As I looked into the mirror, I found it hard to believe it was my own reflection. When did I get so old?
I traced every line on my face back to its cause. The ones around my eyes due to squinting from reading in bad light with failing eyesight. The receding hairline, when it used to be standing room only on my head. My lips, once full, now tight, cracked and pale. My face, well formed with a chiselled chin, now thin with sunken cheeks.
Time just passed by so quickly. The doctor removed the mirror and checked it for signs of misted glass. He looked towards my family who stood around my bed and shook his head solemnly.
As they put me in the coffin and nailed the lid shut, I wondered how long it would be before my face started to putrefy and rot to such a degree that I would not be able to recognise myself at all.
“How… How could you let this happen?” she crooned as the young boy lay motionless in her arms, blood trickling from his cracked skull. “Why choose him when there are so many others?” Inconsolable, the mother stood and limped back to their home where she placed his still body on a rock bench.
The afternoon and evening spent grieving, she finally drifted off to sleep. In her dreams came the answer, but not one she expected.
“Do not shed a tear for the young one, he was meant for things unkind in this world and could not have stopped himself, Giver of Life.”
“Things, what things? Couldn’t stop himself from what?” the mother asked of the Taker of Life.
“Things I cannot explain. Things that would break you, tear him from you, make you wish you’d never given birth.”
Jerking fitfully, even her dream mind could not fathom a world in which her young son was taken before manhood, before he was old enough to claim a wife who would bear him children of his own. She spat at the Taker of Life, “Nothing could make me wish such a thing! You took him because of greed and corrupt desire – do not claim nobility as your cause. You’re evil! I should tear your effigy from the temple, you do not deserve our reverence.”
As her heart seized, the winged God sighed. “Woman, I speak the truth. He was not destined to be mundane; he would have brought about an end to all. Do you not see what resides in his soul?”
But a mother’s grief can never be sated with prophetic words, nor could she see beyond the love that tinted her sight. The Taker knew of this but did not wish the breeder to suffer. “Kind woman, hear me clear – your boy would have brought ruin to the village, he would have led riots that would have crumbled our civilization, MY civilization.” The Taker is not without compassion. “I can seed you another, kinder child.”
“No! Insuetti was my child, I do not wish to carry one of your kind. I want my boy back – damn your village.” Wracking sobs fed the small gasp heard in the waking world.
“Giver of Life, open your eye, see your boy. Do you not see that his blood runs black as the night? Do you not understand that he was the antithesis of all you are? Must I show you the atrocities he would have wrought?” The mother refused to wake and accept her child for what the Taker claimed him to be. Where there was darkness, she could see only light. Where there was malice, she could remember only his joyous grin. Where there was deceit, she could perceive only childish antics.
Left with no way to console the Giver, the Taker showed her a glimpse of what would have come to pass if the child hadn’t fallen to his death. He showed her images of greed and cruelty, of her sweet boy grown to manhood, of the acts of violence he would commit against their people. The plague he would bring upon the land. He showed her fields barren of crops; their village in ashes; men, women and children slaughtered by the droves. All because her child was brought into this world.
Once again, the Taker prompted for her to wake, to see Insuetti with clear eyes, and she did. She woke, looked upon her son with the reflection of the dream-vision playing against the back of her eyes. She could not deny that she had glimpsed the things the Taker of Life spoke of, but she could not accept them into her heart either.
Climbing upon the stone bench the child’s body rested upon, she straddled the young one, drew a sharp rock across the soft flesh of each inner thigh, and bathed her boy in the blood that gave him life with fervent hope that it would bring him breath again even as it stole the air from her own lungs.
Spot is my pet and I love him. My daddy brought him home last week, but already we’re inseparable. He sleeps on the floor by my bed and I feed him scraps from the table when no one is looking.
I love my daddy, too. And not just because he brought Spot home after my dog, Rover, died. Daddy knows everything. He teaches at a major university and is a doctor, though I’m always sposed to remember he’s not a “med doctor” but a doctor of Sperimental Psychology. He says med doctors are just plumbers.
I’m eight years old and one thing that worried me at first about Spot was that he was older than me. So was Rover. But when I asked Daddy if he thought Spot might die soon from old age, he said not to worry, that Rover had died from barking too much and Spot doesn’t bark.
Spot plays all the games I like, as long as I give him clear orders. I especially like to play fetch with him, and he never gets the ball all slobbery like Rover did. The only thing I don’t like is that he’s not as much fun to pet as Rover. Part of it is that he doesn’t have Rover’s soft fur, but I think a lot of it is the ugly black box attached to his head. It gets in the way a lot.
Daddy says the box is really important, though. He says it has lectrodes that control Spot, and that without it Spot would run away. I don’t want that, so I’ll just have to live with the box, I guess. I sure wouldn’t want to see Spot’s picture on a milk carton like those other lost kids.
Annabella thinks she is the custodian of the happy ending in her narrative. She slips through gravity into a character she decides. I watch her from the wings of the theatre of our house, with a mug of tea, and try to enjoy the show.
I like Rapunzel best, and Lady Macbeth least. Ophelia and Juliet make me think.
A tourist in her own life, sightseeing here and there, a magpie picking up roles to take home.
Words remembered from some place, but she summons my attention, delivers them sincerely as if her own sweat exists in every syllable; and as I bend down and kneel at her feet with a proposal on my lips drying like spit, she hurts me with sworn untruths.
I cannot stomach the drama in an empty theatre, her performing as if I am the lights, the music, the audience, so we walk to the park where she can have her audience. I indulge this once.
We hire a rowing boat. Annabella tells me she loves me which sculpts the clouds into angels and unicorns. The sun is shining and daffodils and tulips in the park decree it is spring. She smells of lavender and her voice, singing The Owl and the Pussy Cat, tickles my ears.
Annabella wonders how the oars sound as they caress the water; if our boat leaves an echo on the river the way someone’s laughter does on a listener’s smile; if the swans make a sound when they glide and stop, glide and stop, and how the eddies sound to the fish beneath.
Her hand trails in the water like a vapour trail in the clouds. She likes to leave a mark wherever she goes—my Annabella.
And she loves me, she says. And it is spring, and we are rowing nowhere in particular, and I close my eyes, just for an instant and pretend she isn’t lying.
Raindrops land on my eyelids. April showers. As I row the boat back the way we came, I think of the umbrella stand in our hall. It is always empty because she leaves them whenever she remembers to take one. She used to joke it was a way of making it easy for family and friends to buy her a present.
I bought her one once – a duck handle, which she said she adored – for two weeks.
Am I an umbrella of hers waiting to be held, only to be forgotten? Are there enough umbrellas in the world to catch her lies like rain?
Back at home, I say I need a shower. My hurt needs to be wet. The soreness lubricated after her abrasive tongue. Standing akimbo in the shower cubicle with the tiles swimming in and out of vision, I resolve to possess a greater beauty than her: the pure truth.
It has to be done.
Annabella is cooking something aromatic for supper, but it will go to waste. Soon she will know my feelings, and I will need to shower again.
When the Plague Doctor invited her to accompany him through Wicken Wood, Laosha was thrilled. So it was on a fall morning when the autumn air made her skin corpse stiff with chill, they set off. The Doctor never smiled, his lips were always wet and red as a festering sore. Laosha had enough smiles for them both, and told him so, but he only frowned. The journey was supposed to be all business until they were on their way back. She hoped he’d be stopping at some of his comrade’s lodgings, perhaps to share some dark magic for her own use. Of course, the Plague Doctor’s business was death, which he would be bringing to various residents of Wicken Wood.
Laosha was a sharp young woman. Everything about her was so, from her eyes to her chin, to her pokey thin elbows and knees, which she hid beneath her shadowy crepe cape. She was also quick witted, but alas, not this particular day. She was enjoying the crispy smell of leaves and loam, and thinking how yummy the meat pie in her pocket would taste when they stopped for lunch. Thus, she didn’t notice that her babbling was annoying the Doctor. Dangerously so, in fact. When he halted his mule and glared at her, her heart froze. With a snap of his fingers, he turned her into a log.
Silas, the Woodsman’s boy was out checking his traps when he came across log Laosha. He was instantly drawn to her, what with the coy little sprigs of weed in between her cracks. Indeed, she took his fancy. Silas was not very astute, but he knew his logs. He took her home to meet his family. Helpless, poor Laosha burned brightly, keeping the family cozy all night long.
Basilisk Charles Gramlich
Out of dirt and dying greenery, he is being born. From the pregnant earth. He is the Beast in the Wood
Only a mouth at first. So that he may masticate and consume. And grow. But then he begins to weave a skin of bark. It is tattered, incomplete, but holy with hunger. In time it will become an armor no weapon can pierce.
Next, an eye. So that he may pick and choose what he wishes to eat. The most nutritious, the most succulent, the most beautiful. Such as yourself. But he has no limbs and cannot come to you; he must make you come to him. And so he trains his gaze to entrance, enthrall, bedazzle. He will stare you into the caress of his teeth.
Lovely as death, he lies. Lovely as blood and rot. Infected with fungi and worms. Acrawl with the husks of beetles. Do not look! Do not turn your head into that gaze. If he sees you, he will know you. He will own you. And upon you he will feed.
From the Forest Floor Miriam H. Harrison
She could taste the detritus of the forest floor, smell the decay of moldering leaves, but she saw nothing. Existence was a slow process—it didn’t happen all at once. She was, but not fully. Not yet. More leaves would fall and decay. Winter’s snow would come and depart. But then, maybe then, amid the springtime rains she might look out and see the stirrings of life. She might even be ready to pull herself up from the forest floor, to lurch and lumber among the growing greenery once more. It would not be long, then, before she felt the hunger of the hunt. Not long before she again tasted the warmth of blood, felt the thrill of the kill, proving that she lived. Until then, she waited in her darkness, sipping at death, decay, existence. Waiting, knowing her time to drink deeply would come.
Lack of Quorum Elaine Pascale
The forensic scientist estimated that the victim had been alive when the dismemberment began. She claimed that the bites and scratches were from “a nonhuman mammal.”
The mortician was concerned that the prosthetics would be noticeable to the mourners. An open coffin had been insisted upon, which was unusual with damage to this extent. He believed he had seen these types of injuries before. He remembered being astounded that humans could inflict such harm on each other with only their bare hands.
The detective had repetitively walked a grid. He had looked up and down, he had combed the grass and used tweezers beneath the bark. It felt as if some supernatural force had inflicted implausible violence on the body and then disappeared without a trace.
The journalist had been warned to keep details from the public. She had no problem adhering to that counsel; the facts were so vague that there was very little to let slip.
The one thing they were in agreement on was the intent of the bloody utensils that had been left behind at the scene.
Salvation RJ Meldrum
The hunter followed the tracks of the moose. He was way off the beaten track, but determined to make the kill. He had no concern for his own safety; he was the apex predator, the lord of the forest. Nothing could harm him.
There was a tangle of fallen logs in front of him. Keeping an eye on the prize, he climbed over the damp logs without paying attention to where he was placing his boots. He felt his feet start to slip. Unable to recover, he reached down to grab hold of the logs to steady himself. His weapon slipped and it discharged into his calf. He dropped like a stone. He lay on the ground, amongst the damp leaves and rotting, fallen trees. His leg was on fire, the pain emanating through his body. He tried to rise, but it was impossible. His leg wouldn’t take his weight. He considered his options. There was no cell phone signal, not this far out. He lived alone, so no-one would miss him. He realized he was in trouble. He cursed his luck, wishing he’d put the safety on. He looked to the sky, praying for his god, any god, to send deliverance.
Darkness fell. He heard movement, but couldn’t see the source. It had to be another hunter or perhaps a rescue team. His prayers had been answered.
It was a wolf. He laughed; it was definitely a miracle…of sorts. A left-handed answer to his prayers. God obviously had a sense of humor. Salvation was at hand.
Kitten Karma Angela Yuriko Smith
The kitten watched the man come closer.
The Snatcher, she knew who he was. He trapped tough Toms in cages and they became helpless. He pulled mothers away from mewling kits and left the babies to starve. When The Snatcher got his hands on one of the Family, they were never seen again. The Family wasn’t happy.
She mewed to let him know she was there—a soft, velvet sound. Another human would have missed it but The Snatcher was listening for just such a sound. He stopped and turned toward her hiding place. He would find it. She was counting on him too.
He walked almost directly to her and knelt in the dry leaves to peer into the dark space in the dead wood. She mewed again, just to let him know she was there and followed with a loud purr. She wanted him to know she was happy to see him.
His face filled the opening between the fallen logs and he grinned. He was happy to see her too. Putting on his rough leather snatching gloves, he poked his hand into the dark, reaching. She backed up a little, tiny heart pounding in her chest. She mewed again, encouraging.
He was encouraged and he lay down in the detritus and thrust his arm in up to the elbow. She let his fingers graze her fur and she batted his hand to let him know how close she was. He adjusted his position and lunged for her… as expected.
The kitten jumped back as the metal teeth of the hidden trap snapped down on his wrist, breaking it. The boys that had set it earlier would be surprised to see what they caught. The Family was grateful for their help. They would be sure to leave some meat.
From Within Kathleen McCluskey
The land beneath the giant oak held an ominous secret. The beings that dwelled deep in the ground often made their way to the surface. They delighted in causing mischief and spreading their particular type of chaos. The terrified forest gnomes knew to avoid the area at all costs. Their very lives depended on it. The beings from within enjoyed the tiny, sweet tidbits that the gnomes’ bodies afforded.
Fallen branches from the oak began to rumble; the fairies and pixies covered their ears; they knew that the inevitable was about to commence. Out from the ground the creatures emerged, gnashing their massive teeth and sniffing the air. They all put their heads back in unison and howled. Their large tusks glinted off of the dabbled sunlight as they moved through the forest. The thick, black hairs that extended out of their heads shook and rattled; creating a hissing sound that echoed through the forest. They began to flip over rocks and other debris in search of their favorite treat. Their large talons left deep gouges in the forest floor.
The leader smiled broadly when he flipped over a fallen log and discovered his prize; forest gnomes tried to flee in every direction. The beast lifted his thick paw and crushed four gnomes; blood squirted out from between his toes. He looked around and immediately began to eat the gooey remains of his find. He slurped and sucked down the pieces of sweetness; blood dripped off of his chin. A low guttural purr emerged from the leader. He licked his fingers and his whiskers twitched. He was satisfied with his find and made his way back to the mighty oak. There he sank back down into the nothingness until the next time to feed.
Rest Stop AF Stewart
His footsteps snapped the brittle twigs and cracked the dry leaves littering the forest floor, the crunchy noise mixing with his panting breath. Sitting down on a rotting log to rest and wipe the sweat from his forehead, he gasped, lungs heaving. He couldn’t remember now why a walk in the woods seemed like a good idea.
Still, it was pretty, and the air fresher. A hint of pine lingered within a late summer breeze, masking the stench of decay from woodland detritus; above him, that tender undertone of wind rustled through the foliage. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sound breaking the serene silence.
Before another set of footsteps snapped the twigs and cracked the leaves.
He turned, heard the bang of the gunshot too late, felt the hot slice of the bullet enter his brain and then nothing.
He was a big man, tall enough, and his shoulders could stand two bushels of grain. By day he worked the docks of a mighty river. He lived alone in a tin-roofed shack near the pier, avoided rum, spoke only when he had to, but that was before the last war. Now the river folk were gone and the storehouses along the river were dark and empty.
He sat on the bank, chewing a sassafras root. Once a frothy blue highway for barges and fishing boats, it was sluggish and rust colored. In fact, a perfect match for the shoe, the only thing left to remind him of her. He’d found it by the campfire, brought it to the spot where the river turned southward to the Gulf. On a whim, he’d stuck a few pathetic purple flowers in it. A token of their love? Not exactly.
Her name was Violet and she was the last woman on earth. In fact, as far as they knew, they were the last two people. All the food was gone. No surviving animals, no fish or birds. Even the vegetation was dying or poisonous. They were starving. He was a big man, a strong man, and he was very hungry.
Idly, he wondered what happened to her other shoe.
Gene looked at the photograph of his family. Death isn’t pure, he thought. It’s damn filthy. It chews and spits, leaving you half-digested until you eventually dissolve.
He watched the virus take them. Minions of quietus ravaged their bodies until souls departed through fevered brows. The infection killed them quickly. But it never let go. A collective consciousness still carried their undead frames. Shuffling feet and hands scraping against the boards nailed over the kitchen doorway were all he could hear anymore.
What little strength his mind retained had been used to pretend they weren’t there—trapped together, rotting away… But nothing remained in the world to divert his attention. He hadn’t seen another living person in weeks. He considered if he might be the last. In a way he hoped it were true. Then at least humanity would be unchained from the nightmare and could finally rest.
Guilt tightened his gut, more than pains of hunger. Why had he been spared? What made him immune? Was it punishment for some forgotten sin he committed? Maybe it was just shit luck. He preferred to assume it was only his misfortune; it made the most sense.
His eyes lazily rolled to the makeshift barrier keeping a ravenous, zombified family from eating him alive. He wondered how long it would hold; but realized it didn’t matter. Sure, he’d suffer an agonizing death if they broke through, but no one would ever know of it. He sat alone in a miniscule blip of time. Human life no longer held meaning. History had been erased and would never again be recorded. In a way, he didn’t even exist.
He found that to be a comforting thought. It settled his nerves, calmed his raging heart.
Fingertips released their grip. The picture of his family rested next to a shotgun on the table.
As a calm settled within, he picked up the gun. Peering into the box of shells to see how many were left, he made his choice.
On certain nights, when mood and moon strike a perfect balance, things beyond actuality stir. Forces shift along the winding winds of autumn—the ones chasing indistinct half-whispers through forest leaves—before they settle. Where and when you can never be sure, but tonight a derelict house becomes the chosen place. An overgrown decrepit structure, a relic of eras forgotten or romanticized, it drips in an ideal ambience of uncanny echoes filtered through endless history.
An indistinguishable groan shudders through the bones of the house and a chill gust of air swirls tiny circles in its layers of dust, sliding down the moonlight streaming in from the broken windows. The breeze prances along the floor in time to heavy reverberating footsteps; another strange distortion in the sedentary grime of an empty hallway. A rustle of weighty wings follows the footsteps and a long black shadow creeps over the moonlight, as the doors to an abandoned ballroom creak open.
The silence of the next moments extend, waiting like a predator, until…
“It is time.”
The atmosphere sizzles with a hiss, an alteration in the dim light, and a blurring of mortal existence. A scent of sulphur morphs into the stench of decay and cigars welcoming the soft breath of something unseen. Slowly, an oozing green mist permeates the room’s stale air. The filmy haze squelches into diaphanous skeletal forms, transfiguring into recognizable shapes and limbs, giving substance to ghostly corpses. Ashes swirl scattered grey patterns across the floor, that now resounds with the click of heels and the squeak of leather shoes.
Brassy strains of music waft around the room, an orchestral waltz slightly out of tune, and laughter trails the melody, cackling from cracks and corners. As the ethereal instruments play, they dance with the clatter of bones and the swish of tattered gowns, sweeping the rotting decadence of unholy death in a morbid semblance of joy and art. Tirelessly they whirl, hour upon hour, far beyond the chime of the midnight clock, until the dawn pushes its tendrils into the sky breaking the spell.
Only then do they stop, sighs of unfulfilled longing swirling around the ballroom, before the revelry falls silent. Daylight skips across the floor from cracked windows and spectres morph back into mist as the ripple of death reclaims its own. Dark wings shiver the air and a black shadow cuts past the morning sunshine. Leaden footsteps echo down the hall until the dust settles into the quiet beginning of a new day.
She pondered again how he might taste. It was a distracting thought, and the more she thought about it, the more loudly the subtle pulse in his throat seemed to beat. She nodded to all he said, but heard only the rhythm of his blood.
Could she still contain her hunger, or would this be the day when she sank her fangs into his throat? But that seemed too quick, too simple. Perhaps instead she could start at his chest. Peel back the skin and muscle, pop the ribs out of her way, pull his heart right from his body. She imagined how it would feel in her hand—a warm, wet weight to hold, to crush, to drink oh so deeply. Salty-sweet, perhaps. Thick and pulpy, certainly. She shuddered at the thought, the thrill, the thumping of his heart that beckoned her closer.
Even so, she sat. She sat, she nodded, she smiled. She continued as she always had. Reminding herself that however sweet he may be, her imaginings of him were sweeter still.
I entered the bar. The man in the booth motioned me over. I sat opposite him. He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
“Name, date of birth, address.”
I wrote down the details, then returned it.
“This her maiden name? And the address where she grew up? Before she knew you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me ask you one thing. Why can’t you just divorce her?”
“She’d take me to the cleaners. I have a girlfriend. She needs to go.”
“Do you want to know what’ll happen to her? I make the same offer to all my clients. Some do, some don’t.”
“Yes.”
“Look at my glass.”
He covered it with his hands. When he removed them, it’d disappeared.
“Voodoo. It isn’t just dolls.”
“Where did it go?”
“That’s the key. I sent it into the future.”
I didn’t believe him; the disappearing glass had been a trick. He was covering up the truth. I played along.
“Is that what you’ll do to her?”
“That’s the plan. But why do you think I needed the details from a time before she met you?”
“To find her in the past?”
I started to understand what he was suggesting, but I still didn’t believe him.
“I won’t deal with her in the present. I’ll return to the past, find her and send her to the future, just like I did with the glass. She’ll no longer exist in this timeline. You won’t be able to meet her. You won’t be able to marry her. The cops won’t come to your door, your family and friends won’t miss her. How can they miss someone they’ve never met?”
My face betrayed me.
“If you don’t believe me, leave. If you want rid of her, pay me.”
I decided. I paid, then rose to leave.
“One thing, I give no guarantees.”
“You said you’d get rid of her.”
“I will, but think about your relationship. All those moments you shared will be gone. She’ll be removed within the next hour. Decide. What I’m about to do cannot be undone.”
“I need to be free.”
“So be it.”
I left. I didn’t believe the story he’d told me, but then I thought, why ask for all those details about her? I decided it was a reassurance, to make me feel better when she disappeared. When he killed her.
I drove home, turning into the driveway of our five-bedroomed house. My law practice afforded us such luxury. The door opened and a strange man stood staring out at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“You must be lost; this is my home.”
I dug out my driving license. The address told me I lived in a poorer, working-class area of the city. I belatedly remembered my wife encouraging me to pursue law school, working two jobs to support us. I remembered her helping me study to pass the Bar exams. I remember telling her I couldn’t have done it without her. It seemed I’d been right.
Pen of the Damned 