“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.
She was always the last child to leave the school.
At first, she would beg to stay and help the teachers, but something about her didn’t sit right. Her dirty, tangled hair and taped up glasses made her ugly. She had a desperate quality about her, like a starving puppy. She always stood a little too close for comfort and talked a little more than was necessary. The teachers found excuses to send her home.
In later years, she began to misbehave. She would start fights on the playground, vandalize the bathrooms and smart off in class. Whatever she did, she always got caught. The teachers gossiped about how stupid and troublesome she was as they sipped tea in their lounge.
It’s like she wants to stay for detention, they’d say. Then they would move on to her dirty clothes and her broken tooth. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. What happened to her?
They were right, of course. She did used to be a good student, and she did want to stay for detention. She arrived before the custodian unlocked the doors in the morning, every morning. She stayed until he shooed her home. She never missed a day in 4 and a half grades—and then she missed the rest of them.
She would have been pleased to know that she became every teacher’s favorite student after the fact. They named the gymnasium for her and celebrated her birthday every year with a pep rally. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. How could that have happened to her?
But something about her still didn’t sit right. With no place else to go, she of course came back to wander the only safe place she knew. She would stand a little too close for comfort, creating cold spots and shivers. She tried to help after class, but again, no one appreciated her efforts. The teachers found excuses to go home.
Eventually, the school closed. No one wanted to teach there. No one wanted to be students there. Rumors grew faster than children and turned just as vicious. Tales were spread about a murderous custodian, a sadistic principal, a teacher who practiced the dark arts… seeking answers, they buried the truth.
The truth is she stays there still, alone. There is no custodian, principal or teacher—evil or otherwise—to keep her company. She trails down the empty halls, humming to herself and making minute dust devils spin on the cracked tile. She doesn’t notice the emptiness because for her it has always been that way. She stays at school, not because anything holds her there, but because she has no where else she wants to be.
She was always the last child to leave the school.
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.
Pamela laid out the breakfast bowls on the kitchen table as her youngest son, Jason read quietly. His older brother, Michael was busy running up and down the upstairs corridor screaming like a banshee whilst pushing his favourite toy car along the walls. Jason was 6, his older brother 8 but the way Michael acted it was though his maturity had stagnated or even started going backwards.
“Michael!” his mother shouted. “Stop that racket and come down here for breakfast.”
“No, I won’t.” came the defiant reply.
Pamela dropped her head in frustration. She looked across at Jason and smiled. Then she frowned. He was such a good boy but hated that a brief thought had crossed her mind. She loved them both equally, but Michael made it so difficult at times, and she loathed those fleeting moments of favouritism.
Jason was inquisitive and helpful. Michael was a tornado bringing mayhem and disaster on whichever located he visited. If ever Pamela wondered out loud what the time was, Jason would run to the nearest clock in order he could furnish his mother with the answer. If ever she was rushing about because she wasn’t sure what time the bus to the shops was due, she need only ask, and Jason would retrieve the timetable from the kitchen drawer to find out for her.
Michael had become strangely quiet, eerily so, to be precise. She made her way up the stairs to discover that he had raided her makeup drawer. He had used her lipstick to write swear words all over the wallpaper. Talcum powder was also covering the landing carpet. She screamed.
Jason called up to his mum in fright, asking what the matter was. Pamela marched over to Michael’s bedroom door and attempted to enter. He had pushed something in front of it and refused to budge.
“Look at the state of this place. Why would you do that?” She shouted.
“It wasn’t me, it was Jason,” came the lame reply.
With that she turned and walked sullenly back down the stairs, tears in her eyes. She was at her wits ends.
“What’s happened?” Jason asked, his eyes full of genuine concern. His mother just shrugged. Jason’s eyes were so full of love and caring that her anger had briefly ebbed away.
“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s just your brother’s made one hell of a mess. God knows why he misbehaves. I just don’t know what’s in his heads. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to your father when he gets home.” She gently stroked his hair and told him that he’d best get ready for school. He nodded with a smile.
After dinner, when they’d finally got the kids to bed, Stephen, her husband, and Pamela sat down in the lounge to discuss the worsening problem. They discussed getting a child psychologist involved. The school had suggested as much as his behaviour there was no better than at home. They decided to sleep on the idea and talk about it in the morning after a good night’s sleep.
Pamela woke with a start. Their bedroom door was open, and the faint silhouette of a child was visible in the door frame. Stephen sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.
“What’s up sport, have a nightmare?” He asked while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
Jason walked forward into the light and held his hand out. Pamela turned her bedside light on as well so she could see better. He opened his hand to show them.
“It’s just goo,” he said.
Stephen and Pamela looked upon their child, fighting back the vomit and screams. In front of them stood their 6-year-old son, his father’s hammer in one hand, his other containing fragments of skull and lumps of fleshy tissue. Blood dripped through his fingers onto their bedroom carpet.
Pamela broke down first and began to scream. Stephen couldn’t even move or make a sound. Jason looked horrified by his mum’s response.
“B-b-but you wanted to know what was in his head,” he stammered. He looked at his father, and then back to his mother. “Mum, you wanted to know. You asked me” Jason began to sob. He let the hammer fall from his hand, and then the remains of his brother’s head and brain from the other. “You asked me, you asked me,” he repeated over and over again as his sobs turned into loud cries.
With no place left for me among the people, I fled to the mountain, my face wet with tears. Better to be alone than tormented. But on the fourth night in the forest, I heard God growling in the darkness and knew I was saved.
I climbed from my tent and stood swaying under the midnight moon. For days I’d eaten only mushrooms and drunk rainwater trapped in puddles and stumps. Sleep had been elusive. I was tired and emptied of everything inside of me from four days ago. And yet, I felt peace for the first time in my life.
God snuffled amid the trees beyond my fire. I heard him cracking sticks and digging at hollow logs. I heard his incisors sharpening themselves as he chewed at some sacrament forbidden to me. I knelt and prayed. I asked his forgiveness; I asked his love. He did not answer
Perhaps, I thought, my fire kept him away. I doused it to blackness. I lay on my back and spread my arms as if crucified, opening myself in invitation. And God came to me. He wore a hair shirt like the ancient saints; he smelled of cedar and hot sweat; his breath was full of meat and blood.
I lay stiff and still. God sniffed my body, between my legs, up my chest, across my face. His tongue was rough when he kissed me. And I put the knife in his throat and ripped it across.
He did not cry out, not with his windpipe severed. His attempt at a roar birthed itself in a dark and sticky rheum that flooded my mouth. The great spirit reared onto his legs and clawed silver streaks in the ebon sky, then collapsed on top of me. His weight was like the kingdom of heaven. I thought I would die from lack of breath.
But I did not die. I lay for a long while beneath him, until the warmth of his body cooled. Then I peeled off his shaggy coat and pulled it around my own shoulders. It leaped and twitched with life. In past times I might have named that life as fleas and ticks, but I knew now they were angels, which live always on the body of God. And so now they lived on me. For I had ascended to my rightful place.
Far down the mountain below me, I saw the lights of the village I’d fled so recently. It made a place of emptiness, of great loneliness. Just as, a few days before, I had been lonely myself amid its crowds.
I took off the ex-God’s hands and fitted them over mine, with their long, curved black claws. I pulled his sharp white teeth and placed them in my own mouth, though I had to cut my jaws wider to accommodate their majesty.
I would go to the village now, clad in glory. And they would believe. They would know how foolish they’d been not to recognize the God inside me. For that, they must be punished.
She ambled along the path to the lake, soaking in the lovely spring day, walking alone, but enjoying the tranquillity of the gentle breeze and the smell of pine from the trees. She needed some peaceful reflection after the break-up.
Brad never wanted to reflect on anything, always engrossed in work, work, work. She felt ignored, especially lately, like he barely noticed her. That’s why she planned this getaway, but it fell apart from the beginning…
The fuss he made coming to the cabin. She barely got him into the car. At least he was quiet on the drive. From the start, he spoiled the whole weekend retreat.
And now he was gone. It had only been a couple of hours, but she missed him already.
Oh, Brad, why did you have to treat me like that?
She loved him from the moment she saw him, with that wonderful smile, those kind eyes. Being near him made her feel so safe. Yet, he turned out like all the rest.
Men were so mean.
Denying he knew her. Or that he loved her. Yelling for her to untie him. Brad even pretended not to know her name.
After all she did for him, all he meant to her.
She showed him her journals, where she detailed all their encounters. The day he casually brushed past her in the street, touching her sleeve. The numerous times they stood together in line at his favourite coffee shop. All those nights she watched him through his windows. She reminded him of other things, too. Hadn’t she arranged that accident for his work rival? Scared off that slut who flirted with him? She bared her heart and declared her love.
He looked at her as if she was insane. That hurt.
Why couldn’t he see it?
They were meant to be together. They had a connection. The cabin was supposed to be the start of their future. He was supposed to be the one. Yet Brad rejected her, after all the weeks they spent together. Men always rejected her, no matter how hard she tried to please them.
I never want to hurt them, but I get so angry… She sighed. They’re the ones that make me do the awful things.
She chose a knife this time. Brad sneered when she picked it up and threatened him. Sneered until she slashed him. Then he cursed at her, called her awful names, and threatened to go to the police. She couldn’t let him do that, so she started stabbing.
That’s when he screamed, and I saw the fear in his eyes. I always see the fear at the end.
She sighed. She never enjoyed remembering the break-ups. Always so messy.
I suppose I better head back. There’s still a lot of work to do. Bodies don’t dispose of themselves.
“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.
Bloodied by my own thoughts and that which rages within me, I suffocate in the nearness of my own mind as it ruthlessly brutalizes what some would consider a soul.
Living with such agony is part of my nothingness; I cannot avoid the anguish that comes to me through doors that should be well sealed, shielded from such hated devastation. I beg this putrescence with which I exist for the briefest moment of solitude, longing to be unaware for an infinitesimal reprieve, yet it will never be granted.
I am fated to grasp that which I would avoid knowing. Trapped by what adores me with an innocence my very inhalation of breath betrays, longing all the while for an existence that remains lost to me. My mind is my confinement, escape a possibility that will shred all that I cherish.
All that I cherish… these words said with such conviction only prove me more the fool than I know myself to be. The jester’s role I choose willingly for the eternity that it shall be mine, as I would not wish its anguish nor bestow its grandeur upon another. What shines with blinding clarity from within gnaws its way toward the surface never to escape, ensuring my absolute isolation from the magnificence that would sing me to sleep and offer a world of brighter murkiness which dances just beyond reach.
Torture, this is within my reach. It engulfs my entirety, dulling each glimpse of the gleam caught by another’s eye, muddying every surface that would shine as the me who might have been had I not been locked away in this dungeon of madness. The key to my lock? I see it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eye to. It is sentient – it knows of the sway it holds over me. Entranced, I watch it dangle and shimmy in a breeze born of the hollow cavern that was once a thing of childlike promise within me. Yet sway further away it does with each passing eon encapsulated within the fraction of a moment. One upon another these waves of time pound relentlessly against my consciousness. Each moment stretched into an infinity while watched from below.
Ahhh, from below – that is where it crouches, watching and waiting for a chance to slip my guard; a minuscule crevasse in the wall though which it can seep. This night I believe it has gained entry for the echo of silence is all too deafening to allow feigned ignorance the opportunity to shield the undeserving such as I. Quivering bravado the only weapon against this consuming hatred.
I hear the thunder begin to rumble, I feel it resonate through my damaged psyche, I sense what is coming. Alone I will face all there is to conquer, all there is to fear. Tonight, something of greater menace stalks through the shadows of this storm.
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.
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.
Pen of the Damned 