A/N: Took me long enough, but this is a long chapter so please forgive me!

Thanks for the reviews guys:

SpiceOfLife: I kind of liked that chapter myself..Thanks!

TheAngelOfAnarchy: Have fun with that researching of the Lady Muerte. I have find like...nothing on the internet about her outside of artwork! It's a pain...oh, and props to you! You gave me the idea to incorporate Little Scottie in this chapter (I think...). I've seen stories with Lars/Twist bonding moments...haven't I? I could have sworn I have! Maybe I haven't...I can't remember...in regards to the bunkbed...I think it's just my family is all about practicality. What's practical about having a bunkbed for one kid, right? That's how my family would percieve it. Of course, my family was also poor for a really long time. Me and my two sisters used to share a bed until we moved to our house, and then for awhile my older sister and I had to share a matress on the floor and...okay, that's enough of my sad past. Now I have a friggen' huge bed of my own and my own laptop! ENVY ME! hahaha...

PrinceIzzy1: Peace out, bro.

RelaxingPikachu: I love your reviews. They're always so thorough! I can read them over and over and over again and...I don't, 'cause I don't have the time, but anyhoo...my fics do apparently end up surrounding Twister. Why? Because I love him to pieces! They should give him his own show. BRING BACK TWISTER! Now, I can see Twister talking back to a teacher, but telling one to 'shut up'...I don't think he'd live when his parents got that call...Actually, Yami no Matsuei isn't a lot like this. Yami is about two shinigamis (they're already dead) who work at bringing in people who should be dead but aren't, so that they can go to trialand yada, yada, yada. I mention that as a inspiration for this story due to demons, which come later...hehe...I hope you love him even more as this story progresses. He's going to suffer so much...I already feel so bad...hehe...not really. Cardcaptor Sakura is my favorite anime. Watch it. Love it. Worship it. Was there more I needed to say...? Oh yeah, I have to go review your story! Damnit, and all my forgetfulness. Oh, and about quitting work. Can't. The store will literally burn down without me. I have had at least three managers tell me it is hell when I'm not there. I make pizzas, and when mistakes come out we set them on a table for the employees to eat. It's been pointed out to me that when I'm not on the make-table there is like a huge stack of mistake pizzas, but when I am there may be like two or three that were cancelled, but that's about it. It's a pain, being needed. Don't cry no more, here's your update.

jexsuisxrien: Well, that's a name...a HARD NAME TO TYPE. But it's cool...hehe. Anyhoo. I should probably inform you, I don't write or read slash. Meh, Rocket Power slash, otherwise it's a lie. (2x5, baby! no one understands that reference...ahem...). I have no problem with it (the reading it thing) it's just I have this thing called an "open mind"...if I read slash, then I start to see slash, then I think I can write slash, and I love my Reg/Twist pairing, thank you very much. Truth be told, I'd probably find a new and inventive pairing anyhoo. But...uh...anyways, if you honestly think you can introduce me to nightmares I've never dreamed of, I haven't been writing this story to the best of my ability...YOU ROCK, new reviewer, and READ ON!

Chimaira009: You look familiar. Which of my other stories were you reading? I honestly can't remember, though I think it was a Recess one. Oi...it'll bug me for a long time! Anyways, here's the update.

A few reviewers are missing from this board...have you all lost interest already? Have I offended you? OH NO! I have, haven't I! Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I'm a bitch, there's not much can be done about that! PLEASE COME BACK!

oi...I have abandonment issues.

YAY! The story is here.

ENJOY!


Chapter 3¡Feliz Cumpleaños a…BOO! (Happy Birthday to…BOO!)

Twister sank to the damp ground, his back pressed against the log he'd previously been sitting on. The dew of the night air was clinging to the back of his neck. Dead, dead, dead, dead, the word rang in his ears. His mouth was suddenly dry, his heart pounding madly, his head spinning. He was talking to a dead boy.

"No. This isn't crazy," Twister muttered to himself, an attempt at reassurance, "This is that hormone stuff my parents are always going on about with Lars…"

"What's wrong?" Tommy asked wistfully.

"I'm talking to a dead kid, what do you think is wrong?" Twister snapped. He quickly regretted it, as hurt washed over him. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I guess it's not really your fault. So…" Twister chewed his tongue somewhat, "What's it like being dead?"

"I like your hat. I used to have a hat, but not a cool one, like the one you have."

"Um…thanks," Twister mumbled, lightly touching the mentioned yellow and red striped cap. It was very special, as his parents had bought it for him.

"Do you come up to this mountain often?"

"No, not really. We came here to camp for my birthday," Twister explained, relaxing slightly, "You? I mean, did you used to come up here a lot?"

"No. My class came up here for a trip. I was so excited. It was a father, son, trip. You know, how the schools do those sorts of things…I was having so much fun. Until I was killed," Tommy said solemnly. Twister felt his heart jump.

"Killed?" he repeated. A crazy man. That's what Reggie and Otto had said, a group of kids, up in the mountain, completely oblivious to the danger they were in. And then, dead. Pieces of mutilated flesh and amputated limbs. He swallowed hard, drawing his legs up to his chest and looking about the dark woods warily.

"Where do you live?"

"Ocean Shores," Twister mumbled, distractedly eyeing the forest. He would see movement, or think he saw movement, and picture an insane man, large, with wide red strained yellow eyes, staring out with gnashing brown dagger like teeth, hairy arms, and stringy black hair.

"Are you near the ocean? Near enough to see it? We didn't live very close to the ocean…I begged my mom to take me every day to the beach…"

"We live right near the shore," Twister eagerly told him, the reminder of his beloved home enough to pull his thoughts from crazy ax murderers hiding in the shadows of night, "We can walk to the beach anytime we want…except when we're at school, of course. We go surfing, and swimming, and shore boarding, and…"

"Wow! That sounds like so much fun! I wanted to try surfing, when I was older."

"I was already surfing when I was eight," Twister proudly said, then, sheepishly, "Well, on little waves, but still!"

"Really? How did you learn? Who taught you?"

"My best bro's dad, Raymundo, and our friend Tito," Twister grinned, recalling the day he'd first stood on the surf board, "I was six when I rode my first official wave without wiping! It was disappointing though, because Otto wasn't there to see. I'd gone with my brother, because our parents made him take me…"

"You have a brother? I wish I had a brother."

"Trust me when I say, no you don't," Twister cried, "Brothers are such a pain! Especially older brothers! Did you have any siblings? A sister?"

"No. I was an only child. My parents didn't want a lot of kids," Tommy whispered, "Tell me about your family."

"Um…my parents both work," Twister said thoughtfully, "And my brother and I go to school. Most of my relatives live in Mexico, or Southern California, Nevada, Texas, Florida, I have an aunt in Georgia, and some in Utah. My dad has a brother in Michigan. My brother and I were born in Mexico, and we lived there until I was four. I don't remember it very well."

"Is that where you ran away? In Mexico?"

"Um…yeah," Twister replied quietly.

"Why did you run away?"

"Because…my parents and my brother."

"That's why I ran away. Because of my parents! We're really a lot alike…parents are such a pain, aren't they? When I turned thirteen, I was going to move out."

"I don't think you can move out when you're thirteen…I think you have to wait until you're at least fifteen," Twister said thoughtfully, "But where would you go?"

"I know everybody says the circus, but all the people are so happy there! I want to be where everyone is happy. I would be a performer, an acrobat, on the trapeze, you know, the bar hanging from the top of the tent. I went to the circus once, on a fieldtrip. Everyone was watching the people on the trapeze. Our teacher told us it was called a flying trapeze. Cool, huh? I wish I could fly. That would be fun, huh? Do you like the circus?"

"I did," Twister muttered under his breath, "When I was little. I'm not allowed to go now, ever since I stuck my gum in a clown's hair. I mean, sheesh, how was I supposed to know that was his real hair? I just wanted him to leave me alone…"

"Twister?" someone called tentatively into the dark. Twister startled, looking to the tent wide-eyed. Sam was knelt in between the entrance, the flaps pushed back, "Who are you talking to?"

"Um…no one," Twister mumbled, nervously fumbling with his jacket zipper. Sam frowned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and shaking his head.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Um…I needed to think?" Twister attempted, and Sam raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Alright…can you keep the 'thinking' down, though? Some people are trying to sleep," Sam told him, shaking his head, and crawling back into the tent. The flaps fluttered shut and Twister breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against the log and rubbing his hands over his face. He felt a chill touch against his cheek and shivered. It was almost like a small hand of ice pressed into his skin.

"Don't," Twister mumbled, and a shudder raced down his spine.

"Who was that?" Tommy asked.

"Sam," Twister answered, closing his eyes. He was tired, exhausted really. He'd seen so much that day, been overwhelmed with so many different and unexplainable emotions and feelings. He would be nauseated one moment, elated the next, then miserable, angry, flustered, then sick. His head would start pounding and he would have to lie down. That's how he'd spent the day at school. He'd found a secluded area and laid his head against the cold cement ground.

"He's funny looking."

"He's cool, I guess, for a nerd," Twister replied, "We call him Squid." He settled back, pulling his jacket up around his neck and closing his eyes, yawning, "Didn't you have friends?"

"No."

"No?" Twister mumbled drowsily, "Why not?"

"I just didn't. Twister," Tommy whispered, the words a cold breeze in Twister's ear. He paid it no mind, "What's it like to sleep? I've forgotten…"

"It's like…it's like…" Twister grumbled, drifting off, "It's like sleeping…" His head lolled to the side, and his chest rose and fell with each soft breath. He was out.

I brought my hands around my body. The landscape was iced over, but there was no snow. It was freezing. I could hear a little boy crying, but I tried to ignore it. The land was barren, jutting black rocks, an ebony canyon. There was a lone tree, an elephant tree, on a high cliff. It was outlined black against the gray horizon. I don't know why it was gray, there were no clouds. I could see blue, as well, hazy. It was water. A lake.

I walked down the pathway, or more appropriately, formed a pathway of my own. The lake stretched farther than I could see. In the middle of it was a chess table, resting atop the water. There were two chairs on either side of it. I frowned, licking my bottom lip. She sat there in that one chair, watching me expectantly. She was dressed in a layered lace skirt and a high collared pink blouse. Her ever present boa draped about her neck, and a delicate hoop bonnet was tied over her head and under her chin with carefully chosen pink silk ribbon. Her brittle hair dangled down her back, and her hollow eyes bore into me. She was holding a white parasol, decorated with little pink flowers at the rim, and it was balanced on her left shoulder. She twirled it ever so slightly.

Holding my breath, I stepped forward onto the lake. I was surprised to find that the water held my weight. I walked forward. Glancing down, I noticed how deep and clear the water really was. Sunken to the bottom were people. Humans, thousands of them. Drowned. Their faces were turned up, milk white eyes, and smiling lips. Their hair whipped about in the loose, careless fashion attributed to underwater movement.

"Un jardin," she told me. I nodded, the implication was sickening but oddly enough, poetically beautiful. I liked it for some reason. A garden of bodies. I continued forward in a less than confident stride and stopped in front of the chess board table. It was marble and the pieces were already set up. The top of the queens were stamped with a skull I noticed. She motioned to the chair, "Siéntese. Ensámbleme, el pequeño. (Sit. Join me, little one.)"

I did as I was told, pulling the chair out and sitting carefully down into it. It was plainly designed, marble black. She sat in the white one. The backs were emblazoned with the outlining of golden crosses.

"¿Usted recuerda quiénes soy? (Do you remember who I am?)" she questioned. I nodded.

"Si, claro, Lady Muerte," I answered, my voice shaky, "Yo recuerdo. ¿Pero por qué estoy aquí? Está mi tiempo...? (I remember. But why am I here? Is it my time...?)"

"No, el pequeño. ¿Es su cumpleaños, verdad? (No, little one. It is your birthday, right?)"

"Si, yo tiene trece años," I replied, "¿Está esto la Tierra de los Muertos¿He vuelto? (Is this the Land of the Dead? Have I returned?)"

"No. Esto es una ilusión (This is an illusion.)," she explained, "Ninguno de esto es verdadero. Es todo el un sueño. Un fantasma de un sueño (None of this is real. It is all a dream. A ghost of a dream.)," she motioned to the chess board in front of us, "¿Usted jugará con mí? (Will you play with me?)"

"No sé jugar este juego (I don't know how to play this game.)," I told her bashfully. She smiled softly, placing a thin bone hand on one of her white pawns.

"Pero tu sabes. Tu sabes muchas cosas que tu no estás enterado de. (But you do know. You know many things you are not aware of.)"

She moved her pawn, two spaces ahead, then folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked to me in anticipation of my move. I looked down to the table, touching my own black pawn first. It was warm. I'd expected cold. It radiated warmth, like a living thing. I drew my hand back in surprise. I touched the knight, then, and pulled back as though burned. It was colder than ice. I narrowed my eyes at the board. The pieces amazed me. The king was simplistic, undefined, but the queen was crafted beautifully with the markings of Doña Sebastiana herself. The bishops were tall and stately, carved with stern faces, curled on their backs was the ebbing of feathers. The knights were gnarled creatures, three heads melded into one form. A hound. The rooks were ghastly, spectral beings with gaping holes where their eyes should be. My stomach lurched just looking at them. And the pawns. The pawns that radiated warmth. They were shapeless lumps, undistinguished save for the very human warmth they offered.

I moved a pawn forward. She smiled approvingly and moved her next piece, another pawn. We continued like that, battling on the chess board, taking one another's pieces, moving our own, strategically maneuvering as though it were a battlefield and we were gods, claiming the lost pieces, the dead, of our enemy. We were silent, contemplating our next moves with careful precision. I was intrigued that I knew where each piece should go, how it moved, and even the best way to move it. She didn't seem surprised at all when I placed my rook nearby her king and solemnly announced, "Check."

"Mate," she retorted, tipping over her own king and looking up complacently to me. We held one another's gazes, and she reached forward, touching her fingertips beneath my chin, "¿Qué tu sabes de cielo y de infierno? (What do you know of heaven and hell?)"

"El cielo está arriba con el dios. Cuando es bueno dado de la gente es donde van. El infierno está abajo con el diablo. Cuando es malo dado de la gente es donde van (Heaven is above with god. When good people die it's where they go. Hell is below with the devil. When bad people die it's where they go.)," I answered without hesitation. She nodded, cupping my chin with her hand.

"Así pues, entonces tu no sabes nada de él (So, then you know nothing of it.)," she whispered, "Pero pronto usted sabrá todo el demasiado. (But soon you will know all too much.)"

"No entiendo. ¿Por qué soy que ve las cosas que estoy viendo¿Por qué soy audiencia y discurso con los muertos? (I don't understand. Why am I seeing the things I'm seeing? Why am I hearing and speaking with the dead?)" I demanded, and a sadness crept over the Lady Muerte. She lowered her head, and was silent.

"Usted es tan joven y tan viejo. (You are so young and so old.)"

The table grew hot, suddenly, and flames began to lick their way up the side. The chess pieces melted. I pushed myself away from it, shocked, and the water beneath me gave way. I sank into its icy embrace, kicking and pulling, uselessly attempting to make my way back to the top. The lady watched as a sunk below. The drowned bodies gathered near me, their empty eyes staring accusingly at me. Echoing in the depth was the boy sobbing, and their cold clammy skin pressed against my own, attempting to steal any last warmth I possessed, as if the chill above hadn't been enough. They greedily fought to get at me, deadened hands raking into my flesh, bobbing bodies, disturbed by my living presence. Their hair choked me, blinded me, thick wet cobwebs trapping me, the fly. I opened my mouth to scream, and bitter water quickly filled it, tasting of ash and human flesh. I gagged, flailing wildly, the burning in my chest nothing compared to the burning in my eyes.

"Wake up, dude, wake up!" someone was yelling. Twister kicked out, his foot connecting with something soft. A groan followed, "Jesus, Twist, that hurt!"

"Augh! The ax murderer! No!" Twister cried.

"Chill, Twist," Reggie's voice broke through to him, "Otto and I made that up."

"Otto?" Twister moaned in confusion, rubbing at his eyes, and pulling himself up. The name sounded familiar. His backside was wet with dew moistened soil, and his whole body was iced over. Otto was knelt on the ground, clutching his sore stomach where Twister had landed the kick, and Reggie was hovered over him.

"Ow, Twister, that really hurt," Otto persisted.

"Well, you shouldn't have gone near him when he was thrashing around like that," Sam said wisely. He was sitting on the log across from Twister, eating a banana.

"What's up, Twist, you don't look so good?" Reggie questioned, a hand on her brother's shoulder, looking to Twister with softened eyes. Twister rubbed his head, sitting up and looking around dazedly. Then a sly smirk crossed Reggie's face, "You didn't really believe there was a crazy killer loose on this mountain, did you?"

"N-n-no," Twister insisted, frowning and flustered. Otto managed to chuckle through his pain and Sam even cracked a smile. Ray shook his head at the kids, crossing over to Twister with concern.

"Otto, Reggie, what have you two been up to?" he demanded, putting a comforting hand on Twister's shoulder, "It's okay, Twister, you just had a bad dream."

"Oh," Twister mumbled, attempting to stand, then slumping back against the log. A bad dream, he thought miserably. Yeah, right. They didn't know the half of it. He frowned. His head hurt, and he could barely see through his bleary vision. Everything looked red. His heart was pounding, and despite how cold he was, he was drenched in sweat. Maybe that was why he was so cold. He dug his fingernails into the soil beneath him. He couldn't remember. The dream was gone. He struggled to remember it, his chest ached. He knew that whatever he'd seen was important. It was a dream, he reminded himself, how could it be important?

"Let's work on cleaning up camp," Ray announced, ruffling Otto's hair as he passed towards the tent. Twister sneezed.

"I don't feel good," he grumbled and Reggie crossed her arms over her chest, while Otto and Sam simply rolled their eyes.

"What did you expect after sleeping out in the wet dirt with little more than your PJs and a windbreaker on?" Reggie questioned rhetorically before following after her father to help break down the tent and roll up their sleeping bags.

"What were you doing out here all night, anyhow?" Sam asked, finishing his fruit and throwing the peel into a small bag they'd set aside for trash.

"Yeah, if you were so scared of a killer on the loose, wouldn't it make more sense to sleep inside the safety of the tent?" Otto added with a humorous smirk.

Twister shrugged, pulling himself up and making his way towards the tent as well. He needed to get dressed. Everyone else already had their clothes on. He tried to piece together the night before. What had he been doing?

Thomas Gerard Mackeroy. It flashed in Twister's mind almost instantly. Everything flooding back. The story, the campfire, being angry at Otto, the feeling of the presence of death, the little boy's voice, his conversation with Tommy the dead boy. The ghost. He strained to hear the surrounding forest for some sign, some slight noise, to prove that night before had happened, or even disprove it. Nothing. Not even the tell-tale sounds of a neglected child crying. He slumped on the floor of the tent, watching Reggie and Ray from the corner of his eyes as they curled up the sleeping bags. He shuffled through his backpack, a hefty mess of bundled up clothes. He found his jeans and quickly pulled them on. Then his clean shirt, ripping off the one he'd worn to bed and pulling the new one over his head. He found his socks as well, then stumbled around the tent until he found his shoes.

"Raymundo," Twister murmured. It was going to bother him. He had to ask. He just had to.

"What's up, Twister?" Ray straightened, sticking the last of the sleeping bags in their stack and looking to the little redheaded boy.

"Has anyone ever…well…was anybody ever…killed up here in this area?" Twister asked, somehow tangling a knot in his shoelaces. He worked at undoing it, not wanting to look up and see the expressions on Ray and Reggie's faces. Their silence was enough.

"I told you, Twister," Reggie sighed, falling next to him, "Me and Otto made that up."

"I'm not talking about some crazy dude," Twister snapped, frowning at his shoelace. He was only making it worse, "I'm talking about…well…like…maybe…one kid."

"I guarantee you, Twister," Ray said dubiously, "Nobody has ever died up here, or been killed." He clapped his hands together, bundling the sleeping bags together and carrying them from the tent.

"Hey, Twist," Reggie whispered with a smirk, and he looked to her, "Happy birthday," she told him, tugging his hat over his eyes, before leaving the tent. He smiled slightly, straightening the cap.

They loaded the woody wagon up once more and drove down the road in silence. Ray turned the radio on in an attempt to liven the mood, but leaving the camping grounds was never as fun as going to them. Twister slumped in his seat, closing his eyes as they drove down the freeway. He didn't want to see anything that he wasn't supposed to. No dead people. The sun beat down on his face through the window. It was warm.

Then suddenly, it was as though he was thrown in a pool of cold water. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth, as if it was in the very air he breathed. His eyes flickered open momentarily. They were moving through a wreckage. He felt his heart pound like mad, red wash over him and he tried to keep from screaming. He squirmed, cold washing over his body and tears filling his eyes. He squeezed them shut, wrapping his arms about his body. Everyone else in the car was calm, relaxed. Reggie was singing along with the radio, Otto was sleeping, Sam was…Sam was staring at Twister with concern.

"What?" Twister mumbled.

"You okay?" Sam whispered, so as not to catch the attention of the others.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've been acting weird. You look sick," Sam began and Twister shook his head, turning to look out the window, back to the wreckage. It was a minivan, crushed by a semi-truck. He could see a little boy, popped like a grape, between the rear-view mirror and the grid of the semi. Blood splattered across cracked glass. Somehow it reminded him of Tommy.

"I'm fine," he repeated, as unconvincingly as the first time, "I slept outside last night remember? I think I caught a cold," he sniffled, mostly for effect, "And I'm getting a little motion sickness, is all…"

"You? Getting motion sickness?" Sam restated, dumbfounded. The concept was a little farfetched, Twister had to admit, "You were talking to yourself last night."

"I was not," Twister snapped. Ray looked into the rearview mirror back at them, and the two boys fell silent. Otto shifted slightly, mumbling something in his sleep. His head fell on Sam's shoulder, who stared in discomfort at the sleeping Rocket boy. They remained silent the rest of the way. Twister staring absently out the mirror, Sam glancing at him every now and then with subtle interest. Something was up with the other boy, Sam could discern that, and it didn't seem he'd be giving answers anytime soon. Of course, lack of cooperation had never stopped Sam from figuring things out before.

Otto woke up just as they reached Ocean Shores familiar streets. Upon which, he and Reggie got in an argument over the radio station until Ray shouted at them, settling the debate by switching the station to golden oldies. The kids all groaned, and Twister felt a relieved smile slide across his face. It was almost as though the incidents over the past couple days hadn't even happened.

Then the distant smell of death wafted through the air and Twister's nausea kicked in once more. He found himself missing those great outdoors. Too many people died in the city. He was ready to be in the quiet of his home. To relax, maybe take a hot bath, eat some soup and sleep.

They pulled into the Shore Shack's parking lot, and the kids jumped out, eagerly running towards the Rocket family's shore side restaurant. Twister was surprised that it was all shut up. They had to roll up the metal doors, and the lights flickered on.

"SURPRISE!" everyone shouted and Twister jumped back, startled. The Shack had been decorated with streamers, balloons, and leftover luau ornaments. There was a decent crowd gathered in the Shack's dining area. The gang's friends from school, Eddie, Oliver, Sherry, Trish, Trent, and so forth were gathered there. Twister's parents, Lars, and several of his cousins, aunts, and uncles were there as well. Officer Shirley was sitting at the bar with Conroy, and Tito was in the back with the Stimpletons manning the grill and serving up Hula burgers and Shake fries. Lame-o the clown was performing in the corner.

"Happy birthday, mi hijo," Sandy cooed, crossing the room to press a kiss to Twister's cheek. He squirmed, smiling half-heartedly, and turning red as the crowd laughed.

"Mom" he groaned in embarrassment, then looking around wide-eyed"What's all this..."

"Your birthday party," Otto provided, "Duh."

"Oh, cool," he grinned, "Where's the cake and ice cream?"

"That's my question," Sam spoke up, licking his lips and rubbing his stomach. Others stepped forward to congratulate Twister on the big '1-3', ruffling his hat, patting his shoulders, hugging and kissing him - that was from family members. Lars begrudgingly stepped forward and Twister smirked up at him, expecting a painfully kind word from the older Rodriguez..

"Do I give you your birthday whomping now, or later?" Lars hissed, and Twister winced.

"I prefer never," he quipped. Lars growled, turning and leaving towards the front counter to grab a burger. Sherry and Trish approached him, smiling and giggling.

"So, how's it feel to join us in the adolescent years," Sherry asked, smiling.

"The add-a-what years?" Twister scrunched his nose.

"She means being a teenager now," Trish explained.

"Oh," Twister frowned, looking down at the rest of his body, to his feet, to his hands, then back up to the girls, "I feel about the same as I did before. Where's my presents?"

"You act about the same as you did before, too," Trish laughed, and Sherry reached forward to pinch Twister's cheek.

"He's not a wittle boy anymore," she teased and he pushed her away.

"Cut it out," he snapped.

"Hey, what's that there?" Trish pointed to Twister's chin, and he frowned, crossing his eyes in a failed attempt to see what she was talking about.

"What? Where?" he demanded.

"Is that…?" Sherry began with a sly smirk, "Is that his…"

"I think it is," Trish grinned bemused.

"My what? What are you talking about?"

"His first pimple," they squealed together and Twister looked at them horrified.

"What? It is not!"

"Quit teasing him, you two," Trent interrupted, coming to slip an arm over Twister's shoulders, "Don't let them bother you, mate. They're only jealous because they know now that you'll have your eyes set on other girls and won't have time to play with them anymore."

"Play with us?" Trish piped, raising an eyebrow, "What are you getting at?"

"Yeah," Sherry pressed, "Why would we be jealous of Twister looking at other girls?"

"Because it's so obvious the way you two look at him," Trent taunted, "How you ladies really feel about him. You've been waiting all this time for him to reach a more matured age. I've seen it before, it's apparent you Sheilas fancy this here mate."

"They what?" Twister questioned, before grinning when seeing the wide-eyed expressions of Trish and Sherry.

"Let's go, Trish," Sherry muttered, pink-faced, and grabbing her friend's arm, dragging her away. Twister waved after them, and him and Trent broke into laughter.

"That was pretty good," Twister admitted, "Thanks, dude."

"No worries," Trent laughed, "It was a good time. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks," Twister replied.

"Was wondering, have you seen Reggie?"

"Yeah," Twister frowned, "I think she went to help serve food."

"Right. Good on ya, mate, once again. I'll catch you later," Trent nodded, jogging towards the counter. Twister watched him leave with unsettling feeling in his stomach. Why did the fact Trent asked about Reggie bother him so much? No, Twister assured himself, it's not because he asked about Reggie. It's because the New Zealander was so eager to ditch Twister for Reggie. Yeah, that was it. And it was because he felt sick. He had to get some fresh air.

Twister maneuvered his way out of the restaurant, while the guests chatted. He walked to the pier railing, leaning over it and staring at the sand and dirty patio tables below. He laid his chin on his arms, gazing at the ocean scenery. The beach was empty, a few seagulls flapping in the distance towards their nests. The moon was full, high in the sky and reflected down in the spraying foam water below. He'd seen it before. The lone surfboard kicking up on the sand, the limp body. Her careful facial features, full deep red lips, long black lashes, smooth complexion, lithe body, glistening tan skin, drenched curls slicked back and tangled in her eyes. Her hair was a deep purplish red, so dark that it appeared almost black in that night air. Her red board shorts were torn, and her top was stretched in its saturation across her chest and broad back. There were obvious scratches and deep cuts on her legs, arms, shoulder blades, and neck. She moved with the water, and it gave her the eerie impression that she was still alive. She wasn't, of course. The leash around her ankle was broken and her board was pushing it's way onto the beach beside her. She was pretty, once, filled with life and energy. He knew because he'd seen all the pictures, all the home videos. Lying there, she looked dull, extinguished. Her arm was tucked under her body, awkwardly, and there was a large gash across her forehead and eye, where the coral reef had caught her. It marred her face. There was no blood. It just shined, pinkish flesh colored.

Twister closed his eyes. Opened them again. It remained, the image. He sighed, burying his face in his hands and thinking of Tommy. Where had the little ghost boy gone? And why did he care so much?

"Twister?" the voice was soft, and the redhead turned in surprise, thinking the little dead boy had somehow followed him. His heart was pounding and he frowned down at his cousin.

"You scared me, little Scottie," Twister hissed, "What do you want?" The little boy smiled sweetly, running to wrap Twister in a hug. Twister sighed once more, heavily this time.

"I got you a present," Scottie said, taking Twister's hand and dragging him back in to the Shack. The little boy dug through the pile of fancily wrapped packages, finding a small box with pink and purple paper. He held it out. "It's for you. I picked it out and wrapped it myself because you're my favorite cousin." Twister groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes and taking the gift.

"Thanks," he mumbled, opening it while Scottie watched eagerly. It was a little brown cardboard box. He popped it open to discover an assortment of colorful plastic bangles, "These are great," Twister muttered, "Thanks." Scottie grinned, throwing his arms around Twister once more.

"Cake, everyone!" Ray announced, carrying in the large triple layer baked good topped with thirteen lit candles, and one to grow on. Raul carried the other end and they laid the pastry on a cleared table as everyone sang.

"Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…" Twister smiled, leaning forward in preparation of blowing out the candles. "Happy birthday dear Twister…"

"Happy birthday to you!" Twister paused, feeling his heart skip a beat. For a moment, he thought he'd heard Tommy's soft voice singing in his ear. But it couldn't have been. He blew out the candles and a cheer broke out in the crowd. That was impossible, right? Tommy was gone? He couldn't of possibly followed Twister, could he have?

Twister watched as his father cut slices for everyone, half aware that people surrounded him, half aware that he was scowling, half aware that the party was still going, half aware that he didn't care. He'd often heard thirteen was an unlucky number, but this was ridiculous.


END A/N: WOW! A second dream. What could it mean? Does that rhyme? Um...

I apologize for the Sherry and Trish moment. They did strike me as the type to do that, however...so...yeah...hehe! Um...there must be something I need to talk about...um...

Quick recap: As of right now, Twister has encountered two types of ghosts. Ghosts of people, and ghosts of memories. The ghosts of people are like Tommy, the ones who talk and sometimes acknowledge the presence of the living. The ghosts of memories are the images of deathly scenes. The chess pieces are important, they all symbolize something. Um...I've got nothing.

My mind is drawing a complete blank right now. I have no idea what I was going to say. OH, I should mention. Doña Sebastiana is figured in Mexican catholicism, mostly, though I don't know the whole back story. That's why the chess game featured all that religious stuff. I'm atheist, I should probably tell you all that. And I'm not going to be entering the religious realm of this story, not in the way I probably could. I'm not taking an atheist standpoint with this fic either (that's obvious). Um...anybody who's read Killing the Daisies should know, if I touch the subject of God, I touch it lightly. And there is no debating.

I don't want any reviews about how God does/doesn't exist, and how I'm presenting him wrong, or how I need to feature him in the story more, or shit like that. AND NO TRYING TO CONVERT ME TO ANYONE'SRESPECTIVE RELIGIONS! I've successfully fended off Mormons, Christians, mormons, mormons, mormons...yeah, I live in Nevada, we got mormons everywhere. Not that I have anything against Mormons. Some of my good friends were mormons. All stabbed me in the back too, the assholes...um...(desperately seeking to save face...) my favorite teacher is mormon (screwed that one up...).

Something you should all know. Don't debate with me on religion. It is a hobby of mine, and I've taken a college level course on Faith, so I know a lot. I've read parts of the bible too...ohhh...I'm pretty skilled, eh? I need to read the bible, actually. It's one of the greatest works of fiction, I hear. (j/k). If you're gonna read my author's notes, you have to be pretty loose. You can't take anything I say at face value. JUST LAUGH, IT'S FUNNY! LIKE TBS! I KNOW FUNNY!

Now, I'm just talking to talk. Disregard all of that up there, and I deeply apologize.

I'm just putting off my homework is all. I have to practice the guitar as well. Let's wrap this up...

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, any raunchy attempts at humor, any offensive opinions the author may have divulged, any...this list could go on.

Have I pissed you guys off, or moved you with my wit? Either way, REVIEW and tell me what's raging through your mind.

I'm hungry.

Thanks for Reading. And once again, I AM SO SORRY!