The Delegate. Often he would skim over the manuscripts of old plays. He wasn’t much of a theater-goer, but a fading memory from so many years past still pulsed now and again.

“The Manta Ray…Moray?” Mitchell willed his tongue to conduct his subconscious. Nothing came. “Manatee?”

If only he knew the playwright’s name, but he was how old? Six? Seven? Exasperation and a phantom image of a glaring time clock washed over his mind as he scanned the bindings.

Into the Lamprey
by Miguel Juapisto

“The Lamprey,” Mitchell whispered over the off-white cover. Childhood memories, so vivid in color, returned like a tidal wave. And Mitchell willingly succumbed to their undertow.

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