Davy woke up in a sweat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He could feel it in his bones. But everything seemed normal. The moonlight reflected off of the plastic beaded curtain hanging on the window, sending fragments of orange, blue, red, and green across the dresser, posters, and his bed. Calmed a little by the familiar scene, he glanced over at Peter's bed, expecting to see a tuft of blond hair sticking out from underneath the old patchwork quilt. But when his eyes fell on the bed, he saw that there was no figure curled in a comfortable bliss.

"Peter?" Davy called his roommate quietly. He didn't want to wake up Micky and Mike upstairs, though it would probably take something the force of a nuclear explosion to wake Micky up. "Peter!" he tried again, but again there was no answer. Curious, the Englishman kicked off his blanket and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He fumbled about for a while, trying to find his shoes, but gave up and decided to go barefoot instead.

He climbed out of bed and walked into the living room, his foot falling in time with the rhythm of the pounding ocean waves and the melodious chirping of the crickets outside. Davy chuckled a bit as he realized it. He'd been playing percussion all too long. It's beginning to influence his own smooth personal tempo.

He walked over to the patio, gazing out the big, glass doors, fully expecting to see Peter out on the beach, and enjoying the warm, beautiful night. There was nothing out there but the many grains of sand littering the endless shore. Concern spread across his face, turning his slight smile into a worried frown. Where else could Peter be? It's not like him to go wandering out in the middle of the night.

He turned and headed for the spiral staircase, hopping up two steps at a time. Reaching for the doorknob to Mike and Micky's room, he received another strong premonition that something was terribly wrong. Immediately alarmed that something had happened to his friends, he pushed the door open, stepped inside and gasped.

Nothing. The room was unoccupied and the beds were made as if no one had slept in them. Davy stared at the eerily empty room. Where was everyone? They wouldn't just take off and leave him, would they? Maybe it was a joke, some sort of cruel joke. But no, Peter wouldn't take part in something like this. He slowly started backing up, suddenly afraid. This isn't right.

"Davy."

He whirled around, startled by a voice from behind him. "Who are you?!" he cried as a woman appeared before him. She was about half a foot taller than him, with hair so blond, it seemed to glow white in the moonlight. Her blue eyes gazed deep into his, mesmerizing him, keeping his rooted in place.

"It doesn't matter who I am," she whispered, her soft, silvery voice drifted to his ears, sending a shiver down his spine. His fear melted as she neared him, wrapping her slender arms around his waist and lowered her lips to his. "You will be mine," her sweet breath blew past his mouth and wafted up his nose, filling his head and sending him on an orgasmic high. She gently urged his backwards, pushing him onto Mike's bed. Davy sighed as he gave in to the woman's will, letting her run her hands over his body.

"You will be mine," she repeated, a knife appearing in her hand. Davy gulped, eyeing the dagger with horror. She ran the blade slowly down Davy's chest, cutting open his nightshirt and exposing his skin to the cold night air. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe...

She raised the dagger high above her head and brought it down on his chest, ripping a deep hole into his heart. Davy opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Again and again the knife fell upon him, blood flowed everywhere, staining the bed, splattering against the walls. Davy stopped trying to scream as the world faded out. The last thing he hears is his murderer's laughter ringing in his ears, her silvery voice now nothing but a dry, ragged cackle.

A soft voice floated through Micky's subconscious, slowly rousing him from slumber. He tossed and turned, trying to dismiss the sound and go back to sleep. Still the faint voice persisted.

"George Michael Dolenz..."

"Lemme sleep," Micky muttered, half-heartedly waving his hand in hopes of driving who ever it was off. "S'Saturday..."

"George Michael Dolenz..."

Micky rolled over, unfortunately in the wrong direction, and fell off his bed. Moaning, he sat up, and was startled when he saw there was no one in his room. It was still night outside, the moon shining the only light into his dark room.

"Mike? Didja call me?" Micky yawned, stretching. When he heard no answer, he gazed over at the Texan's bed. No lanky figure huddled under the comforter. "M-Mike?" The drummer scratched his head. Where was Mike this late at night?

"George Michael Dolenz..."

"Huh?" Micky snapped his head around, searching for source of the voice. Seeing no one, he began to feel nervous. "That's not Mike," he muttered to himself. "Not Peter or Davy's either..." Curiosity overcoming his fear, he quickly put on his boots and walked out his bedroom door. He moved cautiously in the blackness, reaching for the railing to their spiral staircase. When he felt the cold metal under his fingers, he grinned and hopped onto it, sliding all the way to the ground floor. "Whee!"

He landed awkwardly, stumbling as his ankles gave under his weight. He promptly stood up; looking around to make sure nobody had seen his little misstep. Quickly regaining his composure, Micky headed for the kitchen to see if Mike had gotten up for a midnight snack. Still no Texan.

"George Michael Dolenz..."

"Who's there?!" Micky called loudly, the last thing on his mind was waking up his other two roommates. It had seemed to come from outside, so he ran up to the front door and threw it open, craning his neck out. On the porch stood a little girl, probably no more than five or six years old. Her long white- blond hair tumbled far below her waist and her light blue eyes stared up at him with such intensity, it seemed to be burning a hole right through his brain. Micky blinked, trying to tear his gaze away from the unblinking eyes of the child.

"Come out and play with me, George Michael Dolenz..." the girl whispered, backing away and drawing Micky out with her. The drummer couldn't help but follow; he felt his body was no longer under his control. After eight steps, the girl vanished, leaving Micky standing outside alone. Startled out of his trance, he startled backing up, heading back into the pad. He didn't get far before a noise stopped him.

At first he thought it was the young girl calling to him again, but when he listened longer, he realized it was buzzing, the buzzing on hundreds of insects. Instantly, they were on him, swarming around his body like tiny, ravaging wolves, biting into him, ripping him to pieces.

Micky frantically waved his arms, ducking and dodging, but to no avail. He opened his mouth to scream, but only managed to allow access for the bugs to crowd inside him. Pain. He felt nothing but intense, burning pain. His whole body was on fire, and he knew there was no relief. Soon, his torn, bleeding body passed beyond agony. Now he felt nothing but a numb throbbing. He put his head in his hands, futilely trying to protect his face. To his horror, skin from his cheek dropped into his palm as soon as his fingers grazed it. I'm dead... he thought. Dead.

He collapsed to the ground, all his senses dulled. The incessant buzzing nothing more than a soft humming. After the thick black cloud of insects had finished their attack, they flew away to find their next victim, leaving nothing behind but a gleaming white skeleton, with a permanent grin on his expressionless skull.

Mike's head snapped up as he woke from sleep, and he swerved the car just in time to avoid colliding with the cliff wall. He gripped the steering wheel hard in fright, his knuckles turning white at the pressure as his pounding heart slowly returned to its normal beating rhythm. Taking a deep breath, Mike struggled to focus on the road ahead of him.

"That's the last time I agree to relocate to another city," he muttered. "They're short on help? Tough luck..." He sighed as he glanced at the car clock. It was almost three in the morning. He had tried calling the pad earlier, but no one answered, which was weird since it had been past midnight when he called. He hadn't wanted the others to worry about where he was, but it had turned out that he was the one worrying.

He snapped his head up again as he realized he was about to doze off. "This is also the last time I take the scenic route home." He was driving along the cliffs near his beach home. A hard, winding path, but shorter compared to the freeway. To his right, a high stone wall climbed high above Mike's head while to his left, the strong, pounding ocean wreaked havoc on the sea rocks below. Mike squinted hard, trying to peer through the darkness. The Monkee Mobile headlights barely pierced through the black of night. The top to the car was down and his hair fluttered as the wind ran its fingers through the ebony mane. He rounded another corner of the cliff, slowing as he turned.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a figure appeared on the road. A slim, young woman with long, blond hair. Mike yelped in surprise and slammed on the brakes, awaiting the impact. Nothing happened. The car didn't slow, but tore into the girl like she was made of paper. Horrified, Mike stepped on the brakes again, determined to go back and help her if she was still alive. But with each pump, the car sped up. Panic seized him as he realized the brakes weren't working. Another turn was coming up fast. He glanced down at the speedometer. 40 miles an hour, 45, 50, 55...

He tried to move the car closer to the rock wall, hoping to slow the car down that way. Nothing happened when he turned the wheel. The Monkee Mobile continued to race ahead as if it had a mind of its own. Frantically ripping at the seat belt, Mike screamed curse after curse as the leather straps refused to let go, confining him to the car, which seemed more like a red coffin to him now more than anything.

The car zoomed off the cliff at 90 miles an hour and cut a path through the cold night sky. For a few minutes, Mike felt like he was flying, like he could reach up and pick a star out of the sky. Then gravity took over and he was falling. The frosty air cut into his skin like sharp razors. He didn't have time to think about his friends, his life, or his future. The next second, he and the car splashed into the freezing black ocean, and there was darkness.

~*~

Consciousness suddenly returned to Mike. I'm dead... he thought to himself. I'm dead... But no, dead people can't see, can they? He felt weightless, as if floating in water. Water... I crashed into the ocean... He realized if he wasn't dead, he soon will be unless he can get to dry land. He tried to swim, but his arms won't move. They're broken, he told himself matter-of-factly. His legs wouldn't move either. I'm gonna drown! the thought screamed out at him. Then he realized he wasn't breathing. He felt his lungs should be crying out for air, but they didn't. He didn't need oxygen. Dead people don't need to breathe.

What's that in the distance? Mike gazed through the murky water. A monster! No, a... mermaid? The thing swan up to him. She was indeed a mermaid, a very familiar looking one. The girl I ran over! he identified. She stopped in front of him, but her hair continued to flow, wrapping itself around him like seaweed. Mike commanded his body to escape the hug, to swim away, but he still couldn't move. Only stare at this beautiful creature.

"Just what I need," he heard her say to herself. "A most wonderful specimen." She reached over with one hand and grabbed a hold of his head. With her other hand, she dug into his skull. The pain seared through Mike's brain as she ripped his head in two. He tried to scream, to plead her to stop. He couldn't make a single noise.

"A pair of dead eyes," she smiled to herself. Mike saw the ocean floor moving beneath him, and realized she was swimming off with his eyeballs. He couldn't understand it. He was dead. How can he still see?

Time passed, and Mike is still staring. The faded brown eyes now sit on top of the mermaid's shelf in her sea-cave, the pain tormenting him for eternity, never fading, never dying. The salt of the ocean felt like millions of tiny pinpricks driving into his eyes. And he knows he will never escape from this agony.

Peter whimpered as he woke from a fitful sleep. He had been having nightmare after nightmare. Ones where each of his friends had been killed horribly and brutally, and he couldn't do anything to help them. Peter sat up, gasping, as his last dream faded with his sleep. He could still see Mike hit the cold water, fighting and struggling all the way. He battled with his friend, feeling the ocean invade his lungs as it drowned the Texan. Peter waved his arms around in his bed, trying to fight off the liquid. He opened his eyes and uttered a cry of horror. Blood. His whole bed was drenched in blood.

"No..." he squeaked pitifully. "Help..." He gazed at his reflection in the mirror on the bureau across the bedroom, and gasped again as he saw himself soaked in the gore. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard not to vomit. With tears racing down his cheek, he scrambled out of his bed, moaning as the blood ran between his fingers, making wet, squishy noises as he clenched onto the sheets for balance. He made his way over to Davy's bed, sobbing heavily.

"Davy..." he whispered, shaking the figure in the other bed. "Please wake up... Please help me..." Peter clawed at Davy's comforter, ripping it off the still form. He stopped his crying and gawked at his unmoving friend. The soft, handsome features of the Englishman had hardened into polished wood, the unblinking eyes staring coldly at the ceiling. His hair was no longer silky and fine. Instead, there was coarse, stiff straw hair. The giant porcelain doll emitted a low gurgle from its lungs as bright red blood pushed it's way past the painted lips and flowed down to the pillow.

Peter slowly backed away from the figure, his eyes glued to the doll in terror. Uttering a low groan, he turned and ran upstairs to Mike and Micky's room, weeping hard until his salty tears mixed with the cold blood smeared on his face. The bitter concoction poured into his mouth, poisoning his fragile taste buds, choking him. He threw open the door to the upstairs bedroom and rushed in, wailing loudly.

"Mike! Mike! Something's wrong! Please help me!" he ran up to the Texan's bed and shook him hard. In his excitement, Peter accidentally pulled the figure hard and both tumbled to the ground. Peter winced as Mike's head connected with the floor with a loud, sickening crack. Hesitantly, he glanced at his friend. Another doll. Another fake. Crack lines ran across the expressionless face from the plastic hair like the shadowy fingers of death claiming another victim.

Peter turned to Micky. He didn't have to look closely to tell the curly hair was just a mop of fake nylon, the strong, defined jaw just expertly handcrafted lumber, and the open brown eyes nothing but cold glass. The room was quiet and still, the only sound was Peter's labored breathing as he fought to keep from fainting.

Suddenly, he broke from his trance and ran back downstairs, panic driving him to seek help from others. But before he could reach the front door, an apparition appeared in front of him. He screeched to a halt, then started backing up as the ghostly form of a young woman materialized before him. Her long, pale blond hair flowed behind her as if weightless, her beautiful face stark white and expression blank as a piece of paper. Except for her eyes. Those round, blue pools seemed to hold all the world's evil. She began floating towards him, calling out his name.

"Peter Halsten Thorkelson..."

"No," Peter's eyes widened in fear. "Not you. Leave me alone. Just let me be!" The lady didn't respond and didn't stop her advance. Peter kept backing up, his body gripped by hysteria. "Please!" he begged. "Stop haunting me! Why won't you leave me alone? WHY?!" Suddenly, he felt something against his back. The railing for their patio in back, connecting to the beach. The abrupt contact surprised him, and he tore his gaze from the woman to glance down. Below him was a mass of sharp rocks and boulders, too far from the ocean to be broken down by the crushing waves.

The phantom took this chance to speed towards the distracted boy. Peter turned back to her and yelped as he saw her attack. She disappeared before she could make contact, but the wind from her onslaught was enough to knock Peter over the edge. He let out a shriek of terror as he fell, which was immediately cut off when he hit the knifelike rocks. His death cry echoed across the sea as his body was torn open by the sharp slabs. The fear in his eyes faded and was replaced by a lifeless glass tint.

The sun shyly peeked over the horizon, but the warm light would never touch the broken doll hidden in the shadow of the looming beach house.

The young detective sighed as she glanced once more about the room. The police had been arriving in clumps and were swarming around the place like little buzzing bees. Off in the distance, she heard the siren of an ambulance draw nearer. For what? The boys here are dead. Closing her eyes and rubbing her temple, she tried to will away the piercing wails.

"Uh, detective?"

Her eyes snapped open and gazed at an older woman in a police uniform. "Yes Becky? Did you find more clues?"

Officer Becky shook her head. "None. This case is a mystery to me... But Sargent Rochelle wants your opinion of what happened. The regular officers have no idea what could have happened."

The detective beamed a little. She had moved here not two weeks and the police force was already asking her help. "Okay, I'll tell you what I think happened." She led Becky to the downstairs bedroom and opened the door. Inside, the walls were tinted red with blood. It was everywhere, splattered on the mirror, dried on the walls. In the middle of the room were two beds, and in one lay a smallish man. The detective walked up next to him and looked down. His face was frozen in a mask of horror, the dead brown eyes wide open and staring at his invisible assailant. All over his body were deep slits outlined with dried blood. Long, shiny scissors stuck deep in his chest pointed straight up in the air, as if saluting the investigator.

She stared sadly down at the young man, who seemed only a mere boy. "I think the killer came after him first. Sneaked up and caught him by surprise. Stabbed him... how many times?"

Becky flipped through the notebook. "The body has 18 stab wounds..."

"Stabbed him 18 times with the scissors. Then he tried to make a quick exit, knocking this over," she continued, pointing at the cracked wooden Indian right outside the door. "He's covered in blood by now, and has to get at the others." She walked across the living room to the stairwell, making sure to point out the bloody footprints soaked into the carpeting. They climbed the spiral stairwell, and walked into the upstairs bedroom.

This was even worse. Two more dead bodies. The detective walked over to the bed in the middle of the room. The body was almost nothing but charred remains. Walking over to it, the detective bent down and picked up the end of a long rope, burnt and frayed.

"He used this to tie down the victim. Obviously, he was a heavy sleeper." She looked at Becky, who was furiously writing all her words down. "Smell that? Gasoline. He poured some gasoline from this..." She picked up a container with some of the gas still inside. "And set the poor fellow on fire."

Becky gazed down at the blackened bones and sighed. "What a waste of youth." She picked up a picture from the dresser next to the bed. It was a photo of a curly haired young man with a strong jaw and friendly, open eyes. Turning her eyes back down to the charred figure, she shuddered.

The detective turned to the other bed, where a tall, lanky, dark-haired boy laid half on the bed, half off. His upper body was bent over the edge of the bed and his long legs were tangled in the sheets. She put a hand under his chin and raised his head up. The boy had deep scratches across his face and his eyeballs had been clawed out.

"Obviously the roommate here woke up in the middle of the attack and got himself beaten up. The assailant killed him too, quickly. Then he ran out..." she walked back out into the living room. "He must've taken a wrong turn and as he was running away from the scene of the crime, made a mistake and..." she stopped when she reached the balcony of the porch. Looking over, she saw another young blond boy sprawled across the rocks below. His hair was coated with reddish-brown dried blood, as was the rocks surrounding him.

"You really believe it was a random mass murder?" Becky whispered as she, too, gazed at the fallen boy.

"No..." she whispered back, brushing her long, blond hair out of the way. Gazing at Becky with her intense blue eyes, she continued. "He was mentally disturbed. He witnessed his brother killing his mother and father. It upset his mental balance. He murdered his brother in rage. I've been keeping an eye on him for quite a while now, but he escaped me two years ago. I just found him again..."

Becky gazed at her sadly. "So this is the brother you were telling me about. I'm sorry, Annie..."

"At least his pain is finally over..." Looking down at the dead boy she whispered, "Good-bye, Peter. I'll always remember you..."