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    The Night Strangler
    The Night Strangler
    The Night Strangler
    Ebook385 pages6 hours

    The Night Strangler

    By Dallas Releford

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Cecil Pardon, a brutal serial killer and murderer has killed more than forty beautiful women. A few people claim that he is not human, that he is the descendent of a family of werewolves and that he does not fear death in any form. When he attacks Denise Morgan, the daughter of a rich and powerful publisher, she launches an aggressive campaign against him to bring him to justice. Brandon Cotton, a handsome and masculine homicide detective attempts to assist and protect her while he endeavors to win her love. Denise claims she does not have time for anyone until the Strangler kidnaps her. When Brandon comes to her rescue, she casually warms up to his advances. When they discover that Pardon really is a werewolf, they become desperate to capture him before he can kill other women. Pardon is constantly hounded and haunted by the ghosts of his previous victims. They insist that he surrender to the police and tell them where he buried their bodies. Pardon realizes that he is up against something beyond his control and the thought terrifies him. The final battle between the forces of evil and the armies of good involves the werewolves facing the ghosts of Pardon’s victims, the police and dozens of ghosts of Civil War soldiers Pardon has called on to assist him in his battle for survival.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDallas Releford
    Release dateMay 18, 2012
    ISBN9781476312712
    The Night Strangler

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      Book preview

      The Night Strangler - Dallas Releford

      The Night Strangler

      Paranormal Mystery

      By:

      DALLAS RELEFORD

      Published by

      Dallas Releford at Smashwords.com

      The Night Strangler

      Copyright (C) 2011 Dallas Releford

      Originally written as

      Spirits of the Fallen

      * * * * *

      This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, events, organizations, areas, or locations are intended to provide a feeling of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All other characters, dialogue and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination and should not be accepted as real.

      No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit permission from the author or publisher except in brief quotations used in an article or in a similar way.

      Disclaimer

      Please remember that this is a work of fiction. That means that any resemblance to persons, places, things, events or ideas is not intentional. The State of West Virginia where this story takes place is a beautiful place and the people are friendly, warm and kind. One of the main reasons the story took place in West Virginia is because my wife’s sister and her family live there and I fell in love with the state after only a couple of visits. Not too many writers have written about West Virginia, especially fiction writers. I also write about Kentucky and other states. The deep valleys, hills, mountains and streams were the perfect setting for the Night Strangler. It could have just as well been Kentucky or South Carolina except I liked West Virginia and wanted to write about places I knew about. Also, be warned that some of the towns in this story may not exist except for larger cities like Charleston and South Charleston. I tried not to be too hard on those cities.

      Another thing I need to mention is that this book is not a travel guide. If you want one of those, any store that has maps can sell you a guide to West Virginia. When I published Savannah Summer, a reader commented that she was disappointed because my descriptions of Savannah were not accurate. Of course they weren’t accurate because I have no idea what Savannah looked like in 1859, except for what I have read and seen in a few pictures of the area around that time. The story was about a plantation in general and about a young girl growing up there. I tried not to be too descriptive of West Virginia because people have their own ideas about how places look. I might describe mountains, valleys, rivers and meadows with lots of flowers while someone else is focused on the rivers. So, it is best to let the reader form their own views of what a place looks like and focus on the storyline. In other words, if a fiction writer says that he went into a White Castle restaurant on Sixth Street in Charleston please don’t go looking for it because it may not be there. Of course, if I really wanted to do so I could be accurate except I might do a lot of research and make sure that any places I mention do exist and ten years later they might tear the place down and put up something else. Places, things and people change. That is why it is best to create fictional places and people. Just thought I’d mention this so you won’t be disappointed. My purpose in writing Night Strangler is to entertain you, not disappoint you.

      Smashwords Edition, License notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      * * * *

      Dedication

      I would like to thank my wife Sharon for her understanding while I was writing this book. She passed away on August 18, 2010. She is dearly missed.

      I would also like to thank my agent and typist, Harriet Smith and Martin Smith, my advisor and typist. Their hard work and dedication has made this book much better than it would have been without them.

      * * * * *

      The Night Strangler

      The Strangler is back in a small West Virginia town after his disappearance five years earlier. Denise Morgan is the daughter of the newspaper publisher who made a crusade out of exposing the murderer of fifteen beautiful women when Denise was a teen. Now, as beautiful women fall victim to the predator, she searches her past life hoping to find a clue that will reveal the identity of the killer.

      * * * * *

      It is safer to place your naked foot within reach of a rattlesnake than it is to place your fate in the hands of an evil person.

      Dallas Releford

      * * * * * *

      THE NIGHT STRANGLER

      Chapter 1

      Denise Morgan, a beautiful journalist employed by her father’s newspaper and magazines, was glad that Friday had finally arrived. With two more articles to write and a few calls to make, she could not wait to get home. Sometimes, she dreaded going home to four walls and an empty house although this was not one of those nights. It had been a rough day. Pulling her shoes from her tired feet, she would take it easy on the couch and read a good book. Living alone was her choice simply because her career did not provide her with time for anyone else, especially a boyfriend or husband.

      Wondering why she always felt rushed, or maybe the correct word was urged, when she was at work, she knew the answer was because she was a journalist. A friend once told her that journalists never slept. Sometimes, she believed that. Pounding keys on her computer keyboard, Denise hammered out the last few paragraphs for an article her father wanted to run about an old murder case involving someone they called The Strangler. The two words, The Strangler paralyzed her mind for a few seconds as she stared at them on the flat screen monitor. As she meticulously applied the finishing touches to the article, she shivered from fear knowing the history of the man they called, The Strangler, a brutal killer who had no respect at all for any life.

      So many mysteries surrounded the killer because he suddenly appeared, killed a woman in horrible ways and then was gone. He had not committed any murders for more than five years now and everyone thought his murder spree was finally over, except, Denise sometimes wondered if that were exactly true. Her father, Mr. Silas Morgan had insisted that Denise write a few articles to be run in the Sunday paper about the killings simply because the murders had never been solved and he wanted to put pressure on the police department to do something about that.

      Denise hastily jotted a note on a pink pad she kept on the desk by her computer. She had to remember to check on her best friend, Leslie Helton tomorrow. Leslie had cancer and Denise did not expect her to live much longer. Perhaps she might spend most of the day with her. She knew that Leslie would most certainly appreciate the company since she lived alone. As she thought about it, she thought that maybe she would take a pizza over and some other things that Leslie probably needed. Living alone was something Denise could understand. It was not for everyone. Denise wondered why so many people had to live alone when there were so many lonely people in the world. Didn’t people trust each other anymore?

      Shrugging the question off, she continued writing the article as other workers, journalists, clerks and reporters began shutting down their computers and rushing out of the office ready for a weekend away from the stress and pressure of work. It was almost five o’clock.

      Finishing the story, Denise saved the article and sat back in her chair. Why wasn’t she married at twenty-seven years old? Her skin was creamy white and flawless. With cobalt blue eyes that sparkled most of the time, full pink lips and a figure she was proud of, she figured that she could attract most men and probably marry anytime she wished. Except, her father kept her so busy she did not have time for a social life much less a married life. Knowing her situation, her father constantly reminded her that she wasn’t going to be beautiful forever and practically insisted that she get married and give birth to a son. He needed someone to inherit his business. She had made it clear to him that she would not run a newspaper and most certainly not a bunch of magazines. Neither would she have kids to deal with. She wanted to go where the action was. Her goal was to become a national news anchor for one of the major networks. It did not look as if she was going to get there unless she could escape from under her father’s ever-present wing. Denise decided that she would never stop trying. Brushing her shoulder-length dark hair aside, she read the article she had just written to correct any mistakes she might find.

      Working feverishly on the second article, hoping she could finish it before six o’clock, she was frustrated when the phone on her desk rang. Wondering if she could ignore it, she finally decided that the person on the other end might be her father and picked up the receiver without first checking the Caller ID feature. Since the office was almost empty now, she put the call on the speakerphone.

      Hi beautiful, the male voice said. Is your day about over?

      Hi yourself, she said recognizing Brandon Cotton’s voice immediately. Perhaps she would have been better off if her father had called. She did not have time to waste on the son of Walter Cotton, a cop friend she had known for a long time. Ever since she met Brandon at a news conference Walter Cotton had invited her to, she had received several dozen red roses, a box of candy and an invitation out to dinner at an exclusive restaurant, from Brandon. To keep him at bay, she had gone out with him twice. Both of those times, they had had a quiet dinner at a restaurant not far from the newspaper building. She explained to Brandon that she didn’t mind an occasional lunch date. However, her career just did not provide her with enough time to date anyone. It was almost like he had not heard her. He turned out to be one of the most persistent men she had ever known. Since Walter Cotton shared information on important cases with her, when he could, she did not want to offend him, except Brandon was getting on her nerves. He was a nice person with handsome features and an athletic build. She liked most of the things about him, except for his persistence. Brandon Cotton was also a member of the police department where he worked as a homicide detective. The most annoying thing he had done was to send her a dozen black roses. They had been left on her front porch without a note or a card informing her that he had sent them. Denise had been deeply disappointed in him when he denied sending them. Still, she liked him and forgave him. Denise realized that he could come in handy sometimes when she needed information about police operations, so she tolerated him as best as she could. After all, he was not that bad, she decided just before she answered him. What are you up to? I’m trying to wrap things up so I can go home.

      I was just getting ready to go to dinner and thought you might like to meet me at that little family restaurant down the street from the newspaper offices. How about it?

      Denise stared at the blank page on the computer screen. Perhaps she might be able to finish half of it before she left the office and then write the rest of it at home, she thought considering the option of going home to an empty house and a lonely existence. Maybe having Brandon for company for a while might help relieve the stress she was feeling. Nonetheless, the thought of a free meal was appealing. She did not like cooking and washing dishes, especially when she had so many other things to do. Fine, she said. I’ll leave my car here and walk down there. It’s only a couple of blocks. I can get there about six. Is that okay, Brandon?

      Wonderful, he said and she could hear an upbeat touch of joy in his voice where she had previously detected vagueness. Prepare yourself. It’s raining hard outside with a little hail. If it’s easier on you, I can pick you up.

      No worry, she assured him. I like the rain and I have a raincoat. It’s not that far anyway.

      Okay, suit yourself, Brandon said. I’ll see you about six.

      She put the cordless phone back in the charger. With a serious attempt to finish the article before she left, she was pounding away on the keyboard when the phone rang. Denise picked up the phone while her eyes were focused on the screen. Hello.

      Hearing the unmistakable sound of someone breathing, she turned her attention fully to the call. Hello, she said. Is anyone there?

      I’m back, a deep voice said slowly.

      There was a six second pause.

      I’m back and you don’t want to write about me, or you’re next. If you do tell my story, it had better be the truth. Understand?

      Hello, Denise said again. Who is this? What are you talking about?

      You know. Black roses.

      I don’t know what you are talking about.

      The caller hung up and all Denise could hear was the dial tone.

      Denise sat there a while and thought about the call before copying her work to her laptop and shutting down the computer. During that time, all she could think about was the mysterious voice and two words he had said.

      Black roses? What was that about anyway?

      Was the voice trying to warn her about something?

      Denise looked out the window and decided that she indeed would have to wear her raincoat. The rain was coming down in torrents. By the time she copied all her files and backed up her work for the day to the main server, it was a quarter till six. Denise checked her cell phone for new messages and looked around the office. She was the only person on the floor that she could see. Most of the main lights had been turned off leaving only essential lighting in the halls and aisles between the office cubicles.

      Donning her rain gear and putting her laptop strap over her left shoulder, she walked to the elevator at the center of the building. Denise pushed the button expecting someone to be standing in the elevator with a dozen black roses when the double doors opened. The elevator was empty so she stepped inside and pushed the button for the first floor. What was the voice saying about black roses anyway? She knew the voice did not belong to Brandon. He had been the only one that had sent her black roses. Was he telling the truth when he said he had not sent them to her? She did not know except she intended to tell him about the incident. Maybe his organized cop mind could figure something out. Until then, she was not going to worry about it.

      Denise walked into the vacant, dimly lit lobby where the receptionist’s desk was deserted. She thought that everyone must have left early until she glanced at the clock on the wall behind the reception desk. It was almost six o’clock. She had about ten minutes to get to the restaurant. Walking out the front door into the gloomy night, she pulled the raincoat tighter wondering if she had underestimated the ferocity of the storm. Water covered the streets and sidewalks. Most of the drains were clogged with leaves and debris people had thrown on the street. Denise struggled through water over her ankles wondering if she shouldn’t go back to the lobby and wait. She could call Brandon on her cell phone and he would pick her up. Glancing at the digital clock on her cell phone, she saw that it was six o’clock. Denise was usually punctual for a dinner date as with most other things except tonight was not going to be one of those times.

      The streets were almost deserted. Only a few vehicles passed her as she sloshed through the rain wishing she’d had the foresight to wear rubber boots. When Denise passed all the familiar places, she crossed the street in front of her and entered the block where the restaurant was located. Not for the first time tonight, she felt like she was being watched. Denise noticed several alleys between tall buildings as she passed them imagining someone, perhaps a dark creature with batwings jumping out and grabbing her. By the time she was almost to the restaurant, she had convinced herself that someone was not only watching her, they were following her. Hearing heavy feet sloshing through deep water, she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing or nobody was there.

      Watch your stupid imagination, she told herself aloud so she would know that she’d said it. There really isn’t anything behind me.

      Her conclusion proved to be correct.

      Nothing was behind her, at least, nothing that would harm her.

      However, she had not considered what might be in front of her.

      With her feet and shoes soaking wet, Denise watched the puddles of water in front of her glancing up occasionally to make sure she wasn’t heading into a telephone pole or something worse. She could barely see through the deluge of falling rain and light fog. Lugging the heavy laptop slung over her left shoulder and her purse over her right shoulder, she felt her blood turn to ice when a dark imposing figure stepped out of a dark alley and stood facing her with a long object in his hand.

      For a brief few seconds, Denise stood facing a man dressed in a 1940’s fedora and a dark trench coat. Dark shadows hid his face. Stunned, she could not decide if she should turn and run or stand her ground. He was clearly blocking her way. Before Denise could react, the object in the man’s hand came up and wrapped around her neck. Denise recognized the long, heavy golden chain a little too late. Moving as quickly as a leopard leaping upon a gazelle, he had both ends of the chain in his hands. Turning her around, he attempted to use the chain to strangle her. Struggling, Denise tried to scream except nothing could escape from her throat. As the night grew blacker, she thought the end might be near.

      Police, stop and let her go, a voice sounded in the distance as Denise tried to hold onto consciousness. Let her go or I will shoot. The voice was clear now. She knew the voice belonged to Brandon Cotton. Where was he? If only she could scream so he would know where she was. The dark, foggy forest she was floating around in was not where she wanted to be. She wanted to be with Brandon so she could tell him how much she appreciated all his help.

      Then she heard a gunshot. Another shot followed the first one. Were there hunters in the woods where she did not want to be?

      Denise felt the chain drop away from her throat and she could breathe again. When she finally came too, she was laying on the street in the water. Someone rubbed her face and told her to breathe and to take it easy. When she opened her eyes, Brandon was kneeling by her side, holding her in his strong arms.

      Brandon, she said gasping for breath. She sat up. What happened? Where did he go?

      I fired at him. I think I hit his shoulder. He let you go and took off. I called dispatch and they have units looking for him. It will be difficult to find him in this rain. Are you okay?

      I’m feeling a little better, she told him. Please help me up out of this water. Who was he?

      I don’t know, Brandon said. Except he left you one of these. When Brandon showed her a single black rose, the blood in her veins almost froze again. Looks like I’m not the only one giving you black roses, Brandon whispered.

      Let’s get inside so we can talk, Denise suggested as soon as the shock wore off a little so she could talk without her lips trembling. I guess that restaurant will just have to tolerate my wet clothes. Maybe I will dry out while we talk and have dinner. I need something hot in my stomach.

      They won’t care, Brandon assured her. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital or home. I can stay with you a while. If you want to change clothes then we can go out later, after that.

      I’ll be fine, she said. I’ll just go to the bathroom and wring the water out of my dress. It won’t take long to dry if they have heat.

      If they don’t have the heat on, we’ll arrange it, Brandon told her. Come on, let’s get you inside.

      Inside the restaurant, they took a corner table and Brandon helped her get her raincoat off and made her as comfortable as he could. Denise went to the bathroom and wrung as much water out of her dress and socks as she could. Brandon convinced the waiter to turn the heat up a notch or two.

      At the table, while they waited for their dinner to arrive, she told Brandon about the caller and what he said about black roses. She held the dark rose in her hand wondering what it meant. I don’t think I ever heard that voice before, she explained while sipping hot coffee from a white cup with red roses on it. And, I still don’t know what he wanted. He just came out of that alley and put that chain around my neck. To tell you the truth, I thought I had died. Wherever I was, there was someone else there with me, looking out for me. I thought they were angels, yet, I wonder. After she thought about what she had said, she looked at Brandon and smiled. I’m just glad you were wondering where I was and came to check on me. If it hadn’t been for you, I would not be here now.

      Brandon reached over and took her hand. I know you are always on time and when you didn’t show, I got a little concerned. I decided to check on you. Hopefully, we’ll catch this guy and find out what he’s up to.

      Denise stared at the black rose as she held it in her hand with her elbow resting on the table. I think I know who he is, Denise said slowly with a distant look in her unblinking eyes.

      That’s impossible, Brandon replied. You just met him and he didn’t introduce himself.

      I do know him, she assured him. "He always leaves a dozen black roses just before he murders his victim. He is the Strangler."

      * * *

      The old dark and gloomy house he was seeking was located on a side street amongst several others that were built shortly after World War I. He studied that house with a feeling of apprehension gnawing at him. Many houses in the area were gray with paint pealed from their boards by heat, cold and wind. A few had been rehabbed by their owners and stood out like live pine trees in a dead, scorching desert. Many houses in this suburb of Charleston, West Virginia needed repairs. The financial strain of fixing up their homes didn’t interest him at all. He did not care about the condition of this neighborhood nor did he care that he was the only one on the windy, dark street. He could fit into any environment and few would notice him. It was like he was more than one person that could appear in several places at the same time. The Strangler was invisible to the rest of the world. A chameleon with many talents, he moved among them like a honeybee in a hive. He was someone they would never suspect of any wrong, much less of being a killer capable of murdering most of the women in this ancient town. The thrill of the hunt and seeing the fear on their faces when they realized they were going to die a horrible death identified him as a night creature, a predator and much more so, a Night Strangler.

      However, the strangler of the night and the giver of death to the most beautiful women he could find, was about to find out that he too could be terrified.

      * * *

      Even though Leslie Helton had pulled all the curtains, made sure the doors were locked and the windows were secured, she still felt as if someone was watching her. Alone in a house that had been in her family for many generations, she wondered how her situation could have become so desperate. Night shadows that crept across the front yard as the sun dropped behind the mountainous horizon always gave her the creeps and somehow made her feel a little lonely. The shadows always moved toward the house, especially in the late fall when there were few leaves on the trees giving her the impression that evil was creeping in on her and this would be her final night on earth. At this time of the year, a few colored leaves were still hanging from tree limbs swaying in the wind casting ominous shadows on the ground. A pale blue moon was out and it’s light painted everything an eerie color, almost like a fluorescent light. A million shadows commanded the twilight. Leslie watched dark clouds race across the night sky. The weather people at the local television station were predicting a blizzard. Their voices had spelled out gloom and doom. Leslie worried more about surviving another day on earth than she did about a snowstorm that might not materialize. Even if it did come, what could she do about it?

      On a cold October night, a Friday, she stood in the hall and surveyed the living room where a dim yellow light from a lamp in the corner made the room look warm and cozy. She knew the look was deceptive, that it wasn’t like she thought it was. Something evil dwelled in the walls of this house, or on the outside of it. Casting her fear aside, she walked casually to the window and pulled the curtains back so she could see out into the darkness of the night. The sun had just gone down and already she was uneasy, as she usually was. When she bought the house, she had hired a neighbor, George Rayburn to install motion detectors all around her house so when anyone came into the yard and contacted the infrared beams outside lights would come on. The arrangement gave her a little piece of mind, except she always figured that some things might not activate the lights. Perhaps spirits or ghosts would fall into that category. Maybe they would.

      Satisfied for a while that nothing was out there, nothing human at least, she walked to a padded armchair and sat down. Taking a magazine, Cemetery Dance, from a nearby stand, the same stand where a lamp glowed yellow, she continued reading a story about a magical woods with a spell on it. She had known woods once, and it too had an evil spell cast on it, or at least, that was what all the neighbors said. Letting the magazine rest on her lap, Leslie yawned. Her thoughts drifted back to the time she found out she had cancer. The memories always caused her great despair and she wondered why she wanted to think about anything that caused her such pain.

      Only a couple of years ago, she had been happy with her life. Now, she wasn’t sure how she was going to make it. Things had gone from bad to worse when she began a slow decline into poverty and sickness. Her doctor had told her she had gallstones. Her gall bladder would have to be removed. Okay, she had thought, that is a minor operation these days and I’ll get through it. The large department store chain where she worked didn’t like her being off a few days for the operation. However, her doctor wrote them a letter and they complied with her request for time off. After quoting the requirements of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) they didn’t give him any argument. During the operation to remove her gallbladder, the surgeon discovered that she had cancer in her ovaries and in her stomach. Four days after the first operation, she was back in the hospital again for cancer surgery. They removed her ovaries and many of her sexual organs hoping to eradicate the fast-moving cancer from her body. The doctor, an oncologist named Dr. Elijah Khan told her she would have to take chemotherapy for almost a year.

      Devastated when she was told the cancer was not curable she tried to accept the fact that it was treatable and that she would survive if the chemo worked. Now, after two years of chemotherapy, she looked more like a scarecrow than she did the beautiful woman she had once been. Devastated by the loss of her beauty, most of her hair and what little money she had in her bank account, she tried to be optimistic about her future.

      Leslie knew she would beat the cancer. The blood that flowed through her veins was ancient and came from a long line of winners going all the way back to the first clans of Scotland.

      Standing in front of a full-length mirror in the hallway, she studied the image in the mirror wondering if the deep blue eyes that stared back at her really belonged to her. Her once dark hair was now thin, turning gray and it looked as if a north wind had done its best to rip it from her head. No matter how she combed it, it still looked the same, messy. Each day more of her hair fell out. In a few weeks, she would be completely bald.

      Chemotherapy had advanced a lot since the early days when her mother died from the dreaded cancer nobody wanted to talk about. She was only seven when her mother finally passed away. With her mind occupied with thoughts of her mother and how she had suffered, she felt a little guilty about being such a wimp. Why, she had survived two operations in one week. The operation to remove her gallbladder had allowed the surgeon to detect the cancer in her ovaries. That led to the cancer in her stomach. She figured she had been lucky that they went in to remove the gallbladder when they did. A few more months and it would have been impossible to stop the cancer from spreading.

      Her husband walked out on her two years ago, her father was too old to be much help and her sisters lived in New York with families of their own. Unable to work since the operation, she depended on a meager paycheck from her disability insurance. The payment was not enough to meet many of her needs. The department store had terminated her when they were informed she would not be back to work for a year. Tears flowed from her eyes when she realized that her situation was about as desperate as it could get. The house payment was overdue, her water had been cut off last week and she was down to borrowing food and water from her neighbors. Even her telephone had been disconnected and without money, she had to walk to the store, to the pharmacy or beg a ride from a kindly neighbor. Leslie had bought one of the 'pay as you go' cell phones that she had to buy time for using a card like a credit card. It wasn't much except it served the purpose of allowing her emergency communications. She wondered if committing suicide might not be a good idea until she realized she probably couldn’t afford to do that either.

      Overwhelmed with what seemed like unsolvable problems, she walked into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. Leslie stared at empty cabinets above the sink she usually kept stuffed with food, in better times. The refrigerator had become empty days ago. She supposed they would turn the electricity off next week if she could not figure out a way to pay the bill.

      Leslie cried for a long time before she realized someone was ringing the doorbell. Hoping for a miracle, or at least a kindly soul that would offer to help her, she got up from the table weak from hunger and walked down the hallway. Where were all the well doers that had shown up at her door asking for handouts for the needy? Wasn’t she about as needy as anyone could get? Leslie had always contributed to charity causes even when she couldn’t afford it. Now, none of them would help her. Even the welfare services had denied her food stamps. Illegal aliens could walk in at any government office and get aid. She could get nothing except more bills.

      Walking was difficult for her and as she slowly made her way down the carpeted hall toward the front door, she wondered how she had managed to walk to the store without falling down. Necessity and desperation sometimes gave her new strength and now was one of those times. Perhaps the person at the front door could help her in her hour of need. With her stomach almost empty, her nerves shattered from days

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