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Who am I? Well, I am the Imaginary Friend. You know — the one you conjure up to talk with when you’re consumed with loneliness, greed or visions of imminent doom. And that’s how this manuscript came into being.

I have listened to thousands of stories and it would be a shame if they just stayed with me, never to be heard again. Their subjects vary greatly, but I have chosen to share only the ones I found to be particularly... curious. Take the story told to me by a man within days of his execution, for instance. I will relay it to you verbatim, just as he told me his tale…

Being a creature of the twilight, I know a few things about life and death. You mortals don’t disappear when your body stops functioning. In many ways, your “real life” begins after your body dies. In fact, as I was relaxing in front of a fireplace once – don’t be surprised, Imaginary Friends like to be comfortable just like anyone else – a man walked into my sitting room. It took me a few moments to realize that he needed my services, but as always, I listened intently.

I like people with manners. They seem to be in short supply lately. I can’t tell you how often I must endure indignities from those who think that Imaginary Friends can be talked to any which way they choose. But I have a tale that was told by a woman who was nothing but polite. This lady offered tea and crumpets and made some small talk even, before telling me her tale. As I listened, the tears ran down my face, and those were not imaginary either...

As you can imagine, the life of the Imaginary Friend is never dull, for people have a great need for companionship. Once in while, however, even I have time to relax and enjoy myself between stories. But just as I opened a bottle of cold beer – yes, Imaginary Friends are no teetotalers – it happened again. I heard a man calling for my attention. He looked like a nice harmless chap, the scholarly type, you know. As soon as he became comfortable with me, his tale just poured out of him. And what a tale it was...

Have you ever been troubled by nightmares? Were you relieved when you woke up? No matter. Are you sure you can tell the difference between the nightmare and the waking state? Think it through before giving me your answer, for you’ll find an account about just this subject from a most interesting gentleman indeed who really needed to talk to me...

Sometimes only an Imaginary Friend can truly listen to your deepest troubles and most distressing woes. Wouldn’t you agree?

Read on dear reader, read on.

"A cross between Edgar Allan Poe
and Stephen King."
— Lawrence Dagstine, The Literary Bone

Excerpt:

It is a curious—and one might say, tragically comical—set of circumstances that has brought me to my impending doom, sitting here on death row counting the hours to my execution. I am having a hard time eating my last meal: New York Steak, three eggs, hash browns, orange juice and coffee.

My story began three years ago on a sunny spring Monday morning. I shall never forget it; how could I? I am, or rather I was, a knife salesman by trade. This forced me to travel constantly, but the lonely existence of the road was far more enjoyable than the unmitigated level of wretchedness I suffered when I was at home with Mildred.

Mildred, please understand, was my wife of twenty-six years and I suppose I had loved her once. Yet as I strive to recollect the emotion, my search is in vain. All that I can bring to mind is her incessant and constant nagging that gradually etched away my confidence. Each derogative utterance chipped recklessly away at my increasingly fragile sense of self, but as I awoke upon that spring morning, I knew that things were about to change. For on this beautiful spring morning the events that were about to unfurl had been meticulously considered for months...

We awoke that morning as we always did, and her mouth began moving the moment her eyes opened. The insults quickly began streaming out as I made her breakfast. I always made her breakfast, and served it to her in bed. As she examined the tray in front of her the usual bombardment of condemnation flowed.

“Eggs too runny... Coffee too strong... Idiot... and Useless.”

This was the typical routine, yet this morning my mood was so highly elevated that I cheerfully withstood the verbal pummeling. At precisely 8:30 a.m. I was meticulously packing my fine German knives in a large stainless steel case for a presentation later that day. I had in my possession a second case, and this one I placed on the bed, empty.

Moments later I heard my wife singing some wretched show tune in the shower, something from "The Sound of Music," I think, but with her it was difficult to tell. I calmly picked up the shiny butcher boning knife from my collection, which is a strong, long narrow knife, and as its name implies, is used to sever through bones.

Perfect.

As I approached the bathroom door, I heard her shrieking out her pathetic rendition of Julie Andrews over the sound of the gushing water. Holding my breath, I opened the door and entered. As I watched her flabby silhouette wobbling behind the floral shower curtain, I could not help but shudder. A moment later, and with a speed that surprised even me, I had thrown back the curtain and plunged the knife with exacting precision into the base of her neck. The shower continued to gush relentlessly, but the water was transformed into the most beautiful hue of red.

Perfect.

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