Lost

A high-pitched shriek resonates through the dark house. The hulking form of Lazarus blocks my view, but judging by his girlish falsetto something has startled him.

"What the…" A female voice stammers. "Don't just…In the name of Christ, get out!"

"She compels us." Lazarus gasps and clutches at his chest. He stumbles backward, tripping over my good leg in his retreat.

"What? There are two of you?" The woman yells. "Get out!"

Now, she can see me, and I can see her. Blushed with warmth and embarrassment, her body trembles. Gossamer webs of blue veins imbrue the shroud of translucent skin. Froth clings to her inner thighs and slides in tiny torrents down her curving side. She gulps the humid atmosphere through parted lips. Her chest heaves with each shallow breath. Lavender, she smells of lavender.

Standing in a shell-shaped bath, this Botticelli goddess scowls incredulously as she grasps for a towel. The terrycloth brushes over the dancing flames that trim the tub in fragrant opulence.

"What is wrong with you?" She shouts, defiantly wrapping her towel around her dripping torso. "Why won't you leave? Just leave!"

In a fit of hysteria, she scoops up the nearby items in her shaking hands and hurls them across the room. Lazarus, still on the floor, sits up just in time for a hurdling votive to bonk him on the head. Purple wax splatters in his hair and dribbles down his unshaven cheek.

I sputter. Viscous liquid sprays my face.

"Deirdre!" Grabbing my hand, Lazarus pulls me toward him. "We have to go! That's verbena!"

"So?" I ask. Teetering like a toddler ice-skater, I struggle to my feet.

"We're allergic to it," he cries. "We have to get out of here!"

On the soap-soaked floor, he scrambles. Unable to gain purchase with his feet, he hauls his bloated body forward with his wimpy arms.

Globs of poison body-wash ooze into my eyes. Blind, I reach out for Lazarus and succeed in finding a handhold in his cape. Dragged by a vampire-sled I, the blind musher, skid across the slippery surface on my way to the front door.

Outside, the cool, vanilla air wraps around my slimy head. Lazarus wipes the verbena sludge from my eyes and face with the tail of his cape.

"Am I going to die?" My voice shakes without reason. How bad could it be? I've already died once.

"No," he barks. "But, we have to get help. Desmond will know what to do, but what house is his? The numbers, I've confused the numbers."

"Take me home," I groan. "I just need a bath. You're lost, aren't you? Who is this Desmond fellow, anyway?"

"Time! There's no time!" Lazarus shouts. "We have to find Desmond!"


Does the decaying duo
A. Tiptoe back inside to violate the sanctity of the kitchen sink?
B. Conduct a door-to-door search for Desmond and a public restroom?
C. Rush Deirdre to the neighborhood YMCA for a quick dip in a chlorinated pool?
D. Call the paramedics?

You decide. (As always, you may propose an alternative solution)