For this one, I went for a Halloween-ish vein. The year in Ohio is 1999 and the East Coast Hockey League (ECHL) Columbus Chill hockey team was already in transition for their move to Reading, Pennsylvania, to become the new Reading Royals, stepping aside for the impending arrival of the National Hockey League's Blue Jackets to the Columbus Arena-District.

Nothing more need be known of this little tale.

I've Got—Chills . . .
948 words

By Me

Pretty, 16-year-old—give or take a discombobulated respooling of the space/time continuum—Christine Ballatori was firmly Hungarian, second-generation American and lived now in Franklin County, Ohio, on the eastern outskirts of Columbus. The thought of being second-generation always made her smile. She had been born in the growing town of Salem, Massachusetts, where her mother had eventually settled before moving west with her daughter. It was not a necessarily bad neighborhood, but it was quite a-ways from being good. It was okay for her, though.

One Friday evening, on her nightly walk home from her job at a small pizzeria, she stepped out onto what she called No Name Road, really just an unmarked stretch of housing pavement that started at the end of Lillian Lane and ran alongside East Livingston Avenue. She stopped in her walk when a brand new long, black 1999 Jaguar pulled to a stop in front of her. The darkly-tinted window buzzed down to reveal the most handsome young man she had ever seen in the neighborhood.

“Well, ’scuse me, darlin’,” he pointedly called out to her, rustling a small notepad into view. “I’m lookin’ for—Shady Lane Road?”

“I am not darling,” she murmured, barely audible.

“Hm? Oh, yes, sorry ’bout that. See, I’m sorta new in these sticks—just been goin’ round and round.” He smiled his perfect white teeth to her. “But you must admit, you are a darlin’ sight.”

Christine hid her smile of appreciation, looking away at the dark, empty streets. “Look—it’s late and I gotta…”

“Well, I was just tryin’ to find Shady Lane Road and I was wonderin’ if you might know where it is.”

“Next street up,” she quickly replied. “At the light. Sign was knocked down a few weeks ago.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned forward, looking to his right. “At the light.”

“Yes.”

The bearded, reassuring smile came back around to her. “I’m supposed to pick up a friend there, we’re headed out to the clubs. Say, you wanna come along?”

She smiled with some recognition. “I think I’ve seen you…”

He smiled at the late recognition. “Yeah, sports on TV,” he revealed. “Name’s Nick Lox—number 10? I’m with East Coast Hockey’s—The Chill.”

“Oh, hockey! Yeah.” Christine giggled. “I wouldn’t have thought. You have very nice teeth for a hockey player.”

He chuckled. “Just gotta duck now and then.”

“Yeah. I heard about your concussion with the Admirals last week. Should you be driving?”

“I’m fine,” he assured. “Gotta pick up Jordon Sobriquet. He’s rentin’ a place out here somewhere. Says it’s a quiet place.”

“Sorta. Shootings now and then.”

“Really? Well, c’mon, hop in.”

She thought it over for about 10 seconds, knowing her mother had dinner warm for her and was going to be furious. “Okay!”

Christine hurried around to the passenger door and they were off to Sobriquet’s house, where Jordon’s wife had just flown in from checking on a new home for the family in Adamstown, so his little clubbing venture had been halted. Alone, Lox headed back to the car.

“Looks like it’s just us, kid,” he said, starting the engine.

“Oh.” Christine nodded her approval. “Okay.”

He looked at her. “How old are you?” he now needed to know.

“Old enough.”

“Yeah, okay, okay.” He set the car in park. “Can I see yer ID?”

“Oh. W’ll, yeah, sure.”

It was a genuine picture driver’s license for Ohio showing a date of birth of 1976, putting her at 23-years-old. He looked at the youthful face again, then shook his head, returning her license.

“All the girls I know must be on the wrong diet,” he muttered, putting the Jag in gear and heading back out to Livingston. “Where to?” he asked.

“You’re driving.”

“Yeah, w’ll… Ya got a club ya like? I was just plannin’ on getting’ drunk with Les Schtroumpf, but he’s got the wife and kid with ’im.”

“Schtroumpf? Jordon “Les Schtroumpf” Sobriquet! I love him!”

“Yeah, a real troublemaker on the ice—for the other guys.”

“Well, okay.”

“Okay—what?”

“Let’s go out and get drunk,”

“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

Nick had definitely been truthful with Christine. Getting home from the club she had to do the driving. She got him home, with the Jag safely tucked away in the garage. Nick fumbled for his house keys and invited his lovely little date inside.

“I—I got cab fare—I mean, if ya jus’ wanna go home.”

“No, no,” she assured, guiding him to the sofa. “We’re fine. Just a nightcap.” She stepped over to Nick’s liquor cabinet. “Your friends were really fun.”

“Oh, yeah. Between games, it’s a lotta fun.”

Pouring the scotch, Christine regarded her date’s reflection in the bar mirror. “So, you’re from Kalamazoo.”

“Yep, up Michigan-way. You always a Columbusite?”

“No.” The man was definitely a lot more handsome when he was sober. She sat beside him and handed him his drink. “I was born in Salem, Mass.”

“Ooh, a witchy-woman.”

“That’s not nice.” She nuzzled at the side of his neck. “Some Salem residents take that kinda talk personally.”

“W’ll, I don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“I know.” She nipped at his skin.

“Hey, hey. No hickeys.”

“No, ’course not. Locker room gossip and stuff.”

“Yeah.”

As the fangs slid into him, his glass dropped to the carpet. Christine climbed on top of her latest victim, drawing out his life essence, savoring this energizing elixir of life. Releasing him, she rose up over him, licking her lips, and gazed down into his glazed eyes.

“Mm, healthy men,” she sighed. “I’ve gotta go back out to that club, maybe start a little collection of Chillers.”

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