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

Surviving Winter

November 29, 2023November 25, 2023 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

Entombed in the embrace of the soot-black night, the frigid snow caught the eternal edge of the waning moonlight. Pristine, yet jagged, its frozen surface shimmered in an iridescent sheen, poised like the steel jaws of a trap waiting for the unwary; its beauty was undeniable but deadly.

For the mortals that lived in its grip, winter ruled the world and waited.

A northern gale rustled down from the high mountains, bouncing against the village; layers of ice cracked, flexing the cold’s wicked bite throughout the empty streets. Not a breathing soul stirred in the night air; the living huddled inside around meagre fires. Those fated few trapped outside had long since perished, left as the offerings.

Sacrifices were necessary.

For Winter took its price. Better the chosen, than the innocent.

And always the question remained: How many days this year? Last season the village barely survived. Only a change in the weather, a surprise thaw, saved them all. That year the weather lingered longer.

What would happen this season? Would more die before spring? Would they all die?

It wasn’t something they could fight.

They could only prepare for what was coming…

Claws skittered against the glacial snow. Heaving pants of breath threaded white vapours on the wind. A soft whine wormed its way through miniscule cracks and people shivered. Louder noises followed; the crunch of ice, bone and frozen flesh. Some villagers silently wept. Here and there, a looming shadow passed the shuttered windows, breaking the warm light of the fires. Sometimes, when the children whimpered, they heard scratching at the doors.
No one could leave, and no one spoke, save in whispers.

Huddling, trembling, afraid.

How many days?

Fearful another sacrifice would be necessary.

Praying the doors could stay shut.

Praying they wouldn’t starve.

Praying they could outlast the beast of winter.

~ A. F. Stewart

Dance Macabre

September 6, 2023November 25, 2023 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

On certain nights, when mood and moon strike a perfect balance, things beyond actuality stir. Forces shift along the winding winds of autumn—the ones chasing indistinct half-whispers through forest leaves—before they settle. Where and when you can never be sure, but tonight a derelict house becomes the chosen place. An overgrown decrepit structure, a relic of eras forgotten or romanticized, it drips in an ideal ambience of uncanny echoes filtered through endless history.

An indistinguishable groan shudders through the bones of the house and a chill gust of air swirls tiny circles in its layers of dust, sliding down the moonlight streaming in from the broken windows. The breeze prances along the floor in time to heavy reverberating footsteps; another strange distortion in the sedentary grime of an empty hallway. A rustle of weighty wings follows the footsteps and a long black shadow creeps over the moonlight, as the doors to an abandoned ballroom creak open.

The silence of the next moments extend, waiting like a predator, until…

“It is time.”

The atmosphere sizzles with a hiss, an alteration in the dim light, and a blurring of mortal existence. A scent of sulphur morphs into the stench of decay and cigars welcoming the soft breath of something unseen. Slowly, an oozing green mist permeates the room’s stale air. The filmy haze squelches into diaphanous skeletal forms, transfiguring into recognizable shapes and limbs, giving substance to ghostly corpses. Ashes swirl scattered grey patterns across the floor, that now resounds with the click of heels and the squeak of leather shoes.

Brassy strains of music waft around the room, an orchestral waltz slightly out of tune, and laughter trails the melody, cackling from cracks and corners. As the ethereal instruments play, they dance with the clatter of bones and the swish of tattered gowns, sweeping the rotting decadence of unholy death in a morbid semblance of joy and art. Tirelessly they whirl, hour upon hour, far beyond the chime of the midnight clock, until the dawn pushes its tendrils into the sky breaking the spell.

Only then do they stop, sighs of unfulfilled longing swirling around the ballroom, before the revelry falls silent. Daylight skips across the floor from cracked windows and spectres morph back into mist as the ripple of death reclaims its own. Dark wings shiver the air and a black shadow cuts past the morning sunshine. Leaden footsteps echo down the hall until the dust settles into the quiet beginning of a new day.

~ A. F. Stewart

Grave of the Damned

June 21, 2023June 7, 2023 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

A soft mist tangled through the trees past the haunting of midnight, as the wind rustled a few dead leaves still clinging to the branches. One crooked gravestone leaned under the shifting moonlight, its crumbling edges and rough surface slowly losing the fight against time and the elements. The winter-tinged breeze swirled the detritus on the ground in crinkles and crunches as if someone was walking across the grave, bent on disturbing the mouldering remains of one Jebediah Osbourne.
A rich man in life, the last of an ancient family, Jebediah embraced the esoteric and eccentric, shunning polite society. In death, society had abandoned him to a dark eternity alone in the woods, buried and forgotten.
Well, perhaps not entirely forgotten.
The box appeared with the full moon, on that October 31st in 1913, summoned by the rumblings of a war beginning across the ocean. The faint drum of a heartbeat reverberated from inside, inexplicably echoed by the corpse interred below the earth.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
A pulse vibrating along the earth, sinking its rhythm into the soil and intoning through the trees until they trembled with the cadence. Sensing the unnatural disturbance, an owl screeched in the distance, The forest screamed in response as the dirt quaked and shifted, as streams of blood poured from the deep bowels of nightmares.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
And then a click.
The box opened. Not with a shriek or a howl. With a soft, lingering chuckle.
And the hand of dead Jebediah Osbourne broke free of its grave, reaching for the night sky.

~ A. F. Stewart

Dr. Smiles

March 29, 2023March 20, 2023 ~ afstewart ~ 5 Comments

A quiet neighbourhood like any other, with rows of unchanging houses tucked away from the main bustle of the city. The sound of squeaking bicycle wheels and laughing children echoed along streets that held the slight scent of oatmeal cookies and apple pie. The neighbours threw weekend barbeque parties and traded recipes, carpooled and arranged playdates for their children. A picture-perfect slice of suburban heaven.

At the end of a cul-de-sac, nestled back from the road, sat a small, nondescript house. Painted its uniform white with blue trim, boasting a quaint porch and a rocking chair, and a welcome mat by the front door. An older man lived there, retired from dentistry on the back side of fifty. Now he spent his time sipping tea in his porch chair, waving and grinning at the street’s residents.

His neighbours jokingly referred to him as Dr. Smiles.

The quietest of neighbours, polite, well-groomed, always ready with a cheery hello. He never failed to pat the dogs that might wander into his yard, or toss an errant soccer ball back to the rambunctious children. Yes, everyone loved Dr. Smiles.

Except the people in the basement.

They were the outsiders that didn’t quite fit in, the disruptive influences, names slipped to Dr. Smiles by long-time residents. He efficiently removed them, tucking them away to feed his own cruel amusements. After all, who would suspect a kindly old man of violence?

Lined up in neat rows, strapped tightly into his chairs, he took care to keep the unwilling patients alive as long as possible. Specimens could be scarce sometimes, and he enjoyed putting his dental tools to new uses. Occasionally, they disturbed the neighbours when they screamed too loud, but Dr. Smiles would then apologize before gagging their cries.
He was nothing, if not a considerate neighbour.

~ A. F. Stewart

Hush Now

January 18, 2023December 31, 2022 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

The quiet things are the most dangerous, the ones that live between the moments when the night stills and the breath slows. They’re the ones you don’t see coming. If you pause, sometimes you can sense them. When you are alone. When midnight swallows the noise. When your heartbeat and the darkness meld. That shadow out of place, off rhythm, a small shift underneath the world.
Just a shiver on your skin as the clock ticks, ticks, down. But they’re watching you, in the folds beyond the shadows, eyes bright and silent. They are patient and still, hidden by the bustle of days, enfolded into the hush we never hear. A slithering river of the things we fear, shunned and shunted out of sight, out of mind, but never quite forgotten. The cracks in the veneer of civility, the bogeymen, the striga; the looming unknown we pretend isn’t there.
But they exist, skulking below reality.
They are the breath of night winding past midnight in every terror we’ve been told as children, the tales that crawled down our minds, crowded out by responsibility and maturity. They hide in our ignorance and disbelief, while we disregard their presence.
Until one day we turn around and see them.
The quiet monsters.
That’s when it’s too late.

~ A. F. Stewart

Paper Dolls

October 26, 2022October 15, 2022 ~ afstewart ~ 6 Comments

Carefully pleated, intricately folded, all the creases sharp and her work precise before she displayed them on the shelf. Mistakes wouldn’t do. Things went wrong from mistakes with strange consequences.
She looked up and smiled. Six dolls sat on the shelf presently, no seven. She always forgot Annabelle; such an unassuming thing, cream-coloured, not bright hues like the others. A breeze from the window rattled their delicate substance, but none fell off their perch. They remained, in their exacting row.
Watching.
Waiting.
Afraid.
She smiled. She knew what the dolls were thinking, so she reached out her hand, her thin fingers tracing the edge of the shelf. If they could have moved the dolls would have trembled. On the shelf they were safe. Once removed, well… a deal with a devil is non-negotiable. Some had been there long enough to see the fate of several past dolls.
Not pleasant memories.
She withdrew her hand. “Not today, my lovelies. I don’t need any of you in my spells today.”
But one day she would. One day they would all leave the shelf. After all, they should have read the fine print in the contract…

Fifteen years of happiness will be granted, whereas at the end of the contracted wish you will forfeit your body and soul to the witch as final payment. You will be transmogrified and housed within a paper doll until used as raw ingredients.

~ A. F. Stewart

Waking

August 10, 2022August 7, 2022 ~ afstewart ~ 3 Comments

Hollow.
This thought prickled at its burgeoning consciousness. An absence of something it once had, a realization of missing emotion. Broken memories lingering as scattered images, swirling strange concepts, and nothing more. Nothing more than tiny pinpricks tap dancing around its membranes.
Allison.
The word stirred on its tongue, with a face remembered, if not recognized. Like a reflection in a mirror, not real but still a representation the eye has seen. A human thing, vaguely important, it knew, but no longer cared why. It closed its eyes and settled back against its cocooned prison.
Pain.
Images of blood-red rain and bright stars shifted through its mind, biting like raw sharp teeth, devouring the broken thoughts and residual feelings in fiery nerve endings. Sulphur scented smoke choked its nose as its own shrieking howls filled its ears. It thrashed, until another fractured noise, a thousand decibels past human comprehension, permeated its prison, cracking around it in chaos. Comforted, it found it liked chaos. It never used to before… It wasn’t sure what had come before. Somehow that didn’t matter anymore. It fell asleep, softly moaning.
Hungry.
Waking, it stretched its spindly limbs, flexed its claws. Saliva dripped between multiple rows of fangs. It squirmed against the shreds of human skin flaking off its scales and three pairs of eyes opened. It blinked against the darkness, fingers tracing against the metal pod imprisoning it. Pushing gently, once, then again with force, the container flexed then snapped, and it was free. Alarms blared and scurrying creatures fled, but some were not fast enough. It fed, drinking salty blood and crunching tasty bones. It looked up, seeing a doorway and read the words etched in the glass.
Research Laboratory.
Quarantine Zone.

~ A. F. Stewart

Colour Under the Moon

May 25, 2022May 12, 2022 ~ afstewart ~ 2 Comments

The world moves around me in grey slivers and murmurs, afraid to shout or shatter in colour. Tonight, I watch it slide in monotone under the moon and study the sparkles of white light that cascade from the sky. I giggle softly, only a whisper of mirth; it wouldn’t do to bring attention to myself. The monsters might find me.
So I stay still and dream. Of blue skies and red balloons, and scarlet autumn leaves. Of smiles and loud squeals. Of happier times, and things lost. I dream so much that I almost miss it. The voices.

Someone was coming.

Closer now.

Almost here.

I see them.

Two people hand in hand. Not what I want, and they don’t spot me. I stare as they walk on. Maybe I should? I’m so hungry, but it would be dangerous to try. Better to wait. With a sigh, I close my eyes and picture the crowded seashore, all blue and green and brown. So tempting that day was with all the children playing. What would have happened, I wonder?

A sniff of the air, and I can smell him. I peer into the darkness.

Oh. A boy. Not more than twelve. Perfect.

I scuttle forward, near the wall, my drooling tongue licking my lips. I wait. He’s swaggering, but I breathe in the fear underneath the bravado. Did someone dare him to come? The boys do sometimes. Spend the night in the old graveyard. Survive the night.

This one won’t.

I reach out and grab him, slicing open his throat and abdomen with my talons, letting all the joyous colour spill out. The glorious red is everywhere and I eat my fill, drinking his blood and devouring his guts.

For one moment in time, my drab world explodes in colour and sound, in blood and screams.

Then I fade away, back to the shadowed monotone, and let the monsters come.

The adult humans always come after I feast.

~ A. F. Stewart

Ezra Tried To Help

March 9, 2022February 27, 2022 ~ afstewart ~ 3 Comments

Sour milk and mould soaked into the kitchen floorboards. Mice droppings and chewed wiring were scattered inside the walls. Ezra liked the mice, but they didn’t come out to play anymore. Cracked window panes let in the drafts and sunlight shone through rips in tattered curtains. Ezra didn’t like the sunbeams; they hurt his skin. He had stayed housebound for all his twelve years, never seeing other children. Mama said they wouldn’t understand him.

He scuttled up the stairs and curled on his side outside their room. He knew Mama and Daddy hadn’t meant to leave him, but he was still alone. It had something to do with him, he knew; just before it happened Daddy yelled his name, screaming words like curse and abomination. Then the two loud bangs and they wouldn’t wake up.

They were still there, inside their room, but it smelled now, so Ezra preferred the hall, sleeping outside their door. His stomach rumbled; he had found little in the kitchen to eat, only some fruit. He’d enjoyed eating the mice better; their bones had been crunchy. He scraped his fingertip claws across the wooden floor, spelling his name, as his mother taught him.

E Z R A.

Mama said it meant ‘helper’. He liked that, and he tried to live up to the meaning, but it always went wrong. He helped when the bad man came for his money and made Mama cry and Daddy mad. The red stain was still on the carpet, but Daddy hid the body in the old well. Ezra offered to eat it, but said nothing else after Mama threw up in the sink. Daddy never spoke to him after that. He came in and took Mama upstairs. They never came down.

Ezra knew he’d have to leave soon; he needed to eat. He could hunt during the night. He knew more bad people lived down the road. He thought he could find their house. They’d feed him for a very long time.

~ A. F. Stewart