Damned Words 57

April 24, 2024April 23, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

No One
Charles Gramlich

No one lives in the house, though it’s had many owners. People come and go. They move in despite the stories. Oh, quite a few potential buyers are scared off by the tales of evil. But this is the modern world. Most people don’t believe ghost stories. They explain any deaths they’re aware of away as “coincidence,” or say it’s due to the age of the occupants, or that it’s mere statistics. They pay their money and move in. Then one day they move on—not away, not to another place. They move on! No one lives in the house. Everyone dies there.

Storm Warning
Marge Simon

On this day, the sky is a clear cobalt, completely cloudless, yet the weatherman predicts a storm.

The crazy homeless man in your back yard ghost dances barefoot in the rye grass until his flesh parts. You find his inarticulate moans mildly amusing. Keeping an eye on the window, you saunter into your studio, a storage place for pens, brushes, palette knives. It has been so long since you’ve touched them, the paints are drying in their tubes. What happened to the passion? Listlessly, you begin to sketch the silly nut as he wheels and turns on and on around the yard.

Ions gather in the atmosphere. You feel the pressure rising in your blood. A needle jet tears into the strato, Nine Inch Nails on a jagged rift, a soundwave that spreads like an injunction of rolling thunder and suddenly that ghastly human wreck from the yard is stepping from your canvas, skeletal arms outstretched, hands with gigantic claws coming at your terrified face.

The storm breaks. Passion has returned.

Home Invasion
Elaine Pascale

The house made her believe many things.

She was too fat, too ugly, too old to leave. Stepping outside the house would cause her harm.

She attempted to coax the house.

The scale heralded pounds shed; the house attributed it to water loss.

Makeup was applied expertly; the house perceived painted women as unsightly.

Finally, the younger, homeless woman was invited in; the house was intrigued.

While the house toyed with her replacement, she stepped across the threshold and onto the weakened stairs. She turned to take in her former place of residence. It surprised her to find that it was the house that was old and ugly. It was the house that was forlorn and unkempt. She contemplated that the house needed her and not the other way around.

She bounded back onto the porch and tried the door. It was locked. She pounded, but it remained sealed.

The house would not let her back in.

She stayed on the porch. She stayed longer than was rational as emotion defied reason.

Through the pane-free windows, she watched her replacement grow fat. She watched as smile-based wrinkles etched the woman’s skin. She watched as her replacement experienced the love she had lost.

Whispers of Madness
Kathleen McCluskey

In the middle of the American heartland, there stood a house bathed in mystery and forgotten by time. Its once grand facade now lay in ruin; ivy crept up its crumbling walls like the fingers of a witch. The windows, missing or shattered, resembled wounds that stared out onto the dusty plain.

Legends of the insane family that once called this cursed abode their home circulated with the locals. It was said that their laughter could be heard echoing through the night. The sound of the mournful wind coupled with the family’s cackling sent shivers down the spines of all who dared to venture near.

As the sun began to set, a daring local, fueled by a reckless dare from his friends, ventured closer. Determined to prove his bravery he began to climb the stairs to the front door. Little did he know that his foolhardy decision would lead him straight into the clutches of the house of horrors.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay, creaking floorboards seemed to echo with laughter. Shadows danced upon the walls, twisting and bending into grotesque shapes that seemed to watch his every move. In the darkness, he stumbled upon a photograph. A faded portrait of the family that once called this place home. Their faces were contorted in sinister grins. Their eyes gleaming with madness that seemed to seep from the fabric of the picture.

Suddenly he felt a presence behind him. A cold breath on the back of his neck. Whispers filled the air urging him to join them, to become part of their psychotic legacy. With trembling hands and a heart pounding in his chest, he fled into the night. The echoes of their laughter followed him through the darkness.

Mourning Home
Lee Andrew Forman

Lost, desperate, and dehydrated, I come across a house. Elation floods my thoughts. But the euphoria fades once I realize it’s abandoned. Hope still lingers, as where one house rests, more must be near. If I don’t find my way out of the forest soon, I may not at all…

I search the perimeter until my legs tire and the sun has beaten me into submission. Within the structure I seek shelter. As bright as the light outside is, it doesn’t reach the interior. I can’t see much more than the vague shapes of left-behind furniture and the layout of the walls.

My eyelids grow heavy and I lay down for some rest, dreaming away the hours.

A husband, wife, two children, and a beloved cat once lived in a home out in the country, away from the bothers of the world. Their bliss lasted many years, but one day, tragedy gazed at the husband with cruel eyes. While his wife and kids were away to see family, he’d remained home. On one of his many walks in the woods, he never expected to fall and break his leg. Or that the scavengers of the forest would take him for an easy meal so quickly.

I think about that dream for a while, then wait for the sun to rise. I’ll roam the woods, to find my home, and again remember why I’m here.

Reputation
RJ Meldrum

It sat by itself on the end of a shabby street. It had been empty and derelict for years. No-one in town remembered exactly how long. Of course the kids all thought it was haunted, some of the adults did too. Every empty, derelict house was haunted. They made up stories and they were passed from generation to generation. The ghost was a widower, shut in after his wife died under mysterious circumstances. It was a spinster. It was a kid, murdered. In each case, the spirits, some vengeful some just sorrowful, still roamed.

The kid entered. It had been a dare and he couldn’t refuse. Spend an hour in the house and bring out a souvenir.

He stood in the abandoned lounge. There wasn’t much of anything left in terms of souvenirs. He guessed he’d have to explore further. He decided to head to the first floor.

There were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. He turned left. No furniture as expected. One window. He was about to leave when he spotted something odd. In the far corner, just under the window, some of the drywall had newly collapsed, revealing a small cavity. A dirt covered doll lay on the floor. It looked as if it had fallen from the hole. It was perfect and he grabbed for it. Memories, not his, flashed through his mind. He fainted.

Later, much later, when he was able to articulate what he saw, he told them. The cops dug a little deeper into the cavity and found her, or at least what was left of her. After that, the house was demolished and since it been proven to be really haunted no-one in town ever spoke of it again.

Forever Home
A.F. Stewart

Not the most inviting house. Shabby, peeling paint, a missing step; it had definitely seen better days. But for better or worse, this was my home, and I was stuck in this backwoods of nowhere location. Stuck in the place my family lived for generations and where I died.

I think there’s irony in that.

It’s funny how fate takes a twist with your life, how you expect one thing but get served something else. I always felt different, I suppose. Bigger than this place. As soon as I hit my teenage years, I wanted to leave. I dreamed of exploring the world, making my mark. My brother felt the same way, but our parents refused to let us go. No money for college, no money for anything but survival. Go get jobs in town and help support us.

How we resented them. We dreamed of being free, anyway we could. Sometimes my brother would talk about using his gun. I guess that’s how it happened. All I know is I found him one morning, a bullet in his brain, the gun in his hand.

I didn’t give it much thought. I simply grabbed the weapon and shot two more bullets in my parents, and saved a third for myself. It was over in a few minutes.

I’m not sorry for what I did, just disappointed.

Everyone else got to leave, but I’m still here.

Under These Beautiful Elms
Harrison Kim

I lived my whole life in this house with Mom and Dad. They passed on to the spirit world and I remained. I had my routine, in the days caring for the roses, and the fruit trees, tending to the house and its hurts and breakdowns. In the nights, Mom and Dad would join me, on the front porch as I sat in the old armchair. I spoke with them for years, through those open windows. Yes, their physical forms were dead, but their soul forms kept me alive, as I had nobody else in this world. They couldn’t leave me, and I couldn’t leave them. I was always their precious son. And they were my only parents. We communicated every night, laughing and singing the old songs from my childhood, as the stars rose and the moon circled round the sky. Always so much to sing, all the stories and memories. We’d walk round the garden, calling out memories. The hedge wall by the road kept people away, and when kids would come to explore, a little howling would scare them away. Yes, I passed as well, in this house, more than a year ago. Now the place is sold and will be demolished and subdivided very soon. Our family bones will be disinterred and taken for cremation. My cousin’s family, who now own the place, will see to that. Ghosts need a place to be, a place to call home, and this home will be gone. All three of us will die a second time, and I do not know what comes after, but until that time I will rise every night as I always have, to be with the spirits of my loving Mom and Dad under these beautiful elms.

Home
Nina D’Arcangela

It stares as you approach. The small hairs on your body begin to rise, an uneasy feeling overtakes you. It’s quiet, too quiet, but you don’t realize this until you’re right on top of it. Black eyes deep as tourmaline stare as you approach, the mouth a strange gaping slash in its façade. You sense it breathing; a swell on intake, a soundless cripple as it exhales. The pull is almost irresistible as you stand agape. It beckons, inviting you in, though you don’t feel particularly welcome. There is no ease to be found here. A hand slams into your back sending you stumbling forward, your hand touches the rail. You turn to look, but no one is there. You wonder if you imagined it, but the sting between your shoulder blades assures you the phantom is not in your head. A breeze stirs the dead brush, you hear a creak, then another, and another.

You’re standing on the porch, fingers still tipping the rail. You have no recollection of the climb. You hear humming, off-tune yet familiar. The scent of baking pie wafts just a hint. You abandon the now pristine stairs and inch toward its center opening. The smell is stronger, the humming louder. As your eyes pierce the darkness, a figure scuttles past the kitchen doorway. As your vision adjusts, swing music is playing, the interior is now bright and airy. Old fashioned wallpaper sheaths the hallway, bric-a-brac that you’ve seen on your mother’s dresser sit atop a sideboard running the length of the corridor. The kitchen has taken on an otherworldly glow, and the scent of brewing cider melds with the mouthwatering aroma of molasses and brown sugar… Grandma?

It responds to your thought with a booming retort. Only if you want me to be.

Our Side of the Story
Angela Yuriko Smith

Oh, if we boards could speak, the secrets we could share. In the basement, we might whisper to pry us up and peek. You might find a few surprises: a tin box of bouillon and paste jewels, a stack of molding newspapers and the boy who was in the headlines. The third stair squeaks to let you know that this is where the third missus hit her head on the final bounce when the maid tripped her. The maid was pregnant by the master of the house and wanted to claim the position of wife, but the poor man felt so guilty he went on a long trip and was lost at sea. If you pinch your finger in the sash at the top of the landing, take care. That sash is hungry for blood after it got a taste of the maid who fell out of this window in a faint, or so the police were told by her jealous lover. A bitter man ever after, he stayed on alone for years until he was somehow locked in the pantry and starved to death in spite of all the canned goods he was trapped with. He broke a tooth trying to gnaw open the cans. Pity the family has left us to ruin. They have the oddest notion our house might be cursed.

The Good Neighbours
Miriam H. Harrison

They were the good neighbours. Never much noise. Never hosting the rowdy parties. Never doing much at all to draw attention.

Mr. McCready could still find fault, of course. He didn’t care for their lawn, said it was an overgrown disgrace. But Mr. McCready didn’t seem to like anyone, and no one much liked him. Not that we would have wished that on him. But still, it was only a lawn. Not much trouble there, unless you go looking for trouble.

As far as I’ve heard, he wasn’t the only one to end up there, in the lawn. Just the only one I knew. The others were strangers, passersby. I don’t know if anyone noticed them come. Certainly no one noticed when they disappeared. I think we all were surprised.

After all, they were the good neighbours—until they weren’t.

Chalk and Cheese

April 17, 2024April 16, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Pamela laid out the breakfast bowls on the kitchen table as her youngest son, Jason read quietly. His older brother, Michael was busy running up and down the upstairs corridor screaming like a banshee whilst pushing his favourite toy car along the walls. Jason was 6, his older brother 8 but the way Michael acted it was though his maturity had stagnated or even started going backwards.

“Michael!” his mother shouted. “Stop that racket and come down here for breakfast.”

“No, I won’t.” came the defiant reply.

Pamela dropped her head in frustration. She looked across at Jason and smiled. Then she frowned. He was such a good boy but hated that a brief thought had crossed her mind. She loved them both equally, but Michael made it so difficult at times, and she loathed those fleeting moments of favouritism.

Jason was inquisitive and helpful. Michael was a tornado bringing mayhem and disaster on whichever located he visited. If ever Pamela wondered out loud what the time was, Jason would run to the nearest clock in order he could furnish his mother with the answer. If ever she was rushing about because she wasn’t sure what time the bus to the shops was due, she need only ask, and Jason would retrieve the timetable from the kitchen drawer to find out for her.

Michael had become strangely quiet, eerily so, to be precise. She made her way up the stairs to discover that he had raided her makeup drawer. He had used her lipstick to write swear words all over the wallpaper. Talcum powder was also covering the landing carpet. She screamed.

Jason called up to his mum in fright, asking what the matter was. Pamela marched over to Michael’s bedroom door and attempted to enter. He had pushed something in front of it and refused to budge.

“Look at the state of this place. Why would you do that?” She shouted.

“It wasn’t me, it was Jason,” came the lame reply.

With that she turned and walked sullenly back down the stairs, tears in her eyes. She was at her wits ends.

“What’s happened?” Jason asked, his eyes full of genuine concern.
His mother just shrugged. Jason’s eyes were so full of love and caring that her anger had briefly ebbed away.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s just your brother’s made one hell of a mess. God knows why he misbehaves. I just don’t know what’s in his heads. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to your father when he gets home.”
She gently stroked his hair and told him that he’d best get ready for school. He nodded with a smile.

After dinner, when they’d finally got the kids to bed, Stephen, her husband, and Pamela sat down in the lounge to discuss the worsening problem. They discussed getting a child psychologist involved. The school had suggested as much as his behaviour there was no better than at home. They decided to sleep on the idea and talk about it in the morning after a good night’s sleep.

Pamela woke with a start. Their bedroom door was open, and the faint silhouette of a child was visible in the door frame. Stephen sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.

“What’s up sport, have a nightmare?” He asked while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason walked forward into the light and held his hand out. Pamela turned her bedside light on as well so she could see better. He opened his hand to show them.

“It’s just goo,” he said.

Stephen and Pamela looked upon their child, fighting back the vomit and screams. In front of them stood their 6-year-old son, his father’s hammer in one hand, his other containing fragments of skull and lumps of fleshy tissue. Blood dripped through his fingers onto their bedroom carpet.

Pamela broke down first and began to scream. Stephen couldn’t even move or make a sound.
Jason looked horrified by his mum’s response.

“B-b-but you wanted to know what was in his head,” he stammered. He looked at his father, and then back to his mother. “Mum, you wanted to know. You asked me” Jason began to sob. He let the hammer fall from his hand, and then the remains of his brother’s head and brain from the other. “You asked me, you asked me,” he repeated over and over again as his sobs turned into loud cries.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Lord of the Mountain

April 10, 2024March 31, 2024 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

With no place left for me among the people, I fled to the mountain, my face wet with tears. Better to be alone than tormented. But on the fourth night in the forest, I heard God growling in the darkness and knew I was saved.

I climbed from my tent and stood swaying under the midnight moon. For days I’d eaten only mushrooms and drunk rainwater trapped in puddles and stumps. Sleep had been elusive. I was tired and emptied of everything inside of me from four days ago. And yet, I felt peace for the first time in my life.

God snuffled amid the trees beyond my fire. I heard him cracking sticks and digging at hollow logs. I heard his incisors sharpening themselves as he chewed at some sacrament forbidden to me. I knelt and prayed. I asked his forgiveness; I asked his love. He did not answer

Perhaps, I thought, my fire kept him away. I doused it to blackness. I lay on my back and spread my arms as if crucified, opening myself in invitation. And God came to me. He wore a hair shirt like the ancient saints; he smelled of cedar and hot sweat; his breath was full of meat and blood.

I lay stiff and still. God sniffed my body, between my legs, up my chest, across my face. His tongue was rough when he kissed me. And I put the knife in his throat and ripped it across.

He did not cry out, not with his windpipe severed. His attempt at a roar birthed itself in a dark and sticky rheum that flooded my mouth. The great spirit reared onto his legs and clawed silver streaks in the ebon sky, then collapsed on top of me. His weight was like the kingdom of heaven. I thought I would die from lack of breath.

But I did not die. I lay for a long while beneath him, until the warmth of his body cooled. Then I peeled off his shaggy coat and pulled it around my own shoulders. It leaped and twitched with life. In past times I might have named that life as fleas and ticks, but I knew now they were angels, which live always on the body of God. And so now they lived on me. For I had ascended to my rightful place.

Far down the mountain below me, I saw the lights of the village I’d fled so recently. It made a place of emptiness, of great loneliness. Just as, a few days before, I had been lonely myself amid its crowds.

I took off the ex-God’s hands and fitted them over mine, with their long, curved black claws. I pulled his sharp white teeth and placed them in my own mouth, though I had to cut my jaws wider to accommodate their majesty.

I would go to the village now, clad in glory. And they would believe. They would know how foolish they’d been not to recognize the God inside me. For that, they must be punished.

∼ Charles Gramlich

The Shadow

April 3, 2024February 25, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

The light turns red at the exact second I’m about to step out onto the crosswalk, forcing me to retract my foot as the stream of vehicles starts moving. A sigh escapes my lips.

It’s a mild inconvenience at best, but today, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of frustration simmering inside my mind as I stand and wait for the light to turn green. A half-remembered nightmare about being stalked leading to a lack of sleep would make even the most patient man grumpy. My mood’s been foul since I woke up on the hard floor instead of my soft bed. Not to mention the weather in the city at present, which makes me wish I were already in the classroom snoozing for a bit before the first class begins.

My body shivers against my will as a sudden chill creeps down my spine, partly due to the biting wind that sweeps through the air and partly due to the weight of an intense gaze coming from the park behind me, poking at the back of my head.

Hesitantly, I turn around to locate the source, and there it is. Standing at the same spot it’s occupied for the past year, the black dog is no longer the skinny, jumpy thing that would scurry away whenever I approached it to offer a treat. Now, its larger, darker frame is upright and stiff, looking like a shadow that blends into the shade beneath its usual canopy. I can’t clearly see its eyes beneath all the fur and thick shade, but I can feel its distinct gaze upon me, focused and unflinching even when challenged. There are a few people exercising or sitting around in the park, but nobody seems to care about it beside me, and it appears to care about no-one except for me.

The dog’s gaze intensifies into a glare as it sees me watching, and I almost take a step back as though being closer to oncoming traffic is better than being near this unusual creature. The only break from the blackness of its being is a small strip of red that decorates its collar, whose ember-like design seems to wave and shift each time I blink.

I must be seeing things, I muse to myself. It’s barely a quarter past six in the morning, and I haven’t even eaten yet. I need a break from life for a while.

Shaking my head, I once again take in the sight of the dog in its entirety, still standing, still staring, still invisible to everyone else. What breed is that, I wonder? Whatever it is, it sure looks impressive, but who in their right mind would leave such an expensive dog unattended in public like this?

Say what you will about how beautiful this city is or how cultured its residents are, there are always dark spots around, not just in the hidden corners or in the snaking alleyways. For two years I’ve lived here, and many times, I’ve caught glimpses of the shadow lurking behind the alluring glamour, at the deeds done to the creatures struggling to survive in this sprawling concrete jungle. I’ve seen my fair share of roadkills’ carcasses left alone until the remains, dismembered or flattened, merged into the street, of strays being kicked round by some rowdy kids or disgruntled adults chancing upon a convenient outlet for their emotions, and of multiple pets being kidnapped in broad daylight, cameras be damned, which ultimately became yet another dish on some old drunkards’ dining tables. Only the missing posters haphazardly glued to some random utility poles proved that they once existed.

Another wave of shiver wrecks my being as a memory resurfaces, unbidden. I was forced to eat dog meat a year ago by my relatives back home, and I’ve sworn to never go near it again for as long as I live. I know how city people dote on their pets these days, so I find it hard to believe that the owner of this particular dog would be so careless with such a pricey pet.

Maybe the owner’s sitting in the park somewhere? I ponder, locked in a restarted staring contest with the silent creature until a wayward gust of wind blows my hair into my eyes, and I blink. The shape of the collar seemingly changes again. Did it just grow smaller? I squint, uncertainty and curiosity clashing with one another in my mind until I’m dragged back to reality by my own growling stomach.

Right, hunger and sleepiness. I need to have breakfast before the first class starts. Otherwise, I won’t be able to stay awake, and the exams are coming up. I can’t afford to ask my parents for more money to retake the failed subjects. I can’t handle any more of their quiet gazes and lengthened sighs. A yawn tears through my restraint, and I let my gaze travel back to the traffic light.

Three. Two. One. Green.

I step forward. The street is still empty, and the few pedestrians behind me don’t seem to be in any hurry, content to immerse themselves in their own worlds and phones. The upbeat music in my earphones continues to play as I walk, more than halfway across the crossroad, heedless of the happenings around me. I can feel the cold wind blowing against my face. I can taste the fresh air filling my lungs. I can lose myself in the beats of my favorite song as I think about what to eat.

And all of a sudden, my body explodes into blinding agony.

My little world shatters as my body becomes weightless, flying through the air for a brief moment before crashing back down to the ground. All at once, my limbs grow heavy, and every attempt to wriggle them causes the pain to double. Black spots gradually invade my vision as I try to speak, only for some meaningless noises to trickle out of my constricted throat. A short distance away, I can spot the outline of a car, its misshapen front stuck to the deformed guardrails.

Buzzing noises surround me as my vision narrows to pinpricks. The black spots fuse into a wave of darkness, swiftly encroaching from the edges. And within that fleeting juncture of clarity, I see the black dog again, materializing from the shadow shrouding my eyes, its blood-red orbs blazing like an unstoppable wildfire. The beast advances through the gathered crowd, unobstructed, and glares down at me. The ember-like collar around its neck is no more.

Lying there, I can do nothing except let out a single choked moan before the looming creature, either snarling hungrily or grinning grotesquely with its fiery fangs exposed, sinks its teeth into my flesh, from which my shackled soul is ripped out.

I’m only afforded a few seconds to watch as my crumpled body stops twitching, a discarded puppet with all its strings cut, and becomes a bloody stain on the street for people to point at and record. The anguished screams floating through the hissing wind fall on deaf ears as the growling monster drags my thrashing spirit toward its shadowed den beneath its canopy in the park. I flail and wail, claw and beg, curse and cry, all in vain as the pool of shadow expands around my soul, its tendrils clinging onto me and slowly devouring me, bit by bit, until everything’s at last drowned in a void of pure black, beyond sight, beyond sound, and beyond all hope for salvation.

∼ Ngo Binh Anh Khoa

In the Presence of Aramanius

March 20, 2024February 22, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 1 Comment

Albert’s apartment neighbor Karl wore a big ratty grin. He banged on Albert’s walls, just when he knew Albert wanted to nap, or use the backscratcher. The whiskery guy must have his ear to the drywall, Albert thought, to know exactly when he’d be home, or wanted a quiet moment. Karl was intelligent, just like a rat. Albert complained to the landlord, Bald Jose, and Bald Jose said “Karl tells me the only noisy thing he’s done in the past month is drop a few cantaloupes.”

“He’s a liar,” Albert said. “He’s laughing at me, there’s no cantaloupe rinds in his garbage.”

Albert’s apartment was his sanctuary. Everyone out in the world moved too fast, always staring, he saw the craziness in the eyes, the disdain behind their faces. Their rolling tongues held back spit and sarcasm. Now even inside he couldn’t relax, could never find stillness, because of Karl.

All Albert wanted: to lie in peace on his bed, unmoving in beautiful lonesome quiet, and recall the best moments in his life. He craved the emptiness of space, the dropping away of stimuli. No thrashing around tormented by Karl and the hellish other people in the world. Just the thoughts of the girl he almost kissed forty-five years ago back in high school, or the time he sang karaoke at the night clubs and everyone clapped and he got first prize. Albert popped another sedative. Almost out of that prescription.

“Jealous,” said Albert. “All jealous of my singing.”

He would sing in his room, as loud as he could, just to show Karl he wouldn’t be intimidated. He was never happier than when he sang. A simple way to be happy, he thought. But so many people didn’t want him to be that way. They wanted him to suffer.

He checked under his bed. He’d smelled a strange odour the past few days and thought it might be fir cones. He took his broom and tried to pull some cones out. A banging sounded from behind his fridge.

“Damn you, Karl!” Albert yelled, and turned up his T. V.

Mighty Mouse was on. A tiny mouse with the strength of Godzilla. The rodent irritated Albert with his high, squeaky voice.

“There is no way a mouse could lift an entire building,” Albert thought.

He changed to the wildlife channel, but it was way too quiet, something about grasshoppers. He started to sing, as loud as he could. Karl’s wall kicking stopped. Albert sighed with relief.

Time to be still again. He turned off the T. V. and lay back on his tiny, folded cot with the sheets arranged just so. This world might be a mess, but Albert’s sheets were always neat.

He felt his eyes close as the sedatives kicked in. He thought of Connie, the girl he almost kissed. One of the few things of beauty in his miserable life.

He opened his eyes to an overwhelming scent of evergreen, and there on the floor wriggled a giant rodent… rat, beaver, spider, some kind of combination. Eight wiggly paws upturned and the body rolling around on the floor, smelling like a fir tree.

“You have such beautiful splintery hardwood!” cried the creature, in a high pitched, squeaky voice.

Albert watched the critter spin. Perhaps it would go away like a dream and leave him alone. But no, it kept rotating around and yelling. Albert flipped back his curtains. Across the open courtyard Bald Jose’s bathroom window lay open, the landlord rubbing his face with a towel and laughing across at him. Albert shut the curtain fast, his heart pounding with fury, and rolled back to the floor view. The creature was still there, chirping and spinning.

Albert addressed it.

“Are you the one who stuffed pine needles under my bed?”

“Nothing to do with that.”

“Then why are you here in my room? Did Karl send you?”

The creature stopped thrashing. Its white-skinned, triangular shaped muzzle upturned and the red mouth yapped “I’m actually here to help you with your neighbor problems.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I don’t like Karl either. He’s got it in for us wall creatures. All that pounding.”

“What’s a wall creature?”
The mouth that split the muzzle smiled, showing little razor teeth.

“We’re the ones who keep the pipes running, the electricity on, the gas burning. Ever wonder why your bath never runs over? Because we’re there to turn the taps off.”

The creature cackled and abruptly stood up, balancing on a thick tail, like a beaver’s. The strange being seemed about three feet high, with the ears of a mouse, for sure, but eight tiny spider legs and a long white snout ending in a thick black nose similar to a Labrador dog.

“You can get rid of Karl?” asked Albert.

“Sure. He’s always banging, right?”

“Yeah.”

“With your co-operation, we can turn that pounding right back on him, send the negative vibrations up to his heart and stop that heart on a dime. All you have to do is feed me from time to time. And maybe sing a few karaoke songs.”

Albert thought of Karl kicking the wall and dropping dead to the ground. A smile came to his face, though part of him thought there was something wrong with that smile.

“What do you eat?”

“Cantaloupe.”

The beast began cackling again.

“How did a big rodent like you even get in here?”

“I’m not a rodent,” said the creature. “You can call me Arimanius.”

Arimanius flopped onto his stomach and poked at a tiny hole in the floor. As he poked with four of his spindly long legs, that hole became larger and larger. Armianius stuck his snout in there and opened his mouth, until his mouth was as wide as a kitchen table. The hole stretched to show the pipes and wires and two by four studs between Albert’s wall and Karl’s place.

“Come on in,” said Arimanius, wriggling forward into the gap. “Check out the inner apartment sanctum.”

“There’s no way I’m going in there. It’s probably some kind of trap.”

Just as he spoke, a pounding rose from the other side of the wall.

“Looks like Karl’s on the torment trail again,” Arimanius stated. “He’s upping the ante now, because he knows you won’t do a darned thing.”

The pounding increased in volume and tempo,

“Boots from hell!” Albert shouted.

He felt the banging in his own head now. He leaped from his bed, ran past Arimanius and tried to turn on the T. V., but he couldn’t find the switch.

“Look,” said the creature. “Karl’s foot’s almost coming through the gyprock.”

Indeed, Albert could see the wall buckling here and there.

“You want me to start drinking again!” Albert yelled. “That’s not gonna happen, you monster!”

“Just say the word,” Aramanius’ squeaking could be heard even above the pounding and the T. V. “And I’ll send the negative vibes into Karl’s heart!”

“I say the word,” Albert said. “Stop that beating!”

“On your orders,” said Aramanius, “But you have to sing loud while I conjure up those killer vibes.”

Albert opened his mouth. He started with some R. E. M., “Losing My Religion.”

“That’s not loud enough,” said Aramanius.

Albert continued with a number by Celine Dion, for which he’d won first prize at the “Super K”
Karaoke competition in Lubbock, Texas many years before.

“Louder!” said Aramanius, who was yelling himself now. “Let’s hear you do the scream from Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

Aramanius waved his eight legs around like a whirlwind, screaming the Zeppelin words along with Albert.

Albert’s head thundered now, even louder than the walls, in time with Karl’s kicking and Aramanius’ yelling. Albert caterwauled at the top of his lungs, and the lights went out. Aramanius vanished, and Albert felt his body falling, back and back and back into his beautiful neat, blanketed bed, falling into a deep and peaceful silence.

He awakened with daylight streaming in his window. He wanted to close the curtain, but his body wouldn’t move. He lay there on his back with all the noise around him. He felt a kicking on his chest. Looking down, he saw Aramanius. The creature was now about the size of a teacup, but the feet felt like sledgehammers. Aramanius bared its teeth, danced and laughed “I was working for Karl, you fool, didn’t you get the clue about the cantaloupe?” He grinned some more. “Karl wasn’t crazy about your singing, but he can keep a beat.”

Albert lay there. Frozen hands, numb feet. His vocal chords couldn’t stir to scream.

“You’ll be still from now on,” Aramanius cackled. “Just like you wanted. Unfortunately, you’ve suffered a massive brain aneurism from all those negative vibes you gave off your whole miserable life.”

Albert lay staring up at the ceiling. Echoes sounded inside his immobile head as the pounding on the wall began again.

∼ Harrison Kim

The Pharaoh Abuhanten

March 13, 2024March 8, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 1 Comment

For centuries, the mummy of Pharaoh Abuhanten lay undisturbed in its sarcophagus. His discovery heralded a new era of affection for the ancient land of Egypt. Now it was placed with loving care within the Cairo museum. Unbeknownst to the modern world, the positioning of celestial bodies in the summer sky signaled a great cosmic event. Particularly a rare alignment of planets, that would have a profound effect on the ancient Egyptian magic that bound the pharaoh to his slumber. As the planets gradually moved into alignment, the gravitational pull exerted an unseen force on the artifacts in the museum. In the heart of the exhibit hall, the Pharaoh’s sarcophagus stood as the focal point. He was encircled by an array of his ancient treasures and belongings. His tomb was filled with untold riches, unimaginable wealth and all the splendor of ancient royalty. Now it was all neatly cataloged and placed within glass cases. Positioned with solemn reverence the imposing figure of Pharaoh Abuhanten’s sarcophagus served as a silent sentinel guarding the remnants of a bygone era.

As the planets continually moved into alignment, their gravitational forces exerted an unseen pressure on the antiquities. The plexiglass in the skylights experienced a slight vibration as some artifacts began to emit a soft hum. The energies of the cosmos, mingling with the residual magic of the ancient rites and rituals, began to stir the dormant spirit of the pharaoh. With each passing moment, the alignment intensified, creating a pulsing energy. The humming became a soft purr while the smell of ozone wafted through the museum. As the planets reached their precise alignment, a powerful surge of magic swept through the sarcophagus, breaking the centuries old enchantment that bound him to his eternal rest.

Pharaoh Abuhanten’s eyes sprang open as a wave of ancient knowledge came flooding back into his consciousness. Through the hazy fog of centuries past, a profound sense of urgency gripped his heart. He remembered the prophecy, whispered by the ancient priests of his court. It foretold a time that he would awaken and reclaim his kingdom. But this awakening came with a strict stipulation, a narrow window of opportunity. The sacred texts contained the incantations to summon his loyal warriors from the depths of the afterlife. Once his royal guard was resurrected, the Pharaoh would be unstoppable. He would be immortal. Yet, its whereabouts had been lost to time, buried beneath forgotten history. Now with only a few hours granted to him by the cosmos, Pharaoh Abuhanten knew that every passing moment brought him closer to oblivion. He had to act quickly to find the spell. For once the alignment shifted the veil between worlds would thicken and he would be consumed by darkness once more.

With determination coursing through his resurrected veins, his first directive was clear. He needed to arm himself. Guided by instinct, he navigated the labyrinth of corridors in the museum. He could feel his armor pulling him toward it, like a lover beckoning him. His gaze was fixed upon the ancient artifacts that once adorned his personal palace and tomb. Amidst the shadowed alcoves and dimly lit displays, he spotted the glint of polished metal. The very thing he had been searching for; his ceremonial armor and his beloved sword. These were symbols of his sovereignty in life and his prowess in death. Closing his hand around the hilt of his sword, he felt the familiar weight of power and authority. Sand and dust fell out of his mouth as a dry, cracked smile crept across his face. He smashed his hand through the glass case containing his prize. He began to put on his armor, memories of comrades past came fooding into his mind. Now with each piece in place, and his sword by his side, Pharaoh Abuhanten stood tall as he looked at his reflection in another display case. He gently placed his hand on the glass of the case, it housed his wife’s ceremonial armor. He bowed his head remembering her in life. Her striking green eyes filled his psyche and memories of her voice filled his head. He knew that he would resurrect his love once he found the book. Not only was she a fair and just ruler by his side but she was also a fierce warrior that had fought beside her husband during conquering raids. He needed her.

With a deft flick of his sword, Pharoah Abuhanten traced intricate hieroglyphs upon the museum floor. Deep gouges in the marble channeled the ancient magic that flowed through his veins. The symbols shimmered, forming a mystical sigil that pulsed with otherworldly energy. The light was a guide to the redemption that he sought. Following the illuminated path before him, he moved with purpose. His footsteps echoed through the abandoned museum. Each twist and turn of the hallways brought him closer to the room that housed the coveted book. It was the key to his resurrection, his reign and his destiny.

At last he reached the inner sanctum, a chamber veiled in shadows and ancient secrets. With a solemn reverence, the pharaoh approached the ornate pedestal on which the book rested. Its pages were bound in ancient leather and inscribed in gold. Its antiquated sheets were brittle yet filled with wisdom lost to the ages. He opened the book, a chorus of voices sang out and echoed through the museum. The words on the pages seemed to come alive and whisper to him. The air crackled and sparked with forbidden energy as Abuhanten read from the pages aloud. Lightning lashed the cloudless sky as static electricity buzzed through the air. The very fabric of reality was bending at his will. Energy waves pulsed out from him. Through the power of the spell that was written within the ancient pages, he would raise his army from the depths of the underworld. It would secure his domain over the mortal realm.

With the spell uttered and the ritual complete, Pharoah Abuhanten felt the rush of power begin to course through his veins. It would bind him to the mortal plane where he would rule for eternity. As the spell echoed through the silent hallways and faded into the darkness, the museum trembled and buckled with the awakening of his loyal guard. Large pieces of marble fell to the floor smashing into display cases, pieces of history went sprawling across the floor. The Pharaoh let out a guttural, primal scream that caused the remaining glass display cases to shatter. His royal guard was now fully resurrected. They were all faithful and ready to march at his command, helping to fulfill his destiny as the immortal ruler of the land.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

Dark Spots

March 6, 2024February 22, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

The air hummed a pregnant note. My very bones resonated with its energy. The dark went silent; insects stopped their nocturnal chatter, leaves hushed their low whisper in the vacant breeze, even my footfalls went mute in the grass. Within my chest, my heart rattled with a thunderous beat. Sudden light bloomed from above – the field below glowed with unimaginable hues.

My gaze was drawn skyward to a bulbous horror that hovered there. Its luminous glare nearly stole my sight. As it began its descent, a sound thrummed from its underbelly forcing my limp frame to the ground. Sudden vertigo whipped my head to the left as my body rose to meet the flashing sphere. I was paralyzed; not a muscle would obey my instincts.

The fierce light ceased and darkness subsumed all. I lay there motionless, not falling nor rising, suspended by a force unknown.

A red glow crept over the black shapeless space. From a square opening came globular mounds of mishappen pink flesh. They stood atop countless tiny legs protruding from their undersides. Six half-moon shaped pincers attached to multi-limbed arms grew from their flanks. No head accompanied their sickly bodies, only a shifting ebon undulation where one might have rested. Their innumerable feet clicked as they approached.

The urge to scream slithered through my esophagus; a need to release fear in a frenzied cacophony. But I could make no sound at all.

Their insectile skittering raced beneath me as my body lowered toward them. As I got closer, their movement increased with fervor. Their sharp pincers brushed against my hands. Unable to pull away, I could do nothing to stem my torrid panic.

Lowered to a solid surface, they crawled over my body in ordered chaos—searching for what, I did not know. They poked and prodded, picked at my clothes with their spiny appendages. They seemed to sniff me with their rippling dark spots. I thought for sure their intent had been to feast, but they never split flesh.

A pounding came from beyond the dark threshold that shook the floor. The massive form reared to its full height as it entered the chamber. I understood why the small ones hadn’t eaten me. The juggernaut stood ten times their size, and where the little ones’ dark spot had been, colossal mandibles chomped and drooled their way toward me.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Dance

February 28, 2024January 31, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

He had never learned to dance. Perhaps a lack of skill, perhaps a lack of opportunity. Perhaps only a lack of courage—he did not know. But he felt his lack most keenly when he watched the others. They moved without thought, without fear, without shame. He wondered what that must feel like: a body unencumbered, a mind unbridled, a life untethered. His wonder reached out to them, but his fear drew him back into himself.

Perhaps . . . he thought. But it was always an unfinished thought. Instead, he hid himself and watched the others from his secret place.

The village was filled with stories of the others, but no one claimed to believe. Those who knew best said that the others were only air and tales, only good for filling the empty spaces, for filling the hollow places in village life with imagination and possibility, for filling the dreams of the gullible with childishness and fancy. Yet all those wise and worldly minds did not risk going out in the rainfall, did not dare to visit those places where tales danced at the edge of the wild. No, for all their certainty, they did not risk encountering those things they did not believe.

And so he always came alone. The forest was dark and dripping around him, alive with the sound of rainfall. Yet he did not mind the wet chill as he crouched and peered out into the clearing. He only saw the others dance when the raindrops fell. He could hear their footfalls among the patterings of rain as they danced between the drops. They moved like a mist, furling and unfurling beneath the moonlight, their mesmeric undulations filling the empty spaces. He crept through the trees and shadows to watch—alone, but not unseen.

She was fresh as the rain, ancient as the rain, timeless as the rain. She knew all the creatures that scurried through her forests, and he was no exception. She had seen his soul-deep hunger, seen the joyless scraps life had fed him. Through the music of the rain, she could hear the rasping, rattling knell of his spirit’s hunger pangs. It was a sound that she knew too well: time after time, soul after soul. Souls that had found their way to her forests, begging for scraps of a new beginning. Souls that had struggled, choking, against a life too tightly wrapped about them. Souls still young, still fledgling, encaged in bodies of dust and bone and age. Countless souls she had gathered into herself, tended, restored. Lost souls, now found.

On these nights, she breathed those souls into the rainfall, spun them amid the falling drops. There, they found their steps, their freedom, their life. There, they would soon find him, recognize him as one of their own. They would be the ones to draw him in, step by dancing step. But she would be the one to draw him out—out of his mortal vessel and into their endless dance.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Alone Again

February 21, 2024February 16, 2024 ~ afstewart ~ 4 Comments

She ambled along the path to the lake, soaking in the lovely spring day, walking alone, but enjoying the tranquillity of the gentle breeze and the smell of pine from the trees. She needed some peaceful reflection after the break-up.

Brad never wanted to reflect on anything, always engrossed in work, work, work. She felt ignored, especially lately, like he barely noticed her. That’s why she planned this getaway, but it fell apart from the beginning…

The fuss he made coming to the cabin. She barely got him into the car. At least he was quiet on the drive. From the start, he spoiled the whole weekend retreat.

And now he was gone. It had only been a couple of hours, but she missed him already.

Oh, Brad, why did you have to treat me like that?

She loved him from the moment she saw him, with that wonderful smile, those kind eyes. Being near him made her feel so safe. Yet, he turned out like all the rest.

Men were so mean.

Denying he knew her. Or that he loved her. Yelling for her to untie him. Brad even pretended not to know her name.

After all she did for him, all he meant to her.

She showed him her journals, where she detailed all their encounters. The day he casually brushed past her in the street, touching her sleeve. The numerous times they stood together in line at his favourite coffee shop. All those nights she watched him through his windows. She reminded him of other things, too. Hadn’t she arranged that accident for his work rival? Scared off that slut who flirted with him? She bared her heart and declared her love.

He looked at her as if she was insane. That hurt.

Why couldn’t he see it?

They were meant to be together. They had a connection. The cabin was supposed to be the start of their future. He was supposed to be the one. Yet Brad rejected her, after all the weeks they spent together. Men always rejected her, no matter how hard she tried to please them.

I never want to hurt them, but I get so angry… She sighed. They’re the ones that make me do the awful things.

She chose a knife this time. Brad sneered when she picked it up and threatened him. Sneered until she slashed him. Then he cursed at her, called her awful names, and threatened to go to the police. She couldn’t let him do that, so she started stabbing.

That’s when he screamed, and I saw the fear in his eyes. I always see the fear at the end.

She sighed. She never enjoyed remembering the break-ups. Always so messy.

I suppose I better head back. There’s still a lot of work to do. Bodies don’t dispose of themselves.

~ A. F. Stewart

The Most Lovable Man

February 14, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

Once upon a time, a lovable baby boy was born. As the baby grew, he became even more lovable, until he reached manhood, and by then he was impossibly, unbearably loveable. He couldn’t allow anyone to be a friend because they might be killed out of jealousy. He couldn’t go to a rock concert because someone would see him and shriek, drawing the attention of many others. There would be violence and all would end in deaths from trampling or the like.

In time, he became rather proud of his effect on other people. Even the rich and famous wanted to hug and cuddle him, call him baby names. He never met a single person who behaved otherwise, until one day he went for a walk in the country. He was thinking about what to have for lunch and wasn’t looking where he was going. All of a sudden, he bumped into a pretty young woman waiting for the bus. He panicked, searching right and left, but there was nowhere to hide. Suddenly, an amazing thing happened. Instead of jumping his bones, the girl moved away from him. He tried speaking to her and she made a face at him. “Leave me alone!” she said. When he persisted, she hit him with her umbrella. Of course, a man of his stature, with all the human race crazy about him, could not allow this anomaly. He took her umbrella away and beat her to death.

∼ Marge Simon