Thanks to everyone for taking the time to review, and extra cookies for those who reviewed . . . that's right, I made cookies in my hubby's absence, just don't tell him or he'll think I've turned into Betty Crocker. bambers;)

Chapter Two

If I'd suspected that Eric was out of his mind before I'd gone into the bathroom and showered, it was completely confirmed by the time I'd returned to his living room. As I stood at the threshold of the room, my jaw dropped open as I watched him shuffling around on the ground as if some unseen force was knocking the hell out of him. My first thought was that he was having some sort of seizure, my second was more accurately to the point. He was one step shy of riding the crazy train, an' buckets full of nuts.

His head popped up, and snapped to the side as if an invisible fist had punched him square in the cheek, and then he glanced my way and smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I must look a bit . . . well, there's no other way to say it but crazy. It's a part of my process," he went on to explain, "I'm all about realism. If some badass demon is gonna knock the hell out of one of my characters, I want them to respond realistically."

Yellow-eyes flashed with fiery heat through my mind at the mention of demons, but I quickly pushed it aside, and retrained my focus on him. "You write about demons?" I asked, stomach churning at the thought that I was somehow placing him in danger just by being in his home.

"Yeah, it's gonna be a series if I ever get it completed." With a weary sigh, he pulled himself up off the ground, and returned to his typewriter. "At first it was going to be about these two girls traveling backwoods America, hunting vamps and werewolves, but then I thought that was a little too Buffyish. So now I'm leaning towards making it about these two guys fighting demons." As he spoke, in my head I envisioned two shadowy figures searching through the trunk of their darkly colored vehicle for weapons to fight whatever creature had crossed their path.

"Brothers?" I asked, and instantly regretted it as his eyes lit up with excitement.

"No, why? You think they should be?" He immediately reach for a pencil and pad of paper, scribbling down several things before returning his attention to me. "Why do you think these two brothers would want to hunt demons?" His eyes grew wide as his mouth dropped open. "Ohh, wait just a moment . . . maybe they have some sort of superpowers like Batman . . . no, Batman doesn't have superpowers. Maybe more like Superman, ya know. What if they could melt the demons with their minds. That'd be freakin' awesome."

Not knowing what to say that could further add to the pure random craziness of the conversation, I quickly glanced around the room, and my sights leveled on the blanketed windows. "Can I ask why you cover the windows with blankets."

"Well, it's a part of my process - I'm trying to get in touch with my darker side, my Vader side as it were."

"Of course you are." Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention to the vast sea of lit candles smoking up the room and filling it with the overpowering scent of earthy sandelwood. "And the candles are a part of the process as well I suppose?"

"No, what do you think I am - crazy?" He chuckled. "I just got so busy writing I forgot to pay the electric bill."

"The thought never crossed my mind." Nope once it was planted in my head that thought remained firmly rooted, no flittering across my mind on that account. "Why don't you have any mirrors in your house?" I asked to change the subject, almost dreading the answer, but too curious not to ask after failing to find one in the bathroom. "How am I supposed to remember who I am if I can't see myself?"

"Good question," he said, eying me up for a moment before he scribbled something else down on his notepad. "Have you ever heard that mirrors can trap the souls of the dead?"

Searching my mind for a moment, I realized that I had. Pressing my eyes closed, images flashed through my mind of mirrors shattering, and dark altars with symbols painted in blood on reflective glass, but just as I focused in on them, those damn yellow eyes burned through the memories, scattering them like dust caught in a violent fiery hell storm. "I've heard of it before."

"Well, I've toyed with the idea of these souls being able to travel through mirrors like the urban legend of Bloody Mary, an' I don't wanna wake up findin' myself dead some morning, so I got rid of them."

"Eric, have you ever thought of seeking professional help?" The words slipped from my mouth before I had a chance to stop them, but he had to know he was in need of serious mental help.

"You think that might help?" He quirked a brow as if pondering my suggestion, and perhaps finding some merit in it. "I mean, I've heard of writer's groups, but those people are usually all kinds of crazy, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." Slumping back down onto the couch, I rubbed my throbbing temples.

"So, Larry, these brothers . . . Frank and Fred Lancaster, what would their motivation be?" he probed, undaunted by my comment or the look of aggravation I cast in his direction. "They have to have a reason why they slay demons for a living."

Frank and Fred? I shook my head in further agitation, but wasn't the least bit surprised that he would choose those names. "I'm no writer, I've no freakin' idea what their motivation would be for hunting some sonuvabitchin' thing," I gritted out with more force than was necessary, and was somewhat shocked by the intense burning rage conjured in my mind at the thought of demons.

Eric bit at his lower lip as he drummed his pencil against the tabletop, probably another part of his so-called process, adding to the already pulsating thrum inside my head. "Do you really have to do that?" I motioned toward the pencil, and gave him a look that clearly meant that if he didn't stop, I would rip the damn thing out of his hand and snap it into pieces, and maybe break a few of his fingers in my so-called process.

"Sorry," he mumbled absentmindedly, "was just thinkin' how you'd make a good character in my story. Maybe there's this guy that the brothers go to for all the intel? Someone they trust, ya know . . . sort of like their own personal Obi Wan."

Just great, we're back to Star Wars references. Heaving a tired sigh, I carefully rubbed my eyes, wincing with the effort, and quickly decided not to do it again until the swelling had gone away. "How'd you find me anyway?" I asked, hoping to change the subject, and maybe figure out who I was before I became just as mentally unstable as him. "Maybe if you took me back there, I might remember something."

"Ummm . . . yeah, about that," he hesitated, setting aside his pencil and paper, and almost appeared as if he were getting ready to bolt for the front door. "I don't really think it'll be all that much help."

"Why not." Instinctively my fists clenched as I fixed him with what normally would've been a hard stare, but probably turned out looking more comical looking than menacing.

"Because I . . . I hit you with my car." Holding up his arms, he waved them in front of himself as if maybe I'd somehow misunderstood him, and he needed to clarify. "It wasn't my fault, you just popped up out of nowhere . . . almost like a Jack-in-the-box. Only in this case it was a Larry-in-the-manhole, and my car sorta slammed into the manhole cover, flattening you. I was only going about five miles an hour when I hit you, an' you can see where this is more your fault than mine, right?"

My jaw dropped wide open as I continued to stare at him incredulously. He'd struck me with his car and actually had the nerve to say I was to blame. "What would I being doing in an underground sewage tunnel?"

"I dunno." Splaying his arms out to the sides, he shrugged. "But I was thinkin' if you didn't mind, I could somehow work it into my story. Maybe some sort of creature chasing the brothers through the sewer system."

The image of a creature shredding it's own flesh, backbone contorting hideously as its veiny under skin was revealed, flashed like a snapshot in my mind. "What would a creature be doing hiding out in the sewers?"

"Maybe it's a smart creature, and knows the sewer systems run underground throughout the entire city." He smiled, seemingly happy with his own explanation, and hastily picked up his pencil to jot it down. "And if that's the case, maybe it's hiding out there waiting to find its next victim."

"Right, because so many people tend to wander around in sewers."

"Well, you apparently do, so there has to be others." His eyes widened yet again, and without saying a word he hurriedly scrawled something more down. I cleared my throat to gain his wayward attention, but without glancing in my direction he held up one finger for me to hold my thoughts until he was finished writing. Throwing down his pencil, he glanced up at me and excitedly babbled, "What if the brothers aren't the only slayers out there? What if there's this whole underground network of them? That'd be really cool wouldn't it? Sort of like the Rebellion going up against the Empire, but in this case it's the slayers versus the demons."

"Why slayers?" I asked, mentally kicking myself for being drawn into his madness, but figured if he could work through his thoughts on his story, he might be of some help to me. "Why not just call them hunters? That way they can just say their going on hunting trips if anyone gets to questioning all the weapons in their vehicle."

"Huh. Never thought of it like that." Scratching his scruffy beard for a moment in thought, he bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically. "I like it, Frank and Fred - Demon Hunters."

"Are you really married to those two names?" I questioned, now drawn into his whole writing process. "Cause I sure as hell wouldn't want a Fred or Frank saving my ass from some damn demon. And at this moment, I'm kinda rooting for the demon to kick their asses."

"You really don't know anything about writing do you?" he said with a shake of his head, irritation peppering his tone. "Frank and Fred are awesome names, they just scream of the feeling of guys you can trust. They're your buddies - the guys you want to have around. Hell, I'd wanna have those two guys saving my life if I was in danger."

"Friends of your by any chance, an' I'm just guessin' here, but you've probably promised they would be written into a story?" I'd now completely fallen into his insanity, and was rambling on about a story I couldn't give two shits about. "Can you just show me where you flattened me with your car?"

"You mean go outside?" He appeared taken aback, eyes rounding at the thought of leaving his perch to venture out of his home. "Out of the house, outside?"

"Well, yeah, unless you're telling me now that you somehow managed to run me over while sitting in your chair typing."

"But what if inspiration strikes me while I'm out there? I'm on a roll here, an' not like you care, but sometimes these things just come an' go . . . an' once they're gone, it's just never the same."

"You remember when you asked what a good motive would be for your brothers?"

"Yeah."

"I'm thinkin' revenge would be a damn good motive, and I believe I really am the type of guy who would take it personally if you didn't get your ass dressed right now an' take me to where you hit me with your car."

"Guess I could always take my voice recorder," he muttered dejectedly, eying his typewriter as if asking it for its permission to leave. Tapping his fingers nervously on his desk, he added, "Ever heard of EVP's before, Larry?"

One moment of sanity and we were straight back to the funny farm. Yet for some reason his words conjured up the image of a homemade contraption with flashing lights across the top of a voice recorder.

"I don't know, maybe." Scrubbing a hand across several days worth of facial hair, I wondered in aggravation if I normally had a beard or hadn't had a chance to shave in a while. "It's for recording the voices of spirits, right?"

"Exactly." He punched at the air in his excitement, face alighting with a huge grin. "Well, I was thinking that maybe if I took you where you wanted to go, then you'd owe me, so maybe we could swing by a cemetery an' do a little EVP work."

"Just let me get this clear, you hit me with your car, and now I owe you?" I grumbled at his warped sense of logic.

"Technically you hit my car, so yeah, you do kinda owe me."

Pressing my eyes closed, I rubbed at my aching temples, certain that my headache was more Eric induced than from having my head bashed against the pavement. "I'll go with you if you change the names of your characters because Frank and Fred would never make it past the first book."

Eric pushed back his chair, rose to stand and headed toward a room off to the right, calling back over his shoulder, "You sure you're not a writer, cause for someone who claims he isn't, you certainly have a lot of opinions on the matter."