Radley's Labyrinth for Horny Monsters by Annabelle Hawthorne (highly recommended books .txt) 📕

her with creating a cover story, a reason for showing up unannounced. No matter what else she had asked him, he either shrugged or changed the subject, refusing to offer her any additional help.

“Lazy fucker,” she muttered under her breath. Not only had he killed her, but now she was expected to do all the work. This was just like every group project ever in college.

Wandering through the house, she found herself stopping at the door to look at the back of the driver. He somehow made standing guard look casual, and the few neighbors who passed by didn’t seem to notice.

Dana let herself out, then crossed over to the garage. She stepped into her home, wondering if it was the last time she would ever do so. Was it even her home now? After all, she was dead.

She walked to her toolbox and searched for the box cutter she kept there as a memento from a failed job stocking boxes at night. With a little digging, she found it. Moving quickly, she slashed the back of her forearm, digging the blade in deep.

Nothing happened. She didn’t even bleed, and it didn’t hurt. She had wondered if Daryl had simply drugged her, but now she was left with a nasty-looking wound on her left arm and the realization that she really was a zombie.

“Fuck,” she muttered, storming up the stairs to her room. It wasn’t until she was upstairs that she realized that the motorcycle on the garage floor was missing its motor. Leaning over the railing, she surveyed the mess below.

Behind her, the clock chimed. She walked toward where it sat on her bed and looked down at it.

“What?” she spat. “What the fuck do you want?”

The clock was silent. Frustrated, she stood and looked out the window to see if the zombie goon had heard it and was coming inside. Mr. Tall and Stupid remained at his post, surveying the street. When Dana turned back around, the clock was gone. Instead, a large, ornate typewriter had appeared on her desk.

“Yeah, sure, this helps me,” she muttered, standing up and staring at it. “So are you an autobot or a decepticon?”

The typewriter dinged at her, shifting back and forth. A few keys hammered the blank roller, and Dana sighed. She pulled a piece of notebook paper from under her desk and stuck it in the back of the roller. Immediately, the typewriter spooled itself, pulling the paper through.

“You’re a magic clock that can’t even provide its own paper,” Dana muttered. “I don’t suppose you can bring me back to life?”

The paper had finished spooling, and two keys hammered against the paper. She didn’t have to lift it free to read it.

No

“Oh, great. Awesome.”

The typewriter moved again. In the back of her mind, she felt like she should feel surprise or shock seeing such an event, but she just couldn’t be bothered to care. She didn’t know how much of that was being a zombie and how much of it was being denied an eternity with Alex.

What happened?

“That man who came for me killed me; that’s what happened.” Dana held up her ruined arm. “I’m dead, and he wants me to go to the house where you came from and steal something or con the owner into letting me in.”

Several seconds passed, and the typewriter started moving again.

You should go there. You can get help.

“Oh really? Who’s gonna help me? You? The guy who lives there?”

Someone will help, it told her. This man will not help you.

“What do you know? You’re just a magic clock. Speaking of which, what are you exactly? Why did you come here?”

I needed fixing, the clock told her.

“Why did I have to fix you?” Dana stood and walked over to her dresser. She opened up her drawers and began pulling out clothes. “I bet Mike could have hired someone. Dude seems like he has plenty of money.”

It had to be you. The typewriter paused for several seconds, then spooled the paper up to make room for more text, dinging as it reset itself. You had the spark.

“I had the spark?”

You are dead now. I’m sorry.

“You’re gonna be sorry when I toss you out that window.” Dana spread out her clothes, then picked a pair of low-cut jeans and a tank top. “And why did I have to fix you? What are you exactly?”

I am a mimic, the typewriter answered. My heart was broken. I could no longer transform.

“I didn’t see a heart when I was in there. You were all busted gears. And what the fuck is a mimic?”

My heart changes to match my appearance. And mimics are creatures that mimic things.

“Gee, that explains everything.” Dana picked out a jacket to go over her tank top. “I don’t suppose you know what Daryl wants from the house?”

I don’t. And you should not help him. Help Mike.

“I’ve got my own problems.”

I will help you.

“Help me how? You’re a fucking typewriter.”

I am whatever I need to be. I can change shape when nobody’s looking.

“What about when I was inside you? I could still see you, and you grew legs or something.”

That was different, the typewriter wrote. Watch.

Dana jumped when the typewriter grew a pair of long, metallic arms with razor blades at the end. It whipped them back and forth for emphasis, then retracted them. Dana squinted but couldn’t see the seam where they had disappeared.

“How is that not transforming?” Dana asked.

Not transforming. Part of the form. Hidden when I change. The typewriter stood on a pair of metal legs. Legs were already here.

“No deal. I refuse.” Dana looked back out the window. It looked like the driver was staring into the sun. “I’m just going to do what he asks. No offense, but I want to see Alex again.”

I understand. The typewriter sat quietly for several moments, then started typing again. Take me to Mike. Use me to get in the house.

“That…would work, actually.” Dana frowned. “You would do that for me?”

I owe you. Turn around.