Honey Due's Blog, page 5

Cara #1

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When Cara was good, they allowed her to go outside and play in the grass. Alone and completely unsupervised, or so she thought, in any case oblivious to the old nanny spying on her from the front room window, Cara played on the little porch for hours.

Or maybe not.

Nobody had taught Cara how to tell time, so she had no way of knowing how long it had been. They only let her out during the day, she knew that, and it was always warm. She was never let out during the cold times, although Cara didn’t know why. It must’ve had something to do with the whiteness on the ground. Cara was afraid of the whiteness and with good reason. Once, her nanny had gone away during the cold times and when she’d come back, she’d been all red, like she was sick somehow. It frightened Cara and she decided right there she would never go out when it was cold, even if they did let her.

But of course, that was when Christopher was still around. Things were always different when Christopher was around. For one, her nanny could go away sometimes and Cara always liked it better when her nanny wasn’t around. Christopher knew all sorts of games and he sometimes even spoke to her. She used to like it when Christopher talked to her. Always when they were alone, always when nanny was out of the house, because Lord knows what she would’ve done to him if she’d heard him. Nanny never spoke to the little girl. But then, Nanny didn’t sometimes get sad for no good reason, like Christopher sometimes did.

She wished Christopher would come back already, that he’s been gone long enough, but he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t understand. You can’t understand things you can’t hear, except sometimes you can.

At least, she would’ve liked it if her nanny would go away sometimes, like she used to, if she would leave Cara alone sometimes. Because she hadn’t been able to practice ever since Christopher had gone and she was afraid she might be forgetting. Sometimes, in the dark, when she was pretty sure her nanny was sleeping, Cara would mouth the words in perfect silence, trying to remember the exact shape Christopher’s mouth had gone when he’d spoken.

But it wasn’t the same and it always upset Cara to think he might come back one day and then, nanny would go again, but she wouldn’t remember how to say anything and Christopher would never speak to her anymore.

But she couldn’t risk speaking now, because although she didn’t know she was being watched, she knew it wouldn’t be wise, not even mouth the words. There were eyes in the woods that surrounded the house and they saw things and they heard things they weren’t supposed to hear sometimes.

Cara’d always been firmly convinced that something might run out of the forest one day. That some beast would lash out and snap her up in its strong jaws before Cara’s nanny could do anything. And she’d be whisked away into the dark, to live with the beasts. And she’d never been able to tell this to anyone, so there hadn’t been anyone to sooth her and make it all go away.

A doll. One eye. Blonde hair.

Cara didn’t have blonde hair, but she didn’t remember what they called her color. But it wasn’t ‘blonde’.

A teddy bear. Old.

Like nanny, Christopher had said. But Cara didn’t know why he said that, because teddy wasn’t nearly as bad as nanny. In fact, teddy wasn’t bad at all, so how did Christoper know he was like nanny?

But Christopher thought it was funny, because he smiled and Cara smiled too. She liked smiling, too. There were a lot of things she missed about Christopher and she wondered if he might come back again before it got cold outside. And as she sat and thought about cold and old and the darkness, an idea crept into her mind, unbidden and most unusual.

She thought that she didn’t know when the cold would be coming and what if Christopher couldn’t come back before then? What if he was stuck out there in the forest, ‘cause maybe the beast had got him? Cara was afraid of the beast, even more than she was afraid of nanny, but it saddened her to think of him all alone with the beast. It seemed unfair, because if the beast had to take someone, why wouldn’t it take nanny instead?

Cara thought maybe if she could tell the beast that, or at least go and save Christopher, although she wasn’t quite sure at all how she could do that.

She looked down at her doll and thought maybe the beast only has one eye, too. Maybe it’s not as hard to get around it and maybe there is a way, even if Cara doesn’t know about it yet. But first, Cara would have to get around nanny.

And how will she do that, she wonders?

But there’s no time left to wonder, because just then the heavy iron door opens behind her and nanny calls Cara inside. Well, she just calls out ‘Cara’. Loudly.

And Cara knows what it means. Nanny knows about thirty different ways to call her name and Cara knows what each of them means.

Cara, Cara, Cara.

to be continued…

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

Through Empty Windows

Francesca was never the right person to do this and when the rest of the girls had sent her – her, of all people – to find a proper gift for the little one, she nearly lost it. But she couldn’t very well scream her head off at them or refuse. What would her colleagues think of her then?

Besides, they hadn’t meant to upset her. It was just, she was the only one who could squeeze in the time. And she couldn’t quite tell you why she’d wandered into the old bookstore. It wasn’t a place for baby-presents, that’s for sure. But she’d noticed it from across the street, where she was having her third cup of coffee. Uncustomary, but there you have it, her search had proved fruitless so far and she was, frankly, at her wits’ end.

She might not find a gift for the party in there, but she could spare five minutes for a bookstore. When Francesca was little, she used to love bookstores. She would beg her pappa to stop in whenever they found one and he always brought her books from his business trips. But lately, Francesca hadn’t found the time to visit such a place. She’d found herself a foreigner last time she’d been among books, and since then, had quit visiting. It seemed to Francesca that the books always took to yelling after her, of promising all the lives she might have lived and yet did not. And while that had been what had made them so charming in her childhood, now it was just a source of bitter disappointment.

It wasn’t that Francesca was unhappy with her life. Quite the contrary, actually. She was more or less pleased with the way things had turned out. She had a good job, which was tiring, but at the same time rewarding. She’d been happy many times in her life, even though at present, she was not. She had friends and people she loved dearly – among which the mother of this baby she was supposed to be shopping for. Her life was good. It just wasn’t the life she’d envisioned as a little girl.

And sometimes, Francesca felt as if she was living in someone else’s house, in someone else’s shoes. In someone else’s life.

[image error]Photo by Adam Cybulski on Unsplash

The bookstore was small, not the kind of bookstore you saw around nowadays at all. It looked like something from twenty years ago, perhaps more. It was dusty and small and filled to the brim with books. And boxes, which contained in turn, more books. Some of the boxes had clear labels on them and Francesca couldn’t hide a smile, for they were all written with a clear handwriting. It seemed nobody wrote by hand anymore. It was strange, and Francesca found herself remembering a place from long ago. Another bookstore, perhaps, with stories and lives and promises.

She was alone in the bookstore, the proprietor having disappeared in the backroom most probably, so she let the tips of her fingers glide across the book-covers, caressing the faded words, while her eyes marveled at the titles. Some, she remembered from her childhood, but many, she did not know. She realized this and felt ashamed and astounded, at the same time. How many new lives had been written in the time she’d been living her own. While she’d been stranded, marveling at what her life had turned out to be, other worlds had just moved forward, carrying on with their activities, their interesting lives.

And she could’ve been in those stories, except she was not.

She picked out a book, at random. She wasn’t even in the children’s section, but that was alright, she’d forgotten all about the little baby now, all about his present or the festivities to come. It was a book about angels, from what she could gather and she opened it and began reading, right there, standing still in the old bookstore, hoping the world would stand still with her.

Their eyes glided over all that was now lost, the empires sunken into the dusty earth, the lives dead at their feet. And all the people who could’ve ruled the world fallen into poverty just now. What had happened here? What had happened to their children, they wondered?

They’d lost interest, but it wasn’t–

Someone was watching her. Francesca became aware of the two eyes fixed on the back of her neck and for a second, she was afraid to turn, because she knew for certain that the one who was watching her belonged to her real life, and she did not feel like returning to that just yet.

But she closed her book and turned slowly, cautiously, trying to guess who was watching her without having to actually interact with them. The man was old, but with a straight back, eyes narrow, calm and intelligent. He stood in the doorway that led to the back and fixed Francesca with his eye. She had the vague feeling she’d seen him before somewhere, but she couldn’t place him.

‘It’s an excellent book, it used to be one of my favorites, when I was young.’

‘But not anymore?’

The old man shook his head and she thought she glimpsed sadness in his face. ‘What happened?’

‘I grew up.’

He didn’t look away, so she felt she should. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before.’

‘No, I’ve never been here before. I just,’ she turned, her finger to the door, but it all seemed faraway now. ‘I saw you, your store, I mean, from across the street and I just wanted to have a look.’

‘From the coffee shop,’ the old man nodded and Francesca was certain now, there was something weighing on his mind, something in the way he’d said coffee shop that sounded very sad.

‘Yes, I think I’ll buy this.’ She held up her book. She was aware she was blushing now, her cheeks burning a deep red, like her face was on fire. Although she wasn’t quite sure what she had to be embarrassed about.

‘But it’s not what you’re looking for,’ the old man shook his head and Francesca was struck again by how familiar he seemed. It felt as if she’d seen him when she was young, but as if he belonged to another life.

‘How could you know what I’m looking for?’

[image error]Photo by Claudia Soraya on Unsplash

He stepped around the books expertly and Francesca felt certain that if he were suddenly struck blind, he would have no trouble finding his way around them. He came to stand close to her, but again, she looked away. There was something mesmerizing about the old man, but also something dangerous.

‘It’s a talent I have, I’ve always had a knack for telling what people want.’

The man put his hand over hers, suddenly, and it surprised Francesca. She looked at him then, eyes startled and wide, searching his face, but she couldn’t find the danger anymore. She could only find regret.

‘I’m supposed to be buying a present for a friend,’ she murmured the words, but it was as if somebody else was speaking and not her. She felt like a zombie, like her mouth had been taking over and she was under some strange sort of hypnosis. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know what she would like? What her baby might like?’

The old man held her gaze for a few more seconds, then let go of her hand and shuffled into the back of the bookstore again. Francesca stood, waiting for him, watching the doorway until he came back with a small book, which felt very old in his hand. She saw, to her surprise, that the book had no name, no markings, neither on the side, nor the front or back.

He held out the book to her.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s not for you to find out,’ the old book-keeper replied, a soft smile on his thin lips. ‘He will carve out a different story and a different life. And this book might help him in that life. Or not. There is no telling what path one might take.’

Francesca payed for her books reluctantly. It was as if something inside the store beckoned to her, urging her to stay, to never leave. She was frightened, all of a sudden, that if she left the safe confines of the bookstore, she might not find her way again, that it might be harder to justify the life that had made her so happy until ten minutes ago.

And the old man just stood and looked at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. And there was nothing he could do about that.

‘Well, thank you, it was – I was having trouble finding this. You really saved my life,’ she held up the book, smiling in earnest, but the old man did not smile back.

‘No,’ he shook his head, very serious now, ‘I did not.’

Francesca turned her back to him, not knowing what else was left to say and wandered back through the towers of books that stood on either side. Once she reached the door, she turned again, whispering a goodbye, and looked at the bookseller. But by now, the old man had stepped away from behind the counter and was now standing by the large window that looked out at the coffee shop across the street. And Francesca shuddered, because for a second, she thought she saw a ghost, waiting for someone to come back.

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things is available now on Amazon.

Extra Time (short story)

Original by Nicola Fioravanti on Unsplash 

As soon as Mr Hutchins woke up, he was hurried out of the room by a small, tired looking man rambling about late-comers and the possibility of fish. Mr Hutchins ignored the little man, as was his habit upon waking, and gathered his things – which was to say his coat, cap and the little bag of Kit-Kats, which he was pleased to note had remained unopened – and headed out the door.

‘Hey, Jim,’ he heard a voice behind him and turned to look at the line of people that had formed next door. Late, as usual, their neighbors were. Jim Hutchins surveyed the crowd, trying to locate who had spoken, but recognized no one.

The stranger beckoned Jim over, quite obviously not willing to give up his spot in line.

‘Yes?’ Jim asked, as he approached.

‘How you been, man?’

Jim, who by now thought it rather rude to still not know who this man was, smiled knowingly. They must’ve worked on some project together, he figured. See, Jim Hutchins always had that sort of friendly face that endeared him to strangers. He’d always been a keen listener and often enough, a shoulder to cry on, even though he had no idea who was doing the actual crying. And even though, when it had been his turn to cry, he had found himself shoulderless.

One could only assume this man had been one of the cryers. He could just see it, the type of man who just blabbered on and on, during the bus ride home.

‘Great,’ Jim said eventually, realizing that the man was waiting for his answer. ‘Well, not great, you know, I make do, actually–’

But before he could say more, the stranger had started going on about how they’d kept them out here for over half an hour, weren’t even putting up coffee and was this the way to work? Really, not like it used to be in the old days, d’you remember? And what’s this world coming to?

Jim nodded, as was only polite, wondering when he’d be able to extract himself from the conversation. He found he was desperately wishing that the people inside next door would call them in already.

‘Anyway, since I’ve got you here, I was thinking, it’s my dad’s funeral next week and you know, I was thinking you might come.’

Jim turned his attention to the man once more. ‘Say what?’

‘Well, I figured since you…well, you know, since you knew him so well, I thought maybe you’d like to pay your respects and what not. I mean, I know you didn’t actually know him, but our relationship got so much better after that. I think he’d want you to come.’

And before he could utter any of the words that clouded his mind, such as why and really, Jim found himself saying that while he wasn’t sure what he was doing next week, he would do his best to get there.

‘Great, I’ll text you the address, no, I’d better give it to you right now. I don’t think they ever gave me your number.’

‘Right, right,’ Jim offered his pencil as the man searched his pockets for a bit of paper.

‘Yes, there we go. Well, it was great catching up. I’ll see you there, yeah? Next Wednesday, remember.’

And so it was that Mr Hutchins, in full black suit and tie – rented especially for the occasion, as the old one didn’t seem to fit – showed up outside The Home of St Jude, which was a most peculiar name for a church really, early on Wednesday morning.

He hadn’t been at a funeral in ages, he thought, walking up the church steps. He’d brought flowers, because he wasn’t sure if you were supposed to, but didn’t want to seem ill prepared.

‘Petunias,’ the stranger exclaimed when he saw him. ‘You remembered. How very thoughtful.’

He’d obviously been crying and he held on to Jim Hutchins for a good five minutes, sniffing and muttering into his rented suit.

‘I’m really so glad you could be here.’

Jim, who had a job to get to at six, just hoped it wouldn’t take long. He wasn’t prepared to spend all day up here and really, the suit was a bit tight.

Afterwards, when the man had asked him whether he’d come along back to the house, Jim Hutchins knew he really ought to say no, but found himself getting into the man’s car regardless.

He would’ve liked to ask a few questions – indeed, who the man was topped his list – but thought maybe he ought to wait a while. Wouldn’t want to upset him while he was driving, now, would he?

Original by Mayron Oliveira on Unsplash 

For the next hour or so, Mr Hutchins drifted from conversation to conversation, listening to bits and fragments about the deceased, as well as the local sneaker say, how truly wonderful young Jenny was and that awful movie last Saturday. He didn’t say much, for it was not his habit. He felt that maybe someone might notice him there if he opened his mouth to say too much and maybe then they’d realize he wasn’t really supposed to be there. That he hadn’t known the deceased at all and even barely knew the son. And he was enjoying himself, despite the glum atmos.

There’s a certain camaraderie between the left behind, a certain ‘I’m so glad we’re still here, even though he’s not’ and he didn’t really want to leave that. So, he stayed quiet and when the son came to ask him how he was enjoying himself – a somewhat strange question to ask at a funeral – he nodded enthusiastically and told him he was glad he’d come.

‘Listen, about that time,I was wondering how exactly I helped you and your father. I mean, I’m glad I did, he seems to have been a delightful man, but…’

There it was. He’d said something wrong. He could tell by the way the son’s eyes clouded over. Perhaps his father hadn’t been a delightful man, after all. Now, he’d grow angry and they would kick Jim Hutchins out and he would be forced to go back to his solitary existence, where no one talked about the movie last Saturday and nobody wanted to know what he thought of the flower arrangement.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ the man shook his head, ‘Not quite, but after our…sessions, I think I grew exhausted of hating him, you know? And I’m glad I did, I’m glad I got these last few years with him.’

There was something in the way the man’s eye twitched as he spoke about his old dad. It hadn’t been there before, not during the service, or the drive up here, it was something…familiar about his face. Something Jim Hutchins had seen before. ‘Our sessions, of course.’

This man wasn’t just some extra, this man had been a client. Yes, Jim remembered him now, he would come in and dream all these awful scenarios about his father. He always seemed to view his father as a draining force, sucking the life out of every dream his son had.

Yes, Jim Hutchins had worked with this man for quite a bit. Well, Jim hadn’t worked with him per se, he was just an extra, filling one of the pre-assigned parts inside this man’s dream. After all, someone had to be there to help out, to hold the door and be the unmentioned side-kick. That’s where Jim knew him from, he used to come in to work through his dreams – most of them about his father – some five years back.

Yes, yes, he thought the old man looked familiar. Why, Jim had watched him force his way into the house or chase them down the street many times over. Of course, he knew him.

‘Andy.’

‘Yes,’ the man said, a tad surprised.

‘Nothing, I was just…wondering, what were you doing in line last week? Are you in the business now?’

‘Yes, funny thing that, I found that once my issues were done with, I slept like a baby and I’d enjoyed our work so much, I wanted to see what it was like, to sit in on someone else’s dream, to watch them, see what they can come up with. I never work in the psychiatric section though, no offense, I just wouldn’t want anyone else’s bugs jumping into my head now that I’m finally clear. But it’s good work and at least, I’m well rested.’

Jim Hutchins nodded and glanced at the clock. Reluctantly, he said his goodbyes, since he did want to get to his job, but he promised he’d come visiting soon.

Andy called him a taxi and all the way back, he thought about what he’d said. Funny, Mr Hutchins had never viewed his job at something exciting. He came in, he read the script for the day’s dream, sometimes they even threw in a couple lines, for a more “authentic” experience and that would be that. The trouble was, he understood the job. People need to have realistic dreams and it wouldn’t be realistic at all if they only had two people. So folks like Jim came ’round to fill the picture, it was a good job, being an extra, he’d just never seen it as something special. Sure, the younger extras who sometimes came up thought it was all very glamorous, being in someone else’s mind and all. But for Jim, it was a job like any other. Or at least, it had been.

Jim Hutchins would think about Andy’s words for a long time to come. Maybe he was witnessing something special, maybe it could be an enjoyable experience.

One thing was certain though, he had enjoyed himself tremendously at that funeral, that feeling of belonging, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. After that, Mr Hutchins was always polite to the clients, whether they were there for a simple thrill or to work out some issue in their head, he always made sure to smile in their dreams and be helpful. Maybe then, they’d invite him at a funeral, too. Or a wedding.

If Jim Hutchins was nice enough, maybe they’d remember him.

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things is available now on Amazon.

Night Ride #3

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They’re quiet for a second, blinking away until the dark becomes light and they know each other again. Just now, something primal happened, something that shook them down and tore at their deepest fears. What was that? Neither dares to ask because they both know they might not like the answer. It growled, the noises rising from somewhere down low, the very entrails of the beast. It frightened them, but in a way they’ve never been frightened before. It was as if they knew that growl from somewhere light years ago.

Moonlight glistens over their pale, terror-filled faces. Blood-rush and exhaustion mix and give way to a state of utter crazy. He’s been here many times, though she never has. And besides, he’s only been here through his songs, sitting up in the basement, alone at night, strumming his guitar – back when it was still new anew, not once disappointed by the bittersweet promises of their fickle ears. Elation, orgasm, bliss that flooded his veins as he played out the songs in his head. Freedom, but a freedom no one ever understood, no one ever wanted to hear, so the freedom grew dimmer and dimmer until his mother’s eyes, in turn, grew disappointed at the sight of her lost son and he left, heading out into the night, getting into her car. His her, the one who waited for him, even though he can no longer remember her face. He never thought that would happen. No, that’s not true, he did once, after the accident. In a moment of rage and heartache, he started kicking and screaming that he’d never forget her face. But now he has, the one who saved him in that night where he was all alone, the one who loved him when he was at his most unlovable. His one who perished when her car went off the tracks.

Different times, new saviors. Though this one is hardly a savior. She’s just as lost as him, he feels, by the shiver of her skinny arms, the tears that blossomed in her eye long before she heard the monster.

There’s terror in the night and sometimes, there’s monsters. And they hold each other against the monsters and they hide and they pray the monsters won’t find them.

 

And it won’t, for the monster has troubles of its own. The beast realizes, standing still atop the hill edge that something’s different. It’s lost its sense of smell, just like that. But no, it’s too…familiar to have happened just like that. It’s been in the making for a might long time now. Only last year, it failed to capture that hiker who wandered away from his group, and it lied to itself and didn’t want to realize what happened, because the next week, all was fine. As it slashed through their writhing bodies, the creature felt like itself again. It wrote it off as a momentary slip and that was that. But now, it realized, as it surveyed the plain, that the humans must be hiding somewhere in plain sight. It would give all an equal opportunity. Everyone deserves a chance to trick their fate, if they’re clever enough, but this was ridiculous. The two had done nothing to lose him, no smart tricks, no real place to hide. It knew the outskirts of the town well, inch by inch, it had wandered all alone in the cover of night. It was prowled through bitter winters, when no humans would venture out, definitely not for a hunt. Because although not invulnerable, the monsters in the dark were known to put up a heavy fight – a challenge for the most fearsome hunters. It knows exactly where it is, though it no longer recognizes the place.

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The beast has waited so long, perhaps, that the grass and the bushes have grown to be part of it. The world looks different now. It feels the aches in its back, the rough traces of the hunt and it howls. A low, guttural sound that pierces through the humans’ ears and they duck, afraid that the creature might be coming for them. They’re really not that far at all.

But the creature isn’t coming for them. Instead, it collapses on the hard earth, bemoaning its lonely fate. There’s no point in hunting the humans, not now, because it was wrong. There is no time, perhaps it’s waited too long, perhaps that’s just not how things happen, but it knows now it will never have the strength to kill all of them. The years are catching up with the monster, and most of all, the loneliness. It’s been years since it last saw its kind and it realizes now that even if it were to kill every last one of them, it wouldn’t change a thing. Its brothers would still be dead, because of their own foolishness, really. The humans were just doing what was in their nature to do. It was the monsters who should’ve known better than to challenge them.

And just like that, the monster decided that it was tired of being the monster. It had never meant the humans any harm, why should it have to pay for the sins of his long-lost brothers?

 

‘Let’s go,’ he whispers into her hair, and even though he’d like to never let her go, he must. Holding her like that, waiting for the beast’s growl, he doesn’t feel lonely anymore. And while he doesn’t feel safe, it’s a thousand times better to know there’s somebody there. In another life, they might’ve understood each other perfectly, the man and the beast, but not in this one. In the life they’ve been given, they’re just that – man and monster, doomed to fight incessantly, to chase each other forever and kill whenever necessary.

They run back toward the car, hands held and the beast watches them go. It’s seen them now, by a rustle of the leaves under their feet, it’s found its prey again. And it wasn’t the beast that heard it, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s a hunter and it will be until the day it is no more, simply because it is the only way.

The creature gets up slowly, careful not to make a sound, not that the humans would notice, what with all the noise they’re making. It has time. It feels the blood rushing through its veins, pumping it full of life, of ecstasy, ready to take on the world once more. Perhaps its brothers will not be avenged, but so what? It doesn’t really matter. As the killer runs after its prey, it realizes it doesn’t care. It just wants to kill.

Because sometimes you grow into the monster, even if it wasn’t who you wanted to be.

It runs downhill, catching speed, catching fire under its hoofs. The humans are slow, trying hard not to tumble and lose their balance, but the beast doesn’t mind that. It just comes faster and faster until it’s at the man’s back.

He turns, eyes lost in the mass of fur and the oddly human eyes that greet him as the beast sinks its claws into his back and he screams in agony, falling to his knees. The girl is jerked back, by his trembling hand still clasped in hers and she stumbles and loses her way, closing her eyes. She doesn’t want to see whatever made him scream. It’s too late. It was always too late, but it was nice to think it was possible.

The creature sits atop their mangled corpses, mouth full of blood and it stares down the breaking dawn. It has lived to see another day. Its brothers would be proud.

 

the end (possibly)

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things is available now on Amazon.

Night Ride #2

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Eardrums jammed up against the speakers, sound cascading through his mind and his mind’s wheeling, going a thousand an hour and he does not care. He just wants to get lost in the music on the radio, forever and ever. No care for tomorrow or whoever’s waiting for him at the end of the road. And he can explain none of this, but somehow, he doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t like music, or rather, it never occurred to her before that she might grow to like it. Music is something you let loose in the background of a fabulous evening, like children. She’s never felt the thrill of a Chopin or the harsh, dirty voice of James Hetfield crawling up her spine. And yet, she understands perfectly what he’s talking about, what he feels when he glances in the rearview at his broken-up guitar. He’ll be so lost in the morning without it, but that’s not what the night is for. Now is not the time for regret or worry. Now’s the time for reckless night wind rushing through their hair and screaming. He’s the first to go, a loud yeee-haw, so sweet coming out of his mouth, like a broken song and she startles, though not really, because inside, she’s already screaming too. And she yells out too and pushes down the pedal, faster, faster, faster. She wants to dishevel and disintegrate into the world of the moment, though she no longer wants to perish. It seems okay to be lost together and he’s most definitely lost. She doesn’t know his name and she doesn’t dare ask. To be perfectly honest, she doesn’t much care, he doesn’t need a name, not when he can scream and take her inner demons along for the ride.

She lets her eyes dart away from the road, only just for a second, and it’s not like it’s gonna make much of a difference, not at this speed, anyway. She meets his gaze and he grins, though he couldn’t tell why there’s just something wild in her eyes, her curls messy around her head, her cheeks hot with happy. She cracks him up, although she’s not funny, to say the least. She’s high class, yet slumming so low, she’s broken loose and somehow, she’s stolen him away for the ride and he loves it. He laughs, grinning wide, catching the stars and she laughs back. We could be anyone tonight.

But we won’t be.

The car skids almost imperceptibly. The wheels slither out across a wet patch and their laughter freezes in the warm air. She turns back to the road that’s now no longer a road, but a bush, but a hill, but a rock wall. And she swerves, she twists the wheel, frantic, begging please don’t let it end now. The car stops and for a brisk second, they stare out into the night, wondering if they’re alive or no and what they’ll see when they turn toward each other. A mangled corpse flashes across his eyes, remnants of a crash from so far back. A loss on someone who was far too young, back breaking underneath the weight of those dead in the car. No, this is not that and he can’t go there now. He glances at her, quick like a whip, enough to see her alive and radiant, flush with the terror that is life. She turns to him, eyes puzzled yet calm. It’s okay because it has to. Because even in the middle of a car crash, she feels safe. And even more, she feels alive.

We’re okay, their eyes whisper to each other and they both push open the doors, noticing just now they hadn’t even strapped themselves in. Sometimes miracles happen, she tells herself with joy, but she’s wrong.

Just now, the nightmare is about to begin.

 

It watches from the shadows as the pair – a couple, except no, they’re walking too far apart and they look too different. She’s perfect in her ice blue dress and him, raggedy with his black shirt and tousled hair. They’re not together, except they are now. It will prey on them as one because in its’ mind, they’re all one, all the people, just scroungers on his lost land.

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As old as time, it has waited here, in the night time, as they prowled and hunted its brothers down. Weak, all of them, though none as weak as these bastardly creatures. It warned them not to go out in the daytime because it had seen the danger. It’d met it head on, once, before time as we know it was invented and there was only light and darkness in the world. When the creature was young, yet still older than the new-found humans. Just learned to wipe their mouths and stand on their hind-legs and already coming after their elders. They should have known better, all its brothers laughed, though not the creature. It had seen the humans in the bright lights of day, sneaking. They were always sneaking, shivering their way, too terrified to cast a shadow on the earth, but clever enough to set traps. And it warned its brothers about the traps they’d run into, were they not careful, which of course they were not. The humans hid in the shadows, watching, and they learned. They learned more than the creatures could’ve ever imagined. They learned that the creatures did not like the daytime, that they hid in their caves and only came out under cover of night. Strong, refreshed after a long day’s sleep, they should’ve been able to take on the little, thin-boned humans. But its’ brothers grew cocky and told each other there was nothing to fear.

I can take on five of them miserable humans, they boasted. Five yes, but not ten, and certainly not fifteen. The humans came, more and more, hunting the creatures down, binding their time until one of the creatures strayed from its group, confident and strong. Thought not strong enough, as it later turned out.

So the creature, the last of its kind, thought it wise to learn from the humans and it hid in the dark, waiting patient, watching them as they went, as they loved and slept, learning their ways while they forgot about it. There was nothing to fear, not from one single remnant of its’ kind. What could it do, when they’d learned how to kill, how to stand up to the monsters bigger than them?

But the humans were wrong because the creature learned how to watch and it learned how to prey on them. One by one, although the road would be long. Or in this case, by two.

The creature took a careful step towards them and they stopped dead, listening to the grass rustle at their feet.

‘Did you hear that?’ the girl asked, frightened all of a sudden, not laughing now. No longer safe.

The man nodded and the creature saw its moment of attack. They were on his territory now, it thought as it ran, they were, after all, fair game. As fair as his brothers had been to the humans. It ran and the humans ran, hearing the thumping behind them. They screamed now, no longer with pleasure, but fear, dreadful, bone-chewing fear that pushed its way down through their very core.

The creature growls, playing up on every trick in its sleeve. It’s payback time and feeding hour all rolled up in one. It doesn’t particularly like humans, but it has no choice. The humans pushed it to this and now, it’s the end. For these two.

But they’re gone now, as suddenly as they came, they’ve vanished and it looks around, surveying the tall grass, but there’s nothing. They’ve disappeared, somewhere and maybe that’s just their luck. It’s their right to escape, if they find a way out, if they manage to hide or wait him out.

Unlike the humans, the creature is merciful and, as it licks its teeth, it thinks maybe not tonight.

No matter, it can wait. It’s waited for thousands of years.

Her bone-thin hands snake their way up slow, clutching desperately in the darkness, looking for him when he’s no longer there. His voice, gruff and sweet at the same time seizes her, makes her heart catch in her throat and –

then, just as she’s losing all hope of ever finding him, he pulls her into his arms and holds her tight against all the cold wind that beats through the night. She could kiss him just now, but no, that’s not what this is about. It’d be weird and he might let her go, back through the dark. And she doesn’t want that. Nobody wants to go back into the darkness.

He pulls her scarf down, twisting it around his fingers and slowly kissing her head. She’s beautiful just now, in the night lights, the sounds of the highway slivering around them like broken rays of sunlight. They’re safe for now, just a little. But they can’t stop, they can’t sit down or it will find them again.

To be continued

 

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Night Ride #1

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Her bone-thin hands snake their way up slow, clutching desperately in the darkness, looking for him when he’s no longer there. His voice, gruff and sweet at the same time seizes her, makes her heart catch in her throat and –

then, just as she’s losing all hope of ever finding him, he pulls her into his arms and holds her tight against all the cold wind that beats through the night. She could kiss him just now, but no, that’s not what this is about. It’d be weird and he might let her go, back through the dark. And she doesn’t want that. Nobody wants to go back into the darkness.

He pulls her scarf down, twisting it around his fingers and slowly kissing her head. She’s beautiful just now, in the night lights, the sounds of the highway slivering around them like broken rays of sunlight. They’re safe for now, just a little. But they can’t stop, they can’t sit down or it will find them again.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, but then, it so rarely is, isn’t it? They were supposed to run away into the night together and get gloriously drunk and be happy, even just for a little while. Not together, of course, because they didn’t know each other then. She, long neck, back perfectly straight and eyes like a hawk – a princess, but one guarded by a very tall tower – she was supposed to be going out with her latest prince. No knight in shining armor, but he’d have to do. He was so tall and prince-like, so what if he was as dull as a doorknob? So what if he couldn’t possibly stand up to her wit and more than half her references just passed him by? He was taking her out to Roxane’s, the fanciest restaurant in town and she really wanted to go.

Look, she’s still wearing them now, the diamonds that were low-key but dazzling. She clasped them around her neck, so gentle. Every time she got ready to go out, she felt like in a movie, all around her was slow and everything could happen. She might just end up happy tonight. Or she might very well not.

Her long blue dress now hangs in tatters around her skinny legs. Long and crystal-white, they would catch the lights of passing cars if they weren’t covered in think crusts of blood and dirt.

It wasn’t meant to end like this for him either. He’d been getting ready to go out, not for a date, he wasn’t the romantic kind. But the guy at the corner joint sometimes let him play in the back around three, when everyone was already pleasantly drunk and he could squeeze in some of his original pieces without getting too much hassle.

Truth was ever since the band had kicked him out, he’d been kinda down on his luck. Lorie had left him, but that was really the least of his worries. Lorie wasn’t more than a passing attraction, not for lack of trying, but she was so lackluster, really. She’d interrupt him halfway through his songs, like you would a child who although cute and somewhat charming, we have to he realistic – you don’t have time for this. You did your bit, you listened politely so that he doesn’t feel ignored and you get a clap on the back for being a good parent. Or, in Lorie’s case, a good girlfriend.

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The trouble with Lorie’s leaving, however, was that she also took the apartment. And while it wasn’t the Ritz, by any means, it was a lot better than the two rooms he was renting now. But that didn’t matter. He’d work his way up at the pub, little by little, and people would be forced to listen to him. It’s just…it was getting a bit hard to want them to listen. He’d seen one too many frowns and wayward glances, it seemed and he thought, in his head, that his music was dimming.

Strumming. Notes. Angels bristling around the heads of the drunken sleepers and calling him onward. Music, loud and booming into his ears, eyes crying, voices silent. He opened his eyes to find he was indeed weeping and that nobody was even looking at him. Nobody was hearing him and so, he strummed louder and the people talked on. Angrier and angrier until the chords on his guitar went bust and he was forced to breathe again. And to leave.

He walked away from the neon-light joint, broken guitar on his weary back. And that’s when he saw her.

Or rather, that’s when she saw him. Lost in thought, she’d been shifting the gear like crazy, batting away tears, willing the highway to swallow her up, make her one with it. She didn’t want to die, it wasn’t that. It was just…well, she didn’t really want to live either. So, she drove, and if some drunken truck was to swing by in her face, she wouldn’t have said no. But it wasn’t a truck made its way to her, but a man, stooped and dry-eyed, even though his cheeks still bore the streaks of loss and silence.

And she couldn’t drive into him, but she couldn’t let him be. And it would’ve been easy if she’d just swerved and ran off the side of the road, but somehow, she couldn’t do that either.

She stopped the car right in front of him and, pulling her coat tight around her, she stepped out into the cold night air.

‘Need a ride?’ she called out and realized, in that second, how silly she sounded. How, if this was a movie, he’d come at her with an ax. But he didn’t have an ax. All he had was a busted guitar.

She knew it was stupid and she knew she was being dangerous, but she thought she didn’t care. Just this once, she’d be dangerous, she’d let the crazy run into her. So what if it might break her bones? So what if her mother would’ve never done this?

The hour was getting late and she was getting a bit tired of playing her mother.

‘Sure.’

The words come out, even thought he doesn’t. He’s going home, or at least he’s supposed to be, and it’s not all that far. Hell, even with the walk, it’s not more than ten minutes. But there’s something, there’s a story in this woman – lost in her pale blue dress. She’d much rather be at home in fluffy socks and with a bowl of food before her. She’s been crying, but in that secret way some people do so that you don’t know they’ve been crying. She’s mortified someone will discover her secret. Or she was. She’s not sure who she is now and he kinda thinks he’d like to know.

And if we’re to be perfectly honest, he’s got nowhere better to go either.

So yeah, he could go for a ride.

To be continued.

 

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Lucifero

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Lucifero

    Here he is, opens his eyes, and drowns. He feels the danger before getting up. There’s something in the air perhaps, something changed in the room, though not much has changed at all. It’s the same room he fell asleep in some five hours ago, yet undeniably strange. The man lies in his bed and makes as if he’s sleeping. He must move fast, yet he doesn’t remember how to move. How does this go? And who was it that trained him? What did they tell him under the shade of the maple tree and does it really matter now? He was safe then, at ease in the comfort of the chill spring air, it seemed nothing like this could ever happen. And yet, here he is, in his dusty perennially shaded room. And he isn’t alone. His hand bolts and grabs the gun on the nightstand – how is it still there? The thought flashes across his mind like a lost arrow – why wouldn’t the intruder take it, first thing, render him helpless?

‘Relax, Lucifer, I am not here to hurt you,’ the voice is familiar, yet it’s one he can’t place. Lucifer sits up, heart racing and peers into the dark corners of his room. Small, but big enough to hide them both. He can’t see the intruder clearly, can’t trace his features or recognize his voice.

‘Who are you?’ he asks, trying hard to not let his voice – or his hand – shake. The intruder ignores the gun pointed at him and takes a careful step towards the bed.

‘I am a guest inside your house, Lucifer, and I must say your behavior as a host leaves a lot to be desired.’ The figure gives a short, booming laugh and Lucifer sees his white sparkling teeth through the half light.

Inside the privacy of Lucifer’s bedroom, the stranger grins.

‘If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. Not even the devil is endless, Lucifer, you of all people should know that. I chose to spare you, now surely, that’s enough to make you put your gun down.’

Lucifer, the devil as he’s known on the street, shakes his head once, face set in a grim conclusion.

‘I’d rather take my chances,’ he says and the stranger nods. Very well.

‘Aren’t you tired, Lucifer?’

The man speaks his name as it’s known of old, rounding each letter inside his mouth. ‘Don’t you wish you could just rest for a bit? How long have you been here?’ he asks, gesturing at the small rented room. ‘How long before you have to run again? Is this really the throne you’d hoped for?’

The stranger is calm, mocking almost, but Lucifer ignores him. He knows this serpent is only sent to crawl under his skin and bury his lying eggs deep into his soul.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ the stranger shrugs, taking yet another step. ‘I’m just the messenger. I’m the truce you’ve been offered. You better look closely, cause you won’t see me twice.’

‘Who sent you?’ Lucifer asks, finger on the trigger.

‘Isn’t it obvious? Our glorious father, the great Commander himself.’

‘Why am I not dead then? Why would that lying bastard spare my life?’ Lucifer bellows. There he is, the intruder marvels, the demon who has terrified an entire country, the soul of a revolution inside the body of one man.

And he laughs, because he can’t help it. It seems such an innocent question, so unlike Lucifer to ask.

‘Because you’re much more useful alive. Don’t you see? To kill you would be to assume that another like you will come along sooner or later and I’m not sure my master believes that. Think of all the things you and him could accomplish if you wanted to. Why, no one would be able to stand in your way. Lucifer, the world would be yours. You could be king and all that comes with it. My master is a generous man, despite what you may think. He’d be happy to welcome you at his side.’

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Closing his eyes, Lucifer understands and his finger squeezes twice, sharp. Both bullets fly into the intruder’s chest and the rebel opens his eyes just in time to watch him collapse. Breathing, though not for long.

‘I would rather die as a dog before coming to your master’s side,’ he says coming up close to stand over him. The intruder, he sees, is young and suddenly looks fragile. He’s seen the man before, out there, in the shadows of the battlefield. ‘You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, little boy,’ Lucifer whispers and then, he is gone. Left without a trace to another shitty hide-out as the war rages on.

But the messenger could’ve never killed him, for that was not his purpose. It wasn’t his fate to kill the great revolutionary, the man called Lucifer. He was merely sent to warn, or rather to tempt, because his master delighted in tempting the old devil. He knew Lucifer would never give in, and yet he just might, because no man is unbreakable and as the years wore on, the fight only got harder. Lucifer and his band of rebels were pushed out into the outskirts, the pits, the hideouts that even the roughest of bums would find unwelcoming.

Often, they fought through days of not sleeping, until their bones ached and they felt their hearts giving out. Sometimes, they even won, but it wasn’t enough to make them forget the bitterness of their losses. Night was never a time for rejoicing. They were too busy burying their fallen brothers.

And so, the Commander hoped that one day, the losses would wear Lucifer down, that his offer would one day be accepted and all hope lost. Because see, he never cared about killing Lucifer, the man. How would that serve him? It would just be another dead man on the streets that were already overflowing with bodies.

What the great Commander longed for was to kill the idea of Lucifer, the myth behind the man and that could only be killed through the devil’s surrender.

In the bright-light corridors of his peculiar palace – towering over the dead-dirt slums of the dying city – the Commander waited.

Photos: 1, 2.

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Snow

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Nobody asks you if their snow will bother you. Nobody asks what are you gonna do? They don’t wait and they don’t really listen, careless of what might’ve gone before. And there is just snow.

But I had such plans, you’ll say. And there will be nobody in the room to listen. I had such plans and they involved fire, but now the snow has put it out. My fire’s turned to ashes in my hand. Adventure dissipates over the green. Just snow.

Someone will rage from across the street, crying, shouting. Are you okay, they’ll ask. Are you alive? They won’t see you through the thick white downpour and you won’t see them. And you’ll think maybe it was the snow that asked.

Yes, I’m alright, snow, you’ll whisper. And then, it will be true. Because you said it, and how could it not?

You’ ll become alright, even though it won’t be the alright you knew before. A different alright, post-snow.

You’ll dwell, you’ll try and reminisce about who you used to be when the earth was dry and ever so often, the snow will call out to you – are you alright?

And you’ll remember what’s happened, you’ll remember the snow and who you are now. You’ll learn to walk through the snow, careful at first, afraid you might fall. And then, more bold, you’ll walk as if, in your heart, there was always snow. And if you fall, you’ll say it was a bit of dry land, it threw you off guard.

And you’ll get back up again, for you have things to do, despite the snow.

And one day, you’ll stand outside some foreign door, the words prim on your tongue – would you be bothered by my snow?

But you’ll never get to ask. Look up. It’s already snowing now.

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Mother #3 (fiction)

This is the third (and last) part of the story. You can read the first part here and the second part here.

[image error]Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

I still hear him screaming sometimes, in the dead of night, even after all these years and I wish I could tell him that there was nothing to be made better. Oh Mother, how I wish I could’ve been strong like you. There’s something distinctly horrible about being trapped in a bed, in the darkness, utterly helpless while your father beats your mother to death. And there is nothing to do but listen, wish you were someone strong who could go down there and pry him off her. You know, for the longest of time, I thought that if only I’d been able to go down there, I could’ve saved you. He wouldn’t have done that, not in front of me, I just know it.

But I couldn’t, Mother, I couldn’t. I tried, I pulled myself out of bed and I thought maybe you’d heard me, that maybe he’d stopped and would stomp up there, furious, yelling at me for getting out of bed, for hurting my leg again, but he never came. I screamed, but it was as if I was alone, because nobody came up for me and I couldn’t break the spell. I tried to open the door, but I couldn’t, I pulled and pulled and the door just didn’t work, but I couldn’t believe that my father had locked me in, so I kept pulling, begging the door to open. And crying. So much crying as I beat my fists into the floor, yelling for my father to stop hitting you.

‘Hush, stay in there, child. Don’t you come out here.’

‘I have to. Please,’ I begged the tall man on the staircase to open the door, but all he would say was ‘It’s not safe now.’

But there’s no use in telling you all this now, is there? It happened many years ago and you’ve probably forgotten by now, you shouldn’t have to be reminded of that horrible night. You know, mother, for years after that I thought I’d screwed up so bad and I felt so alone. Dad took us away after that night and I didn’t even have the old woman in the garden, or the man on the staircase. The new house we moved in didn’t have any spirits and I wondered if it had all been in my imagination, a child’s fancy perhaps. But no, that came when I was a bit older. When we first got there, I went from room to room and I would sit on the floor, waiting. Because maybe someone would come out of the dark, someone resembling your face and I wouldn’t be so alone anymore. But nobody came and I worried I’d lost it. I thought that maybe I’d betrayed you and the spirits and now, they wouldn’t show themselves to me anymore. I thought I’d never be able to see them anymore because it seemed impossible that the new house was without ghosts. Oh Mother, I thought I’d be doomed forever, that I would be alone and the spirits would see me, but I wouldn’t see them. That I’d never see you and I knew I deserved it, because you’d told me not to tell Dad and I did anyway.

I gave up, I stopped believing in ghosts altogether because it seemed too painful to keep on believing, waiting for you to come back somehow. I never told Dad and I was so glad to get away from him. I never thought that maybe you were keeping away because of him because I couldn’t fathom – not even then, not even after all that had happened – that he could ever be dangerous for me.

And then you came back to me, in the first week I was at college. On the clock, you could say. I saw you in the alley and I knew it was you. It was then I realized that you never give up believing. It’s like a door, that once opened can’t ever be closed again. You were so small, Mother, and I was so lost. I’d stopped waiting to see you around the corner. And besides, it seemed logical that you’d be at home, you know, at our old home, our real home, where I fell as a child and destroyed everything. But then, when I was old enough to go back, I couldn’t. Because I couldn’t bear the thought that you might not be there, in the end.

And you weren’t. You were in the alleyway, tiny and pitch-black, all but for a white star on your forehead, trying so hard to make your way out of a cardboard box.

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And I knew it was you, from the first second. For years, I’d begged for you to come haunt me, even to blame me for betraying you, just not to leave me and you did. You came back for me when you could, when it was safe, when Dad was far away and he wouldn’t take you from me again. And I realize I’ve never really told you all of this. It’s been building up though, hasn’t it? I know you never wanted to hear sad words, but I spent so many years in sadness for what I did to you, or rather for what Dad did that for so long, I thought was my fault. And now you’ve gone again. I suppose it made sense, you were old, older than most cats, anyway.

It felt so good, Mother, to be able to hold you again, to feel your heartbeat. And it’s funny, but it was that same heartbeat, the first thing I heard, the soundtrack to the first nine months of my life. It was your heartbeat, even though it wasn’t your heart.

Farewell, dear Mother, until we find each other again.

End.

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Mother #2 (fiction)

 This is the second part of the story. Read the first part of ‘Mother’ here.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Katherine was always fascinated by the afterlife. However, after living with Steve for three years, she wasn’t sure whether she should mention it or keep her mouth shut. She stared at the little baby attached to her breast and smiled and the baby seemed to smile back up at her. Her little soul, the only one who she could share this loneliness with and make it somewhat less lonely. Katherine had decided from early on that her little girl would never feel weird, never out of place in an empty room. She decided that the little one would grow up knowing that those on the other side were her friends, always, and that it was people on this one she should be careful with.

The little girl was too young yet to notice the slight discoloration under her mother’s left eye, although to Katherine it seemed immense and simply impossible to hide. Not that she had anyone to hide it from. Most of her days were spent inside or in their garden, with the baby and Steve. The ghosts never minded, because they knew about discoloration. They’d had some run-ins in their own lives, so they never bothered to ask.

And so, she never had to explain how Steve didn’t quite appreciate her talking about them, how his face flushed red whenever he saw her beads strung up around the house or the weird patterns she drew on the window when it was foggy. She didn’t have to tell anyone how she’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t quite understand and who was made very angry indeed by not understanding. The bruises always faded, in the end and not once did Katherine give the impression of a battered woman, particularly not to her child. To Pam, she was like this wonderful fairy woman you met in some forest, who told you exciting stories and took you on amazing adventures, if only in your mind.

‘That’s where the best adventures happen, my love,’ she’d tell the little girl with a soft smile. ‘It’s all that’s left of us when we become gone.’

The first thing baby Pam learned was that ghosts were real and there was one watching them right now. The second thing Pam learned was that her father could never ever hear about the ghosts. It was to be their secret, ever since Pam started putting words together and creating phrases. Steve could never know about any of their adventures, or he would grow really angry. There was Pam, a daughter, Katherine, a mother, and Steve, a father. And that would be it, as far as Steve was concerned.

As the years went by, Katherine stopped mentioning “the occult” (as Steve called it, among several less pleasant sounding epithets) altogether. She was strong, but not strong enough to hide the bruises and she did not want her little girl to remember her as a bruised woman. It’s not how one wishes to remember one’s mother.

But she took each chance she could get, whenever Steve was out of the house, to tell little Pam about rituals, about spirits coming back to greet their loved ones once more, about prayers sometimes answered in the dead of night. And about flowers. Katherine always had great faith in healing flowers, something Steve was willing to overlook, since it meant she wouldn’t be spending his hard-earned money at the chemist, at least.

She taught the little one to crush flowers, though not without loving them, to take their power, apologizing in her heart all the way because she needed it more than them just now. Nature was to be cherished, not abused, Katherine always told her. And Pam knew to ask forgiveness first of each chamomile and each nettle before plucking them and ending their life forever.

‘No,’ Katherine shook her head vigorously when the child came to her with tears in her little gray eyes for the dying flowers. ‘They do not die, my love. You’re not ending their life, just their existence here, but they’re not going away. Nothing ever goes away, not completely.’

And that much must be true, the girl thought, because how else do you explain the tall man on the staircase or the old lady who sometimes picked ghost flowers in their garden?

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

It had once been her garden, the old lady told her when asked, though she refused to tell her her name or where exactly she’d lived upon these grounds. The subject always seemed to be a rather sad one for the old woman, so Pam tried to keep from mentioning it. She never wanted to hurt anyone, because everything was alive and it seemed awful to Pam, that someone would have to spend their whole eternity remembering how someone else hurt them. She would’ve liked to ask the ghosts how they’d died, but it always sounded so hurtful to her. What if it had been something terrible or full of pain? Why should she be the one to make them remember it if they chose not to?

So, she kept really quiet sometimes. It was something she knew how to do, something she did well. She was always quiet around her father, though not too quiet, because he might get suspicious. Then, he’d look over at his wife with that look he had – the evil eye, as Pam thought of it, despite her mother’s reassuring.

‘What have you been telling that girl?’ he’d rasp and Katherine would flinch.

‘Nothing, love,’ she’d say and the girl would be quick to repeat it, always so desperate for her father not to get mad. Because it always felt like the end of the world when her father got mad.

‘I was thinking about a book I read,’ and she’d talk so very fast, telling him about the book, fighting hard to sweep his mind away, to show him how clever she could be. Because clever children can’t possibly believe in ghosts and silly things like that, can they?

And her father would be mollified, forgetting about the “occult” if only for a while and he’d smile at what a smart little girl he had. Steve was a man who worked hard, as opposed to his wife, who – raised by a couple of lunatics – had spent all her life wandering about chatting to imaginary friends and plants and would’ve likely gotten nowhere if he hadn’t come along and made an honest woman out of her. He, on the other hand, had worked to survive each day of his life. He knew who he wanted his daughter to resemble.

Although there had been a certain charm to Katherine’s…lightheadedness. Head in the clouds, they called it, but that would only result in accidents, it seemed to Steve. He’d liked her little craziness, but then he realized she wouldn’t grow out of it, that she planned on being a fully grown woman who talked about ghosts and he couldn’t have that. Not for his wife, definitely.

Thankfully, he’d managed to correct her ways. Not how he’d wanted, he didn’t really enjoy being a violent man, but sometimes, you had to do was what was needed rather than what was pleasant. She never talked about silly things now and whenever he saw her, she seemed to have her feet – and her head – firmly on the ground.

Until one day.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

He’d found Pam at the foot of the staircase, crying and twisting her leg in a funny way.

‘Stop doing that to your leg,’ he said, as soon as he saw her.

And it took him a second to realize that Pam – usually such a good, dutiful child – wasn’t doing it on purpose or to anger him. She’d fallen down the stairs, she must have, though that never happened because she knew better than to muck about on the stairs.

Steve kissed her forehead and attempted to scoop her up into his arms, but the child only cried out harder when he moved her leg, so he was content to sit down beside her.

‘What happened, love? Where’s your mother?’

Pam shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened here?’ her father asked, voice just a little bit stern, and not enough to ward off the girl.

She shook her head again. ‘I fell,’ she told him, looking down.

‘Yes, but how did you fall, Pam?’ he pushed, keeping a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s okay, I won’t be mad, I promise.’

And that was all it took for the little girl, because her mother wasn’t there and she was hurt and didn’t know what was happening, or that the worst was yet to come. She broke the rule, the only red line that her mother had set her.

‘The tall man was chasing me and I know I shouldn’t run on the stairs, and I’m sorry, daddy, and I slipped and I fell, but it wasn’t his fault, I swear. He didn’t mean for me to hurt and he tried to help me, but, you know, he couldn’t and –’

‘What man?’ her father interrupted, taking his hand off the girl’s shoulder, his face turned suddenly ashen.

‘The man on the staircase,’ the little girl whispered, realizing too late what she’d just said.

And Steve nodded, because he knew all about the tall man on the staircase. He’d been waiting for them when they first arrived at the house, top hat in hand, if Katherine was to be believed, and it seemed he’d never really gone away. Though it would’ve been so much easier for all of them if he had.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ he whispered into his daughter’s hair.

‘I’m sorry, daddy,’ she said again and this time, they both knew she didn’t mean the fall.

Katherine had been picking herbs in the outback, lost in her own thoughts it seemed and hadn’t heard the child’s cries. As she walked back, she saw the bright lights of the ambulance and knew it was too late. She ran towards the house as fast as she could and the old woman watched her with sad eyes, because ghosts know about these things, better than most of us.

That night, after he’d put little Pam to bed, careful not to disturb her leg as he kissed her goodnight, Steve walked down to the kitchen, where his wife sat pale-faced, looking so sorrowful.

‘I told you,’ he spoke slowly, because the words pained him greatly. ‘I told you that if you ever spoke to my daughter like that, I would kill you.’

‘It’s not how you think, Steven,’ Katherine spoke quietly, shaking her head. ‘They’re not harming her.’

‘No?’ he bellowed and she watched his face turning red. ‘She broke her goddamn leg because of your fucking nonsense. Not harming her…what do you want, Katherine, for her to be killed before you understand?’

‘Of course not–’

‘I told you, why didn’t you listen when I told you? I truly thought you could be made better, Kathy.’

To be continued…

 

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