Deaths Excellent Vacation

green trousers who spent their lives making shoes.
    His life in America was looking better and better.
    The night was chilly, although the drink from the pub was still warming his veins. Pat struck out in the direction of the town. He hoped to bypass the dirt road and hit the main one, just in case Roddy and Mary were still hunting for him. The terrain was rough and pocked with mud puddles. He kept feeling that someone was at his elbow, guiding him. Nevertheless, Pat slipped time and again, falling into the bog and clambering up until he was soaked and filthy.
    Just when he had decided to curl up in the first dry spot he came across, Pat caught a scent he recognized, a peat fire. He followed his nose.
    In the middle of the gorse was a small house, covered in sod. It reminded Pat of a hobbit hole. The door was low enough that even he would have to stoop. He smiled to himself. Leprechauns. The real Fir Bolg must live here, not exiles spending their holiday role-playing. Maybe it was time he embraced his heritage. He knocked.
    The door creaked open. A wizened face peered out. “Begorra! If it isn’t Cousin Patrick! We heard ye were in the land again.”
    They knew his name! Now Pat understood the feeling he had had all evening of someone lurking next to him. He grinned. “I’ve lost my way. May I come in?”
    The door opened wide and Patrick entered, feeling that he’d finally found the real Ireland. He couldn’t wait to rub Jerry’s nose in it.
    The inhabitants of the hut were two little men, both looking older than time. They both seemed thrilled to see Patrick.
    “You’ll be with the tour,” the first one assumed correctly. “You people hardly ever come out to find us. We’ve always been hurt by that. Such a long time for a family to be apart. It’s an honor to have you. Look, Seamus, it’s Patrick O’Reilly, home from America, and looking to find the family!”
    “Is it now?” The other man had been sitting facing the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, but now he turned and smiled.
    With a rush of horror, Patrick saw that the man’s teeth were shining copper, filed to razor-sharp points. His heart froze as he understood. These weren’t relics of mythology, nor were they modern, assimilated leprechauns. The little men were really the Oldest Ones. There was not even a veneer of civilization in them, only ancient, primal needs and hate.
    Patrick rolled off his stool and tried to crawl for the door.
    They were too quick for him. Each man took one of Pat’s arms. As they forced him to the floor, Pat marveled at the strength in their shriveled bodies. They bent over him, cackling in delight.
    “Home from America, the renegade bastard,” Seamus said, as he raised his knife. “And just in time for supper.”

Pirate Dave’s Haunted Amusement Park
    TONI L. P. KELNER
     
     
    Toni L. P. Kelner is the author of the “Where Are They Now?” mysteries, featuring Boston-based freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper, and the Laura Fleming series, which won a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She’s also a prolific writer of short stories, many of which have been nominated for awards. Her story “Sleeping with the Plush” won the Agatha Award. This is the third anthology Kelner has coedited with Charlaine Harris, and she looks forward to many more. Kelner lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs.

    FROM as early as I could remember to the year I turned eighteen, my parents and I spent part of every summer at Bartholomew Lake. We always stayed in a hotel made up of lakeside cabins, which was naturally called Lakeside Cabins, and spent our days swimming in the lake, eating fried fish, and making at least one expedition to the local amusement park.
    So when I decided to get out of town to get my head together before making a decision that would affect the rest of my life, it only seemed natural to head for that same lakeside hotel. My psychologist would probably have suggested that I was trying to recapture my lost girlhood, but I hadn’t seen my psychologist since the attack that nearly killed me.
    While I was in the hospital recovering, a delegation had come to tell me the truth about the thing that had attacked me. After that, I stopped going to therapy. Though my guy had done a great job helping me deal with the loss of my parents, I didn’t think he’d have much insight into the loss of my humanity. In fact, he’d probably have