Author: John Brhel
Date: 2019-07-22 16:00:00+00:00
Description: OTHER VOICES, OTHER TOMBS is an anthology packed with unsettling stories from the finest independent authors in the horror genre. This collection runs the gamut of styles, including everything from literary horror to creepypasta. Ania Ahlborn, Kealan Patrick Burke, Michael Wehunt, Mercedes Yardley, and Gemma Files are widely considered some of the best authors working in dark fiction right now. Also included are stories from NoSleep Podcast legends: Gemma Amor, JD McGregor, and Michael Whitehouse

OTHER VOICES, OTHER TOMBS

Edited by

Brhel & Sullivan

Other Voices, Other Tombs

Published by Cemetery Gates Media

Binghamton, New York

Collection and editorial copyright © 2019
by John Brhel and Joe Sullivan

Individual stories copyright © of their respective author(s)

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.

ISBN: 9781081547189

For more information about this book and other Cemetery Gates Media publications, visit us at:

cemeterygatesmedia.com
facebook.com/cemeterygatesmedia
twitter.com/cemeterygatesm
instagram.com/cemeterygatesm

Cover illustration and design by Chad Wehrle
cwehrle.com

Make sure to check out these other Cemetery Gates releases at cemeterygatesmedia.com!

Novels:

Resurrection High

Carol for a Haunted Man

The Thrumming Stone

Themed anthologies:

Tales from Valleyview Cemetery

Marvelry’s Curiosity Shop

Her Mourning Portrait and Other Paranormal Oddities

Story collections:

Corpse Cold: New American Folklore

At the Cemetery Gates: Year One

At the Cemetery Gates: Volume 2

What Waits in the Dark

CONTENTS

Introduction

“The Second Hand”

Kealan Patrick Burke

“The Governess”

Ania Ahlborn

“Urban Moon”

Mercedes Yardley

“A Circle That Ever Returneth”

Kevin Lucia

“Bury Me in the Garden”

Mike Duran

“This is How it Goes”

Gemma Files

“Comfortable Gods”

Michael Wehunt

“Fly away, little fledgling.”

Michelle Garza & Melissa Lason

“Forget the Burning Isle”

Michael Whitehouse

“Three Lanes Deep”

Gemma Amor

“The Switch”

Cameron Chaney

“The Red Rose”

Caytlyn Brooke

“Can We Keep Him?”

C.W. Briar

“Alone in the Dark”

J.D. McGregor

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

W riting fiction is a blissful business, whether doing so as a profession, or hobby. Writing dark fiction is especially mirthful, in that we get to play on the border of reality and pure fantasy. The special nature of telling scary stories is in the way it encourages community. We enjoy the same tales because we take pleasure in the same fears.

The following stories come from three distinct communities within the already small circle of writers that have dedicated themselves to genre horror fiction. The first two groups will be familiar to many readers, while the third is more personal to John and me.

If you know what the Horror Writers Association is, you’ve heard names such as Gemma Files, Kealan Patrick Burke, and Mercedes Yardley. If you’ve perused Cemetery Dance Magazine or know what #bookstagram is, you’ve seen the works of Michael Wehunt, Ania Ahlborn, and Michelle Garza & Melissa Lason.

It still surprises John and I that there is such a chasm between those who read horror and those who listen to it on YouTube, or check-in daily to see the newest posts on the NoSleep Subreddit—because all of the most popular material is written by independent horror writers, who also produce traditional story collections and novels!

The Nosleep Podcast has quickly become the World Cup of creepypasta, and more broadly, for short form, first-person narrative horror. For the uninitiated, the podcast arose to perform stories from the subreddit, which itself has become a proving ground for burgeoning horror scribes. Michael Whitehouse, Gemma Amor, and J.D. McGregor are the equivalent of NoSleep all-stars. Their work has appeared on the podcast and on widely followed YouTube channels such as Dr. Creepen’s Vault , MrCreepyPasta, and Michael’s own Ghastly Tales —many of these channels are fed stories from NoSleep Redditors.

Which brings us to the third circle, and much closer to the goings-on of Cemetery Gates Media. In 2015, John and I were writing stories for what would become Tales from Valleyview Cemetery . John’s first story had been published by Michael Whitehouse, and the first audio for one of our stories would eventually be done by Ghastly Tales .

John and I were living in Binghamton, the spiritual home of Rod Serling, creator of The
Twilight Zone . A fellow fan of The Twilight Zone , and Reviews Editor for Cemetery Dance Magazine , happened to also live in Binghamton. Kevin Lucia was an invaluable resource as we navigated our first year in publishing.

John eventually began a column for Cemetery Dance Online called “My First Fright,” where he would go on to interview many of the authors in this anthology, regarding their first recollection of media-induced terror.

Along the way, we met other local authors such as C. W. Briar and Caytlyn Brooke. Briar released his first horror collection, Wrath and Ruin , within months of our first book, and Caytlyn, a YA author, quickly became a familiar face at regional comic and fantasy conventions.

The first thing that I noticed about Caytlyn’s writing was her metaphoric creativity. I’d read her second novel Wired and knew her work fell within the realm of dark fiction—but I had no idea the type of pure, murderous gore she was capable of until I read her first version of “The Red Rose.” Afterwards I even messaged John to tell him that Ms. Brooke had been the first horror writer to make me sick to my stomach…ever. For the story’s sake, we agreed to add a character, which, unfortunately, diminished the obscenely visceral nature of the first version’s bathroom scene.

Writers are endlessly fascinating; Mike Duran has a book called Christian Horror which deals with the compatibility of Christian belief and horror fiction. I’d never read his work until a friend recommended him for the collection. I soon picked up his novella Wickers Bog , which was an excellent read—rich with cypress trees, swamps, and chock-full of southern flavor.

We connected with Cameron Chaney, author and YouTube book reviewer, via Twitter. He promoted Corpse Cold: New American Folklore when it was still a dream on Kickstarter, back in the fall of 2017, and he’s shared our subsequent work with his audience ever since. I didn’t know he was a writer until he put out his first book, There Are Monsters Here , which was right in the wheelhouse of stories I enjoy the most—introspective dark fiction which doesn’t hesitate to reveal an author at their most vulnerable. His story “The Switch” is very much a Cemetery Gates variety of tale—a nostalgic homage with a major twist!

I believe the stories in this collection will entertain both fans of literary horror and readers of our creepypasta brethren, who are only recently birthing paperbacks themselves. As writers, we know that these two communities aren’t all that far apart. Gemma Amor’s latest, Dear Laura , and Gemma Files’ Experimental Film are two of my favorite stories from the past five years—both are fantastic expressions of art, with a quality of prose that John and I hope to approach—someday, on some page—within our next ten (or so) books.

Joe Sullivan

July 2019

THE SECOND HAND

Kealan Patrick Burke

T here’s a lot to say about that day back in the summer of 1989, most of which I expect you’ll dismiss as fiction, as would anyone who wasn’t there, but I need to say it anyway, for the good of my health. Take it as a story, if you must. That’s fine. I’m doing this because my wife and my therapist suggested it as a means of coping, and because nothing else has worked. This won’t work either.

I tell myself I dreamed it all but know I did not. If I don’t write it down and look at the words from a distance, they’ll keep burrowing into me like termites until my mind and my marriage crumbles like the rotten flooring of an old house.

It’s about the day my best friend Robbie Wayans disappeared, something I haven’t talked about in three decades because every time I thought about it, it debilitated me. My parents said it wasn’t my fault and, on some level, I believe that, but they didn’t see what happened. They weren’t there, but lately I am, and I’m afraid the thing we saw at the pool is coming back to get me.

#

School is out. It’s early in the morning, the sun a hundred burning eyes peeking through the chestnut trees that flank our neighborhood. The light is clean and bright. Two doors down from my house, Mr. Carver hoses down his driveway even though it doesn’t need it. It washes away his daughter’s chalk drawing of the Cincinnati skyline, and the street is wet from the runoff. Alice Carver will have another one drawn by noon. She’s an architect in Detroit now, I believe, so it’s good to know her father’s dismissal of her earliest efforts didn’t redirect her ambition. Small foamy rivers chuckle along the gutter, swallowed by the perpetually thirsty drains. I’m sitting on my stoop, tying up my new Keds—a birthday gift—and positively vibrating with the kind of excitement unique to thirteen-year-old boys who find themselves armed with paint on blank canvas days. My mother appears behind me, still in her robe, face veiled by the steam from a cup of coffee made ubiquitous by the hour.

“Open sesame,” she says. I tilt my head back. She pokes a crispy piece of bacon into my mouth. “You drink your juice?” I nod, chewing meat that will never again taste so delicious. She musses my hair and leans down to kiss me between the eyes. “You going to find trouble today?”

“I hope so.” My smile is missing an incisor, which I’d used to glean a dollar from parents who could scarcely afford it. Even though I’d made them a proxy for an entity I no longer believed in, they knew I needed the money to finance my summer shenanigans and were content to play along rather than have me ask directly.

“Me too. Just don’t lose a limb. We’re all out of spares.”

She’s referring of course to my father’s prosthetic leg, the real one bitten off by a car accident and swallowed by the night three winters before. It used to creep me out to walk into their room in the mornings and see that leg sitting on the chair next to his side of the bed, like it had every right to be there, an unpleasant reminder that we are all just component parts, any one of which the universe may recall without notice. His right leg ended in a smooth stump just below his knee, and he loved to torment me by making me touch it or waggling it at me, delighting in my horror. It passed, both the revulsion and his resultant glee, but every now and then, I suffered nightmares in which I awoke to find myself limbless and mute, screaming soundlessly in a room that did not exist beyond the crooked oblong sketched out by the moonlight.

“We’re thinking of going to the pool.”

My mother frowns. “Oh? I didn’t think it was open yet.”

“It isn’t.”

“Ah, you mean the other pool. That petri dish of god-only-knows-what. Well, be careful and don’t drown.”

“I won’t.”

She nods her satisfaction. “And if you do, don’t haunt me.”

“I might.”

She leans against the door, takes a ponderous sip from her cup and looks out over the sun-dappled neighborhood. “I’m more worried about your dad haunting me, though. Can you imagine? A ghost with half a leg. Brr. That thing scraping against the floor in the middle of the night like a wagon with a missing wheel.”

As if it’s his cue, my father clomps with dramatic unevenness down the stairs. “Betttttttttttieeeeeee…” he moans, sounding like Boris Karloff, and we both crack up. When I turn to look, I see his back as he enters the kitchen. He waves without turning around, lured by the smell of breakfast. I’ve recalled that image of him a lot over the years, more since his death. Pristine white shirt and tan khakis, unkempt black hair curling over his shirt collar, the barely perceptible limp, not nearly as pronounced as he’d made it seem coming down the stairs. I wish I’d have run to him and hugged him. I wish I’d found any reason at all to stay home with my parents where it was always safe.

“I summoned him by accident,” my mother says. “I don’t know my own power.”

Laces tied, humor buoyed, I stand and shake the comfort into my new shoes. They’ll have sliced my ankles to ribbons by day’s end, but that’s okay. Childhood is about raw wounds, the scars the armor of adulthood.

“Bye, Mom.”

She nods sagely as if accepting a proclamation of fealty from an underling.

“Don’t get arrested. We can’t afford the bail, so we’ll probably leave you there.”

“No promises,” I tell her and then I’m racing around the corner of the house to where my faded and shabby warhorse, a BMX that looks like every day is a stay of execution, leans dispiritedly against the siding. There’s rust on the rims and the saddle resists rightness, the leather perforated, the foam flattened and discolored after years of retaining rainwater. The peddles are chipped and cracked, the reflectors long gone, and the handlebars don’t always obey. The chain sounds like anguish and untethers itself with a regularity that at best means I spend more time stationary than ownership of the vehicle would imply, and at worst, sends me flying when it locks up the peddles on high speed declines. My parents rarely comment on the state of my steed because money is tight since my father’s accident and they don’t wish to give me false hope, and I never ask for a replacement. That they give me pocket money is something of a miracle, but it isn’t much, and I have to earn it. I could save for one, but by the time I’d have enough, I’ll be headed for college and thinking of a more extravagant means of conveyance. So, for now it’s the bike, which is a piece of crap and seldom gets me from A to Z, but it’s summer, and I’m okay walking from F.

My mother is still at the door when I walk the warhorse down the driveway and out onto the street. “Dinner’s at six.”

“Okay.”

“Love you, Sugar Bear.”

“Gross.”

She laughs and that sound echoes throughout my life when I need it most. On this day, I am too young to know the full scope of her hardships. I might not know them still. But I love her, and she loves me, and it’s enough to keep our spirits aloft. Plus, it’s a Friday, which means, no matter how this day goes, there’s a Blockbuster horror movie rental and pepperoni pizza at the end of it. Those memories remain among my favorites, right alongside the birth of my first son and the first date with my wife when we sat outside in the rain after all the other patrons of the café had fled inside and I thought my heart would explode with love. Friday Night Movie Nights always followed the same template. My father would suggest an old classic, a Universal monster movie, usually. He didn’t care much for modern horror, which he claimed was all flash and no story. My mother wanted contemporary and gory. They would negotiate with all the fervor of courtroom attorneys, but all of us would be satisfied with the verdict, which invariably meant a pick from each category.

I rarely missed out on these wonderful nights. They often feel like the very definition of my childhood and are a large part of the reason I became a movie producer. But I did not watch a horror movie with my parents that night, or ever again. After what I saw that day, I still have trouble with them, though they’re hard to avoid, especially now that they’re big money makers again. But I try. Jesus, how I try.

2

My best friend Robbie is sitting on the hood of his brother’s Dodge when I skid to a stop outside his house. His bony knees are drawn up, worn sneakers planted on the fender. This is an act of defiance. Robbie isn’t even allowed to ride in the car as a passenger, never mind disrespect it by sitting on it. If he gets caught, Dougie Wayans will mash the living shit out of him and nobody will intervene because “if it happens, you asked for it” is the dictum by which the Wayans family seem to abide. And Robbie does goad his brother at every turn. I never really understood that dynamic, why Robbie asked for punishment and Dougie always obliged. I understood even less how two brothers, separated by a mere four years, could loathe each other so much that damn near every time their paths crossed, they were at each other’s throats. If they knew the reason for this enmity, they never spoke of it, and the few times I asked, Robbie just shrugged and said it was because his brother was a “total fucknut.” If they were ever civil to one another, it went unwitnessed by mortal eyes.

“Nice kicks,” he says. His skateboard is propped up against the right front wheel of the car in another sign of disrespect. Dougie will probably use it to bash his brother’s brains out, so I don’t intend to hang around very long. Watching them fight always gives me a queer feeling in my stomach. Friendship always compels me to intervene and defend Robbie. Fear of what might happen keeps me away. I was not then, nor am I now, comfortable around confrontation. As a result, I’m forty-three years old and I’ve never broken a bone. Even on those rare occasions in which I move my wife to anger, it activates an ugly current beneath my skin that makes me want to vomit. It was there in me before that day, but the thing at the pool made it a permanent condition. Call it trauma, or PTSD. Call it a neurosis. The name doesn’t matter, only that I have always been scared, like a foundling that never really learned the instinct to flee before danger finds it.

“Thanks. Ready?”

His dark greasy hair is long enough to obscure most of his face. It wasn’t when we first met, but he didn’t have chronic acne then either. He nods curtly and shoves himself off the hood of the car. I note that the button on the seat of his Levi’s has scored a small scratch in the red paint and my guts quiver. I’m glad we’re heading to the pool today because it’s somewhere Dougie won’t think to look.

Robbie doesn’t have a bike. Dougie tossed it into the back of the garbage truck after one particularly contentious argument back in April, so I walk the warhorse along beside him down the middle of the street, idly registering the goings-on, or the lack of, in the neighboring houses. Millicent Grable, eighty-two years old and seldom seen without a cigarette clamped between her shriveled lips, sits on her porch swing sipping from a glass of what we have speculated is vodka or gin, but might just be water. Her hair is a bird’s nest of silver and white, hooded eyes perpetually narrowed in suspicion at a world that constantly validates it, bony legs crossed beneath a sunflower dress. By her feet sleeps Gomer, an Australian Shephard, all but blinded by the twin cataract moons eclipsing his eyes.

I nod at Millicent, who coughs into one gnarled hand while waving halfheartedly with the other.

Next door, Garrett Hopkins, former high school coach and full-time bully, is an ass crack shrugging free of a pair of baggy jeans while the rest of his bulk rolls around inside the exposed belly of his battered old GMC truck, the hood shading him into invisibility but for one flabby arm. The clinking of tools competes with grunts of disdain as we hurry past his oil-spotted driveway. If he spotted us, he’d have tried to make awkward small talk about local sports and we wouldn’t have known what he was talking about, which would have disgusted him.

Three doors down on the opposite side of the road is a Cape Cod painted a vibrant pink with cream-colored shutters. The yard is an explosion of blooming shrubs and flowers. It’s beautiful chaos, impeccably maintained, and impossible to ignore. This is the home of the Scarsdale Family, who seem to have time only for their garden and the God who allowed them to have it. As we pass by, a lofty ceramic Jesus on the stoop shows us his glowing heart. Minds abuzz with sin, we are forcibly unmoved by the gesture. Tacked to the pristine picket fence is a wooden plaque declaring the Good Lord and Savior’s Policy on Soliciting. From one of the windows, a young blonde girl looks out at us. Jeannie Scarsdale. She looks bored and waves with an enthusiasm that would have caused Millicent Grable’s hand to snap off at the wrist. Robbie and I wave back and, delighted, she makes further gestures we cannot hope to understand, so we don’t try.

Instead we move on until we are clear of the neighborhood and heading down the hill, flanked by walnut trees, to the strip mall, which spreads around the Texaco gas station like a surge barrier. Despite its size, there is very little to interest us here except for the Blockbuster and Pete’s Pizza Palace. The movie theater is further on in the heart of town, as are all the best restaurants (McDonald’s and Burger King.)

While we wait to cross the intersection, Robbie squints at the inflatable green dragon draped flaccidly across the flat roof of The Electronics Store, its mouth moving soundlessly in the faint breeze as if gasping for air.

“You think dragons were ever real?”

I shrug. “I don’t think so. I think they were made up by whoever writes legends and fairytales. Probably like Frankenstein and Dracula and ghosts and stuff are now. Creepy things meant to scare people.”

“They’re not scary though.”

“Well that one isn’t. But that’s because it’s plastic or whatever, and all the air’s escaped. If dragons were full of air, they’d have been easier to kill. You wouldn’t even need a sword. Just a needle. And they’d never have been able to stop flying because landing might have punctured them.”

The little green man on the crosswalk sign wakes up and we make our way across the intersection, paying little mind to the people crammed into the procession of cars to our right. The air is heavy with exhaust, and it fuels our eagerness to reach the pool.

“I think Dougie’s going to kill somebody someday,” Robbie says.

“Like, for real?”

“For real.”

“He wouldn’t do that, though, right? I mean, he’d go to jail.”

“He choked me out once and if my Dad hadn’t come home just then, I don’t think he’d have let go. I think he’d have held on even after I stopped breathing. He’s a maniac, dude. I mean, like, totally crazy.”

We pass the gas station, where a longhaired homeless man in a stained overcoat cackles and dances around the irritated clerk tasked with getting rid of him. At the pump closest to us, a man in a Bengals baseball cap chuckles while he watches. We can smell the gasoline. It turns the air above the pump to smoked glass. In another car, a baby squalls from the backseat while in the passenger seat, the mother stares straight ahead, hands on the steering wheel, eyes vacant.

“Do you think you should tell someone?”

“Like who?”

“I dunno. Your Dad?”

“He wouldn’t do anything. He’s afraid of him. So’s Mom. Maybe I am too, sometimes.” He produces from his pocket a pair of Jolly Ranchers and offers me one, which I accept, if only to get the taste of bacon out of my mouth. “I can’t wait to get the hell out that house,” he says. “Maybe I won’t even wait until I’m old enough. Maybe I won’t even wait until next year.”

The thought of him one day being gone fills me with a heavy sadness I don’t have the words to express. Even if I did, I doubt I’d have spoken them aloud. Robbie was a lot of things, most of them good, but he’d likely have called me gay and socked me in the shoulder if I’d told him I’d miss him. Because a truth of which I’d only recently become aware was that for all his hatred of his brother, Robbie was slowly becoming him. As sure as a hammer will a nail, his brother’s fists were driving meanness into him, and I was as afraid of what my friend would become as much as he feared what Dougie already was.

I decide to lighten the mood, which has become as oppressive as the humidity. I straddle my bike, ignoring the creak and squeal, and prop one foot on the pedal. “Race you to the pool!” Rather than point out my obvious advantage, which given the condition of my bike, is actually no advantage at all, Robbie takes off like a rocket, and has cleared the strip mall before I’ve even steadied the handlebars.

3

The pool was a community project, built by some enterprising locals during the crippling heatwave in the summer of 1983. They chose a patch of land between an abandoned construction site and the neighboring woods, and even though they never sought out official permission, the general consensus had been that it was too goddamn hot to make too much of a stink over it. It wasn’t like the weed-choked land was being used for anything else and should the day come when that changed, well then, a pool was an easy thing to fill. The locals scored out an eighteen by twelve-foot rectangle in the earth, dug six feet down and lined it with black plastic. Then they tapped a nearby hydrant and filled in the pool. It was crude, leaky, and nobody cared because it was free, and it was cool. They cribbed some concrete blocks from the building site to wall off the area on three of the four sides, leaving it open to the woods on the northern side. This tactic ensured not only shelter and shade, but privacy too. Part of the problem with the other civic amenities was overcrowding, though of course, that would occur here too once the neighborhood grapevine got word of it. Still, it afforded the site a certain measure of discretion so as not to provoke in the authorities a change of heart. Grills and generators were hauled to the site and it quickly became a neighborhood hangout, and if the proximity to the woods meant the bugs were worse than usual, well, it was better than dying from heatstroke.

The pool outlasted the heatwave, but just barely. The hasty and imperfect construction meant it didn’t take long before the plastic started to move, the soil drained the water, and the earthen sides began to crumble underfoot. There were some accidents, but nothing too serious, and soon the locals found a better use of their time.

Thanks to the warhorse, I reach the pool first, and it’s nothing like it was during that long dry summer in 1983. The walls are gone but for a few broken concrete blocks in the weeds, and thanks to the overgrowth the pool itself cannot be seen until you’re almost upon it, making it a clear danger zone nobody in the intervening years has bothered to sign. What remains of the area dug out by the locals is more of a lagoon now, the water dark, cloudy, and threaded with bulrushes. It is approximately half its original size, the sides ragged and loamy. The appeal, and one we might have struggled back then to adequately express, is its isolation. The area beyond the strip mall has been in steady decline. Businesses have begun to shutter. Housing prices are in flux. There’s talk of recession. But we’re kids, so the import of these matters is only legible in the lines on our parents’ faces. We seek out places where fantasies can be explored, where grownups hold no sway and magic still thrives, where there are no rules and no consequences, where anything is possible. The pool is such a place. It cannot be seen from the road, the weeds rising up long before the wall came down, and though its definitions were known once upon a time, it is depthless and mysterious now. We’ve waded in it and felt or imagined strange creatures brushing against our bare pale feet. We’ve ducked under the dirty water and wondered if we might see an opening down there, an aperture to other worlds. We’ve discussed Gill-Men and mermaids, gods old and new.

This No Place, is our place, alone.

I set down my bike and squelch across the soggy earth toward the pool. The ground seems more porous than usual, but that’s to be expected. We had near-record rainfall the month before and I consider it fortunate the whole area is not a swamp.

The applause of worn shoes on the verge of ruin tell me Robbie’s not far behind.

I wonder how long it will take him to notice what I already have.

I wait, looking around at the tall weeds, listen to the faint hiss of the breeze through the woods to my left. A couple were found dead in there once. Murder-suicide they said. The girl was pregnant and feared her father would kill her, so she shot her boyfriend in the head and then killed herself. It was all people talked about, but then, much like the pool, the excitement died, and people moved on.

Beyond those woods is an embankment that leads down into a drainage ditch. Past that, the highway. If I strain, I can hear the whoosh of endless traffic. But none of that matters now. I am here, where I wanted to be, but though people rarely come here anymore, there is someone else here now. And it is to that presence I return my gaze.

“Slipped off the damn curb,” Robbie says, drawing to a halt beside me. He braces his hands on his knees and bends to catch his breath. “Nearly busted…my…ankle.”

“Robbie. Look.”

He straightens, my tone quieting any inquiry. Instead, he joins me in looking through the lofty weeds to the water, where there is a girl in the water.

“Woah. Who’s that?”

I shake my head. She’s facing the opposite bank so we can’t see her face. The brackish water reaches midway up her back, which I register, as any thirteen-year-old male would, is bare. If not completely naked, she is, at the very least, topless. I know, at my age, with my body hurtling chaotically through the hostile terrain of hormonal hell, with hair appearing in strange places and my voice disintegrating on the high notes, I should feel a stirring at the situation, and indeed I do. But it is not arousal. It’s fear.

“Maybe we should go,” I tell Robbie, but I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Are you crazy? Dude…there’s a naked chick in our pool.”

It is not our pool. It’s never been ours. For a time, it belonged solely to the people who dug it out of the abandoned earth and used it, but since then, it has been nothing but a depression in the earth collecting rain. Anyone who wishes to use it has the right, but few ever would.

I think of my bike a few feet behind me. Of how easy it would be to turn and retrieve it and just go home. It seems like the best thing to do. I don’t want to be here when that girl notices she has a pair of horny boys ogling her and screams for the police. At least this is what I tell myself is the basis for my unease, but it’s a weak justification for the turbulence rippling through my body and brain.

“We should go,” I mutter again.

“Excuse me!” Robbie cries out and I flinch away from the sound as if it were a gunshot.

The girl cannot be more than fifteen or sixteen. She is slender, her hair the same verdant shade as the grass surrounding the pool. It is soaking wet, suggesting she has been under the water. Her arms are down by her sides and she is motionless, not swimming. She must be standing on the bottom, though that’s something neither Robbie nor I have ever been able to accomplish. Maybe she’s just very tall.

“Let’s just leave her al—”

“Hey,” Robbie calls. “Hey, Miss. Are you okay?”

Robbie’s interest is not in the girl’s well-being, but the story he may get to tell once this episode has run its course. I imagine him a few months from now regaling the other boys with ever-more enhanced versions of this event. I totally boned her right there in the pool. Last summer he swore he made out with a girl at summer camp. When her name kept changing, I questioned the veracity of this claim, which angered him, so I let it go. Like a lot of boys our age, he needs proof that he’s the man everyone else wants and expects him to be and to challenge that means risking our friendship.

The girl still hasn’t moved. There isn’t even a ripple in the water, which refuses the light from the sun. Robbie moves away and I clamp a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

He looks back at me, eyes glassy with excitement. “I want to get a look.”

“Don’t.”

He shrugs off my hand and takes a few steps closer to the bank opposite the girl. Heat flushes my cheeks. I’m mildly annoyed at myself. Why am I so afraid all the time? Why am I not as roguishly excited as Robbie by this discovery? Isn’t it perfectly natural to feel the thrill of the forbidden? Isn’t that the essence of childhood?

I look up in time to see something I can’t understand, and it instantly validates my fear, though not in a way I would ever want. For a moment, just a flicker, really, the girl appeared to turn her head to the side to look at Robbie, or me, and I saw through her. Not like a ghost. She is, without question, there, but her skin appeared see-through, translucent, like light through a wet plastic bag. I shake off the absurdity of that thought, but it clings to me like the water droplets racing—

—racing up her back.

My heart becomes a ball of ice in my chest. Robbie is closer now. He is making his way around the pool toward the girl, moving like a thief. He has stopped casting gleeful glances back at me because this is no longer a joint adventure. He’s doing this by himself, for himself. I may as well not be here. He’s homing in on the crux of the matter, the core of the story that might yet make him a man in the retelling.

I try to force some maturity into my thoughts, but it doesn’t take. I want to believe I’m overreacting, but if so, then why hasn’t the girl moved since we got here? If you say fear, okay, she’s afraid, but tell me, then: why is the water running up her body instead of down? Fear can’t alter physics. And why the fuck is she see-through?

Robbie draws abreast of her and I watch, rooted to the spot as sure as the old trees in the woods to my left, as at once, both smile and color fade from his face. The girl looks slowly up at him, and I believe in that moment, he lost his mind, or it was taken from him. I like to believe this because it means he might not have been fully present for the next part.

The part where the pool bubbled as if from some massive expulsion of air from way, way down deeper than the pool was supposed to go, and all I can think of is my father at the kitchen table bemoaning the amount of rain. Rain causes rivers to swell, oceans to rise. How often do things end up where they have no business being, carried to us from elsewhere? I latch onto my father’s voice, the mild annoyance in his tone, as if it’s an anchor, as I watch the girl turn from Robbie to look at me. There is no front to her. She is a hollowed-out statue, a broken mannequin, perhaps stolen from a department store, or maybe just tossed here by someone who had no use for it. I want to be relieved. I almost allow the warmth of that shaky reassurance to reach me, but then the mouth beneath the jagged hole where the rest of the face should be twists upward into a vicious smile and I am aware in ways I can’t know, of something lurking just below the surface of the water. Perhaps it was there all along, invisible, or playing the part of calm water. I drop to my knees on the loam and feel it undulate beneath me as if someone is pulling cables through the earth. Across the pool, Robbie is sitting in the muck, his unfocused eyes like moons that forgot how to shine. They are the eyes of Millicent Grable’s dog.

I have to reach him.

I have to reach my bike so I can get away.

Only the second of these options makes sense to me, because this is not real life. I am trapped inside another nightmare, the sheer terror indistinguishable from the one in which I wake without my limbs. Therefore, my choices won’t matter, will they? Won’t waking into the real world absolve me of the choices I made in the one populated by inexplicable things?

The girl shudders and the top half of her head splits open like a shelled egg. The cavity, fully exposed, allows the pink filaments within to whip and snap at the air like maddened worms. Surely there is a limit to what a young mind can witness before it pulls down the shades, and yet I am spared nothing and cannot look away for fear that something will grab me as soon as I do. There is a sound like a clogged drain being cleared and suddenly the girl/mannequin/monster is yanked beneath the surface of the water so fast there is hardly any displacement at all.

Robbie is the first to break. He screams so hard and loud, his voice cracks. Here, covered in mud, pants dampened by scummy water and his own bodily fluids, he has been shoved into maturity, not at the hands of the beautiful naked woman of his wet dreams, but at the tendrils of some impossible monstrosity that might very well be the end of him.

The pool swells and dips. Water laps over the banks. I tell myself I have been lucky, that there is still time to get away, to get Robbie if I’m feeling brave, which I am not. Self-preservation is the dominant urge. I tell myself that whatever I do, I will have to make a choice soon and that the choice will be one I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, assuming it doesn’t end here. I tell myself that at the very least I need to move away from the pool. I tell myself not to look at what’s there beneath the water. But I do because it wants me to, and I am powerless to refuse.

Robbie has already looked and now Robbie is laughing and rocking and tearing at his face as if ants have started to emerge from his pores.

I look down into that churning water at the enormous face looking back. It is the woman’s broken face magnified to fill the pool. It is the pool. Eels spill urgently from the hollow of her face. She still wears that smile, even as her mouth opens and the pool begins to drain into her throat. She has come to swallow the world and it starts here, today, with us as witnesses to the end.

My visions judders in time with the staggered hammering of my heart. I can’t remember how to breathe, only that it was once so easy. Sadness suffocates me as a pale hand only slightly smaller than Dougie Wayans’ car emerges from the water and clambers up the bank, darkening Robbie, still clawing at himself, in the shadow of its fingers. And those fingers are drowned people, pressed into the flesh and preserved mid-scream. Their drenched hair trails from the cracked fingernails and drips into the weeds. Robbie might have cried out before it got him, or that might have been me.

I doubt I’ll ever know.

4

I never saw Robbie again, and I never told anyone the whole truth. Not until now, that is.  The story has always ended with Robbie telling me how he planned to run away because he was tired of the abuse at the hands of his brother and his parents’ refusal to do anything about it. When the police questioned Dougie, his violent reaction to their suspicion only added credence to my account, and before long, I was left alone. I told them Robbie borrowed my bike and probably used that to make his getaway. They searched but didn’t find it, at the pool or anywhere else. I would never see the warhorse again, and that was just fine with me. I sure as hell wasn’t going to look for it.

Most of you will read this account and think I’m a stark, raving lunatic. I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t lived through it, I’d think the same. But I did live through it and what’s haunted me even more than Robbie’s disappearance (I still think of it that way, though I know he’s dead, or worse) is the question of why the thing that took him didn’t take me too. Where was the second hand? Why am I not gone too?

Whether or not I suffered some kind of fit or attack and imagined all of this, I did manage to make a kind of peace with it. Counselors and therapists walked me through the worst of it, threw all manner of psychological mumbo jumbo at me to explain away my delusions and for almost thirty years, it suited me to believe them. I got on with my life. Had to. I fell in love, got married, had three kids and a good career. I was, by all accounts, OK.

Until three weeks ago when I woke from a doze on the couch to see a report on CNN about a sinkhole that had opened up back home in a Cincinnati suburb. These are no longer aberrations. We have fucked the planet into near oblivion with our drills and disregard, so natural disasters are the new normal.

This sinkhole was a half-mile wide and took out a strip mall parking lot and the outermost homes in a residential area not far from where I grew up. I did not study the aerial map closely. I didn’t need to. I knew it was the pool, returning to pull people and homes down into itself. In a panic, I woke my wife. She listened with her trademark patience and then went back to sleep with a promise that we would discuss it more the following day. That discussion ended with her demand that I see a therapist. He suggested I write this down and here we are. It hasn’t helped. I knew it wouldn’t. It’s just brought my memories into clearer focus and now I’m sick to my stomach with fear and it’s difficult to breathe. I can’t sleep or eat or work. I don’t want to leave the house.

Last Friday a sinkhole opened up on the freeway not ten miles from here. I saw that too on the news, which is the only window left from which I can see what’s coming. And I know it’s coming. It didn’t let me get away. It was just drawing all of this out for its own amusement, delighting in the many ways in which I learned to fool myself.

The earth vibrates every day now. Can’t you feel it? They’re waking up. We woke them up.

It doesn’t matter if you believe me. You’ll see the truth of it soon enough.

It’s inevitable.

I’m sorry, Robbie.

I’m so fucking sorry.

END

Born and raised in a small harbor town in the south of Ireland, Kealan Patrick Burke knew from a very early age that he was going to be a horror writer. The combination of an ancient locale, a horror-loving mother, and a family full of storytellers, made it inevitable that he would end up telling stories for a living. Since those formative years, he has written five novels, over a hundred short stories, seven collections, and edited four acclaimed anthologies. In 2004, he was honored with the Bram Stoker Award for his novella The Turtle Boy . When not writing, Kealan designs book covers through his company Elderlemon Design.

THE GOVERNESS

Ania Ahlborn

T he Governess arrived nearly a month after Phoebe had mentioned it to her mother. I want to get something for the baby, Mom had said, and Phoebe hadn’t hesitated in asking for the big-ticket item. Because Harrison was already creeping up on six weeks old—still tiny and helpless—about as helpless as Phoebe felt. And they had yet to buy a baby monitor to put her nighttime trepidations at ease.

When Theo came home from work, he rolled his eyes at the box on the counter.

“So, you did ask for it,” he murmured, scanning the sides and reading the text. But Phoebe didn’t give a second thought to his lack of confidence. The authoritative descriptions of how the Governess would protect baby Harrison was enough. The monitor had all the bells and whistles; breathing monitoring, push notifications any time the kid moved, even a built-in speaker so she could hear when Harrison was waking up, all right from a convenient app on her phone. The Governess practically guaranteed she could put her worries about SIDS and suffocation to bed. Which was good, because Phoebe’s anxiety wasn’t abating. If anything, it was getting worse.

Theo, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have a worry in the world. He paid no attention to the horror stories Phoebe would relay while they prepared dinner together each night. When she had showed him the Governess website months before Harrison was born, Theo had exhaled a slow breath and given her that look—the one she hated.

“Pheebs, you need to relax. You know the odds of this stuff happening, right?” he asked. “Like, point zero zero zero one. As in, it’s not going to happen.”

“It happens to some people,” Phoebe argued. “Which means it can happen to us.”

“These companies are banking on you believing that,” he said. “They pray on people’s worries, and you’re their prime target.”

Apparently, their prime target was first-time mothers living in cities thousands of miles away from any help, any real friends, and any family. Most days, Phoebe didn’t mind the distance. She’d always been independent, never one for big, awkward family gatherings where her own mother would laugh about her “worrywart” of a daughter’s various concerns.

But the isolation did catch up with her every now and again. Like the time she had a mid-shower panic attack while staring at her massive, distended belly. Or the crying jag she’d suffered while marathoning The Great British Bakeoff, struck by the reality that she’d probably never have time to binge another Netflix show or bake a cake or be anything but a mom ever again.

But as her due date crept closer, more pressing worries began to nag at her already overanxious mind. Like whether she should try to talk Theo into dropping nearly two-grand on banking the baby’s cord blood in case Harrison was stricken with some terrible childhood cancer. Or whether she’d produce enough milk to sustain him—a worry that developed after reading an article about a woman who literally starved her newborn to death. It had been a tragic, terrible accident that Phoebe couldn’t get out of her mind for days. Because these things did happen, whether anyone liked to admit it or not.

“No,” Theo had said, “they really don’t. You need to get off of Facebook because you’re reading too many of those stupid mommy blogs.”

And he was right. She was reading too many of them, and they were stupid. Every day she found herself terrified by some other looming, invisible danger. But SIDS wasn’t something you could lump in with the rest of the million-to-one tragedies. SIDS was something she could spend an entire day reading about on official-looking medical websites because SIDS was real. Which was why she didn’t just want the Governess, she needed it. And now that it had arrived, she could breathe a sigh of relief.

The monitor started to glitch right away.

The phone app constantly crashed and froze, and the night vision would go in and out, often leaving baby Harrison in pitch darkness while Phoebe repeatedly jabbed her finger against her smart phone screen.

“This is ridiculous,” she hissed beneath her breath. “Do you know how much this thing cost?”

“I’m guessing a lot,” Theo responded. “Good thing we didn’t actually pay for it.”

“That’s beside the point,” Phoebe muttered. “Someone paid for it.”

“Yeah, Grandma.” Theo snorted. “Maybe you can have her install the app on her own phone. That way she could at least see her grandkid every now and again.”

Phoebe frowned, in no mood to traverse that topic again. At least not now. Theo sighed and mercifully change the subject.

“Was this thing one of those Kickstarter deals?” he asked. “You know those products never work.”

The device that was supposed to be giving Phoebe peace of mind was turning out to be nothing but a new source of frustration.

If the night vision didn’t go out completely, it would often turn her entire phone screen purple.

Sometimes the picture would get stuck in a feedback loop, leaving baby Harrison looking like he was in a found-footage horror flick, his movements jerky and robotic and deeply disturbing, like something out of an Exorcist remake.

The built-in speaker seemed to be having its own troubles. What had once been crystal clear sound was now experiencing frequent bouts of static. Sometimes, Phoebe would hear things that didn’t make sense. Sounds of the baby stirring when he was fast asleep. An occasional creaking of the floorboards. One time she heard Harrison laughing, but when she checked her phone, he was snoozing away.

And then there were the times when Harrison would just lie there and stare up at the four tiny red lights shining down at him, nothing but ultraviolet pinpoints. Sometimes the night vision would cut out during his staring episodes and when it would click back on, Harrison—with his pupils shining like the eyes of an animal caught in oncoming headlights—would be grinning a disconcerting, toothless smile.

Theo thought it was funny, but Phoebe hated it.

“He loves lights,” Theo explained. “You know that.”

Sure, she knew that. But it didn’t change the fact that a baby smiling at nothing in a pitch-black room was downright creepy.

Something about it felt off. It felt wrong.

The woman working the Governess customer service line didn’t have any solutions, either.

“I’m so sorry this is happening,” she said, trying her best to be gracious despite Phoebe’s annoyance. “We have occasional hiccups, but I’m not seeing any outstanding bugs or outages right now. I’ll forward your issues to the developers right away.”

This left Phoebe with exactly two options: live with the glitchy issues until they could be resolved or turn the damn thing off.

She tried not using it for an afternoon, but her attempt lasted half an hour. She couldn’t handle not being able to see Harrison in his crib. It triggered auditory hallucinations—the sound of crying despite the baby being fast asleep. It forced her mind into worst-case scenario mode, because what if the baby had spit up and was now choking to death while lying on his back? What if he’d managed to roll onto his stomach and wasn’t able to breath?

“Just forget that thing is even in his room,” Theo said, confiscating Phoebe’s phone and placing it onto the corner of the coffee table, just out of reach. “Let’s just watch a movie, have some ice cream, relax. If he starts crying, we’ll hear it.”

The baby’s room was, after all, just beyond a single wall. Certainly, if Harrison began to fuss, Phoebe would hear him the second he started up.

And that she did.

Because rather than crying, Harrison screamed instead.

The second she heard him, she was off the couch and in his room, sweeping the baby up into her arms and pressing his sobbing face into the crook of her neck. She didn’t notice the wide-open closet door until after Harrison had settled down. As a kid who spooked easily, Phoebe had grown into an adult with an aversion to dark, gaping doorways. It was why Harrison’s open door was out of place. She always closed it. It was a compulsion. A neurosis. Almost a mania.

“Did you leave Harry’s closet door open?” she asked Theo after having put the baby back down.

“What?” Theo raised an eyebrow at her from the couch, momentarily diverting his attention from the glowing screen of his phone to cast a glance at his wife.

“The closet door,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “You know I hate it when it’s left open.”

Theo stared at her, and for a moment she was sure he was going to claim it hadn’t been him. But instead of insisting on his innocence, he lifted a single shoulder in a boyish sort of shrug and murmured. “Yeah, sorry.”

They never finished the movie. Phoebe decided to go to bed, instead.

Harrison screamed himself awake the next night, same as he had the night before, and Phoebe spent the evening searching Google for answers that didn’t seem to exist. Gas. Reflux. Ear infections and sleep regressions. There were a multitude of possibilities, but nothing fit.

That, and the closet door had been left open again.

Frustrated, Phoebe didn’t bother confronting Theo about his repeat transgression. Because not only would it end in a fight, but it made her feel crazy. Because it shouldn’t have bothered her so much. It wasn’t important. Just a childhood fear rearing its ugly head.

So, rather than talking about it, she turned her focus back to the mommy blogs and message boards Theo so enjoyed admonishing her for instead.

She typed: six-week-old suddenly screaming himself awake into one of the website’s search bars. A dozen articles popped up. Night terrors were a possibility, but was it likely? Phoebe leaned in and began to read. Because if she had been a scared kid, maybe she’d passed it down to her son.

On night three, with the Governess’s glitchy app running full-tilt on her phone, Phoebe tried to unwind with a cup of tea and a book she’d been trying to finish for the past four months, but she couldn’t focus as she waited for Harrison’s screaming to start up again. Her eyes kept flitting to her phone. She winced as she watched Harrison wriggle in his crib and open his eyes.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

That’s when she saw it.

Something passed through the black-and-white picture on her screen.

A smooth-moving shadow, almost like an arm.

And then, a shapeless figure appeared.

It leaned in, looming over her baby’s crib.

For a span of two seconds, she rolled her eyes. Because she’d had it with this stupid monitor and its useless app. She was pretty sure it came with a 90-day money-back guarantee. She’d have to call her mother, ask if she still had the receipt. If she did, Phoebe could use the money to buy something else. Something better. Something that actually worked.

But as she sat there, it hit her.

The image wasn’t frozen.

It wasn’t looping back on itself.

She could see Harrison’s tiny socked feet kicking.

She could hear the creaking floorboards in his room.

And then there was that misty, almost pulsing darkness obscuring Harrison’s face and torso.

There was the sound of him struggling, as though he couldn’t breathe.

Phoebe tried to scream, but it was useless. She couldn’t gather any air.

She tried to call out for Theo, but his name left her throat as a dry whisper, nothing more.

Her book fell to the floor as she stumbled to her feet, her cup of tea crashing onto the rug just before she careened down the hall toward Harrison’s nursery door.

Harrison screamed just as her hand grasped the door handle.

The closet door was wide open again.

And this time, there was a smell.

“I didn’t imagine it,” Phoebe said, flabbergasted that Theo would even question the veracity of her claim. “I know what I saw, Theo, and there was something in Harry’s room.”

She frowned at him as he fiddled with her phone, as if the app had a setting marked make my wife sound less insane . When he didn’t look up, she lost her patience, reached out, and snatched the phone from his hands.

“Are you listening to me?”

Theo looked momentarily stunned, but he was quick to shift his surprise into a familiar expression. Lifting his hands as if to show her he was unarmed, he arched both eyebrows upward in a fake, wounded sort of innocence that struck her as both manipulative and smug. A don’t-shoot-the-messenger type of play. Every time she saw it, she wanted to slap it right off his face, and this time was no different. If anything, this time—with her fingers curling into fists—she had to restrain herself from winding up and letting fly.

“I saw someone in our baby’s room,” she reiterated, trying to stay calm. “How is that not terrifying you?”

“You saw someone who wasn’t there when you blasted into the nursery two seconds later,” Theo reminded her. “How would they have gotten out so fast? Pheebs, there’s no possible way.”

“They were there,” she told him. “It smelled different.”

And it had. Like moss and freshly tilled earth. Like someone had crawled out of an open grave and into their baby’s nursery.

“Phoebe.”

The way Theo said her name made her want to scream. It reminded her of a hostage negotiation movie—the rational confronting the deranged. Steady. Calculated.

“Listen…”

A flash of her mother’s face. Her rolling her eyes and exhaling a million exasperated breaths, all before Phoebe turned eighteen.

Phoebe Louise, you know you’re being ridiculous. Stop this anxious nonsense.

“You know what? Forget it.” She turned away from him. “Just fucking—”

Never one to swear, she closed her eyes.

Maybe this was all too much.

Maybe this was postpartum…whatever. Not depression, because she was happy most of the time. But her anxiety had amped up to unreasonable levels. She was back to her childhood habit of peeking into dark rooms, of hiding beneath the sheets so that nothing could grab her feet.

All of which relegated middle-of-the-night feedings to its own special hell. Because now, rather than being exhausted while stalking down the hallway and into the kitchen for Harrison’s three AM bottle, she was wide-eyed and terrified.

The next night, three AM arrived same as always.

Harrison began to fuss, and Phoebe pulled herself out of bed.

Now, rather than being bleary-eyed and cranky as the baby wailed, demanding to be fed, Phoebe’s heart pounded inside her chest as she walked past each room of the house, wondering what she would see.

The dining room was dark with its trendy chandelier hanging above a table they hardly used.

Theo’s office appeared as it always did, with its humming computer and messy desk she’d given up asking him to clean.

She moved passed Harrison’s bathroom, which was long and skinny and had the tub clear at the end of the galley-style room. A tub that she always kept the shower curtain pulled back on so there was no place for monsters to hide.

A tub that now contained the figure of a woman standing inside it, so tall her head nearly brushed the ceiling.

Hair billowing as if in a windstorm.

Featureless save for what Phoebe swore was a pair of gleaming animal eyes.

Phoebe froze mid-step, a fresh bottle of breastmilk warming her right hand.

She stared ahead, both terrified at the figure before her and confused as to how such a person could exist in her home. Because they had new double-paned windows that had cost them a fortune to install. The front door had been fitted with a smart lock—the kind with a keypad and camera. They had a home security system directly connected to the closest police and fire stations. It was impossible for anyone to get inside without kicking down doors, breaking windows, and setting off alarms.

I’m imagining it, she told herself. It isn’t real.

And yet, there the woman stood, a dress of gauzy shadow swirling around her.

That smell of earth growing stronger by the second.

And then the figure moved, lurching toward her, a hissing sound suddenly deafening in the silence of the house.

That was when Phoebe opened her mouth, gulped air, and screamed.

Theo sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Of course, he didn’t believe her. And why would he? What she’d told him sounded insane, even to her.

He had found her huddled in the hallway, Harrison’s bottle of milk on the floor, her arms shielding her head and face. She hadn’t been able to yell anything more than a few words on a broken record loop when he had finally reached her.

“Bathroom. The bathroom. In the bathroom! ”

But when Theo flicked on the light, there was nothing in the bathroom. Just the faint smell of mold—a scent they could never pinpoint since they’d moved in years ago; one that came and went with the rain.

“Maybe you need a break,” Theo finally suggested.

Had it been any other night, she would have hated him for the insinuation. But her anxiety was now at full tilt. She was hearing things. Seeing things.

He thinks if I don’t take a breath, I’ll crack. He thinks I’ll hurt Harrison.

And part of her genuinely wondered, what if she did?

She’s read a few articles about that, too. Mothers growing anxious and paranoid. Too many skipped meals and sleepless nights. Too many worries about health and safety. A chemical imbalance in the brain. The perfect storm set off by a sequence of unassuming events. It was called postpartum psychosis.

The idea of leaving Harrison, even for a single evening, made her want to vomit. But maybe that’s part of it, she thought. Maybe I have to force myself…

“Just for a day or two,” Theo said, as if able to read her mind. “I’ll book something.”

“Book something?” Phoebe asked, unsure of what he meant. But it wasn’t as though she could simply hop in the car and drive to a family member’s house. The closest person to them was Phoebe’s older sister, and she lived over four hundred miles away.

“Leave it to me,” Theo told her. “It’ll be nice, and it’ll be close. Relax.”

“Relax.” Phoebe echoed Theo’s favorite word.

When she finally crawled into bed, she was sick to her stomach at the thought of being separated from her baby. She strained to hear through the walls and bedroom door as Theo tended to Harrison down the hall. Harry wailed for a minute, then settled.

And in that silence, Phoebe decided that it would be okay.

Just one night. Just to get herself together. To relax, as Theo would say.

The next morning, she had her things packed before Harrison’s first nap, but she still teared up during her goodbyes.

“We’ll be fine,” Theo insisted, attempting his best everything-is-handled smile. “Besides, if you get really anxious, you’ve still got the app.”

Phoebe nodded, gave Harrison a final kiss on his forehead, and got into her car.

She checked that her phone could connect to the monitor, then glanced to the check-in information Theo had printed out for her, raising an eyebrow at the hotel he had chosen. It was fancy. Probably way out of their league. But she decided not to worry about the money for once and, pulling out of the driveway, took a deep breath and forced a smile at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

Everything was going to be fine.

A smiling woman named Marissa greeted her at the hotel’s front desk.

“Missus Larkin,” she said. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

Rather than simply being handed a room key and pointed toward the elevators, Marissa personally escorted Phoebe to her suite on the fourteenth floor. It was a gorgeous room. The plate-glass window that made up the entire back wall overlooked the city like a living photograph, and the bathroom was small but extraordinary.

“I’ll let you settle in, but don’t get too comfortable just yet,” Marissa said. “Mister Larkin has arranged a few surprises.”

Those surprises included the chic hotel bar for lunch followed by an in-hotel spa treatment and manicure. By the time Phoebe returned to her room it was nearly four PM.

“You have a reservation for dinner at six,” Marissa explained with a smile. “Shall I have someone call?”

“No, I’ll remember,” Phoebe told her. “Thanks.”

Alone in her room, Phoebe hardly knew what to do with herself. She was at a loss for a whole ten seconds before zeroing in on the bed. As soon as she crawled onto the king-sized pillowtop mattress and hugged one of the numerous pillows to her chest, she was out. And it was blissful. Possibly the best nap of her life.

But when she woke, rather than feeling rested, she felt that all-too-familiar panic well up at the back of her throat. The hotel was little more than ten miles from the house and the distance hadn’t seemed like that big a deal that morning. But suddenly, she wanted to jump in the car and speed back home. Because what if something had gone wrong? What if there had been an accident? What if Theo wasn’t coping? How had she have let Theo talk her into this stupid idea in the first place?

On the verge of guilt-ridden tears, she snatched up her phone and launched the Governess app, then selected ‘live feed’ from the drop-down menu. The app thought for a few seconds, and for a sickening moment Phoebe was sure it wouldn’t connect. But it eventually did, pulling up a picture of Harrison’s empty crib.

He’s not there because something happened, she thought. He and Theo are on their way to the hospital. They have to be. Why else would he not be—

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. She was being unreasonable. Harrison only slept in his crib, not played in it, and it wasn’t yet bedtime. Somewhere in the house, the baby was poised against Theo’s shoulder, or sitting in his bouncer, or kicking his feet at the toys hanging above him while lying on his play mat.

“He’s fine,” she whispered to herself. “Everything is fine. Just enjoy this.”

She spent a few minutes channel surfing to distract herself before going downstairs for dinner. But despite the perfection of the meal, the more time she spent away from home the less she felt in control of the pent-up scream that was threatening to claw its way up her throat.

Because something felt off.

Something about this whole thing felt wrong .

She only finished half her mushroom risotto before requesting the check.

Back in the room, she considered calling Theo to make sure everything was okay, but she decided against it. She didn’t want to come off as meddling. So, rather than dialing his number, she pulled up the app again. This time, Harrison appeared on the screen, his sleeping face the epitome of tranquility. It was seven PM. He was down for the night.

“He’s fine.” She repeated, as if saying those words over and over would solidify the fact that yes, Theo and Harrison could get along without her, if at least for a night. “Fine. ” Just her anxiety kicking in again. After all, it wasn’t as though she could simply switch that part of her brain off for the night. If it had been that easy, she wouldn’t have needed a break at all.

Forcing herself to leave her phone on the bedside table, she drew a bath and soaked in the massive tub. She even splurged a whole five bucks on pay-per-view, choosing the latest romcom she’d otherwise never get a chance to see. But just like with dinner, she couldn’t enjoy it. Her thoughts continuously circled back to Theo and Harrison, playing out terrible scenarios in her head. Huddled amid a mountain of perfectly fluffed pillows, she kept pulling up the app to make sure the baby was still sleeping, kept staring at her screen, waiting for him to open his eyes and look up at those infrared lights above his head.

She considered calling Theo again, but it seemed stupid. After all, she could see for herself that everything was great. But rather than closing the app the way she should have; she hit the little speaker button and plugged the phone into the wall. If Harrison started crying ten miles away, she’d hear it. It was—she was sure—the only way she’d be able to sleep.

But there was something about the silence, something about the shadows, something about the outline of the hotel room’s closet door that kept her wide awake in the dark. She lay in that fancy bed, surrounded by lush sheets and pillows like a queen, but couldn’t take her eyes off the corner of the room that reminded her of fearful childhood nights. Staring at the closet’s door handle, she waited for it to rattle, waited for it to tip downward to the soft click of an unlocking door latch.

Like the nursery’s closet door that she’d repeatedly found open.

She pulled the comforter against her mouth as she recalled the figure in the tub—just a hallucination, right? It had to be. Because things like that didn’t exist.

She turned her thoughts to something that made her happy, to the first few days that Harrison had been home. But those thoughts looped back on themselves to a moment in the nursery during a midnight feeding she couldn’t quite shake. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, she’d cradled Harry in her arms while he cried, sure that he’d never stop. And then, as if flipping a switch, he had gone so still and silent that Phoebe’s heart had tripped over itself. She looked down, and through the darkness she saw him staring up at her, grinning. And while any other mother would have been delighted, that toothless smile, those nearly-black eyes, Phoebe had torn her gaze away from his face and stared at the wall instead, her bottom lip trembling because somehow, for some reason, she had been terrified of her own child. It was the same nonsensical terror she had felt as a girl.

The same terror she had felt as she had stood in the hallway, staring at the glinting animal eyes of that woman in the tub.

A hallucination, she reminded herself again.

Which meant that the shadow that had passed through the picture of Harrison’s crib had been a delusion as well, right?

It meant that the closet door had simply been left open. An oversight. It hadn’t opened on its own , she thought, because doors don’t do that. They just don’t.

And that shadow had loomed over Harrison, as if watching him sleep? It had just been a glitch in the system.

But then why had Harrison screamed?

He’d screamed because he had seen it, too.

“Oh my god.” Phoebe nearly choked on the words as she sat up in bed, fumbling for her phone. She woke the screen and the black-and-white image of Harrison appeared. He was sleeping, peaceful as ever, which only made her squeeze her eyes shut and grit her teeth. “Stop it,” she told herself. “You have to stop it . You’re thinking stupid, impossible thoughts.”

But that nagging, almost hysterical feeling refused to let up this time. It was clawing at her insides, leaving her raw from the inside out.

When she opened her eyes again, Harrison was no longer asleep.

He was staring up at the lights of the baby monitor, his pupils glinting white.

A moment later, a shadow overtook the night vision shot. She could no longer see Harrison’s face, just his kicking feet, same as before.

He was struggling.

Something terrible was happening and she wasn’t there, wasn’t—

Her heart stopped when the speaker picked up a sound.

Hissing.

The same as she’d heard the night before, so loud it had made her ears ring.

A startled cry forced its way out of her throat.

She tried to call Theo from the car, but he didn’t pick up.

On her phone screen, baby Harrison was shaking his head back and forth so quickly, his face was nothing but a blur. His little body tensed. His muscles coiled like springs.

“Goddamnit!” She stepped on the gas, blasting through a couple of intersections, unsure of what she was speeding toward or what she was going to do when she finally got home. Because while she was overwhelmed by the need to protect her son, her hands trembled against the steering wheel despite her white-knuckled grip.

When she arrived home, the place was dark.

She moved through the kitchen and into the living room with quick but silent steps, wanting to call out Theo’s name but holding back, sure that this was another bizarre fantasy. Certain she’d finally lost her goddamn mind. But blaming her own mental state felt unfair, however fragile it may have been. Because she knew what she had seen.

Her instincts told her to rush past the closed nursery door, burst into the master bedroom, and shake Theo awake. Not being alone would, at least, quell some of the fear that was roiling at the pit of her stomach. But if she did that, he’d want to know why she was back home. If she was wrong, there would be no backtracking, no laughing it off.

He’ll think you’re completely crazy, she thought. He’ll take Harrison away.

Having frozen just beyond the nursery door, she reached out for the handle only to realize it wasn’t latched. It swung open, inviting her in.

Inside, the scent was overpowering. Fresh soil and soot.

The room was dark, unremarkable save for one thing. Her gaze immediately fell upon the closet—wide open and gaping, just as it had been for days. But this time it wasn’t empty. This time, there was something there, huddled on the floor next to Harrison’s laundry basket. Someone coiled up—head tucked into their chest; arms protectively folded over their head.

“…Theo?” The name left her in a weak whisper, hardly audible over the thump of her own heart.

She sank to her knees, her hand falling onto her husband’s shoulder. But rather than unfurling to see his wife beside him, his weight shifted like a top-heavy vase. He tipped, falling against her, his arms nothing but dead weight, dropping away from his head to reveal a petrified, screaming face.

Phoebe attempted to scramble away, but Theo’s torso pinned one of her legs to the floor.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it didn’t have a chance to make it out of her throat. Because there, in the far corner of the room, the woman stood watching, her hair billowing, so tall her head nearly brushed the ceiling.

And there, at her feet, baby Harrison sat unassisted despite hardly being able to hold up his own head.

His eyes glinted as he smiled at his mother.

Sitting at the Governess’s feet.

Ania Ahlborn is the bestselling author of the horror thrillers
Within These Walls
,
The Bird Eater
,
The Shuddering
,
If You See Her
, and
Seed
, and the novellas
The Pretty Ones  and
I Call Upon Thee
. Born in Ciechanow, Poland, she lives in South Carolina with her husband, son, and their dog. Visit AniaAhlborn.com or follow the author on Facebook and Twitter @AniaAhlbornAuthor.

URBAN MOON

Mercedes M. Yardley

P en fluffed and primped and preened with her friends. She used a steady hand to blacken her eyeliner. She rouged her lips and pressed them together. Her outfit was chosen with care, showing her long legs, but not so short or low-cut that her mama would have disapproved.

She topped it off with a long jacket, her favorite piece of clothing, made of leather and feathers and metallic odds and ends that caught the light in wondrous ways.

“It feels so good to go out,” her sister, Tia, said. They sat in the back seat of the car, crammed in with the other beautiful girls. The car was awash in perfume and body glitter. It was a car of giddy happiness.

“It’s been too long,” Pen agreed. She leaned back gingerly, careful not to crush her feathered jacket. Her sister reached out and took her hand.

“Are you doing better?” Tia asked.

Pen nodded and squeezed her hand back.

“Much. Thank you.”

The women in the car chattered cheerily, but Pen and Tia leaned their heads together and were silent for the rest of the trip.

At the club, they stood in line, checking out each other’s outfits and hair. The men looked good. The women looked fabulous. They showed their IDs and entered. Music pumped loudly, and Pen closed her eyes to absorb it all.

“Let’s go,” Tia said, and threaded her way through dancing bodies.

The girls ordered drinks. They shrugged out of their jackets. Pen draped hers gently over the back of a chair.

“Let’s dance!” her sister shouted into her ear, and Pen nodded. The girls moved onto the dance floor. Magic took over.

The flashing lights and music took Pen away. She moved her body, extending her arms and graceful neck. It took her away. She was no longer grinding her way through school, trying to hold down a job and study at the same time. She was no longer a woman with a broken body who had miscarried the son her boyfriend of five years hadn’t wanted. She was no longer a nobody who was all alone after breaking up with him. He had turned ugly. He told her nobody would ever want used goods. He had reminded her that swans mate for life, but humans were different.

She turned on the floor, dancing with her sister, dancing with her friends, dancing with strangers. Eyes fell upon her, taking in her dark skin and the flash of her fine teeth, but she didn’t know this. Swans didn’t concern themselves with the hungry eyes of strangers.

The music changed to something less frantic, something slower, and Pen pointed at her throat.

“I’m going to get a drink,” she mouthed, and her sister nodded.

She returned to the table, and noticed her chair was empty. The jacket was gone.

She searched. She searched. She peered under the table and looked around. She asked if anybody had seen it, if they had run across it in the night, because it was oh-so special, oh-so dear, and reminded her of a better time. Things have significance, you know, and things can be so very precious, and this jacket was one of those things. Could you help me find it, please?

Her friends flew from the dance floor and winged around. They twittered and asked.

“Jacket? With feathers and gold and all wonder of magic? Have you seen it at all?”

Nobody had. It was soon time to go, and her friends gathered up their glorious jackets, each one perfect, each one tailored to their bodies, and Pen was left alone.

“Come home with me,” her sister sang, holding out her hand. “It’s late and I don’t want you to be by yourself. Stay at my place tonight.”

Pen shook her head and kissed her sister. “It’s just a few blocks away. I’m happy to walk. And I’d like to look for my jacket a little longer. Perhaps I can find it.”

I need to find it, her eyes said. I need this sense of normalcy. I need to dress myself in its feathers and float away, knowing that even if everything falls apart, this one thing will be right with the world.

Her sister didn’t like it, but she had to get home to her husband and son.

“Be safe,” she said, and left with her friends. They swanned into the night in their finery.

Pen stooped and peered under the table again, just in case the jacket had somehow faded into the dark. A pair of leather shoes appeared beside her. She slowly stood up.

He was gorgeous, his jaw lean, his eyes concerned.

“Excuse me, miss. You seem to be looking for something. Will you allow me to help you?”

Pen’s hand wanted to fly to her throat. She wanted to fluff her hair and soothe her nerves. She held her hand carefully at her side.

“I’m looking for my jacket. It has feathers and gold. It’s very important to me.”

The man’s eyes were warm.

“It sounds lovely. In fact, I think I may have seen it. There are many fine coats here, but not so many with feathers. Would you come with me and see if it’s yours?”

Something in Pen trumpeted in alarm. He was a stranger, and she was unused to other men after being with her boyfriend for so long. But it was cold outside and, more than that, she wouldn’t be herself if she wasn’t wrapped up in her feathers.

She followed him cautiously, but it turned out that it was only to the other side of the club, not down some dark alley way or behind a dirty gas station. She calmed somewhat.

“Is this it?” he asked and held up a denim jacket with a feather stenciled on the back.

Pen’s heart sank.

“No, it isn’t,” she said, and nearly started to cry.

“Hey, hey,” he said soothingly, and put his arm around her. She nearly jerked away by reflex, but she was so sad and so tired, and his voice was calm and quiet.

“My mother gave it to me before she died,” she said. Her eyes glimmered with tears that she had been trying to hold back for months now. “It’s all I have of her. I can’t lose it. I’ll be naked without it.” She didn’t know why she was telling him this.

His eyes were kind. He nodded.

“I see. Naturally that makes it even more important. Listen, I have a friend here who has a keen eye. Let me text him in case he’s seen it around. Feathers, you said? Actual feathers. And gold?”

She described it and his quick fingers jabbed at his phone. He grinned at her and his smile gave her hope.

“Just a second. He’s usually pretty quick to answer. Maybe we’ll get lucky. What’s your name?”

“Pen,” she answered automatically, and smiled back. “Thank you so much…”

“Tom,” he said. “Call me Tom.”

His phone lit up, and so did his eyes.

“Sounds like he might have a hit on it,” he said. “Feathers with metal accents. He says some girl is wearing it out back and showing it to her friends. Maybe she lifted it?”

“Oh please,” Pen said, and this time she couldn’t keep her hands from fluttering to her throat. “I need it back so desperately. Can he get it from her?”

Tom typed something and the phone dinged almost immediately.

“He says he doesn’t want to pull it off of her without you making sure it’s the right one. Want to run back and take a peek?”

She faltered. She faltered, and her nerves betrayed her. Tom nodded his head again and he looked hurt.

“I get it. You’re a beautiful girl and you don’t want to put yourself in a bad situation. I understand. I’d have him take a picture of it if the camera on his phone worked, but it doesn’t. I could take a picture with mine and send it to you, but I haven’t seen you with a phone in your hand. Do you have one on you?”

“No,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t.”

“My only concern is that she might leave and take your jacket with her. It seems important to you. But whatever you want to do. I want you to be comfortable.”

Nice words said in a nice manner. He seemed calm and open. And more than ever, Pen needed to wrap herself in her mother’s love.

“Okay,” she said, and stood up. “Where is it?”

Tom guided her with his hand at her elbow, not pushy or possessively at the small of her back.

“He’s outside having a smoke. Just this way.”

He led her to an exit and opened the door.

“I really hope it’s yours,” he said as she faltered. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to get it back?”

She stepped out the door into the cold night. The door clanged behind her.

“Where—” she said, but that was as far as she got before a hand clamped over her mouth.

Pen struggled. Pen fought. Pen cried and prayed and cursed and begged. She threatened. She wept. At the end she just stared at the starry sky over the two men’s shoulders and wished herself away.

If I were a bird, she thought, I’d fly, fly, fly away home.

After her body and soul were used up, Tom and his friend left. Pen sprawled in the alleyway, her feet bare, her dress, so carefully chosen to not show too much, ripped nearly from her body. Her toes were painted a delicate rose. Her necklace was broken on the beer-soaked ground.

She tried to gather herself, but it was too hard, and her body hurt too badly. She stared at the moon, a cold witness to her horror, until it began to change. It swelled and grew brighter, shining, shining, shining, until it hurt her eyes to look at.

“Hey, lady. You okay?”

It was no longer a moon, but a flashlight beaming directly in her face. She squinted against it.

“Mama?” she asked, and the man pulled out his radio and called for help. Somebody brought out a thin fleece blanket and wrapped it around her, covering her brokenness.

“This isn’t right. It doesn’t have any feathers,” she said, and the ambulance doors shut behind her.

#

The hospital visit was grim. The police report was grimmer.

“His name is Tom and he is beautiful,” she said, and turned her face into the pillow to cry.

Her friends dropped by, guilt dripping off their faces in the form of tears. Her ex-boyfriend sent a bouquet of carnations. She hated carnations because they were cheap, and he knew this. But he was also cheap, and so was their old love at this point.

Tia held her hand, as a sister does. Her hand was cold and strong, but it trembled every now and then.

“I wish it had been my jacket instead,” Tia said, and Pen hushed her.

There was internal damage. Liberties had been taken, things done, foreign objects used.

“It doesn’t matter,” Pen told her sister. “A kiss would have been too much. What does it matter? It doesn’t, anymore.”

She was on the news. She was on the web.

“Did you see what she was wearing?” People asked. A picture of Pen and her girlfriends getting ready for the club flashed across the screen. “A good girl doesn’t dress like that.”

“It’s just leg,” somebody argued.

“It’s advertising,” somebody else said.

“Rape is never okay.”

“It isn’t rape if it’s wanted.”

“Consent is sexy.”

“You can’t rape the willing.”

Strangers argued about her body, about her clothes, about her stupidity to go into the dark. Pen wasn’t Pen anymore, but a face used for agendas. They lambasted her friends, accused her sister, accused her ex-boyfriend of masterminding the whole thing.

“That’s what you get when a slut gets pregnant to trap a man. They get revenge.”

Pen thought it couldn’t get any worse. She was wrong.

“Tom” and his buddy had filmed it. The whole thing. The camera was carefully kept away from their faces, but it was front and center on Pen’s. It captured her body. It captured the shattering of her soul and psyche. It captured the precise moment when her spirit curled up and died, and her dark, perfect eyes stared far, far away.

It went viral. Of course it did.

Friends saw it. The members of her church. Children shared it at school, it was uploaded on YouTube, it was shared on porn sites and through personal emails and was downloaded again and again and again.

“No,” she had said.

“Please stop,” she had said.

“God help me,” she had said, but most of these things were uttered with a strong hand clapped over her mouth.

“It smelled like cigarettes and tasted unclean,” she had told the police, but that isn’t enough to identify an assailant.

“Excuse me, sir, but do your hands smell like cigarettes and do they taste unclean?” an officer had mocked outside of her hospital door when he thought she couldn’t hear. But Pen had heard, and heard the responding laughter, and she thought of the sharp pieces of gravel pushing into her back and sides and stomach while that sturdy hand kept her swan song silent.

Pen’s body gradually healed but her mind didn’t. It couldn’t. A mind is used to capture and retain, to relay information, to process and show things over and over and over. Pen relived that moment every night. Every day. She covered herself in layers of clothing, cheap replacements for her jacket of resplendent beauty, and hid in her apartment.

“Do you want to go for coffee?” her friends asked.

“Do you want to go shopping?”

“Do you want to go into public and have the fingers and eyes of strangers touch your soul again and again?”

Stress and terror made her languish. Her hair molted and her skin pulled back from her face. She had become married to this new version of herself quite against her will.

“I just want to be me again,” she told Tia, and they cried together.

“Come live with me,” Tia urged her. “Stay with us. I’ll take care of you until you’re well enough to fly again. You can be free.”

“I’ll never be free,” Pen answered, and slept on the floor that night, curled up between the bed and the wall. It was a prison, safer than the prison her soul currently inhabited, and she slept restlessly, hoping that the dreams and the media wouldn’t find her.

They always did.

“Do you think the attack had anything to do with race?” a reporter asked her.

“How do you feel that the attackers haven’t been found?”

“Did you bring it upon yourself by taking your jacket off in the first place?”

“If you dance in front of men, what do you expect?”

She had been a maiden before this but became something else after. She was no longer Pen but became the girl who traded her virtue for a coat. It didn’t matter what she said. It didn’t matter what had really happened. She had walked into a club, all dolled up, and slid her protective covering down so she could dance.

“Mama would be so ashamed,” Pen cried to Tia. Tia was the only one who came over anymore. Everyone else had stepped away.

“Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did everything wrong. I’m a woman, aren’t I?”

“You can’t think that way.”

Pen’s face was tattooed with tears that her eyes would no longer cry.

“That’s what the world would have me think. Who am I to deny it?”

Pen faded more day by day, her long neck hanging down, her breast turned toward the sky. Tia couldn’t take it anymore. She gathered up her flock and they donned their finest coats.

“We need to fly,” she said, and they took wing. They went to the police, to the media, to the Internet.

“We need to find these men,” they said. Their voices were bold. “We’ve waited long enough. One of us was attacked and stripped naked, first by filthy men and then by even filthier society. One of us dies of a broken heart. Did you know that heathens used to mark a swan’s beak to show ownership? What have you done to her? You scratch your name into her beak with claws, with your fingernails, with screwdrivers. It is enough. Bring these men to justice and let our sister come back to life.”

Their words stung. The beating of their wings against injustice stirred them up. Suddenly armchair reporters stopped ripping apart the feathers of Pen’s outfit that night and set upon Beautiful Tom. They analyzed the video and studied the features of the men, of the club, and compared it to other videos popping up online.

Beautiful, Disgusting Tom and his friends showed up over and over. So many women, so many Pens, left crying and broken, tattooed and scarred.

“They will be found,” Tia told Pen. She stood strong, regal, and proud. She pulled Pen up beside her and brushed her hair away from her face. “There will be justice.”

Pen practiced standing upright, folding her arms about her like wings. This was how it was supposed to be. This was how she had been raised. Stand tall instead of hiding. Face the sun instead of hiding her head under her wing.

“I have something for you,” Tia said. She opened her bag and pulled out a beautiful jacket decorated with feathers.

Pen gasped.

“Tia, I couldn’t. That’s the jacket Mama gave you before she died. I could never take it.”

Tia draped it around Pen’s shoulders and took her hands.

“She made it herself from her own jacket. It would always protect us. It’s the most precious thing I own, but you are far more precious.”

Pen’s eyes filled with tears, and they were beautiful.

“Fly away,” Tia whispered. She closed her eyes. “Fly, Pen.”

There was a rustle, a handful of feathers, and Tia’s hands were empty.

Mercedes M. Yardley is a whimsical dark fantasist who wears stilettos, red lipstick, and poisonous flowers in her hair. She is the author of
Beautiful Sorrows
, the Stabby Award-winning
Apocalyptic Montessa and Nuclear Lulu: A Tale of Atomic Love
,
Pretty Little Dead Girls: A Novel of Murder and Whimsy, Detritus in Love
, and
Nameless
. She recently won the prestigious Bram Stoker Award for her story
Little Dead Red
. Mercedes lives and creates in Las Vegas. You can find her at mercedesmyardley.com.

Mercedes is a member of the Horror Writers Association and co-chair of the Las Vegas HWA Chapter.

A CIRCLE THAT EVER RETURNETH

Kevin Lucia

Y ou never thought it would come to this. You had ambitions. Dreams. A job with upward mobility. Career opportunities. You had plans .

Then everything fell apart. Maybe you pushed too hard at the quarterly business meeting. Or spoke harsher than you intended in a parent-teacher conference. Showed up to work drunk once too often. Screwed the wrong secretary or flirted with the wrong intern at the office Christmas party.

In the end, it didn't matter. Those dreams vanished. Fate yanked your opportunities away, dissolving your plans like mist in the morning sun, and suddenly?

You began to disappear.

#

After everything fell apart you spent several weeks lying around the apartment, ignoring phone calls from creditors and watching endless television programs about nothing. Dinners consisted of frozen meals washed down by the cheapest beer money could buy. Clothes you washed every other day or so, because it wasn't like anyone was around to smell them, anyway. Shaving took too much effort, but instead of a uniform beard, a patchwork of rough and uneven stubble covered your cheeks and chin, making you look homeless, and, oddly enough, five years younger. Like a child trying to grow whiskers in a desperate effort to appear grown-up.

Eventually you accept reality. Savings had dwindled. The fridge is empty, cupboards bare. You lie to yourself, however, thinking: this is only a setback . A bump in the road. Just need to get back on your feet. Find something to pay the bills until opportunity knocks.

So you turn off the television and start searching the Internet classifieds on a smartphone with only a week left on its plan. Looking for that perfect bounce-back job.

I'll show them , you think. Because you still have ambition. Still have drive. You'll adapt and overcome. Turn lemons into lemonade. Rain into rainbows. Whatever. This isn't the end.

It isn't.

#

Word travels fast, unfortunately. Especially after falling so hard. After two weeks, only one employer calls back. You debate for a day about keeping the interview. It's the most faceless job. Deep inside, you know taking it is the first step off the stage, an acceptance of your new place in the show: as part of the backdrop. A prop, nothing more.

This is only temporary.

Something to help you back onto your feet. You'll keep applying. Keep calling for interviews. This isn't the end.

It isn't.

#

At the end of a dull twenty-minute interview basically confirming proof of life, you accept the job. “Recycling materials handler in charge of brand sorting.” Or, in plain language, a soda and beer can sorter. At The Can Man, a redeemable can and bottle recycling center just outside Clifton Heights.

Sitting in a small office, you despair. The Can Man's manager—a thin middle-aged man with a grizzled face and watery eyes—goes over tax forms and other papers sent from the Personnel office (it seems odd that a can redemption center would have a Personnel office, but you're too preoccupied to worry about it). After several minutes, the manager slides the documents across the desk.

You sign numbly on the highlighted lines, not really reading them. After several minutes, you slide them back across the desk. The manager grunts his approval, which makes it official: you start your new career the following week.

Pending a drug screen, of course.

#

Unbelievable enough, three months later and it's another workday in a quickly blurring week. You pull behind the The Can Man, a dingy-white warehouse located along Route 28 North. Shift is 8-5. Monday through Friday, Saturdays and Sundays off. Half-hour lunch and two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. And, a solid dental and health plan.

There's that, at least.

After parking, you enter. The backdoor screeches on rusty hinges. You pass the manager's office. He glances up from paperwork, face unreadable. He sizes you up for a heartbeat before returning his gaze wordlessly to his desk. That's the most he ever acknowledges you. After the first few weeks you asked a co-worker—a skinny guy named Jerry—why the manager never says hello.

“Why would he?” Jerry shrugged. “Why bother makin’ friends? Turnover is too high, man.”

Later, (how long, you don't exactly know) you wanted to ask him what he meant, but you discover Jerry's no longer working at The Can Man, apparently part of that turnover himself.

He's not the only one. There's also John, who used to sort glass bottles out back. The big guy with red hair who limped on his right leg. You only chatted occasionally, but he seemed nice enough. It's odd how much he knew about politics. Like he'd done something much different before The Can Man.

You remember talking about the upcoming presidential election at his locker in The Can Man's tiny breakroom. “It's a complex situation,” John said as he hung a CAT hat in his locker. “Everyone hates the president, and with good reason. God, he's loathsome. But the Democrats can't make anyone care about their platforms. I hate to say this...but that fat shit is probably going to win again.”

You've never cared about politics, so you just nodded and changed the subject to the picture hanging on the inside of his locker. It's him standing with some guys wearing matching jerseys in a bowling alley. “You bowl?”

John smiled. “Yeah. Our team won the league last year. I bowled in high school. Senior year went to state finals. Some folks thought I could go pro. Went to college instead. Pursued the 'practical dream.'”

He shut the locker and gave you a resigned smile. “That worked out great, huh?”

One morning, some indeterminate time later, he wasn't at work. No one said a word. Several days passed, still no John. When you asked the manager, he offered nothing but a vague shoulder shrug with a blank look before returning to his paperwork.

A few days after, out of curiosity, you slipped into the break room and opened John's locker. Inside hung his CAT hat, which you thought strange. He never forgot to put that on before leaving for the day. Also, still hanging on the inside of the locker's door was a picture of a bowling team. Oddly enough...you couldn't find John in it anywhere. Even now, you have a hard time remembering if he'd actually been in the picture, or if you're imagining that.

When you swipe your card through the digital time clock, it's hard to remember exactly what John looked like. You remember the limp and the red hair, but that's all. His face is nothing but an indistinct smear. Even his strangely cultured voice you can't remember. As each day passes, he fades more from your mind.

In fact, the last memory you have of him is bumping into him at the end of a workday, him mumbling something about Personnel needing to see him.

You never saw him again.

You shrug off those thoughts and return your timecard to your wallet. Pull rubber gloves from your back pocket, slip them on and head toward your sorting station in the building’s far corner.

There they are, waiting. Bags of soda and beer cans. The pile never gets smaller. It doesn’t matter how slow or fast you work. It doesn't matter how big a dent you make by the day's end. Tomorrow the pile will still reach to the ceiling.

You grab several bags, drag them into the sorting bin, tear them open and dump their contents out. Cans roll with metallic rustles and dings. The sour aroma of old beer makes your stomach lurch, but only a little. You're getting used to it.

Mouth-breathing, you plunge rubber-gloved hands into the mounds of slick cans, which glimmer under the lights. Some squirt away. Others stick to your gloves. They tear loose with a fleshy sound.

You've gotten used to this, also.

You snag two Pepsi and two RC Cola cans with each hand. Turn and flick them into an empty rubber garbage can to your left. Next, you find four Budweiser cans and toss them into a can directly behind you, with barely a backward glance. Next, two Cokes and two Sprites, to your right.

A simple job which demands mindless repetition. When you fill a garbage can, you carry it to another sorter at the opposite end of the warehouse, who double-checks your work and then bags them for collection. All day you turn and throw. Memorizing which distributor goes into which garbage can.

As the days blend into each other you think less about applying for other jobs or looking for new contacts. As you continue to turn and throw, dreams fade, as surely as...John ?...faded from The Can Man. Turning and throwing, you feel yourself blending into the background. You wonder how much longer before you disappear from The Can Man, as John did.

Still, you comfort yourself with a mantra which doesn't seem to have much meaning anymore: Only temporary.

This is only temporary.

#

Hours pass. You snatch four cans of Penguin soda. Turn sharply and flick them into a garbage can two rows back and directly behind you. Wincing at the small but insistent ache which has been blossoming in your lower back since morning. Turning and throwing five days a week has twisted up your lower back muscles, despite your lathering up each morning with warming cream. The topical analgesic only lasts until your first fifteen-minute break, when you have to hide in The Can Man's rank bathroom to rub on more.

You push through. This is only temporary. You just need to pay some bills. You won't disappear. You'll find a better job, and when you do , you won't disappear from The Can Man. You'll make a respectable but visible show of quitting. You won't disappear and be forgotten, like...John, you finally remember. You won't disappear like John.

You won't.

For the moment, however, you push away those hopes and keep working. A glance at the clock shows how little time has passed. You sigh and bury hands in sour-smelling cans. Often, they're filled with rancid chewing tobacco, water-logged old cigarettes, or other indefinable masses.

Only three more hours until lunch.

You pluck, twist and throw.

Telling yourself that low chuckling is a DJ telling jokes on the muted radio station playing through The Can Man's tinny ceiling speakers. Not the universe laughing at your insignificance.

#

Work over, home at last, you stand in the shower, eyes closed, breathing deeply, soaking in hot, pelting sprays. After spending the day saturated with the odor of sour beer, bargain-brand soap smells heavenly pure.

Some idiot tossed an unopened can of Budweiser into one of their black plastic bags, which had absorbed enough heat to make it warm to the touch. When you emptied its contents, that pressure-swollen Budweiser slipped out and smacked onto the hard, concrete floor. It exploded into a beer monsoon which you caught full in the face as you tried to catch it before it fell. Even now, you smell traces of beer lingering under soap.

Eyes still closed, you raise your hands, rub your face, sighing as the warm water relaxes sore muscles, cutting your mind adrift. You stretch, lower back protesting. Shut the water off, pull back the flimsy curtain and ease out of the shower. Moving slowly around the bathroom, you dry and then dress. Your body reports its hunger, though eating—like many things, these days—doesn't interest you much.

#

Several hours later, you're sitting very still on the futon before your flat-screen television, a relic from the days when you were “making your mark.” Your meal—a bowl of microwaved ravioli—has long since congealed. You're watching a talk show you can't seem to follow.

You lean back, close your eyes and rub the middle of your forehead, which aches, dully. Haven't sent any new applications out in weeks. Or followed up on others. Thoughts of strategies to reclaim your spot in the game have all leaked away.

You're fading.

Disappearing, and you can't seem to stop it.

You open your eyes, stretch and grunt, joints aching. It hurts, but the weird thing is, you like it. Something about the pain reaffirms your existence.

After untold hours sitting and staring at a television show you can't follow—and apparently finishing your congealed Ravioli, because the bowl is empty when you place it into the sink—you go to bed. Sleep comes quickly, as it always does, the one blessing of manual labor.

#

You dream of scrambling through a maze whose walls seem to be made of white plastic bags stacked higher than you can see. You're looking for a large man with red hair, who limps. You don't know why. Only that it seems vital to find him.

As you scramble madly through the maze, something throbs at its center. It screams in a language which doesn't sound human. Though those words fill you with a cold bowel-clenching dread, they pull you forward, their hypnotic cadence jerking you along as if you're nothing but a puppet on strings. Despite the icy terror clutching your heart, you long to find the source of those screams. You need to make your way to the maze's throbbing center, to join with It, to become It, to sink into its faceless, amorphous ooze...

Rounding a corner too quickly, you trip, fall, and tumble into a wall. You'd imagined the bags full of cans, but as you crash into them, they give like soft, spongy tissue. Their slimy touch fills you with revulsion.

You try to roll away but can't. The bags have closed around your left foot and thigh and are sucking you inward. You beat against the soft fleshy things which aren't bags, at all. They're like pulsating sacs filled with fluid, and in those sacks, hands reach and stretch membranous tissue, grabbing you, pulling you farther inward. Faces press there too, mouths wide in soundless screams, as soundless as your screams when the fleshy sacs close over and fill your mouth and push their spongy tissue down your throat.

#

When you wake in the morning, you recognize the maze immediately. The Sweat House. You dreamed of getting lost in The Sweat House, and for the first time in a while, you remember the large man's name—John.

#

At the end of another featureless workday, a bag of cans clatters at your feet. It was thrown there by one of your co-workers. A young guy named Sammy. Or Steve. Something like that. You can’t remember. For a moment, 'John' slips into your mind, then fades just as quickly.

You stoop and grab the bag. Stand and jam it into the pile before you. Mounds of white plastic bags, bulging with cans, reach to the cramped room’s ceiling.

Another bag rustles at your feet.

You sigh. Crack your neck, wipe your forehead on the already sodden shoulder of your shirt. Bend, grab the bag and turn, searching for space. You feel tired and aggravated. Haven't been sleeping well, plagued by dreams you can't remember when you wake. Something inside, however, says you should.

You should.

Regardless, the lack of sleep has made this part of the day even worse. It's your turn to work in the sweltering confines of the old three-story house next door to The Can Man. What your co-workers appropriately call The Sweat House. After the cans are sorted and re-sorted, then bagged according to their distributors, you and several other workers pack them into the peeling white house, storing them until distributors come to take them.

You scan the wall of bags. While you look, two more bags land at your feet. Finally, you spy a gap near the top. You stretch and stuff the bag you're holding into place. Then you step back, grab the bags lying at your feet as perspiration runs down your face, stinging your eyes, dripping off the end of your nose.

You manage to jam these bags into the same gap at the top. Turn in time to catch another bag, which you drop onto the floor. You wipe a grimy forearm over your face, breathing in rotten wood, sour beer and sickly-sweet soda. “Hold up!”

“How much room we got in there?” a distant voice replies. Ben, you think. Peter? No, Brad. It's Brad. He's not a friend, really. No one makes friends here, right? Even so, you and Brad have chatted the last few weeks about basketball, which you both played in high school. As it turns out, in the same league. You don't remember each other, but you remember the same players, and you also spent your summers on the same asphalt courts in Old Forge.

You glance around the room. Its mottled, water stained walls are bereft of wallpaper. Someone ripped up the carpet long ago, which is fortunate. The thought of it soaking up years of spoiled beer and old soda turns your stomach.

The ceiling stucco is poked through with holes showing partially rotted ceiling beams. A bare, flickering light bulb hangs from a twisted tangle of wires, giving off the only light in the room. Bags obscure the room’s windows.

This house died years ago. Now The Can Man uses its carcass like maggots teeming inside a dead animal rotting in the sun. Planting white bags of cans...like eggs.

A dead house.

Full of white squishy eggs.

“Hey,” Brad (Peter?) calls again, sounding even further away, “How much room we got?”

You swallow and glance around the room again, ignoring its decay this time, dispassionately sizing up how much space remains. Figure in your head, then call out, “Two, maybe three more rows. At the most.”

“Okay,” Brad calls back. “That room is Budweiser, right?”

It's an important question. When distributors come to collect their returns, they wanted to do it quickly, so The Can Man stored all the cans by distributor in The Sweat House's rooms. That way, distributors could load bags onto their trucks without checking. When The Can Man mixed up bags in distributor loads, they got fined by the distributor, which was taken out of the offending party's paycheck.

Because you can't afford to lose the money, you check a few bags and see that, indeed, Brad is correct. “Yeah, it's all Bud!”

“Okay,” Brad calls back, “we got a bunch of Genesee bags here, and we filled the Genny room yesterday. They come first thing tomorrow. Bud doesn't come until next week. Gonna toss the Genny bags in. Put them aside, and I'll make sure when their truck comes, we'll grab those first.”

You scowl, because this is how it's happened at least once since you started. Tomorrow, if Brad forgets to load those Genesee bags with the others, they'll get loaded with the Budweiser bags next week. When the screw-up is discovered, whose name will be on the list as working in The Sweat House the day of the mistake?

Yours.

“Don't forget!” you yell. “I don't wanna take shit for your screw-up!”

“No worries! Heads up!”

Two more bags—full of Genesee beer cans—thump at your feet. You turn and pick them up, trying your best to push away your thoughts of things pushing out of egg sacs—you fail, miserably.

#

As you make for the exit, resigned to another evening sitting before the television eating microwaved food, Brad walks by, irritation wrinkling his brow. “What's wrong?”

“Ah. It's nothing,” Brad stops and scratches his chin through his scraggly goatee, which he never trims, though he shaves the rest of his face to a smooth bareness. “Personnel wants to see me.”

“Oh.” Something cold tingles at the base of your spine, but you're not sure why. “Manager say why?”

“Naw, just called me in, gave me his blank stare and told me 'Personnel needs to see you.'” He shakes his head as he turns. “Anyway. See ya.”

He disappears around the corner in the direction of the Personnel office, which you realize, oddly enough, you've never seen or even thought of since starting at The Can Man. You don't think about it any longer, however, and walk numbly out to your car.

It doesn't occur to you until you're halfway home, the oddness of it. Your last memory of...John , the name comes with some effort...is him complaining about having Personnel wanting to see him.

Before he disappeared.

#

Next morning when you wake, nightmarish tendrils recede from your mind. Lying on your back, gazing at the darkened ceiling of your bedroom, you recall another dream of running through a maze made of white pulsating things which looked like plastic bags but weren't. Something at its center throbbed and screamed in an alien tongue, those screams drawing you inexorably closer. You figure the maze is probably a nightmare-version of The Sweat House. Which makes sense, because you hate working in there.

The maze? Psych 101. You're lost. Trapped by the apathy you've been mired in since starting at The Can Man. The thought has occurred over the past three or four days...

four or five weeks
two months

...that you should quit immediately. Simply stop going. Find another job somewhere else. Except...there aren't any other jobs. Not that you've looked, lately. That's the problem. You're afraid to, because you don't want to face the truth: there aren't any jobs. Not for you. You fell too fast and too far. You're now at The Can Man...

The last job you'll ever have.

This morbid thought shoots nervous energy through you. You sit up and swing your feet to the floor. Run a trembling hand through damp and matted hair, and puzzle at your dream. Like the one you had...last week, the week before?...you were looking for someone. Not the man with the red hair and the limp, whose name you can't remember now, no matter how hard you try. Someone else. Leaner, wearing an unruly goatee...

Brian.

Bob.

No, Brad . You dreamed of looking for Brad. Just like you dreamed of looking for...that other man, several weeks ago. Someone who used to work at The Can Man, whom you can't remember.

This place has fuckin high turnover, man

Why bother makin’ friends

Sitting on the edge of your bed, kneading your forehead with your fingertips, you decide that's your problem. Trying to make friends in a place with such high turnover. You need to concentrate on the job. Pluck, sort, and throw. Every day. Keep your head down and work, because pretty soon, you'll move on to something better. This apathy is temporary. You'll get over it. Ride it out. Just need to kick yourself in the ass, send out more applications, and follow up on others. Get back in the saddle. When you find a new job, you'll go into The Can Man and quit, loud and proud.

New life flushes through you, washing away the lingering unease over last night's dream, and the memory of that throbbing, screaming alien voice. You practically bounce upright with an energy you haven't felt in weeks...

months?

...as you get ready for work early, so you can go buy a newspaper and surf the classified ads for that new job you're meant to have. You're so happy, you don't worry about the red-haired guy with the limp whom you can't remember (why bother remembering people in a place with such high turnover, right?), and you forget all about those Genesee cans Brad had you pile in the Budweiser section of The Sweat House...

#

...until a week later, when the manager, instead of nodding dully when you walk by in the morning, scowls and gestures you into his cramped office.

Which is the last thing you want to do. All the energy you felt last week has faded. You found two jobs in occupations similar to your former job, and they initially sounded upbeat about calling you back. Three days later, however, nothing. Your follow-up calls went unanswered.

You tried a different tactic the next few days, calling employers instead of emailing resumes from the library computers. Three calls went straight to voicemail. Two initially sounded promising, until they heard you were working at The Can Man. Abruptly they turned cool and dismissive, uttering empty promises about “being in touch.”
So standing in the doorway of the manager's featureless office—with a desk, a filing cabinet, and nothing else—is the last place you want to be. What makes it worse is you can't figure out why he's angry. No one's keeping track and no one cares, but you've never fallen behind at your sorting station, maintaining the same, steady pace every day. What could the manager possibly be upset about...

It hits like a thunderbolt.

The Genesee bags.

In the Budweiser room.

When was Genesee supposed to come? Did someone put those bags on the Genesee truck? Or did they get thrown on the Budweiser truck? When was the Budweiser truck coming? Had it already come?

You stand in the manager's doorway, clenching your hands so tightly fingernails bite into your palms, suddenly realizing—with a spike of fear—you're not even sure what day it is.

The manager flips through some papers, scowling, and without looking at you, says, “Someone screwed up in The Sweat House. Budweiser in Baldwinsville called. They got about ten bags of Genesee in their load. You worked in the House the day we stacked Genesee in there. You pack some Genesee bags in the Budweiser room and forget?”

Indignant but futile anger fills you. “No. I mean, yeah...I worked in the House that day, but I...”

The manager finally looks up, still scowling, but somewhat blankly, as if not at anything in particular. “Did you put those Genesee bags in there, or didn't you?”

Unreasoning panic thrums along your nerves. “I...uh...yeah. I mean, I did, but only because...because...”

The manager's unblinking gaze spikes panic in your guts while you frantically try to remember. “It was...Paul? No, Jimmy. Bob? Brad !” You snap your fingers. “Brad was in charge of the throwers that day. Told me the Genesee room was full, and he was going to throw a few bags of Genny in, and I should just stack them in the Budweiser room, and he'd remember to throw them onto the Genny truck, which was supposed to come before the Budweiser truck.”

You spread your hands, absurdly feeling like you're imploring a merciless deity instead of the manager of a can redemption center. “Brad was supposed to put those on that truck. It's not my fault.”

The manager stares at you for an eternity before saying in his rasping but bland voice, “Who the hell is Brad?”

#

After claiming no one named “Brad” has ever worked at The Can Man, the manager informs you in his empty voice that a fine for this mix-up is coming out of next week's paycheck. He says nothing more, dismissing you with a limp wave as he once again turns to the eternal paperwork littering his desk.

You move on, dazed, mechanically carrying out tasks which have become hard-wired muscle-memory. Ripping open bags, pawing through cans, and sorting them into rubber garbage cans. Over and over. For the first time since coming to The Can Man, you don't slowly fade into your task, you flee desperately into it. You crave the facelessness. You hunger for non-being. Thoughts of applying for jobs elsewhere dissolve. You care nothing about making your mark, or becoming someone, or taking a stand. With each can you throw, another piece of the person you used to be vanishes for good.

You began the day in a dull panic over the fine coming out of your paycheck. You end the day as you have since starting The Can Man: blank and thoughtless. A non-person, an extension of The Can Man itself.

The clock turns to 5:00.

You shuffle away from your bin, thoughts only on home, where yet another night of blindly watching television and eating microwaved dinners awaits. Before you can clock out, however, as you pass the manager's office, he rasps your name.

He doesn't look up from his paperwork. Merely says as he fiddles through the papers he's forever re-arranging, “Personnel needs to see you.”

As you stare at the manager—whose thin, grizzled face and watery eyes never once acknowledges your presence—that cold feeling at the base of your spine returns. Names whisper in your ear—Jerry,  John, Brad —but you're not exactly sure why. They used to work here, and you think maybe you might've been friendly with them, but that's all you can remember. The last name, Brad , sparks irritation in you, as if he caused you misfortune. It must've happened long ago...

last week

...because you can't remember what he did, exactly. Nor do you really care, at the moment. All you are about is that cold feeling at the thought of going to Personnel.

“Did they say why?”

The manager's thin face remains blank as he shakes his head. He does nothing else, just continues to rifle through papers on his desk. You stand there a half-beat longer, waiting for him to look at you, to acknowledge you, to give you meaning.

He never does.

An interminable time later, you turn away down the hall, back the way you came. Right before the door leading to the work-floor, you turn right and proceed down the short hallway—which has gone unnoticed before now—toward the black door at the end with a small rectangular plaque, Personnel engraved on it in stark, white letters.

#

After walking through the door, confusion grips you. The Personnel office isn't small like the manager's. It's larger than the work-floor, which doesn't make sense. How could such a big space fit inside The Can Man? And where do the two doors on the farthest wall lead?

Before you, a man sits at a tidy desk. He wears a black suit, and, very much like the manager, doesn't look up from the documents he's examining. He does, however, acknowledge your presence, saying something which sounds like poetry.

“‘That motley drama, be sure it shall not be forgot,'” he turns a page, “‘with its Phantom chased for evermore by a crowd that seize it not, through a circle that ever returneth in to the self-same spot.'”

The refrain stirs something unpleasant in your belly. An understanding which resonates on a primal level. “What does that mean?”

“It's a poem,” the man says as he continues to flip through the documents. “Which poem, I can't remember. Regardless, the important part is the last. 'A circle that ever returneth in to the self-same spot.' Basically: it just keeps going around and around.”

You frown. “What does?”

“Everything.”

You look around again. “What is this place?”

The man shrugs. “It's Personnel. Everyone comes here eventually.”

You gesture at the two doors. “Where does that go?”

For the first time, the man looks up from his desk. He settles back and folds his hands into his lap. “Contrary to popular opinion, the universe's resources aren't infinite. That's why people die. Why they disappear. Because resources must be replenished.”

“You mean...like reincarnation?”

The man smirks. It's not a cruel expression; not exactly. More one of weary cynicism and sadness. “Not reincarnation. Waste recycling. Humanity is compost. Nothing more.”

It dawns upon you, then. What you've become. What you are, and what you're destined for. And the irony of where you've spent your last, blurry days: a recycling center.

“What happens...if I go through those doors?”

“It depends. What do you want ?”

You frown, though that primal knowing in your belly seethes even more, while the back of your neck tingles coldly. “What do you mean?”

The man leans forward, elbows on his desk. “One door leads to another life. Another existence. You'll be reused. Recycled, if you will. The other door leads to a complete dissolution of everything you ever have been, and everything you could be. Through that door, you'll return to the seething chaos which exists at the center of the cosmos. Be absorbed back into the nothingness which first spat you out eons ago. Broken down, filtered, and used in new product. Where and when, I don't know. No one does. Whatever set It in motion has long since fallen asleep.”

A muted terror mounts in you, as you recall the dreams of that great, throbbing, screaming thing at the center of the pulsating maze of white sacs with things inside them, reaching and screaming silently. “Will...will I remember...”

The man shakes his head. “There won't be anything left of you to remember, in either case.”

Realization dawns, heightening your fear. “Jerry. John. Brad. That's what happened to them.” He nods, and you rush on. “Why them? Why me ? If I'd gotten my act together, got a new job, would...”

He holds up his hands. “Waste must be recycled, and waste is whatever no longer serves a function. That's all.”

“Which door leads where?”

The man shrugs. “I don't know.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

“It all depends on what your heart really desires. It doesn't matter which door you choose, really. Do you wish to cling to a semblance of life? To try it all over again? Or are you ready to become part of the seething chaos which bubbles madly at the center of creation, from which all life comes? Ready for It to reabsorb you into Itself.”

The conflict rages in you, and anger, which you decide to unleash on the man behind the desk, if only to lash out at something, anything. “So, what are you ? Some kind of fucking garbageman ?” How do you know who...”

“I'm drawn to that which no longer matters.”

Bone-numbing despair grips you. “But I... I was going to change it. Make myself better, I still could've....”

The man shakes his head and says in a firm voice firm, “No. You wouldn't have. Or else you wouldn't be standing before me now.”

The man sits up straighter. “It's time. To make your last choice. You may proceed on to your rest. It is, at the very least, that. A nonexistence, void of endless striving and pain.” He aimlessly nudges around the documents on his desk. “Or, you can continue on. You won't know who you are or remember this life. You'll start over, with no knowledge or guarantees, and you will stumble through a life of striving and pain, until you once more return to this office, to face the same decision, as you already have countless times before.”

He smiles thinly. “As you can see. 'A circle that ever returneth in to the self-same spot.'”

“You must choose.”

#

You never thought it would come to this. You had ambitions. Dreams. You had plans .

Then everything fell apart. In the end, it didn't matter. Suddenly, those dreams vanished, dissolving like mist in the morning sun. As you stand before the doors and reach for a doorknob—which, you're not sure—you don't know what you're afraid of more. Doing it all over again and again? Rinse and repeat, ad infinitum, until you go mad?

Or becoming nothing?

Would you even know the difference?

Your hand closes on a doorknob. Which, it doesn't matter. You turn it, open the door, and step through into the yawning blackness beyond, confronted by a final truth which is worse than everything you've learned.

There is no choice.

It's all the same.

A circle that ever returneth.

Kevin Lucia is the Reviews Editor for
Cemetery Dance Magazine
His column
Revelations is featured on Cemetery Dance Online. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, most recently with Neil Gaiman, Clive Barker, Bentley Little, Peter Straub and Robert McCammon. His most recent short story collection,
Things You Need
, released in September 2018. His novella
Mystery Road  is forthcoming from Cemetery Dance Publications.

BURY ME IN THE GARDEN

Mike Duran

I f roots and branches could be indwelt by the otherworldly, then those of the east grove were of such an enchantment.

“Owen!” Pa called from the porch. “Get over here!”

His words jolted me from my thoughts. I turned around to see him at the house. He stomped his boot on the wooden porch to emphasize his anger. But he’d told me enough times to stay away from the grove to know that he was not pleased.

“Comin’, Pa!”

Before I left, I stole one last glance at the east orchard. Its long dark rows disappeared into a glorious expanse of foliage. Those trees should have gone bare by now. How they remained hearty even through the autumn chill was a mystery.

I snatched my slingshot off the old rock sundial. On either side of this squat structure spread the garden. It always smelled of freshly tilled earth, with plots of soil regularly turned for planting. Between the sage and butterfly weed, trellises lined the broad path that led into the orchard. I’d never traversed this avenue. The closest I’d come was when Jefferson passed. In my mind’s eye I could still see him lying there, the crows stabbing at his lifeless body.

“Now!” Pa bellowed.

I turned and hustled past the barn and the corn crib, back to the house.

Pa slapped the back of my head as I ran up the steps and passed him.

“There somethin’ you ain’t gettin’?” he said, following me into the house and letting the screen door slam behind him.

“No, sir.” I set my slingshot on the kitchen counter and rolled up the sleeves of my flannel.

“Good,” Pa said, returning to his seat next to Ivy. He straightened her bib and began spooning soup into her mouth. “The last thing we need is another person gettin’ chewed up by them damn dogs.”

I went to the sink and washed my hands.

Indeed, feral dogs were a problem in our county. I’d seen them in Rickett’s Fields and out past the silos. They traveled together and were something to be feared. Mongrel packs, rabid and unpredictable. That’s why Pa would never enter the orchards without a shotgun. Of course, Jefferson had sworn there was something else in there, besides the dogs; something old and earthy, summoned from the loam by magic. He’d warned me repeatedly, demanding I never venture there, especially after dark.

So, I suppose it was only natural that when he died, I reckoned it was not the dogs who took him. Despite Pa’s insistence, I knew that Jefferson was a victim of that foul earthen spirit.

“There’s ham in the fridge,” Pa said, spooning Ivy some soup and then dabbing her lips with a napkin. “And don’t forget yer greens.”

“Yes, sir.”

The smell of dried husks and crabapples tainted the air. I glanced at the wall across from me to see that Pa’d hung the harvest wreath in preparation for tomorrow night’s festival. Bright red winterberries from last year twined the thick bouquet of limbs, herbs, and vegetables. While he’d not fully embraced the customs of the Stafford elders, such adornments were becoming more common on our property. It was a religion that Mum had vehemently disavowed. But now that she’d passed, there was no hedge against its embrace.

Pa was a decent cook, but his collard greens were a poor second to Ivy’s. Whereas I used to get a heap of Ivy’s fixings, Pa’s only just got me by. I would never tell him of my dissatisfaction, of course. Such impertinence would warrant the switch. At best, I’d be sized up for a lecture on gratitude or the good earth’s yield.

While I prepared a plate, I looked up and caught Ivy staring at me. My stepmum’s eyes were most always empty, like black buttons on a rag doll. Ever since she’d fallen ill and could no longer look after herself, she had no mind to matter. It’d flown off like a bobwhite quail, taking her soul with it. If she wasn’t staring into space, she was crying and mumbling on about death and the one who wields it. But, at the moment, there was something else in her eyes, something I’d not seen since last harvest.

I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. She fixed me with her gaze. Her jaundiced, red-rimmed eyes were pleading with me, it seemed, screaming out a warning that her slackened jaw could not utter.

“What’s she doin’?” Pa laid down the napkin. “Ivy, calm yerself.”

She raised her arm, and her trembling bony fingers uncurled.

“She’s pointin’ at somethin’,” I said, turning around. But there was nothing there, only the countertop and the kitchen cabinets. “Ivy, what you pointin’ at?”

My heart about leapt out my shirt when she started mumbling, making terrible guttural sounds. She was trying to answer me!

The spoon clattered to the table. Pa took her hand and drew it into her lap. “Settle down now, hon. Settle down. It’s all right.”

Despite his efforts to settle her, my stepmum’s gaze housed a terror that made my bones shudder.

Pa needed little energy to restrain her. Within moments she looked away, her eyes once again empty, and she slumped back into her chair.

“She ain’t doin’ well.” Pa patted her arm and resumed the nightly feeding. “I gotta get Doc to come on by.”

I nodded. But something else seemed at work here, something more than just my stepmum’s agitation. Her drawn, terrified countenance was now fixed in my brain. However, I dare not engage her and seek to query about the object of her fear. Had she been pointing towards the orchard? No. It was something close by, something near. Then again, perhaps it was just the terrible panic of a dying woman.

I concentrated on my meal, forcing my eyes to look only there, for I knew Pa was watching me.

Which only stoked my sense of need for further inquiry.

#

The moon shown through the lace curtains creating shadowy fingers across Jefferson’s empty bed. He’d died within a year of Mum. Their deaths had evoked rumors. Some said we were cursed, under a bane of darkness. But with our farm bringing in the richest crops for three straight seasons, others began to whisper that we’d made a pact with the devil. Now with Ivy fallen ill, I couldn’t help but wonder if the rumors were true. But why? What evil had we done to invoke such judgment?

I pulled the covers back and sat up in bed. An owl screeched in the distance. Likely it was Ol’ Gander, who nested in the Porter’s loft. His cries disappeared in the lonely night. I’d lain awake until I heard Pa close the door of his room and I was sure he was asleep. I went to my door and looked back at Jefferson’s bed.

He’d been the brave one of the family, a real-life Huck Finn, unafraid to challenge rules and take risks. He’d tangled with the Dobbin twins whenever they went to pushing me around. And when Pa forbade us to enter the orchard ever again, it was Jefferson who challenged him. “I can handle a shotgun, Pa,” he’d implored. But after Mum passed, he’d begun to suspect it was something more than just feral dogs Pa feared.

I missed my brother and, in a strange way, felt like I was indebted to him.

I put my ear to the door. It was quiet. So, I crept out of my room and down the hallway, treading as lightly as possible lest the floorboards reveal my passage.

The only light was that of the moon. Tomorrow it would be full and mark the autumnal equinox, the Harvest Moon. Its brilliant luster shone on the dusty piano in the parlor and, as I turned into the kitchen, pooled on the oaken dinner table, bathing the room in its eerie glow. I peered at the chair that Ivy had sat in earlier that evening and traced the arc of her gesture with my eyes.

Walking softly to the kitchen countertop, I surveyed its surface. Several jars of canned tomatoes and relish were stacked near some dried dishes and a towel. What could she have been pointing at? Next to the sink were the cabinets. I opened one, but it simply contained dishes. I opened the other and scanned its contents. Herbs and spices occupied the lower shelves, while medicine and tonics the upper. Yet I discerned nothing unusual. I sifted through the contents, moving items around, standing on my tiptoes to see the upper shelves. But what was I looking for anyway? I closed the door and shook my head. As much as I’d been pondering nefarious goings-on, I had to conclude that Ivy’s unusual panic was simply a figment of her condition.

I turned around and stared in thought. My gaze drifted up to the Harvest Wreath, which momentarily startled me. In the shadows it appeared almost like a face. An earthen entity of leaves and fruit smiling down upon the lunar lit room. Like the effigy of the green man that would be erected in the town square by the Stafford elders tomorrow night, the wreath now bore an uncanny resemblance to that pagan thing. The longer I stared, the more the smell of the herbs seemed to inspire a dreamy intoxication.

A shadow passed outside the kitchen window. My heart about leapt into my throat. Pa kept a shotgun behind the hutch in case of emergencies and I found myself moving there. But when a second shadow passed, I froze. For this one was approaching the screen door.

Terror seized me. My impulse was to run and waken Pa. Yet the figure who approached did not attempt to enter, or even knock. Instead, a soft thud sounded on the porch and a flame flickered. What was happening? What was going on out there? I was torn between fleeing and spying out a view of this strange visitation, when I heard a bedroom door open and heavy footfall approaching from the hallway. It was Pa!

Had I been in a more composed state of mind, I may not have done what I was about to do. Surely, I could have lied about waking up for a drink of water. Or just hearing strange voices. Instead, I scrambled under the kitchen table and huddled into the shadows.

Pa walked past me. He had his boots on. This puzzled me. Had he heard the sound? Did he know someone was outside?

He paused at the door. I was trembling something fierce, fearful that my terror would reveal my cowering self. Nevertheless, Pa did not stoop down to spy me out. Instead, he unlocked the door.

Cricket song infused the night air. A chill breeze crept along the floor. I sat huddled in the shadows with my knees pulled up into my chest. Yet I maintained enough of an angle to see past the chair legs and Pa’s boots to glimpse the porch. Indeed, a candlelight flickered there—a lantern perhaps—revealing an obscure object comprised of cloth and straw. Pa reached down to retrieve it and, as he did, I saw that it was a harvest doll made of stitched burlap. Unlike the typical doll, however, its eyes were but vacant holes.

Much like the eyeless face of my dead brother laying in the orchard.

What was this madness? Was this mockery or part of some other malign scheme?

Anger mingled with my fear. If only I was as brave as Jefferson. Had I been, I may have leapt forth and demanded an explanation of those strange, secretive goings on. Not only did I feel betrayed by my father, but this kind of pagan tomfoolery was the very thing Mum had prayed so fervently against. Instead, I remained poised, drawing the faintest of breaths. However, this turned to my favor for Pa stepped outside, closing the screen door softly behind him. I listened as his footfall could be heard descending the porch steps. As I contemplated moving—if not fleeing to my bedroom, peering outside to spy out our visitors—voices sounded in the night. But try as I might, I could not ascertain the content of their conversation.

Whoever the strangers were, Pa returned momentarily. He closed and locked the door. But instead of returning to his bed, as I thought he might, he flicked on the light. I drew my knees up so tight I thought I might stifle my own breath. While I could only see the lower half of his body from my vantage, I could tell he was contemplating something. Had I betrayed my presence? No. He went to the kitchen counter. I distinctly heard a cupboard door creek open and something set upon a shelf. The door was closed, and Pa went to the sink, where he washed his hands. After this, the light was switched off and he returned down the hall, where his bedroom door quietly clicked shut.

I exhaled heavily, unsure if I’d even breathed the last few minutes. I dare not move. Not yet. So I remained there, hidden under the kitchen table, listening for any sign of the mysterious visitor and mulling over the hideous eyeless harvest doll.

I soon lurched awake. I had fallen asleep. Had there been a sound? I listened, but there was nothing. The moon-glow was nearly gone, leaving the kitchen dark. I crawled out from under the table, doing my best to make little noise. But before I returned to my room, I crept to the kitchen counter and opened the cupboard with the medicine.

Being that the moonlight was almost gone, the contents of the cabinet were nearly unrecognizable. I moved closer, stood on my toes, and studied the shelves.

Indeed, a canning jar had been placed on the top shelf. I was sure it had not been there before. It bore a handwritten label. I glanced over my shoulder, then reached up and took the jar. Turning it towards a shaft of fading moonlight, I could make out black berries settled in the murky liquid. Yet they were not immediately recognizable to me. I rotated the jar studying its contents. However, I could not discern of what nature this concoction might be. Then I peered at the handwritten script, puzzling over the phrase thereon, which read,
for the Crone .

Returning the jar to its spot, I crept back into my room. I peered out of my window, but the east grove was not visible from there. The light of the setting moon cast misshapen shadows about the lawn. I went to my bed and lay in thought, wondering what dread alliance my father had contrived.

#

I did not wake so much as I grew aware of my surroundings. The events of last night hovered over my thoughts like a swampy specter fading in the hazy sun. Indeed, the morning outside was grey. I immediately prepared for school. But intentions other than schoolwork were what drove me that day.

Pa stood at the stove, frying eggs. He’d propped up Ivy at the table, a pillow tucked behind her lest she slough off the chair. Her head lolled to one side.

“Leavin’ early?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Gotta test ta study for.”

He caught me looking at Ivy, and added, “She ain’t doing so good. Not sure yer step-mum has much longer, Owen. Ya best say yer goodbyes.”

I hoped she would engage my eyes like she had last night, but her malaise was too great. Drool trailed from her mouth and her lips moved wordlessly. A bowl of porridge sat before her, nearly finished. Droppings of the meal mottled her bib.

For the Crone.

I was thinking about Jefferson as I set my book bag on the table and went to the cupboard. Pa watched as I opened it and scanned the medicines on the upper shelves.

“Watcha lookin’ fer?” he said.

“Cough drops.” I rubbed my throat, in what was surely exaggerated fashion.

“I’ll find ya some.” He took hold of the door and moved me aside. “Go sit down and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

But I had seen what I needed. Indeed, the jarred elixir with the black berries that had occupied the upper shelf had been moved. And its contents were half drained.

I had a mind to query then and there. What was this potion? Was he treating Ivy with it? If so, why? Surely medicine need not be delivered secretly in the cover of night. And why use the disrespectful term of crone to describe her?

“Gotta get to school,” I said, snatching my book bag off the table. “Thanks anyway.”

I kissed Ivy on the forehead and hurried out of the house.

“What about them lozenges?” Pa called from the porch.

“I’ll be all right.” I waved as I turned the corner of the house.

On my way past the garden, I slowed and allowed my eyes to roam. The south-facing plots consisted mainly of herbs. Trellises made of willow switches rose here and there. A shovel stood propped against the sundial. At its base stretched a large section of mulch or compost. I cast my gaze past the garden to the orchard. The gloom had settled like a cloak between the rows of fruit trees now glistening with dew.

Whatever had befallen our family, be it witchery or of human craft, I intended to educate myself as to its source.

I followed the road to Stafford before joining the path through Sutter’s Well and hurried to school. Along the way, I encountered harvest dolls, like the one on our porch last night, propped on fence posts and barrels. These, however, displayed eyes formed from dried berries and nuts. All of them would be burned in the bonfire at town’s center this evening.

Our school library always opened early, thanks to Mrs. Cubbedge, the librarian. The large, friendly woman was about as genuine a soul as one could find in Stafford. But it was her knowledge of the city’s history and customs that now drew me into her approximation.

“Mornin’, Owen,” she said, her rosy cheeks a testament to the joy she embodied. “In early, I see.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I shrugged off my book bag and set it on one of the many long wooden tables. I approached her desk.

“At this hour, you got the run of the place,” she said, sharpening a pencil. “‘Cept for Walter, of course. No one ever beats him.” She chuckled as she motioned towards the boy, sitting in the furthest corner of the room, his head of mussed brown hair practically buried in a book.

Walter Berry looked up at the mention of his name. I waved, but he didn’t respond to the gesture. Instead, he returned his attention to his reading fare. Poor Walter was the subject of constant ridicule, most of it turning on him being son to the town drunk and local gravedigger. Often that ridicule involved some variation of replacing the name Berry with bury , and commenting harshly on his appearance. Walter was one of the hairiest boys in school. I could only wish to have the mustache of Walter Berry. However, his unkempt appearance made him look more wolf than boy.

“What can I help ya with, Owen?” Mrs. Cubbedge said, cranking the handle on the sharpener and then blowing the shavings off the sharpened pencil.

I opened my mouth to speak, but hesitated. Venturing further, I knew, would begin a chain of events I was not be prepared to endure. Still, the tortured expression of my stepmum haunted my imagination. I could not quell now in the face of discovery. I had to do something!

The librarian wrinkled her brow. “What’s wrong, son. Ya look troubled.”

Jefferson would not have cowered under the threat of evil. And if I was intending to honor his courage, then neither should I.

“The festival,” I blurted.

“The harvest festival?” Mrs. Cubbedge glanced at Walter. “Tonight?”

I nodded. “I need to know… I mean…” I swallowed and also glanced at the gravedigger’s son. Lowering my voice, I said, “I think that somethin’ bad… that my father…”

I exhaled and hung my head. Such a coward! No wonder the darkness had swept in behind Mum’s passing. There was no one to hold it back!

When I looked up, a shadow had passed over the woman’s features, eclipsing the joy that usually resided there. “I think I know what yer tryin’ ta say, Owen.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Follow me.”

Mrs. Cubbedge swept out from behind her desk and waved me after her.

I said she was a large woman and following behind her only confirmed that. However, the wake of her perfume was quite pleasant, which I was loathed to admit. I’d always enjoyed the musty smell of the books and it seemed that the further into the place she led me, the mustier that smell became. Our school library is by no means large, but the amount of books crammed into such limited space made one feel terribly claustrophobic. But in a good way. If someone must be surrounded, it might as well be with books.

We followed an aisle that emptied into the historical section. There, she retrieved a large volume and placed it on a nearby table. She spread her palm atop the book and looked over her glasses at me. Her voice was hushed.

“What I’m about ta tell you, Owen, is somethin’ that has troubled many residents of our fine city. It’s fortuitous that you’re here to query about this, but I cannot guarantee that the information I’m about to tell you will not complicate your life greatly.”

She stared at me. Waiting.

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded.

She continued peering at me, her cheeks temporarily drained of their color. Then she nodded. “All right then.”

Opening the book caused a bank of dust to waft into the air. Brushing it aside, Mrs. Cubbedge leafed through what appeared to be a scrapbook. Yellowed newspaper clippings and fading photos filled the pages.

“It was my mother’s,” she said. “God rest ‘er soul. She died ‘fore the worst of it, but still lived to see the beginnin’ of the end.”

Allowing a page to settle, she pointed at a newspaper clipping. A group of well-dressed men stood together in what I recognized as Stafford’s original town square. Drawing her plump finger to the image of a short, mustachioed man wearing a bowler’s hat, she said, “Angus Derthblum was his name. Most likely an alias. No one knows fer sure. Where he’d come from was a mystery. Blew down from the north like some godawful pestilence. His influence on the elders was pervasive. To this day they practically worship the man! He purchased up some land, businesses, and what-not. His effects grew. Finally, he bought the bank and, with it, came the farmers. They was our livelihood, Owen. Men like yer father. That’s when Derthblum instituted the Harvest Festival.”

She turned a page and again motioned to several photos of a large bonfire in the town square. Residents stood around it tossing corn, wreaths, and harvest dolls into the flames.

“It started innocent enough, a time to commemorate the end of harvest and the long draw into winter. Twasn’t time for bloom, they said, but fer the sickle and scythe. But things ‘ventually changed. Just as the darkness of winter descended upon earth, so did darkness descend upon the hearts of those men. ‘Fore long, there was other customs conjoined, rituals involvin’ the old ways. Witchin’ ways. Whispers ‘bout gods and goddesses. And then—” She glanced about and lowered her voice even more. “—the Colby girl went missin’. She was the first. But others would follow. Reverend Trent. Hattie James. Always ‘round the harvest—untimely deaths, inexplicable accidents. Yer family has known its share, ta be sure.”

She momentarily hung her head and then, with a heavy sigh, closed the book.

“Owen, Stafford’s harvest is always the county’s biggest. Ya know that. Ever wonder why?” She leaned closer. “‘Cause it’s watered by blood.”

I peered at her. My mind was weighted by the inferences of her speculations. I swallowed. “My Mum. You sayin’ that—”

“Her and yer brother,” said a raspy voice behind us.

Mrs. Cubbedge looked up and gasped. I spun around to see Walter Berry standing in the aisle, staring at us. His unkempt mop of hair trailed into his eyes. Indeed, in his rumpled attire and bristly cheeks, he looked like some lupine beast wandered in from the hinterland.

“Walter!” the librarian exclaimed. “Can I help ya?”

He brushed aside his hair to reveal that he was looking at me. Yet he said nothing, only stared.

“Walter?” Mrs. Cubbedge stepped from behind the desk. “You feelin’ well, son?”

“They graves ‘r empty,” he said, his smile like barbed wire. “My daddy said so!”

“W-who…?” I practically whimpered the word. “Whose graves are empty?”

“They payin’ ‘im!” Walter’s eyes flashed of anger and confusion. “They payin’ ‘im. That’s the only reason he doin’ it. ‘N he needs the money. Fer us. Fer his drink. So’s he held ‘em back. Took the bodies when no one saw. Gave ‘em up. Yer Mum and yer brother? They plots ‘r empty.”

He stepped closer, his smile fading into a grim mask.

“Tonight, there’ll be ‘nother one. Another sacrifice. For the harvest. For her.”

#

I pondered those troubling revelations throughout the day, barely attending to my schoolwork in the process. My conversations with the librarian and the gravedigger’s son had left me with an unusual determination. Jefferson had been correct. Something diabolical was at work. Something to which Pa acquiesced.  Now, after the strange occurrences of last night, I felt a peculiar sense of fate, as if I was an actor in some unfolding pageant.

The hazy grey had surrendered to crisp blue skies. The shadows were growing long and brought with them the chill of autumn. Excitement was in the air for tonight’s harvest festival. Someone propped a scarecrow in the playground and the children took turns throwing fruit and prodding it with sticks, until in one mad rush it was fallen upon and torn to shreds. I stood off and watched, as if it were the premonition of some foreordained event.

I took the long way home, through the town square. Preparations were in order for tonight’s festivities—barrels of strong drink, harvest dolls stacked in tilting spires, and a teepee of dried branches in keeping for the bonfire. Knowing what I now did, this sight evoked unease. What godawful forces had we awakened? Who was I to stand against such ancient customs? Surely, those like myself had come and gone, challenging the old gods to our own demise. Nevertheless, Mum’s faith appeared a lone beacon, summoning me from cowardice and inaction.

I passed the courthouse and the pond, until I came upon the cemetery. Underneath the old oaks the shadows settled like a fog, broken only by glimpses of mossy tombstones and mottled grave markers.

They graves ‘r empty.

As audacious as Walter’s pronouncement had seemed at the time, it comported with the events of this awful season. While I knew not what form my actions would take, I was convinced I needed to do something and put an end to our part in this madness.

I arrived at home near dusk. I was later than usual, which would surely initiate an inquiry. The porch light was on, as was the kitchen. Pa stood at the sink. I spied him out without betraying my presence. The smell of pastry and warm meat wafted my way. He turned and disappeared from view. I entered. A full bowl of broth sat before Ivy, who slumped nearly lifeless in the chair. Pa was in the other room. I could hear him moving about.

I removed my book bag and set it on a chair. Ivy did not acknowledge me as I approached. Indeed, the specter of death hovered near to her. I placed my hand on her shoulder and breathed a silent prayer. As I did, I noticed several black berries floating in her broth.

“Where ya been?” Pa growled from behind me.

Without turning, I stiffened. “Took the way through town.”

“Why that way?”

“Just lookin’ in on the festival.”

He grunted. Then he approached and rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’m afraid she ain’t gonna make it through the night. Doc Hollis is comin’ later, after the festival. Likely prepare her fer dyin’.”

Indeed, my stepmum’s breathing was barely noticeable.

However, you’d have thought that the passing of one’s spouse would evoke a sense of sorrow or regret, yet little such sympathy could be detected in my father’s words. It stirred indignation in me.

Perhaps I should have contemplated my next move more fully. But too much thought would likely prevent me from any action whatsoever.

I shrugged off his touch and stepped aside. Plucking a single black berry from her soup, I held it up.

“Pa, what is this?”

My action momentarily startled him. But his anger quickly rose, and he backhanded the fruit from my grip, sending it skidding across the kitchen floor.

“Don’t touch that!” he demanded.

“Why?”

“Ya need to wash yer hands, Owen.”

“Why are you givin’ that to her?”

“Go wash yer hands!”

“Why?” I turned and looked square in his face. “Why? What’s goin’ on, Pa?” My voice cracked slightly, and a trembling started in my loins.

His eyes became slits. “It was you, wa’nt it? You been sneakin’ round, haven’t you? Lookin’ in on what ya oughtn’t.”

I stepped back, thinking about the shotgun behind the hutch and what bearing the acquisition of that piece might have upon the outcome of this exchange.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Owen.” He closed the separation between us. “‘Twas somethin’ that had to be done.”

“Why? What’s bein’ done, Pa?”

“They won’t touch us. So long as we make one more benefaction.”

I glanced at Ivy, who’d begun mumbling. I rushed around the table to distance myself from his grip. He didn’t follow, just stood with a hard scowl on his face.

I motioned to her. “The Crone. What—? Why is she called that?”

He shook his head and smiled slightly. “She ain’t the Crone. She’s for the Crone.”

He pointed towards the east orchard.

Good Lord! I leaned over and swiped my hand across the table, sending the broth spraying across the kitchen. The bowl shattered, with splinters ricocheting about the room. Pa bolted toward me, but as he did, he slipped on the liquid and fell on his hindquarters. I turned and ran out of the house, the screen door banging behind me.

I knew not where I would go, only that I must flee that place. Night had almost completely fallen. The harvest moon rose like a ghostly orb over the east horizon, beckoning me that way. A loud crash sounded before Pa’s footsteps thundered inside, and he yelled for me to stop. Instead, I ran toward the orchard.

It was less fear than defiance which drove me. The truth had been revealed and now all that was left was its judgment.

The screen door slammed.

“Come ‘ere, boy! Don’t make me shoot ya! ‘Cause I will, I sware ta ya!” His boots thumped down the porch steps.

Past the corn crib and the barn, I ran. Skidding into the garden path, I stopped.

Lanterns burned there, encircling a freshly tilled plot of earth, casting a warm halo about the place. Upon the mound lay the eyeless harvest doll of yester-night, along with herbal satchels and strange ornaments. I scanned the area to see who had placed them there just as Pa entered the garden with the shotgun aimed at me.

“Ya can’t stop ‘em,” he panted. “Ya can’t stop it, Owen.”

“Did ya even try?”

“I tried!” he choked. He lowered the rifle. “God, I tried. There was n-no other way, son.”

For the first time I sensed remorse in the man. Yet I also feared that he had spoken the truth—whoever was behind this devilry could not be stopped.

“What’d you do with them?” I said, shivering.

“The same thing I’m gonna do with Ivy.” He motioned to the garden. “Lay ‘er with yer mum and brother.”

“After ya kill her?!”

“It’s fer a greater good!” He nodded, as if trying to convince himself of the statement. Then he motioned to the orchard and the surrounding countryside. “A greater good. It’s fer Stafford. Fer us. It’s… f-fer the Grayson’s and they pigs. A-and ol’ Norm Hatchens’ corn fields. It’s fer everyone! A sacrifice was needed. That’s what they said. And I-I done volunteered. I done offered up my best crops.” Again, he motioned to the garden and the plot of earth.

“They were our family!”

He nodded and I glimpsed tears in his eyes.

The air was unusually still. The crickets and toads had grown silent, their evening choruses halted so as to observe the unfolding.

Pa looked off, over the grove, toward the harvest moon. He wandered past me, the rifle hanging at his side, and into the edge of the orchard. As he spoke, his words seemed to lull him into his own trance.

“No one knows where she come from. Only that she came with… a promise. It’s an old thing. Older ‘n Stafford. Older ‘n them burial mounds down ‘n Grace County. Some say it goes back ta Bible times. Cain ‘n Abel. Adam and Eve. Just as the first Man come from the earth and went back ta it, she come from the rock and soil. Hell, she always been there. She ain’t never left it. And she’s always waitin’ ta consume what we return.”

He stood with his back to me, staring off across the moonlit grove.

“She goes by all kinda names. The Dark Mother. Winter-maker. The Crone. But they all just dif’fernt designations fer the same thing. They just puttin’ a name ta somethin’ what can’t be named. Far as I can tell, it’s all about patterns, seasons. Like a science. ‘Cept this one started way before there was ‘lectricity and engines. We’re just carryin’ on a long tradition.”

He turned around. Moisture glistened on his cheeks.

“She’s the dyin’ of the season, Owen. When the winter comes, she’ll nourish ‘erself on ‘em.” He motioned to the plot in the garden. “And in return, reward us with her harvest.”

Like the colliding of storms, anger and wonder warred inside me. I could not conceive the process by which a man such as my father had come to articulate such madness. Or was it madness? Had some form of living being, some creature or god, truly been conjured from the sacred soil?

We stood looking upon each other, neither knowing what turn to take. That’s when yellow eyes appeared in the shadows of the grove behind him. I gasped. As they fanned toward us, the moonlight revealed their matted coats and mottled fur. Open jaws rimmed with foam, revealing teeth and hunger. First there was three, then four. I could smell them as they neared, the stink of wet fur and disease. The closer they got, the more rose their guttural growl.

“Pa!” I shouted.

But he’d heard them. Raising his shotgun, he turned around and aimed it at the pack of rabid dogs approaching us.

“Run, Owen. Y’hear?”

“Pa, I—”

“Go on! Ain’t all of us need ta die! Now git, boy!”

But I did not run.

It was providential that this should unfold upon the very spot that I’d found Jefferson dead. For it was his memory that reinforced my decision to act.

I ran into the garden, stomping a trellis of winterberries on the way, and snatched up one of the lanterns burning round the plot. Their hot glow sent shadows dancing wildly across the ground. Before I wound up to cast my lantern at the beasts, I glimpsed the eyeless harvest doll. And stopped.

It was moving.

No, it was the earth around me moving.

I nearly fell as clods of earth burst at my feet. The soil churned as roots and tendrils slithered forward, fanning out around me, racing from the garden toward the orchard.

Directly towards Pa.

I was too busy struggling for footing to warn him. I dropped the lantern and it burst into flame, igniting the harvest doll in the process. As I tumbled free of the upheaval, I turned to see that the dogs had fled into the night. But not for fear of my father, for he had fallen to his knees. The earth around him seethed like water in a boiling kettle.

I ran that way, knowing that judgment most surely had reached its verdict.

Pa was already lifted from the earth when I got there, hanging like a scarecrow on its post. I can’t say it was limbs or branches that twined him, more like hands and arms stitched of bark and moss and roots. They grappled his body something terrible. Horrid gurgling sounds left his twisted lips. And his eyes bulged, as if to burst from their sockets.

“Pa! No! Pa!” But I could do nothing. My cries descended into sobbing.

The shotgun had fallen from his hands. Before the earth could consume it, I retrieved it and stood off, watching as the Crone appeared.

She was nothing more than a stump, really. No more human than a bluegill or the fat earthworm you would catch it with. Yet she swelled up from the earth bringing grubs and larvae with her. Her malignant tangles embraced my father, infusing themselves into his cords and sinews. A gory fissure opened in her trunk and she looked upon him with many eyes. They swelled as she sluiced life from his sustenance.

Had this sight been less wondrous, I would have turned away in terror. Yet even more pitiful than the sight of her, was that one would sacrifice their riches for her service.

Pa had nearly stopped writhing when I approached the creature. The harvest moon bathed us in its light. I checked to ensure that both barrels were loaded, and then pressed the shotgun into the Crone’s diseased trunk.

Its eyes followed me. All of them. It was then that I saw her face. The pitiful bowed nose. Blisters of disease oozing forth. Shriveled pods and mold. Perhaps once she was a god. But not now.

I wanted to say something as I pulled the trigger, pronounce some final benediction upon this wraith. Yet I do not recall making such a pronouncement. For her shrieks filled the air. The earth belched and she writhed like some giant serpent. My father fell limply as her hideous cries echoed through the orchard. And the wreckage of her frame grew still. Nothing more than dead stump.

I stood momentarily numb in the quiet night.

“Owen,” my father croaked. “Ow…ugnnn…”

I dropped the shotgun and knelt over him

“Pa!”

He was terribly torn. Blood streaked his cheeks and his limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Still, he managed to roll over onto his back.

“I killed her, Pa! I think I killed her!”

He choked out something illegible. Then he raised his arm and pointed toward the garden.

“What is it? Pa!”

“Owen.”

“I’m here!” I touched his bloodstained cheeks. “Pa, what is it?”

“Owen… b-bury…” He inhaled deeply and then forced out his last words. “Bury me… in th’ garden.”

With that his body folded over.

I remained before him for a long while, weeping, wishing it had not come to this. The moon was directly overhead when I rose, took the shotgun, and looked out across the orchard. ‘Ol Gander cried out in the distance, which seemed to signal the crickets and toads to rejoin their choruses. I looked long at the plot in the garden. The harvest doll had burnt out. Only the lanterns remained lit. So, I extinguished them.

#

Aunt Jean came down when she heard we were alone. She seemed none too saddened by Pa’s passing. We held his funeral at the Chapel. Many nice things were said about him. Still, some whispered and cast evil eyes in my direction. When they buried him, I remained at the cemetery until the last turn of earth. Walter’s daddy seemed to mind me watching him and unfurled a host of imprecations throughout the digging. No matter, Pa was buried next to Mum and Jefferson. At least, the spots where they were supposed to be.

When I returned home, I was greeted by Ivy. She was sitting on the porch in her wheelchair. Her speech had not quite returned, but the light in her eyes told me it would. She looked out upon the east orchard. It was already turning brown.

MIKE DURAN is a novelist, blogger, and speaker, whose short stories, essays, and commentary have appeared in Relief Journal, Relevant Online, Bewildering Stories, Rue Morgue, Zombies magazine, Breakpoint, and other print and digital outlets. He is the author of THE GHOST BOX (Blue Crescent Press, 2014), which was selected by Publishers Weekly as one of the best indie novels of 2015 and first in a paranoir series that continues with SAINT DEATH (2016), a Southern Gothic Horror short WICKERS BOG (2016), a short story anthology SUBTERRANEA (Blue Crescent Press, 2013), the supernatural thrillers THE TELLING (Realms May 2012) and THE RESURRECTION (Realms, 2011), an e-book fantasy novella entitled WINTERLAND (Amazon digital, Oct. 2011), and a non-fiction exploration on the intersection between the horror genre and evangelical fiction entitled CHRISTIAN HORROR (Blue Crescent Press May 2015). You can learn more about Mike Duran, his writing projects, cultural commentary, philosophical musings, and arcane interests, at www.mikeduran.com.

THIS IS HOW IT GOES

Gemma Files

L ast night I had that dream where I was washing my face, and after I ran the cloth over my shut lids I opened them again, and one of my eyes fell out—my left eye. Right eye? No, it was definitely the left; the sinister one, with all that that implies. And underneath where my eye used to be there was another eye, someone else's eye. So, there I was, standing there like an asshole, and there it was, looking out at me from the bathroom mirror. And the worst part was, it could see me. And I didn't want it to see me.

I'll tell you this much: I really want not to have that dream anymore, or any of my other recurring dreams. Or not to have to dream at all—that would be good, too. Better, actually.

This is how it goes, these days. Stand by.

#

This fucking city, man, this one, right here. I don't know about any other, not for sure; whole rest of the world could be a lie made from stock footage, for all I know. For all any of us really ever knew.

Ah, but that's not true, is it? Because—

I was on the phone with my Dad when it started to happen, FaceTiming long distance, from Toronto, Canada to Hobart, Tasmania. Three in the morning my time, seven at night his time; they're fourteen hours ahead, which makes stuff weird. It was his birthday, or it had been, and I kind of felt like I owed him more than an e-card, given he was turning eighty. But his girlfriend came in halfway through our usual once-a-year mutual update, frowning at her iPad, and when he heard the note in her voice he rang off, saying he'd get back to me—which he didn't, but I don't blame him for it.

Sometimes I wonder what I would have seen, if I'd been able to keep watching. Something pretty much like what it probably turned out she was watching at the time, no doubt. I couldn't have known that, though.

Not yet.

#

It was roughly twenty-four hours before the Split hit Toronto, and I was back online, where I spent most of my days, then. I worked from home, my Mom's basement—a virtual telemarketing job, Skype-routed from my home number through a call centre in New Delhi and back again, amusingly enough. Half my calls required being fluent in Hindi and Urdu, the other half being fluent in accent-less English, so I was set for life, if I wanted to be; don’t think I would have really stayed with it much more than two years, though, since the burn-out rate was amazing. I was processing one call roughly every minute and a half, and even my completed calls took less than five minutes, tops. In all the time I worked “there,” I don’t think I made more than fifty legitimate sales—the rest were all hang-ups or carry-through on previous calls made by other operators entirely.

The content? Offering regular Marriott Hotel customers the chance at a “free” cruise, which required them to travel to Mississauga, listen to a presentation on time-shared beach-front cabins, then take part in a draw. One winner per draw, out of twenty to thirty applicants. It’s truly amazing, the amount of time we used to waste trying to get something for nothing, isn’t it?

The job suited me, because at that time I was still suffering from fairly extreme episodes of anxiety, bad enough I’d been forced to drop out of university halfway through the second semester of my five-year Biology program. I took it because I had immediate bills to pay, but also to save enough money to try again, probably not the next semester but the one after that. Since my initial breakdown, however, I’d gone on a cocktail of prescribed drugs which made me both agoraphobic and overweight, a bad combination in terms of socializing, even after I felt well enough to want to, so the Internet had become my only friend—my enabler, as well as my employer. I “knew” a lot of people online, people I spoke to and interacted with every day, but in most cases, I’d never even seen their photos, let alone met them in person.

Telemarketing can be mind-numbing work, literally, so I distracted myself as much as I could while still being able to keep up to standard. Which is how I happened to have three screens open that day, one of them being a continually refreshed view of my favourite General Weird Shit thread on CreepTracker.org, and how, in turn—simply by clicking on a seemingly random link, posted without any sort of explanation—I became one of the first wave of people to view the initial upload of what would eventually become known as the Snowtown Dupe Vid.

Snowtown, a small village outside of Adelaide, South Australia, had up to that point garnered a slight amount of global infamy as the location of a series of homicides committed between 1992 and 1999, culminating in one of the longest, most publicized criminal trials in Australian history. I’d never been there, but the video certainly made it look familiar: Just one more bus-stop in the Bush, a big slice of wide open street with the horizon showing if you squinted, plus an exposed brick wall under a dripping awning—possibly that of a convenience store, given the large glass window and the faintly visible reflection from a neon sign above. Winter for them and their rainiest month, so the street itself was one big puddle, sky above full of lowering, thunderhead clouds. A shit day to be out, but whoever took the video—low-res, probably done on a cellphone—seemed to be enjoying themselves, just like the kid they had their lens pointed at. Some young dude in jeans and a t-shirt, both equally soaked, drinking a Coke and complaining about the downpour, until...

Until.

Unless you’ve seen someone doing it, or done it yourself, you’ll never know how bad being Duped looks, when it happens. One second you’re fine, bodily integrity at one hundred percent, totally normal. The next—

“Mate,” a voice says offscreen, sounding worried. “You all right? Said, y’all right, mate? Gaz? C’mon, stop it. Stop arsin’ around. Mate?”

So there's poor Gazza, looking out at the rain, laughing and shooting the shit with his friend, who probably must’ve been standing almost right next to the store’s front entrance, because when he saw what was starting to happen he steps back far enough to set the automatic doors off and just stays there, frozen. So, there's this Starship Enterprise -type sound of glass and rubber swiping back and forth for the entire rest of the whole vid: Whoosh-THUNK, whoosh-THUNK, whoosh-THUNK. Not that the friend really notices, riveted as he is on what's happening right in front of him—like me, that first time, or anybody else who’s ever seen it, since. Like everybody was, ‘til the Split finally ended up moving far enough around the world to hit them, too.

My man Gaz, totally happy and nonchalant, just one more bro spending bro-time with his best bud, rain and all. But then he suddenly jack-knifes, folded up, vibrating all over—makes this weird face like he’s been punched from the inside, again and again, just not stopping. And this . . . ripple, would be the best way to describe it . . . passing over him from head to toe, deforming his outline. Just seemed like a glitch at first, some bad pixelation, like the recording was sticking and jumping, or something—

—but no, that wasn’t it, not really. It was him, you saw next: His flesh, his skin, puffing and peeling, bulging and ripping; tumours breeding everywhere, fast as popcorn. Collarbone skewing, a bump detaching from his neck, yawning open and growing eyes; ribs cracking apart like a hinged box-lid, to let a slimy copy of his torso shoulder its way out from inside; a damn third hand coming straight up through his back, even, ripping right through his shirt. Something else—somebody else—tearing himself free, shedding Gaz like a spasming skin, with no regards whatsoever to the ruin he left in his wake.

Yeah, and blood, too—plenty of that, by the end. Blood spraying up everywhere, even faster than the screams.

“Oh my God, ” the guy keeps on yelling, camera-phone waving back and forth like he was trying to semaphore. “Holy Christing fuck, who IS that, who? Who is that, mate? Mate? Gaz? ”

And Gaz, grabbing his own newly-Duped throat with both hands, snarling in atavistic pain and hatred; Dupe-Gaz, grabbing back, just as committed to killing the person it's pulling itself out of. There can be only one! The two of them hanging on for dear life, tearing and snapping at each other like some horrible flesh cartoon, even as the nameless guy with the phone starts to cough and groan himself, starts to crack and squish and roar. Even as his blood splashes up (or down?) across the phone's skewed screen, as the phone slips from his hand and cracks against the ground, face down. Yet still, somehow, recording. Still streaming.

No reply and no more images either, just those terrible sounds. And that just goes on ‘til it's gone in turn, ‘til he is. Both of them, or all three, or all four. 'Til somebody involved survives that particular body horror melée, or doesn't.

And that was it.

#

I hung up, cashed out, told my supervisor I was sick, that I was going to puke—food poisoning, whatever, I couldn’t stick around. He wasn’t happy, to say the least. Suggested strongly how I might not have a job by tomorrow, but I was fine with that, surprisingly; maybe I sensed which way the wind was blowing, so to speak. Then I DMed a friend of mine, instead—this guy in L.A., claimed he did Second Unit work on TV. I cut and pasted, shared the link, asked him what he thought.

See that there man?

yah ridic, as if

Soooo a hoax, is what your sayin

course its a haox man what else? rlly think sm guy split down th/middle like a fukcng amoeba beat himself up run off? cmon dude check urself i do that shit daily, cgi out the ass

I sat there for the next . . . six hours maybe, tracking the vid as it made its way round the world, passing through time-zone after time-zone, drawing comments like flies; ate in front of the screen, barely got up to piss, then fell sideways and rolled into bed. It was time I should have been spending upstairs with my Mom, with my stepsiblings, her dead second husband's kids. But I wasn’t to know, any more than it would’ve occurred to me to think I’d wake up next morning feeling like somebody’d pulled my guts out through my throat while trying to kill myself with my own bare hands, not at all metaphorically.

#

Here's what happened over here, meanwhile, when it all started to fall apart—it got hot, real hot. And still, too, the light outside all grey except for some kind of flicker along the horizon, heat lightning maybe, like just before a storm breaks. Then the power went out, then the WiFi, then the rest of the amenities. Subway trains crashed into each other, all up and down both lines; planes coming into the Billy Bishop Toronto Island airport crashed instead of landing, skipping off the coast of Port George VI Island like stones, right into Lake Ontario. One apparently went so deep it broke through the roof of the channel tunnel between check-in and arrivals/departures, drowning a bunch of potential passengers who'd opted to walk instead of taking the ferry across.

All this while I was asleep, obviously. I've picked the details up from various other survivors, the ones I trade with or pay tribute to, the ones I sometimes have to hide from. The mad, the broken and the desperate wreckage-sifters, just like me.

TTC streetcars went dead in the middle of the road, creating convenient breaks for pileups that probably would have happened anyhow. The underground PATHs beneath the main buildings of Toronto's downtown business and shopping district all went dark at the same time, sparking panic, a wild upward rush for fresh air and sun that soon broke into site-specific riots, leaving the previously pristine tiled floors covered in bodies, some walls splashed with blood up to their ceilings. Not that the sidewalks above looked any better, by the end of the day—or my own condo's hallways, for that matter.

I had a friend once who happened to get caught in New Orleans during Katrina. “First time you turn on the tap and nothing comes out, things go downhill pretty fast,” he told me. And he was right.

I don't know where he is now—lived out near Niagara Falls, last I heard, with his husband, and their kids. They were okay the day before, far as I could tell, at least from Facebook.

But a whole lot of things have changed, since then.

#

No one left to clean up, afterwards—no one who gave enough of a shit to try, anyhow. Which is why downtown seems to be so full of birds now, more than I ever remember seeing in what none of us knew was our last decade of civilization: pigeons flocking and seagulls swooping everywhere, sparrows and starlings and red-winged blackbirds, even hawks and crows. Not to mention former pets gone feral and the so-called vermin nobody bothers to cull, some rabid, most extremely well-fed—raccoons, skunks, rats, squirrels, foxes. Insects too, which can be surprisingly beautiful, in their season.

I walked through what used to be David Crombie Park yesterday, foraging for edible weeds near where the lavender was once merely planted to edge banks of cultivated flowers. The flowers have grown wild into a blossoming tangle almost four-foot square, and the buzzing so loud with bees I could hear it down the block—they were absolutely covered in a fluttering black-and-orange cloud of Monarch butterflies. Those were declared extinct, back before the Split; nice to see we were wrong about that, in the end. Along with so much else.

I hardly ever see any corpses, to speak of. Bones, yes, here and there; scraps and leavings, dried to a fine brown leather. Most of the worst of it covered with grass, vines, greenery, though—and garbage too, of course, its toxic-bright colours sun-faded, covered in dust.

Human beings are full of garbage, like any other type of vermin; if animals eat us, they eat our filth, our madness. They go mad, in turn.

Birds and bats and butterflies, drunk on so much carrion, so many suddenly opulent food-sources. Ghosts of the towers of silence, of the vultures who are used to eating corpses, to being allowed to eat corpses. Of having them prepared for them. Some downtown people really have started exposing their dead on the tops of buildings, disjointed: Sky burial. I've seen it. Like they're trying to appease the mad birds' ghosts.

#

I remember looking down at that fat brown girl, the one who would've looked so much more like me if she'd been wearing both halves of the pyjama set I went to bed in instead of just the one, torn haphazardly down the middle—or if she'd only had my face to go along with my hair, the purple streaks I'd just put in it still intact, a single earring dangling from one torn lobe. But she was dead, her head caved in. Her eyes were inside her mouth. And my hands were gloved with blood, up to the elbows. Not all of it that poor dead girl's, either; surprise surprise, beating someone to death with your bare hands hurts .

I had to pick a molar out of one my knuckles, later on—the shattered remains of one. Worst infection I've ever had. The human mouth is a disgusting thing; my nail turned black. Eventually, I had to get a doctor who lives in my building to cut the finger off, along with the one next to it, so I didn't lose my whole hand.

Adrenaline could have explained not noticing the pain while it was happening. Nobody's ever explained why the Split itself blots out most of your memory and all your volition; nobody's ever remembered thinking clearly enough to try to stop, or flee instead of fight, or even just yell something like, Hey, you're me! , or Where did you come from? , or Why are we doing this?   Just agony, nightmare fugue, and then a corpse. If you don't have a handy artificial marker somewhere—piercings, tattoos, whatever—most people can't even take a guess whether the survivor is dupe or original. Because memory's duplicated too, you see. So not even the survivors know who they really are.

I heard stories about people who killed the dupes of their loved ones, before everyone realized that. Some of those people killed themselves, after.

I didn't face that decision. I went upstairs and found the house trashed but empty, except for the bodies: my stepsiblings Maggie and Phil (or their copies)—Phil with a kitchen knife in his chest and Maggie smothered in a plastic bag—and...something grey, warped and bloody that looked more like a John Carpenter film prop than anything once human. I fled, but more in blind terror than grief, not even really understanding what I'd seen.

Halfway down the block, I suddenly realized the grey thing with too many limbs must've been my Mom. She'd died mid-Split like most of the elderly or the sick, or the children too young to survive the trauma. Which was everything I'd need or want to know about my Dad and his girlfriend, as well, in the end. Not that I'll ever be able to find out now.

For a century or so, the world was small enough not to be afraid of. It got smaller and faster and faster and smaller, 'til you could hold it in your hand. 'Til you could watch it from morning to night without ever having to go anywhere.

That's never going to be true again.

#

At any given point during the Split, as the initial wave passed through Canada, scientists have determined (to the best of their ability, given present circumstances) that as much as one third of the population must have been either duping, already duped, or entering the full-bore throes of dupe-on-dupe death-combat. No one was immune, not even twins, who you’d assume came sort of pre-duped already. The blows to our infrastructure were so hard and immediate, we’ve hardly begun yet to clean up that first mess, let alone the messes which followed. It was a full-bore ecological landslide, a global tsunami...and the very funniest part of it all, in context, is that even though the only thing that changed was us, that was more than enough, because we infested this planet, like any other virus; we were already literally everywhere, doing everything.

Except now there were suddenly so many, many more of us than usual, and we were all doing our level best to murder each other.

The worst stuff I heard, the very worst...that was all after, from people I swapped junk, food and stories with. Which makes sense. During, we were apart, trapped in our own little slices of frenzy, our very specific orbits; right after, we clung together just to keep everything—everyone—else out. Just a day and a half, two at the most, and suddenly we were cut off like we hadn’t been for decades: no coms, no radio, no TV, no energy, no phones, no Internet. What else could we do but sit in the dark and tell stories? Confess to each other, and hope for absolution?

#

So, anyhow: there’s this guy, and his wife is pregnant, like out to here—maybe nine months, maybe a bit more. They’re going to get an ultrasound, to see if they have to induce. And in the time he parks his car, the time it takes him to get out and go ‘round to her side, she starts screaming; falls out when he opens her door, right onto the street, like she’s having a fit. He manages to get her up and walk her inside. And when they go to put the gel on her, her stomach is all jiggling around, stretching violently like it’s going to tear open, bruises appearing from the inside. They can’t even get a look, have to sedate her and go in for a caesarian, quick as humanly possible.

But when they open her up, what they discover is that she’d left the house with one baby, then all of a sudden, she had two—they’d duped, right inside of her. After which they attacked each other, like dupes do; stuck in there, all dark and close, it must’ve been like waking into hell. And one of them killed the other, but the dead one gave as good as it got, so the one who won didn’t live for long, either.

The mother, when she saw all that, she just went insane. Killed herself, before she even had to dupe.

The father too, eventually, poor bastard.

#

That was how it started for me, like that was how it ended, for them. And at the time, when I heard about it—I thought they were lucky, sort of. Luckier, I mean. Because at least they were out of it, right? They had that, if nothing else. At the very least, they wouldn’t have to see whatever fresh new horror came along next.

Not like the rest of us.

#

One member of our enclave told a story of something that had happened to his brother—or was it his roommate? Anyway. Our guy had been walking along the Bloor Street viaduct with the other guy when the Split hit, and the dupe-fight ended with one of those lottery-win flukes: one of them threw the other off the bridge into the Don River...except, according to Our Guy, the Other Guy's dupe was still alive . Our Guy says he could see the dupe still flailing about in the water as the current bore him downstream, before he vanished; Other Guy was too injured at that point to try pursuing, so Our Guy brought him back home and patched him up as best he could. And then, still understanding nothing, he'd asked: Should we, like...try to find that guy? And Other Guy said, Fuck no. I see him again I'm gonna kill him. Which was surreal enough, said Our Guy, but what made it even weirder was that Other Guy was a big ass pacifist. Hadn't ever raised a hand to anyone in his life before that day.

Weirdest of all, though, said Our Guy, looking round the fire to each of us, was...I understood what he meant. I hadn't even duped yet. But just thinking about it made me so, so... angry. Like puke-your-guts-out pissed off. Like finding out your kid's a crack dealer, or your wife's been fucking your best friend, except even worse. Something that's just—not supposed to happen. You know what I mean, right?

We all did.

#

Humans are amazingly adaptable creatures, which seemed like more of a compliment before I realized, post-Split, it was an equally apt descriptor for rats. But—astonishing as I found it—the government did have disaster recovery plans in place, for scenarios as destructive if not as weird.

A day or so after Toronto stopped working, emergency military units rolled in, burning the gasoline reserves they must have had squirrelled away somewhere, setting up camps and sending round jeeps with megaphones and instructions. Communicating via radio, they corralled survivors, dis-tributed emergency rations, cleared travel routes, counted and named the dead. I spent a few weeks sleeping on a cot in the John Innes Community Centre gymnasium. Never had any trouble getting to sleep, either, despite knowing full well I probably wouldn't get my anxiety meds back for months if not years. Might be true after all, I remember thinking as I drifted off one night; once you know the absolute worst actually has happened, you really can relax .

Or maybe my blood sugar was just bottoming out. The disaster rations kept us from starving, but nobody ever had quite enough. Which described pretty much everything else in those weeks, for that matter. Enough power for critical functions, from careful, intermittent generator use, but nothing that broke the silence of phones, TVs, iPads. Enough water to quell thirst, never enough to get clean. Enough routine to hold back panic, never enough to feel safe.

Enough recovery to promise hope. Never quite enough to convince.

#

We were all surprised, when telling our stories later, to realize just how many cultures had a word for it. The ka , in Egyptian myth. A witch's fetch. Vardøger, etiänen, dopplegänger,
Ankou . “Twin strangers,” social media called it; Artem said there'd even been a website, Twinstrangers.net, where you could upload a photo and use facial recognition software to search for your own double. We laughed at that, tiredly, until Artem made the mistake of trying for more laughter. Maybe that's where the Dupes came from, eh? The harbingers got onto the Web, went all high-tech mass production. He pounded his knee and guffawed but stopped when he saw none of us smiling.

Ryuji, who'd been a physics student, had a different idea. The Many-Worlds theory says every decision creates a separate universe, he'd explained in his soft voice, as we went from apartment to apartment in an empty condo building, looking for cans of food. I think perhaps someone at CERN ran the SuperCollider too hard and broke down the barrier between us and another of these universes, probably the very closest one. The violence is the result of the mind trying to exist simultaneously in separate overlapping realities and resolving the conflict the only way it can—by eliminating it. That's why it's only people who Split, not objects or animals. We're the only ones who make choices.

So, if we ran this collider thing in reverse, could we stop it happening? I'd asked, mostly to keep him talking. I was pretty sure Ryuji didn't return the way I felt at all, but I still liked being near him, listening to him. But the question had backfired, wiping the smile off his face.

I don't think it works that way, Aditi, he'd finally said, looking at nothing in particular. And shut up after that except for absent little grunts, until we were back in the group's squat.

He made the mistake of going out alone on his next scavenging run. When we found him a week later, most of the meat had been carved off him.

#

You may have guessed the next part from the fact I said “stop it happening, ” i.e., present tense.

Within a week it was obvious the Split was still going on, just much less frequently—maybe one person in a hundred, every three or four days or so. After the first few times, people started trying to jump in and restrain the dupers, which only got both of them to turn on the interlopers and as often as not racked up four or five corpses instead of just one. Finally, the soldiers worked out a protocol where they'd haul the dupers apart while a doctor sedated them both into oblivion, then drag them off somewhere to do...something. Fix them, experiment on them—grind one of them up for more food, for all we knew; it was fresh protein literally out of nowhere for free, after all. The only certainty was no one ever saw them again, except for the officers in charge, and they weren't talking.

But somebody must have found some way to do something about it. Electroshock therapy, the right drug cocktail, or just keep dupers far enough apart for long enough. Because the day it all went to shit for the second time, that day in the John Innes gym, I was paying attention. I saw when some of the soldiers suddenly turned on the rest of them, opening up with their guns; I hid under a table, watching for a few seconds before Artem grabbed me and hauled me away.

I'm still pretty sure I was the first to realize that the men shouting orders on each side of that battle had the same face.

#

The most horrible part—or what part of me thinks should be the horrible part, anyway—is that the world's actually gotten more beautiful, to me anyway. More peaceful. Not just physically, with green sweeping over everything, the end of engine noise, hydrocarbon stink and contrails in the sky, but almost spiritually, somehow. Like the planet's undergone the same vast unclenching I've felt inside me, at the realization I'd been off my meds for weeks and hadn't missed them. And the knotted tension I've felt as long as I could remember—the constant ache of trying to figure out what a stranger's politeness does or doesn't hide, the gnawing fear that at any moment I'll let my social mask slip and suddenly wind up once more outcast, hated, ridiculed, for no reason I've ever been able to understand...that's finally dissipated. For good.

Apocalypse as psychotherapy: effective, but expensive , I've joked to the others. Everybody laughed, especially Artem. But sometimes I think it might not be a joke. Sometimes I ask myself how someone can be—not happy, exactly, but relaxed , in what have to be humanity's last days. Content, even. Is it just all the problems of life going away? No more carbon footprints, no more taxes, flame wars or credit card debt, no more asshole bosses?

Or...does something else happen, in the Split? Does part of us—maybe the part we've always wanted to kill—die in that fight, with whichever half loses?

I'd like to think that, sometimes. That somehow, I'm better for what I've gone through. But it's easier in the afternoon and evening, when I've forgotten the dreams. When I can forget that I'm only alive because I was able to kill a version of myself...a version which might be back, if I Split again. Which might remember losing, for all I know, and fight that much harder—

—no, not if. When. When I Split again.

This is how it goes, these days.

#

We've been talking about trying to head south, especially since it's going to be a lot harder here once winter comes. I walked down to the Lakeshore the other day and wondered how many boats there must be abandoned, both on this side of the harbour and on the Islands. At least one's got to have enough room for eight people. None of us have ever sailed before, but we've had to learn to do harder things.

The sun on the lake water was beautiful. You can drink it now, if you boil it first.

Getting enough food down to the harbour while evading the other scavenger groups will be hard. Especially since, to some of them, we'll be the food. And if luck goes against us and one of us Splits while we're on the water, that could get us all killed if the fight does enough damage. But we'll figure something out.

Or we won't. I couldn't have said anything like that so calmly, before. But when you finally grasp that you can't count on anything, you either worry about everything or you worry about nothing, and I've already tried one of those.

I think I'm going to stop recording now.

#

This is how it goes. Stand by.

THE END

Formerly a film critic, journalist, screenwriter and teacher, Gemma Files has been an award-winning horror author since 1999. She has published two collections of short work (
Kissing Carrion  and
The Worm in Every Heart
), two chap-books of speculative poetry (
Bent Under Night  and
Dust Radio
), a Weird Western trilogy (the Hexslinger series—
A Book of Tongues, A Rope of Thorns  and
A Tree of Bones
), a story-cycle (
We Will All Go Down Together: Stories of the Five-Family Coven
) and a stand-alone novel (
Experimental Film
, which won the 2016 Shirley Jackson Award for Best Novel and the 2016 Sunburst award for Best Adult Novel). Most are available from ChiZine Publications. She has two new story collections from Trepidatio (
Spectral Evidence,  nominated for a Bram Stoker Award, and
Drawn Up From Deep Places,  nominated for a Shirley Jackson Award), one upcoming from Cemetery Dance (
Dark Is Better
), and a poetry collection from Aqueduct Press (
Invocabulary,  nominated for a Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association Elgin Award).

COMFORTABLE GODS

Michael Wehunt

A s late as the third day, he was still her husband, almost entirely. They should have been at the beach by Sunday. Instead Karen sat with her knees folded up on one of the sagging twin beds, dog-earing a magazine with a black headache. The air conditioning unit rattled. The heavy curtains were wide open, and she wouldn’t quite get up and shut away the awful waning light.

She called Den again and threw the phone back on the bedspread when it went to voicemail. The last message she’d left had been concerned enough. She was tired and sick from worry’s little teeth.

Teeth. Den was somewhere because of his toothache. Yesterday he told her he’d bought some ointment to smear in his mouth. This had been promising after a long gray mood of a Sunday. A handful of Advil and he’d slept half of both days, keeping them here in this waiting room of a town. She nagged him not to smoke any cigarettes with a tooth problem and at last wore him down. And he’d been twitchy between naps, caged, like he wanted to get up and pace.

This morning, finally, he’d searched listings on his phone and found a dentist three exits up the highway. He made an appointment and groaned his way into some clothes.

He’d always been oddly vain about his face: he dyed the gray from his receding hair, bought miracle face cream, and his teeth had one too many cleanings a year. It made less sense as the gravity of age began to pull at him. He’d gone up two shirt sizes to hide his soft belly. But he was welcome to his overweening: Karen indulged him in everything and had never reached the end of her indulgence. He had, almost from first sight so long ago, been her home.

But ten hours was a long time for him to be gone. Even if he’d needed emergency dental surgery, something serious, she would have heard about it. She got up at last and closed the curtains, more out of spite than discomfort. The suite fell into instant gloom. She switched on two of the three lamps, but the room looked even sicklier in fake light. The bulbs were too high a wattage, too yellow and feverish. Ghosts of old stains haunted the walls. An elderly TV sat on a glum little dresser next to a one-cup coffeemaker with a tar pit baked into the bottom of its pot. The two twin beds. A smell in the wallpaper, faint, of a mended arm after the cast is taken off.

The 40 Winks Comfort Lodge sat cramped and stiff about fifty yards from the road, like a saltine box on its side. A mostly empty parking lot, weedy, then the building of forgettable industrial gray and off-white brick. The motel was not quite squalid. It was simply dull, like everything around it, even the trees.

Den had pressed a hand to his jaw and taken the exit without warning. “We need to stop off for the night,” he told her. “I’m tired and this toothache is a bitch.” It was the first Karen had heard of a toothache. They’d passed a La Quinta right off the exit ramp, but Den had puffed up and said, “If we’re going to slum it, we can’t stay in a brand name place.” Why did they have to slum it? And where in hell was he that he couldn’t call?

She stepped outside onto the concrete walkway, leaned on the railing. The only view was more concrete and asphalt and a heat shimmer above every car. Past seven now and still hot and humid.

She didn’t even know what town they were in. It was an interstate pimple on the face of an oily map, and no one she knew would stick around past a quick night. A town like this only needed a name for people like the owner of this motel, and whoever actually went to these strip malls that made her think of flypaper. There was only one of the strips within sight, at least, and it seemed to have died two decades before. Cargo vans and cars—almost none of them new—scuttled across her vision. It was easy to imagine most states as too many of these pockmarked towns hunched behind billboards. Tanks full of rubber-banded lobsters. Just like me, she thought, and giggled to herself. The laugh, the thought of how judgmental she was being, calmed her a little as she looked down the lot to the left.

There were two eighteen-wheelers parked like a quotation mark beyond the corner of the building. Den’s wagon appeared alongside them and swerved into the aisle toward her. She watched as he angled the car into a slot right in front of their room. He sat behind the wheel for a long moment, the mirrored surfaces of his sunglasses tilted down to the right. Finally, he took them off and tossed them aside.

“Were you behind the motel?” she asked as he got out and stood by the car door, looking back the way he’d come.

“What, hon?” He still didn’t look at her.

“Why were you behind the motel?” Her hands were gripping the rail hard enough to hurt.

“Behind?”

“I just saw you come around from the back.” A chill crawled over her, shocking under the sweat on her skin.

“Well, just checking it out.” He turned to her and his face was drawn; the pitiless sun made his hair look even thinner. She saw smeared circles of dirt on the knees of his pants. His eyes wouldn’t stay completely still.

“You found a dentist?” She almost added back there but stopped herself just in time. “What did they say?”

“Oh, got a shot. Got an infected guy back here.” He tapped his left cheek. “Antibiotics.”

“That’s terrible, Den. I was worried sick!” His expression didn’t change at this, and she heard her voice weaken into that old indulgence. “You should come lie down a while. I’ll get everything ready to leave.”

He frowned. “Well, doctor says to not do any driving tonight. Painkillers.” His fingers made a gun and fired it into his jaw.

“Oh. Okay. Half our vacation’s gone almost, Den.” Her face flushed at the complaint; she pulled her shirt away from her belly and tried to make a breeze for herself in the immobile air. “You do realize that?”

He had a bit of a beatific smile on his face. More like he was somewhere else. He didn’t say anything, just moved his head in some vague way.

“Let’s go in and figure out dinner then,” she said, more to bridge this fragmented moment between them. It was an earth-to-Den moment and she didn’t like it. It didn’t suit him. He was a practical man, a man who still shook out the newspaper at the breakfast table.

“Sure, hon. I’ll just smoke, and I’ll be right in.” He reached into his sport coat.

“Smoke ?” A catch in her voice. “ Smoke, after the dentist? With a tooth infection? Den, no.”

“I’ll be right behind you, hon.”

For a wavery moment, like the heat above the VW’s hood, she thought she was going to burst into tears. It was so wet and hot, and she felt like a plastic bag was around her head. She turned and went back into the room.

#

Den had slept for a couple of hours while she picked at a paperback, trying not to look over at him every few seconds. His untouched take-out carton stood under the harsh lamplight on the night table, the stink of greasy noodles breathing out of it. He’d been in the bathroom for forty minutes now, and she’d had to pee for most of them. She just wanted to brush her teeth and go to bed and snip the past three days out of the calendar.

They needed to leave this motel. Be in motion. Den had gotten his toothache after dark Saturday and turned off the highway. Now here was Tuesday night, beach hours ticking away like a death-clock, and they were still plopped in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. They had to be home Sunday evening. “The sky is a little bit wrong,” she muttered, and the sound of her voice startled her. The curtains weren’t even open.

“Den?” She slid off the bed and went over to the bathroom door. She heard nothing at first, and even that worried her—she’d listened to his bathroom noise, less pleasant the older he got, for going on thirty years. Then there came a small sound, like a grunt mixed with a gurgle. “Den, I have to pee. Are you okay in there?” She rapped once. Nothing. “Den?”

“A second!” She heard him spit and turn on the faucet. The water ran. It seemed to go on and on, softening to a whisper, until it became part of the room. At last, as her legs squirmed and scissored together, he opened the door with a clatter—that, at least, was more like him—and came out. His vacant grin hesitated as he looked at her, then his face went dark. His hand lifted to his jaw.

“Does it hurt, hon?” She touched the hand he held against his face. “Just get a good night’s sleep, okay? I can drive us in the morning and you can heal up in the good Florida climate. Or we can go home. I could bring you soup in our own bed.” She hoped her face didn’t look too irritated.

“You don’t drive,” he said. “I don’t want you having any of your attacks.” With this he winked at her. The almost childish mirth she caught in it—a tightening of his eyes—made the skin of her arms go cold again.

“If you’re not feeling well, I can try. It’s been a good few years. I’m not helpless, you know.” She noticed a thread of blood over his lower lip. His tongue moved inside his cheek, restless. Like a worm. Not a worm, a tongue, she thought, of course his tongue’s doing that. She reached out—not up, exactly, he was only an inch taller—and wiped it off. “Is your tooth bleeding? Open up and let me look.”

“No, no.” He stared over her shoulder. “Just the toothbrush.” She felt real unease—she hadn’t heard any brushing and he shouldn’t be doing it anyway—and turned to look behind her, but there were only the closed curtains. His face was pale—blanched, really—and his forehead splotched with red, but the corners of his mouth looked as though they wanted to curve back into that grin. And the tongue twitching inside. “I feel great,” he said. “This place is great.” His face slackened suddenly, and his eyes dulled back to inexpression.

“Well, that’s… You okay, Den? Really?”

“Fine, fine. I’m fine. Teeth are made of dentin, hon. Denser and harder than bone. Dentin, denser. Dennis! Get it? Let’s go to sleep, huh?”

“Den, what?” She searched for traction. “Please, you need to get your rest. We’ll make up for lost time tomorrow.” The smile she tried on felt grim, but it held.

#

She woke with another headache like powdered glass. It was just past eight, the morning already warming to a kiln or a sauna or both. No surprise that she hadn’t slept well on the hard, narrow bed. Den’s was empty and barely wrinkled. She stared at it for too long, memorizing the angle of the still-plumped pillow. From where she lay, propped on elbows, it looked like the sheet and comforter were still tucked into the mattress. But Den was no bed-maker.

She swung her legs onto the floor and stood up. She fought off a wave of dizziness before she noticed a twinge of dark and looked at her feet. All of her toenails were purple-blackened, with thin curling bruises like ink clouding in water. She lowered herself back onto the bed and lifted a foot. The pads of her toes were weltered as though she’d dozed in bathwater. Her finger crept down and touched the big toe. She squeezed it but there was no pain. Tears stung her eyes anyway. By her other foot was a dead cockroach she had somehow not seen. It lay on its back, more than two inches long, legs folded in supplication.

Back home roaches were awful enough at more respectable sizes. With a shudder she went to the window. Den’s wagon was glaring the sun right at her when she pulled the curtain aside. She imagined the desiccated roach, jagged praying feet, climbing onto the heel of her foot—she gave a little scream and stumbled across to the bed and snatched up her phone.

She went into her call list and stubbed her finger into the screen. Den’s phone—that shrill old rotary-phone ring he annoyed anyone around him with—burred from across the room. She walked, reminding herself that she wasn’t running, she was calm, over to the bathroom and saw it in the soap dish above the sink. Three drops of water bloated on the screen like contact lenses. The drain-hole stared up at her, the porcelain rust-stained around it.

He was only checking out, she thought, surely. He was down at the motel office. But now she did cry. She let it come, for a little while.

#

The sun was angled lower in the sky than she thought it should be. Then again, she’d never been a Boy Scout, she told herself. It was past ten as she walked down to the corner of the building, scanning the front lot once more before she turned and hoped that Den wasn’t back there behind the motel, where she’d seen his car drive around from yesterday. A circuit through the lot and around to the other end, passing by the empty motel office, had shown her nothing, just a maintenance closet and too much lot, like in some golden time a swimming pool had been daydreamed before the owner wised up. She didn’t know where else she would rather Den be. Where did a traveler go in a husk of a town? Arby’s? Dollar Tree? But somehow anyplace else felt better than where she was going.

The side of the place was maybe forty feet long, flat walls barren but for clinging mud daubers’ nests like adobe organ pipes, and she came around the back corner to something of a scab on the earth. A place that had healed over. A tongue of parking lot curved around back here, with slanted stripes painted so long ago she could barely see them. The asphalt was broken in dozens of places with bleached weeds. There wasn’t enough trash to make it a dumping spot, but on some of the wrappers and flattened cups, she saw product logos that didn’t even look like that anymore.

If she’d thought the motel itself was a relic, its rear had gone beyond mere neglect and was edging into rot. It had an air of ruin. A bank to her right sloped up after about three feet of deadened pinkish grass and a light coating of straw. Stunted pine trees jutted from the bank at absurd angles like spears thrown into the red Georgia clay. At the top, no more than fifteen feet up, a sparse row of less unhealthy pines stood in an unimpressive vigil.

She would have considered it abandoned, except it was not. She smelled something pungent in her nose, a deep animal scent like musk, or perhaps unwashed men. It was strong enough to imagine a herd of oxen corralled behind the doors here along the rear of the motel. There were six doors, each blue with wide patches of red where the thick glossy paint had been torn off. None had numbers, and the row ended at the thin arm of the bank that hooked around and gathered the asphalt within a crooked elbow. Standing here in the moist swarm of heat, the heady musk, her thoughts swam in a kind of soup. Her mind slowed and thickened.

The curtains were shut in every window, and she saw each as some eye, asleep, its lids closed on a vertical aperture. Her own eyes, reflected in the smeared glass, looked back at her from beneath her black curls.

Something else was now watching her, something not sleeping, and she didn’t question the knowledge. She looked up at the second level, which stretched behind its rail to the right until the rail ran out and the building continued, blank as a cataract, beyond her sight. Rooms had never been added up there, or the doors in the front of the building opened onto larger suites on the second floor. The eye of her watcher was below, down here with her, between one pair of the curtains.

She turned and looked along the lip of the bank above, to the haze-yellowish sky between the pines. There was no breeze and no click or reed of insects. No birdsong. She faced the doors again. Den, where was Den?

The shadows shrank, bled into the ground. She stood, unable to push herself forward to the doors. The shadows crept out in the other direction, lengthened down into the lot from the arthritic fingers of the leaning trees.

#

The motel’s office was situated beneath a red awning so faded it was more a sickly pink. She held the questions she needed to ask in her mind. She lifted her toes against her sneakers, wanted the bruised flesh under the nails to hurt because it would make sense. Her blood felt thin and there was a cramped weakness in her limbs. She went into the office, where a woman was watching a soap opera on a TV smaller and older than the one in her room.

“Help you?” The woman dragged her head around from her perch behind a rummage sale desk. Her sallow face already seemed unpleasantly pleased, as though she’d heaved herself out of bed only to keep information to herself.

“My name’s Karen,” she told the clerk. She squeezed her eyes shut, realizing she didn’t want to hear what the woman might say, and tried to go on. “My name is Karen and my husband and I are staying here.”

“Okay. Help you?” The woman’s eyes gave her nothing. Her accent turned the words into Hep yew?

“Yes, I was hoping you could.” She felt stifled. There was a little fan on the desk shaking its head back and forth as though it knew it could never freshen all the air in here. “My husband is Dennis Tumey, and I’m Karen. I’m his wife. We’re in room 116.”

“Right. Okay. 116.” The woman stared as though neither of them had said anything at all.

“My husband, Den, he’s not feeling well. And a little bit ago—” She looked at her wrist but her watch wasn’t there. “—when I woke up, he wasn’t here. His car’s here. Our car’s here. But—” She stopped and became aware she had nothing to say that was urgent enough. Her tongue sat in her mouth. “He—Den, I mean…what time is it?”

“Two or thereabouts, quarter after.” The woman shifted in her chair, and the desk shifted with her. “You saying your husband’s gone?” Grimacing, Karen told herself she really wasn’t hearing Yew sane yore huzzban’s gawn? The woman’s accent wasn’t quite that bad. “Cause I got his card number, don’t worry.”

She clinched her jaw. “No, I thought maybe he went for a walk. I was wondering if there’s someplace people walk to around here.” This was not exactly what she’d meant to say. Fresh sweat crawled out onto her face.

“Well,” the woman said, and blew her lips out in a chuckle. “There ain’t much. People tend to pass through. Those that don’t like to stick close. They like the comfort here, and the old ways.”

“The old ways?” She cast around the room for an anchor. “I’m sorry. What time is it?” Her voice was thinning to a gasp. She couldn’t get her mind past the thought that she’d been in back of the motel for going on four hours.

“Two. Two…twenty-one.” The woman pointed at a small white clock on the wall that claimed it was not quite noon.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to go and get a glass of water.” She went outside and took deep breaths, trying to quiet the alarm bells ringing her husband’s name. Globs of cumulus clouds hung in the sky. None looked like anything she recognized.

She forced herself to walk up to the road and over to a crosswalk, stood wringing her hands at the traffic light as she swiveled her gaze from side to side, looking for her husband, debating a direction. A video store decayed in the strip mall across from her. A hawk—or a vulture—marked the sky in the distance. The slow rush of cars drifted through the inter-section.

The traffic light changed to red several times and still she did not move. The familiar strains of an attack, like distant mad flutes, began to rise in her chest. The periphery of her vision crowded with bright shadows. She took tiny sips of air, wanting nothing more than to see Dennis. He was her grit and her glue. She wanted her husband, and something was not right here.

It had been years—good years—since her last anxiety attack, years since her last seizure, and like a child lost in a department store, she abandoned whatever grace she had and ran back to the room.

Den had always handled her seizures with a calm and steady hand. He always knew what to do and did it like he was folding laundry, but he wasn’t here. He was gone and she lay there on the motel bed and went into her old shaking dark.

#

The phenobarbital released Karen in degrees from its fog. Something seemed to be leaning over her in the dark, a blacker silhouette over the bed tugging at her eyelids. The presence withdrew from her as she lifted her hands and scrubbed her face. At the edge of her vision, a figure lay on the other bed, facing the ceiling. She tangled in the sheets in a panic and fell to the carpet. Her eyes cleared. The bed resolved into emptiness, missing Den again. His pillow had dropped to the floor beside her. She raked her nails up and down her arms, felt the fingertips against her skin. They were deeply wrinkled and dry. She imagined vampires sucking on them as she slept.

It suddenly struck her that she hadn’t searched for the car keys. Den might have left them in the room. But she was too heavy to get up. She thought of calling her parents, both nine years dead. She thought to call the police, the motel manager, but she just sat there on the floor between the beds. The seizure had left her weaker and more confused than she already had been.

She didn’t move when she saw the front door wasn’t closed all the way—a skinny yellow rail of parking lot light edged into the room. Full dark had come. She didn’t move when most of the line was blotted out, and the door pushed open an eighth of an inch, and something watched her through the crack. She felt too heavy for anything.

#

She was still there, on the carpet between the beds, when Den came into the room. She didn’t know what time it was, but the sun had been beating at the gap in the door for more than an hour.

“Where have you been?” She spoke as though he’d been out late at a bar, her voice too even and distant. There were other words, other things: that she’d needed him, he’d abandoned her, she’d had a seizure. But she closed her mouth and took him in. He had withered, somehow, and she could smell his rankness from where she sat. The sunlight enclosed him, nearly haloed him, and she had to wait until he moved deeper into the room to see that his navy shirt was smeared with red and half out of his grimed khakis. One foot had lost its loafer. His eyes roamed around the room.

And something was wrong with his mouth, on the right side. It tucked down like he’d had a stroke. His chin had a swipe of blood, up along his jawline.

Then she was on her feet and she slapped him. The silence rang out—her hand rang with shock at herself —but he wasn’t looking at her. She realized she’d impacted something hard, something unnatural, in his cheek.

For a moment the room swam into darkness. “What’s in your face?” she said. “Oh Jesus, Den, what is that in your face ?” He moved toward the bathroom, a few short strides, and she grabbed his arm and tried to pull his attention toward her.

“You don’t have to stay, hon.” Calm, slurred. He grinned at her and the right half of his mouth was a gaping hole, a row of gums with ragged pockets, spit and blood drooling a rope that dangled below his face. And his cheekbones. Each one had a knob of skin bulging out, incised at the top, and on the right she saw something white like bone poking out of a cut.

“You don’t have to stay here, hon,” he said. “I like it here. I’ve gotten a second room, in fact.” He went into the bathroom and shut the door. She heard him push in the lock. Quiet drew out and the only sounds were her weeping and the clicking of buttons, then something hammered against the sink and broke into a pattered rain of pieces. The pounding went on a long time, shifting to a lower pitch, like a bass drum, over near the door. He’s destroying the place, she thought. She tried to turn and run but couldn’t. She remembered standing at this door just two nights ago needing to pee.

The door shuddered open at last and he shoved past her. His left fist was clenched, and bits of plastic and glass sprinkled to the floor like a trail of crumbs. “Don’t leave me here!” She shrieked and felt her voice crack. He stopped for a moment, turned and smiled again, opening his mouth wide for her. She gasped at the teeth that were there, glazed with blood, and the teeth that weren’t. He had implanted some of those missing in his cheeks, and she saw what could have been two more inserted near the failing hairline near his temples.

“You don’t have to stay.” He left again.

#

Shards of his phone lay in the sink. He’d kicked the wall in beside the toilet, just above the floor, and cold, somehow black air leaked from the hole. She looked in the mirror, riveted by herself. Her eyelashes—both sets, top and bottom—had been cut off. She pictured Den folded over her in the night, blood dripping from his mouth onto hers, snicking with scissors. Then plucking them from her face pinch by pinch. It was powerful and strange, how alien her own reflection appeared without them. The rest of her face was drawn and sunken, too much like Den’s. The ringlets of her hair were limp and matted, creeping down her neck with new gray. Frightened eyes that were missing something of her essential self. The pull of some undeniable tide.

Her fingernails were black and purple with painless bruising.

#

She lay in the other bed, Den’s, nearest the bathroom, and shook with cold and sweat. Her left hand held Den’s car keys. It was night, deeper than night with the comforter over her head, but she still heard the faint scratching sound coming from the door. Her phone was gone, somewhere. She’d only looked for a few cursory minutes earlier, after she had found the keys. Had there been splinters of it in the sink along with his? Her head ached. There had been a dial tone on the room phone, but she remembered only replacing the receiver after some unknown web of time.

She lowered the comforter to her neck and exposed her face to the room. The door was cracked open again. She sat up and hugged her knees. Her hand reached out and switched on the lamp’s bitter cone of light. There was only the same wedge of space, but a moment later she saw an eye watching her, a figure standing too high some feet back from the cleft of the door. Only the one eye, wide and difficult to make sense of from a distance, the way the figure seemed to be hunched down to peer through the top of the door.

She staggered across to the door and slammed it shut, tackled it, twisted the deadbolt. Then slid down its length and curled on the floor, her nightgown puddling around her. She told herself she was foolish, sleeping there like a dog waiting for its master to come home.

#

Late in the morning she scrubbed her dying hands and feet. The bruised nails tore off and skin started to come away with the washcloth. Blood swirled into the bathtub drain. She had slept, her body barring the door, and dreamed segments of earthworms and arrangements of orchids. All she knew of the hours since dawn was lying prostrate before the plate-sized hole in the wall, her head wedged between the wall and the toilet.

For some reason the door leading outside was open again, and far away was the sound of a big truck’s air brakes out in the parking lot. Karen pushed her face inside the hole, breathing in a hint of that musk from the ruin behind the motel. The dark between the walls shifted, or somehow dilated. She was trying to detect her husband in the scent and in the space. There was a hum, and after a long while she heard it as the beating and sawing of many wings, distant for now, an atonal thing that might have always been there, waiting for Den or someone else to kick a hole into its container. It passed the time to imagine carpets of droning bees crawling over one another in an unimaginable honeycomb, chewing pulp since before this motel was thrown together on top of it. She tasted flavors in the air that brought images of cold stars and marrow inside of bones, all beneath the tang of musk. When she pulled her face away from the hole, she saw a single veined insect wing on the linoleum.

She made her way to the mirror, leaned over the sink, and with her small pair of sewing scissors made a half-inch cut across her cheekbone. Two of her fingers crept between her lips and probed. Florida was still pinned to her mind, but it was more sediment than destination. It was losing its context. Blood beaded below her eye. She couldn’t remember her last moment of clear thought.

She saw her mouth and the tooth, a canine, between her fingertips. She saw herself. Capillaries had burst in her eyes, staining them pink. “Louisville,” she said around her fingers. She threw the scissors into the sink and went into the other room, hefted her suitcase onto a bed. It was still mostly unpacked.

#

“We’re from Louisville, Kentucky,” she practiced. The cheap dresser with its television was pushed up against the door. “I am Karen Alma Tumey. I was born on September thirtieth, nineteen sixty-six, in Cleveland, Ohio.” She revolved in the room, stuck her head into the bathroom to check the hole in the wall. She had plugged it with the contents of her suitcase, like a gag. Her new swimsuit was its soft brown tongue, the store tags still attached. “My maiden name was Nowak. I met Dennis at a Shoney’s in Parma in nineteen eighty-seven, which was funny because just down the road was a Denny’s and he said he usually had his late-night munchies there because he felt more at home with his name all around him.” She sat down on one of the beds then instantly hopped back up. Her words found a momentum. “I was twenty-one and Den was only my second kiss and we got married at my mother’s Methodist church in October of nineteen eighty-nine, the trees had almost finished turning, and losing my virginity hurt very much because he’s got such a big cock—” Her stomach clenched and knotted with hysterical giggles, like a run of piano keys, and she thought about food for the first time in she didn’t know how long. “There’s a granola bar right over there in the backpack,” she told the room. “I can’t have children. I haven’t worked since I was nineteen. I used to have seizures. I still can. I just had one, don’t forget. I remember myself and I don’t care what’s in this place. I want to find my husband and go away from here. He is all I’ve got.” She went through the alphabet in a faltering singsong until she began to cry.

She checked the curtains and the door and the hole.

#

She kept waiting for Den, and the world—at least the motel room—was cocooned. It time-lapsed. She slept and dreamed of slick fingers groping at her. What little food she had stayed down when she ate it. Morning came, the furniture pushed up against the door. Eleven small holes dotted the northern wall of the room. A chalk-dusted nail lay just inside the bathroom, so she supposed she must have made these holes. Cold crept out of each of them, and closer now, the violin drone of insects. The soft meat of her fingertips and toes was hardening where the nails had been.

She chewed stick after stick of gum and filled Post-It notes with squinted jostling letters, perhaps addressed to those who might come to room 116 of the 40 Winks Comfort Lodge after her time. On the notes she called her hometown Clland and Clevlin , Hlis and Cmfort . She addressed her husband as Lld and Dsrh and something else that was entirely illegible. In a moment of her reverie that felt like breaking clouds she wrote, I have no need for my nebhor , then frowned at the pen. She wrote: In the bathroom there is a hole there is a clump of albino bees. Their honey and meat. And These gods must be so heavy. On another she scrawled BRIDGE . And others, the entire pad of Post-Its, worms and stars and bees. The hole in the bathroom was still clogged with her clothes, and she pressed balls of chewing gum into every hole above the beds, until each would take no more. Then she recited her life again.

#

“Louisville, Kentucky,” she said when she got behind the wheel of Den’s VW. “Shoney’s in Parma.” She stuck the key in the ignition. “Nineteen eighty-seven. But I existed for a long time before him, you know. All the way back to nineteen sixty-six. In Cleveland. I was Karen before I was Den’s.” Her hand was on the key. Her fingers squeezed it as they had briefly squeezed her tooth inside the room. But she couldn’t leave him, not even to go to the police. She couldn’t.

#

The motel office was locked with a CLOSED sign hanging in the door. She peered into its dimness, putting off the inevitable, then went around behind the motel. Passing the back corner, this time she felt a sort of membrane in the air, lighter than a cobweb, like pushing a finger through a child’s soap bubble. There was the same quiet as before, as in the ruins of old temples, the relics of trash with forgotten logos fossilizing. Something had once been here before anything, she had no idea what, and something was still here, in its way. It was such an ordinary ugliness, this scene, a couple of steps further gone than most seedy motels across the litter of America, but it felt unfathomably old here. There was deep memory.

The curtains of the six windows slept. The same air, heavy and wet with musk, but lacking any intent. From the slope of the bank the stunted trees leaned toward her, and the sentinels at the top stood in the same thin poses. Karen stood open and expectant, feeling the quiet—feeling the atoms inside the quiet.

She became aware of time passing and shook herself into motion. Den’s new room had to be beyond one of these six doors, and she did not want to touch any of them. She murmured her litanies, her Louisville and Parma , things that weren’t on the Post-It notes. She was not quite conscious of walking to the first door, but her hand extended, and her withered fingers wrapped around the doorknob, ordinary metal, cool and warm. She twisted. Locked. The curtains might have never been opened since the day they were hung, so unbroken was the line where they met along the bisection of the eye.

The second knob turned in her hand, and with a steeling breath she pushed. Something pushed back. She let go as if burned and heard the deadbolt snap. The eye of the window clenched shut, as though hands had pressed the curtains together.

The third door was locked, and she didn’t linger. As she stepped to the next, she saw the fifth door farther along, a black stripe between the blue door and its frame. She felt four eyes on her but there was only the blanket of humidity on her skin. She walked, almost crept, the dozen feet. Pushed and the door swayed open.

The sun spilled inside around her, but she froze in the doorway. A cloud of copper stench met her, thick enough she nearly had to look through it. Den kneeled on both knees in the middle of the room. He was naked. His face was misshapen, full of bumps and irregular curves. He held a pair of pliers in his mouth and bent his attention—“Nnnnnnn”—on extracting a tooth. It came away with a grunt, held between the pliers’ jaws under Den’s smiling, somehow artful scrutiny. It glistened with bloody drool.

His mouth hung open, and splendor was clear on his face as blood dribbled to his chin over the dried blood that had come before it. She could see one tooth in the cave of his mouth, but the rest was craters. His right eye was filled with blood. Random chunks of his hair had been hacked off, and lacerated scalp was exposed in bald patches.

She looked from one horror to the next, each less than an inch apart. The changes seemed to outnumber the features she knew. The shape of what might have been part of a finger bone pushed out from his right cheek, a white tip protruding from a slit next to his earlobe. The shape of a large toenail was pouched beneath the skin between his eyebrows. And there were many other cuts, other insertions—teeth, mostly, too many to only be his own, peeking from their new pockets, damp wads of hair tucked into his neck, creeping out of crescents under his nipples. Her eyelashes were in him somewhere, she realized, and her throat filled with acid. She tried—there was nothing else she could hope to do—to look away so as not to see Den slide the fresh tooth into a waiting hole in his chin. Two fingers—wounded and diminished where the nails had been torn off—clamped the chin while the other hand—his tongue lolling—

And on the floor a pile of things: still more teeth, steel nails and fingernails, a mound of hair, dull-looking knives streaked with gore. Bones in a tumble, bird, cat, dog, human, bones. There were no furnishings in the room and the walls were entirely bare. No mad slashing messages written in shit or blood. Just walls, stained by disregard and all the time that had passed back here in this world. The carpet had long fouled, turning slowly into some other material.

She looked back at her husband, spelled his name out in her mind. Her chest hitched and Den seemed to notice her then. He made a garbled cough, and staring at her with calm, he said, “Oo on’t haff a tay hell, hon.” His lips pulled back in a smile, and no evil lurked within it.

He shifted, turning on his knees, and she saw the skin from calf to heel had split open, or been split open. She saw bone. Strips of muscle caught the light as he knelt in a small marsh of himself.

At last she sobbed and tried to move toward him, a foot farther inside the threshold. It was the look in his eyes that stopped her. It wasn’t remorse or affection or a plea for help. It was a coherent gaze. There was a clean sanity. It infected her with more sense of herself and their marriage than she’d had in days. He was soaked in pride. He was in thrall.

Karen backed out of the room, into the hammer of the sun. Den was rising to his feet, following, still grinning his empty hole at her. She was half-turned away, in a slow pivot, when she saw that a man—something that had the shape of a man—blocked her way.

There was the impression of candles partly melted, wax and bone and a thin stretch of flesh. Close to eight feet tall, it—he, there was an elongated dead penis hanging between the legs, free of adornment—looked down at her with eyes that were each four inches wide and reaching around the sides of its head. Black eyes with hard yellow-blue pebbles. Its head looked like something with petals reaching toward different suns. The face had long ago erupted with protrusions, bone and tissue relocated until time softened their shapes.

And teeth everywhere but in his mouth, which opened more on subdermal tusks than jaws. Fistfuls of teeth buried in mounds and rings and ranges beneath the skin. Shoulders and neck, torso, downward to the legs, full of grafted bone, like a skeleton digging its slow way out of its prison. Or a living geology. She wondered what it would be like to squeeze the overflowing arm and feel the teeth and other fragments shifting and grinding—or would it be rigid and fused? Like a postscript, what felt like hours after she had first turned to see it, she saw that its hands were obscene, ridged and humped. The fingers had their own fingers.

And then another figure appeared at his side. Younger—clearly younger, clearly less of this thing —with augmentations that still bore puckered scar tissue, not long healed. The shape of its head was still human. Karen guessed it was female. What might have been breasts once sagged loosely below the newer shape of bones and teeth that formed rings on the chest. It was an infant dwarfed by the other. She could almost hear the sockets of its eyes creaking open, the rubbing of the orbital bones around a bright brown. Ridges of teeth formed inscrutable patterns along the cheeks and forehead.

Den was trying to become like this.

Karen was studied. The cut she had made across her cheekbone began to burn, and she looked away over the shoulders of the gods.

At the top of the clay bank, along the row of short pines, silhouettes stood, as tall as the trees. A pink sun sank into their backs—dusk falling here, already—and swallowed their distorted figures.

She counted three of them, or four, and turned back to the motel. The musk was in her nose, the dusk tinted everything red, and she felt a peace, a throbbing of calm. These had once been guests of the motel, like her husband, but she was somewhere else, a place of gods. The place inside the walls.

Den stepped before her on his torn legs. In one hand, the pliers clicked. With his other he pointed at the keys she had forgotten were in her hand. “Don’t haff to tay hell, hon.”

She smiled at him, and the warmth of just smiling loosened everything inside her. It was a false smile, it was for him alone, but it helped. “I won’t, Den,” she told him. The other two, the new god and the older, stayed where they were, but she heard movement coming down the bank.

The membrane dropped fully away. The falling sun deepened its red then, and there was a gathering of the air, a slow sound of bees and a slower sound like a distant mountain stepping over a river. Den gazed up, tightening the strange additions to his neck against the skin of his throat. His eyes filled with rapture. From above a shadow draped her. It fell across the entirety of the motel and told her the older god was in fact very young. She could not begin, now, to articulate this new shape’s lines and many limbs, assemble a structure for it in her mind. Useless lest she turn to see, far above her small heart of a face, a citadel of bone.

And still farther, the first strange stars.

END

Michael Wehunt grew up in North Georgia, close enough to the Appalachians to feel them but not quite easily see them. There were woods and woodsmoke and warmth. He did not make it far when he left, falling sixty miles south to the lost city of Atlanta, where he lives today, with fewer woods but still many trees. He writes. He reads. Robert Aickman fidgets next to Flannery O'Connor on his favorite bookshelf.

His short fiction has appeared in various places, such as The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror , The Year's Best Weird Fiction , Cemetery Dance , The Dark , and The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu . His debut collection, Greener Pastures , shortlisted for the Crawford Award and a Shirley Jackson Award finalist, is available from Apex Publications. He is at work on his first novel, with a second collection of stories on the way. Visit him at www.michaelwehunt.com.

FLY AWAY, LITTLE FLEDGLING.

Michelle Garza & Melissa Lason

T he coughing was nonstop, rasping and wet. The girl couldn’t sleep for the noise, but she guessed she would soon be getting enough sleep and resigned herself to lying awake. She stared up at the ceiling for a while, counting the minutes and wondering when might be her last.

#

Tranquil Halls Hospice Center was in a large complex but only occupied one two-story building, the rest was left empty. It was old and tucked away on the outskirts of town. Abbie thought it held a charm but at times it felt so separated from the real world. The stairwell leading to the second floor always creaked and moaned. Abbie often held her breath when climbing them and wondered how in the hell the building even passed inspection. She'd worked there only six months, but it already felt as if an eternity had gone by.

People come here to die, why would anyone care if the stairs were safe or not?

It took a special kind of person to give end-of-life care, and when she began her career, she really thought she had what it took, but when Charlotte's bed was being prepared for her, Abbie just wanted to run and never look back. She never got used to caring for children who were terminally ill, it felt so unnatural to watch their little bodies withering away. It sent her mind to a dark place.

They gave her to me, put her on my floor just because I’d done it before. Did they ever think that, just maybe, I promised myself I’d never do it again?

Too many thoughts, too many questions that did her no good to think them at all. It was her job and she couldn't refuse, even if she desperately wanted to.

#

Charlotte’s room was plain; white walls, cream colored curtains over the window and pale green linoleum flooring. Its only extravagance came from a dark wood dresser with a mirror over it. It was meant to look serene, like a glimpse of the heaven awaiting each patient placed there.

Abbie left the top step in a hurry, rushing to bear the gift she brought the girl before heading home. The cage rattled and she stopped to silence it before continuing down the hallway to the last room on the right. Abbie halted at the door, the small voice on the other side told her Charlotte hadn't gone to sleep yet. Abbie knocked gently then opened the door.

“You need to rest.”

“I will soon enough,”

“You'll feel better if you do.”

“I'm dying, I'll sleep forever soon.”

“Come on now, don't talk like that.” Abbie never knew what to say when a patient talked about the end, especially the children.

“I told you that I can't sleep, she coughs all night!”

“Coughs?”

“You forgot, didn't you?”

Abbie nodded, feeling her age for having a patient, a child, remind her of something she promised to take care of hours ago.

The girl's pallid face brightened a bit at the sight of the cage, “You brought it!”

“At least I remembered this.” Abbie smiled.

“Thank you, Nurse Abbie!”

“We'll look into finding you friends to keep in it tomorrow, but now you need to rest.”

She sat the cage on the dresser, pushing aside the morbid thought of how many sets of clothing had been folded and placed in its drawers over the years, only to be bagged up and sent back to someone's widow or children. It saddened her more to think of the bags of clothing that no one retrieved and were eventually tossed out in the trash.

“Don't forget about the coughing.” Charlotte reminded her, sliding down beneath her sterile white sheets.

“I'll look in on Ms. Binter on my way out. Good night.”

Abbie closed Charlotte's door softly behind her and walked directly across the hall to Sylvia Binter's room. There was no sound coming from the other side, so she made her way back to the stairs.

#

The coughing was incessant, the afflicted hardly drew breath between the hacking. It was the sound of soggy lungs, those filled with mucous and very little oxygen. Charlotte covered her head in her pillow and let her mind drift to a place between sleep and wakefulness. She was at her mother's house, sitting in her bedroom. Her mother's voice carried down the narrow hallway and through the paper-thin door.

“I just don’t think I'm strong enough to be there at the end.”

After a stint in the hospital, Charlotte found herself in the care of Nurse Abbie. She was eleven years old, not really a child anymore, but nowhere near grown. She knew she was dying; it was a fact that followed her closer than her own shadow.

“Do you know how far away heaven is?”

The voice cut through her dreamlike state, echoed in her ears even with the pillow held firmly against them. “You're closer to hell than heaven.”

She never thought she'd fear anything again after being diagnosed with cancer, but she was wrong. Charlotte couldn't move, hardly dared to breathe more than shallow gulps of the stale air, trapped under her sheets all that night, and didn’t dare take the pillow off her head.

#

Abbie arrived the following morning alongside the day staff to relieve the night crew. She passed Virginia in the hallway, she looked like she’d been hit by a train.

“Was last night okay, Virginia?”

“Same as always.” The aging Texan answered.

“How was Ms. Binter? Did she cough all night?”

“Not a peep out of her.”

“Charlotte said Ms. Binter had been coughing but I didn’t hear anything.”

“Kind of hard to keep someone up when you're on a completely different floor,” Virginia said, “Ms. Binter was moved to the first floor, remember?”

Abbie felt foolish; the old woman had been moved.

“How could I forget?” She said tapping her forehead.

“Happens to all of us, they herd them through here like a slaughterhouse,” Virginia said and punched her timecard, “each one waiting on their day to die.”

#

Abbie made her rounds, checking on the patients designated to her care and stopped at Charlotte's room last. She wanted to spend a little extra time with the girl even though it broke her heart just stepping foot in the room.

“Good morning.” She said softly.

Charlotte was quiet but smiled at her nurse.

“Have we decided what kind of friends we want to share your room?” Abbie asked, motioning to the cage.

“Not yet.” The girl answered.

“There was a man who lived here once who brought his little dog with him.”

“Lived…” Charlotte said, “you mean died.”

Abbie didn't respond to the girl and only went about taking Charlotte's temperature and looking over her care sheet.

“Did Nurse Virginia check in on you last night?”

“I heard someone open the door but I’m not sure if it was her or that coughing lady.”

“There shouldn't be any other guests in your room.”

“Guests?”

The girl was being sarcastic again, “You mean patients.”

“I made sure Ms. Binter wouldn't bother you with her coughing.”

“She’s not the lady I'm talking about, this lady is really sick, she coughs all the time and says mean things.”

“I'll make sure no one wakes you up tonight.” Abbie promised.

She wasn't sure which patient Charlotte could be referring to, but it didn’t surprise her that some of the others might say rude things, a handful of them weren't pleasant at all.

“Nurse Abbie,” Charlotte asked as she went to the door, “how much do you know about heaven; is it far away?”

“It's closer than you think.” Abbie said with a warm smile that cracked as she shut the door behind her.

She hustled to the staff restroom and cried at the sink. Her eyeliner bled and ran down her full cheeks. The whites of her eyes stayed red for hours afterwards, making her green eyes appear irritated.

#

“Allergies attackin’ ya?” Ricardo, the maintenance man, asked.

“Yes, must be those trees out front.” Abbie lied.

“I hear ya.” He said, dragging a ladder out of the utility closet.

Ricardo fought with the ladder as he hauled it out the front door. Abbie followed behind him, holding the exit doors open so he wouldn't make too much noise around the resting patients.

Ricardo propped the ladder up against the welcome sign and climbed to the top. He was busy changing a light bulb above the words Tranquil Halls Hospice Center when he heard a tapping.

Abbie watched him work while she walked out to her car. She had forgotten the spare change she kept in the cup holder by the driver's side seat. The soda machine was calling to her and in her present mood she didn’t much care to fight the urge for a little sugar. She unlocked the door and quickly grabbed the change. She took a moment to inspect her hair, a soft blond bun was positioned on the back of her head. It made her look older than forty-three, but it kept her hair from falling in her face and was as much a part of her uniform as the scrubs she wore on a daily basis.

She had just crossed the sidewalk on her way back into the building when she heard Ricardo talking.

“Poor little fella, looks like he lost his mama.”

He came down the ladder, attempting to steady himself with one hand while carrying his hat in the other.

“Be careful, you're going to fall.” Abbie warned him and ran to hold the bottom of the ladder.

He smiled as he made it to the sidewalk and pulled his hat from his outstretched hand to reveal a small nest with a single chirping chick inside.

“That lady up there pointed it out. Good thing we found him because his mama is dead on the window ledge, must've flown right into the glass.”

Abbie looked up to the windowsill, it was Charlotte's room.

“What lady?”

“Couldn't see her real well. Had longer white hair and kept one hand over her mouth because she was coughing. She just kept pointing to the birds.” He answered.

Charlotte felt a chill run through her, yet she had to admit it wasn't the first time in her many years around the sick and dying that she felt that way; ghosts came with the territory.

"Do you know much about this building—like what it was used for before it became a hospice center?" she asked Ricardo.

"I was told its mostly been a care facility. Years ago, TB patients were treated here. Many died." He answered.

Abbie nodded and wondered if people close to death were more prone to see the spirits of the past.

"So, if ya see any extra patients who just up and disappear, that could be your answer." Ricardo winked.

You're making too much of this. Charlotte is only a child who still has a wild imagination, even if she's dying.

Abbie felt foolish for letting her mind wander to such nonsense; she was happy when he changed the subject.

“Should we call a vet or something, maybe they'll know what to do with him?” Ricardo said, pointing to the tiny bird.

“I think I have an idea.” Abbie said.

#

Charlotte was buried in her blankets, her pillow held over her head.

“Charlotte?” Abbie asked, concerned the girl was taking a turn towards the inevitable.

The little girl removed the pillow and sat up in bed. Her thinning hair was tangled and sweat dotted her upper lip.

“Why are you hiding under there?” Abbie asked from the doorway.

“She won’t leave me alone.”

“Who?”

“The coughing lady. She scares me.”

Abbie didn't know what to say. She worried that Charlotte could be experiencing hallucinations, since she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. She had already pushed Ricardo’s claim out of mind, that he had seen a woman in the girl's room.

“Maybe this will make you feel better.” She said walking into the room with the nest and baby bird held out before her.

“It's so cute!” Charlotte cried.

“Would you like it to be your roommate?”

“Oh yes!” the little girl said with the first genuine smile that Abbie had seen from her.

Abbie carried the nest over and placed it in the bird cage. The chick looked like it could be on the verge of flight. She felt guilty about putting it in the cage, but she hoped it might bring some joy into the remainder of Charlotte's short life, and the bird could always be released once Charlotte was gone. When the thought of Charlotte dying passed through Abbie’s mind, she felt her stomach turn with nauseating sadness, a pain she’d felt before. She imagined herself releasing the bird and watching it through tears as it took flight over a tiny grave.

#

“You don’t look too good.” Ricardo said as he sipped his coffee.

“I’m having a hard time,” Abbie admitted, “I’m usually just fine doing this work but,”

“Taking care of kids is hard.” He finished her sentence and she nodded.

“The first time, I took care of my own daughter; since then I have only worked with adults. That's why working here hasn’t bothered me so much.”

“Yeah, round here it’s usually people who’ve already lived a full life.”

“I’ve dodged situations like this a few times, but this time I couldn't get around it.”

“You'll make it through.” Ricardo said confidently as he finished his drink.

She smiled and watched him go back to work, but inside she felt like running away.

#

Abbie stopped by the pet store on the way home and found a book on birds. She stayed up late reading about caring for fledglings like the one Ricardo had found. It made her happy to think she would be able to answer any questions that Charlotte might have about caring for her new roommate. Her thoughts of the little girl eventually replayed Charlotte’s disconcerting complaints of the coughing lady. It made her uneasy. She thought of Ricardo's knowing wink after she had asked about the building’s history. Abbie knew that anyone dying from Tuberculosis would have tremendous coughing fits. She shook the morbid thoughts out of mind and went about her nightly routine, eventually heading to bed.

That night Abbie dreamed of her daughter McKenna. She was back in Texas, in her little girl's bedroom. Her daughter was asleep in her bed, her bald head sweating through her pillow. A shadow was gathering on the wall above her headboard. The frail child opened her eyes to stare above her. Abbie watched from the doorway, but couldn't move as her daughter's mouth gaped open, and the dark spot on the wall began to take shape in the form of the upper half of an old woman. She was haggard, filthy; blood dripped from her nostrils. The crone started to gag, mouthfuls of a thick, bloody mucous fell into her child's waiting mouth. Abbie opened her mouth to scream but her breath was stolen from her. Her lungs felt closed off and her heart beat wildly in her chest as she watched the old woman spit blood down onto McKenna's face.

Abbie awoke to her dark bedroom; she was alone but the sounds of the hag coughing up her lungs echoed in Abbie’s mind. She thought of Charlotte and felt a sickening terror fill her gut.

#

Ricardo was sitting in the break room when Abbie came rushing in to punch her timecard.

“I thought you’d called in sick; you're never late.”

“Honestly, I'm exhausted.” She answered.

“I can’t blame you.” He said with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

Virginia came in to end her day and gave Abbie the patient updates from the night before.

“It was a relatively quiet night.”

“How was Charlotte?” Abbie asked, thinking of her nightmare.

“Slept like a baby. She seemed in a happier mood.”

“That's great.” Abbie said, relieved. She figured the girl was content, now that she shared her room with the little fledgling.

#

Abbie found herself spending extra time alone with the sick little girl, and Charlotte did seem happier. They whistled to the fledgling bird and fed it bits of crackers. Its feathers were just right to take flight and she made a silent promise to herself, that once Charlotte's spirit was sent to heaven, she'd set the bird free as well.

“You seem like you’re in a better mood.” Abbie said with a smile.

“The coughing lady doesn't bother me anymore.”

“I'm happy to hear that.” Abbie said, feeling ashamed for letting a dream bother her so much.

“It's almost time for me to go home,” Abbie commented, looking at her wristwatch.

“Really?” Charlotte asked.

The little girl frowned and laid back on her pillows, obviously disappointed.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“What if I go to heaven tonight?” Charlotte asked.

“You look like you’re feeling a lot better. I know I'll see you tomorrow morning.” Abbie tried to appear positive, but her heart sank into her stomach.

“You're my favorite, Nurse Abbie. I want you to be here when I fly away.”

“I promise, I'll be right here beside you.” Abbie said.

#

Charlotte sat on her bed, watching the bird, remembering what the coughing lady promised.

"Soon I'll fly away."

#

Abbie couldn't help but cry as she drove home, she felt so helpless. When she got to her apartment it felt so empty and cold. Abbie paced around her place, keeping herself busy with chores until night fell. It wasn't until she stepped into her bedroom that she began to feel like someone was watching her. A product of the nightmare of the old woman, she thought, the one coughing up mouthfuls of blood into her deceased daughter's mouth. Abbie shut herself in the bathroom, knowing her nightly routine consisted of a shower, but she couldn't talk herself into getting undressed. She already felt vulnerable and wanted nothing more than to wrap up in her blankets and try to forget every dark thought trying to worm its way into her brain. Abbie went to the sink and ran warm water. She bent over to wash her face when she heard something in her living room; a cough.

Goosebumps arose on her forearms, the tiny space within the bathroom felt as if it was closing in on her, but she couldn't bring herself to open the door. Abbie put her hand on the doorknob but halted as a rasping voice whispered.

"Fly away, little fledgling."

Abbie fell back against the sink and covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

"You'll see heaven soon."

A gurgling cough resounded on the other side of the cheap wooden door. Over and over, until the sound of vomiting replaced it. Abbie screamed as a thick pool of blood slid under the door. Her thoughts went to her nightmare, then to Ricardo relating the history of the hospice building on that sunny sidewalk. She watched the puddle grow until it nearly enveloped the entire bathroom floor, forcing her to sit on the countertop next to the sink. Her cries for help echoed off the tiled walls of the shower.

Amidst her panic, a jingling tune drew her attention away from the pooling mass beneath her. Abbie realized that her cell phone was ringing in the pocket of her scrubs. She was shaking so badly that she could hardly answer her phone once she’d tugged it free from her clothes.

"Abbie, it's time for Charlotte to pass on. She’s asking for you," stated Virginia.

Abbie looked to the floor; she was shocked to find it a gleaming white once more. She hung up the phone and ran through her apartment, grabbing her keys, and was on her way to Tranquil Halls.

#

Her headlights swept over Virginia who waited outside for her. Abbie parked partly on the sidewalk she was in such a hurry, and rushed past Virginia, who followed right on her heels.

"She took a turn for the worse, in a matter of hours, really."

"Did she say anything strange?" Abbie asked.

"She hasn't spoken much, just asked for you and said its time to fly away to heaven. That was about twenty minutes ago."

Abbie took the stairs two at a time, a feat she hadn’t attempted since she was much younger. The hallway was unusually silent, even for that particular type of facility. It was a hush she had felt before, like every spirit trapped in each ailing body knew one of them was being called home. Abbie could hardly breathe when she reached Charlotte's door. She didn't knock, just pushed the door open. Her mind registered the empty bed, an empty bird cage sitting on the white sheets and then blood, pools of it on the floor.

"I'm gonna fly away," a small voice said, "she told me how to get to heaven."

Abbie's heart stuttered when she looked to the open window and saw Charlotte perched upon its edge.

"Come down here!" Abbie pleaded.

"I don't want to die here and be stuck; she said it’s hell."

Abbie pointed to the corner of the room where no one stood. Abbie took two steps inside and saw the dead bird, plucked nearly bald. Its tiny wings stripped of the feathers that should have helped it to fly for the first time. Her eyes went to Charlotte who held her bleeding arms out to show Abbie that she had stuck the fledgling's feathers beneath her own skin to create mangled wings—only a hopeful child would believe they were enough to conduct flight.

"NO!" Abbie cried.

"Fly away, little fledgling." a rasping voice spoke from the corner of the room. Abbie caught a peripheral glimpse of something in the mirror. She turned to look upon the reflection of a skeletal woman with ratty, white hair, and blood running from her mouth, which spread in a wide, crimson smile.

"I'm happy you came to see me fly away to heaven." Charlotte said before she leapt from the window.

Abbie's screams echoed down the quiet hallways as the girl, the fledgling, failed in her first attempt at flight—though she found heaven in the sidewalk below.

THE END

Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason are a twin sister writing team from Arizona. They have been dubbed the Sisters of Slaughter for their work in the horror genre. Their work has been published by Serialbox, Thunderstorm Books, Sinister Grin Press and Bloodshot Books. Their debut novel, Mayan Blue , was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. Their next novel, Tapetum Lucidum , is being released by Death’s Head Press.

FORGET THE BURNING ISLE

Michael Whitehouse

I am glad I found this place. A good venue for my thoughts. Buried among fictional accounts, most probably lost in a sea of anonymity. You see, I do not want to be believed. I certainly do not care if you believe me. I must admit, however, that I feel the need to share. I am a remote and singular person, and as such I do not get to vent my emotions often. It has certainly been a long time since I last told my story, and those present then did not believe me either. Whether you believe or not is up to you. It does not matter to me, but I have a strange need to hope that someone  will at least read my story. That it will be passed on. Other than that, I consider this little exercise as nothing more than therapy.

Back then, I lived on the island of Hirta. It is an isolated place in the North Atlantic just off the Northwest of Scotland. There were not many people there at the time, but those who were, had deep affection for one another. I remember walking the rocky hills caressed by wild grass and moss, watching the might of the Atlantic crash against the cliffs below me. As a young girl, I thought the sea would consume the island like the hand of Pluto dragging the rocky outcrop and all those who lived upon it to its murky depths. But it was an all too human hand which brought the place to its knees.

You will find mention of Hirta in the history books. The official account claims that the island was finally abandoned in the 1930s due to illness. It is rumored that the illness was brought by outsiders and that we islanders did not have immunity to it, but that is only half true. In my experience, half-truths are more insidious than any lie, so let me set the record straight: We were not evacuated from that island, we were wiped from its memory.

At the time, I was a pretty girl, and I knew it. I was 18 years old and the boys clambered over each other to make an impression on me. Though I did not enjoy that attention, I did not blame them, as the island had no more than 200 folk on it—another fact erased from history—and so opportunities to meet someone and get married were limited. One of those men who tried his hardest to impress me was the last healthy Hirta face I saw. His name was Jacob. He had blonde hair, but the type which shines red when the sun meets it. A hair color which could only come from the Nordic peoples who settled in parts of Scotland’s North.

Jacob did not care for history or lineage, but he was a gentle soul. The other young men on the island were rugged farmers, but Jacob was slight in stature, though his kindness more than made up for that. After poetic letters and secret glances across the way, I had finally agreed to walk with him through the town to the festival. It was nearly the solstice, and the town wanted to mark the coming harvest with a celebration. Everyone was there. Tables were set outside and for once the wind which usually lashed the island had stilled somewhat. Cider and whiskey were drunk by the bucketload, pies and stews of every description were devoured. That day was everything I loved about Hirta. We all knew each other, and there was a solidarity in our shared conquest of the elements, come rain or shine.

What would now be called a migraine was something which I had suffered from since childhood. Unfortunately for Jacob, I had to cut our day in the sun short so I could return to my family’s cottage and lie down in the darkness, hoping that the agonizing pain in my left eye would soon pass. I could see the disappointment in his face. He clearly thought I was abandoning him because I was not enjoying myself, but I offered the reassurance that we would go for a walk together again in the coming days when I felt better.

Once home, I lay in my room. The thick curtains were tightly closed, as even the slightest sliver of sunlight would make the searing headache worse. The town festivities continued just a few streets away and I could hear one of the town elders, Ross Brady, booming loudly with a badly written poem for the occasion.

I do not know how long I lay there, but I was awoken from a fragmentary sleep by the worst sound I have ever heard. I wish I could describe the noise as a scream, but it was more like a gasping, retching sound, like someone had drank too much in the street outside my window. At first, I paid no heed to it, but the retching was soon joined by vomiting. I thought I had better check on the poor man, but as I pulled myself out of bed and reached over to the curtain, it quivered at my touch. The tiniest line of sunlight poked out from between and embedded on my forehead. I cannot convey the pain to you in words. It made the agony of a migraine in full flow seem almost enjoyable by comparison.

Falling back off my bed, I reached up and touched the skin on my head, but I could already smell it. I was burning. I rushed to the wash basin in my room and poured what little water was in it over my head. The cool liquid not only calmed the searing heat, but I could hear the sound it made as it touched my burning skin—it sizzled like water thrown on a campfire. The thin vertical burn on my forehead still felt horrendous, and so I reached for the door to the hall thinking that I would go outside and immerse my head in the cold water of a nearby stream. Thank God I held back and recognized the danger amongst my confusion and pain. If I had walked out into that hall with the sunlight bathing me through the unshuttered windows, I would not be writing this today. I would have writhed in agony as my flesh burned off my bones.

I realized then that the retching outside had been joined by other sounds. They came from a few streets away. I knew immediately what they were. Every person on the island was outside at the festival. Distant howls and screams of agony met my ears, and the smell of people burning filtered through the air. There was nothing I could do. I lay there in the darkness and listened. First the man in the street outside choked on vomit or his own insides putrefying. Eventually he expired, as did the cries of pain from everyone else.

In some way I am ashamed that I did not rush outside to help; after all, my mother and father, my brothers, my friends—everyone I had ever known was out there, cremated by the sun. However, I have learned to live with this memory. Had I stepped outside I would have suffered the same fate, and perhaps it was meant to be that one person from the island should survive as a witness.

Grief swirled around me in waves. Denial took over, whispering hope to me that perhaps some had survived. Perhaps my own family had not perished in that cruel way. But as I lay there frozen by the horror, imprisoned in my room for fear of burning, I waited for my family to return home. They did not. Night fell, and by then I knew that everyone was gone. A numbness took me, and the trauma removed me from the immediacy of it all. I lay there thinking of my loved ones, tears replaced by a temporary void of no feeling at all.

When darkness had finally blanketed the island, I tested the curtain once more. Flicking it slightly, I was relieved that the starlight and the moon contained no fear for me. Stepping outside into the night was the eeriest moment of my life. The village I had loved all my years, the place where I had run free with the other teenagers of the island, was now silent. It was suffocated by the stench of death. The wind had still not returned, and so the smell of burnt flesh hung in the air.

Armed with my father’s paraffin lantern, I lit it and observed the street under the dim yellow glow of its burning wick. The street was empty, all but for something sitting in the shadow beneath my window. The figure was contorted. Its charred skin frozen in position by whatever malevolent event had caused this. The man’s hands reached upward, and the fingertips of his right hand were resting on the window ledge in seeming desperation. Most of the clothes were burned, but it was the eyes which gave away the figure’s identity. I let out a whimper. It was Jacob. He must have come back to check on me just before it happened. And I had sat on the other side of that thick curtain as he burned and suffocated on his own liquified insides. It was the eyes which haunted me. I would have thought they would have been destroyed by any fire, but they had not been. They were open and as blue as they had been that sunny afternoon. The paraffin flame glimmered in them, and for a moment I thought he was still alive. But that was not life, it was but a shadow of it. Frozen in place by the burning.

I could no longer bear to think of what might have happened if I had reached out of my window and pulled him inside. And so, I fled the grief. Panic took me, and I ran through the empty streets of Hirta island, my white summer dress fluttering, ghost-like in the night. When I reached the scene of the festival, I vomited. The smell of nearly two hundred Hirta folk frozen in position like Jacob was overpowering. Many of the bodies were on top of each other. There had obviously been a panic when it had happened. People who loved each other had lost their minds. The pain too agonizing, overriding any desire to help one another. I saw things under the light of Father’s lantern which I can never unsee. The burned bodies of young children crushed under the weight of adults clambering to escape the pain. Broken limbs hanging off the bodies in places, burned marionette dolls who were once those I loved.

I was compelled to search. When I saw the charred face of my mother staring at me, her body gazing upwards but bent unnaturally at the spine over a table, I lost my mind. Falling to the ground, my thoughts dissolved. The grief of losing everything was too much for me. There lay my mother, her body broken in the stampede, and my two brothers on the ground next to her. One had his hand on my mother’s leg. Was he trying to help her? Or had he reverted in that moment of pain to the outlook of a child, needing to be saved by his mother. My father was not far from there, his crumpled body lying amongst three others at the door to a cottage. Perhaps they knew if they could get out of the sunlight, they would have had a chance at least.

As I sat on the ground of that street, I tried to cry, but no noise came from my mouth. No sound could represent that loss. The only thing which woke me from that nightmarish despair was a loud bang. It was a gunshot. Perhaps one of the farmers had survived . Had there been but one gunshot, I would have thought it self-inflicted, but no, another sounded. Then another. And the shots were getting closer.

Across the street, I saw that a window had been broken. The body of someone, Ross Brady I think, was hanging out of it. His legs were still in the street, burned to a crisp, but he must have broken the window during the panic and managed to claw halfway into a shop before the burning killed him. As the gunshots drew nearer, I heard the shuffle of feet coming from the bottom of the street. Something inside of me told me to hide, that those footsteps were not friendly, and so I panicked, leaving my father’s lantern behind in the street, and pulled myself in through the shop window, trying not to touch Ross Brady’s corpse. Something dragged across my leg. It was a shard of glass from the window, cutting my thigh open. I let out a short yelp and then bit into my hand to stay the pain. In response, someone from outside the shop came running down the street, and then accompanied by another. I scrambled underneath a shop table, hiding behind the red checkered tablecloth which draped over it.

Peeking out from behind the cloth, I could see the dim outline of two men in the street outside. They had a short conversation about whether they had heard something, and the lit lantern on the street which I had left behind. One of them, a man referred to as Sergeant Blake, told the other, obviously his subordinate, to continue with, and I’ll always remember these words, ‘the job at hand.’ Sergeant Blake then aimed what looked like a rifle at something on the ground and discharged his gun.

They’re making sure everyone is dead .

As each gunshot sounded outside, tears began to flow from my eyes. They were desecrating my people. The two men then pointed to Ross Brady’s legs hanging out of the window. As they moved over to him, the other man readied his rifle. That was when Ross Brady moved. I was not the only one to be startled. The two soldiers gasped and swore in response. The body let out a horrid groan of pain. Looking up at his face—I was just a few feet away from him—the whites of his eyes rolled in his charred head as he regained consciousness. And then he began to sob uncontrollably. No doubt from the pain, but perhaps from the grief also. Ross had a young family. I had seen him sitting with them in the street earlier in the day. And now they were gone like everyone else.

The two soldiers argued about what to do, but Sergeant Blake reprimanded the other man, who I now knew was named Private McClusky. I watched as the private’s hands shook as he pointed the rifle to the back of Ross Brady’s groaning head. Silence then fell for a moment. Ross looked up and for the first time saw me, staring up at him from under the table. He let out a loud garbled cry at the sight of me, and then Private McClusky pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through his head and out through the front of his face, which was now largely gone, and then embedded itself in the floor next to me. The resulting blood and skull fragments covered me, but though I wanted to scream, my body merely trembled terribly as though cold.

I dared not move for fear of being seen, as it was now clear that the soldiers were there to ensure no one was left alive. But the trembling continued, the shock coursing through my veins.

Sergeant Blake patted McClusky on the back and said, “good job.” He then walked further up the street and continued putting a bullet in the heads of each and every Hirta resident, man, woman, and child. McClusky turned to the broken window and then said: “Stay there. If they find you, they’ll kill you.”

My blood ran cold. He had seen me. I wanted to scramble away from his attention, but by the increasing number of footfalls outside, I could tell the island was now overrun with soldiers.

McClusky looked around to see if anyone was watching. He took off his brodie helmet, pulling the strap away from beneath his chin. In the dim light I could just about see his features. He was young. No older than my brother, Charlie, who was just 23 years old and but a burned corpse behind in the street.

“No one is to leave Hirta,” McClusky said, now in a gentler voice. “I thought we were here to put the people who burned out of their misery, but Sergeant Blake just put a bullet in a young kid a few doors back who was hiding under his bed.” McClusky’s voice was trembling, and though I could not be certain due to the lack of light, I thought I saw a glint of tears in his eyes.

“Once this street is cleared,” he continued, “they’ll do a sweep of every building on the island. Then, they’ll find you. Is there anywhere you can hide on the island that they won’t know about?”

I stared at McClusky in a daze.

“Come on!” he whispered forcefully. “If we don’t find somewhere for you to hide, they’ll put a bullet in you.”

Wracking my brains, I could not think.

“It has to be somewhere the sun won’t touch you,” said McClusky. “You’ll end up like everyone else here if you don’t stay out of it.”

A commanding voice now shouted “McClusky!” It was Sergeant Blake.

“Hide!” McClusky whispered. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

What followed was McClusky being reprimanded by Sergeant Blake for taking off his brodie helmet. McClusky said he was not feeling well, but this meant nothing to the sergeant.

“That’s everyone done in the streets,” said Blake. “Now, we need to sweep the buildings for any possible survivors.”

“And then?” asked McClusky.

“You know fine well ‘what then,’” answered Sergeant Blake. “Listen, boy, my superiors were dead set against a young fella like you coming to the island. I vouched for you. Don’t make me regret it. We have a job to do to clean up this mess, and no word of it can ever get out. Any of my lads make me think for a second that they’ll say anything about what’s gone on here, and they’ll end up with the people of Hirta. Bagged and thrown somewhere your body will never be found. “You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Blake’s tone softened. “I know this is hard, son. I don’t like it either, but it’s for the greater good. If what’s gone on here got out, it would destroy us in the eyes of the public, and we’d all hang no doubt, even though we’re just following orders. I promise you; you’ll never have to do anything like this again. You’ll make it off this island and be far away on an easy detail. Just keep it together and remain tightlipped. Otherwise… I meant what I said.”

McClusky asked if he should start doing a sweep of the buildings in the street. He pointed to the shop where I was hiding and said he could start there. Blake agreed and headed off once more to oversee the dirty work.

When Blake was out of earshot, McClusky approached the window and now spoke to me once more. “Cover your eyes,” he said. At first, I thought he was going to shoot me there and then, but with the hilt of his rifle, he smashed away some of the shards of glass around the window frame which had cut my thigh. He then climbed over Ross Brady’s faceless body until he was inside.

I started to hear voices down the street shouting the words ‘clear’ intermittently.

“Can you just say this building is clear and let me hide?” I asked.

“No,” said McClusky as he helped me out from under the table. “Once the buildings are cleared of any survivors, they’ll burn them down to make sure there’s no evidence of anything else. Notes left behind or anything like that. You’d burn one way or the other. You need to hide somewhere more permanent until I can figure out a way to get you off island alive.”

My mother had believed I was a quick thinker. She had always said that I could think my way out of anything. Perhaps she was right. In a flash of desperate inspiration, I uttered the words “Stac Biorach.”

“What’s that?” McClusky said confused.

“It means ‘the Pointed Stac.’ It’s a tiny island just off of Hirta which is home to a lot of birds. No people, though. My father used to take me there to watch the guillemots. There’s a small rowing boat hidden in a tiny cove that Hirta folk would use to visit it and the other stacs.”

“And there’s somewhere you can hide there?”

A gunshot sounded. McClusky turned and peered through the window frame back into the street before returning his gaze to me. “They must have found someone else hiding. We don’t have much time.”

He was right. The smell of kerosene now filtered through the window, and a yellow-orange glow from parts of the town set alight by the soldiers was now making itself known. The thought of the flames touching my skin took hold. “There are nooks and crannies on Stac Biorach which will shelter me. They’d only see me if they got close.”

Footsteps now neared. “McClusky!? Where are you, lad?” bellowed Sergeant Blake from outside.

“Here, Sergeant Blake. This building is clear,” McClusky shouted.

“Good! Let’s burn it with the rest of them, then.”

“Yes, sir!” McClusky shouted through the window to the darkness. Then, he turned to me. “Can you make it on your own?”

I thought about the years I had spent on Hirta, but even knowing the island so well, in the darkness the hike over hills and cliffs would be treacherous. One wrong foot and I would plunge to the rocks below the towering island. “I need my lamp.”

“Was that the one on the street?” McClusky whispered.

I gave a somber nod.

We both turned to the sound of Blake walking up to the window.

“Head out the back,” McClusky said, pushing me through an open doorway further into the shop. “Hide somewhere. When you see five flashes of light, go towards them.”

I would have asked him to explain, but there was no time. Blake shouted once more for him, and McClusky climbed back out into the street. It all happened so quickly after that. Something poured in through the window, then bottles of lit kerosene thrown inside at my feet. The world burned around me. Staggering back at the heat, I looked for a way out. Sweat poured down from my forehead and into my eyes. The smoke caught my lungs, and I knew that one full breath would be the death of me. Staggering blindly, I tried to remember the layout of the shop as best I could. In desperation, I found a pane of glass and threw my fist through it. Something broke inside my hand. The pain was terrible, but before I knew it, I was out in the open black of the night, gasping for air.

Behind me, the shouts of the soldiers now rose up around the flames. I lay low, and with broken hand and cut leg, I dragged myself through the wild grass and rocks of Hirta, up a small incline, and then lay with my back against the ground. The stars had always peered down at me from the sky, and many a time I had lain on a similar spot looking at them, wondering what they meant, and what secrets they held. But they had been wiped from the sky momentarily. The flames of my home village grew higher still and gave off a consuming glow, and I watched with tears flowing down my cheeks as the last remnants of my life burned to a cinder.

Soon, the soldiers began their searches as I was certain they would. If no one was to leave the island alive, they would have to search every part of it for human life. But I had one advantage over Sergeant Blake and his men—Hirta was my home. I knew it better than any of them. And so, I disappeared into the darkness. Without my father’s lantern, it would have been impossible for me to negotiate the rocks and cliffs of the island safely, but the irony was that my father and all Hirta now burned. Their flame gave more than enough light to guide me.

Groups of soldiers wandered the hills looking for prey. Whenever they drew near to me, I lay in the grass then crawled to a safer spot. But this would only aid me for so long. The flames of Hirta were now diminishing, and so too was the light that they gave me. I could see a group of soldiers moving in my direction as I lay flat beneath a piece of curled rock. As they did so, the sound of footsteps joined them from behind where I lay. Another group of soldiers, and where I hid appeared to be their intended meeting point.

Then I saw it. Five short flickers of light to the East. I counted them silently. Like starlight paving my way to freedom, I moved in that direction. As I did, I heard the soldiers questioning the light. My heart sank as they followed in the same direction. Soon I looked up and saw McClusky standing near to me holding a battery powered torch. “Stay down,” he whispered.

The soldiers saw him, too.

“McClusky,” one of the men said with a mainland accent. “What are you doing here? Was that you with the light?”

“Yes,” McClusky answered, calmly. “I was investigating the sound of something on the rocks by that cliff, but I twisted my ankle trying to climb up them. I think some villagers might be hiding there.”

“Good man,” the other voice said. “We’ll check. Do you need assistance?”

“I just need to get my boot off and look. If it’s too bad, I’ll hobble over to the boats and see if I can lend a hand getting us ready to leave the island.”

“Righto, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up about leaving here. I reckon we’ll be here for at least a day. The villagers can’t hide from us so easily when the sun goes up, especially not in their condition.”

“No problem. See you lads later.” McClusky pointed at a stony outcrop some way off and the soldiers headed in that direction.

When the men were far enough away, McClusky signaled that he was ready to go. We moved off Northward and hid behind a small hill.

“How long before they know you’re gone?” I asked him.

“I don’t know, 30 minutes, maybe less, maybe more. It depends how full their hands are. Blake will be looking for me, no doubt.” His voice sounded calm, but beneath it I could sense his anxiety.

“I need to get to the rowing boat at the cove. If you give me your torch, I can find my own way.” I reached out my hand for his torch.

McClusky looked down at it and sighed. “I wish it were that simple. Those soldiers are looking for unaccounted lights on the islands. They’ll find you. At least with me here, I can say I was looking for Hirta folk while you hide. How far is the cove?”

“Not far,” I said. I was not about to argue with him. At that point, my grief and terror had turned into a deep need for survival.

“Then let’s move.”

The way was treacherous. Twice we saw lights coming towards us and I had to scramble away and hide in the thick grass while McClusky explained that he was looking for anyone who might have escaped. I breathed a sigh of relief that the soldiers bought his story and headed off on their own deadly searches.

When the small cove came into sight, we walked down the hillside towards it. I then scrambled down the rocks as best I could with broken hand and bleeding thigh to the stone beach below. Looking up, I saw to my horror that a silent figure was standing silhouetted against the black sky behind McClusky.

“What’s going on here then?” the voice said gravely.

McClusky turned. “Serg...”

“I told you what would happen if you weren’t on board, son,” said Sergeant Blake. He had taken the bayonet off his rifle and was carrying it as a knife, pointing it just inches from McClusky’s throat. “Now what to do…”

“Serg, please. Let her go…”

“Anybody gets off this island and we’re all dead. I guarantee it. I’ve got kids.”

“She’s someone’s kid, and they’re burning back there. What would you want someone to do if it was your daughter?” McClusky asked.

“I’m a soldier, son. No time for sentiment. I have to look after my own.” Sergeant Blake stepped forward.

I did the only thing I could. I reached around my feet and found a large stone, hurling it upward. It struck Sergeant Blake on the face. Dazed, he stumbled and lost his footing. As he fell over the edge towards me, I moved to the side. Though the fall was not high on that side of the island, his body crumpled with a thud on the stones below.

McClusky scrambled down the rocks. “What have you done!?” he said.

“Done? I saved your life. He was going to…”

“You don’t know that!” McClusky cradled the head of his Sergeant.

Blake moaned on the ground, blood coming from his mouth. “Yer dead, son…”

“I’m sorry, Serg…”

To my horror, I then realized that Blake had not come alone. Someone was shouting his name in the darkness above us.

“We have to go!” I said, pulling at McClusky’s arm.

McClusky shook his head. “He’s not dead…”

I pointed to the hill above us where the shouting was coming from. “They’ll find us. And if he gives your name, they’ll kill you and  me.”

Just as McClusky tried to barter with me that there was a way of helping Sergeant Blake and getting both of us off the island alive, I smashed Blake’s face in with a rock. I felt nothing.

McClusky stared at what was left of his Sergeant’s face in disbelief. I walked on and found the small rowing boat moored to a pole nearby in the cove. “Are you coming or not?”

Slowly, McClusky walked over to the boat without saying a word. We untied it from its moorings and then pushed off into the blackness of the sea, which was calmer than usual. As we did, I could hear the shouts of men over the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat. They were back on the island looking for Sergeant Blake. If I was not mistaken, they found him, or someone had, as a solitary light at the cove suggested a figure standing over his body. But they did not see us.

We rowed to the stac. The huge grey rock reached high up out of the water like a fallen God pointing to the sky. Pulling the boat up onto the foot of the stac, we hid our only means of travel beneath thick buds of seaweed which we pulled from the rock’s surface.

“We better hurry,” said McClusky looking to the horizon.

Morning was coming, and a dark blue was brooding in the distance. “What happens if the sun touches me?”

“We were told it was permanent. That what we were doing was a mercy killing. If that’s true, then when the sun rises, you’ll burn to death,” said McClusky, not sugar coating it.

After hiding the rowing boat, I led McClusky up the stac. This involved climbing and walking, but in the end, we were at least sixty feet up a wall of rock when I found what I was looking for. “My father showed me this place. You can watch the birds and see all of Hirta from here.” It was not a cave per se, but it was a deep hole in the side of the rock, which turned at an angle. “I think I’ll be safe from the sun here.”

I hid in the hole as the sun rose, McClusky covered me with his army jacket just in case. No sun touched me, nor would it ever again. When night fell, we watched all of Hirta in her glory. That place I had called home all my life. Pinpoints of light darted around the island as the soldiers walked with their torches to their boats. They left, nothing smoldering. I wondered how they would explain what had happened there. The history books contain the official story. People left Hirta due to illness and failed crops in the 1930s . But it should read that we were wiped out by order of Her Majesty’s government.

When another day passed, starving and running out of the water in McClusky’s canteen, we made our escape. It was an arduous, almost impossible journey across the sea, but we made it to North Uist, then a week later to Loch Dunvegan, relying on the kindness and help of local fishing communities on the way. After that, we crossed the waters at Kyle Rhea, and finally, with the disaster of Hirta weeks behind us, we reached the Scottish mainland. Once there, we hid in bothies across the countryside during the day and travelled at night.

We could not be sure if McClusky’s betrayal was known, but they would be looking for him. A dead sergeant and a missing private was not something the army would take lightly. Over time, his guilt for what had happened at the island consumed him. His only reprieve from that guilt was to help me have some sort of life. Which we did. We helped each other. I suppose in some way, we mended what was broken inside us both.

Now, he is gone. I am old. I kept silent all these years until he died for fear that the government would kill both of us. I am not sure if we truly loved each other or were just thrown together by circumstance, but whatever we were, we endured together for decades, and I owed him my silence. We left Scotland behind, and eventually I spoke no more of Hirta, until now. It was just too painful.

I have often wondered at the cause of the burning. McClusky knew very little but for his direct orders and the whispers among his fellow soldiers that night. Something had washed up on the South side of the island; containers from a navy shipwreck carrying some recently discovered material from the old world. They broke open and we were poisoned. The fumes weaponized the sun against us. Made us burn under its rays. I hope that it was an accident, but in my darkest moments I wonder if we were the victims of a vile experiment, one created by humanity’s search for domination over itself. Release a gas, wipe out everyone in the sun. Walk in and claim the land.

That is my story, and now I have finally told it. Will you share it, or will you pass it off as another fiction? I think my account will probably be buried like the bodies of the Hirta folk in the sea—but I hold out some hope for humanity despite the world we all see around us. Perhaps justice will come. I will not be the one to bring it around, however. For me, the night has become my home. Though old, I still value what is left of my life. Perhaps even more than the reckless young. I will not jeopardize my time with my family. So, believe me or not, I will now do my best to once more forget the Burning Isle, as though it were a bad dream from a teenage girl who no longer exists.

My remaining concern is one I hope you will act upon. I do wonder what became of that stuff from the old world, and if they ever perfected it.

Michael Whitehouse is filmmaker, author, and founder of
Ghastly Tales
, a popular YouTube horror channel. He is a frequent contributor to
The NoSleep Podcast and has written countless stories for audio performance.

THREE LANES DEEP

Gemma Amor

L ucy is stuck.

As traffic jams go, it is the worst she has ever encountered. Hundreds of cars stand gridlocked, nose-to-tail and three lanes deep on the motorway all around her. A broiling midsummer sun beats down mercilessly upon them all, and the air shimmers with a thick, soupy heat. It bounces off countless bonnets and windscreens, and she can see it rippling over the grey, worn tarmac, like wrinkles in a pond when a stone is thrown.

She has been trapped like this for almost an hour, now: trapped, desperately hot, and horribly miserable. There is no shade, no breeze, and no cloud cover in the sky. Just a blazing white ball of fire, burning relentlessly. Her car ticks and groans gently as the brutal heat forces the metal to expand, warp, contract again, an unwelcome percussive accompaniment to her misery. Her brother Lucas shifts in his seat beside her, a steady trickle of sweat making its way down the right side of his face. He keeps wiping it away with the palms of his hands, then shaking them to flick the sweat off. Little salty droplets splat onto the dashboard and across Lucy’s right arm, making her flinch. It is driving her mad .

‘Stop doing that, it’s disgusting!’ she snaps, wiping her arm with the bottom of her damp shirt in disgust.

Lucas lets out a frustrated moan, ignoring her and wiping his brow for the thousandth time.

‘Arrggghhh! ’ he says, banging the steering wheel with his hands, letting his frustration and discomfort show. It takes a lot for his usually cool and collected exterior to slip, and Lucy can see that he is on the verge of losing his temper. He isn’t the only one.

‘It’s hotter than the devil’s arse crack in here!’ he continues, his face turning an even brighter shade of red than it had been a moment ago. Lucy wonders briefly about spontaneous combustion, and how hot a person has to be before they actually melt, or burst into flames, or simply crumble and disintegrate into a pile of ash.

‘Here,’ she replies, listless, passing him an almost empty bottle of water. He takes it and swigs, then grimaces.

‘Hot,’ he says, passing the bottle back. ‘Gross.’

The air conditioning in the car is broken and has been for well over a year. The siblings have been nagging their Dad to get it fixed, but he keeps muttering about the cost of parts and labor being more than the worth of the whole car, and so here they are, immobilized, the windows wound down as far as they will go, zombies sitting in a heat that is as thick as freshly poured tarmac. It pins them to their seats. Lucy feels as if a huge, hot cow is lying on top of her. She can’t think properly. She can’t speak. She can barely breathe.

‘How much longer do we have to sit here?’ She moans under her breath, beginning to feel woozy, and faint.

Her brother snorts.

‘Well, if the fucking radio worked in this pile of shit car, we’d be able to get traffic updates, wouldn’t we? But it doesn’t work, does it. Just like the air con. And the windscreen wipers. And the front left indicator. And the satnav. Because Dad doesn’t believe in fixing things, does he? Prick.’

They sit in silence for a while longer, before Lucy thinks to look at her phone. Her fingers, slick with moisture, slide uselessly across a blank, black screen.

‘Phone battery’s dead. Yours?’

Lucas shakes his head. ‘Died about three hours ago.’

They sigh for the thousandth time and return to staring listlessly through the front windscreen.

Time passes.

A strange, rich smell slowly begins to permeate the air around them, faint at first, and then, as the minutes crawl past, with more intensity. Lucy wrinkles her nose. ‘What’s that?’ she says, irritably, the glands in her mouth working overtime to produce saliva and fight back a sudden nausea. ‘It fucking stinks .’

Lucas shifts in his chair, wincing. ‘Christ knows. Probably some roadkill nearby, or maybe the tarmac melting. It does fucking stink.’

‘I don’t think it’s tarmac.’

Lucas sighs. ‘Well, I don’t fucking know, Lucy, alright? You’re welcome to get out and explore for me, if it bothers you that much.’ There is something odd in his eyes as he says this, something...knowing. His words sound rehearsed, almost, stagey... disingenuous. Lucy cannot for the life of her figure out why, but she feels somehow as if Lucas knows where the smell is coming from and doesn’t want to tell her.

They lapse into silence, and the smell intensifies. Lucy dismisses her doubts about Lucas as extreme fatigue on her behalf, and returns to staring out of the window, acutely aware that every moment that passes is a moment of her life that she will never recover, never enjoy. The futility of her situation depresses her almost to the point of coma, and her chin drifts towards her chest as she begins to doze.

The sun blazes on.

#

A sound swells in the distance. Lucy frowns, waking from her half-sleep. It sounds like a motor, but everything around her is now parked, handbrakes on, engines switched off. She twists in her seat, the leather sticking to her skin and tugging at it painfully. She manages to crane her head around and is just about to stick it out of her window for a better look, when a motorbike appears right next to the car, roaring past at a gleeful, breakneck speed, with mere millimeters to spare. Lucy has a split second to react, yanking her head backwards before the bike takes it clean off.

‘Hey!’ She shouts, shaking her fist after the bike like an angry old man in a cartoon. The motorbike and its leather-clad rider ignore her, weaving easily between the lanes of parked cars, vans, lorries and trucks, then disappearing from view.

She catches the eyes of three lads who are in the car immediately to the left of her, on the passenger side, her side. The driver grins at her, leans out of his own window, and shouts after the motorbike:

‘Wanker! ’

He makes the appropriate hand gesture to accompany this expletive. Lucy smiles back weakly, her heart thudding in her chest from shock, and then slumps back into her seat.

‘There’s always one, isn’t there,’ her brother says bitterly as the bike speeds off into the distance. ‘Always one smug bastard who thinks he is better than us because he has two wheels instead of four.’

Lucy doesn't answer. She wishes she was on that bike, moving forward, only moving forward, making headway instead of baking in the midday sun in the middle of the fucking M4 like a tray of overdone flapjacks. And that smell, oh, God . That smell is worse now than ever before. She begins to think that Lucas is right about roadkill. It smells foul and yet sweet, like the sugar beet factories used to smell near her house, when she was a child. A headache pokes at her temples.

Another ten minutes creaks by.

The sun shines down. The temperature on the dashboard indicator ticks up another degree.

Lucy loses her battle with frustration. ‘What the fuck is going on up there?!’ she erupts eventually, gesturing vaguely at the long queue of stationary traffic in front of them. She is beginning to feel desperate. There is a new problem to add to her load: a burgeoning need to urinate has made itself known, despite, or perhaps because of, her dehydrated state.

Her brother shrugs. ‘Probably a smash up ahead. I could see blue lights flashing earlier.’

‘There are too many bloody people on this earth,’ Lucy says, shifting in her seat to try and ease the pressure on her bladder.

Lucas sighs. ‘You've said that quite a lot on this trip. You sound just like Dad, have I told you that?’

‘Shut up, Lucas,’ she replies, a silent, impotent fury building up inside her. Her bladder cramps, and she winces, and bites her lip.

Time crawls on, and nothing changes, except the smell, which gets worse, and worse, and worse, until she is convinced it is a living, writhing, tangible thing, invading her orifices, crawling down her throat, choking her. The smell, the cars, the heat, and the building pressure on her bladder: that’s all her life has become, now. A collection of uncomfortable things to be borne. I am going to live out the rest of my days in this traffic jam, she laments to herself. I will become a melted lump of a person, like the stub of an old candle left on a windowsill .

The sun shines on.

The temperature readout on the dash clicks up to 33 degrees.

#

As the second hour of their predicament approaches, people begin to get out of their cars. They stretch luxuriously, and congregate in the gaps between lanes, standing around, smoking, crouching down; doing anything to avoid sitting and roasting in their tin boxes on wheels. It makes Lucy feel slightly better that there are obviously other motorists who haven’t fixed their air-con, either. Doors open and shut all along the motorway, voices began to rise, and mingle, and gradually the feel of something almost festive spreads, as people united in their suffering do what they can to ‘make the best of it’.

The lads in the car to the left of them get out, pop open the boot, pull out a cooler box of cold coke cans, and began passing them around. The driver of the car presses one into Lucy’s hand through her open window.

‘Here you go, sweetheart,’ he says, smiling at her.

Can’t he smell that? she thinks, swallowing back bile, but apparently, he can’t. She smiles tremulously, grateful, now almost incapable of speech. The burning desire to go the toilet has grown all-consuming.

She looks at Lucas. ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ she says, her voice small, and desperate. The smell is now so foul she fears she might faint. She can see it is affecting him too. The muscles in his jaw work overtime as he fights to control his stomach. A reluctant sympathy spreads across his face, nonetheless. ‘Come on,’ he says, opening the car door. ‘I passed a woman in a camper van a ways back, before we got gridlocked. I bet she’s stuck too, and I bet she’ll have a toilet you can use, if we ask nicely.’

Lucy nods, on the verge of tears, and unpeels herself slowly from the sticky, hot leather of the car seat. Anything to get away from the cloying, all-pervasive stench of...whatever it was.

If she thought it was hot in the car, she is in for a treat as she steps out onto the burning tarmac. It hits her like a bat to the face: solid, searing heat. She can feel it rising through the soles of her sandals. Hell, is all she can think, her bladder threatening to explode. I’m in hell.

The boys from the neighboring car are putting up a parasol they have somehow stashed in the boot of their car.

‘Come and join us under here!’ the driver says cheerfully as Lucy scans the motorway desperately, looking for the camper van Lucas mentioned.

‘I’ve just got to...stretch my legs first,’ she says, wild-eyed, searching for that blessed relief.

Her brother smirks, gives the lad a knowing look. ‘Call of nature,’ he explains in a conspiratorial tone, much to Lucy’s mortification, and the boys chuckle as she turns beetroot red.

‘Good luck with that!’ laughs the driver, not unkindly, looking at the mass of cars and people all around. ‘Not much privacy out here!’ Lucy is silent, miserable, shifting from one foot to the other constantly.

‘Come on, then,’ Lucas says, and as an afterthought to the lads: ‘Save us a spot under that brolly!’

‘Will do!’ says their new friend cheerfully, and the siblings turn and walk towards the camper van, which Lucy eventually spots parked about six cars back, in the slow lane. It seems to glow in the sunshine, the promise of relief a holy grail to her right now.

As they approach, Lucy hobbling and holding her stomach, she takes comfort in two things: that the smell is subsiding the further she gets from her car, and the fact that the van is more of a full-scale motorhome than a camper, a huge old chrome thing, an American-style Winnebago. It gleams like a great silver bullet in the glare of the sun, and is hard to look at, the closer she gets, so she must shield her eyes.

And the driver of the van is indeed a woman, as Lucas had said. She sits next to her vehicle in a folding camp chair, a cold glass of something in one hand, a small umbrella that she is using as a parasol held elegantly in the other. She wears huge black sunglasses and a massive sun hat that throws her whole face into shadow. She looks as if she is on holiday in the French riviera, not stuck in a traffic jam on a shitty motorway alongside thousands of other unfortunates.

Lucy lets her brother do the talking.

‘Hi there,’ says Lucas, his easy, friendly manner having returned to him.

The woman smiles and lifts an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses, an inquisitive and sexy gesture that Lucas appears to appreciate. By this point, Lucy couldn’t care less if she has five pairs of eyes stuck to the ends of each fingertip, she needs to piss so badly. She is so close to losing control of her bladder that her whole body is now cramped with the effort of not letting go, not like this, not in front of rows and rows of people... Just hang on , she keeps thinking, over and over. Just..hang...on!

‘Hello,’ the woman says, in a deep, husky voice that makes Lucy think of cigarettes.

Lucas turns his charm up to ten on the dial.

‘I don’t suppose we could ask a huge favor, could we? We’ve been stuck in this traffic jam for almost two hours, now, and my sister here doesn’t feel very well. In fact, to tell the truth,’ and here, Lucas lowers his voice in an attempt at saving Lucy’s dignity, ‘To tell the truth, she desperately needs to use the bathroom, but...well. Out here...there aren’t even any trees she can hide behind. And we were wondering, as you have this big van, whether you might allow her to use your bathroom? If you have one? You’d be helping us out in desperate times.’

Lucy is beyond desperate now, hopping from foot to foot, tears welling in her eyes. She has seconds before she cannot hold it anymore.

‘I’m so sorry to ask,’ she says, her voice wobbling with strain. ‘I mean, I’ll pay you for the inconvenience…’

The woman holds up a hand to silence her.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she says in that cool as a cucumber voice. ‘I’ve been there, I understand. Of course, you can use my bathroom.’

She stands gracefully, folding the umbrella, and opens the side access door to the van. ‘Just in there,’ she says, pointing to a small wooden cabinet inside. She has an odd, secretive smile on her face, but Lucy doesn’t have time to think about this. She only needs relief, and almost faints with gratitude as the woman holds the door open for her.

‘Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou ! You are my hero!’ she says, almost sobbing, and dives inside without further hesitation.

Lucy scrabbles at the cabinet door, and then fumbles to shut it behind her. She sees a fully-flushable toilet mounted to the wall to the left of her. She hastily drags her clothes down past her knees, fingers and hands now ten sizes too big for her. She is sweaty, and hot, and everything is swollen, sticking and catching in the moisture of the day. She wrestles with her knickers and eventually, they do as they are told, and she finally, finally, blissfully, wonderfully is able to relieve herself. Water jets out of her in an urgent, hot stream of relief. Afterwards, she sags against the small toilet cabinet door, panting, overcome. Blessed, blessed relief, she thinks, thanking her lucky stars for the Winnebago and the woman in dark glasses.

She flushes, and resumes the wrestling match with her sticky, sweaty clothes. Once dressed properly, she looks around for some soap. There is a dispenser on the far cabinet wall, mounted above a tiny chrome sink, and she reaches out to depress the pump.

Something moves just behind the dispenser.

A tiny, tiny movement, barely perceptible, but it catches her eye. Lucy freezes, arm outstretched.

The movement occurs once more. She squeaks in surprise, and then leans in closer, peering at the source.

And finds a hole, cut into the cabinet wall, very like an empty knothole that you find in wooden floorboards sometimes. It is perfectly round, and about the size of a coin.

And there is something alive behind it.

‘What the fuck?’ Lucy murmurs, all previous distress now forgotten as she stands stock-still in the tiny closet toilet.

Behind the wall, there is more movement. Another small noise. She frowns, and leans in closer, trying to see what is behind the hole. Is someone else in the van? A partner maybe, or a pet, in the next partition? Lucy had thought the woman was alone, she gave that impression, but she hadn’t exactly paid too much attention, either way- she’d been distracted.

Another slight shifting, and another noise. A distinctly... human sounding noise.

Almost...a moan.

Moaning?

Lucy’s brain immediately leaps to the worst possible conclusion.

Peeping Tom.

Pervert.

Spyhole.

Voyeur. Watching me, in the toilet.

No wonder that woman had been so keen to let her in! It’s obviously something she does, some perverted kink she’s into. Sure, you can use the facilities! But there's a price to pay: your privacy.

Oh God, Lucy thinks, what if there are cameras rigged up?

Suddenly angry, she thrusts her right eye close to the hole and peers in, trying to identify the source of the moaning.

And she sees a man in the half-dark, bound, gagged, and propped upright in a small adjoining storage cabinet.

#

A thin light leaks into the cabinet, probably from cracks around a door Lucy can’t see, or more missing knotholes in the wood. The light sits gently upon the man’s prone form like dust, highlighting his face and the bare skin of his shoulders, which move up and down in jerky, panicked twitches.

Lucy stares in disbelief at him, slowly registering the cable ties about his wrists and ankles, the lack of clothing except for stained and dirty underwear, the blood. He is covered in blood, as if painted with it, and his eyes are wide, nostrils flared with a mad type of terror. He moans again, and makes a gurgling noise, low in his throat. He knows someone is there. He wants Lucy to help him.

Oh, God. Oh, God, is all she can think. Her hand flutters up to her mouth. She is cold all over, an alien feeling given the heat of the day. Lucy jerks her head back from the hole, heart thumping, her own blood pounding in her ears. She checks behind her to see if the toilet door is still locked. It is.

Trembling, she slowly puts her eye to the peephole once more.

The man rolls his head back, the moaning, gurgling sound rattling out into the closed space. Then, Lucy sees the wound on his neck. Fresh, and deep, and wet, like a wide-open mouth. His throat has been cut, probably only moments before she’d walked into this van. He is dying.

Lucy recalls the odd, secretive smile on the mysterious woman’s face as she’d opened the door for her, knowing what was hidden inside the van, thrilling to her own dirty little secret.

The man continues fight for his life, blood sheeting down his naked body. Paralyzed, with her face glued to the wall, Lucy watches as he struggles to breathe, his chest fluttering with tiny, futile movements as he tries to draw air in through his severed windpipe. His focus locks onto her one, dis-believing eye, peering in at him through the spyhole, and he pleads silently for help, but she knows, deep down, in some instinctive way, that he is beyond help. And so, Lucy watches, a prisoner in time, a statue, and the man moans again, and then gargles and chokes, drowning in his own blood. Red mist sprays from his mouth and bubbles from his neck and finally, in a slow and graceless defeat, his chin sinks to his chest. He falls sideways, slumped, dead.

Dead.

The spell is broken.

Lucy starts to scream, and then bites down on her wrist, hard, to stop herself.

Out, she thinks, her body alive with adrenaline and fear. I have to get out. And then, because she loves him:

My brother is out there.

I can hear him, talking to...that woman...and I have to get him out, away from this, before she slits our throats, too!

But as Lucy opens the toilet cabinet door, slowly, softly, she understands that it is too late. She can hear voices, close to her, closer than they would be if they were both still standing outside the van.

She inches cautiously out of the toilet, trying to assume a neutral, pleasant expression, and failing. She can see the eyes of the dying man in the closet, wide, glaring, begging for her help, then fixing on something far away as the life left him.

There is the unmistakable sound of a bottlecap being popped off a beer bottle, and then another, staccato, and a chink, glass upon glass. Then, laughter, both male and female. Lucy edges around the corner of the toilet cabinet, and sees her brother, inside the van, with the woman, an ice-cold bottle of Heineken on its way up to his mouth.

‘Lucas!’ she shouts, as the bottle grazes his lips.

‘What?’ he says, pausing momentarily, a guilty look on his face. ‘Might as well make the most of it!’ He chuckles, winking at the woman. Lucy feels sick, and powerless. She has no doubt that the beer is drugged, and that one solitary sip will be enough to put her brother out like a light. The woman has removed her sunglasses. She watches Lucy with bright, cold, intelligent eyes, assessing her like a bird assessing an insect.

‘You can’t drink and drive, Lucas,’ Lucy says, feebly, avoiding the other woman’s gaze, and knowing that the game is up. ‘Besides, I don’t feel well. I’d like you...I’d like you to walk me back to the car.’ She tries to communicate that something is horribly wrong with her eyes, but the idiot only has eyes for the woman, who is, admittedly, gorgeous- Lucy can see that, now. She has long legs and long dark hair, and full, red lips. She’s also a murderous predator, but Lucy guesses that doesn’t translate so well, at first glance.

Lucas makes no move to depart, so Lucy lunges forward, grabbing his wrist.

‘Come on!’ she hisses, low and forceful, pulling him away, towards the door, towards safety, and the crazy woman puts down her beer bottle, in a slow, graceful, and deliberate movement, and reaches into a pocket for something hidden, and takes a step forward, and Lucy feels as if her heart will burst from fear, as she pulls and pulls urgently on Lucas’ wrist, trying to drag him to safety, trying to leave the nightmare van, and the woman takes another step forward, and something bright, and shining slides free from her pocket, and Lucy can see that it is a knife, she can tell that Lucas hasn’t spotted it yet, and she feels a scream swelling in her throat, and then…

And then, she hears it.

Or, more accurately, she becomes aware of it, despite everything else that is happening. It rises and looms, like an approaching wave. Quiet, at first, then building in intensity and urgency.

It is the sound of people, screaming.

#

Lucy tears her eyes away from the woman, reluctantly, trying to establish which threat is the greater threat, and glances to the open door to see what is happening outside. Because something...something is happening. Something somehow worse than the dying man in the closet. All the hairs are up on the back of her neck, and her arms prickle with gooseflesh.

Something...terrible is going on.

There is a blur of activity, and a man races past, eyes wide with panic. His shirt is red with spray patterns of gore. Within moments, he is gone, running for his life, his arms and legs pumping hard. Lucy hears a thump , and a large, metallic screeching sort of crash in the distance.

‘What the fuck?’ she says, moving as if in a dream towards the door, towing Lucas behind her, for she has not let go of his wrist. The woman with the knife seems to have lost interest in them, and is frozen, like a deer in headlights, nostrils flaring as she listens to the oncoming tide of screams, crashes and thuds.

‘What is it?’ Lucas asks, his voice hollow.

Another streak of movement, and another man stumbles past, and then a woman, and then more people, children, men, women, old, young, dogs... Everyone is suddenly running, running and screaming, a desperate exodus of people abandoning their cars and racing away from...

From something.

But what? Lucy thinks, unable to make sense of what is happening. The screeching, crashing, squeezed metal noise gets closer, followed by loud, distinct thumps that shake the ground, rattling the walls of the Winnebago.

SCREECH! She hears, and then CRUNCH!

SMASH!

THUMP!

Hundreds of voices raise up in anguish, and panic, and Lucas and Lucy look at each other, wide-eyed.

‘Let’s go,’ her brother whispers, his face white, and then they are out of the van, and running too, running for their lives, like small, feral animals fleeing a burning forest. The woman in the van, the body in the cabinet, it all pales in comparison to what is happening around them. The thumps and crashes get closer, and closer, and the ground shakes beneath the weight of something monstrously huge. Lucy trips, ploughing forward, her ankle turning under her, and is almost trampled underfoot by the crowds of people behind, but Lucas hauls her up just in time. She regains her footing, sobbing, almost blind with terror, limping on regardless, and realizes that they are moving in the wrong direction, because whatever it is behind them is herding them along like cattle, towards something. It hits her like a lightning strike that their only hope for survival is to break free of the tangled, scared stampede, and get off the motorway.

And so, Lucy makes an abrupt, ninety-degree turn, gripping her brother’s wrist so hard she can feel her nails digging into his flesh, dragging him behind in her slipstream, and she crashes into men, and women, all these people, all of them running in the wrong direction ! But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. She smashes her hip into a car, bounces off, catches her outstretched arm on the open boot of another, keeps going. She is headed for the bank of the motorway, knowing that their best chance lies in getting off the tarmac, and away from the road altogether. The squealing, crashing noises move closer, and there is something else coming now, too, a smell not unlike the smell that leaked out of the boot of their car earlier that day as it sat stinking in the sun, not unlike the smell in the cabinet where the man with a slit throat lay drowning in his own blood, and Lucy knows what it is suddenly: it is the stench of death.

Death is coming for them, on huge, heavy feet.

Then Lucy, who is running and limping forward like a soldier through no-man’s land, remembers something.

She remembers the body in the trunk of their car.

#

The edge of the motorway is closer now, and beyond the vehicles and crowds she can see a bright field of ripening wheat. It’s dotted with vibrant red poppies. From here they look like drops of blood.

Lucy and Lucas make a final push through the charging throngs of people and throw themselves over a burning hot metal crash barrier that lines the edge of the motorway. This catapults them into a ditch, which they roll into, and then crawl out of, lurching onwards into the wheat field. Long, dry stalks, some of which are still green, brush against their legs as they move, whispering things to them. It is as if a thousand thin, sibilant voices are singing the same song, and the song is an ugly one:

We know what you did, the wheat stalks say. We know.

A great, spine-chilling roar lifts into the air around them like a flock of black starlings taking flight, swirling about, filling every available inch of space with unending rage and pain and torment. The siblings collapse to the ground, flattening the wheat stalks, clamping their hands over their ears, from which blood now trickles, as it does from their nostrils. The earth shakes with those colossal steps. Lucy can bear it no longer. She opens her eyes, and understands, at last, what is happening to her.

She is in hell.

#

Before her, rising above the wheat and the cars and the people like a vast monument to the dark, strides a horse-headed beast, a skeletal thing on corded legs, naked, soiled, and trailing thick banners of acrid smoke behind it. Those banners curl and climb into the blue sky, reaching for the sun. Massive, satin-black wings flex on the beast’s back, creating a shuddering new horizon, throwing those who scuttle below it into the shadows.

It walks carefully, picking its way through the traffic jam, scanning the motorway, and then, at what seems at first to be on a random whim, it brings one vast, hoofed foot down, hard, upon a vehicle. The metallic, squealing noises make sense, now, as car after car, vans, including the Winnebago, lorries, bikes and trailers are trampled into thin masses of warped, smoking metal and glass. But it isn’t random, it is searching , Lucy realizes, searching, with its empty eye-sockets, looking for something, choosing which cars to destroy, and which to save.

And then it stops. There is silence for a blissful second, where not even the wheat sings to them. Lucy holds her breath, as does Lucas. The beast stills, lifting its head high, scenting the air. It brays, flexing its wings once more, and then the vast, ancient, evil head swings slowly towards them.

There is no escape, Lucy thinks, and she closes her eyes as the ground shivers beneath her. She has set herself on this path, brought herself to this place, her and her brother, thou shalt not kill, it says in the Bible. They knew the rules, from birth, but chose to ignore them. They killed, they murdered, they committed the ultimate sin, and now they are here, alone in a field of wheat dotted with bright crimson poppies, and the very earth is shaking.

Lucy opens her eyes one last time, the smell of death stealing into her mouth, and comes face to face with the beast. It stares at her with empty holes for eyes, and if she looks hard enough, she can see fire, in the distance, and in the fire, the bodies of thousands of people who are all just like her, writhing in agony.

Then, it raises one leg, and Lucas is screaming beside her, but Lucy is tired, and doesn’t want to run anymore.

The foot comes down.

The sun shines on.

And, in a parked car on an abandoned motorway in the middle of a steaming hot summer’s day, blood drips from the trunk, running down the resin bumper, and pooling onto the tarmac.

It sizzles as it lands.

Gemma is a writer of horror, speculative and science fiction. She is the author of
Cruel Works of Nature
, which she also hand-illustrated, and of forthcoming books
White Pines
(a paranormal mystery novel about an entire town that vanishes one day) and
Till the Score is Paid
, another collection of short stories, published by Giles Press and due out in December. Gemma also writes for the
NoSleep Podcast and
Shadows at the Door
, and writes, produces and acts in two of her own podcasts,
Calling Darkness
, which stars TV and film actress Kate Siegel, and
Whisper Ridge
.

THE SWITCH

Cameron Chaney

“A re you sure you want to do this? Just say the word and I’ll turn this baby around and take us back home.”

Clutching her stuffed teddy bear, ten-year-old Celeste Beckett leaned forward in the passenger seat of the white SUV rental to see through the tinted window. Most of the other girls were arriving in ancient white busses, each slapped with multicolored handprints on all sides. Other girls were bouncing out of their parents’ cars and blowing goodbye kisses before running off, duffel bags in hand. These girls looked overjoyed, eager to get away from their parents for the summer and be with friends they hadn’t seen since last year.

Watching two girls race toward each other and embrace like long lost sisters, Celeste addressed her grandfather. “It’s okay, Papaw. I want to do this.” She pushed a lock of straight blonde hair behind one shoulder and forced a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fun. It’ll be…” Her grin faltered. “It will be a good thing.”

Celeste’s grandfather nodded. “You’re a strong one. Always have been.” He gave her shoulder a light pat. “But don’t think for a minute that you can’t call if something goes wrong. If anything happens—you get hurt or you start feeling down—you just give this old fart a call and I’ll be here in two seconds.”

He held up two fingers, then wiggled them under Celeste’s chin, giving her a tickle. She giggled even though it made her feel like a silly little girl. She hated that.

“Be careful this summer,” he continued. “And I mean it, Celeste, call if you need me. I’ll pick you up and we can stay at the lodge instead.”

Not the lodge again, Celeste thought. Platinum Creek Lodge was a resort in Celeste’s town that catered to rich people and their stuck-up children. One of her first memories was of splashing in the kiddie pool when a boy twice her age hurled a scuba mask at her face for no apparent reason. She was left sitting in the middle of the pool, blood trickling from her nose into the water, causing all the other kids to run away in hysterics. Celeste’s mother had immediately considered suing the boy’s parents to cover the cost of her five-year-old’s new nose.

Fortunately, Celeste’s nose hadn’t been broken. It healed just fine. The boy who had thrown the mask at her, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. A few days after the incident, he decided to dive headfirst down a steep waterslide and wound up cracking his skull open on the pool floor.

“Karma,” Celeste’s mother had said, flicking through her magazine as they wheeled the boy’s lifeless body away.

She continued to take Celeste to Platinum Creek every summer afterward, abandoning her daughter to fend off mean children while she gossiped with her girlfriends or hooked up with their husbands when the women were too tipsy to notice.

God, no. Celeste would never go back to that hell. Never again.

“Thanks. I’ll be fine,” she told her grandfather. “See you in August.”

After grabbing her bags from the trunk, her papaw drove away, waving from the open window until he was out of sight. He’d be on his flight back to California within the hour.

Celeste turned and eyed the scene before her. Welcome to Camp Little-Ridge, read a banner draped across the entrance of the head counselor’s cabin. A trio of girls walked past, sharing details about the school year with breathless excitement. One of the kids spotted Celeste watching from the sidelines and beamed, giving her a giddy wave. Celeste nodded to her, but quickly turned away. She wasn’t here for those girls.

Spotting the head counselor taking attendance by the flagpole, Celeste paced toward her so that she may check in. All the while, she scanned the campground with watchful eyes.

To the other girls, Celeste seemed a strange sort, dressed as if she were about to attend a tea party rather than prepared for a game of muddy Tug of War. Then there was the old stuffed bear she clutched to her chest like a safety raft, if you could call it a bear. To onlookers, it seemed more like a doll dressed in a bear costume. Its human face was all teeth and rosy cheeks.

Celeste was pretty, yes, and obviously came from a wealthy family, but beneath her neatly combed hair and shiny skin was a sad, cautious girl. A lonely girl.

Abigale Fitzpatrick was home.

Bursting into cabin number four, she threw her duffel on her usual bunk and bounded toward her friends, hugging one of them around the neck until she begged for air. The four of them caught up for a spell until Abigale noticed Carrie Brackshaw standing at the back of the group, arms crossed. The two grew very close last summer and had stayed in touch during the school year, but Carrie didn’t seem very excited to see Abby now.

“Hey, Carrie,” Abigale said with unease. “What’s wrong?”

The other two girls turned to face the small red-headed girl, who blushed in embarrassment. “Nothing…Just confused.”

“What about?” Abigale asked.

“You look different,” Carrie answered.

“We all do.” Monique Travis laughed. “I think the short hair is good on you, Abby.”

“Thanks,” Abigale said, tucking a blond lock behind one ear.

Carrie shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. I saw you outside a few minutes ago and your hair was as long as it was last year. And you were wearing a dress.”

It was Abigale’s turn to laugh. “I haven’t worn a dress since my grandpa’s funeral when I was six. You must’ve seen someone else.”

“But she looked just like you,” Carrie said.

“Ooo, Abby has a twin,” Darla Henderson exclaimed.

“I wish,” Abby said.

Abigale was an only child. She would have given anything to have a sister, or even a little brother to push around, but all she had was her father and his snake of a wife, Lola. Just thinking of the woman’s name made Abigale shudder. She was glad to be back at Camp Little-Ridge, away from the loneliness she faced at home. The only time Mr. Fitzpatrick spoke to his daughter these days was to reinforce Lola’s countless rules and punishments.

“Well, if I see your lookalike again, I’ll let you know,” Carrie replied. “It’s good to see you.” She smiled for the first time and gave Abigale a warm hug.

That’s when Abigale saw the girl for herself. She stood in the open doorway of cabin number four, the morning sunlight glinting on her long golden hair. She was every bit of ten years old, but the teddy bear dangling from her clenched fist and her outfit—a lilac colored dress with three-quarter length sleeves and matching flats—gave her the appearance of a five-year-old prepared to attend Sunday Mass. Disregarding the long hair and poor fashion choices, however, Abigale Fitzpatrick saw herself looking back.

Shocked, Abby pulled away from her friend’s arms and covered her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Are you guys seeing this or am I freaking out?”

Carrie, Darla, and Monique all turned to see the strait-laced version of Abigale standing a few yards away, a shy smile parting her lips. She gave them an awkward wave before hoisting her bags onto a nearby bunk and stepping toward them, stopping right in front of Abby.

“Hi,” the girl said, a quiver in her small voice. “I’m Celeste. I knew you would be here.”

Abby ripped open a second package of tissues and blew her nose, glad that her friends were eating lunch at the mess hall instead of watching her fuss. Abigale had never been the crying type—her skin had only grown thicker in the years following her father’s second marriage—but this was different. She knew her dad kept things from her, that he put off sharing details about her mother in hopes that Abigale would forget and move on. But she never would have guessed he was hiding something this big.

“I found a family portrait tucked in a photo album in the attic,” Celeste explained. “It was a picture of Mom, a dark-haired man, and me as a baby. And you.”

“But how did you know I would be here?” Abigale asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Heehee told me. Just like he told me where to find the picture in the attic.”

Abby sniffled. “He who?”

“Heehee,” Celeste said. She lifted her teddy from her lap and put it in front of Abby’s face.

Inhaling the musty scent of the antique bear, Abigale grimaced and pulled away. The thing smiled at her gleefully, eyes blue as winter twilight. Abby didn’t like the toy. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Celeste said, tucking Heehee under one arm. “What matters is that we’ve found each other. All my life, I’ve felt like a piece of me was missing, like my heart had been carved out of my belly.” She lay a hand on her stomach, as if she truly believed that’s where her heart was located. “When I saw that picture, everything made sense.”

Abigale knew how Celeste felt. Her desire for a sister had always been there, tugging at her heartstrings. Now she knew why. Not only did she have a sister, but she had a twin sister, one that her father—and a mother she knew nothing about—hid from her for ten years.

“All this time,” Celeste continued, “Mom told me Daddy died in a car accident, convinced me she and I were the only ones. But here you were the whole time, waiting for me to find you. Now we can be sisters again.”

Attempting to compose herself, Abigale took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help. How Celeste managed to hold back tears at a moment like this, Abby didn’t know. “How can we?” she pressed. “We live miles apart. And our parents must hate each other to do what they did. They’ll never want to get back together.”

“They don’t have to,” Celeste said. “But maybe we can convince them to let us see each other. Instead of splitting us apart, they can share us. Daddy can have us one year and Mommy can have us the next. That’s what they should have done all along.”

It was a good point. But still, Abby was afraid her stepmom wouldn’t have anything to do with Celeste, that she would laugh at the whole situation and never let them be together. Whatever Lola wanted, Lola got.

“We can’t just dump this on them though,” Celeste added. “We need to ease them into it, trick them like they tricked us. We should switch places.”

“What?” Abigale exclaimed, leaping from the bottom bunk as if it was infested with spiders. “You mean…pretend to be each other? Like in The Parent Trap ?”

“What’s The Parent Trap ?” Celeste didn’t wait for an answer. “Relax. Our parents won’t know a thing until we tell them. By then, they will have no choice but to bring us together and face each other. Maybe if they talk things through, they’ll agree to share us.”

Lifting her hands to her temples, Abby said, “I don’t think we…We can’t just…I can’t—”

“We can,” Celeste said, standing from the bunk and hugging her sister. “Trust me, it will work. Don’t you want to meet our mother?”

Abigale tried not to soil Celeste’s dress with tears. “I do. But I don’t think you’ll like Daddy. Or his wife. Lola is the most awful person to walk the planet.”

“I can handle her.” Celeste pulled away and looked deep into Abigale’s eyes. They were identical to hers. “This is going to work. I know it will. Just say yes.”

As much as she wanted to say no, to avoid what would be a very scary adventure, the thought of seeing what her mother was really like—and getting away from home—was all too compelling. Abby swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “Okay.”

The rest of the summer was spent in preparation for the switch. The sisters exchanged strict do’s and don’ts when it came to house rules, then they schooled each other on family trees and traditions. Abigale climbed into bed each night feeling like a broken piggybank, emptied and spent. Her friends didn’t even bother speaking to her anymore. Instead, they shared perturbed glances with one another before shutting off the lights.

Celeste repeatedly talked about what fun she was having, but for Abigale, this was no different than boot camp. She didn’t make a habit of hanging around pushy girls, so she found her twin’s strive for perfection to be particularly taxing. Still, Abby somewhat understood. If she didn’t get every little detail correct, her mother would see that the girl who left home for the summer was not the girl who returned.

Abby sure missed her friends, though.

The last step in ‘Operation: Switch’, as Celeste called it, was chopping off her Disney princess hair to match the length of Abigale’s. After that, the girls swapped their wardrobes and belongings, except for Heehee, of course. Celeste insisted on keeping the stuffed bear, bursting into tears at one point at the thought of parting with the mangy toy.

“It’s okay, really,” Abby said for the tenth time. “You can keep Heehee.” Abigale did not want to take that thing with her. She didn’t even want it in her duffel bag.

Just like that, summer was over. As Abby helped Celeste load her luggage onto the bus, she couldn’t help but think about all the fun activities she missed at camp. This was more important, though. She knew that.

“Looks like I’m ready to go.” Celeste sighed, giving her twin a hug. “Good luck. Papaw should be here in an hour. His flight will land any minute.”

The two exchanged goodbyes until the bus driver finally shouted, “Okay, ladies, I have places to go.”

With that, the two parted ways once again. Abigale watched as Celeste found a seat at the back of the bus, waving as it kicked up dirt and pulled away. Abby was left standing with the other girls, each waiting to be picked up by their parents and taken home. Celeste was lucky that their father only lived a short thirty-minute drive from Camp Little-Ridge, so she didn’t have a long trip ahead of her. The same couldn’t be said for Abby.

An hour later, a white limousine appeared in the distance, speeding down the road and entering Little-Ridge’s small parking area. A treelike man with ashy hair and skin resembling a well-read paperback hopped out of the vehicle before he even put it in gear. “You cut your hair! It looks beautiful!” he shouted, darting toward Abigale. For an old guy, he sure knew how to run. He squeezed the girl tight, saying, “I missed you so much. The house has been a lonely place without you.”

“I missed you too, Papaw,” Abigale said, trying out her much-rehearsed impression of Celeste. “Is that…a limo?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Papaw said with a chuckle. “Yeah. I decided to rent something special. Too much?”

“No, it’s awesome!” Abigale scrambled to the back door of the limousine and was about to open it herself when the old man stopped her.

“Not so fast, mademoiselle. Allow me, if you will.” He opened the door, bowing before taking her hand and helping her inside. She could have handled it herself, but she was enjoying the special treatment. Her father never exerted such care and charm.

Abigale wasn’t sure if you were supposed to buckle up while riding in a limo, but she did anyway, just to be safe. “I can’t wait to go home,” she told her new grandfather as he sat on the driver’s seat and started the vehicle. “It’s been a busy summer. How is Mother doing?”

The man paused; his hand frozen on the gearshift. He looked back at Abby, thick eyebrows knitted together forming a caterpillar on his forehead. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Mother,” Abby repeated. “How is she?”

Papaw’s confused expression remained. He looked down, as if trying to remember something that had long since been forgotten. “Are you…being funny, Celeste?”

“What? No,” Abby said. Her own blunt way of speaking was returning.

“Because it isn’t very funny to joke about things like that,” the man said, eyes narrowed.

Abigale opened and closed her mouth, unsure how to respond. Her brain was fuzzy all of a sudden. Was there something Celeste forgot to tell her? Finally, she rediscovered her voice. “Is everything okay, Papaw?”

“I…” He stared at her for a moment longer until his expression softened. “Is everything okay with you ? You’re scaring me, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry,” Abigale said, looking at her shoes to avoid the man’s intense stare. “I must be confused.”

“Honey, nothing has changed since you left,” Papaw said softly. “You understand that, yes? Your mother isn’t coming back.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Where did she go?” Abby’s heart was racing. Was her mom away somewhere? Would she not get to meet her?

Papaw repeated Abigale’s question. “’Where did she go?’ Celeste, I thought we were past this. You know your mother is dead.”

Abigale’s jaw became as heavy as firewood. She gripped the edge of the leather seat as if it would drop into the earth, leaving her in an endless freefall. “Dead? But…that’s not true. Celeste told me all about her. She said—” Abby stopped.

Grandfather watched her with wide, misty eyes. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Abigale? Abigale, is that you?”

Abby’s blood turned to snow. She nodded.

Papaw’s chin quivered. “Okay,” he said, facing forward and putting the car into drive. “Okay, I understand. Abigale…honey, I need you to be honest with me. Where is your sister?”

“She’s…” Oh no, the plan was ruined! All messed up! “She’s home. She’s with Dad.”

Celeste stared at her reflection and smiled. “Abigale,” she said. “My name is Abigale Fitzpatrick.”

She lowered the blood-covered kitchen knife and turned to her stepmother. Wicked stepmother. The young brunette lay on the kitchen floor, clutching her bleeding cranium. The meat mallet Celeste had used to bash against Lola’s head was placed on the island, far out of the woman’s reach.

“My name is Abigale Fitzpatrick,” the ten-year-old told Lola matter-of-factly. “Abiiiiigaaaale…”

Lola moaned as she began to come around. Her eyelids were bags of salt. So heavy…So very sleepy… She wanted to fall back into that dark place, but her gut said, “No. You stay awake or you die. Take your pick.” Something awful had happened, but Lola couldn’t remember what. She didn’t even know where she was.

Shaking the fog from her skull, she strained to reassemble her split eyesight. Focusing, both sides finally came together and overlapped. That’s when she spotted her husband’s corpse sprawled on the kitchen tile, looking more like a butchered cow in a white button-down and jeans rather than the handsome man she married three years ago.

“Ohhhh,” Lola moaned. “Oh, nooo…” She stood, ready to make a dash for the foyer, but the spinning carnival ride in her head combined with the slippery crimson beneath her feet sent her splashing to the ground. Her nose collided with the tile, issuing an audible pop . Lola cried out in agony, rolling onto her back and clutching her broken nose.

“New nose!” Celeste shouted with glee. “You’ll need a new nose!”

“Ab—Abigale?” Lola squeaked. Her dazed eyes finally settled on her stepdaughter. Had it not been for the blood adorning her hair and clothes, and the blade dangling from one hand, the girl would have resembled a smiling angel. She used her available arm to hold Heehee to her chest, giving him a peck on his blood-stained head.

“Got them, Heehee. Got them,” Celeste whispered.

“You…” Lola wheezed, fighting to remain conscious. “…killed your own father…little brat…I’ll ship you off to…Switzerland!”

“You hush!” Celeste screamed, lifting the knife above her head and bounding toward Lola. “Mean old witch! Bad! I’ll ship you off!”

She brandished the wide shining blade, ready to plunge it into the woman’s face, when a voice cried out. “Wait! Stop!”

Celeste froze. Lifting her eyes, she peered into the hallway bordering the kitchen. Papaw stood before her, framed by the kitchen doorway. He stretched his empty palms outward in a gesture of peace, proving his aged hands were of no threat.

“Oh Jesus, Celeste. You must stop !” he said. “Please, baby girl, put the knife down. You can’t do this.”

“Celeste?” Lola’s voice was a nasally cry. “Who the hell is Celeste? What is happening?”

“Shut up or I’ll get you!” Celeste threatened, bending down to give the woman a quick slash across the shin. Lola shrieked, clutching her leg as blood spurted from the wound.

“Celeste, I said stop !” Papaw shouted. He was about to rush at his granddaughter, but she was too quick. She grabbed Lola by the hair and spun her around on the slick floor, holding the knife to her neck.

“Go ahead. Stop me.” Celeste pressed the blade to the woman’s skin.

Papaw backed away, hands returning to their former position. “What are you doing, honey? What are you thinking?” he begged. “I don’t understand.”

“Heehee told me everything!” Celeste spat. “He told me you and Mommy were lying. You lied about my sister. You told me Daddy was dead. Now he is!” She motioned to the man’s cadaver with her knife before returning it to Lola’s neck. “That man abandoned me. He didn’t want me! He left me with Mommy, and she didn’t want me either. She…she ignored me.”

“Sweetie, listen to me,” her grandfather pleaded. “I know your mother didn’t treat you right. That’s why I have tried so hard to be good to you, to give you a happy life. I love you.”

“Liar!” Celeste screamed. “You don’t love me. You lied to me! You never told me I had a sister. You kept us apart!”

Lola fussed under Celeste’s grip. She turned her attention to the woman, lightly dragging the cold steel tip from ear to ear. “My sister told me all about you. She told me how mean you are, how you boss her around and make her feel stupid. Turns out you’re the stupid one for treating people that way. If you hurt others, you get hurt too.”

“I’m sorry!” Lola cried. “Really, I am! I’ll try be nicer to her, I swear!”

“Try?” Celeste gripped Lola’s hair even tighter. “Try ?! I have a knife to your neck and the best you can do is ‘try ’? No. I don’t think so.”

Celeste drew back her knife, lifting it high over her head before plunging it down, down...

A tough, weathered hand shot out, knocking the knife from Celeste’s grip. It clattered to the floor and Papaw dived for it, lifting the bloody blade off the tile and pointing it at his granddaughter. Lola pulled herself free and scrambled away from Celeste, slipping and sliding over the bloody kitchen floor until she reached her dead husband. She began sobbing, begging him to wake up. “Please! Oh God, please!” Secretly, she wondered how much money she would inherit after this shit-show was over.

Celeste stood in the middle of the kitchen, slowly bending at the knee to pick Heehee off the floor. She hugged him tight. “Heehee…” she whispered in a pouting tone.

“You killed your mother, didn’t you?” Papaw said, holding the knife upright before him. “You…You pushed her.”

“Just a little,” Celeste said softly, looking down at Heehee’s smiling face. “Karma.”

“You’re a murderer…” he whimpered, the floodgates breaking open.

“Sometimes. Aren’t we, Heehee?” Celeste held the toy to one ear, listened for a moment, then giggled. “You’re right. He doesn’t know,” she whispered.

“Doesn’t know what?” Papaw demanded.

“So silly. Doesn’t even see.”

“See what?!” the old man shouted.

Celeste put a hand to her smiling mouth, eyes crinkled at the edges, and pointed with the other hand. “Behind you,” she hissed.

Papaw twirled on his heels, spinning around just in time to see a meat mallet whooshing through the air. It smashed against his left cheek, splitting his thin skin and shattering the bone beneath. The man let loose a raspy gasp as he tumbled on top of the kitchen island. The mallet came down again and again, bashing the back of his head with sickly wet thuds.

Lola screamed in terror, watching as a girl who looked just like her stepdaughter bludgeoned the poor man over and over. The girl finally dropped the mallet, breathing deeply as her tears mingled with the blood speckling her pretty face.

Rounding the island, Abigale stepped up to Celeste, facing her sister for the first time since they parted ways back at camp. “Hi,” Abby said, wiping the tears and blood from her face with the sleeve of her dress, the same dress Celeste had worn their first day at camp.

“Hi,” Celeste said.

“I…I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Abby uttered, sprouting fresh tears. “I saw him holding the knife and—I was scared. I was scared I’d lose you again, just when we started to…” Abby paused, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“…Just when we started to be sisters,” Celeste finished.

Abby looked into her twin’s green eyes and smiled. Celeste smiled back. “We don’t have to be apart ever again,” Celeste said. “Isn’t that right, Heehee.”

She held the stuffed bear between them and, for the briefest of moments, Abby thought she saw the ratty old thing nod its head.

A squeaking sound echoed from the hallway outside the kitchen. The two girls turned to see Lola pulling her bleeding body toward the front door, whimpering dramatically even though the cut on her leg would only need a few stitches.

Abigale rolled her eyes. “She’s such a baby. I don’t know why I ever let her get to me.”

“She doesn’t have to anymore,” Celeste said, grabbing the meat mallet off the island and holding it out to Abby. She stared at it for a moment, shocked at first by the blood dripping off its blunt end. Then she took it, feeling its weight in her hand again.

Celeste lifted the knife off the floor and showed Abigale a grin that was all teeth and rosy cheeks. “Sisters?” she asked.

Abby nodded. “Sisters.”

Cameron Chaney was born and raised in a small Ohio town you’ve never heard of. He spent his childhood roaming his family’s six-acre yard, devouring one book after another, and dreaming up monsters and ghouls. He can now be found working on the Bookmobile for his local library, typing away in his office, or geeking out over books and horror on YouTube. Cameron's Halloween-themed short story collection
Autumncrow  will be available in October 2019. Don't feed him after midnight...

THE RED ROSE

Caytlyn Brooke

T he large bonfire popped and cackled as a group of rowdy guys threw in their aluminum beer cans, cheering when a shower of vibrant orange sparks hissed in response. It was close to midnight, several hours after senior prom, and as was tradition with the graduating class, all the popular kids hiked through the woods to the same spot where their predecessors had celebrated before them. Mostly the party was an excuse to get drunk and partake in one last fling before everyone packed up and left for college. The night was brisk and smelled of dirt and burning wood, but there was also the lingering scent of anticipation, that the possibilities for that evening—and for the foreseeable future—were endless.

Charlotte sat down, a half-empty beer in her hand, laughing while her boyfriend, Ryan, attempted to jump the licking flames in his rumpled tux. “Ryan, cut it out!” Charlotte squealed, smacking his leg playfully. “You’re going to catch on fire.”

Ryan bent over and craned his neck, kissing her sloppily. He was already having trouble standing. “I’ll be fine, my queen,” he joked. He started to back up to build momentum for another go at the fire, but his sneaker rolled on a large branch, sending him crashing to the needle-strewn forest floor. The other guys roared with laughter and handed him another beer.

Charlotte rolled her eyes and took a swig of her own beer, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. Across from her, sat her best friend, Ava. She was the only one not drinking, Ava being a firm believer that sewer water tasted better than Keystone Light . Charlotte stood up and wobbled over, her petite frame already feeling the alcohol. “Hey, are you having fun?” she asked.

“Loads,” Ava replied sarcastically.

Charlotte frowned, sensing her friend’s disappointment. Raising her hand, she tucked Ava’s hair behind her ear, raven black like her own. “Come on. It’s not that bad,” Charlotte whispered. “The fire is nice, and Cole is here. You should talk to him.”

Ava scoffed. “Cole Michaels is not interested in me. I don’t even know why I came. I don’t like any of these peacocks and they hate me. The only reason I’m in this vain little circle is because of you.” Her words came out harsher than she intended, but it was the truth. Charlotte was the most popular girl in school. She was gorgeous, wealthy, had an adoring, (albeit stupid) boyfriend, and a perfect future paved in gold. Ava felt the familiar feelings of jealousy and resentment roil inside her, but she pushed them away. She needed a clear head. Tonight was going to be special for her regardless…

Instead, she let her gaze wander from the fire to Charlotte’s crown. Of course, she had been named Prom Queen, and the bedazzled rhinestones sat glittering on her head. If Ava relaxed her eyes, it almost looked as if Charlotte’s crown was ablaze as the stones reflected the curling flames. Ava wondered what it would feel like to burn to death.

“That’s not true,” Charlotte retorted with a giggle, dispelling Ava’s concerns. “Just because you prefer emo black hoodies to polo shirts doesn’t mean they think anything less of you.” She slapped her friend’s dark jeans, also the only one of them who thought to bring a change of clothes after the dance. “Let’s go for a walk,” Charlotte suggested excitedly. “I’m tired of watching these losers.”

“And by losers you mean, Ryan?” Ava pointed out.

Charlotte waved her hand. “Yeah, especially him. Did I tell you that he slipped his hand up my dress at dinner? Like in front of everyone at the table!”

Ava cocked her head. “Did you let him?”

Charlotte pursed her lips. “Only for a few minutes,” she admitted with a naughty smile.

“Have you guys done it yet?” Ava asked.

Charlotte didn’t reply as they wandered further into the woods. “No,” she said. “But I told him…tonight I would.”

Ava stopped walking. “Tonight? Seriously? But he’s drunk. You really want your first time to be with him like that?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know. Part of me is hoping he’ll pass out. I’m a little nervous.”

Ava shook her head. “Not that I have any experience in that area, but if you’re not ready, maybe you should wait. Don’t do it because Ryan wants to. He’s a guy, that’s all they ever want. And besides, it should be more special than a stupid prom cliché.”

Charlotte laughed, loving her friend’s candor. That’s why she and Ava had remained so close. She always said what was on her mind, without sugar coating it and Charlotte knew she loved her for who she was, not because of what she had.

Linking her arm through Ava’s, Charlotte pressed her body against her friend’s. They were a good distance away from the rest of the group, the bonfire now a small glowing ember from their vantage point. The only sound was cracking twigs and the sigh of damp leaves as they wandered further into the forest. Without the heat of the fire, the night turned frigid and Charlotte shivered, cursing her gorgeous, but impractical pink gown.

“How are you by the way?” Charlotte asked, dropping her voice. Away from all the raucous partying, the mood took on a more somber tone.

“I’m fine,” Ava replied quickly.

“You know you don’t have to do that with me,” Charlotte teased.

“Do what?” Ava asked, as she led the way, deeper into the woods.

“Act all tough, pretend you don’t feel anything,” Charlotte continued. “Your parents died, just three months ago. Aren’t you sad at all? I’d be a wreck.”

“Of course you would be,” Ava answered. “Your parents adore you. It’s kind of tough to miss people who treated me like garbage. To miss a mother who was always absent from my art shows because of her lame migraines, a dad who constantly pressured me to get better grades, to go out for sports, to be more like you .” Ava tasted the venom in her words, but no longer felt the need to apologize for how she truly felt. Since she had hit puberty, her parents were obsessed with molding her to be just like Charlotte. Her mother would buy her tiny tennis skirts, make her salon appointments for caramel highlights, and decorate her bedroom with frilly pink flowers. They tried so hard to ignore who Ava was, hoping that if they dolled her up enough, she’d become the daughter they dreamed of raising.

Ava smirked, fingering the paring knife in her back pocket. If only they hadn’t driven home drunk that night, unable to face their disappointment of a daughter sober. If only they had waited, their forbidden dreams for Ava Rice would be realized.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte whispered. “I know you guys fought a lot, I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

Ava watched the way her friend frowned. Her perfect bow lips turned down, puckering just slightly as her eyes closed, her dark lashes kissing her high cheekbones.

“No, I’m sorry,” Ava sighed. “It’s not right to take my anger out on you regarding the past, especially since I’m about to have so much more to be sorry for…”

Charlotte tilted her head, her crown glistening in the pale moonlight. “What do you mean?” she asked, stepping out of her friend’s embrace.

Ava smiled, committing the movement to memory. For so long she had wanted this. For so long she had bided her time, studying, modeling facial expressions in the mirror, aiming for perfection. It would be so easy to play the part, to step into her shoes. Ava slid the knife out of her pocket, gripping the handle. So many times she imagined this moment, and now that it was finally here, her heart raced, not with fear, but with excitement.

“Everyone always wonders what it would be like to have the perfect life, the perfect guy, the perfect family. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be me? Teased, forgotten, and breaking a little more on the inside every day? I want more than what you have, Charlotte,” Ava paused. “I want to be you.”

Ava stepped forward, closing the distance between them while brandishing the blade.

Just one swift cut , she told herself as she stared at the jugular vein pulsing at the base of Charlotte’s neck. Ava’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. She loved the way Charlotte’s chin trembled when she was scared. She’d have to remember that nuance.

“Ava?” Charlotte began, but before she could finish, Ava dragged the knife across her friend’s creamy throat, carving a deep smile into her flesh. Charlotte’s brown eyes widened in shock as her hands fluttered against her neck. She attempted to push the blood back inside her body, but Ava knew what she was doing, having practiced... Dark red blood splashed over Charlotte’s lips as she fought for breath, but she only managed to inhale the warm liquid as her heart pumped harder and faster, succumbing to fear.

Ava frowned, watching as more blood trickled down Charlotte’s chin, staining the pale skin cherry red. She hadn’t anticipated it’d be so messy, so soon, but she was sure it’d be an easy enough fix.

Charlotte fell to the ground, her body shaking as blood puddled around her, not quite able to soak into the still thawing earth. Her hand clawed at Ava’s pant leg, painting her jeans with long red streaks. Her eyes gazed at Ava with unrestrained terror and confusion. She tried to mutter a last word, but her severed throat made that impossible. With a choked gurgle, Charlotte collapsed on her back, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the gathering clouds. In all the commotion, her crown had become crooked.

A full minute passed since Charlotte’s last shuddering breath and all Ava could do was stand there, watching, waiting. In all her imaginings of how the night would play out, Charlotte always put up a fight, in attempting to wrestle the knife away or at least scream for help. Her friend’s lack of enthusiasm and will to live was quite a letdown. Before Ava could savor Charlotte’s pathetic last gasps or terror-filled gaze, it was over. Moments later, her friend was nothing more than an empty husk of bones and flesh. Ending her life happened too quickly. Ava would be sure to appreciate every second taking Charlotte’s life would yield going forward.

Letting the knife fall to the ground with a muted thud, Ava stripped out of her jeans and baggy sweater, then set to work ridding Charlotte from her obnoxious prom gown. A delicious shiver climbed Ava’s spine as she slipped on the sparkling fabric. The dress smelled of Charlotte’s blood, along with her signature perfume. Ava pressed the tulle skirt to her nose and inhaled. She could practically taste her new life.

Shimming her jeans up Charlotte’s cooling thighs proved a little challenging. She was heavier than she thought. Maybe her perfect friend was lying about being one hundred and ten pounds. Next, Ava fitted her sweater over Charlotte’s pale face, oddly careful as to not disturb the tiara. Once her friend was dressed, Ava glanced around at the ground for her knife. She spied it several feet away, the blade submerged in blood.

Ava picked it up and wiped the blood on Charlotte’s rigid leg until the silver blade shone clean once more. She swallowed and exhaled. She needed a steady hand for her next task, but the adrenaline pumping through her body caused her hand to shake.

“You did it. You killed her,” Ava spoke aloud. “Just like you always wanted.” Exhaling again, she strained her ears, listening for any sound that they had been followed. Off in the distance, she could hear the echo of loud cries, but they sounded boisterous, not suspicious. The fire was nowhere to be seen. Only a thick blanket of darkness stretched before her and Ava smiled. She belonged in the dark, had grown accustomed to its endless terrors. Now, she was one of the nightmares. “Get on with it,” she told herself, aware of her limited window.

Crouching besides Charlotte’s head, Ava placed the tip of the paring knife just under her friend’s right ear and started to cut. She was careful to drag the blade beneath Charlotte’s jawbone, keeping her movements smooth and fluid. Surprisingly, the flesh detached from the bone easily, as if it hated being associated with Charlotte almost as much as Ava.

Pressing the blade deeper, Ava continued to slice, curling the knife up past her other ear, keeping as close to the hairline as possible. The skin along her forehead was so much thinner than her cheeks and for a moment, Ava forgot to lighten her touch. A second later, the knife scraped across bone as it dove beneath the thin facial muscles, causing Ava to grit her teeth at the grating sound.

Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her hold and resumed cutting, slicing the skin away without grinding against the skull again. At last, she reached her starting point, completing a perfect oval. Without thinking, Ava tried to deposit the knife into her pocket, but it slid against the satin material and fell to the ground instead. Ava wrinkled her nose and left it there. She needed two hands for the next step. Her annoyance faded while she gently fingered the thin edges of skin resting against Charlotte’s forehead. Ava bit her lip, a behavior Charlotte was famous for, and slowly, slowly began to pull down.

At first, the skin didn’t cooperate, holding tight to the skull and tissue beneath, but as she kept pulling, blood from the raw muscle and sinew beneath dripped down, greasing the inside of Charlotte’s face. “Come on,” Ava stressed. She wished she could rip it off rather than pull inch by inch, but in the end, she knew all her hard work and patience would be worth it.

Slowly, slowly, Charlotte’s face peeled away as Ava stole her eyebrows, her eyelids, her cheeks until the skin completely gave way. A final sucking sound echoed in the night as Charlotte’s chin detached, announcing Ava’s victory.

“I did it,” Ava whispered, holding up the beautiful face. The large gaping holes where Charlotte’s eyes should have been stared at her hauntingly, but Ava dismissed the creeping feeling in her gut and imagined her own brown eyes filling the voids instead. “Soon, everyone will envy me.”

Withdrawing her phone from Charlotte’s jeans, Ava clicked the little button on the top right and noticed she didn’t have any service. Unlike most teenagers, she wasn’t concerned with posting to social media, all she cared about was the time. Ava glanced at the screen and cursed. 1:13. Killing Charlotte had taken longer than she had planned. If this was going to work, she needed everyone to stay at the bonfire, and in the past, the party typically wound down around 2am. She needed to move fast.

With one last glance at her best friend, Ava looked at the grisly remains of the Prom Queen. Her flesh was raw after her butchery, the gash on her neck shining like a treasured choker. Ava wished she could close her friend’s eyes, but her eyelids were in her hands. Her clothes were soaked with blood and her hair lay in a perfect halo around her head, a stark contrast to the shredded tissue below. A silver glint caught Ava’s eye and she balked when she saw the crown.

“How could I have forgotten you?” she cooed, carefully disentangling it from Charlotte’s hair. Ava stared at the faux diamonds, anxious to try it on. “Wait just a little longer,” she told herself. “It’ll be so much better.”

Ava snagged the bloody knife by Charlotte’s shoulder and started back through the trees, the crown in one hand, and her future in the other.

#

Fifteen minutes later, a small house emerged over the hill, a sloping silhouette beneath the moonlight. Ava’s Aunt Cindy’s dinged Nissan Maxima sat content in the dirt driveway. Ava’s heart leapt at the thought of what was about to happen.

Rounding the untamed bushes toward the back of the tiny ranch, Ava breezed through the screen door, letting it slam behind her.

“Aunt Cindy? Aunt Cindy, I’m back!” Ava called, disrupting the quiet stupor enveloping the home.

Footsteps danced atop the wooden floor, the excited tempo rivaling Ava’s fluttering heart. Her aunt’s shadow stretched across the threshold into the living room, followed by her wispy graying hair.

The older woman left the den and the moment she saw Ava, her face alighted with anticipation and awe. She had never doubted her niece’s hatred, but the sight of her in the bloodstained prom gown, made her heart sing.

Ava’s mother, Cindy’s perfectionist sister, never wanted a daughter and was further enraged when the poor girl rebelled against her unrealistic dreams. Cindy was the one Ava stole away with at all the horrid family gatherings. The one she poured her heart out to when her parents forced her to attend another bland social event. Under her parent’s roof, Ava was no more than a piece of furniture, dressed up and positioned perfectly for each holiday or social call.

It wasn’t hard to tail them that night. Cindy’s ex was a mechanic and all those joyless nights she spent watching him tune up the line of luxury cars that flooded his garage actually came in handy. With one simple cut, she disconnected the brakes to her sister’s Mercedes SUV and sat back, patient to watch the scene unfold. Cindy had waited years for this moment. She had grown so tired of the condescending looks, the piercing laughter every time her name was mentioned. All that she could have lived with. Held her chin high and buried her feelings deep, but that all changed when she witnessed the way Melissa had treated Ava at her seventeenth birthday party. It was like watching the past, only now, she had the power to do something about it.

Her brother in-law was partial to whiskey, indulging in the smooth liquor to cope with his social elitist wife. Cindy had paid the bartender to kindly pour Robert a double each round, careful to never let the bottom of his glass show. Robert wouldn’t refuse. He wouldn’t correct the mistake. All he knew how to do properly was imbibe, drunk on his own affluence.

Melissa was wasted on expensive chardonnay as always, laughing too loud as she stumbled through the parking lot in her designer Jimmy Choos. They didn’t live far from the country club and Robert was too insecure to admit he was incompetent to drive.

Cindy watched as the couple climbed into the SUV and pulled away, narrowly missing the bumper of the navy Volvo parked beside them. Cindy smiled as she pictured the road ahead. The lanes were paved smooth, but the curves would prove deadly.

Turning her key, Cindy’s engine roared to life and she eased out of the parking lot. She was confident what awaited her a few miles up ahead. Why rush? Ten minutes later, her Nissan reached the first curve. Just as predicted, the black Mercedes lay upside down, several yards into the surrounding woods. Glass sprinkled the asphalt along with numerous pieces of crushed metal. One of Melissa’s heels was standing upright, the satin fabric submerged in a greasy puddle of oil.

The road was abandoned. Cindy was the first to happen upon the scene. She pressed the brake, slowing her car to a crawl as her eyes roamed with glee over the carnage she’d orchestrated.

Robert’s handsome face was pressed against the driver side window, and in the quick flash of her headlights, Cindy could tell that he was dead. The window was broken. The few remaining shards of glass grazed his skin like eager teeth as blood trickled down from the fatal wound to his temple.

Cindy’s gaze continued to scan the tree line. After all, her promise wasn’t fulfilled unless both of them were dead. Her heart quickened. Had Melissa survived? Where did she go? Just then, she caught sight of a pale arm dangling out of the crushed windshield. Crimson ribbons flowed languidly from the flayed skin, soaking into the grass below. Her sister’s body was folded in half, squeezed into the space above the dashboard. Melissa was often too vain to wear a seatbelt for fear that the restraint would wrinkle her dress. Numerous lacerations carved apart her beautiful face while blood poured from her concaved skull over her glassy eyes.

Even from the road, Cindy could smell the alcohol flavoring the cool night air. Their deaths would be chalked up to nothing more than another DWI tragedy, and Ava would be free.

Cindy tilted her head back at the memory, a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders that night. She stared at her niece as her heart swelled with love. She had freed her from one oppressive force. Now it was time to rid the world of another.

“How did it go?” Cindy asked, wringing her hands with excitement.

Ava shrugged. “A little disappointing, actually. She didn’t even scream.”

Aunt Cindy brushed her palm up and down Ava’s bare shoulder and flexed her fingers, playing with the tacky blood that now coated her hand. “It’s because she trusted you. Next time we’ll build up the tension a little more. Give you the satisfaction you crave,” she whispered. Her hand trailed down to Ava’s fist where Charlotte’s face hung. “May I?”

Ava nodded and handed over the prize, grinning as she watched Cindy’s eyes evaluate her precise cuts that severed the tissue and nerves.

“Excellent,” Cindy murmured. Her eyes flickered back to Ava’s dirty face, already imagining the way her niece would dazzle the world with Charlotte’s addition. Part of Cindy mourned the necessary next step. Unlike Melissa, she thought Ava was beautiful and would miss the sweet girl’s smile, but this is what she wanted. This is what had to be done to exact revenge. Who was she to prevent that? “All right,” she cleared her throat. “Go wash your face. We’ve got work to do.”

#

Flicking on the overhead light, Ava stared at her reflection in the mirror. Dirt and blood covered her in small smudges and long streaks. She didn’t remember touching her face, but it was such a natural habit. Charlotte never touched her face, evident by her perfect pores. Ava would have to work on that.

She laid Charlotte’s face on the formica countertop beside her, along with the tiara and the paring knife. Looking at it in the light, in the bathroom surrounded by her aunt’s flowered wallpaper, it didn’t seem real. More like a scary mask for Halloween. Ava splashed water on her face, tasting the coppery scent of Charlotte’s blood as it dribbled over her lips, slipping onto her tongue.

Trying to settle her racing heartbeat, Ava reached out and touched the knife, tracing the rust-colored blade. Did she really want to do this? Charlotte was gone, her muscles atrophying in the dark. Her soul had joined her parents. Hopefully they were all trapped together, at last the perfect family her mother had always dreamed of.

A sharp rap on the wooden door caused Ava to flinch. The tip of her finger dragged across the knife, slicing her skin.

“All right, honey. I’ve got my equipment, so why don’t-” Aunt Cindy paused when she caught the fear reflected in Ava’s eyes. “Honey, are you okay?” Cindy deposited her surgical kit on the counter and placed her hand on her niece’s upper back. “Av, your heart is pounding. What’s wrong?”

Ava swallowed and looked away, ashamed. “I don’t know. I thought this was what I wanted, but…I’m scared,” she admitted. “Mom and Dad are gone and now Charlotte is too. Maybe, maybe that’s enough?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cindy soothed. “I understand your hesitation. You’ll be different. After tonight, Ava will be dead, and Charlotte will become your new reflection every time you look in the mirror. But, baby…you have to do this. Remember our dream? To live together away from this dump and take the life of luxury for ourselves? For all their shiny outward appearances, your parents left you with nothing. Even the car was repossessed. This is our ticket to a better life.”

“I know, but-” Ava began.

“Remember the way all those kids made fun of you? The nasty words they said, the names they called you behind your back, all the while Charlotte laughed along with them?” Aunt Cindy continued, clutching Ava’s hands. “You can get back at them. Wipe those snotty smiles off their faces one by one, just like we talked about. Then you’ll be free to live any way you wish.” Cindy’s eyes were shining, hopeful. Both of their futures rested on Ava’s courage to sacrifice herself.

“But it won’t be mine. It will still be Charlotte’s life,” Ava replied, her voice a whisper.

Cindy stepped closer and kissed Ava’s wet cheek. “No. It’ll be yours. Charlotte’s life is over, done. And once all her horrible friends and rich parents are dead, you can start over. We can move anywhere in the world. Don’t doubt the future, baby. It’ll be perfect. I promise.”

With a shaky breath, Ava nodded and took one last look at her reflection. She would not miss the angsty way she pursed her lips, wouldn’t miss her bushy eyebrows, nor the sporadic acne scarring her chin and cheeks. She wanted to be perfect, and soon she would be. Aunt Cindy was right. Ava was worth throwing away. If she became Charlotte, anything was possible.

“Okay, I’m ready. Where should we do this?” Ava asked, her cold resolve smothering her fears for good.

“Here is fine. I’ll need you as relaxed as possible,” Cindy directed, pointing to the tile floor.

Ava complied and settled atop a pile of old towels. She forced her mind to go blank as she gazed at the ugly popcorn ceiling. Tomorrow she’d be sleeping under a silk curtain in a four-poster bed fit for a princess.

“How long will it take? What if you get called in?” Ava asked.

Cindy waved her concerns away. “Won’t happen. I told the director I needed to take a personal day and couldn’t be called away. Anders is just as skilled a surgeon as I am. He can handle one night on his own. And as for those drunk idiots in the woods, don’t worry, they’ll still be there. They wouldn’t leave Charlotte.”

Ava tried to ignore the dig her aunt made, but it stung nonetheless. “Thanks, Aunt Cindy. I could never have done this without you,” she sighed.

Cindy patted the back of Ava’s hand. “Of course you could have, baby. You’re a lot stronger than you think. Tonight is proof of that,” she said with a smile, gesturing to the face Ava carved off her best friend. “You know I’d do anything for you. Now, hold still. This is going to pinch. I need to administer the Lidocaine to get you nice and numb and then, you won’t feel a thing.”

Ava licked her lips, savoring each chapped divot and tooth imprint—she had been chewing on them incessantly that night. Soon, they’d be gone. One of her many imperfections replaced with Charlotte’s perfect, bow-shaped smile.

“Here we go,” Cindy spoke. She slid the needle into the soft skin below Ava’s right ear and jawbone. Pressing the plunger, the anesthetic drained into Ava’s flesh. She ignored her niece’s clenched fists as she made four more injections around the young girl’s face. Cindy had retreated to the surgical zone, blocking out all distractions to focus on the task at hand.

Scalpels and sterilized scissors gleamed as a calming sensation washed over Cindy. She let her mind go blank as muscle memory took over. She pushed her own fear of failure away, avoiding looking in Ava’s eyes. Just like every other procedure, Ava was flesh and blood and nerves and tissue. Although this was the first time she had ever performed a facial transplant, she was confident in her skillset.

Reaching out with her thumb and forefinger, she pinched her niece’s cheek hard. Ava didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. With a deep breath, Cindy lifted the scalpel from the metal plate and placed the blade against the injection site of the Lidocaine and dragged it carefully underneath Ava’s jaw line. Cindy always loved this part, the first incision. She was an artist, but rather than dabble in ink or pastels, her preferred medium was severed flesh and crimson blood.

Warm, red liquid trickled down Ava’s neck, soaking into the top of the pink satin gown. The initial volume of blood was worrisome for the surgeon, but Cindy continued to cut, curving the scalpel around Ava’s ear, keeping close to her hair line.  The blade danced across the thin skin as Cindy completed the oval, slicing past Ava’s other ear to end at the beginning. The cut was perfect. Smooth, even, and most importantly, not too deep.

Grabbing a towel, Cindy patted the blood swelling to the surface, absentmindedly dabbing it away. Ava’s eyes were closed. She too had withdrawn, her goodbyes to her old life already said, content to await her future. Cindy returned the scalpel to the metal tray and tugged the bottom of her blue latex gloves, ensuring they were on tight. She paused. The next part was going to be tricky. Thanks to the Lidocaine, Ava would feel little to no pain, but the eerie pulling sensation would freak anyone out.

Cindy stared at Ava’s peaceful expression and pictured the dreams running through her mind. It was no secret that Ava wanted it all, the handsome boyfriend, the Ivy League education, and most of all, the ability to be her own person. She craved it with every fiber of her being, but unlike most dreamers, Ava didn’t hesitate to make the necessary sacrifices.

Licking her lower lip, Cindy ran the tips of her fingers along the inside of the incision, testing for any sticky spots. Her work was flawless per usual and with a light grip, she pinched the flayed skin at the top of Ava’s hair line and carefully began to pull in a smooth downward motion. The flesh gave away easily, peeling off the skull with little resistance. Cindy kept pulling, rolling the skin so that her grip remained firm to avoid tearing.

Raw tissue and nerves covered the pale bone, gleaming wetly as Cindy continued. For most people, the inside of the human body was enough to make them sick, but it gave Cindy a thrill, as if she were peeking behind the curtain of creation.

For a moment, Ava’s face held tight, stuck just below her eyelids. Unable to close her eyes, Ava’s eyeballs shifted back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” Ava asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

“Nothing, just a deep nerve here,” Cindy answered. “Just need to use a bit more…force.” With a sharp tug, the muscles released their hold and the rest of her face peeled away with a loud sucking sound.

Ava screamed out of instinct, rather than in response to pain. She felt strange, exposed, and involuntarily raised her fingers to her face.

“None of that, honey,” Cindy chided. “We need to make sure the tissue doesn’t get contaminated.” With a gentle touch, Cindy returned Ava’s hand to its position on the floor.

Fresh blood flowed down Ava’s neck, pooling in her ears as her heart rate increased. She tasted blood and her eyeballs burned. The air was too dry and they cried out for moisture. Without thinking, she tried to blink, but there was no relief, no lids to satisfy the craving. Panic began to crest in Ava’s chest as doubts slithered around her brain.

There is no way you can pull this off. What choice do I have? My face is gone! Maybe Cindy can put it back, Ava thought.

“Calm down, Av. I’m almost finished,” Cindy instructed. She placed several more towels beneath her niece’s head and shoulders and then selected a thin cutting needle from the instruments on the tray.

Humming to herself, Cindy placed Charlotte’s face over Ava’s skull, aligning the new flesh. She was impressed. Ava had done an excellent job in keeping her cuts even. Smoothing the skin into place, Cindy sighed. The face fit perfectly, covering Ava from her forehead, down to her chin, and stretched nicely across her cheekbones. She lined the nostrils up with the nasal cavity and positioned the eye lids over Ava’s protruding eyeballs. Automatically, Ava blinked, the motion seamless and natural.

Ava smiled and Cindy was elated to see a small rush of hot pink color illuminate her cheeks. The face was responding miraculously. The only thing left to do was tie it on. Pinching the needle between her thumb and forefinger, Cindy inserted the point into the skin below her left ear and began to sew the flesh into place.

Several times the needle struck a nerve or deep tissue, causing Ava to flinch. The anesthetic was wearing off. Cindy had to hurry. Her hands flew, joy expanding in her chest as her masterpiece neared completion. At last, her stitches met with the first one and she tied a perfect knot, hiding the small bundle of thread inside the flesh so it appeared to be no more than a slight skin blemish. Dropping the needle onto the tray, Cindy sat back on her knees to admire her creation.

Raven black hair sat atop milky white skin and full lips curled in a scarlet smile. The skin around the mouth was still stained from Charlotte’s blood, but now the color made Ava appear sexy rather than horrific. Lush black eyelashes fluttered charmingly above her dark brown eyes and her slender brows arched delicately. She was beautiful, gorgeous, and flawless.

“How do I look?” Ava asked, remaining still.

A smile split Cindy’s lip. “Fabulous. Come look for yourself.” Offering Ava a hand, she helped her to her feet and placed her in front of the mirror. “Well?”

Ava’s eyes widened in shock when she caught her reflection. It was Charlotte. She was Charlotte. The intriguing eyes, the china doll complexion. Curious, Ava turned her head, feeling for the sutures. They were there, disguised within the roots of her hair, in the shadow of her jaw.

“I can’t believe it,” Ava whispered. “I’m perfect.”

“Not quite,” Cindy clucked. Reaching past Ava’s discarded flesh, she plucked the diamond crown from the back of the counter and dramatically placed it on her niece’s head. “Now you are perfect.”

#

The chemical scent of bleach permeated the small bathroom ten minutes later. All evidence of the surgery wiped clean. Depositing the bleached instruments in the dishwasher, Cindy checked the time on the microwave phone. 2:11. Hopefully her hunch proved correct. Ava folded her old face in half, careful to protect the thin thread Cindy sewed into it.

“Now remember,” Cindy spoke, drying her hands. “Take two of these every day.” She handed Ava a small bottle of pills. “If you don’t, your body may start to reject the new tissue and lead to infection. We need you to stay safe.”

Ava wrapped her arms around her aunt’s waist. “I promise,” she thanked. “I’ll see you soon.”

Cindy patted Ava’s cheek. “That’s right, darling. When you’re ready to move the bodies, call me.”

“Okay,” Ava said with a grin. She loved the way it felt, carefree and powerful.

“Get going now. And, Av? Make it dramatic,” her aunt teased.

Ava laughed and disappeared out the back door with one last backwards glance at the modest house. Going forward, she would sleep on silk, curl up in the blankets as soft as ermine. Ava’s sneakers hit the weed-covered patio and she broke into a sprint, praying the group hadn’t decided to call it a night yet.

The plunging temperature bit at the high slit exposing her thighs, causing Ava to suck in her breath. The new Charlotte was going to forsake skanky attire after tonight. Teeth chattering, Ava dipped into the woods behind her aunt’s home, pushing her legs to go faster through the budding trees, but it was difficult with Charlotte’s heels sinking into the damp earth. After ten minutes of hard running, the darkness began to lighten, and she caught a flickering glimpse of the dying fire peeking through the brush. Everyone was still present, tossing empty beer cans and cardboard boxes into the sputtering embers, laughing and joking, oblivious to the horror about to encapsulate them. Slowing her pace, Ava unrolled her mask and fitted her old skin onto her face. Show time.

“Help!” Ava wailed, crashing through the trees. “Someone help me! Please, please!”

Numerous heads looked up at the commotion and a guy Ava thought was named Patrick stepped forward.

“Is that, Ava?” Patrick asked, squinting his bleary eyes into the darkness. “Whoa, girl, why you screaming?”

Ava barreled through the last few trees, tears streaming down her face. “Please! He killed her, he killed her!”

“Who? What’s going on?” the voice belonged to Ryan. Ava stumbled into his arms, blubbering madly. “Ava, are you okay? Where’s Charlotte?”

Ava shook her head. “No, no, I’m under here. Ryan, it’s me! He…he…he tore her face off and made me wear it!”

“Oh my God,” Ryan gasped. Hurriedly, he removed the Ava mask to reveal Charlotte’s scared face, covered in her friend’s blood. He dropped Ava’s skin into the dirt and ash, it’s owner already forgotten. “Baby, are you okay?” Ryan said, wrapping her his arms around her. “What the hell happened? Who did this?!”

By now, all the kids had gathered around Charlotte, some touching her shoulder or back trying to offer comfort while others stayed away, frightened by the sheer amount of blood splattered on her dress.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, Ryan,” Charlotte wept, unleashing more tears. “Ava and I went for a walk and we heard a sound. Then, out of nowhere this huge guy jumped out at us. He had a knife! Ava tried to pull it out of his hand, but he cut her, slit her throat.” The new Charlotte cuddled into Ryan, pressing her body against his, inhaling his woody cologne. Beneath her charade, a joyous smile split her lips. “I tried to escape, but he pulled me back, tried to cut me and then put her face on top of mine. He told me to run.”

“Christ, is he following you?” a guy named Neil cursed, scanning the dark tree line.

Charlotte wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t know.”

“We have to get out of here!” Patrick yelled. “Let’s go, hurry up!”

A flurry of screams spiraled through the night as the small group ran for the cars. A girl named Samantha fell, nearly setting herself on fire as another girl pushed past her. Engines roared to life and car doors ricocheted like a burst of gunfire. No one volunteered to go back for Ava. No one cared about the little goth girl rotting alone in the woods. Ryan scooped Charlotte up in his arms, pressing her to his chest.

“It’s all right, Lottie,” he whispered, using her nickname. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Charlotte smiled wickedly in the shadow of his embrace.

I’ve got you too , she thought.

#

One week later…

A chilling wind kicked up, rustling Charlotte’s black lace dress. The other students huddled into their suit jackets and stiff collars, but Charlotte let the icy breeze slide around her exposed throat, explore the naked skin of her upper back. Underneath her lace veil, her lips twitched, itching to smile, but she resisted.

In truth, she was surprised how many students attended Ava Rice’s funeral, but she guessed it was more to do with morbid curiosity than genuine heartbreak. Charlotte stared at the rich mahogany coffin adorned with beautiful white roses. Charlotte’s parents had spared no expense to honor their darling daughter’s best friend.

One by one, the students said their final goodbyes to the ghost of girl they never paid attention to when she was living and breathing right beside them. The procession ambled past the closed casket as each student placed a white rose atop the floral spray. Charlotte went last.

With Ryan’s warm hand clutched firmly in her own, Charlotte paused at the foot of the casket and leaned down. “I’m so sorry you had to die,” she whispered. “I’ll live for both of us now.” Charlotte let her flower drop onto the top of the pile. The dark red rose stood out like a slash of blood against the wilting petals, marring the illusion of innocence and purity. “Goodbye, Ava.”

Caytlyn Brooke is a YA author who loves to explore the darker side of fantasy. Growing up, she always dreamed of finding fairies in the woods or trolls under a bridge. When she didn't discover these creatures, she decided to write about discovering them instead. Armed with a notebook and pen at all times, Caytlyn is constantly crafting stories that border on nightmares that will make you consider sleeping with the light on.

Both her debut novel,
Dark Flowers
, and her newest release,
Wired
, are recipients of the Literary Classics Book Award and the Royal Dragonfly Award. Her work is also the winner of a Children's Moonbeam Award.

CAN WE KEEP HIM?

C.W. Briar

Y ou’re a horrible alpkatze child .

Seven-year-old Penny chewed on the grisly phrase that old Mrs. Gladfelter had shouted at her in the church foyer. She had called Penny “horrible,” which was a mean word that would have gotten Penny in trouble at school. There was also that word alpkatze , which was new to her but sounded terrible. She was not just a “horrible child,” but a “horrible alpkatze child.”

Worse than what Mrs. Gladfelter said was the reaction it had provoked. The first moment after Penny had jumped out of the bathroom and shouted “Boo” had been funny. Mrs. Gladfelter had lost her grip on her walker and, flailing, slid down the wall. Penny had laughed at that, but then Mrs. Gladfelter had yelled in pain. Adults had rushed her like sharks in a feeding frenzy, only instead of tearing her apart with teeth, they had cradled her head and grabbed her arms. The pastor had yelled for someone to call 911.

Somehow, in spite of her pain, and in spite of the crowd around her, Mrs. Gladfelter had managed to jab a bulbous fingertip with a yellowed nail at Penny. Her hands were ugly, the skin pulled too thin over bones like a stretched garbage bag trying to hold sticks. Her voice had been on fire with anger. “You’re a horrible alpkatze child!”

I’m horrible .

Mom had tried to apologize for Penny, and Dad had scolded her in front of her friends. Their reactions, combined with the anger on Mrs. Gladfelter’s face, had sent Penny running for cover beneath one of the church pews.

Now they were headed home. Dad was driving, wringing his hands on the steering wheel. He gave a sigh that let Penny know how much she had disappointed him. She glanced at the rearview mirror, met Dad’s tired eyes, then threw her gaze out the car’s side window. The brick and stucco storefronts of downtown Reading, Pennsylvania rolled by.

“What are we going to do with you?” Dad asked. The question drew fresh tears to Penny’s eyes. “How many times have I warned you that acting wildly like that can get people hurt? Now Mrs. Gladfelter is in the hospital. She could have died, Penny. She might still—it’s not good.”

More tears wetted the collar of Penny’s shirt. Her frown was so deep that it made her cheeks hurt.

“Joe, be careful how you talk to her,” Mom said.

“No, she needs to hear this. It needs to get through to her that actions have consequences. How many times have we gotten calls from her principal this past year? Three? Or how about running off at the park and the two-hour search to find her? Now this?”

“It was an accident. I’m sure she was trying to scare one of her friends instead, weren’t you, Penny?”

She didn’t answer. How could she? The truth was that she had meant to scare Mrs. Gladfelter. The old woman always made her uncomfortable, and the idea of startling someone like that had seemed funny at the time. Sure, another part of her had warned that it could end very, very badly—and it had—but the prank had been too tempting. Besides, it felt kind of good to do something besides acting, well, good.

Penny wished Mrs. Gladfelter hadn’t been hurt, though. If she had been okay, others would have thought the prank was funny. Maybe even Mrs. Gladfelter would have laughed instead of yelling, and she wouldn’t have used those hurtful words.

Dad’s scolding continued for several minutes, well after they turned at the pizza place and headed toward their house in Kleinsburg. He wasn’t shouting, but his questions piled up on top of her.

“Don’t you know she has a bad heart?”

“What were you thinking?”

“You know you’re grounded, right? No YouTube this week. No going to Sarah’s house.”

Penny waited him out. She leaned against the car’s door, watching the scroll of peaked roofs and forested hillsides. When Dad finally paused, Penny responded with the question that was bothering her.

“What’s an all-puh-kotz ?” She tried to sound out the word Mrs. Gladfelter had used, but it rolled off her tongue like a flattened kickball.

“An alpkatze ?” Mom asked. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about that. She only said that because she was upset.”

Penny sniffled. “But what is it? I want to know.”

“It’s just an expression from an old superstition. It’s a German word. People used to believe there were tiny magical creatures that tricked children into doing bad things. Mrs. Gladfelter was basically saying you were acting like a little … well, like a little devil, but not that kind of Devil. It’s just means you were being mean, but you already knew that. I would worry less about what she said and worry more about what you’re going to write in your apology letter.”

“What does an alpkatze look like?”

“Like whatever you want it to look like because they’re imaginary.”

Penny spent the rest of the ride imagining something as weird as that word.

#

The first couple days of being grounded passed easily enough. Penny drew pictures, read books, and searched for Waldo. She had a reason to put together the butterfly puzzle she had received at Christmas. By day three, however, she wished she were back in school instead of on summer vacation. Class work was better than being bored. She began to realize how much she missed watching YouTube videos. Her house and yard, which were the limits of her world for the rest of week, were shrinking by the hour.

Penny sat at the picnic table in her back yard, damp and sulking. Her friends’ delighted laughs and squeals carried from somewhere down the street where they were playing with squirt guns. Penny was wearing her swimsuit, and she had her favorite green squirt gun, but the fun of spraying herself had died quickly.

It was only the third day and already the longest week of her young life.

Penny lived on a street of split-level and two-story houses, most of which had brick or stone veneer on the first floor and white paneling on the second. The houses on her family’s side of the street, which all bordered the woods, had another thing in common: they had barn stars near their front doors. Sarah’s house had one of the round boards called hex signs. The multi-colored segments may have been pointed like a star, but the overall patterns reminded Penny of pretty flowers. Other houses had black metal star decorations. They were as much a part of the street as mailboxes, house numbers, and sidewalk cracks.

The only house along the woods that didn’t have a star was theirs. It used to have a metal star, but Dad had removed it when he painted last summer and never replaced it. Penny had asked at school why it had been put there in the first place. Her teacher had said they were an old Pennsylvania Dutch tradition. The stars were supposed to be a mark of protection and good luck.

“What do they protect us from?” Penny had asked Mom after school.

“Nothing, darling. It’s just superstition.”

“But why would Dad take our star down? What’s wrong with good luck?”

“Nothing, but an updated exterior is worth more in resale value than good luck. Don’t worry about it, baby.”

“Everyone else still has their stars,” Penny had grumbled.

She loved her neighborhood. Six kids from her elementary school lived on her street, and they liked to play hide-and-seek and Nintendo with one another. The previous night, five of those kids had gathered in Sarah’s yard to cook s’mores and catch fireflies. Penny was the only one who had missed out, and after watching them from her bedroom window, she had cried herself to sleep. Her grounding was ruining her whole summer.

Penny, sitting alone in her wet swimsuit, was ready to cry again when something interrupted her moping with a strange coo. She twisted around on the picnic table bench. It had sounded like a cat’s meow or an owl’s hoot, but different. She stared into the trees that lined the rear boundary of their yard, trying to figure out what she had heard.

The noise sounded again from somewhere close.

“Mommy?” Her mom would know what that noise was. “Mommy?”

But Mom didn’t come outside from the house when called. That was because Penny was whispering. She didn’t know why, but the noise from the woods felt like a secret she was supposed to keep. It didn’t scare her. Actually, it sounded cute. It was the kind of noise her stuffed animals might make if they were alive.

She was supposed to go find what made the noise on her own. Penny was certain of that, even if she couldn’t explain her own certainty. She would find it, and then she would show her parents her amazing discovery. They would be so proud that they would forget what she had done to Mrs. Gladfelter.

The mysterious animal cooed again, picking Penny up from the bench. She was heading toward the back corner of the yard, near the place where the old, leaning shed sat beneath the trees. Mom didn’t like the shed. She said that if a storm didn’t knock it over soon, she would. Dad liked it, though, even if the roof was rotted and had a wig of moss. He kept the riding mower and some of his tools in there.

The shed had a barn star just like the houses on the street, but this one had been painted directly onto the wood above the open door. The paint had faded to pale stains, and the middle of the star had gone missing when a board fell off, but she could still tell what used to be there. Penny wasn’t sure how lucky it could be if it was missing its middle, or why an old shed needed luck anyway.

She ducked under the branch of their red maple tree and crept into the forest. It was never fully day inside the woods except for the freckles of sunlight that got through. The rest of the forest floor was more like evening on a cloudy day. Penny could see, but the dimmed colors and countless shapes created a million hiding spots for animals. There were so many bushes and tree branches, each with so many leaves. She had spent enough time in the woods with Dad to know that it was easy to hear a chipmunk running around but almost impossible to spot them if they held still. Making her search even more difficult was the fact that she wasn’t sure what she was looking for.

Her conscience warned her that she shouldn’t be there, but that voice was quiet and easy to ignore. Mom and Dad did not like her exploring the woods on her own, but she did not like being grounded, which made breaking the rules seem fair.

Another coo, closer and higher up. It sounded so cute. Penny imagined something with long, soft fur, a wiggling tale, and eyes as big as cereal bowls. The cry had come from somewhere in the canopy, so maybe it was similar to a squirrel. Or maybe it was like a beautiful parrot with rainbow feathers. Whatever it was, she had to be the first to find it and help it. After she helped it, she could pet it.

Why did she think it needed her help?

Penny shook worry prickles off the back of her neck. Of course, the animal needed help. Why else would it sound so desperate? Why else would its cries feel almost like it was trying to say her name? The coos might as well have been “Penny ? Penny ?”

A good girl would come when she’s called. Hadn’t Mom and Dad taught her that?

The animal made another noise, this time shorter. Sharper. Piercing. It came from above Penny. Behind her. She spun and looked up so quickly that she nearly fell. Twigs cracked underfoot like snapped wishbones. The maple leaf canopy formed a high, fluttering tent.

Penny dragged her eyes along the branches, searching for the source of that noise. The latest sound had been like a cat’s meow. It reminded her of the kitten her class had found in a tree at recess. Her gym teacher had retrieved it to much applause from the kids. If this was another trapped kitten, she would have to go get help for it.

There won’t be time to get help . You have to be the one to help , Penny . Dad says you’re a good climber, so you can get it yourself and keep it a secret …

A shape—and that was all it was, a shape —slid along one of the upper branches and hid behind the tree trunk. Penny giggled. How adorable , she thought, even though she couldn’t describe it if she tried.

She jogged to a spot where she could get a better view, a loose carpet of dead leaves crunching underfoot. Penny formed her lips into a tight circle, trying to feel out a way to emulate the critter’s noise. She attempted to coo, but because of her missing tooth, it came out as a whistling oooo .

Something small leaned out and peered down at Penny. She thought she saw a hat-shaped head atop a formless body, but that was wrong. Penny squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, and looked again. It had been an optical illusion, that was all. This time she saw pointed kitty ears, a small kitty nose, round kitty paws, and eyes as orange and warm as a sunset in July.

She had never seen something so cute.

“Awww.”

The cat curled down to a lower branch, landing on all fours. Waves of red and black added some color to its mostly stone-gray fur. The cat stared at Penny with a coppery intensity for a long while, then shut its eyes and gave a great yawn. For a moment, Penny had the thought that the cat’s jaw was too loose, and that its mouth was opening in directions that it shouldn’t, exposing a surprising number of needle teeth. Then she shook her head and got rid of those weird thoughts. The cat was so cute, and she didn’t have any reason for the nervous feelings crawling like spiders down her spine.

Those coppery eyes were like jewels. The cat didn’t blink at all as it slithered down to one branch and then another. It got closer to Penny and reached a paw toward her. Penny raised her hand toward the cat, eager to stroke its back, even if it did smell like it had rolled in something that died. That was okay. She could give it a bath later.

They were incredibly close. The cat was so excited that its mouth opened in two directions.

“Penny? Penny, where are you?”

Mom’s voice interrupted them, causing the cat to bound up the branches and hide from sight. A rush of anger filled Penny. How could Mom do this to her? She had scared away the greatest thing ever.

“Penny?”

“I’m here.” Penny searched the tree, but she no longer saw or heard her pet. More importantly, she now felt its absence and knew it was truly gone. Her chance to catch it had passed. Saddened, she jogged out of the woods and was met by her mother at the boundary between the trees and the yard.

“Thank heavens, there you are. Why were you out here?”

“I thought I saw something.” Something . That was a safer answer. She could not mention the cat. She knew this in the same way she knew her parents would ask her what had happened if they caught her crying. She knew it in the same way she knew Dad slipped quarters under her pillow when she lost a tooth. She understood her parents would hate the cat even if she didn’t understand how she knew it.

It had to be a secret .

“‘Saw something?’” Mom asked. “That’s all the more reason to stay out of there. What have we told you before?”

Penny sighed. “‘Don’t go into the woods without an adult.’”

“That’s right.”

Mom knelt, opening her arms. Penny ran the last few steps to her, ready to fall into her chest, ready to squeeze her and receive kisses. However, in the final moment, when only an inch separated them, Penny’s excitement to hold her mom was doused by cold, overwhelming distrust. Mom had been the one who scared the cat away. Mom had been the one who wouldn’t let her explore the woods. Mom was the one big enough to hurt her, to squeeze her until she couldn’t breathe...

Penny thought of shoving her mom, of kicking her when she hit the ground, of hurting her before she could do the same to her. She bristled against Mom’s hug, then softened, and finally hugged her back.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Mom asked. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

“Yes,” Penny said through chattering teeth, but that wasn’t true. No, she was terrified of the thoughts forming in her head. Nothing like that had happened before. She needed to run away from her parents, to keep her secret away from them, and yet another part of her wanted to climb into Mom’s lap and be held until the horrible darkness in her mind went away.

Mom picked her up. “It’s no wonder. You’re soaked. Let’s get you dried off. I’ll make hot chocolate, if you like.”

Penny let herself be carried. She buried her face into Mom’s shoulder and took in a long sniff of her vanilla-lavender shampoo. The horrible thoughts vanished.

As they went inside, Penny craned her neck and peered back at the forest. She looked for orange eyes peering back at her but saw only leaves and branches.

#

Penny was not sick, not in her body at least, but something bad had gotten into her. It was affecting her thoughts, and she didn’t know how to tell anyone.

Her grounding was not yet finished, and she felt squeezed by the ever-shrinking rooms of her house. She would have swung from the ceilings to burn energy if she could. Penny craved YouTube and visits to Sarah’s house, and not only because she missed them. They also would have been welcome distractions from weird ideas and emotions that kept sliding inside her ears like hermit crabs disappearing into shells.

A lot of those thoughts were aimed at Mom and Dad, whom she blamed for the cat’s escape. Penny cried over her loss, and when her parents asked why, she told them, “I’m just sad.” She accepted their hugs, but secretly she was furious toward them, and her anger wandered into dark places. She imagined herself slapping her parents. Pushing them out a window. Cutting them with the little axe that Dad said was too dangerous for her. Her parents would cry, or scream, or bleed from the tops of their heads.

Those brief thoughts scared Penny more than any nightmare ever had, and she had to hide when they made her shiver and struggle to breath. She could not face her parents while those scary scenes were playing in her head, nor would she be able to answer their questions. Penny knew they would be afraid of her if they knew the truth, or mad at her, or hate having her as a daughter. She had been grounded for a week after hurting Mrs. Gladfelter—what would be her punishment if they knew she was thinking about hurting them?

The bad thoughts never lasted more than a few seconds, but the hours of hiding tears were adding up. If only she could get away from her house for a day, then she might feel better.

Three days after getting caught in the woods, Penny was lying in bed. Dad had read her favorite bedtime story, Do Unicorns Dance on the Moon , and that had made her laugh. Mom had tucked her in like a human burrito, just the way she liked it, and then kissed Penny on the cheek. That had made her smile. She was feeling as peaceful as she had in days, much better than during that afternoon when she had hidden in her blanket tent, claiming to be playing with her stuffed animals while actually sobbing into them.

“Mommy?” Penny asked as her mom reached for the light switch.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can I have a cat?”

Mom sighed. “We’ve been over this before. Your daddy has allergies, and I don’t know that you’re ready yet for the responsibility of having a pet.”

“Okay,” was what Penny said. It was not what she was thinking as she rolled to her side, her back to the door.

The ceiling light went out. The dim night light took over.

Later that night, Penny bolted upright in bed, biting off a scream, arms raised in defense. Normally she would have sprinted to her parents’ bed for comfort, but in that nightmare, it had been Mom and Dad who attacked her.

A mew sounded from the back yard, loud enough to be heard through the closed window above her bed.

She wiped her eyes with her pajama sleeves and stood to peer through the glass. Had she imagined the noise? Had it come from one of the neighbors’ cats?

The entrances into the woods were blacker than a chalkboard, but everything else was surprisingly well lit for the middle of the night. The grass and trees glowed with cold, blue light from the full moon. Penny could make out the picnic table, and her swing set, and the scooter she had left by the old, leaning shed. The missing boards and hex pattern on the shed were visible.

Penny spotted two copper circles at the edge of the forest. At first. they hovered in the shadows, and then part of the shadows emerged from the rest. A black shape with orange eyes leapt from a tree branch. It elongated during the fall, then squished into a ball when it hit the ground. The wide brim on its head folded, and two arrowhead ears popped up. The animal glanced toward Penny’s window, and then it swam through grass to the open door of the old shed. Its dark, flexible shape disappeared inside, out of sight of the moon.

Another unique mew came from the back yard. It sounded like a kitten trying to impersonate an owl.

A smile stretched Penny’s lips and lifted her cheeks. The adorable kitty from the woods, the one with magical copper eyes, had returned.

Copper . That was what she would call it. How perfect. Her name was Penny, and Dad had told her pennies were made of copper.

Copper mewed, then again, and again. Each cry barely faded before the next one sounded, almost like a fire department siren rising and falling. The noise was so loud that it almost seemed to be coming from inside Penny’s head. She was certain it would wake her parents, but when she threw off her covers and ran to the doorway, she saw no lights down the upstairs hall. Her parent’s bedroom door, faintly visible because of the moon peeking through the skylights, was still closed. The gap beneath the door was dark. Her father, who had once yelled at cats fighting behind their house, made no sound.

She was not far from Copper. That realization surprised Penny, almost as if it were someone else’s idea handed over to her. She was already out of bed and leaning in the hall. The stairs were only a few steps away, and the bottom of the stairs was so very close to the kitchen, and the kitchen led to the back door, which led to the yard.

And Mom and Dad were asleep.

And the neighbors were asleep, too. They wouldn’t catch her and call her parents.

And Copper was close. She had a second chance to get him. He wanted her to come get him.

She provided all these explanations to herself while she collected her Paw Patrol flashlight from her toy bin. A quick test proved the batteries weren’t dead.

A part of Penny, maybe her conscience, was telling her to go back to bed. That part of her quoted Mom: I don’t know that you’re ready yet for the responsibility of having a pet . That obedient part of her, however, was not in charge of her legs. Penny’s bare feet were tiptoeing to the stop of the stairs. Her free hand, the one without the flashlight, was grabbing the railing on its own. A good girl would hold the railing just like Mommy told her, and if she pretended to be a good girl, she wouldn’t get in trouble if she got caught out of bed .

The creaky fifth step was a tattletale. It complained when Penny put her weight on it. Look who’s a naughty girl sneaking out of bed . She’s a horrible alpkatze girl . Penny wanted to kick it, but that would only make more noise. Instead she crouched into the railing’s moon shadow and stayed very, very still. She heard loud thumps from someone running on a hard floor, but then realized the thumps were her own heartbeat.

Mom and Dad’s door did not budge.

Penny slunk backwards on all fours to the bottom of the stairs, then snuck to the kitchen. She noted the cup she had left on the counter earlier, which could serve as a good excuse if Dad came downstairs. I wanted a drink of water, Daddy . There’s my cup . Her hands trembled as she pinched the lock on the back door and turned it.

She was an alpkatze girl. Only an alpkatze girl would sneak out of the house like this, but it was Mom and Dad’s fault. They were the ones who had grounded her. They were the ones who told her she couldn’t have a pet even though lots of other kids in her class had cats or dogs. She was the alpkatze girl, but her parents were the bad ones. They deserved to be punished.

The grass licked Penny’s feet with cold dew as she crossed the yard. Two orange eyes were peering at her through the missing board high on the shed, the one that split the faded hex symbol in half. Copper was waiting for her.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she whispered.

Wind descended on the woods, simultaneously setting on all the branches, causing them to pop and crack. The wind also played with loose boards on the shed, wiggling them like baby teeth ready to come out in a final, bloody yank. Penny’s hair and pajamas flapped.

Mee-eeww came Copper’s long, sad cry.

“C’mon, kitty. I’m here.”

Orange, unblinking eyes sunk deeper into the shed’s dark interior.

Penny paused at the door. She flicked on the flashlight, which was wrapped with cheerful cartoon puppies. The beam was vague compared to the one that Dad’s metal flashlight put out. The beam could not really be called a “beam” at all. Instead, a faint yellow hue spilled on the black forms possessing the shed. The riding mower, or rather its scarier nighttime doppelganger, loomed in the center of that space. To the left, an axe and shovel leaned against the wall. To the right stood the ladder and cans of paint from when Dad repainted the house.

From when he removed the barn star.

Penny never liked the shed by day, but she hated it now. It smelled of mildew, bird nests, and oil. Cobwebs had stuck to her hair the last time she was inside. That rotten, old building scared her a little, which meant it probably scared Copper, too. He needed her help.

“Copper, come here, kitty.”

Something let out a long, hissing sigh. Penny followed the sound to shelves high on the wall. Two orange discs stared down at her. A surprising number of pale, needle-like teeth reflected Penny’s light, but only for a second. After Copper’s yawn ended, his mouth, which was astoundingly large for his body, snapped shut.

Penny let out a relieved giggle. “There you are. You’re hungry, aren’t you?” She could understand what Copper wanted by his voice. He was better at communicating than other cats and even better than many of her human friends. Every little noise and glare seemed to call her name and announce what was on Copper’s mind. He was such a special kitty. Probably the smartest kitty in the whole world. The only one who could almost talk.

And she loved him more than anything or anyone.

When Mom and Dad got to know Copper, they would understand how special he was. They would understand he was different, that their rules against pets regarded other, regular cats.

Penny pocketed her flashlight, stretched on tiptoes, and reached for the cat. Her fingertips got no further than the bottom of the shelf he was sitting on.

“Jump down, Copper. You’re too high.”

The cat crept to the edge of its perch and dove. It landed not in her arms as she hoped, but on the floor behind her. Nails clicked and scraped across the shed floor.

Penny whirled, panicked that her pet was making an escape, but Copper just wanted to play. He hopped on and off the paint cans, then wormed his way under a propped-up hand trowel. When Copper arched his back, the trowel moved closer to Penny. She recognized it. She had cut her finger on its serrated edge while helping Dad in their little garden. He had warned her not to play with it.

“No, Copper. We should leave that here.”

She scooped up the cat and hugged him to her chest. His left ear tickled her nose and she sneezed. His fur was soft as cotton candy, and he was light as a feather. Penny noted the two long wrinkles that ran from the corners of Copper’s mouth, down his jaw, ending at his chest.

The warmest, most adorable pet ever was draped in her arms. His purrs were so strong that they made her fingertips numb.

After a second, firmer hug, she repositioned Copper closer to her neck. Copper enjoyed her warmth, at least at first. He draped his body over her shoulder, but as they neared the house, he grew tense. He stiffened his legs, his long claws snagging on Penny’s pajamas. She stroked his fur to try and calm him down. But now his body felt rubbery and slick with water or oil, the way she imagined an eel would feel.

Why did it feel like his fur was gone—

Because , another thought interrupted, he got damp from grass dew . That’s why he feels slippery .

Of course. That made a lot of sense.

Whatever was making Copper nervous ended as soon as she carried him through the door, or “over the threshold” as her dad once said when he described his wedding day with Mom. The cat wriggled onto Penny’s other shoulder and leapt onto the kitchen counter. She tracked him to the corner, where six black rods jutted out of a wood block. They were Mom’s big knives. Copper curled under them in a wave, scratching his body against the handles.

A can opener hung from the side of the knife block. “Are you hungry? We might have tuna fish, but I don’t think I know how to open the cans. Do you like sandwich meat? I can get that.”

Copper raised a perfectly adorable paw and placed it on one of the knife grips. His claws were as thin and shiny as the cutting edge of a stainless-steel boning knife. Penny reached for the same grip, felt its texture with her fingers, imagined what it would be like to hold it. How much did the blade weigh? How sharp was it? Playing with a knife in the kitchen was against the rules, but it was probably fun. It would make her a bad girl, but not as bad as if she carried it upstairs.

You’re an alpkatze child , came Mrs Gladfelter’s warning.

Penny retracted her hand. “I can’t touch those. They’re dangerous, and I already broke the rules when I brought you in here.” Her curiosity, as well as Copper’s stare, were coaxing her hand back to the knives, so she took a step away. Her fingers longed to wrap around the rough texture of the grip. “But I’ll be in big trouble if I’m caught.”

Copper’s eyes were so bright, almost glowing, like candles dancing behind orange glass.

Mom and Dad had been too mean, and they never let her have fun. Penny knew they deserved to be made upset. She giggled at the thought of Mom discovering her in their bedroom, standing close to her, knife in hand. Mom would scramble out from under her covers and yell at her. Penny would be in trouble for a little while, but then her parents would realize she could carry a knife all the way upstairs without cutting her own skin. They would then understand that their daughter wasn’t a baby anymore, and they would finally let her have things they once thought were too dangerous.

Plus, if they were busy being mad about knives, would they still care about a cat in the house? Wasn’t rescuing Copper a less bad thing than sneaking into their bedroom while they slept?

Penny found herself with two hands gripped around the carving knife, the blade half withdrawn from its slot. What if it was as dangerous as her parents had warned and she cut herself? Cut her hand? Cut her throat? Stabbed her heart? What then? How much trouble would she be in? They would never let her do anything risky ever again.

She let it go, and the knife slid back into place with a thud.

“We don’t need that,” Penny said firmly, as much to herself as to Copper. She scooped the cat off the counter and headed upstairs. “I have to hide you in my room.”

Penny pretended she was a cat as she climbed the stairs. She moved so softly on quiet, quiet feet that even the tattletale fifth step barely noticed her. At the top, Penny crouched into a sneaky tiger ball and craned her head around the post. Her silly kitty did the same.

Her parents’ door was still closed.

Once in her room, Penny dropped Copper onto her bed and curled a nest of blankets around him. Her night light provided the best view yet of her new pet. His hair bristled into points, almost like a porcupine, and his lower jaw seemed able to split in ways it shouldn’t. Penny shook her head, shutting off her frightening imagination. When she looked again, Copper was once again her cute kitty, who was pawing at the fuzz balls on her dolphin blanket.

Copper mewed. Penny’s fingers craved the texture of the knife grip.

“Stay here.” She patted Copper’s head so he would understand the command. “I’ll get you a snack.”

Penny stole through the house like a practiced burglar. She started down the stairs, but a loud mew from her room stopped her. Had it been loud enough to wake her parents? She made herself very small, then smaller still, and waited.

Why should she wait there? If she were to open that door, just a little, she could check on them. Penny moved in a crouch to her parents’ bedroom and raised shaking hands to the nob. She was being naughty, naughty enough for Mrs. Gladfelter to call her names, and it…excited her. Her heart was jumping rope. The door was in on her prank, and the hinges opened without a single squeak. The gap was just wide enough for her to stick her head through. Just wide enough for her to see lumps under the blankets, illuminated by the moon and the blinking alarm clock light. The mound closest to her would be Mom. Dad slept on the far side.

She could have screamed then and gave them a wicked scared. She smiled as she imagined them leaping up and thrashing their arms, protecting themselves from a monster that wasn’t there. Or maybe she should run in and throw Copper on the bed. Instead of a secret, he could be part of a fun joke.

If it scared them, then good. They had been mean to her and had grounded her.

Hadn’t they forced Penny to act like a naughty girl when they told her she couldn’t have a pet?

Another mew came from Penny’s room. She ought to feed her cat first, and then she could decide what to do.

Penny made her way to the first floor. As she passed beneath the upstairs hall, she heard a noise that made her heart pound hard enough that she thought it might bruise itself. Little thumps, quick as a drumroll, played on the ceiling above her. They were followed by a startling slam, then a cry from Mom.

“What is it?” came Mom’s muffled voice from upstairs.

“I don’t know,” answered Dad.

“Penny?” Mom called.

Penny was finishing her mission. She tiptoed to the refrigerator and opened the door. The unleashed light forced her to squint. Escaping cold gave her goosebumps, or were those due to her anticipation of something to come? Something she had been a part of? She was such a good helper, and friend to Copper, and such a horrible alpkatze child.

Dad yelled. It quickly changed to a scream, and Mom did the same. There were thumps moving about the ceiling over Penny’s head. The screams were not like the ones Mom let out when her parents were fighting, and the thuds were not like the regular bump-bump-bump that Penny sometimes heard coming from their bedroom. No, her parents were afraid.

A part of Penny smiled at the clamor above while the rest wanted to crawl into the refrigerator, shut the door, and hide. She felt a momentary sense of satisfaction, though the feeling fled as soon as she heard a third, shrieking voice. Being naughty ceased to be a delight and was now purely … naughty. She no longer wanted to scare them, and as she began to panic at the strange turn of events, she wondered why she ever had wanted to. Only a crack … she had left their door open only a crack, not too much, but that had been enough for … him. The wickedness of what she had been convinced to do now set in. Penny wanted to run upstairs, to hug her parents tightly, but her feet were frozen to the floor, and it wasn’t due to the wintry draft spilling out of the fridge.

Dad screamed, “Get it off!” He thundered across the ceiling, toward the closet or bedroom door, but then there was a horrible crash of furniture and breaking glass. The vase? A heavy thud resounded from the ceiling over the oven. Dad’s mouth must have been right against the floor because his screams seemed to be clawing at the boards, trying to open a way of escape.

The only thing louder than him, or Mom, was the shrill, excited, ear-shattering shriek of the thing in the room with them.

What had she done? That question raked claws on the inside of Penny’s skull and severed all other thoughts. Urine flowed down her leg and pooled on the floor beneath her silky pajama bottoms.

What had she done?

Mrs. Gladfelter’s face was there in the dark, just outside the refrigerator’s blinding light. Horrible alpkatze child .

Dad’s cries were getting quieter and wetter. His thumps were smaller and closer together. It sounded like he was wrestling now. Mom’s unmistakable feet pounded across the ceiling, her tearful screams the most horrible sound that could possibly exist. Her movements seemed promising, and Penny heard the hopeful twist of a doorknob, but that hope ended as a lunging hiss merged with Mom’s pleas of “Someone help me!”

Penny had thought she was a helper, but she was a horrible, naughty girl. A monster.

Her parents’ bedroom door was slammed shut again, and Mom’s screams collapsed deeper into the bedroom. Mommy ? Her yells for Penny to run, and her crying, and her shouts of pain were all swinging side to side. Penny knew Mom was fighting the creature in their room, or at least trying to fight it.

The screaming soon ceased. The flailing against the floor ended after that. Penny was frozen in place by the horrifying silence. The tears gushing down her cheeks were chilled by the humming refrigerator.

Something shuffled on the floor above.

The open refrigerator chimed. Penny’s fingers found the courage to let go of the handle.

A growling purr leaked through the ceiling.

Penny stepped out of the urine puddle, out of the refrigerator light, and moved like a sleepwalker to the back door. She opened it, ready to run away as Mom had begged her to do before going silent; but then Penny looked back through her home’s dark interior. She was struggling to think of anything besides the tumult still echoing painfully in her ears. She had no idea why, or what she hoped to achieve, but she was vaguely aware that she was climbing the stairs. Her earlier concerns about being stealthy were gone, and the steps groaned under the weight of her effort to face what she had done.

The white, rectangular door stood closed, pretending there were no existential nightmares on the other side of its pristine panels. But Penny was terrified of what she could hear shuffling around in the room, and even more terrified of what it had done, but terror was just one of many emotions punching her head and chest. Her need to know, to know what had happened, to know if everything could be okay, was the strongest urge of all. It was the only keen thought in her haze of confusion.

She was not Mommy’s little girl or Daddy’s little girl anymore. She was not a good, little girl at all.

Penny opened the door as slowly as was humanly possible. The first thing she saw were two large, coppery eyes staring back at her. For the first time she could remember, they blinked, and then a shape—that was all it was, a shape—dashed through the gap. Penny fell backwards to the floor in the hall, crying out, hiding behind forearms and shins, but the shape flew past her. Its paws skittering down the stairs.

She sobbed.

When Penny regained her wits about her, she crawled on all fours to the door. She pushed it open far enough to find larger, unmoving shapes in bedroom. They reminded her of Christmases with Mom and Dad, specifically the discarded boxes from presents she had frantically stripped and tore open in her excitement. The parents who had shared those memories with Penny were now lifeless husks on the floor.

There would be no more Christmas presents. Penny was the naughtiest girl who had ever lived.

Mom’s mouth and eyes were open as wide as could be. Dad’s mouth and eyes were open even wider because the skin around them had been torn.

Penny was surprised that blood could still look so red in the blue, crystalline moonlight.

C.W. Briar is the author of the dark fantasy novel
Whispers From The Depths
. He writes stories with a focus on monsters, suspense, and consequences. He resides in Upstate New York with his wife, kids, and their pack of corgis.

ALONE IN THE DARK

J.D. McGregor

C asey McEnnis had committed a number of mistakes before opening her car door with a blood alcohol level of 0.192. The first was deciding to drink in the first place at her friend’s place after she told her parents she wouldn't. The second was ignoring the heavy snowfall (predicted by the forecast she had watched before leaving) that started around ten and continuing to drink while it kept coming down.

Her biggest mistake was convincing herself it was okay to drive home instead of staying the night. She'd been offered second-class accommodation by her friend Emily, who said she could curl up on the spring-heavy pull out mattress in the basement. Casey could have slept a few hours then gotten up early when the daylight returned and perhaps even the snowplows were on their second run of snow removal.

For whatever reason inside her mind, that plan simply wouldn't suffice. The warming comfort of returning to her bed the same night and not having to get up early and rush around the next morning was all the convincing she needed to attempt the voyage home.

It wasn't her first rodeo. She'd long since abandoned feeling guilty for driving with whatever illegal substance inside her system.

Perhaps her timing was off, as she chose that particular night to test her limits. The storm wasn’t supposed to subside until the early morning.

Everyone in Western New York knows you don't drive at night when the snow is coming down like that—impaired or not.

It isn't rational thinking.

Casey slammed the door behind her. She checked her phone and couldn't help but chuckle. Even with her vision spinning and blurry lines all over the screen, she could make the number out in the top right corner. Only two percent battery. Another consequence of playing DJ all night and using the stupid YouTube App that doesn’t let you close the screen and continue playing.

It wasn't a deal-breaker. She knew the three different route options home back to her parent's place in Ellicotville. She wouldn't even risk taking 219 South. She'd take Maples Road instead. No one would be on the road at that hour. Plus, given the conditions, the country roads and main highways would be equally snowed over. A couple of miles driving on either one would prove an equally difficult task.

What was truly crucial was that the car still had at least a quarter-tank like she remembered before she started drowning her brain cells. She pushed her cold key into the ignition and started the engine.

Everything was going to be fine. It was only a little buzz. People get away with this shit all the time.

She sat upright, keeping her spine rigid and perfectly straight. She adjusted the rearview mirror to make sure it was aligned with the back window from her elevated position. Slow and steady would win this race. All that mattered was getting home. And home wasn't so far away.

She quickly discovered an unexpected side benefit of her increased focus on driving. It became clear when she pulled the car in reverse and looked over her shoulder.

Keeping her mind on the road meant the negativity wouldn't be able to seep in like it usually would whenever she found herself alone after a night of drinking.

She wouldn't have to think about how she was still working in the front end and rotating between cashes one through four at Dartmouth's Grocery back in town. She wouldn't wonder why she hadn't moved up to somewhere in front end management like she told herself she would almost two years ago. Above all, she wouldn't have traced it all the way back to dropping out of college in the second semester of her freshman year, which had ultimately laid the foundation of her current career path all those years ago.

Casey backed all the way to the edge of the driveway and double checked both directions twice before pulling out and straightening the car in the middle of the road.

Slowly, she accelerated. She started safe, barely touching the gas and rolling at ten. Once she found that speed comfortable, she pushed up to fifteen, then twenty. The weight of the snow seemed to grow against her windshield with each acceleration, though it was nothing that her wipers couldn’t clear away. She tried the high beams and discovered that they actually made her vision worse. The bright light reflected against the falling snow and shot it back towards her.

These minor obstacles were expected. Everything was still under her control. That sentiment remained and did not waver inside Casey's mind for the first part of her journey.

The road started to decline beneath her. That signalled she had reached the first of two downhill portions of her trip. She knew this hill was steep enough that she could toboggan the whole way down and cover a quarter-mile gliding along the stretch of flat resting at the bottom.

She kept her eyes glued forward. Not that it helped her see any farther. She could barely make out the shapes of the leafless trees on either side of her. It was all about feeling the road beneath her wheels. She reduced her speed back down to fifteen and got ready to slide.

She was proud of herself when she finally felt it. She was proud that despite already acting so grossly irresponsible, that she was actually in control when her tires start to slip from below the car.

She pumped the brakes. The back tires lost traction, slid to either side, and then regained their course. Casey continued to hold the brakes until her speed lowered to eight. She remained at that speed, occasionally letting go of the brake when she felt comfortable enough. She didn't touch the gas again until she was safely at the bottom.

She clenched her hand into a fist and shook it above wheel when her car was safely on flat ground again. She was so excited, she stopped the car so she could enjoy a few moments of celebration.

The party didn’t last long.

Something stood out of place on the farthest perimeters of her vision. Had she not been stopped, she may have not even noticed it at all.

It was black. Not that any object wouldn't be from where it was positioned in relation to her. It stood at the edge of the road, maybe a little into the ditch. The semblance of an unshoveled driveway, barely distinguishable from the snow-covered lawn, save for the deep footprints leading up to a house, was right behind it.

It kept coming in and out of focus. Partly from the never-ending drops of snow, partly from the fact that her drunken vision had worsened from when she left. It was lanky. Shaped like a man, but just too big and out of proportion, she thought.

It wasn’t moving. If it were a man, surely they would have waved or done something to make sure she saw it. Maybe they would have even approached her to see if she was alright? That's what any sane rational person would do.

Then again, what sane and rational person could find any reason to be out for a casual evening stroll in winter conditions like that? Only by some corrupted or impaired decision making would someone have left their home in that storm. Only someone so irresponsible and so careless to drive under the influence after downing seven-too-many drinks would dare go out that evening.

Casey nudged the gas pedal. The figure appeared to take a giant step towards her. That was all it took to trigger the self-protective instinct inside her head. She pressed on the gas with all her weight and felt her tires spin, slinging snow to either side before finally making traction with the asphalt.

She turned her wheel hard to the left. She went as far around the figure as she could without risking slipping off the other side of the road. She hoped she might scare it and it appeared to be successful as it retreated into the ditch.

She continued accelerating, no longer worrying about traction or oncoming traffic. All that mattered was putting distance between her and that thing.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Who knows what it was doing out there or what it was going to/already did to the poor people living in that house. She needed it to be gone the next time she dared glance over her shoulder.

The reality was she probably couldn't see more than a couple feet through her back window through the squall regardless. It wasn't until Casey noticed the dial of her speedometer pushing past the forty that she figured it was time for a quick safety check.

Nothing. Only darkness beyond the snow and red glow of her taillights.

Still, something about that abyss unsettled her and made her start to wish she’d just stayed the night at Em’s.

That feeling served enough for a momentary lapse in focus. She pressed the brakes harder than she should have to try and slow down. She lost control of the vehicle immediately.

Casey realized the hopelessness of the situation on the car's first quarter-turn. Her vision, which was already getting worse on its own, meshed all the shapes around her into long horizontal streaks. The car spun two or three times. Her shoulder slammed into the driver window on the final turn. She heard it pop and crack and shrieked in pain thinking she may have dislocated it for the third time in her life.

She gripped the wheel and steered as hard as she could in the opposite direction. The car's movement slowed until it finally stopped no more than half a foot away from the ditch.

It took a little while for Casey to regain her wits. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t crashed.

Casey exhaled. She looked all around her and was relieved to not see any dark figure in the immediate vicinity. Not that there was any reason for there to be. She'd put more enough distance between them.

As far as she was concerned, she was alone in the dark. That’s just the way she wanted it to be.

Casey checked her phone. The battery had drained to one percent. She quickly turned the screen off, thinking that perhaps it would be necessary to call emergency services at some point if she lost control of the car or encountered that thing again.

Neither of those things needed to happen.

She wondered if perhaps the figure had been a figment of her imagination, although she knew hallucinations weren’t a side effect of alcohol consumption. Three weekends earlier, she’d put a little strip Emily had given her under her tongue and stared at a tree for two hours while it morphed and changed shape. That was real hallucination. She knew what the difference was.

All things considered, she was close to the halfway point of her journey home. Only one more climb and subsequent descent of another hill and she would be there. She needed to focus for another ten minutes, tops. Then, she could put the night behind her without any consequence.

She blasted the heat on both the front and rear windows. Slowly, the snow which had piled up since she stopped started to slide and break off in little chunks. She turned the radio onto some generic Top-Forty crap and adjusted the volume halfway. Not too loud that it would distract her, but not so quiet she'd lose any sense of urgency.

Casey moved her foot from the brake to the gas pedal. The car started to move again.

Much like when she left, the second stage of the journey started uneventfully. She kept in the center of the road, knowing the chances of another car approaching in the oncoming lane were almost zero. She was alert and focused the entire time. Her eyes darted to either side of her, carefully surveying to see if she could spot anything that shouldn’t be.

She eventually noticed the tracks of some other lonely soul who’d decided to take the same death-defying drive as she had that night. She was grateful for that person and used their tire tracks to keep herself aligned. She hoped they were safe wherever they were farther down the line.

She kept waiting for that last hill, the last physical obstacle before reaching the stretch of houses where her parent's house was built.

Everything was going so well. How unfortunate it was that just as she finally saw the desired incline in the road ahead of her, something else founds its way into the same scene. It was a strange mix of emotion. If only that goddamn figure wasn't standing in the way.

It was on the side of the road again. Like before, it was on the farthest limits of where she could see. It was moving this time—right alongside the car when she reached it. It was as if it were trying to match her speed. Its steps were long and jagged. Its knees lifted way out of the snow, which must have been over two or three feet by that point in time. It held its arm out as if it were commanding to do something.

Casey couldn't comprehend what she was looking at. She was too faded, too fucked up. It looked like a series of black sticks put together. All she knew for certain was that whatever it was, she didn't like it. She wanted to be as far away from it as she possibly could.

She was forced to accelerate again. The figure seemingly pushed its pace, attempting to match the car’s rising speed. It was able to keep up for a few strides before finally falling in the snow kicking up from behind her tires at the base of the hill.

"Get away!" Casey screamed.

She feared the mounting snow would make her lose traction while she started to climb the hill. It seemed so much steeper than it ever had. She kept glancing over her shoulder and still didn’t feel any safer that thing had once again disappeared in the darkness behind her.

It wasn't enough. Not until she was actually home with the door locked behind her would she actually be in any position to feel secure. Even then, would she really be able to sleep? If this thing had caught up to her on the road twice already, would it really have any problem finding her back at home?

It wouldn't. It didn't make any sense.

Casey kept her foot on the gas, praying for the hill to finally end. Her hands shook on the wheel. The heat still blasted into the car, almost to the point she was sweating underneath her coat.

Finally, she was at the top. From there, it was only a short and mostly flat stretch before it went back down again towards her parent’s house. Soon she might even see some house lights if anyone had cared to leave them on.

Before she got that far, something moved in the corner of her eye. It was something more than hanging tree branches, which had then levelled at the summit of the hill. It wasn’t even outside. It was right beside her.

For one brief moment in time, she saw a dark figure sitting in the passenger seat. Its body was relaxed and unflinching. Long, black, and bony arms extended over its legs scrunched up against the dash.

She screamed. For the second time that night, she slammed the brakes too hard. Her rear tires were in front of her mind could even register. Again and again, the car rotated. The anti-lock brakes kept engaging and making that horrible skidding sound until the car finally came to a stop.

She stopped closer to the ditch than she had before. Her rear. right wheel felt like it didn’t have any road beneath it.

The first thing Casey did when the car stopped was check beside her. The seat was empty and quite frankly always was. Casey figured this time it must have been her imagination playing tricks on her. Like all those times when she was home alone and thought she would hear someone stumbling around in the basement and knocking things over.

She'd had enough. It was time to call her dad to come out and get her. All he had to do was drive up the road a little bit. Maybe she would even try 9-1-1 if he didn't pick up. She was ready to suffer whatever consequences she’d deserved for getting behind the wheel in the first place.

That was preferable a result rather than encountering that horrible thing again.

Casey had every intention of making that call until she found out her phone was already dead. She would have done the right thing had she be given a fair chance.

She whipped the phone as hard as she could into the backseat. She flipped through the channels of her radio, which was still playing the same generic shit while all of the misery was taking place. There was nothing but more awful music, commercials, and radio static.

What was she looking for anyways? Directions to the nearest phone-charging station? Somebody broadcasting they were on their way to pick her up?

She thought back to when her primary concern was sneaking into the house without waking her parents up. She even thought about whether or not she could tip-toe quietly enough to make a little hot chocolate to sip her Advil down in the kitchen before disappearing into her room for the night.

Those problems were manageable. Those were good problems to have.

She looked all around the car again. Still, nothing was there. It was only down a little hill before reaching the stretch of country homes she lived on. It wasn’t even that big, she’d only have to use the brakes.

The tank was almost empty. She pressed the gas. It was time to go.

Casey noticed the difference in storm intensity since she left in the first place. Like the constantly rising inebriation, it raged against the outside of the car without relent. She could see perhaps two-thirds of the distance she used to be able.

There was a silver lining in that. It meant there was less of a chance she would see something she'd rather not.

The road started to descend. Home was so close she could almost feel the warmth from the old water heater next to her bed. Brake. Roll. Brake. She did the same thing over and over, anxiously waiting to see if any houses had their lights on at the bottom.

One of them did. It was about halfway down the stretch of flat at the bottom. She couldn't recognize the shape of the house, but given the distance, she figured that it was the Preston’s. They were only about six or seven houses down from her parent’s.

The hill seemed to last forever, but when finally at the bottom, Casey bounced up and down in her chair. She wondered how she was going to find the courage to get out of her car when she reached the driveway. She'd have to go in through electric garage doors. Waking mom and dad up didn't matter anymore. No way would she risk exposing herself in the open air.

Casey was never given the chance to make that decision. It quickly dawned upon her that she would never reach her parent's house again. For the third time that evening, the figure appeared in her line of sight. This time, it stood at the end of what she thought was the Preston's driveway, right in the tire tracks she’d been following.

It held its lanky arms out. It started to move towards her, this time showing no fear or desire to get out of the way. Casey decided that this time she would comply. She would give it what it wanted. She would present herself to him. No questions asked.

She put all her weight down on the gas and steered towards it. Her eyes bulged; her teeth clenched. In the last moments before she hit it, she found the whole thing rather amusing.

The black figure's weight landed on the hood then went flying over the car. The windshield cracked and she could hear the thud when it landed on the roof above her and rolled back.

The satisfaction of hitting lasted no more than a second. She leaned back while the car went full speed into the row of trees off to the side of the driveway.

Glass shattered. Metal bent. The world went blurry and would come back into focus only in little throbs of pain. Casey suddenly felt so tired. Despite everything that had happened so far, she couldn't resist the undeniable temptation to take a little rest on the giant white pillow which had magically appeared in front of her.

Casey suffered dark dreams for the time that she was asleep. For how long that was, she couldn't say. She would have liked to continue sleeping had she been able. The cold air with had enveloped her wouldn’t let her stay at peace.

The more alert Casey became, the more she realized just how much damage her body had endured. She was crumpled over the wheel and bent into a position she probably couldn't be in if all her bones still in place.

She felt around in the demented car interior until she found the driver door. As surprising as it was, it squeaked open with hardly any push. Slowly and painfully, she pulled herself out. She needed to wedge her damaged legs from under the dash and collapsed into the snow.

She was so cold—colder than she'd ever been. Using all her strength, she propped herself up. She stumbled out of the ditch and up onto the road. The farther she moved, the more she realized the fatal extent of her injuries.

Her body could only last so many staggered steps before she fell again. She had made it back to the road and figured that was good enough. At least there, if there was one more person crazy enough to be driving out in the snow like she did, they would find her. Maybe they would stop and let her in. Maybe they’d even have a crisp blanket to cover her with in the backseat.

If not that, then perhaps they wouldn't even see her and instead run her over. That, she figured, would be better than freezing to death in the middle of a winter storm.

In her last moments of consciousness, she could have sworn she saw a dark figure somewhere farther down the road. It loomed over her, waiting for her to pass.

She closed her eyes and the world disappeared forever.

#

Casey McEnnis's body was discovered by a snowplow operator the next day. According to the report, he described her as looking like nothing more than a small mound of snow he could barely distinguish. He claimed he very nearly didn’t stop.

Less than fifteen feet from where her body was discovered, another lump was raised out of the snow. That one belonged to the body of Henry Burgess. The man who lived in the single country house built in that little valley portion of Maples road.

Authorities quickly gathered that he had been struck by McEnnis's vehicle after two failed attempts to flag her down earlier on.

Casey, who was driving impaired, had allegedly lost control of the vehicle several times. In her attempt to make it back to her parent’s home roughly two miles farther south, she’d spun out, become disoriented, and started heading back in the direction she’d just come from. She’d done it twice. Up one hill, then back down the way she came.

Burgess's wife would later explain that Henry had been unable to sleep after hearing tires screech and seeing a car spin out in front of the house. The tall man had gone outside and had attempted to flag her down three times before finally being struck.

Mrs. Burgess said she'd tried to bring her husband inside, but he was simply unwilling to leave the poor young driver, clearly lost and out of sorts. She’d turned the house lights on, expecting her husband to be back in bed beside her, before going back to sleep.

Instead, she awoke to find that her husband, much like the young Casey McEnnis, had died of his wounds after rolling over the back of the vehicle. With tears rolling down her face, she stated that she would forever regret her decision to leave her husband alone in the dark to die.

J.D. McGregor is a Canadian horror and mystery author residing in Toronto, Ontario. Much of his writing was composed while travelling solo and abroad, something he can often be found doing, working or not.

His works have been published by DimensionBucket and Haunted House Publishing LLC, as well as adapted for audio by the
NoSleep Podcast and
Scary Stories Told in the Dark
. His debut collection
The Devil’s in the Details appeared in 2018.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We’d like to thank our families, Chad Wehrle, Cemetery Dance Magazine , and the authors who contributed to this collection.

Table of Contents

Other Voices, Other Tombs

Contents

Introduction

The Second Hand

The Governess

Urban Moon

A Circle that Ever Returneth

Bury Me in the Garden

This is How it Goes

Comfortable Gods

Fly away, little fledgling.

Forget the Burning Isle

Three Lanes Deep

The Switch

The Red Rose

Can We Keep Him?

Alone in the Dark

Acknowledgments