Bob Burtons Bordello

Misty Dream

Bob Burton awoke at 5:45 a.m. to a sharp rap on his bedroom door. He slid out from under the twins sleeping in his bed and muttered a curse at the early hour. Without bothering to dress, he shuffled down the hall and eased open the banded oak door with a creak.

A young boy stood there, his voice incongruously deep. “Misty needs to see you. Now!”

Bob followed the boy to Misty’s office. Halfway down the hall, the messenger began to age before his eyes. Skin wrinkled, hair thinned, and bones shrank, until he collapsed into a pile of dust on the floor. Bob’s stomach churned, but he kept moving.

Misty opened the door with a lilting smile. “Come in, Mr. Burton,” she said. She was heavyset, her presence commanding yet oddly warm, and her voice carried the kind of authority that made hesitation impossible.