By Colleen Foley
Belief is a strange thing. I never wanted to believe in monsters. I have always needed to believe in my brother. And now I wasn’t sure I should. I was about to find out.
sat at the rickety card table in what passed for the kitchenette of our
hotel room, his face bathed in light from the laptop monitor and the
hotel’s horrific red and green striped neon sign, blinking just outside
Between all that and his shorn head, I barely recognized him. That seemed both appropriate and horrifying.
“So Salem, about that new mojo of yours.”