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.

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

Open Door

January 24, 2024January 10, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

“Are you sure you want a Ouija Board? Especially given that that stuff is… real now. I mean proven.” Reggie ran a finger along the edge of his bandana, sliding stray grey hairs back into place. “You just don’t know…”

Tony pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “I know what I’m doing. It’s because it’s proved I want this tattoo. I’m gonna be a conduit.” He unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the metal tray. “Chicks will love it.”

The old tattoo artist glanced down at the photo. “I know what one looks like, son. What I don’t know is why you want it… on you. That seems risky to me.” He folded the photo and handed it back. “Put that away. The spirit world ain’t a joke.”

“Look. You do tatts for money, right? Are you discriminating?” Tony took out his wallet and showed off a wad of bills. “I got money.”

“How can I be discriminating? We’re both the same race, stupid. I just think…” Reggie glanced at the money in the wallet. “Fine, it’s your funeral. Let’s do it.”

The outline didn’t take but a few hours. When it was done, Tony lay on the table with a double row of alphabet arching his chest over his nipples. Beneath them was a straight line of numbers and a third line that simply said goodbye. Beneath his right collar bone was the word yes. Beneath the left was no. Reggie held up a mirror so Tony could see.

“Sweet,” said Tony. “I can’t wait to see that filled in.” He sat up. “Check this out.”

From his pocket, Tony pulled out a large, silver planchet on a chain. “I’m gonna wear this so I can be played with anytime.” He lay back down in the chair and put it on his chest. “Try me, dude.”

Reggie stepped back. “No way, that stuff ain’t a joke. Put it away.”

Tony laughed, reached for the planchet and froze in mid reach. He lay back down, blank faced.

“Knock it off,” said Reggie. “My shop, my rules. That shit’s not welcome here. Not ever.”

“I am not welcome here?” asked Tony. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling. His voice came out flat and without inflection. Beads of sweat popped up along the old man’s spine.

“No, not here.” Reggie licked his dry lips and slid along the counter towards the door.

On Tony’s chest, the silver planchet twitched along his stomach muscles, down his happy trail to stop at the words goodbye inked on his skin. He jerked upright, catching the planchet in one hand. He stood up.

“Then I go.” He swung his legs off the bench seat and stood up. His wallet fell to the floor. “Payment for your work,” he said without glancing down. “Our contract is fulfilled.” Without another word, he left.

When Reggie finally moved, it was to lock the door and flip the closed sign. That was enough for today.

∼ Angela Yuriko Smith

Crow

December 27, 2023December 16, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

“To thine own self be true.” William Shakespeare

Zoe disconnected the telephone call to Libby before the teenager had finished speaking. Who was she to tell an adult that it was not right, whatever that meant, and some lame excuse about not being allowed to return to the flat. As if.

From her flat window in the galley kitchen, Zoe contemplated the sentinel crow perched in an oak tree while its family foraged in the grass. It was a bright afternoon, and the local pub, The Ship, had been open for over an hour. Through the open window, a gentle breeze fanned Zoe’s thin, brown hair. The crow’s family pecked and cawed intermittently, a sharp sound over the din of the television in the living room. Josh, her five-year-old, flicked from one channel to the next, from one cartoon to another, seemingly unable to find anything to satisfy him.

The sentinel crow, with dark, glossy feathers and beady eyes, kept its watch. It was sitting so still it could be nailed to the tree as a cruel act of taxidermy. Bloody mummified, she thought bitterly. Above, three other crows tumbled in the blue sky, making an aerial chase for a small bird. A sparrow, Zoe thought, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I’m hungry!” Josh shouted from the living room in a voice loud enough to be heard over the artificial cartoon sounds of a spaceship blasting off. “I’m hungry!”

“And I’m thirsty,” Zoe mouthed while staring in the direction of The Ship, a ten-minute walk from the flat, five if she speed-walked. She craved a pint of lager, Carling, and a packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps. Just a couple of pints and a laugh with the barman. It wasn’t much to ask, but it was a wormhole to another universe.

A cacophony of caws signalled an attack from other crows. Sounds so sharp they could rip the sky wide open. A rainfall of black feathers covered the grass, sending the sentinel crow into the fray.

So engrossed was Zoe in the vicious attack on its own kind, that she didn’t hear the front door open, or her son’s footsteps outside as he scavenged in the neighbour’s bins.

An injured crow lay motionless on the sunlit grass until vicious beaks tearing at its flesh brought its blackness to a parody of life.

It never stood a chance.

~ Louise Worthington

Damned Words 56

December 20, 2023December 19, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

The Longing
Charles Gramlich

I stumbled upon her in deepest, verdant woods, resting winged upon a throne of worn stone. Black tears bled down her face. She held a blade between her legs, a weapon that pierced my lonely heart. I could not help but love Cythraul. Every night I slept on the moss at her feet. Every day I knelt before her, enthralled, my hands lifted in appeal. It did not matter that she was a woman of no words, an avatar of chaos, perhaps a devil. She was mine. And I thought I would be forever hers. But one mist-filled morning she was gone, her throne empty. And so, in melancholy and forsaken desire, I seated myself upon her chair. My eyes began to weep in black; my shoulders began to ache as wings sprouted. Bereft of love, I will turn to stone, and wait.

An Interlude in Late Winter
Marge Simon

As is his habit after dinner, he retires to the porch for a smoke. For a moment, he stands, smelling the crisp air before sitting down in his rocker. There’s a mystery about this evening, he feels it in his bones. Soon, cloaked within the shadows, a woman begins singing. She sings of a love lost and found again, a song that seems familiar, though he knows he is hearing it for the first time. He finds this unbelievable, yet already her voice is lulling him into a trance. He continues dreaming into the darkness of his garden, now hidden by snow and frost. Gradually he realizes he is seeing (and yet refusing to see) her emerge. She is unbelievably beautiful and she is walking straight up to him. Her eyes gleam with an uncanny light. Lost in her thrall, captive of her intoxicating kiss, he never feels the prick of her teeth or hears her throaty giggles as she drinks. He doesn’t remember till the dawn, when he awakes in bed next to the cold, lifeless body of his wife.

Late December in a freezing cemetery, a man kneels before a large tombstone. It is embellished with a glorious golden angel with outspread wings. Privately he finds it hideous, but it was her choice, the beautiful woman he now serves whenever she calls. His poor wife, buried six feet under, would never have been happy with the situation, so just as well.

Nemesis
Lee Andrew Forman

I’ll wait as long as time will allow; until its very end, hanging on a bare thread. I count not years or decades, but millennia. Each passed without resurgence. But I know you’ll come eventually. Our last meeting, so long ago, but I remember every moment. I recall fire and death, the thick smoke filled with rot of the lesser kind. They pray to you, only to you. But you cannot save them—only delay the inevitable. I will rise again, until destruction has rained itself dry and all that remains is a brittle husk of what was once life.

Every Time You Fall
Elaine Pascale

The statue was crying.

Black rivulets of oxidized bronze ran down its cheeks.

There was no emotion behind its tears, simply the evolution of metal.

The body lying in the grass had long since stopped crying.

There had been tears of fear. She had known what was coming when she realized that this would not be sex work, but would be something much, much worse. She had cried, but she had no one to cry out for. She was alone.

Her family would not be crying. Not yet.

Their status of no contact meant that they would not know she was gone.

And it was not certain that the news, once received, would be met by grief.

He was crying.

Some of the tears were just sweat from digging. Even though the ground had been softened by a recent official burial, the act was still strenuous.

Some of the tears were attributed to hope. He was placing her body on top of one that had been sent off ceremoniously. He hoped some of that love would rub off. He hoped that the body he was sinking into the ground would no longer be alone.

But most of the tears were from knowing that it was only a matter of time before his master hungered again.

Judgement Day
A.F. Stewart

I see your sins, your pious hypocrisy, wrapped in your hollow indignation of righteous behaviour. You scream about moral decay, while hiding your own corruption. Such small minds, devoid of compassion and decency.

Yes, I see your sins.

For I am your judgment.

Not a fallen angel, but a willing devil, waiting for the day to fulfil my duty. I am creation’s sentence on wanton cruelty, its impatient destiny. I decry your politics, your entitlement, and any protestations of ignorance will not matter in the end. Time ticks down for you all.

For I know your putrid hearts and I will not be swayed.

Soon, I will take up my sword and cleanse the unctuous in my fire, rid the world of its liars and its sanctimonious frauds. The day of reckoning comes, where my shadow of judgment will scourge the earth.

In my wake, I will leave a legacy of scorched bones and screams.

You will thank me in the end.

Or you will die.

Fallen Angel
RJ Meldrum

Sarah was an only child, forced to move to a town with an unpronounceable Welsh name by her mother after the divorce. It was ‘back home’ for her mother, but it was a desolate, strange place to Sarah. She felt lost, friendless.

Her only solace was the cemetery. It was disused, overgrown. Here she could find peace amongst the headstones; it was quiet, with only bird song and the rustling of leaves. Here she could forget her woes.

As she explored she encountered a statue of a female angel, replete with outstretched wings. There was a word etched at the base. Cythraul. An internet search turned up the English translations from the Welsh. Devil. Objectionable person.

Sarah wasn’t to know, but she had wandered onto unconsecrated ground. These were the graves of criminals and the insane. No blessing was whispered over these resting places. The grave over which the statue sat was special. Robert Morgan. Forgotten for decades, his reign of terror in the town during the early 1800s had resulted in the death of twelve young women before he was finally caught and executed. The statue, erected by the grieving families, was intended as a call for eternal vigilance, for the villagers swore he was possessed by the Devil. It was a warning long forgotten.

Sarah never wondered why the statue had been erected. It was just a peaceful, shady spot. She sat down on the grass and snoozed in the heat.

***

It was well after dark when the search party found her. Her crumpled form lay at the base of the statue. The grass was disturbed, the soil pushed up from underneath. There was no obvious link to the crime, but some of the more imaginative police officers felt it looked as if something had emerged from below.

I Watch
Miriam H. Harrison

I am a Watcher—a holy one of wing and sword. Some look to me as a guardian. Some call on me in their hour of need. Some know me as an angel of vengeance, of justice, of last resort. Some pray, deeply.

They are all disappointed.

I am only what I am—a Watcher. I cannot lighten a burden. I cannot save you from what is. I offer no comfort but this: I watch. I see. Nothing escapes my weeping eyes. Your burden, your struggle, your loss.
It is seen.

The Archangel
Kathleen McCluskey

The battle worn warrior, his blade dripping with the blood of the damned, sighed deeply. Michael sat on the nearest rock as his heavy head hung in heartache. His long dark hair clung to his face in sweaty strands. The armor that had seen him through many battles, was now tarnished and stained with remains of the fallen. He slumped his shoulders and tried to compose himself. Michael’s once pristine white wings were now stained with crimson polka dots, the bottoms muddy with blood and earth, he flapped them violently. Large feathers floated about him as he pulled them in close to his body.

He stood and stretched, sheathing his broadsword. Michael looked around at the battle torn earth and shook his head. The mighty archangel looked at the carnage. He knew that his broadsword had taken the lives that he now stepped over. He was looking for those that had summoned his ancient adversary. The mighty Cithraul was a formidable foe, his minions were loyal, and gave their lives for their master. Michael had already sent the malevolent evil back to the underworld and was now focused on the cult members that summoned the wickedness.

The cult members were oblivious to the ramifications of summoning the Cithraul. When the name of his mighty archenemy is spoken during a spell, Michael awakens. The guardian of the innocent, waiting bound in marble, will remain vigilant for eternity.

Devil Wings
Harrison Kim

I sit forever clasping this stave, rained on by your so-called God, my wings two stone birds on either side of a keyhole, open to the wild. You, the sinner, bow on your knees, hoping for my head to drop, to allow your soul a flight through the gap. Yes, you are still within your body. There is only one way out of your sin and guilt. Take the razors and slash a straight cut. To make sure, clasp the knife tight, slit your own throat. Release yourself and my head will drop.

All it takes is the will to be free. Freedom is there, on the other side of the keyhole, and can be reached only through your willful actions of repentance. Beyond will be emancipation, heaven in emptiness and weightlessness, liberation from your own body. Once released, your purified soul will rise before me cleansed, and fly through the keyhole gap, into the immortal beyond.

Go ahead, hit your body harder, smash into your bones until the flesh crushes into bruise. Of course, that won’t be enough. It never is. You’ll have to take up the knife, and slash. After all, sinner, God is dead and you can and may accomplish anything. This will be your last and greatest goal. Imagine the power and pressure of your guilt, and let it move you!

I will be here after you finish, my head of stone falling forward as you rise through the gap. When you’re past me, I’ll snap my neck back and no-one will know any difference, except for the sight of your corpse still kneeling with the bloody blade beside it and the knife through its neck.

Soon
Nina D’Arcangela

I sit in repose and wait. She comes, or so the wind whispers. My bride, my forever-after, or rather my for-now; there have been others – she isn’t the first, nor will she be the last. Her song rang my ears in dramatic soprano fashion as flame licked her flesh, and I knew she would be mine. Eleven hours endured, yet still she pulls a charred breath. What hair didn’t crisp matted into the mélange of near liquid skin and cloth; so much agony, such useless suffering. I have waited near on a full whip of this moon for her to come. Soon, my sentinels confide, very soon.

The Giver

November 1, 2023October 20, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

The baby lies in the crib, struggling to breathe. Her parents are passed out in the next room, the television screams overpowering her feeble cries. She is on the edge of the veil. This little thing is so frail—I envy her delicateness. She will pass from this life to the next as easily as a sparrow flies through shade.

Impervious, I travel anywhere I please on this planet—unaffected by heat, ice and flame. I explore it all. Lava has sizzled on my cold skin as I sunk into molten depths and I rose up to find myself unscathed. I once sought to drown myself in the deepest cracks of the ocean floor. I walked along the barren depths for an age, but eventually I again rose, unscathed.

Immortality hangs around me like a chain. I am the First Darkness. I am the Father of Death. Shtriga, vrykolakas and strigoi… I have many names. I have been here from the beginning and will likely remain until the end is memory. I have limitless power, but this tiny, weak thing goes where I may not.

I bend over the human trifle, a shadow moving within shadow. I have a gift.

I slide my hand beneath it, cradling the flesh clad bones against my palm. It shifts against me, mewls and falls still. They never fight. My omnipotence quells the mortal struggle. I am inevitable. They sense it.

I stroke my finger along the sallow cheek. It smells of feces and nicotine. The baby is naked, but for the bloated diaper. I trace the web of blue beneath the skin. There is life here. It belongs to me so I may choose: take or give. I choose to give.

I open my mouth and the gates of Hell gape wide. Here have passed kings and paupers, creators and destroyers, mothers and daughters… I do not discriminate. I descend upon the infant, my lips of ice do not warm on her fevered flesh, and breathe into her.

I am the keeper of life force, and a taste of this I send into this child. Her chest swells at the incoming gust, nearly bursting the sacs of air within, but she holds. Her baby mind lights up, synapses firing as they form a new network beyond the map to mediocrity they were originally programmed for. I breathe into this child and it lives.

“You will suffer,” I whisper to the infant. “But your suffering will give you depth. You will burn, but your heat will warm this earth.” I lower the baby back onto the stained crib mattress. Her breath is strong now. She is strong now. She will do much in a lifetime before I return and take back my gift.

I exit the crooked, grey trailer in its nest of junk. It sags in an unkempt copse of tree and shrub. Tattered remnants of plastic bag and paper tremble in the bushes like ghosts. A skinny dog watches me from beneath the splintered wooden stairs. He whines softly, a plea to leave his life to him, in spite of suffering. His blood smells sour and doesn’t call to me.

I leave the hovel, following a trail of moonlight. Anyone watching would see only the shadow of a cloud passing across the moon’s face. Some, more keen, may notice the dancing of dry leaves at my silent step. Only the mad would see my true form.

I have given a gift, and now I must receive a gift to retain the balance. There is no method to my choosing. I am neither good nor evil. I am yin and yang. I am the eternal circle of life. I spy a tent draped in white roses, and I move toward it.

Behind the tent is a small, yellow house. The scent of golden anticipation wafts toward me, drifting through twilight, and I follow. It leads me up the wooden siding, through a trellis of wisteria, to find an open window. Thin eyelet curtains are the only barrier between me and the heady odor that calls. I traverse glaciers. I push through ice sheets that trap mammoths. I meditate on mountains so high the air can’t climb them. I push through the curtain easily.

A young woman lays in a tumble of sheets. Her hair is tangled from restless sleep. Laid out on a nearby chair is a dress of white satin and sequin. Veils, silk flowers and ropes of pearl cover a bedside table. She smells like hope, love and lavender dreams. I lick my lips and move toward her.

I stroke my finger along her blooming cheek. It smells of perfume and musk. Her bare shoulder lies exposed where the sheets have fallen, cream against white. I trace the web of blue beneath the skin. There is life. It belongs to me so I may choose: take or give. I choose to take.

I slide my hand beneath her, cradling the flesh clad bones against my palm. Her head falls back, leaving her neck open to me. I descend, a shadow moving within shadow. I take a gift.

I open my mouth against her skin and the pulse of her blood warms me. I pierce her, and all of her joy flows into me. I fill with her essence, a rich and fragrant life. I drink deeply until she goes cold and I grow warm. I lower the woman back into her cocoon of linen and depart. Outside, beneath the trellis of heavy, purple flowers, I find night bleaching into dawn. I make my way silently through the tent, and toward my own repose.

In the tent, I pluck a rose, hold it to my face and kiss it. My lips are still wet from her blood and the petals curl and stain with red. I inhale deep, relishing my rich and fragrant life. Immortality graces me like a chain. I place the reddened rose on the altar and depart.

It is my gift.

∼ Angela Yuriko Smith

Not My Annabella

October 4, 2023September 30, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

Annabella thinks she is the custodian of the happy ending in her narrative. She slips through gravity into a character she decides. I watch her from the wings of the theatre of our house, with a mug of tea, and try to enjoy the show.

I like Rapunzel best, and Lady Macbeth least. Ophelia and Juliet make me think.

A tourist in her own life, sightseeing here and there, a magpie picking up roles to take home.

Words remembered from some place, but she summons my attention, delivers them sincerely as if her own sweat exists in every syllable; and as I bend down and kneel at her feet with a proposal on my lips drying like spit, she hurts me with sworn untruths.

I cannot stomach the drama in an empty theatre, her performing as if I am the lights, the music, the audience, so we walk to the park where she can have her audience. I indulge this once.

We hire a rowing boat. Annabella tells me she loves me which sculpts the clouds into angels and unicorns. The sun is shining and daffodils and tulips in the park decree it is spring. She smells of lavender and her voice, singing The Owl and the Pussy Cat, tickles my ears.

Annabella wonders how the oars sound as they caress the water; if our boat leaves an echo on the river the way someone’s laughter does on a listener’s smile; if the swans make a sound when they glide and stop, glide and stop, and how the eddies sound to the fish beneath.

Her hand trails in the water like a vapour trail in the clouds. She likes to leave a mark wherever she goes—my Annabella.

And she loves me, she says. And it is spring, and we are rowing nowhere in particular, and I close my eyes, just for an instant and pretend she isn’t lying.

Raindrops land on my eyelids. April showers. As I row the boat back the way we came, I think of the umbrella stand in our hall. It is always empty because she leaves them whenever she remembers to take one. She used to joke it was a way of making it easy for family and friends to buy her a present.

I bought her one once – a duck handle, which she said she adored – for two weeks.

Am I an umbrella of hers waiting to be held, only to be forgotten? Are there enough umbrellas in the world to catch her lies like rain?

Back at home, I say I need a shower. My hurt needs to be wet. The soreness lubricated after her abrasive tongue. Standing akimbo in the shower cubicle with the tiles swimming in and out of vision, I resolve to possess a greater beauty than her: the pure truth.

It has to be done.

Annabella is cooking something aromatic for supper, but it will go to waste. Soon she will know my feelings, and I will need to shower again.

~ Louise Worthington

Damned Words 55

September 27, 2023September 29, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Laosha
Marge Simon

When the Plague Doctor invited her to accompany him through Wicken Wood, Laosha was thrilled. So it was on a fall morning when the autumn air made her skin corpse stiff with chill, they set off. The Doctor never smiled, his lips were always wet and red as a festering sore. Laosha had enough smiles for them both, and told him so, but he only frowned. The journey was supposed to be all business until they were on their way back. She hoped he’d be stopping at some of his comrade’s lodgings, perhaps to share some dark magic for her own use. Of course, the Plague Doctor’s business was death, which he would be bringing to various residents of Wicken Wood.

Laosha was a sharp young woman. Everything about her was so, from her eyes to her chin, to her pokey thin elbows and knees, which she hid beneath her shadowy crepe cape. She was also quick witted, but alas, not this particular day. She was enjoying the crispy smell of leaves and loam, and thinking how yummy the meat pie in her pocket would taste when they stopped for lunch. Thus, she didn’t notice that her babbling was annoying the Doctor. Dangerously so, in fact. When he halted his mule and glared at her, her heart froze. With a snap of his fingers, he turned her into a log.

Silas, the Woodsman’s boy was out checking his traps when he came across log Laosha. He was instantly drawn to her, what with the coy little sprigs of weed in between her cracks. Indeed, she took his fancy. Silas was not very astute, but he knew his logs. He took her home to meet his family. Helpless, poor Laosha burned brightly, keeping the family cozy all night long.

Basilisk
Charles Gramlich

Out of dirt and dying greenery, he is being born. From the pregnant earth. He is the Beast in the Wood

Only a mouth at first. So that he may masticate and consume. And grow. But then he begins to weave a skin of bark. It is tattered, incomplete, but holy with hunger. In time it will become an armor no weapon can pierce.

Next, an eye. So that he may pick and choose what he wishes to eat. The most nutritious, the most succulent, the most beautiful. Such as yourself. But he has no limbs and cannot come to you; he must make you come to him. And so he trains his gaze to entrance, enthrall, bedazzle. He will stare you into the caress of his teeth.

Lovely as death, he lies. Lovely as blood and rot. Infected with fungi and worms. Acrawl with the husks of beetles. Do not look! Do not turn your head into that gaze. If he sees you, he will know you. He will own you. And upon you he will feed.

From the Forest Floor
Miriam H. Harrison

She could taste the detritus of the forest floor, smell the decay of moldering leaves, but she saw nothing. Existence was a slow process—it didn’t happen all at once. She was, but not fully. Not yet. More leaves would fall and decay. Winter’s snow would come and depart. But then, maybe then, amid the springtime rains she might look out and see the stirrings of life. She might even be ready to pull herself up from the forest floor, to lurch and lumber among the growing greenery once more. It would not be long, then, before she felt the hunger of the hunt. Not long before she again tasted the warmth of blood, felt the thrill of the kill, proving that she lived. Until then, she waited in her darkness, sipping at death, decay, existence. Waiting, knowing her time to drink deeply would come.

Lack of Quorum
Elaine Pascale

The forensic scientist estimated that the victim had been alive when the dismemberment began. She claimed that the bites and scratches were from “a nonhuman mammal.”

The mortician was concerned that the prosthetics would be noticeable to the mourners. An open coffin had been insisted upon, which was unusual with damage to this extent. He believed he had seen these types of injuries before. He remembered being astounded that humans could inflict such harm on each other with only their bare hands.

The detective had repetitively walked a grid. He had looked up and down, he had combed the grass and used tweezers beneath the bark. It felt as if some supernatural force had inflicted implausible violence on the body and then disappeared without a trace.

The journalist had been warned to keep details from the public. She had no problem adhering to that counsel; the facts were so vague that there was very little to let slip.

The one thing they were in agreement on was the intent of the bloody utensils that had been left behind at the scene.

Salvation
RJ Meldrum

The hunter followed the tracks of the moose. He was way off the beaten track, but determined to make the kill. He had no concern for his own safety; he was the apex predator, the lord of the forest. Nothing could harm him.

There was a tangle of fallen logs in front of him. Keeping an eye on the prize, he climbed over the damp logs without paying attention to where he was placing his boots. He felt his feet start to slip. Unable to recover, he reached down to grab hold of the logs to steady himself. His weapon slipped and it discharged into his calf. He dropped like a stone. He lay on the ground, amongst the damp leaves and rotting, fallen trees. His leg was on fire, the pain emanating through his body. He tried to rise, but it was impossible. His leg wouldn’t take his weight. He considered his options. There was no cell phone signal, not this far out. He lived alone, so no-one would miss him. He realized he was in trouble. He cursed his luck, wishing he’d put the safety on. He looked to the sky, praying for his god, any god, to send deliverance.

Darkness fell. He heard movement, but couldn’t see the source. It had to be another hunter or perhaps a rescue team. His prayers had been answered.

It was a wolf. He laughed; it was definitely a miracle…of sorts. A left-handed answer to his prayers. God obviously had a sense of humor. Salvation was at hand.

Kitten Karma
Angela Yuriko Smith

The kitten watched the man come closer.

The Snatcher, she knew who he was. He trapped tough Toms in cages and they became helpless. He pulled mothers away from mewling kits and left the babies to starve. When The Snatcher got his hands on one of the Family, they were never seen again. The Family wasn’t happy.

She mewed to let him know she was there—a soft, velvet sound. Another human would have missed it but The Snatcher was listening for just such a sound. He stopped and turned toward her hiding place. He would find it. She was counting on him too.

He walked almost directly to her and knelt in the dry leaves to peer into the dark space in the dead wood. She mewed again, just to let him know she was there and followed with a loud purr. She wanted him to know she was happy to see him.

His face filled the opening between the fallen logs and he grinned. He was happy to see her too. Putting on his rough leather snatching gloves, he poked his hand into the dark, reaching. She backed up a little, tiny heart pounding in her chest. She mewed again, encouraging.

He was encouraged and he lay down in the detritus and thrust his arm in up to the elbow. She let his fingers graze her fur and she batted his hand to let him know how close she was. He adjusted his position and lunged for her… as expected.

The kitten jumped back as the metal teeth of the hidden trap snapped down on his wrist, breaking it. The boys that had set it earlier would be surprised to see what they caught. The Family was grateful for their help. They would be sure to leave some meat.

From Within
Kathleen McCluskey

The land beneath the giant oak held an ominous secret. The beings that dwelled deep in the ground often made their way to the surface. They delighted in causing mischief and spreading their particular type of chaos. The terrified forest gnomes knew to avoid the area at all costs. Their very lives depended on it. The beings from within enjoyed the tiny, sweet tidbits that the gnomes’ bodies afforded.

Fallen branches from the oak began to rumble; the fairies and pixies covered their ears; they knew that the inevitable was about to commence. Out from the ground the creatures emerged, gnashing their massive teeth and sniffing the air. They all put their heads back in unison and howled. Their large tusks glinted off of the dabbled sunlight as they moved through the forest. The thick, black hairs that extended out of their heads shook and rattled; creating a hissing sound that echoed through the forest. They began to flip over rocks and other debris in search of their favorite treat. Their large talons left deep gouges in the forest floor.

The leader smiled broadly when he flipped over a fallen log and discovered his prize; forest gnomes tried to flee in every direction. The beast lifted his thick paw and crushed four gnomes; blood squirted out from between his toes. He looked around and immediately began to eat the gooey remains of his find. He slurped and sucked down the pieces of sweetness; blood dripped off of his chin. A low guttural purr emerged from the leader. He licked his fingers and his whiskers twitched. He was satisfied with his find and made his way back to the mighty oak. There he sank back down into the nothingness until the next time to feed.

Rest Stop
AF Stewart

His footsteps snapped the brittle twigs and cracked the dry leaves littering the forest floor, the crunchy noise mixing with his panting breath. Sitting down on a rotting log to rest and wipe the sweat from his forehead, he gasped, lungs heaving. He couldn’t remember now why a walk in the woods seemed like a good idea.

Still, it was pretty, and the air fresher. A hint of pine lingered within a late summer breeze, masking the stench of decay from woodland detritus; above him, that tender undertone of wind rustled through the foliage. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sound breaking the serene silence.

Before another set of footsteps snapped the twigs and cracked the leaves.

He turned, heard the bang of the gunshot too late, felt the hot slice of the bullet enter his brain and then nothing.

Nothing but bones in a shallow grave.