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Finally, the door opens and I retrieve the bucket, dragging it on the tiled floor, and placing it beside the porcelain of the already full clawfoot tub centered in the bathroom. I lean forward, my reflection in the still water both comforting and horrifying. I swallow a lump of saliva in my dry throat, the equivalent of a dozen knives stabbing me as I take off my clothes.

Using all the strength I’m clinging to with everything I have left, I bend at the knees, cupping the overflowing bucket of blood in my grip. Slowly, I ascend from my bent position and dump the blood into the water.

It slaps against the water's edge. First a faint shade of pink before it spirals and spreads in a slow, concentrated dance, morphing into an opaque hue of crimson. It’s then and only then, when the water no longer looks like water but a bath full of blood, that I enter it. The voice from before returns. This time joined by others, all chanting a verse I’ve heard many times before.

“Forthe life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life.”

“Shut the fuck up!” The tip of my nose brushes against the murky water. My eyes move to the reflection of the open window in the mirror on the wall in front of me. A sadistic cackle erupts, leaking through it, traveling to my core.

“There you are,” he announces, cryptic and amused.

El Barquero.

I inch upward. Just enough that my nose is lifted and my mouth is able to speak without taking in the water.

“Here I am,” I mumble to the rotting God outside the half-open window of the bathroom. His face is riddled in decay and dirt, with features defined by scars and dried up blood. A horror to others but a savior to me. “As promised, I brought you a gift. Come in, the water is just how you like it… bloody.”

He accepts the invitation, curling his filthy fingers at the window’s edge, lifting it. Slithering his way from the window, he moves with the agility of a serpent, until he stops by the tub hovering over it.

“Are you sure?” his low and rough baritone asks.

I nod.

His rough hand tips my chin as he studies my face.

“Once fed, there’s no escaping el Barquero,” he warns.

I nod again. This time with the vibrant addition of a smile, remembering the steel knife I hid in the tub.

Keeping my eyes on him, I discreetly curl my fingers as his tongue nears mine. As the token of my commitment to the sacrifice is transferred from my mouth to his, I use the sadistic communion as my opportunity to secure the knife's handle in my palm and drive it into his throat.

Blood streams from the wound, the look of betrayal ripe within his irises as he slumps over me and into the tub.

“You’re wrong,” I spit on his slumped body. “Tell el Barquero there’s no escapingme.”

“That was amazing!” Applause fills my ear. My agent, Beth, on the other line claps away, but her rehearsed excitement does little to distract from the hesitation that permeates from her breath.

A long-winded sigh escapes my mouth, knowing she has more to say.

“Go on. What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it’s just so, so, I don’t know,” Beth hesitates.

I rise to my feet and the wheeled chair I was just sitting on rolls all the way behind me, hitting the bookshelf behind my desk. “Beth,” I say sternly. “Spit it the fuck out.”

A phony scoff of surprise muffles the earpiece with her overdone surprised act. She should be used to me by now. She’s been around long enough to know that I don’t mince words, agent or otherwise. Considering the shit sleep I got last night, what I said to her versus what I could’ve said to her, is on the tame side. I used to love this time of year, but the dreams—or rather nightmares—that I have every goddamn year become too much. The one I had last night was the most vivid one that I’ve had in a long time, or ever.

“I loved it, Char.” I wince at the nickname. An abbreviation of my pen name, A.H. Charon, and the only name she knows me by. Her voice trails. “But…”

My eyes roll. There’s always a ‘but’. Hesitation injects itself into the air before she starts yelling at someone, honking her horn.

“Sorry, I’m back. I swear to fuck people can’t drive here.”

I laugh. “It’s Halloween in New York. What do you expect today of all days? Plus, they’re always rushing.”

“True, but this is the burbs, not the city.”

My brow furrows. Beth is a city girl through and through. She rarely ever leaves the comfort of the concrete jungle.