Damned Words 60

May 7, 2025May 5, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

What Was Left
Miriam H. Harrison

She had told them something was wrong. Time and again she had said that she wasn’t quite herself, that things were getting worse, that something needed to be done. First they said it was her weight, and told her to come back after a diet. Then they said it was her cycles, as though discomfort was the price of femininity. As her cycles ebbed, they said it was merely old age, as if the concerns hadn’t gone back to her youth. When at long last they opened her up, they were surprised to see what was left of her. Rust and dust and cobwebs filled the space where her heart and hopes should be. It was too late, they said, shaking their heads as if she were the one who let the clock run dry. Wheezing, creaking, rattling, she laughed as she left them. After an invisible lifetime, it was a relief to be seen.

The Operator
Lee Andrew Forman

With blackened hands, The Operator approached the ancient mechanism; a rusty toolbox hung from one arm. After placing it on the cold floor he rubbed his palms together. He opened the top of his rectangular companion with care, splaying the trays apart on squeaky hinges. From within he retrieved an iron handwheel. With careful eyes he inspected its every surface. He blew the dust from its threaded center, then raised it above his bowed head. A symphony of desperate cheers resounded behind him.

The crowd quieted while he aligned the wheel with its intended place, and carefully screwed it tight. Silence made the room itself sweat. Then, a low hum came from deep within the machine. Its dormant innards turned and life surged through its pipes. The room creaked and shuttered as the bygone contraption was reanimated from its slumber.

The vents in the ceiling opened, and in flowed exactly what they wished and waited so long for.

The Eliminominator
Marge Simon

It was a rusty old useless piece of machinery, that was obvious. Why we had to keep it in our one spare room was a mystery, but since it belonged to Grandpa, nobody dared suggest we get rid of it.

I grew up despising the thing. I wanted my own room and it wasn’t fair that this thing of Grandpa’s had priority. We weren’t even supposed to touch it. I waited years for the opportunity to destroy it. One summer, I had just turned twelve and everyone was gone on a picnic. I said I would be swimming with friends, and nobody questioned it. When they’d departed, I took a sledge hammer to it, whacked it up and down hard as I could. Nothing happened. I may as well have been using a feather.

After that, it had my full attention for other reasons. In fact, I actually tried to get Grandpa to tell me what it was for. To my surprise, he grinned really big like he was tickled I asked. Since he’d not spoken or smiled – or even moved from his bed since before I was born, that was a surprise. He motioned me close and whispered how it was a Eliminominator. Said it was his first and only invention and what it could do. He told me how to start it up, but he made me promise never to turn it on.

Okay, you probably think I didn’t keep my promise to Grandpa. You think I maybe tried it out on my stupid kid brother Bobby, the one I had to share a room with, right? You think I made Bobby lie down at the juncture where the knives popped up on the wheels after I’d placed a bucket for the blood in the space provided, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?

Programmed
RJ Meldrum

Long after the end, the machines kept moving. The factory was fully automated and the machines, only artificially intelligent, had no sense their creators were gone. The factory was hermetically sealed so it took years for rust and decay to have an impact. Eventually it did and most machines ground to a halt, parts seized by rust or lack of lubrication. One machine kept running, mechanically building cardboard boxes for the product and after the supplies dwindled to nothing, simply going through the motions. Its arms mimicked the action of folding and sealing.

The human burst through the door onto the factory floor. The disease had destroyed humanity, but some had remained alive. They were here to loot. There was metal here, aluminum and other rare metals to trade. Electronic eyes followed them as the human moved down the manufacturing line, gathering precious material. The human stood in front of the only functioning machine, its arms blindly moving in obedience to its programming. The human craned over to get a better look and in doing so, stepped over a red line on the floor. The human, born after the disaster, had no sense of impending doom. The machine, similarly unaware, simply picked up the new raw material and did as it was programmed to do. It folded.

The Drip
Kathleen McCluskey

The pipes hadn’t been touched in decades. Hidden deep within the crumbing asylum, they snaked through the walls like veins of a corpse, rusted and forgotten. The maintenance crew avoided the lower levels, muttering about sounds, the whispers and the dripping that nobody dared investigate.

Until tonight.

Evan, desperate for overtime pay, descended into the dark. His weak flashlight barely cut through the heavy air. It smelled like old blood and wet iron.

The pipes groaned, too, an organic sound. Evan told himself that it was just stress, fear. Nothing more. He found the main valve, rusted and covered in cobwebs, and reached for it. The metal was slick, greasy, almost sticky.

Drip.

The noise was coming from behind him. He turned, shaking. Nothing but the endless pipes. He yanked on the valve, it didn’t budge.

Drip.

It was coming from the pipes, like something trapped inside bleeding out. Evan leaned closer. In the cone of his flashlight, he saw that it wasn’t water.

It was red. Thick and warm.

The valve shuddered violently in his hand, the pipe screamed. A wet, gurgling shriek echoed from the metal. A skeletal hand clawed free, its fingers wrapping around Evan’s throat before he could scream. Rust covered nails punctured his skin, dragging him down against the pipe. As Evan thrashed, more arms slithered out, pulling him inside.

His last breath was a bubbling choke, swallowed by the twisted mass of metal and bone.

Above the asylum’s walls trembled as more pipes burst.

Deep below, something ancient laughed, and was still hungry.

Torn Asunder
Elaine Pascale

More than anything, Clara wanted to discard the old relic that was rusting away in her attic. She thought she had discarded her family years prior, but her recently deceased Aunt Sophie’s lawyer had found her and bestowed the industrial fossil on her.

There was a belief, set forth by great-great grandfather Silas, that the iron shafts and gears preserved from the family’s first factory was what bound them together. “Anything happens to it, and the family is torn asunder,” Cara had been told many times when she was young.

“It didn’t bind me to anyone,” she muttered, frowning at the rusted albatross. It had come with a note, but the note was far too faded to read. She could make out the words “torn asunder” and she assumed the note contained more warnings about keeping the object.

At least I can clean it up a bit, she thought, get rid of some of the dust and cobwebs. She grabbed a towel and proceeded to rub the gears.

A puff of smoke emanated from the relic and a large shadow darkened her attic.

“Who dares to wake me?” A djinn asked, his voice ominous.

Cara was too frightened to speak.

The djinn eyed her. “You didn’t read the note?”

“N-no. I couldn’t.”

“I warned Silas that a note was not the best way to prevent disaster.” The djinn glared at her. “He promised me eternal rest in that.” He pointed to the factory piece. “And I would grant your family wealth.” He scowled, “But you defied the conditions and woke me.”

“It doesn’t matter, the family is already torn apart,” she insisted.

The djinn’s scowl transformed into a smile. “You misunderstood. You get wealth, which will bind the family financially. Whoever wakes me, will be torn asunder…literally.”

Just Like Her Father
A.F. Stewart

Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.

It was what he loved, the purr of a good engine, the turn of a crankshaft. He was a first-rate mechanic, working shifts at different jobs over the years from garages to factories. He always called it his passion.

It wasn’t his only passion, though. Drinking ranked just as high.

He never took a sip on the job, he saved it all for home. A mean drunk too, swinging his fists, slamming me and mom against the wall, the floor, splitting our lips, giving us black eyes. Mom had enough when I was ten and walked out, leaving me alone with his rages.

At least that’s what I thought. Until the news showed the recovery of a buried skeleton wearing a gold necklace. Mom’s necklace. Then I knew what he had done…and what still needed doing.

Have you ever wondered what a running engine does to a face?

Daddy found out the day he died.

All it took was one quick shove and slamming the hood down with my body weight. Then it was over except the screaming.

A Wheel A Rollin’
Harrison Kim

Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air. This one’s stopped except for a single fresh screw with a shining thread. All out there alone in the Universe rusty and dead on the outside. That single oily protuberance pokes out, that last forlorn hope. Curiosity as Ezekial the space walker bobs near, a tiny, suited soul examining this humungous rusty thing…. attached cameras beaming back to earth what is discovered. He’s a fly on the rust, a piece of white dust against the brown, as he uses X rays and close microscopic focus, as he burns and parts the surface with his blowtorch. We must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all of us humans always looking for more, thinks Ezekial, he was a suicide case after the death of his wife that’s why they sent him up there, a disposable volunteer for this risky job, and he wanted it! The change in his life a miracle, and now to go out doing something interesting, his brain implanted with new attitude changing electrodes, he’s life loving now but it’s for the whole planet not just himself. He will go out doing something important for everyone. His welding torch opens the pipe, funny the hole widens so easily, becoming the face of his now-dead wife. How miraculous! He peers closer and inside the face he sees his whole existence inside that eye everything from his birth to his death…as that eye blinks and covers him. His space suited body and soul absorbed by that shape shifting mass blinking just under the rust on the wheel. After Ezekial disappears the screw extends out further and becomes slightly shinier. It’s found one more drop of oil and Ezekial has joined his loving wife.

The Pipe
Charles Gramlich

“See that rusty pipe?” I asked my victim.

“What? Why are you showing me that?” he asked in his irritating whine.

“Because I’m going to chain you to it and leave you there.”

“No! Why…would you do that?”

“Too many reasons to name,” I said.

“Please, you can’t. I’ll starve to death.”

My chuckle echoed. “Oh, you won’t have time to starve.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t see them but that pipe is full of microfractures. Should have been replaced years ago but it’s still in use. And every day…. Several times a day, they pump boiling water through it. Those fractures are going to give way any time now.”

“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”

“Preach it, brother.”

“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”

“Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t take another day trapped inside your sad, putrid, useless form.”

“Please!”

“Shut it,” I said.

I looped the chains I’d brought around the pipe, then fitted the manacles on my wrists and snapped them closed. A few jerks against the constraints showed that I—that we—were solidly bound. And already the sound of boiling water gushed through the pipe toward me. Would this be the moment when the pipe ruptured? Or next time? Or the one after? The sooner the better.

I should never have possessed this disgusting sack of human flesh. I’d never imagined how clingy a desperate mortal could be. But once the flesh and muscle boil away, the bones won’t be able to hold me. This devil will go back to Hell. It hadn’t been that bad a place. This time, I’ll appreciate it more.”

The Discharge

April 2, 2025January 31, 2025 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The first thirty days after the world ended were the worst, as those days were filled with blame.

Lynette had asked Robbie to help with stockpiling. Just as with the blizzards, as with the hurricanes, and with the tornadoes, he had waited too long and shown little to no effort in trying to accumulate food or water. That had left them to the rations that Lynette had been able to scrounge which had been pitiful at best. Prior to the virus, the stores were veritable wastelands due to trucks being stuck on the wrong side of the bombed bridges. Then, the virus had struck and the peninsula was quarantined.

Lynette had just declared Robbie “the death of them both” when he showed her the vomit gun.

“We will get what we want and it won’t cost us a thing or put us in any danger.” He grinned around yellowing teeth.

“Where did you even get that?”

“Dark web.”

She scowled, partly because his breath was bad and partly because she could not believe that she was stranded with this idiot. “When I asked you to prepare…to get us ready for quarantine…you went to the dark web and got some…gun?”

“Not just a gun, a vomit gun.”

“I heard that the first time.” She eyed the remaining products in her kitchen and estimated that they had five days of food remaining if they consumed only a few crackers and pretzels each day. The fruit and vegetables had gone quickly. They had gobbled all produce before it could spoil. They had no meat, not even canned fish, as domesticated and game animals had shown the effects of the virus first. “And how will a vomit gun help us, exactly?”

“I’ve been thinking…,” he began and Lynette hated that he started most conversations that way. Mainly because she knew that any type of thought was a struggle for him. “We shoot people with it.” He was more excited about this prospect than he should be. “They weaken, like they have the virus, or worse, and we steal their stuff. They are so busy yacking their brains out, that they can’t fight us.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s that simple.”

***

They invaded the community three blocks away from them first. The residents lived behind a gate; the gate was to keep people like Lynette and Robbie out. Even without a vomit gun, their type was not welcome in the high income community.

Robbie had not practiced with the gun. His ineptitude was evident when the gun jammed and they were chased to the other side of the gates, prodded by pitchforks like the monsters they appeared to be.

“The death of us both,” Linette reminded him as they ran back to their home, where Linette was forced to further divide the remaining crackers and pretzels.

***

The following day, Robbie set up target practice in their yard. He aimed for the unstable bullseyehe had constructed from an old sheet and Linette’s lipstick.

“I don’t understand it,” he called to Linette, “there’s no vomit.”

She leaned out the window and pointed to the sheet. “There is no mouth or esophagus or stomach on that sheet, either. Where would the vomit come from?”

Robbie considered this for a moment and then a sparkle reached his eyes. He crouched low to the ground and waited. Lynette went back to fussing over rations and contemplating ways to stretch them further when her tactics were interrupted by a bellow from Robbie.

“Well I’ll be!” he shouted. “It works, Lynette! Our problems are solved!”

She peered out the window to see a rabbit on its side. “What did you do?” she asked with alarm.

Robbie looked at the creature with a combination of regret and relief. “I guess it was too strong for him. It’s meant for people. But we know it works.”

He thought he would cheer her up by adding, “I’ve been thinking…we go back out tonight. In the meantime, we can clean and eat this, right?”

***

Lynette begrudgingly put on black clothes, a black knit hat, and a mask to return to the gated community with Robbie. The prior failed invasion informed this attack: they knew to have the gun ready.

They entered a lavish home by having Robbie wiggle through the dog door. He had lost enough weight that he had room to spare. Once inside, he unlocked the door for Lynette.

He started to explain something, but Lynette put a finger to her lips. She hoped they would be able to steal some supplies without notifying the homeowners. She had a bad feeling about the gun.

Robbie nodded and they headed to the kitchen. Lynette found boxes of pasta and bags of beans that she quickly slipped into the pillowcase she had brought. She was so engrossed in pillaging that she failed to notice Robbie stiffen beside her.

“What are you doing?” a man’s voice yelled. Lynette turned to see an older couple standing at the entrance of the kitchen. The man held a baseball bat and the woman cowered behind him.

“I’m hungry,” Robbie responded, as if this were a suitable answer to the question. He aimed at the man and pulled the trigger of the vomit gun. Within moments, the gun’s moniker rang true and the man bent over, clutching his abdomen and splattering vomit on the linoleum floor.

His wife shrieked and Robbie shot her, too. Lynette could not believe that two normal sized humans could produce so much vomit.

“Help.” The woman struggled to get the words out. She and her husband were obviously weakened and any type of ailment could prove deadly in this new world.

“Robbie, we gotta go,” Lynette said, finding it difficult to take her eyes off the failing couple.

“I’ve been thinking…. “ Robbie turned to Lynette, pointing the gun at her. “There isn’t enough here for me and you. I mean for long-term survival.”

Lynette had time to register that the couple had fallen to the floor and seemed eerily still when Robbie pulled the trigger. She realized she had been wrong; he wasn’t the death of them both.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Damned Words 59

February 19, 2025February 13, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Bound in Mater’s Shed
Marge Simon

Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Starlight sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …

The Eye
Charles Gramlich

An eye opened in the forest, a red fleshy eye. Then another. And another. No one realized what they were, or what they promised. Just nature’s oddities, humans thought. People went about their business, using the world as they saw fit. But now the world was watching. It had been asleep for a few billion years but that long nap was over. How long before it opened its mouth too—and began to feed?

My Little Flower
Lee Andrew Forman

Homemade medicine drops between your lips at my discretion. You are ill, that I know. No doctor need visit. One drop, two drops, don’t cry. Your beauty shines too brightly, attracts too many flies. Your protector I was, still am. I’ll make sure they can’t get to you, my dear.

The concoction, a recipe not my own. I paid in a back-alley shop, only known by rumor. Bones dangled from the ceiling and candles moved shadows.

I visit daily since you passed, watch this strange flower grow. I wonder if you hear me there, praying to your ghost. I stroke the petals and think of you—my little flower, how I loved you then, now, and forever.

The Blooming
Kathleen McCluskey

The jungle swallowed him whole, the dense foliage closing in like living walls. Sweat clung to his skin as he pushed deeper, following the rancid stench that thickened with every step. Then, he saw it. A monstrous bloom, red and fleshy. It was huge, sprawled against the base of a gnarled tree. Its petals, speckled like diseased flesh, pulsed so slightly as if breathing. The center gaped open, a cavernous maw lined with slick, ridged folds. The air soured farther, thick with decay. Flies buzzed around something lodged within the gaping cavity. A bone, yellowed and splintered, jutted from the depths.

His stomach clenched. The camera in his hands trembled, the lens trained on the grotesque marvel. He had found it! His colleagues had mocked him, now here he stood in front of it. He raised his camera, sweat rolling down his fingers. The moment the shutter clicked, the petals twitched. A wet, sucking noise oozed from within.

A spray of warm, gooey fluid hit his arm and face. Searing pain flared across his skin, burning, eating through his flesh like acid. He staggered back, his vision tunneling as his nerves ignited in agony.

The petals unfurled and surged forward, grabbing him, pulling his collapsing body closer. Enveloped in the wet, pulsating petals, he writhed while needle-like spikes protruded from the fleshy walls. They pierced his skin and anchored him in place while the flower’s insides began to constrict. His scream barely escaped before the flower slammed shut. Muffled sounds of feasting echoed through the jungle.

By morning, the jungle was silent. The flower sat motionless, its petals gleaming. The only sign of what had transpired was the faintest smear of red on the tree roots.

The Flower Ear
Harrison Kim

My flappy flower ear can hear everything, the tiny tendrils quivering, taking in all you say. There are millions of my listeners everywhere, as everyone knows by now. My spotted flesh and eardrum ring sit planted at the side of every dwelling and business, subway entrance and even on the trees in the park. All whispers caught. All words taken in and all discussions acquired. You might think you are saying nothing wrong, but fear not, I will decide for you. As my flaps flap and my circle thickens and thins over all my millions of ears, I ponder the value of your existence. Shall I approve of all the things you said and did? No, that is impossible. But there are minor sins and venial sins. Sure, if you embezzled a few dollars, ate all the red smarties, or cheated on your wife, more power to you. You’re a person after my own heart. But If you talked against me personally there can be no forgiveness. I have to say “that’s not very nice,” and show you the consequences.

If you see my flappy ear shimmering over your bed at night, you know it’s judgement time. Rise and clasp the blossom to your heart before it strikes. That way, things will go easier for you. Then the flower will either penetrate, gentle but keen as a razor blade, and become part of you as well as me, or it will suck its ring around your red centre and pull the organ out, chewing and absorbing your treacherous fleshy soul.

Red Spores
A.F. Stewart

A starless night, black as pitch, so the red streak lit up the sky in brilliance and when it landed, the fireball exploded and engulfed half the woods in flames. Sirens screamed as fire trucks and police swarmed the scene, people yelling and pushing everyone back to clear the area.

In the morning, the black SUVs came with the scientists and the quarantine.

Then people started dying.

It happened swiftly, before anyone understood. The cough came first, lungs filling with blood, choking folks on their own fluid. Then the skin shrivelled, dehydration creating a thirst no amount of water could quench. The last stage was the bloating, where the abdomen swelled to twice its size before bursting, spewing putrid guts and crimson spores into the world.

But that wasn’t the worst.

Where the spores landed, plants grew within hours. Giant pulsing leathery flowers, spotted red, emitting a hypnotic hum, enticing people with their siren call. No one resisted, no one protested; we were willing prey. Yet, everyone watched in horror as it happened. The crunch of bone, the blood, their screams, your eyes fixed on your neighbours being eaten alive, knowing your turn was coming. I watched my mama die and it’ll be me soon enough.

I want to run away, to shriek, but I can’t. I stay in line waiting to be devoured.

The best I can do is record our story and hope someone finds it…

Once in a Lifetime
Richard Meldrum

It was an invitation-only event. The rich, the well-connected and a rabble of assorted ‘influencers’ were asked to attend the blooming of the century plant. No riff-raff were allowed.

It was held at the Botanic Gardens, an elegant Victorian glass and steel structure housed in one of the city parks.

The invitees flocked to the event, despite the lack of canapés and champagne. This really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The clue was in the name, the plant produced a single flower every eighty to a hundred years.

The cream of local society crowded round the huge plant, cell phones in hand, waiting expectantly for the glistening bulb atop the massive leaves to burst open in a cacophony of color and spectacle. The staff discreetly left the area and made sure the doors were closed.

Standing outside, they listened with muted glee to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from within. Then there was silence. After a judicious period, they opened the doors to see the pile of bodies. It was a well-preserved secret that the bulb released an air-borne toxin on opening.

The Bloom
Miriam H. Harrison

She had first encountered it in her dreams. On those nights, the bloom spread wide and waiting like a lover. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the forest, of course. She knew the cold, slick touch of the naiads, the rough, knotty embrace of the dryads, the sensuous whispers of wisps beyond her touch. But this beckoning bloom was different, promising a singular experience, and she was woken each morning by goosebumps and anticipation.

So began her days scouring through the forest, sure that the bloom itself was more than mere dream. Journeying in and out of the forest soon seemed inefficient, so she gave up on returning home, sleeping amid the trees and stars, hoping that her dreams might draw her closer. And in those dreams the bloom waited, hinting at mystery and possibility.

Her life was lived between dreaming and searching. It was a strange sort of half life. But she did not fear death—she only feared giving up on the search. The search for something more. Something beyond the limits of her life as she had known it.

And so when she finally found it, it only seemed fitting that the bloom would smell of death. Not a threat, but a promise. As she gave her tired self over to its embrace, she felt the singular relief of yielding to the timeless unknown.

Le Fleur
Elaine Pascale

One day, when the Little Prince was tending to his rose, he noticed another plant sprouting. “This is no baobab,” he confirmed, “it’s a seed from who knows where.”

The plant asked for a moment to ready itself, and the Little Prince dutifully turned his back. When the plant announced that it was ready, the Little Prince turned to see the most startling and strange blossom. Its petals resembled tentacles and its core looked like a widely opened eye.

The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.

The Little Prince said, “You should be careful, there’s a war on my planet between sheep and flowers.” The Little Prince examined the plant carefully. “And you don’t have thorns.”

“I don’t need thorns,” the plant sniffed, “I have teeth.”

“And what is the purpose of teeth?”

“It’s not a matter of importance,” the plant replied.

The Little Prince was confounded. For a flower, there was nothing more important than its thorns. Certainly teeth, being so rare, ranked even higher.

“My rose is not going to like this.”

The plant craned its petals to get a better look at the rose.

“She seems mean.”

“Flowers can’t be mean, they’re vulnerable. For instance, while I am talking to you, she could be eaten by a sheep.” The Little Prince wanted to look away from the new plant, but he was captivated.

“Or by me.”

The Little Prince found he had no choice. He was compromised by his affection for both of his plants. He began traveling the galaxy, bringing visitors back with him, to satiate the new plant and keep his rose safe.

Travelers beware: if you find yourself in a desert landscape and meet a child with golden hair and laughter like bells, run as fast and far as you can!

in dedication to Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The Whistler

January 15, 2025December 11, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 9 Comments

The scouting trip had been in the works for months. What had not been planned was the loss of a scout on the second day of the trip.

And not just any scout, they had lost Hayden. Hayden was the troop member who needed the most attention. Each event the scout master planned was precluded with warnings from Hayden’s mother. Hayden had allergies, Hayden had diagnoses and conditions, Hayden required eyes on him at all times.

Hayden was special.

Hayden’s mother’s anxiety had grown with the approach of the camping trip. She had called the scout master daily to remind him that Hayden needed to take his Ritalin. She had explained that he needed his sleep mask and ear plugs even in the deepest, darkest woods. She had produced his inhaler and backup inhaler.

She reminded him that Hayden was special.

Despite Hayden’s mother, or maybe to spite her, the scout master determined to treat Hayden as if he were any other boy as the troop set off into the woods.

That first morning had been accompanied by clear blue skies and a bright sun. Backpacks brimming with supplies and snacks, the boys had told “Whistler” stories as they ascended the mountain.

“If you hear a whistle, run for your life!”

“He will skin you alive!”

“He will eat your eyeballs!”

“He carries a sack of his victim’s bones on his back!”

Hayden had his ear buds in so he did not join in the spinning of tales. His mother had insisted that Hayden needed to listen to nature sounds to ground him. The scout leader had suggested that Hayden listen to the nature sounds of the actual forest they would be walking through, but that recommendation was derided because Hayden was special.

Midway up the mountain, the troop stopped for lunch. This was the first time Hayden disappeared.

”Hayden…” the boys called up into the trees, figuring he had gotten the urge to climb.

“Hayden…” the boys called into the bushes, assuming he was hiding.

It wasn’t until they had finished their post-lunch granola bars that Hayden reappeared.

He pointed at a wrapper and announced, “Those are made in a facility that processes nuts.”

The other boys laughed at the word “nuts.”

“Hayden, where were you?” the scout master asked.

The boy said nothing as he hiked his backpack higher, causing the interior items to rattle.

***

Despite the scary tales they had been telling all day, the boys had fallen asleep at a decent hour from the fatigue of hiking. The scout master was awoken with rising shouts to accompany the rising sun.

“Hayden is gone!”

“He’s gone!”

“The Whistler got him!”

The scout master looked in the empty tent and then asked, “Are you sure he is gone? Can he hear us calling? Are his ear plugs in?”

The boys exchanged quizzical looks.

“Let’s not notify his mother just yet.” The scout master feigned composure. He said this despite knowing how Hayden’s mother was, or maybe because he knew how Hayden’s mother was.

They spent the day scouring the woods, looking for Hayden. That night, no one slept. The boys reported that the sound of whistling kept them awake. They were certain that the Whistler was coming to collect their bones.

“He will drag us around the mountains forever!”

“We will never make it home!”

“Poor Hayden!”

The boys claimed they heard the rattling of bones coming from the bushes. They noted shadows moving through the forest.

“We have to leave!”

“He is after us!”

“We have to face Hayden’s mother at some point.”

The scout master was more afraid of Hayden’s mother than he was of the Whistler, so he asked for one more day to look for Hayden, agreeing to descend the mountain at the following daybreak.

***

The rising sun brought panicked whispers coming from inside the tent. The boys called for the scout master, “We can’t leave the tent; he is right outside, whistling.”

Despite knowing the troop would be worried, or perhaps to spite the troop, there was a whistler seated by the dying campfire, a very special one.

It was Hayden, whistling through his nearly empty inhaler and stripping unidentified hides, stashing the bones in his backpack.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Watch This

November 6, 2024July 10, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The flea market had become a ritual. Greg and Lydia rarely found anything, but when they did, it was heralded as monumental. They called their excursions “fossil hunting,” and many of their finds were truly relics.

Some of the vendors at the flea market were regulars and the couple barely gave their wares a glance. Their apartment only had room for a certain number of salt and pepper shakers or crocheted toilet paper concealers. They focused on the new vendors, and this week the nostalgic display in the corner captured their attention.

“This is so 80s,” Lydia whispered with reverence. She fingered a rack of fluorescent jelly bracelets.

Greg picked up a semi-inflated basketball. “Watch this,” he said, trying to spin the ball on his finger. He managed to nearly clear the trinkets from a nearby table as the ball wobbled and he shifted to center it.

As Lydia was deciding between the lime green fingerless mesh gloves and the argyle leg warmers, Greg called to her, “Remember this?” He was elbow-deep in a bin of records. He pulled an album from the stack and held it up for them both to see. The cover was a hypnotic spiral. Staring at the spiral and relaxing one’s eyes would make the name of the band appear. “This is trippy.”

“That was the first one with a ‘Tipper Sticker’.” Lydia tried to remember what had been so offensive about it. But offensive was as bound to time and place as any other concept.

Greg lowered his voice, “Playing it backward would make a demon appear.”

She laughed. “Right.”

“Seriously. That is what happened to them. To the band.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “They died because their cocaine was poisoned with strychnine or something.”

“Where do you get your information? They were torn apart, long slashes on each of their bodies. Strychnine doesn’t do that.”

He dug in his pocket for some money while she typed into her phone. She turned the screen toward him. “Google says ‘poison’.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. You really think they would publish stories about honest-to-God demons?”

She shrugged “There is nothing honest about it. Just urban legend, but you do you.”

He turned the album over in his hands, inspecting the cover from all angles. “I am getting it.”

“We don’t have a record player.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a relic. When archeologists uncover our apartment from beneath the meteorite that will crush us, I want them to find this psychedelic specimen and know that we were true connoisseurs.”

By the time they returned home, he had scrutinized every inch of the album. Each time he had a new idea about the Escher-esque cyclone on the cover. “That would be what a demon’s lair looks like, right?”

“I guess.” She tilted her head. “Looks like a demented fan with warped blades.

He nodded appreciatively. “That might be what got to the band: warped blades…something made those gashes on their bodies.”

“If you believe that rubbish.” She sighed. “It’s a shame that good old fashioned overdosing has lost its glamour.” She went into the kitchen to make them sandwiches for lunch. “Why would a band play their own album backwards?”

“Because they were in that sophomore slump. They needed another hit; they needed to keep the train rolling.” He pulled the vinyl from the cover. “Watch this,” he said as he spun the record clockwise on his finger while humming the theme song of the Harlem Globe Trotters.

“Wow. They should sell you at a flea market. Your references would be the oldest thing there.”

He began to spin it counterclockwise. “Bet I can make it play if I spin fast enough.” He gave the vinyl a few hard spins before putting his fingernail into a grove.

High decibel screeching came from the album.

“If that doesn’t call a demon, I don’t know what would.” He laughed, but she did not join in.

She felt clammy and dizzy. She began to saw through the hardened bread faster, believing her blood sugar level was dropping.

“Watch this,” he called again, spinning the album faster and making it wail with the placement of his fingernail.

“I…” She grabbed the counter with one hand, fearing she would fall to the floor without its assistance. She heard odd words coming from the record. The words were compelling; the words ordered her to do horrible things.

“Almost sounds like a chant,” Greg said, not noticing the change in Lydia. If he had, he might have been able to save himself.

The words built into a frenzy, a confusion of chaos, the verbal version of the album’s psychedelic cover. Her glowing, red eyes were focused on the knife she had been using on the bread. The chant was about the knife. It told her what to do with the knife.

“This is messed up.” Greg shook his head, believing this was all in fun.

Lydia could no longer remember who Greg was or what he meant to her. She could no longer remember where she was. Her mind was consumed with the knife and with the voices that were imploring her to use it.

The album whirled and the voices wove a powerful, insistent, and necessary story. Her hands felt far away and as if someone else were now in control of them. A part of her waged a war to keep the knife on the bread.

As the album continued to shriek, she lost the battle.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Trash Night

August 7, 2024June 5, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

Hugo watched from his bedroom window as his wife stuffed something into the garbage receptacle he had dragged to the curb hours before. It was 3:15am and she had done this on four subsequent trash nights.

The following morning he decided to ask her about her jaunt to the trash can. Having lived with her for nearly 30 years, he knew he could not speak to her before her first sip of coffee. She had a superstition about it. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? I woke to go to the bathroom and you weren’t in bed.”

She pretended to be concerned with cracking the shells on their eggs. “Hmm? What was that, honey?”

“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”

“You know I’m going through the change. It complicates everything. It’s hard to sleep, eat, or find a comfortable temperature.”

That didn’t satisfy his curiosity about her weekly pilgrimage to the trash cans.

“Maybe we switch sides? I sleep closer to the door and you sleep next to the window…for the breeze.”

“Oh no, it’s bad luck for a couple to swap sides after so many years. We were just talking about that at book club.”

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully before responding. “I thought you talked about books at book club.”

She laughed. “We talk about all sorts of things.”

“Mostly complaints about husbands?”

“Of course not.” She appeared focused on flipping the eggs with precision. “We are supportive of each other’s marriages; we don’t want to promote negativity.”

He saw her spoon a powder onto the skillet. “That’s not salt…”

“Nope. Remember, I told you that Jody Hunter came back from the Amazon. She had an amazing trip.”

“And she brought you back seasoning?”

“Not just seasoning, this is a type of mushroom that is good for women of our age. It helps with mood and clarity.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am adding some to your eggs, too, as you seem to need a brain boost…you don’t remember us talking about this at all? About how she brought back some powders and tinctures and…spiritual icons.”

“Spiritual icons?” Hugo snorted. “She is filling you with nonsense.”

She didn’t answer but stared out the window at the utilities truck that had come to receive their collection.

***

The following week Hugo got up at 5:00 AM and went to the garbage bin as his wife snored soundly in bed. He pulled out several large bags; one had a pinhole leak that dribbled onto his slippers like a dotted line.

At the bottom of the bin was a small blue marble.

Is that what she has been hiding? Where did the marble come from and why did she need to throw it away in the dark of the night?

He took the marble and planned to question her over breakfast.

He waited for her to finish her morning affirmations; she had a strong belief that saying them influenced the outcome of her day. He noticed that she read from a notebook while reciting quietly to herself. She had been adding many new rituals to her routine.

“You know when I was a boy I collected the darndest things.” He began, watching her sip her coffee.

She nodded. “I know you had those matchbox cars. And the coins from when your dad travelled.”

“And marbles. Did I ever tell you about my marble collection?”

She raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s funny, I can’t remember you talking about a marble collection.”

He slapped his knee as if this were all a good joke. “Really? All these years and I never mentioned it?”

“Mustn’t have been a very good collection.”

“Au contraire! It was really something. I had marbles everywhere. Stashed away in jars and bottles. My favorite were the blue.” He pulled a marble from his pocket. “Like this.”

Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?’

“Why did you throw it away?”

“You can’t have that.” She snatched the marble from his hand and raced to the door. From the window he could see her looking down the street at the utility truck that had just taken their garbage and was driving away.

She was frantic, pacing in the street and rolling the marble between her hands.

When Hugo went to the door to tell her to come back inside, she rushed past him into the house and grabbed the car keys. Moments later, she pulled out of the driveway, with no concern for the fact that he needed to get to work and they shared a car.

Thirty minutes later, she returned.

“Don’t ever do that,” she snarled as she threw the keys to him. He had lived with her long enough to recognize when she was furious.

***

The next week, as he tried to fall asleep on trash night, he found her staring at him. “You did something very bad,” she said in a voice that was completely unfamiliar. “You need to learn a lesson.” She showed him a red marble. She then left the room. From the window, he could see her burying it in the trash.

The following morning they consumed a silent breakfast. Hugo went to work as usual, but by late afternoon, he felt sick, feverish. He took to his bed for days.

When he was finally able to leave his bed and go to the breakfast table, it was trash collection day again. He could not believe that he had lost an entire week. He scolded himself for being nearly as superstitious as his wife.

“I hope you’re happy,” he told her. “You planted that idea in my head of the red marble having meaning.”

She peered at him over her half-consumed cup of coffee. “Count your blessings. It could have been a black marble.”

“You’re crazy. I am not listening to any more of this.”

She shrugged. “Marjorie Baker put a black marble in her trash last night.”

He lifted a piece of toast, noting that the trash had already been picked up. “I give. What does black—”

His question was both cut off and answered by the sound of sirens racing to the Baker house.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Pockets

May 8, 2024March 18, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 2 Comments

“That’s adorable and it fits you like a dream,” Anna exclaimed with enough enthusiasm to equal her reaction to the last twelve dresses Tammy had tried on.

Tammy was not as easy to convince. “I just wish I weren’t a size 16.”

“What does the size on the label have to do with how it looks?”

Tammy rolled her eyes. “Easy for your child-less body to say. I’d still be a size 8 if I had stopped at two.”

“And miss out on the incomparable Miss Bliss? What would the world be without her!” Anna was often in the position of cheerleading for Tammy. “Some cause happiness, others impede it,” Anna’s mother used to say. Tammy was of the impeding nature. She would seek misery and wallow in it for as long as she could. Anna always prayed for a change in Tammy, or an end to their friendship that wouldn’t require Anna to do the dumping, whichever came first.

Tammy frowned at her reflection. “Bliss gave me an apron of fat…”

Anna had grown tired of her friend’s dour mood. She had offered to take Tammy shopping and buy her a new dress for her birthday. Anna had even hired a sitter. She hadn’t expected her generosity to be repaid with complaints.

She decided to move away from Tammy and walk about the store before she said something she would regret. She stopped at the rack that was the furthest from the dressing room and pushed through the hangers to alleviate her frustration. When she felt her composure return, she grabbed a handful of dresses in size 16 and returned to the dressing room.

“Maybe one of these?” Anna held her breath, hoping that Tammy would find something suitable so they could leave.

Tammy rifled through the garments, barely glancing at any of them. She was scowling and muttering and Anna feared they would be stuck in the store all afternoon.

Anna’s fears dissipated when Tammy gasped. “Where did you find this? I’ve been through every rack in here.”

“I know,” Anna muttered as Tammy hurried behind the curtain to try on the dress. When Tammy emerged, she had a large grin on her face.

“This one, right Anna? It’s perfect.” She ran her hands over her hips and squealed, “Pockets! It even has pockets!”

“That’s convenient.” Anna agreed. Pockets were indeed the Holy Grail of women’s fashion. Anna was currently rocking a fanny pack due to wearing jeans that had decorative stitching in place of pouches for stashing a debit card and cell phone.

“It’s so slimming.” Tammy continued to admire herself and Anna didn’t have the heart to tell her that the color was hideous and that it looked like a shapeless sack on her body. She was so relieved to finally be done with the shopping excursion that she believed there was no harm in allowing Tammy to see something different in the mirror.

***

The next time they met, Tammy was wearing the dress. They ran some errands at the mall and decided to grab lunch in the food court. Tammy stood in the middle of the horseshoe of food stands, hands stuffed in her pockets and said, “I don’t know what I want.” Anna was accustomed to this ritual, it usually consisted of a discussion of calories over flavor and a list of the prior month of meals Tammy had eaten. This was followed by wallowing in misery that they could no longer eat whatever they wanted. This time, Tammy added, “I wish someone would just tell me what to eat.”

The moment she finished speaking, a man from the kabob stand approached with a tray containing two plates full of food. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, “we need to swap out our grill; this is what was left. We have to discard the food that no one has ordered, but I was wondering if you would like it…on the house.”

Anna’s jaw dropped as Tammy thanked the man and took the tray. “You just wished for food.”

Tammy nodded. “It’s been happening a lot. I put my hands in my pockets and then I get what I wish for.”

“Have you tried asking for money?” Anna joked.

Tammy’s expression changed. “I did. But I got something else, instead.” She nodded toward an empty table. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

When it was time to leave, they could not find their vehicle. Tammy had driven so Anna had relinquished responsibility of remembering where they had parked.

“Don’t worry,” Tammy assured Anna and then put her hands in her pockets. “I wish I didn’t have to be bothered.”

Anna was about to remark on the vagueness of the wish when a man pulled up. “You called an Uber?” he asked.

“—No,” Anna began but Tammy was already climbing into the vehicle.

Instead of being her usual, miserable self, Tammy proceeded to flirt with the driver the entire trip. Anna was fed up and ready to leave once they arrived at Tammy’s house, but Tammy insisted she come in.

“Your behavior was crazy,” Anna scolded as she stepped over the threshold.

“What? That was harmless.”

Anna was about to remind Tammy that she was married when she saw the inside of Tammy’s house. There was a new large screen TV and a full-wall fish tank with exotic fish. The furniture was also new and clearly expensive.

“Where did this come from?” It was no secret that Tammy usually struggled to pay her bills.

“John.”

“He got a raise?”

“He died.”

For the second time that day, Anna’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, he died?”

“I told you I wished for money, but then…”

Anna could not believe what she was hearing. “You made a wish and he died. And you did nothing? You told no one? You didn’t even have a funeral?”

Tammy shrugged. “I didn’t have to. I just put my hands in my pockets—”

Anna had heard enough. She went down the hall to the kids’ rooms, expecting to see luxury there as well. Instead, the rooms were cleaned out as if no one had ever lived there.

“Tammy…where are the kids?”

Tammy blushed. “It’s not really my fault. I made a wish…”

“To get rid of them?” Anna felt sick.

Tammy shook her head. “To be free of this burden.” She gestured to her body, circling her abdomen.

“You have to be careful! Your wishes are horrible. Stop wishing, and get your hands out of those pockets!”

Tammy’s face grew red with anger. She yelled, “For once I wish I could just be left alone! I wish you would go away so I could be as miserable as I want to be.”

Anna did not get the chance to look before she hit the floor, but she guessed that Tammy’s hands had been in her pockets.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Crusty Foulers

January 31, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The text contained only one word: Sorry.

Typically, their exchanges were memes that mutated into gifs that advanced to snarky comments that evolved into competitive complaints about family obligations, traffic, and the weather. This simple, plaintive word was cause for alarm.

Lana tried Facetiming. Then she tried calling. There was no answer. The last time they had been together had been only a few days before when they had returned from a girls’ trip. They had chosen a short cruise, all inclusive. Clara had wanted a few days of not having to cook or clean or worry about calories. Lana had wanted fresh air and stimulation that came from anything other than the fluorescent light above her cubicle and the hold music she so often faced during business calls. Most of all, they wanted time together, uninterrupted. An ocean voyage had checked all boxes and they had packed together on Facetime, approving each other’s choices of vacation-wear.

They had planned to “twin” for their final dinner on board. This was a tradition they had begun over two decades before. At that time, they would twin for school, linking arms and walking the halls as if conjoined. They would infuriate their teachers by going to each other’s classrooms and they drove their parents crazy with insisting that they have twin sleepovers, often squeezing into a shared and strained sleeping bag.

For their twin dinner, they had packed matching dresses, barrettes, purses, and shoes. Physically, they looked nothing alike, yet their twin costume announced to the world that they were inseparable. As they were applying their finishing touches, Clara pulled out a tube of lip gloss from her makeup bag.

“Where did you get that?” Lana eyed the tube that looked naked without a label.

“My evil stepmother.” Clara laughed. “The witch finally did something right.”

“The first time in what…when did he marry her? Fifteen years ago? Twenty?”

Clara smacked her lips together, the gloss adding a coral sheen. “Feels like forever ago. She put a spell on him, a curse on the rest of us.”

“Especially us crusty foulers.” Lana wore the name given to them by Clara’s stepmother with pride. The woman accused them of being barnacles: overly attached to each other and a discomfort to others. She, more than any other, hated their twin games and would often mutter curses beneath her breath as they strolled around arm in arm.

“She talks like a longshoreman.”

“Smells like one, too.”

As Clara’s stepmother never failed to share her disdain for their friendship, this present for their vacation was completely unexpected.

Clara handed the gloss to Lana and watched her apply it. “The funny thing is she said it was created especially for my skin tone. But it works on you, too, and we are opposite ends of the color palette.”

Lana shrugged. “Black magic.”

***

They had both cried when it was time to leave the ship. They had been sad about having to return to their stressful lives, and stressful jobs, and stressful commutes. They had been saddest about having to separate again. In the days after returning, Lana had felt a matchless form of loneliness. Then she had received the mysterious text.

Lana wished she could spend more time trying to reach her friend, but she had to get ready for work. As she showered, she noticed a pain beneath her breasts. When she tried to investigate with her hand, she was met with a surface so sharp that it lacerated her fingertips. Panicked, she rushed to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam away, to see barnacles beneath each armpit and under her breasts.

“This is crazy,” she whispered. She could hear the stepmother’s voice, dripping with vitriol as she said “crusty foulers.” How could they have been so stupid, believing the woman had given a gift with good intentions.

Lana knew she had to see Clara; she had to confirm that the symptoms were real, that she wasn’t losing her mind.

As she drove the short distance between their homes, she saw the skin on the backs of her hands shift from smooth to crusted with protuberances.

Lana smacked her palms on Clara’s door, calling for her friend. It felt as if it took hours for Clara to answer, but it had only been minutes.

“Lana!” Clara’s face was swollen from crying. She flung herself into Lana’s arms. “I am so sorry. I should have known. That witch. I should have known.”

“We only called her a witch to be mean, we didn’t really think—”

“I did,” Clara murmured into Lana’s neck, which was now wet with tears. “I always suspected…the things that went on in that house, the way my dad changed. I just never had proof and now…” She pulled back as if to examine her chest but found that their torsos were fused tightly together.

“Oh my god, pull,” Lana instructed. She tried sliding a hand between them to see if she could unhook them the way a cat’s claws could be unlatched when snagged on material.

“I can’t,” Clara was able to take a step back with her right leg, but her left had fastened to Lana’s. “It’s getting worse.”

“I am going to push you and it might hurt,” Lana warned uselessly, as her right hand had become affixed to Clara’s back. She had an odd recollection of playing Twister when they were younger, and how they had toppled to the floor, tangled together and laughing. As children, they had wanted to be together always. They hadn’t imagined it would be this hazardous.

Lana tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult as Clara’s chest weighed against her own. When she tried again, they fell, landing heavily and unable to do more than squirm against the carpet.

Their bodies were becoming less and less distinct as they combined into one crusty shell.

Clara’s forehead melded into Lana’s nose. “Remember how we didn’t want to leave the cruise ship? We didn’t want to say goodbye?” Clara asked, her lips still able to move.

“Yes,” Lana responded, but it was more of a last breath being expelled as their faces attached.

“Now we never have to.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

The Offering

November 8, 2023October 25, 2023 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 4 Comments

Millie swept the sizeable bug onto the lawn that grew along the cottage. There was no movement from the insect, not even the twitch of an antenna. By all signs it was dead.

She noted that the bug looked like it was sleeping. Just as they say bodies in coffins, before eternal interment, look to be sleeping.

With her foot, she pushed the bug beneath the rose bushes that her grandmother had tended for decades. Greta had been spotted in her garden longer than the next oldest person in the village had been alive. No one knew exactly how old Greta had been at the time of her recent death. There had been a trio of birth certificates issued in her name, all with different dates of birth listed.

Recent death was the correct term, Millie thought. It was never clear if the woman had actually died during previous episodes or if they had only been “scares.” There had been times when the woman had stopped breathing. Her skin would grow cold, her body as hard as a stone. Her spine would appear to curl in on itself, just like the bug beneath the roses. Minutes would pass, sometimes an interval so long that she had to have crossed through the gossamer curtain between worlds. Then her breath would boldly return. Her eyes would flutter as if she had only awoken from a short nap. She would appear rejuvenated, revitalized. Some smirked and said that death was becoming on her. Some did not smirk and claimed she had sold her soul to the devil.

Millie gave the bug another shove and watched as it fell into a hole that had been crafted by a critter.

“Bon appetite,” Millie whispered to the snake or mole that was hidden in the hole, not knowing if it would accept an offering that was already dead.

Millie rubbed the scab on her hand before returning to her chores. She decided that it was perfectly proper to not offer a burial for a bug that she had only known as dead. It had been the appropriate effort: no words, no sentiment. The flowers from the bush would be enough of a tribute.

There had been a far greater tribute for her grandmother. Everything had been to her specifications.

“Not everything,” Millie whispered, rubbing her hand again. There was one aspect of the ceremony that her grandmother would never have agreed to. Then again, her grandmother had put her children and grandchildren through trials and tortures that they had never agreed to.

It wasn’t that the ceremony had been lavish, but it had been unusual. They had been granted a bed burial, even though those had gone out of style when ancient Greta’s great-great-greats had been above ground. The family had received permission solely because the town wanted to close the lid, so to speak, on the woman who had outlived all expectations, and also outlived the patience of all around her.

Greta’s bed had been handcrafted by her father and it was the one possession she had wanted to take with her. The bed had been lowered, by ropes and pulleys, into the massive hole first, its occupant lowered after. The sheet that had been wrapped around Greta had been the mechanism for gliding her into the earth. When the wind caught it, it fluttered like angel wings.

“What a devil,” one of Millie’s uncles had said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief as he stepped back from the open hole where his mother now resided. Millie did not know if he was talking about the energy required to bury her or about the woman herself.

A beautifully stained piece of wood was balanced between the elaborate ends of the sleigh bed so that Greta would not be visible for the remainder of the ceremony. The family members took turns approaching the hole and dropping dirt on top of the bed.

When they had returned to their seats, Millie’s youngest cousin whispered. “The bed squeaked.”

“The dirt landed on it; the dirt put weight on the mattress,” Millie explained.

“No, it squeaked, like when she would hear us whispering at night and get up to grab the switch,” Millie’s younger sister said.

“Hush, little one, it is all in your head,” Millie assured her.

“And there was knocking,” another cousin chimed in. “I heard her knocking on the headboard, just like she did when she wanted her tea in bed.”

“Hush now, that is grief talking.” The scar on Millie’s hand began to burn, just as if she were being branded by a hot iron. Again.

“If the tea was late, or not hot enough, it was the switch again.”

“Let’s not talk of that anymore,” Millie consoled,” those days are behind us.”

“That rap…her knuckles on the board, she pounded just as hard as any man. Just as hard as…”

“…the devil himself.” Millie hid her hand beneath her skirt, the seal that she had been branded with was glowing like live coals. Millie knew that the littlest ones were not imagining things. There had been sounds coming from the bed.

Greta’s final episode had been particularly lengthy, and Millie had been left in attendance. Millie had checked and rechecked vitals. She had held the mirror beneath the woman’s nostrils. She had felt the waves of coldness, ebbing and surging. And she had kept one eye on the switch on the wall, vowing that it would never be used again.

Millie knew what she knew, and she knew when it was time to alert the family. She also knew, when she saw the old woman’s finger twitch as she was being covered with the sheet, that it was time to make the offering.

She had also anticipated the children noticing sounds; she had anticipated the adults ignoring them.

While Greta was capable of making noise on her own, it wasn’t the old woman who had made the springs squeal and the headboard knock. It was the minion that had come to claim the offering Millie had made. She had made it, knowing it would not accept an offering that was already dead.

∼ Elaine Pascale

The Smell

August 16, 2023January 4, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

“What’s that smell?” Ben asked.

Lydia inhaled deeply. “I don’t smell it.”

He stood and walked to her. “It’s you. It’s coming from you.” He sniffed the air around her. “Definitely you.”

“Thanks. Tell me more about how I stink.”

He lifted her arm and brought it to his nose. “It’s the shirt. The shirt stinks.”

She pulled her arm back, insulted. “I just bought this shirt.”

“Well, it smells…like you got it off a dead body.”

“I got it at the thrift shop. That one on Gulfspray.”

“Then it probably did come off a dead body.” He started to go to the kitchen but stopped in his tracks. “There isn’t a thrift store on Gulfspray. That’s a residential area.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Such a gaslighter. If there is no shop, then how did I get this shirt?”

He shrugged. “Smells kinda like you pulled it out of Satan’s ass.” He knew he was right about Gulfspray, he drove by it every day on his commute.

He looked at the shirt again. He had thought it was a red and brown tartan pattern; now it looked orange and tan. “You washed it right?”

“Of course, I washed it!”

“Well, it smells.” He whispered the next part, “And it changed colors.”

“I don’t smell it, you’re crazy.”

As Ben walked into the kitchen, he considered that he might be crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had seen something, heard something, or sensed something that Lydia was oblivious to. He had never had an olfactory hallucination and he took medications for the others. Lydia preferred to live a pharmaceutical-free life and she sometimes disassociated to the point of disappearing. There were times when he would not know where she was or what she was doing and she would return, tight lipped and cementing psychic walls of privacy. He had learned to respect that, and he respected that their relationship was one of feast and famine in terms of intimacy. At the moment, he had little respect for someone calling him crazy or a gaslighter when they were seeing mirages in the form of thrift shops. “It’s in here now. The smell, it’s following me.”

“You’re crazy,” she repeated.

Crazy or not, the smell permeated the house despite the warfare enlisted. Ben tried incense, perfume, and sage. The windows and door were propped open. Nothing made an impact and Ben swore that he could taste the smell. It made it so that he had to skip dinner and that was unheard of for him.

That night, Ben dreamt of spoiled food, rotting carcasses, and noxious garbage dumps. Each hour brought an increase in the olfactory assault, and his mind conjured images in accompaniment.

When he woke, he found Lydia in front of the bathroom mirror, clad only in the shirt that now appeared to be purple and crimson. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to reset the colors, but it still appeared with different hues than the day before.

“You’re wearing that shirt again?”

“It’s my shirt.” She was standing at the bathroom sink, looking at her mouth in the mirror. She was sticking her tongue out as if a doctor were waiting with a tongue depressor.

“What’s wrong with your tongue?”

“nhuthin,” she replied, keeping the tongue on display.

Reading her body language, Ben went to make his coffee and give her some space. The sound of his ancient Keurig was overwhelmed by Lydia’s coughing. “You alright?” he called, bringing the cup of coffee close to his nose in the hopes of quelling the odor. It didn’t work and he was tempted to toss the coffee out and purchase a latte on the way to work, but those coffee pods were expensive, and he hated to waste one.

From the other room, Lydia’s coughs graduated to a throaty gag.

“Lyd? You ok?”

“Fine.” Her voice was raspy and phlegmy to the point of being difficult to listen to. In fact, it was almost the auditory version of the smell. Almost.

Once he was ready to leave for work, Ben gave Lydia a kiss on the forehead. As he pulled away, she whispered, “Spider tonsils.”

“What’s that, Lyd?”

She made eye contact, but the person behind the eyes was far away and Ben recognized this as his cue to exit. If he pressed, she would grow agitated, and her isolation would last longer than he was comfortable with.

She lowered her head and picked at the thread of a loose button. “Spider tonsils,” she repeated.

Ben wanted to ask which one of them was crazy now, but he knew that was insensitive to her very real mental health issues. Experience had taught him that she would snap out of it, and he was looking forward to putting in hours at the office as a respite from the odor.

When he returned home, there was no Lydia and no note. There was only the shirt, crumpled on the floor in the bathroom. It was damp and sticky.

The smell was as strong as ever, but the shirt was no longer the source. The shirt, now blue and green, had no odor at all.

He tracked the scent like a bloodhound. All he found for his troubles was an old candy wrapper and a large, long-legged spider weaving a fresh web in their closet. Without hesitation, he put the spider out of its misery.

Leaving the closet to start dinner, he realized that the smell had disappeared.

Ben ate alone and in peace. He made a plate for Lydia in case she returned hungry. He then showered, finding pleasure in the pleasant fragrances of his hygiene ritual. He was sure that Lydia would return home by the time he was ready for bed.

His instincts had proven wrong, and he slid beneath their scent-free sheets alone. He left one voice message and one text for Lydia but reasoned that more than that would look like he was not respecting her boundaries, and he knew that upset her. Now that his world was without noxious fumes, he could grant Lydia a great deal of grace.

The next morning, Ben pulled a shirt off the hanger in his closet. It was a shirt he had no recollection of buying. The tag was still on it, and it was from a thrift shop. Lydia must have bought it as a surprise for him. He would google the name of the store later, to find out where it was truly located.

Ben felt guilty that he had not given her the chance to give him the shirt; he had been so focused on obsessing over the invasive smell. When she returned, he would be sure to apologize.

This shirt did not smell. And it fit perfectly. He decided to work from home so that he could be there when Lydia returned. She was not answering her cell and it was unlike her to be out of contact for so long. Ben didn’t want to alarm her family, but he resolved to contact them if he hadn’t heard from her by lunch.

The thought of lunch made his stomach rumble, even though he had just eaten breakfast. He tried placating his appetite with a strong cup of coffee, but as he brought the mug to his lips, his stomach recoiled.

He dropped the mug, gagging as the fumes from the spilled coffee entered the small space.

As he cleaned up the mess he had made, he was overcome with a coughing fit. He coughed until his throat felt ragged. Then he gagged. It wasn’t nausea causing him to gag; there was something lodged in his throat.

Moving to the bathroom mirror, he opened his mouth and peered at his throat. Directly behind the uvula, there was a dark shadow. Ben made a low growl in his throat, seeing if the shadow would move. As he watched, a long, spindly spider leg crawled onto the back of his tongue.

He now knew what “spider tonsils” meant and he knew what had happened to Lydia.

∼ Elaine Pascale