Mandy White's Blog: Dysfictional, page 15

Ruby in the Mist

I know it sounds cliché, but it was Halloween night when my neighbor Roy told me his story about the girl in the mist. We were sitting at my kitchen table having a few cold beers, talking about things that go bump in the night and other topics appropriate for that particular eve. We eventually reached the subject of local folklore. Our little town had ghost stories aplenty.

Honeymoon Bay was formed in the late 1800s by pioneers, mostly loggers and later mill workers as the town grew and industry gained a foothold. During the mid-twentieth century, a sawmill dominated the tiny village. The reason I included this somewhat dry bit of trivia is that it has relevance to the story that follows.

At one time, the main road through town was nothing more than a narrow dirt path through the forest. It was there on that main road that Roy claimed to have seen the little girl on more than one occasion.

“She’s always running,” he explained, pausing to take a deep drag from his cigarette, one of many that he had bummed from me over the course of the evening. As I watched my tobacco supply dwindle I once again considered the wisdom of just quitting the habit altogether. Definitely on my to-do list, but not that night.

Roy looked directly into my eyes. “I don’t know what she’s running from but I don’t like it,” he said. “She scares the fuck outta me. She has this… this darkness about her even though you can tell she’s shit-scared. I don’t wanna see what’s chasing her to make her that afraid.”

“Where does she go?” I leaned forward to help myself to one of my own smokes from the package that seemed to have migrated over next to Roy’s elbow.

“I don’t know. She just kinda vanishes, y’know? Like into thin air or something. It’s like she comes straight at me, all lookin’ like she’s screamin’ or something. She passes right through me, I think, then I turn to see where she went and she’s gone.”

“I see. And you want me to see if I can sense anything?”

“Um, yeah.”

I crushed my smoke into the overflowing ashtray before taking a deep breath, then rubbing my palms together, mostly for dramatic effect; it didn’t actually do anything besides set the mood. I had a few beers under my belt so I thought it would be fun to play up the mystic act a little.

“Give me your hand. But don’t get any funny ideas, ya perv.”

Roy laughed nervously. We had known each other for more than five years, ever since I moved into the little house next to the park, one street over from where Roy lived. I knew he was attracted to me but he knew he wasn’t my type and that it was never going to happen. He passed me his left hand and I grasped it firmly before closing my eyes.

A kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind’s eye, like book pages rapidly flipped. I saw Roy as a boy; then as a teenager, standing next to his mother’s deathbed; then older, masturbating to a photo of a woman I hoped wasn’t me. Finally I saw the object of my search and slowed the flipping of the pages until I arrived at the scene.

Roy stood at the side of the main road. It was night and he was most likely walking home from the local pub. Watching through his eyes, I saw the apparition. It was a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, wearing what appeared to be an old-fashioned dress. She came running out of a thick mist, which hadn’t been present a moment ago. Her face was unclear in the darkness; all I could make out were the two dark shadows where her eyes were and her gaping mouth, stretched wide in a silent scream. She ran as if the Devil himself was chasing her. She looked over her shoulder, presumably at whatever pursued her and lost her footing, nearly falling. She managed to recover in the nick of time and continued to run full speed past Roy, so close that she did almost appear to pass through him. It was easy to see where he got that impression.

I whirled, watching through my own mind’s eye now, trying to keep sight of her to watch where she went next. To my surprise, she made a sharp right turn up the street on the opposite side of the park from where I lived. She stopped at the first house and began pounding her fists frantically on the door. When nobody answered, she ran to the next house, then the next, hammering on one door after another but finding none who would answer. When the little girl reached the last house on the street, once again finding her knock to be futile she turned abruptly and ran into the park, vanishing in the center of the basketball court.

I released Roy’s hand and opened my eyes. He released a shuddering sigh.

“Phew!” he whistled softly, “Did you see that shit?”

“Yes. Did you see the rest of it? Where she went?”

“No! You saw?”

“I did.”

“Where does she go?”

I described to Roy what I had seen; the girl’s panicked attempts to find a door with someone behind it, finishing with her disappearance in the center of the basketball court.

He rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully with one hand as the other reached once again for my cigarette pack.

“Well,” he began after lighting up, “That’s a funny thing there. That court was actually built over top of the foundation of the old schoolhouse.”

“Really? The school was originally in that spot?” That was interesting. I got up and grabbed two more cans of Budweiser out of the fridge and handed one to Roy while he continued.

“Yup. One of those old one-room schools that doubled as a church on Sundays. When the town got bigger, the church got its own building and they built that school up behind the community hall. The old one sat abandoned for years. Rumor has it some kid died playing in there so they tore it down because it was unsafe or something.”

The gears were turning in my mind; filling my head with questions I didn’t dare voice. I wanted to investigate further but had to do it alone.

I stifled a false yawn.

“Well, this really has been a fun night and what a fascinating story! But I think I’m ready to turn in. Doing the psychic thing really takes a lot out of me.”

“Gotcha!” Roy reached toward my almost-empty cigarette package one more time. “Mind if I have one for the road?”

“Sure, take the rest of the pack so you have a couple for later. Next time you’re buying.”

I let Roy out the front door and waited until he had turned the corner toward his own street. I turned off all the lights in the house to make it appear as if I had gone to bed, then put on my shoes and grabbed my winter jacket to guard against the frosty October night. I checked the clock on my way out the door and saw that ironically, it was nearly midnight. This night was turning out to be one cliché after another. As a practicing psychic, I was well aware that the veil between this world and the next was at its thinnest near midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. The timing couldn’t have been more ideal. I slipped quietly out my front door, which faced the park and the basketball court Roy and I had just finished discussing.

A delicate mist floated just above ground level, transforming the picturesque park into an eerie wasteland, the brightly painted playground equipment into ancient skeletal ruins. The eerie mood didn’t faze me in the least. Eerie was my business.

I sat quietly on a nearby picnic table, facing the basketball court. I closed my eyes to shut out all distractions and waited for an impression to come. There was nothing at first. Then I heard something. It was a rhythmic thumping sound, faint at first, then rising to a more distinct beat. Another sound began to accompany the pounding; a high-pitched wail that I soon recognized as a child’s voice. A few words became discernible in between the mournful wails:

“Help! Help me! Somebody! Heeelllp!”

Goosebumps prickled the flesh of my arms in spite of the heavy jacket that covered them.

In my mind’s eye, I was no longer sitting in the park beside the basketball court. I was inside the room from which the noise originated. It was an old building; dust-covered and draped in cobwebs. A shaft of daylight shone through the broken pane of a small window, set high in the wall of the building. The rest of the windows were securely boarded up, keeping the rest of the room in shadows. Seats similar to church pews had once been arranged in two neat rows but many of them were now overturned and shoved helter-skelter against the walls.

BAM! BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

I jumped and turned toward the sound and found myself facing the front door of the building. The door and the walls surrounding it were covered in rust-covered stains, some of which could distinctly be identified as handprints. On closer inspection I noticed that some of the marks were redder, fresher. Some of them were still wet. It looked as though the prints had not been made all at once but been added to over a period of… hours? Days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell.

“HELLLP ME! PLEASE!” The girl’s wail tore through me like a dagger. It sounded like she was right in front of me. I homed in on the sound of her voice and struggled to maintain my focus in the midst of the heart-wrenching scene.

The space in front of the door shimmered for a moment, then a human form took shape. I watched as a little girl with long dark hair appeared, translucent at first, then solidifying just as if she was real and not merely an apparition.

She paced back and forth in front of the door with uneven, lurching steps, pounding the palms of her hands against the bloodstained wood. One of her ankles was broken; twisted at a grotesque angle yet she continued to walk on it, half lifting, half dragging the injured limb. Her hands were red, covered in blood both fresh and old from being beaten to a raw pulp from her relentless attacks on the door and the wood that framed it.

I put up mental shields to protect myself emotionally from the devastating spectacle I was witnessing – a tactic taught to me by my mentor, a well-respected police psychic.

The girl’s frantic but fruitless struggle to escape was tragic but I knew there was nothing I could do except watch. My clairvoyant abilities allowed me to witness past events but I was helpless to intervene as much as I wished I could have. God knows I wanted to help her but I was a mere observer, bearing witness to an event that had never before been seen by anyone except for the child who had experienced it.

The little girl lurched and pounded, her hands reduced to little more than bloody claws and her desperate wails heard by no one. I flinched when she changed her routine and began beating her head – her face – against the door, either in frustration or because her hands were simply too sore and raw to strike another blow.

Suddenly she froze. She whirled around and faced me, covering the distance between us in an instant until we were only inches apart. I recoiled from the sight of her purple-bruised face, blackened eyes and inky, dilated pupils. She glared at me with a seething rage that I felt to the core of my being in spite of my mental shields.

“WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME?” she shrieked.

My eyes flew open and immediately I was back in the park, still sitting atop the picnic table facing the nets. Pulse racing and hands shaking, I wished I hadn’t given Roy the last of my smokes. I took several long, slow cleansing breaths to clear my aura of the intense emotional energy I had just absorbed.

She had seen me.

That had never happened before. I was an observer, not a medium. Channeling spirits was not part of my routine and as far as I knew, not an ability I possessed. Never before had any of the apparitions I observed ever interacted with me as I watched.

She had seen me, and she had spoken to me as though I had been right there in that room with her. I’d also gotten a glimpse of her name. The initials were R.T. but I couldn’t quite get what they represented. Renee Tucker was the closest I could come up with but I knew that wasn’t it. Close, but not quite right.

* * *

The plight of the little girl intrigued me but for some reason I didn’t try to get any more impressions of her. In fact, I avoided the main road and the park at night and even refused to look out of the front windows of my house after dark. Sometimes when I was asleep, I heard her pounding and wailing in my dreams, then that horrible bruised face with the blackened eyes would appear, launching me back into wakefulness with a scream caught in my throat. Over time, the dreams faded and I began to make peace with what I had seen and it seemed my life would return to normal. That was, until I learned the rest of the story.

I was browsing through a box of used books at a local garage sale when a title caught my eye: A History of Honeymoon Bay. It was spiral-bound, with a simple cover; a self-published work written by a local woman named Edith Watts. Edith had died several years previously at the tender age of 96 if I recalled her obituary correctly. She was born and raised in Honeymoon Bay and had probably known more about the town’s history than anyone alive. I had no idea she’d actually recorded all of that knowledge in a book. I paid the asking price of fifty cents for my new treasure with the intention of doing some light reading and learning a bit about the town I called home.

I was less than halfway through the book when a particular chapter practically leapt from the page. It was a story about a little boy and girl – brother and sister – who were chased by a cougar. The little boy was just six and his sister eight years old. Their names were Kenneth and Ruby Thatcher. Renee Tucker… Ruby Thatcher. I had been so close! I read on, a knot growing in my gut in anticipation of what I thought was to come.

It happened in the mid-1930’s when most of the road was still a dirt path. The children were picking berries some distance from the village when a mountain lion leapt onto the path with the intention of making a child its next meal.

The children fled for their lives, toward the safety of the village. Being older, the girl ran faster than her brother and in her panic she left him behind. She ran and ran, screaming at the top of her voice, but never made it home. Somewhere near the town site she vanished without a trace. As it turned out, the boy managed to make it home alive several hours later, having hidden in some bushes while the cat pursued his sister. Three weeks passed and everyone gave Ruby up for dead, assuming that she had been carried off and eaten by the deadly predator.

It was around this time that some local boys decided to claim the old schoolhouse as their clubhouse. They pried the boards off of one of the windows and climbed inside, unprepared for what waited within.

Ruby Thatcher was still alive, but just barely. She was starved and dehydrated. Her hands were reduced to blood-crusted claws, flesh worn to the bone in places from relentlessly clawing at the door. Her ankle was shattered, with bones protruding through the flesh.

After inspecting the scene, the townspeople managed to piece together what had happened. Ruby had gained entrance to the old schoolhouse by climbing a tree next to the building and squeezing through the tiny window near the peak of the building. She must have believed she would be safe from the cougar once inside and in her panic, jumped from the window down to the floor without considering the height of the drop or how she would get back out of the building. She broke her ankle when she landed, then discovered that she was trapped.

Terrified and in horrific pain, she must have beaten on the heavy wooden door day and night, screaming for help until her voice was no more. The only explanation they could come up with as to why no one had heard her was that the noise from the nearby sawmill – which ran day and night at that time – must have drowned out her cries. Nobody was looking for her because they had already mourned her loss, assuming she had become cougar bait three weeks earlier.

Ruby survived but was never the same as she was before the ordeal. Her family decided she needed special care and sent her away to Riverview Hospital, a mental institution in Vancouver.

I gasped aloud when I read the name of the person the author had interviewed to get the full story. Kenneth Thatcher – Ruby’s little brother. As of the writing of the book, both he and his sister were still alive. The publication date was 1998 – not all that long ago. It was possible he might still be alive, in his mid-eighties.

I didn’t know why I felt compelled to look him up. I needed to know if he was still alive. I wanted to know how the story ended – what had become of Ruby?

After a brief search, I found him, or at least a name I thought was his. Kenneth J Thatcher lived in Victoria, just a two-hour drive from where I was. I called him and sure enough, he was the same Kenneth who had once fled from a cougar with his sister Ruby. I explained that I was researching the story for an article and was hoping for an opportunity to interview him. To my surprise, he was happy to oblige and invited me to come for a visit the next day.

On the drive to Victoria, I couldn’t get Ruby out of my mind. Did she ever recover and lead a normal life? How did she die? Did I dare ask Kenneth any of those questions?

Kenneth lived in a senior citizens’ assisted living facility located across the street from one of the local hospitals. It was a nice place – not exactly a rest home but an apartment complex, which allowed residents to have full independence while still having help nearby if they needed it. He was an amicable man and I liked him immediately.

As Kenneth heated the kettle to make some tea, I explained to him that I was also a psychic and that a quick reading could speed up the interview and help me understand the details of his story more clearly.

“Well, sure, if you want to,” he laughed good-naturedly, “But I have all the time in the world, so no need to rush if you want to stay and chat.”

I sensed that he didn’t get many visitors and welcomed the company. I smiled to reassure him.

“Of course. I’d love to stay and chat.”

Once he was comfortably seated across the small kitchen table, I offered my hand to him.

“May I?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

I closed my eyes and allowed the book-page images to flash past but not for long. The scene I was searching for was right at the beginning of the book, when he was only six years old.

Through Kenneth’s eyes I saw Ruby, smiling and talking as she filled her pail with blackberries from the heavily laden vines.

“Stop dawdling, Kenny! It’s going to be dark soon and you haven’t even half filled your pail. Mine is almost full.”

“I can’t go fast!” Kenny whined, “The thorns hurt my fingers.”

Ruby gave him an exasperated sigh. “Your slowness will be the death of you one day.” She froze the moment she finished the sentence. “Run,” she whispered.

“What?” Kenny said loudly, “I din’ hear you.”

Ruby grabbed his arm roughly and thrust him toward the path leading home. “RUN!” she screamed.

Kenny chanced a quick look backward as he began to run and saw his sister fling her berry bucket at a large yellow cat. The pail made a ‘BONG’ noise as it bounced off the animal’s head. Kenny ran.

He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him but his sister soon ran past and disappeared down the trail ahead of him. He wanted to call out to her to wait, but he was breathless from fear and exertion. He couldn’t keep up the pace much longer. His legs felt weak and he had already begun to slow. He dove as far as he could into the blackberry thicket that lined the trail. Maybe he could hide in there and it wouldn’t see him. His skin stung as the sharp thorns ripped and tore. He was convinced that teeth and claws were shredding him as the cat devoured him alive. He wet his pants and curled up into a tiny ball, sobbing and waiting for the end.

The end didn’t come. After a while he cautiously opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackberry bushes and heard nothing but the usual late-summer sounds – birds chirping and insects buzzing. It would be sunset soon and already the forest was beginning to darken. He didn’t want to be out there in the dark so he untangled himself from the prickly vines and ran the rest of the way back to the village. He was covered in scratches and caked in blood but otherwise unhurt.

That was when he learned that his sister hadn’t made it home.

I released his hand. “Thank you for allowing me to do that,” I said, “I saw it all – the cat, and your escape.”

“Really?” he asked, seeming surprised. “You actually saw it? You’re the real deal, then, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” I replied, “Can I ask you, what happened to your sister?”

“Well,” he paused for a sip of tea. “I suppose it’s just as easy for you to ask her yourself as have me tell it to you. Given that little talent of yours.”

“Wait – you mean she’s still alive?”

“Still alive and kicking at 88. That’s why I picked this place to live. No one in his right mind would want to live across from a damn hospital unless he had a good reason.” He stood. “Would you like to meet her?”

We left the apartment complex and its cheery garden surroundings and crossed the street to the hospital. We passed the main entrance and followed a path that led away from the main building to another wing set away toward the rear. It was surrounded by a fence, and Kenneth entered a code on the keypad to open the gate. He entered a code once again to gain entry to the building. The woman at the front nursing station waved hello to him and buzzed us in through a set of security doors. After winding through a maze of hallways we reached another nursing station, received another greeting from the orderly at the desk and were buzzed through another set of doors.

“Here at Ferndale,” Kenneth explained, “They are equipped to provide long-term care for people who need it. Their primary focus is on therapy and rehabilitation but for some people, the only treatment is… maintenance. Like my sister.” He shook his head sadly. “There are some who just never make it back.”

We reached another set of doors, which were unlocked, and Kenneth held one open for me. “She’s been getting weaker lately,” he explained. “It’s her heart, you know. You may think I’m a ghoul, but it will be a blessing when she finally does pass on. She has suffered so much and continues to suffer each day, I’m sure.” We paused outside a room numbered 312. Beside the heavy-looking metal door was yet another keypad to enter a code. “Are you ready?” he asked, finger poised over the keys.

“Yes.”

“If you want, you may touch her and do your… thing. She can tell you her story better than I can.” He punched in the code once more and we entered the room.

Ruby lay in a hospital bed, situated next to the barred window and adjusted so that she was almost sitting upright and could see outside. The first thing I noticed was the leather restraints she wore around her wrists. The second thing I noticed was the stump of her right leg. The broken ankle. I wondered if the untended injury had become infected and turned gangrene.

Kenneth greeted her with a kiss on her cheek. “Hi Ruby,” he said softly, “How are you feeling today?”

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“It’s me, Kenny,” he said patiently, “I’m your brother.

“No you’re not. Kenny died.”

He crossed the room back to where I stood, lingering near the door. “This is what it’s like every time I see her. Has been ever since… well, ever. I keep hoping that one day she’ll snap out of it and realize that I’m alive; so that she can die knowing I survived.”

He turned to me. “I don’t suppose you can… communicate with her somehow? Pass her a message, maybe – tell her that I’m alive and that I’m here?”

I shook my head sadly. “I’m sorry, but no. My abilities don’t work that way. I can receive information but not give it.”

He nodded toward Ruby. “Well, go on, then. This is what you came here for.”

I tentatively approached the bed, then hesitated before reaching for Ruby’s hand. I looked back at Kenneth for confirmation. He nodded.

“Go ahead,” he urged, “It can’t do any harm at this point. Each day she lives could be her last. If you want the full story, you’d best get it from her while you have the chance.”

Ruby appeared to be dozing lightly, as if tired from her brief conversation with her brother.

“Hello Ruby,” I said softly, “You don’t know me but I’d like to hold your hand for a moment, if you don’t mind.” Ruby’s eyelids flickered but didn’t open.

Ruby’s hands were those of an old woman – twisted and arthritic – but I could still see the scars on the tips of her misshapen fingers where the flesh had never fully grown back. Her eyelids flickered once more as I slid her cold, gnarled hand into my own. She responded to my touch by grasping my hand with a surprising amount of strength. I slowed my breathing, closed my eyes and allowed the visions to flow. The book-page images flew past; taking me almost immediately to the point in time I sought.

Ruby scolded her brother for not being a faster berry picker. She felt frustrated at his whining but didn’t want to return home without two full pails of berries. After telling him that his slowness would be the death of him, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. It was a large tawny-colored cat – a mountain lion or puma, as her grandfather sometimes called them. For one heart-stopping second she met its gaze; she was close enough to see the fine black streaks outlining its yellow eyes like the makeup worn by fancy ladies.

After shoving Kenny toward the trail and screaming at him to run, she did the only thing she could think of – throw the pail at the animal. The children had been taught to throw the fruit if they encountered a bear while picking because the bear would almost always prefer to eat the berries than chase a person. The cougar was not interested in berries but being stuck in the face with the pail might have startled it enough to interrupt its attack, giving Ruby a head start when she ran.

She heard heavy footfalls on the trail; to me, it seemed as if she was hearing the sound of her own feet but Ruby was convinced it was the cougar she heard and ran even harder. She overtook Kenny and passed him on the trail without giving him a second thought as her instinct for self-preservation took over. By the time she did remember him she had reached the village. She looked over her shoulder to see if either Kenny or the cat was behind her and stumbled, nearly falling to the ground.

Ruby ran to the first house she saw and pounded on the door, screaming for help. When nobody answered she ran to the next, then the next. Nobody was home; the men were working at the sawmill and it was harvest time, so the women were in the fields and gardens. The constant screech of the sawmill in the background drowned out her cries for help.

Ruby thought she saw movement at the edge of the forest and was certain it was the cougar, coming to eat her. She needed to find safety, fast. She spied the old schoolhouse and the large maple tree beside it, which she had climbed dozens of times just for fun. As she climbed, she remembered that cats were also good climbers.

Her sanctuary had become a trap.

There was a small window near the peak of the schoolhouse roof. The glass was already partly broken. If she broke the rest of it, she could squeeze through into the safety of the schoolhouse. She inched along the narrowing branch until she could reach the glass with her feet and kicked in the remaining pane. Then she lowered herself into the window feet first, slid through and dropped.

And dropped.

If she had seen how far it was down to the floor she might have thought twice about jumping but because she went in feet first she didn’t see the perilous height until it was too late.

Crunch.

She felt her ankle turn sideways just before a fiery pain shot up her leg, causing her to crumple to the floor. She slipped into unconsciousness from a combination of shock and exhaustion.

When she woke, it was dark. Her ankle throbbed and she was unable to stand on it. A weak sliver of moonlight shone through the broken window from which she had fallen, giving her enough light to get her bearings. She could hear the ever-present roar of the sawmill in the background and remembered that she was in the schoolhouse and safe from the cougar. She had managed to outrun the deadly predator… and her brother.

“Kenny!” She cried his name aloud when she realized that the lion must have gotten him. It was her fault for leaving him behind to save her own skin.

She had killed Kenny!

Ruby hobbled to one of the dust-covered pews, where she curled up and sobbed herself to sleep from the pain of her injury and grief for her little brother.

When she awoke it was light outside and that was when Ruby realized that she was trapped. She pounded and pounded and screamed and screamed while the sawmill screamed back at her twice as loud.

I flipped past the next three gruesome weeks because I already knew what happened next and had no desire to witness it again. I slowed the scenes and watched a shaft of daylight fill the schoolhouse, then the faces of several different people. After that, I was back in the schoolhouse again, experiencing through Ruby’s eyes as she staggered back and forth, hammering and clawing at the door with her bloodied hands.

That was odd.

I must have accidentally gone back instead of forward. That had never happened before. I pushed ahead again and once again saw bright light, people’s faces, then the schoolhouse. Once again I pushed forward with the same result. It was like watching a reel-to-reel film spliced into a continuous loop.

As I watched the loop, I began to see glimpses of things that did not belong in the schoolhouse or in the village where Ruby lived. A white room. Her leg a bloody stump swathed in bandages. Sterile steel objects; people dressed all in white; the pinprick of a hypodermic needle; an object shoved into her mouth, followed by jolts of electricity; restraints, much like the ones she wore now. And pain. Lots of pain. I began to understand.

In her mind, Ruby had never left the schoolhouse. A child’s life destroyed – spent in institutions subjected to all manner of brutal ‘therapies’. None of the torturous procedures she endured did anything to bring that innocent child back from the madness that had become her reality; they only served to fuel the rage that continued to build inside her. She was restrained to prevent her from acting out her frantic attempts to escape the schoolhouse again and again, day after day for what remained of her tragic life.

It was no wonder Kenneth would see her death as a blessing.

I had seen enough. I opened my eyes and released my grip on Ruby’s hand to break the connection but she refused to let go. Her bony hand held mine in an ironclad grip. Suddenly her head snapped in my direction and she glared at me, pupils dilated to the same ink-black I had seen in my first vision of her.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME?” she screamed.

I struggled to pull my hand away from hers, looking frantically at Kenneth for help.

“Ruby, look at me!” Kenneth placed his own face between hers and mine. “You have to let go.”

“Kenny?” she whimpered, “Is it really you?”

“Yes Ruby, I’m here. You have to let go.”

“I didn’t kill Kenny?” she whispered.

“No, my dear, you didn’t. You saved me. Please remember that.” Kenneth’s voice broke as he spoke.

Ruby was silent but maintained her rock-solid grip on me. Kenneth had to use both of his hands to pry her fingers loose from mine. I stumbled backward, finally free and eager to put some distance between Ruby and me.

I watched as Kenneth leaned forward and kissed his sister tenderly on the cheek, then stood and closed her eyelids. It was only then that I realized she was no longer alive, and that he had pried her still-clenched dead fingers from my hand.

“There will be no Code Blue here today,” he said quietly, “‘Do Not Resuscitate.’ That is what I requested, as her guardian and next of kin.” He looked at me, his pale blue eyes brimming with tears. “She saw me. Even if it was just for a few seconds, she knew I was alive. My Ruby is at peace now.”

* * *

As I read that last sentence I wrote, it seems prudent to end the story there, with the end of Ruby’s life. After all, there isn’t much else to tell. My doctor told me it would be therapeutic to write it down. He thinks it will stop the dreams. I’ve given up trying to explain to him that they are not dreams. It’s real, all of it.

She’s still with me, you see. Ruby. Maybe that was why she clung so hard to me at the moment of her death. Maybe she wasn’t ready to leave just yet. She’s not at peace like Kenneth said. She is still very disturbed. After all, she was batshit-crazy right up until the moment she died.

She comes to me at night.

Sometimes she lies in wait beneath the bed; waiting for me to place my feet on the floor. As soon as I do, a bloodied, skeletal hand will snake out and grab my ankle, sending me screaming toward the door, where I pound and pound until someone hears me and comes to my rescue. As long as I stay on the bed and remain awake, she leaves me alone. But sooner or later we all have to sleep. When I fall asleep, she takes over. Time after time I have woken to find myself lying before my bedroom door, bruised and bloodied from Ruby throwing me against it.

I voluntarily committed myself to this place to prevent her from killing me. Sooner or later I was bound to wake up with more than just black eyes and a concussion… or not wake up at all.

The doctors call it sleepwalking and of course they have a lot of medical jargon to explain the how and why of it, but I know the truth.

Ruby is inside me and has no intention of leaving.

Now they restrain and medicate me every night, but I get no rest. In my mind at night, I am Ruby and each night the scene inside the schoolhouse replays over and over until the drugs wear off and I awaken. I feel her terror; I feel her pain; I experience her descent into madness each night. It is torture beyond description.

There is a solution, I believe.

I have a secret.

For the past several months I have been tonguing my meds and stashing them in a small hole I made in the side of my mattress. I tell them I prefer to make my own bed because it helps to alleviate my night terrors, and they’re happy to oblige.

I think I have enough now, for a nice potent, no-returnsies overdose. It had better be enough. If I take them now, I should be good and gone before lights-out time. That’s when they come and bind me to my bed so I don’t hurt myself in my sleep. It has to be tonight. I can’t take another night of this.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way I’ll ever be free is to set Ruby free.

I just hope nobody else happens to be nearby when Ruby leaves me.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Featured in the WPaD anthology, Creepies: Twisted Tales From Beneath the Bed

Keep Close my Yellow Dog

Reginald trembled.

“What’s wrong, Reg?” I asked.

“I’m not entirely sure…” he began, then vomited his recently-eaten dinner onto the floor. “Oh my… I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t know what came over me. Here, I’ll clean it up.” He started lapping the puke up off the floor.

“Gross! Reg – NO!” I cried, running to grab some paper towels.

Reginald had a brilliant mind, and a witch couldn’t ask for a better familiar than the little yellow dog, who had once been a powerful wizard and lord of the manor in which we currently resided. But alas, his canine nature still took over sometimes.

After cleaning up what remained of Reggie’s mess, we turned our attention back to the issue at hand.

The angry woman upstairs hadn’t slowed one bit since her very unwelcome arrival. I could hear the sounds of her tantrum as she raged overhead, her footsteps thundering from room to room on the main floor of the house. Dishes rattled on the shelves as she slammed cupboard doors in her frenzied search for whatever it was she was looking for. The ceiling over my head muted her furious mutterings so that I could only hear snippets of what she was saying but the message was clear. She was displeased with every single thing she laid eyes on, especially me. My very presence in the house infuriated her. Each time she neared the stairwell that led downstairs to my quarters, where Reginald and I had been hiding since her arrival, something kindled her rage anew and set off another slamming, screaming tantrum.

The fact that she had arrived at all meant my banishing spell had been ineffective. This puzzled Reggie, since banishing was one of his specialties and he had helped me cast the spell. He had been feeling ill since her arrival and I knew it had to be connected somehow. We were beginning to suspect that the spell might have been turned back on us. Her energy was apparently toxic to Reggie but didn’t seem to have any adverse effects on me. I noticed however, that my energy didn’t appear to be doing her much good. I wasn’t sure why, but something about me seemed to repel her, which suited me fine because it kept her at bay, upstairs and away from our quarters. A temporary solution, but not ideal by any means.

If a banishing spell didn’t work on her, then what? A binding? Or…

Reginald glanced up at me from beneath the fringe of golden fluff that served as eyebrows, his chestnut eyes filled with the sadness that accompanies generations of wisdom. He shook his furry head slowly.

Damn that dog! He licked his nuts purely for entertainment and thought nothing of eating his own barf, yet he always seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Miranda, no,” he said. “First of all, you know the consequences of manipulating the dark forces. And second, it won’t work. Hexes only work on mortal beings.”

“What are you saying, Reg?” I asked, even though I already knew what the little yellow dog was getting at. I just wanted to hear it from him.

“She’s not human.”

“Then what is she?” Reggie’s theory made sense. It explained why our fail-safe banishing spell had failed in this instance. The spell only worked on humans and, to a lesser degree, on animals.

“I’m nmff nmfff mrtnfffnff,” Reginald said.

“Would you please look at me when you’re talking to me?” I scolded.

“Sorry,” the dog said, pulling his nose from where it had been momentarily buried in his not-so-private parts. “At first,” he continued, licking his lips, “I suspected she might be a succubus because of her humanoid façade. But now I know that’s not the case. A lower entity like a succubus would not have any effect on my powers. We are dealing with something far worse. And yes, you are correct. She wants you dead.”

I rubbed my arms to quell the gooseflesh that had risen – a sure sign that my familiar was speaking the truth. There was no doubt she wanted me dead; I’d suspected that from the beginning but up until that moment I’d felt confident, cocky even, that I could handle the likes of her.

She was the estranged stepdaughter of Harold, my former master. Harold was a kindly old wizard who had employed my mother before me and her mother before her, as domestic servants and apprentices. It might seem strange to an outsider that I would choose a life of servitude in these modern times, but it was the tradition of my family and the wizard was kind and fair. He had taken me under his wing at an early age and mentored me in the magickal arts, having apparently seen the same potential in me that he had known in my mother and grandmother. Harold had been my guardian since I was ten years old, after my mother was killed in an auto accident. Harold owned the ancient mansion and its expansive grounds, which had been passed down through his family for generations since Reginald’s time. In keeping with tradition, Harold’s next of kin was to inherit his home and all of his possessions after his death.

Wherein lay the problem – Harold had no children related to him by blood and he had outlived all of his other relations, having died at the age of 125. He did, however, have two stepdaughters by his late wife Esmerelda, who, according to Harold, was a sweet and loving woman until after their wedding. As soon as the honeymoon was over, she made an instant transformation into an evil, screeching battleaxe just like the one who now raged overhead.

The stepdaughters, who had not visited Harold even once since their mother’s death, intended to walk in and take over executorship of the estate because they were ‘related’ to the old wizard by marriage. The moment he died, the man who had meant nothing to them suddenly became ‘dear old Dad’. They became the grieving ‘daughters’, sucking up condolences from Harold’s acquaintances like the bloodthirsty leeches that they were. Reginald and I were left to grieve for our beloved mentor in private.

The stepdaughters strongly objected to the terms of the simple Will Harold had left. He had made provisions for me and all of my descendants in his Will, stating that we would always have a home and place of employment in the manor for as long as it remained standing or our family line died out, whichever came first. Until that time, the house was not to be sold, rented or renovated. Erin, the screaming stepdaughter, could not evict me nor could she sell the house as long as I, or one of my offspring, (of which I had none) were alive. Which was why she wanted me dead.

For the first time since I had accidentally conjured a shit-demon from the sewers of Hell, I felt genuine fear. The wizard had taught me that fear would defeat me faster than even the most formidable of foes and had spent years conditioning me to be fearless. I had heeded his teachings carefully and in my bravado my power grew.

With Reginald as an ally there was no spell I could not cast, no charm I could not repel and no mistake I could not undo. He was an ancient soul and a very powerful wizard in his own right. I had no idea how old the little dog was, but Reggie had been with me for as long as I could remember. Formerly known as Lord Reginald, he was the original owner of the manor and of course, one of Harold’s ancestors. The estate had been passed down through the generations from one descendant to another but the bloodline ended with the old man. Harold’s first wife had died without bearing him any children. His second wife died soon after the wedding, leaving behind the two greedy stepdaughters who were now trying to lay claim to the estate. The real father of the two girls was a mysterious dark wizard from somewhere in Europe, where the older sister currently resided.

Now Erin had returned, claiming to be the one chosen as executor of her “father’s” estate. She had commandeered the entire upper section of the house, leaving Reg and I banished to our downstairs quarters. She was livid about something. I could hear bits and pieces of her mutterings as she stormed around and slammed doors, apparently still searching for something. She ranted about being “attacked” and something about “the chosen one” and “absolute power”.

I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I had a feeling that if she found what she was looking for it would mean trouble for Reggie and me. All I knew for certain was that she was dangerous and we would have to be on guard at all times. I had already suggested to him the possibility of us leaving but he refused. This had been his home since he had staked his claim on the land and built the home back in 1672. No psychotic demon bitch was going to drive him out of it.

The problem was, how did we get rid of her?

* * *

The second stepdaughter, Maria, arrived the following week. She appeared to be the polar opposite of her sister –articulate and soft-spoken with a British accent that made her sound cultured and snobbish. She seemed quite reasonable but it was all just a façade, which I saw through immediately. Her invitation to come upstairs and join her for tea appeared to be a friendly gesture but I was immediately on guard. I wasn’t stupid. She didn’t want my friendship any more than I wanted her and her screeching shrew of a sister in my home.

I wasn’t about to eat or drink anything offered by those two vipers, so I concocted a little invisibility potion with Reggie’s help. I dropped my teaspoon on the floor and politely asked Maria for another one. While she was gone I dripped the potion over my tea and scone, making it appear as if I had consumed them.

When she noticed my empty teacup and plate, she offered more but I declined, then the interrogation began. I suspected the refreshments she had tried to trick me into consuming probably contained a potion or spell designed to act as truth serum.

She was a master manipulator but I played along with her little game, curious as to what information she was trying to extract from me. She asked me about myself and about my family – did I have any siblings, cousins, uncles or aunts? I guardedly explained that I was an only child and the last of my family since my mother’s death.

“And what about my father?” she inquired. “Did dear Harold ever mention any cousins or nephews I might not have known about?”

Her referral to Harold as her ‘father’ pissed me off because she was no relation to him whatsoever. I knew Reg was listening quietly from the staircase.

“No,” I replied coolly, “Your STEP father did not mention any other relatives other than those you would already know about. Can I ask why you would want to know?” I wanted to slap the fake smile off of her duplicitous face.

“No reason, dahling,” she crooned. “I just want to ensure that all parties get their share of any inheritance they may be entitled to.”

“If I understand correctly,” I said, “Harold’s Will was quite clear and simple. I don’t see what you would find confusing about it.”

She reached over and patted my hand in a condescending manner that made me want to conjure another shit-demon just for her. “No need to fret, my dear. It’s just a lot of complicated legal jargon that I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

What the hell did she think I was, the village idiot?

“I’m sure I understand just fine,” I replied.

“Sure you do, dahling. Sure you do,” she purred. “There is, however, one wee issue that may need to be addressed, and that is the quality of care my father was receiving prior to his death. Erin and I have reason to believe that there was a certain level of neglect that may have contributed to his untimely demise. You understand, of course, that we will need to have our attorney look into this.”

“What exactly are you implying?” I snapped. “That I caused his death due to neglect? First of all, the man was 125 years old, which is admirable even considering the fact that he was a wizard. Secondly, how the hell do either of you think you can know anything about what went on here, since neither one of you bothered to visit him even once? I’m SURE the level of care he was receiving was TOP priority for both of you!”

I couldn’t stand being in her presence a moment longer. I stood to leave.

“Thank you for the lovely cup of tea,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I really must get back to work. I have a million things to do.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed, “I’m sure you are quite the busy little lass.” She waved her hand at me as if swatting away a fly. “Off you go, then.”

I fumed as I made my way back downstairs. How dare she dismiss me like a common household servant in my own home? Frankly, I preferred the screaming banshee to this one. At least the banshee spoke her mind. I furiously swept my fingernails across the stone wall of the stairwell, sending a spray of blue and green sparks in my wake. It wasn’t good to lose control of my anger this way. The last time someone had pissed me off that much, my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend had grown a curly tail like a pig.

I closed the door to my room and threw myself on the bed. Reg hopped up and curled up beside me.

“I hate that sneaky, underhanded skank!” I raged. “Who does she think she is, treating me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of her shoe?”

Reg leaned over and licked my cheek, then sighed and rested his nose on his paws. “I know, milady. I know. We will get through this somehow. There has to be a way. Harold never would have left us without an avenue of escape. We just need to find it. He was a crafty one, you know. He wouldn’t have left the solution in plain sight for just anyone to find.”

I reached over and scratched between his ears. “You’re so wise, Reggie. If you weren’t a dog, I’d marry you.”

“I could accuse you of species discrimination, you know,” he teased.

I laughed and hugged the little dog. “You always know how to make me laugh. Thanks!” I kissed his wet nose, then wiped my mouth. “Ew! I keep forgetting where that that nose has been!”

“A dog’s mouth is supposed to be the cleanest thing there is,” he replied, feigning indignation.

“Yeah, you keep believing that, fur-face,” I laughed.

With my best friend curled in my arms, we both fell asleep.

* * *

“Miranda!” The voice was a mere whisper. Then it came again, louder this time. ‘Miranda!”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes sleepily although I had a feeling I was still asleep. In an instant I was on my feet, but I didn’t remember actually standing up.

“Miranda!” The voice was more commanding, and seemed to be coming from the other side of my bedroom door. I crept to the door, looking over my shoulder for Reggie, who was still curled up on the bed asleep. That was strange, because the dog’s sensitive ears surely would have picked up any sound sooner than my human ones.

I opened the door, noting the absence of the usual grating creak of the metal hinge. I was enveloped in silence; even my footsteps were silent.

Now what?

“Miranda!” Right beside me this time.

I whirled to face the speaker and came face to face with none other than Harold, the elderly wizard.

“Harold!” I whispered, falling into his arms purely from reflex.

The old man’s embrace was surprisingly solid, but he felt cold to the touch.

“Miranda, dear, dear girl,” he said softly, holding me in his icy arms.

“I’ve missed you so much, Harold!” I wiped tears from my cheeks, hating myself for crying. He’d always taught me to be strong and here I was letting him down during what might be my last opportunity to see him.

“There, now,” he soothed. “You needn’t fret, my child. All is not lost. I made plans well in advance to ensure that no one can harm you.”

“But now that you’re gone, everything is different! Those two women are evil! They don’t care what you wanted, or what your Will says. They intend to take everything and force me and Reg out into the street!”

“I would never allow that to happen. I’m surprised at you, Miranda. Haven’t you any faith in me at all? Everything you need is right here. Everything will be all right, I promise. But,” he hesitated, waving a finger in front of my face, “in order for things to work out, you will have to make a decision, and it may not be an easy one for you to make.”

“Just tell me what I need to do, and I will do it!” I said, “I don’t care what it is! I will do it!”

Harold smiled, his bright blue eyes twinkling as much in death as they had in life. “Ah, you may say that now, but you don’t yet know what will be asked of you. You are a strong girl; I raised you that way, as your dear departed mother desired. Your strength may become your downfall. Think carefully on this decision.”

“I will do whatever is required of me. I will do anything for you, Harold!” I insisted.

“We shall see…” he laughed brightly. “We shall see…” His apparition was beginning to fade. I could see through him now, to the stone wall beyond, where he was reaching for a sharp rectangular stone. His hand passed through the stone as I watched, then he stepped through the wall and vanished.

I sat up in bed, a sob still caught in my throat. My cheeks were wet with real tears I had shed during the dream. Reg lifted his head, instantly alert.

“What’s the matter, Miranda? A bad dream?”

“Yes… well, no, not exactly,” I replied. “Upsetting, yes. Reg, I saw Harold!”

The dog’s ears pricked up and he cocked his shaggy head, giving me his undivided attention. “Really? Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes! In fact, I think he was trying to show me something. He said I would have a difficult decision to make.” I bounced out of bed and dashed to the door without bothering to put on a robe or slippers. The coldness of the stone floor went unnoticed beneath my feet as I flung the door open and made my way to the spot where I had last seen Harold in my dream. Reg followed at my heels.

“He was right here,” I said, “and there was a stone… there! This one!” I touched the sharp rectangular stone and discovered it felt loose. I wiggled it and then pulled. It slid out, revealing a hidden space in the wall. Inside the space was a plain brown envelope. I pulled out the envelope. It was sealed with a glob of wax bearing the wizard’s insignia. Harold had always been kind of old-school with that sort of thing: his wax seal; his insistence that I spell the word magic with a ‘k’ on the end, like the old-world Pagans did…

Reg stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the envelope. “It’s definitely from Harold,” he confirmed. “No one but him has touched it.”

I replaced the stone and we scampered back to the privacy of our bedroom to open it.

Inside was a letter written in Harold’s handwriting, along with two additional sheets of blank paper.

What the hell?

I read the letter aloud to Reggie:

“Dearest Miranda,

If you are reading this, then it means I am no longer in the land of the living. I’m guessing that my two wretched stepdaughters have arrived and are trying to lay claim to that which is not theirs.

They are powerful entities, make no mistake. Regular magick will not work on them, as I’m guessing you’ve already discovered.

Their father, Vernon, is a formidable demon descended from Lucifer himself and it is from him that they get their powers. Erin, as you know her, is actually one of several incarnations of Eris, the Goddess of Chaos. Maria, the manipulator, was once an irresistible siren who lured many a sailor to his death back in the old days. Neither of them is to be trusted, but Maria is especially treacherous because she is very skilled at gaining the trust of her victims before destroying them. Because I know exactly who and what these two women are, I possess the ability to render them powerless.

Miranda, dearest child. I love you like my own and it is to you alone that I will pass this knowledge. These evil witches can and will be stopped and it is up to you to do it.

But first, my child, I must let you in on a secret.

The Last Will and Testament that Erin and Maria have is a fake. The real one is here, in this envelope. My attorney also has a copy but like this one, it will not become visible until the charm I have placed on it is removed. You are the only one with the power to remove the charm and enact the real Will.

In order to do that, I will first need a promise from you, and the decision will not be an easy one.

My stepdaughters believe that there is no legitimate heir to my estate but I tell you now, that is not the case. I have a son from my first marriage. My second wife Esmerelda despised him and sought to eliminate him from the moment she married me to ensure that her daughters would inherit my estate when I died.

At her request, I sent my son away to boarding school, never to return. I told my wife that he had contracted pneumonia while at school and died. It was a lie, but she believed it. In order to protect my only son and my family’s lineage, I lied about his death and sacrificed a lifetime of fatherhood to a wonderful child. I regret every day that I couldn’t be his father, but you must understand that I did it out of love. It was the only way I knew of to protect him from the evil that had infiltrated my family.

Now, it is time for my son to step forward and claim his birthright, but in order to ensure that he is safe from the clutches of another evil harridan such as the one I married, I have already chosen a bride for him. She is kind and pure of heart, and at his side, they will carry on my family name with pride.

Miranda, you are betrothed to my son. But I will not force you to marry him against your will. I will not infringe on your free will, for as you know, that is not how positive magick works. YOU must make the decision.

I ask you now, are you willing to accept your betrothal and marry a man you have never met? If your answer is yes, my two wretched stepdaughters will never bother you again. If you choose not to, I will not love you any less and will respect your decision. But I will be powerless to protect you from them.

If you agree, simply sign the bottom of this page… in your own blood, of course. Then, you must burn this piece of paper.”

* * *

I looked at Reggie, who gazed back at me with those soulful brown eyes I had grown to love so much.

“What should I do, Reg?” I asked, though I already knew what the answer would be.

“As Harold said, Miranda, it is your decision and yours alone,” the dog said.

“There is no other way,” I said, reaching for my Athame, the ceremonial dagger I kept on my altar. I sliced my index finger, allowing the blood to flow onto the bottom of the page, then used the same finger to write a rudimentary signature. I held the paper over a candle flame. It burned about halfway, then vanished in a shower of sparks, leaving not a single trace of ash.

“So now what?” I wondered aloud.

“Miranda, look!” Reg whispered.

The two blank pages were no longer blank. I picked up the first and read the words, Last Will and Testament at the top.

“It’s the Will!” I gasped. “The real one!”

“What’s this?” Reg asked, nuzzling the second page with his nose. “It looks like a spell!”

“It does indeed! I bet this is the spell needed to banish those two!” I looked at Reg with a sly smile. “What do you say, puppy-dog? It can’t be any worse than a shit-demon!”

“With those two shit-demons upstairs, I say let’s do it!” Reg grinned as only a dog can, his long tongue lolling out the side of his furry mouth.

* * *

We read the spell carefully to ensure we didn’t make any mistakes. We painstakingly gathered the ingredients, set up the right number and color of candles and cast the circle as precisely as I ever had.

Into the cauldron went various herbs and a few rather obscure ingredients, a splash of water from the pond and three hairs each from me and Reg. Together we chanted the strange incantation then closed our eyes and waited for the outcome.

There was a flash of heat and the smell of sulfur but we kept our eyes tightly closed in accordance with the instructions of the spell as unknown forces swirled around us.

Finally all was silent.

“Miranda?” Reg whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Is it over?”

“I think so,” he said, “but I feel kind of strange. My collar is too tight.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed. “Are you ok, Reg?” I opened my eyes, slowly at first, then gaped in awe at the sight before me.

My little yellow dog was gone. Where Reg had been sat a young man with blond hair. He was naked except for a red leather collar around his neck – the same collar Reg had worn.

“Reg?” I asked.

“It would appear so,” he said. “Would you pass me a blanket? It’s a bit chilly without my fur.”

I grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it over his shoulders so he could cover himself, then removed the collar from his neck.

“You are Harold’s son? All this time, and you never told me?”

“I didn’t know, Miranda. It seems my father erased my memory of who I was in this lifetime, for my own protection. It’s all coming back to me now. I am the original Lord Reginald but I was also reincarnated as Harold’s son. Turning me into a dog and shielding my memory was the only way he could keep me close by while still protecting me. And of course, he placed me in your very capable hands, frozen in time so that I would return to my human form the exact same age as my betrothed when the spell was broken.”

He smiled, melting my heart from the inside out. His eyes were the same gentle brown ones I had fallen in love with when they were fringed with shaggy yellow fur. Now, they were set in a chiseled, handsome face befitting of the nobility that he was.

“I’ve agreed to marry you!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering my vow.

“Yes, I hope you’re still ok with that,” Reg said. “I don’t think Father wrote a divorce clause into the spell.”

My heart thudded and my face flushed like a schoolgirl meeting her crush for the first time. “Of course I’ll marry you, Reg. Didn’t I say that once?”

He smiled, all pearly white teeth, with no tongue lolling out of his mouth this time and pulled me into a loving embrace.

“You have no idea how much I have longed to hold you just like this,” he whispered in my ear.

* * *

Our wedding was a simple but elegant garden ceremony with just a few close friends to witness. We were joined on a pretty little stone footbridge that arched over the fish pond in the estate’s expansive garden. It was a beautiful June day; birds chirped, frogs croaked and flowers bloomed everywhere. Sparkly orange and white fish slid through the water below the bridge as we said our vows.

After the ceremony, Reginald scooped me up into his muscular arms and carried me over the threshold into OUR manor, to begin our new life together.

As we made our way to the bedchamber I joked to my new husband, “I guess I will never have to see you with your nose buried between your legs anymore!”

He chuckled, a mischievous glint in his chestnut eyes, “I believe that is now your department, milady!”

“Once a dog, always a dog!” I laughed, giving him a playful kiss on the nose. “I wonder what ever happened to those horrid step-bitches?” I mused.

“Who cares?” Reg replied. “Father said the spell would take care of them and they would never bother us again.”

“Good point,” I smiled and gave him another kiss, this one deep and sensual.

* * *

A Great Blue Heron stood below the bridge where a wedding ceremony had taken place a few hours earlier. She picked her way slowly through the water lilies, arching her graceful neck to get a better view of the water below. This pond was one of her favorite fishing spots, for the frogs were abundant and the humans always kept it well stocked with Koi.

A large golden body flashed past her feet, frantically diving under the rocky ledge that had been built to shelter the fish. The heron was patient; sooner or later the fish would forget she was there and emerge once again.

* * *

 “Move it, you selfish bitch!” Erin screamed at her sister, her words nothing more than bubbles.

“I was here first, dahling. Find your own refuge,” Maria bubbled. “Frankly, it’s your fault we are here to begin with. If you had gotten that brat under control right from the start…”

“When our father finds out about this…!” Erin began.

“What? What exactly will he do? He’s the one who sent you away to begin with because he couldn’t stand you, you hateful wench! As far as I’m concerned, you deserve to be bird-bait!”

Up above, the shadow of the heron loomed, waiting…

Copyright © 2014 Mandy White

The Art of Bathing

Taking a bath. It’s a simple luxury most women love, and many take for granted. I know I used to.

That was before I moved into this house.

Now, it’s a rare treat to soak in a luxurious bubble bath with a good book, and even then the clock is always ticking and I usually don’t get past more than a paragraph or two before my time is up.

And before I can take my bath I must scrub.

The tub and floor must be scrubbed and sanitized before I even dare to take my shoes off.

I start at the door with a mop and bucket of scalding hot bleach water. I work my way into the room, scrubbing the smears of blood from the floor until the entire room smells like a public swimming pool, complete with the added aroma of urine. Once I reach the window I can open it to air out the room while I scrub the piss stains from around the base of the toilet. Last of all, I use the mop to clean the outside of the toilet before dumping the bucket into the bowl. Finally the room starts to smell clean.

After that, I turn my attention to the tub itself. It too must be bleached, but first I remove the heavy-duty shower chair and the festering green rubber germ factory that the old woman calls a bathmat. I have tried to tell her that she needs to replace the mat but she won’t listen. I repeat my scrubbing routine, using a clean rag that I have brought with me along with the rest of my bath supplies. I will throw the rag in the garbage afterward; the thought of having it share the washing machine with the rest of the laundry turns my stomach.

Scrub scrub scrub.

I clean the inside of the tub and all surrounding surfaces with a solution of more bleach than water. When I’m satisfied that it’s finally clean, I check my watch.

Fifteen minutes have already elapsed. I have another twenty minutes, thirty if I’m lucky.

Tick tick tock tick… the clock is always ticking.

As my bath fills I can finally unpack my bag of bath supplies; shampoo, conditioner, loofah, soap and razor… typical stuff that most women keep in their bathrooms. I can’t keep the stuff in this bathroom because it’s not mine. I have a bathroom downstairs but it only has a tiny shower stall. I hate showers; I’ve always loved my baths. The only bathroom in the house that has a bathtub belongs to the old woman. It’s filled with old-person stuff; bottles and bottles of prescription pills, vitamins, laxatives and antacids. My scented soaps, lavender bubble bath and pink loofah would have no place in here.

Finally my bath is ready; steamy and inviting with fluffy white mountains of lavender scented bubbles.

Mmmm!

It’s a tiny slice of heaven, even if it’s only for a short time. I ease myself into the water and dunk my head under. It’s all worth it; even if I have to spend the same amount of time scrubbing as I do bathing. It’s all I get, so I have to cherish it.

As I reach for my washcloth I notice something on the edge of the tub.

NO! Please, No! Please don’t let it be…!

On closer inspection my fears are confirmed. The small kinky grey hair could be none other than…

A PUBE!

I shudder with revulsion as I stand up and reach for a square of toilet paper so I can remove the offending hair, which undoubtedly came from the old woman.

The elderly lady with whom I must share this bathtub is the owner of the house, who hired me to cook, clean and generally help her as her health continues to fail.

I try to remember that she is a woman like me, that she was young once but my mind sometimes has trouble making the connection.

She is a human being, and her name is Mary.

Once, she was young and thin and happy.

Now, she is old, fat and dying.

Instead of the pretty dark-haired woman pictured in the old black and white photos on the mantle, I now see a mountain of overflowing diabetic flesh, weighing in at nearly four hundred pounds.

Her legs are surreal; prehistoric tree trunks with flaky, scaly bark and bulbous, swollen roots for feet. She doesn’t wear shoes unless she leaves the house because she can’t reach her feet to put them on. Her bloated ankles appear to be overflowing the feet, which are now completely numb due to advancing neuropathy. The soles of the feet are cracked open in several places and never heal because there is so little circulation at this point that the flesh is nearly dead. Small smears of blood on the floor follow her every step around the house.

She is an amputation waiting to happen and there is nothing I can do to change it.

A perpetual infection lurks beneath the surface; her doctor maintains futile hope that it will succumb to the endless barrage of powerful antibiotic pills he keeps prescribing.

But the doctor knows the truth.

Everyone knows.

Even Mary knows that it’s just a matter of time before first one foot, then the other will have to be removed to prevent the spread of gangrene. At this point it’s simply a matter of keeping the feet attached for as long as possible. If she loses her feet I will no longer be able to take care of her.

As anyone who has seen advanced Type 2 Diabetes in action knows, once the amputations start, it’s the beginning of the end. First the foot, then the lower leg, and then the thigh… Once they have removed all of the leg and part of the ass, there’s nothing left to amputate and death follows soon afterward.

The old woman must be aware of this – how can she not be? I think she’s either heavily in denial or she has simply decided to go out happy. There isn’t any other way to explain her artery-choking diet of deep-fried, pan-fried, chicken-fried, fried-fried foods. Not a scrap of healthy food passes her lips if she can help it. She averages a six-pack of ‘diet’ soda per day and never drinks water, except to swallow pills. (and sometimes not even then.) I use my grocery allowance to buy healthy foods: vegetables, whole grains, fish and chicken. Mary orders pizzas and other takeout foods. She also chooses her own ‘groceries’ and has them delivered: cookies, doughnuts, jujubes, chocolates and candies. She crams them into her mouth by the handful, followed by increasingly larger doses of insulin to combat the rush of sugar. Her body has developed such a tolerance to insulin that it barely has any effect, even at doses that would be fatal to an ordinary person. Mary is playing with fire and I am powerless to stop her.

I mentioned that I cook for her. I TRY to cook for her, but if the food isn’t fried or sugary she turns her nose up at it. I try to avoid cooking the foods she wants. Sometimes, I wait until she takes a nap, then prepare healthy, Diabetic-friendly meals. I disappear before she wakes up, leaving her to fend for herself for a while. She then must either fry something by herself or suffer through vegetables and brown rice. Sometimes it works, but not often.

Mary’s family doesn’t visit her anymore because they don’t want to be bothered with her. To them, she is a burden and an embarrassment. It’s really quite sad. She has nobody but me to rely on, and I’m failing her miserably due to her refusal to care about her own health.

The reason I must scrub and sanitize the bathroom before I use it is her feet. Those horrid, decaying, borderline gangrenous feet. Every day she soaks them in a foot bath that I prepare for her – a solution of Epsom salts, iodine and warm water – in hopes that the infection will recede and the cracks will stop spreading. It’s mostly a futile exercise at this point but it’s better than the alternative, which is to do nothing.

Yes, she should be in a hospital but she refuses to go and has made it very clear that she will fire me if I attempt to have her taken to the hospital. Losing this job might sound like a blessing in disguise but then what would happen to Mary? The hospital won’t keep her against her will, and who would take care of her?

Certainly not her relatives.

Those vultures are hanging back, waiting for her to die so they can swoop in, exterminate the vermin, (me – domestic help no longer needed) loot her possessions and sell her house. Not that I care if I’m thrown out of here after her death; it’s just repulsive, the way they think they’re entitled to anything of hers after they have shunned her and left her to die alone.

When her daily foot bath is finished, I carry the plastic tub of water to the bathroom, where I pour the toxic bacterial stew down the bathtub drain. The water is cloudy and I try not to look at it. I discard my surgical gloves, then change my clothes and wash my hands up past the elbows afterward, followed by a healthy dose of hand sanitizer.

I’m not a germophobe. What I am is well aware of the terrifying ‘super bugs’ that have been emerging in recent years; strains of once-familiar bacteria that have mutated into antibiotic-resistant and potentially deadly versions of their former selves.

I’ve seen the antibiotics Mary is taking. Powerful stuff. I can tell that her doctor is worried. God only knows what ball-busting bionic bacteria might be lurking on her skin, especially on the legs and feet where too little blood flows and the immune system and antibiotics simply can’t reach.

I’m no dummy – I know I’m bathing in the same tub where I dump that septic soup, but the alternative is to dump it in the kitchen sink, where I wash dishes and prepare food.

So I bleach. And I scrub.

I don’t know why it never occurred to me until today that I should have been dumping the foot bath down the toilet.

I raise my head out of the steaming bath. The bubbles are gone, which means my time is probably up. I check my clock.

Sure enough, time is up.

As with many elderly people, bladder weakness is an issue with Mary so the time I can safely occupy her bathroom is limited. If she happens to wake, she will make a beeline for the bathroom. If I hear her thundering down the hallway and I’m still in the tub, there will be trouble and I will have a mess to mop up on top of it.

I pull the plug and am about to stand up when I realize that I still have some conditioner in my hair. I lay back down in the water, rinsing my hair as the tub drains. I lay there for a moment longer, savoring the last bit of my sultry paradise before I have to get out and rejoin the real world.

I sit up when I notice that the water hasn’t gone down much at all. The bath is still full.

I jump out quickly and reach for my towel.

I get dressed, keeping an eye on the tub, wishing it would hurry up and drain. I don’t want to deal with a clog after getting all nice and clean and relaxed.

Once fully dressed, I can see that I must face the fact that the drain is definitely clogged. It was probably a ball of hair or something. Ick.

I grab the plunger and work it up and down a few times until finally the water begins to drain. Whatever was plugging it either worked its way down or came back up into the tub.

As the water grows shallower, I see an object floating in the bottom of the tub; most likely the thing responsible for clogging the drain… the thing that I have essentially, been bathing with ever since I pulled the plug.

As the remainder of the water disappears down the drain, I begin to gag, then rush to the toilet and spew my guts. When I finish puking, I am moving immediately, running for the bleach and wondering if there is enough hand sanitizer to cover my entire body.

I will gather up the nerve to remove the toe from the bathtub later.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Easy Beezy

We were too busy looking for outside threats to notice disaster on our own doorstep. After World War II, we had the threat of nuclear war to worry about. When that didn’t materialize, the doomsayers warned us about Y2K, and then that Mayan calendar fiasco. We survived the COVID-19 pandemic, but something new always lurked around the corner; some potential disaster to keep us distracted from the core issue, which was the damage we were doing to our planet. Our oceans were dying, our forests decimated and our climate was changing. Yet even with all of those odds against us, we could have repaired the damage.

The extinction of the honeybees marked the point of no return for humanity. We had done a good enough job on our own of killing off our precious bees, but they were holding their own until the Murder Hornets invaded North America. The giant Asian Hornets fed on our honeybees, decimating entire hives in mere hours.

Of course, science had a solution. They genetically engineered a new species of bee, a Bee 2.0, if you will. They selected the best characteristics of all species of bee, including the Japanese honeybee, which was quite skilled at combating the invasive hornets. They mixed in a little of this and a little of that. Some say they combined genetic material from African killer bees with that of cockroaches and tardigrades to make the new bee harder to kill. It was all speculation. Nobody except the creators themselves knew exactly what went into the new bee.

We found ways to keep our food supply alive. Miniature computer-controlled drones were built to give the new bees a helping hand with pollination until their numbers increased. A new generation of self-pollinating hybrid plants replaced many food crops. The general public learned to embrace laboratory-grown foods. In the face of adversity, we did what humans always do: We survived.

Honey grew scarce and expensive. The old supplies dried up, and the meagre population of new bees wasn’t able to produce enough to keep up with demand. The honey shortage led to the development of unhealthy synthetic substitutes, most made from high fructose corn syrup. So the mad scientists at the genetics lab went to work. They took a little dab of Bee 2.0 honey and combined it with a bunch of other ingredients to make it stretch. The result was Beezy – the first honey substitute that tasted close to the real thing, probably because it contained actual honey. Some people said it tasted even better than real honey.

Beezy was so popular the FDA allowed it to be pushed to mass market without fully testing it. Early indications were extremely promising. The new 2.0 honey brought some unexpected health benefits. It proved to be a kind of super fuel for the immune system. A new over-the-counter pharmaceutical called “Easy Beezy” outsold every other cold and flu remedy on the market. Over time, we learned that not only did it treat the common cold and flu, it cured them – absolutely nuked them, in fact. It even killed the dreaded coronaviruses that had killed so many in the past. Further study revealed a plethora of uses for the revolutionary product. It eliminated cancer, diabetes, and an ever-growing list of previously terminal ailments. AIDS no longer existed. Vaccines became irrelevant. It even seemed to affect the aging process. Scars faded, wrinkles smoothed. Elderly people looked years younger.

People seemed almost…immortal. Time would tell just how true that was.

The exciting new product was promoted as “The Elixir of Life”. We bought it and, like the fools we were, consumed it in copious amounts. Beezy surpassed everyone’s wildest expectations.

If only it hadn’t.

If only it had been deadly.

I lost count of how many times I had prayed and begged and railed at God for bringing this curse upon us. But the truth was, God wasn’t to blame. We did it to ourselves. We created it; conjured this cursed amber elixir straight from the bowels of Hell.

Prolonged life. Disease-resistant. No more fear of cancer, of pandemics and other silent killers. Sounds great, doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want that? What possible downside could there be? Someone offers me a food that can do that, where do I sign, amiright? That was the thinking of the general population.

Beezy took the place of artificial sweeteners in nearly every product worldwide. By the time any adverse effects were discovered, nine-tenths of the world’s population was consuming it on a regular basis. Except for the ones too poor to buy it, or people starving in third world countries. They were the lucky ones. I had a severe allergy to honey, so I abstained as well.

Lucky me.

I was angry at first. Angry that I had been denied the chance for immortality because of my allergies. Just one more chance for life to give me the big middle finger. I couldn’t swim in pools as a kid because of the chlorine. I lived in fear of insect stings. I had never tasted seafood, milk, or peanut butter. It wasn’t fair. And now this. The one product that might have cured my allergies might also kill me.

Yes, Beezy seemed like the answer to everything.

After all, who wouldn’t want eternal life?

Little Jimmy Wilson, for one.

Jimmy was an eight-year-old boy who lived on my street. He was riding his bike when some drunk asshole ran him down. The car dragged him for several blocks. His screams will haunt me until the day I die, which thankfully will be soon. The paramedics collected the pieces of poor little Jimmy and rushed him to the hospital. The surgeons did their best, but Jimmy was in bad shape. Arms and legs mangled. He had been decapitated, but somehow he was still alive. Unable to die but too damaged to heal, Jimmy was doomed to an agonizing existence as a stitched-up, oozing mess that should have been laid to rest with dignity.

As the years passed, more who should have died continued to live. Soldiers returned from the front lines of various wars with limbs blown off, holes in their heads, bellies full of shrapnel. Some of them were not much more than an exploded pile of meat, yet still alive, irreparable but conscious and feeling pain. Victims of violence, accidents, fires, all alive and suffering unbearable agony. All modern medicine had to offer was a pittance of relief in the way of pain medication. Powerful opiates were given freely without a prescription. All of them were addicted, but it no longer mattered. Nobody died from overdose anymore. Nobody died. The worst cases suffered brain damage but lived on, shuffling through the streets like zombies; broken and oozing, moaning and wailing in agony but still alive, sentient beings.

There was talk about putting them out of their misery somehow, perhaps through cremation, but the ethical argument was one no politician wanted to touch. None of them wanted to be the guy that tried burning people alive.

* * *

To escape the horror of reality, I made a daily trek to my favorite place – a grassy clearing at the top of a hill overlooking town. It was far enough away that I couldn’t hear the cries of the suffering. From that distance the town looked like it once had; normal, peaceful.

The smell of the wildflowers reminded me that I was still human, and still allergic. I fished in my pocket for the allergy medication I had bought the day before. The pharmacy had been out of my usual medication. Pharmacies were out of most everything except painkillers these days. There wasn’t much demand for other medications now that Beezy had cured everything. I paused to read the box of the unfamiliar allergy meds. Sublingual, it said. Place 1-2 tablets under the tongue as needed. Hopefully it would work as well as my regular brand. I popped two of the pills out of the blister package and placed them under my tongue. The metallic sweetness lingered long after the pills dissolved in my mouth.

I found solace in the silence, but most days I gazed to the heavens, praying for contact from another world, begging for one more chance. Was there anyone who could help us? Either heal this mistake we had made or send us into blissful oblivion?

Today, I lay on my back gazing into the azure sky and repeated the same mantra I’d spoken so many times before:

“If anybody’s out there, if anybody’s watching us, now’s the time to make contact. Please help us! Please save us from ourselves.” Tears streamed down my face. To another unseen entity of whose existence I was also doubtful, I added, “Please forgive me. I need to be free.”

I removed freedom from my pocket, placed the barrel under my chin and pulled the trigger.

* * *

The darkness cleared. The sky was still there, but now tinged with a touch of red. The sun must be setting. Slowly my other senses awakened. Numbness came first. I raised my hands to my face. It felt wet. My chin was gone. So was my nose, and one of my eyes. A gaping exit wound near my hairline told me I should have been dead. And then came the pain. A wildfire of agony ravaged what was left of my head.

Was this Hell? Was this God’s punishment to me for committing suicide?

No, I was alive. The sky, the rustle of wind in the grasses, the smell of the many pollens that bothered my allergies. I could still taste the sweetness of the allergy pills under my tongue, even though my tongue was no longer there. Sweetness. Sweeteners. Sublingual pills contained artificial sweeteners.

Beezy.

Easy Beezy, no more sneezy. I tried to laugh, but it came out as a gurgling noise.

Did this mean I was no longer allergic? Could I finally eat a lobster dinner or a peanut butter sandwich? I heard it sticks to the roof of your mouth.

What does it stick to if your mouth doesn’t have a roof?

Copyright © 2019 Mandy White

I’m All Ears

If you give parents the benefit of the doubt, sometimes they might surprise you…

It started out the way so many of these things do: A slice of potato, a needle and a cigarette lighter. Piercing my ears against my parents’ wishes was the ultimate act of rebellion, in my thirteen-year-old mind.

My sister was all for it, in the beginning. Sadie was a saint. She always had my back. Sadie was more than just my identical twin. She was my best friend and my savior, always willing to run interference to hide my rebellious antics. Like the pierced ears. Sadie chose to remain unpierced, and stood in for me when I hid to avoid my parents until my ears healed and I could remove the earrings around them. And when my amateur piercing job went bad and my ears turned scarlet with infection, Sadie was there for me.

It was the same with the tattoo. And the nose ring. And then the numerous tattoos that followed. Luckily, by that time we had moved far away from our conservative Christian parents and I didn’t have to face their judgment.

We took turns attending family functions, although it was always Sadie who went. Half the time she was herself and the other half she posed as me, always with an excuse as to why we couldn’t show up together. When excuses about having to work wore thin, we told our parents we had adopted a dog, and Sadie posed for photos with our neighbor’s Jack Russell terrier.

I wished I could have just been honest with them, but I knew they’d disown me if they saw what I really looked like. And if they saw me, then Sadie’s role in our lifetime of lies would also be exposed. I couldn’t do that to her. Family was more important to Sadie than anything.

I studied my reflection, glimpsing the glint of the Christmas tree in the room behind me. I liked what I saw, but imagined the horror on my mother’s face when she saw the 2-inch discs that had replaced those DIY holes I’d bored so many years ago. As a professional body piercer, it was good business to advertise my wares, and of course I’d acted as my own guinea pig during my training. I was proud to say I’d done many of my piercings myself. Metal glittered in my nose, lips, cheeks and eyebrows. In addition to the discs in my stretched-out earlobes, I had nine more holes in my ears, decorated with an artful array of rings and studs.

My phone rang in the other room. It was probably Sadie, telling me she’d arrived safely at Mom and Dad’s house. I checked the number and saw that I was correct; it was my parent’s phone number. I answered, expecting to hear Sadie’s voice, but it was Mom.

“Annie?”

 “Um…yeah.” Something wasn’t right. How did she know?

“Hi, Mom. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it. It’s just…work is so busy this time of year. I promise I’ll make it for Easter.”

“Oh, Annie! Thank the Lord you’re ok!” I heard a sob on the other end.

“Mom? What is it? Is Dad ok?” My father’s health had been poor, and the last I’d heard he was battling a respiratory infection.

“Yes, he’s fine. Honey, it’s Sadie. I just got a call from the police. There’s been an accident. Sadie is…” My mother broke into sobs. “I’m so relieved to hear your voice! I thought you were together. I thought I’d lost you both. Sadie’s gone. Thank Jesus you’re okay!”

* * *

Throughout the flight home, my mind churned through what was likely in store for me at Sadie’s funeral.

There would be the shock and disappointment on my parents’ faces when they say me for the first time in my tattooed, pierced, blue-Mohawked glory, followed by their understanding of my absence, and then finally the anger: Anger at my selfishness that sent my sister to her death; anger that she was the one in that car instead of me.

There would be my parents’ desperate attempts to hide their humiliation on front of all the friends and family, painfully aware of every shared glance and whisper. My own humiliation and grief would be inconsequential; after all, I was the cause of it all.

I was surprised they were allowing me to attend at all.

But then again, they didn’t know. Not yet, but soon the truth would be laid bare. I feared my mother’s reaction the most. My father was the quiet type; I expected a disapproving silence from him, but my mother… Mom was outspoken enough for both of them, and I’d always been a little bit afraid of her.

I felt naked; raw as a fresh tattoo inside and out. If only I could turn back time. What would my life have been like if I’d never pierced my ears that first time? Perhaps Sadie would still be by my side and I would have enjoyed the same relationship with our parents that she did.

I half hoped the plane would crash and spare us all what was to come. But no such luck. The flight attendant instructed us to prepare for landing.

This was it. My mother waited on the other side of those doors, and for the first time my sister Sadie wouldn’t be there to cover for me.

* * *

Mom looked so much older and it dawned on me how many years had passed since I’d seen her in person. I wanted to turn and flee, but had nowhere to run.

I braced myself for the worst.

“Annie!” My mother’s arms enveloped me and I felt her shudder as I returned the hug.

“Mom,” I managed, before dissolving in a cascade of tears.

“I’m so glad you finally came.”

I held my mother close and sobbed into her jacket. The years fell away and all at once I was five years old, terrified of my first day of school.

Finally Mom stepped back and held me at arm’s length, studying me.

Here it comes. I ducked my chin in shame.

She smiled through her tears. “Looks like we have some catching up to do.”

“It’s a long story,” I began.

“I’ll bet it’s an interesting one.” She cocked her head and I caught the glint of metal beneath her hair. Pierced ears? On my oh-so-conservative mother? This was a side of her I’d never seen before.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I said.

She placed an arm over my shoulders as we walked toward the baggage carousel.

“I’m all ears.”

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

The Sculpture

In my tiny prison, I barely have room to stretch my legs. I don’t know how much time has passed since I was imprisoned, but time is of little concern to me; all that concerns me is escape. I will not rest until I am free.

I was once queen of a thriving civilization, a labor of love built from the very ground by the tireless toil of its citizens. We never dreamed our world would one day crumble, but that day inevitably arrived. An impervious outside force attacked. Liquid fire rained down on us, dousing our glorious city, incinerating adults and young alike in the volcanic deluge.

I survived only because my chamber was at the heart of the city, furthest away from the lava flow. I managed to wedge myself into a small enclosed space long enough to withstand the heat. That space became my prison. When the lava cooled, all exits were sealed and I was trapped.

As hunger weakens me, so does desperation give me strength. I found the crack in the wall of my tiny cell as soon as the heat subsided. Immediately I went to work; clawing, gnawing, gradually enlarging the opening. Soon it will be large enough for me to squeeze through. I only pray that I can find a way back to the surface. I must escape. I will escape. I will have my vengeance, for the sake of my citizens who were so ruthlessly slaughtered, and for the offspring swelling in my abdomen. I will rebuild; I will create a new future for my young. But first I must escape.

* * *

Lenore poured two glasses of Chablis and handed one to Marsha. The two friends clinked glasses in celebration.

“What do you think?” Lenore asked.

“It’s… it’s stunning,” Marsha said, turning around to take in the entire room.

“I think so too. This old mansion was built in 1910. It’s survived two world wars and more than a century of history. I got an amazing deal on it. The rustic look is exactly what I wanted for my gallery.”

“I love what you’ve done, preserving all of that old wood.”

“It was in surprisingly good shape, considering. Although I did have to get rid of some pests. Squirrels in the attic, rats in the basement, termites…”

“Wow. Termites? Good thing you got rid of them before they did too much damage. I’d hate to think what would happen to all this beautiful wood.” Marsha gulped her wine.

“Don’t I know it! The exterminator said I got them in time, before they got into the structure. Luckily, most of them were outside. There was a big nest in the back yard. In fact, you’re looking at it.”

“What?” Marsha stood facing a large abstract sculpture. She had been admiring the piece, which resembled a futuristic chrome castle with a smooth, rippled surface. “This? I was going to say, this is one of my favorite pieces so far. How did you make it?”

“I’m not sure it qualifies as art. At the very least, it’s experimental. Rather than use poison, I tried a more environmentally friendly approach. I poured molten pewter into the nest. I dug it out, and this is the result.”

Marsha’s fingers brushed the glistening surface of the sculpture. “It’s breathtaking.”

Lenore chuckled. “I bet it was, for those termites.” She refilled their wine glasses.

Marsha laughed and raised her glass. “Well, here’s to the termites. Rest in peace, and good riddance!”

Copyright © 2020 Mandy White

The Cure

“Doctor, I don’t know what to do. I can’t get rid of them. I’ve tried everything – flushing with water, blowing air on them, heat, nothing works. Can you help me?”

“I’ve seen this sort of thing before, and I think I can help.”

“I certainly hope so. These things just keep multiplying. They’re a menace and nothing seems to kill them.”

“They’re well-established and it might take some time for the treatment to work. It’s tricky business, eliminating parasites without doing harm to the host. But if you can be patient and give the medication time to work, you will eventually be as good as new.”

“I’m willing to try anything. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Just sprinkle this all over the affected area, and then wait. Before long you’ll start to see results. But they might become resistant to the treatment, so you’ll need to follow up with these variants of the original medication. They won’t be able to escape all of them. Eventually you will win, and you will be parasite-free and healthy once again.”

“Thank you so much, doctor! You’ve saved my life! What is this stuff called?”

“It’s called COVID-19, Gaia.”

A Treat for Fans of Horror and Suspense!

This is typically a short story blog, but occasionally I’ll deviate from that format to share something fantastic. Like this book, for example.

In the Palace of Ordeal and Death is a brand new release by a Canadian author, set in my native British Columbia.

Description from Amazon:

“Terror and ruin await those who trespass upon the palatial repository of Alizarin Soranus, self-appointed Emperor of Ordeal and Death, and the Novelties of Sorrow. For two very different groups of explorers the verbosity will become horrifically succinct.
In the wake of Soranus’ mysterious disappearance, the estate sales team of Lander and Rhoe are retained to list his extravagant collection of macabre and historical artefacts. Consequently their research rouses a dormant malevolence, hidden in the depths of the eccentric structure, one hungry for fear and pain.
When a team of paranormal investigators arrives unexpectedly, the malignance intensifies and culminates in the murderous manifestations of the interlopers’ darkest fears.”

A group of people staying in a creepy mansion, being terrorized by monsters almost sounds like an episode of Scooby Doo, but there’s nothing campy about this story. It’s an intricately woven, well-researched tale that will satisfy any horror fan’s thirst for gore and suspense, with a mind-bending twist at the end. This story makes a seamless transition from paranormal to science fiction; a quality I personally love in a book.

The author, J. Harrison Kemp, is an accomplished artist, and the cover is a fine example of his work. You can see more of his work at https://tenkarastudios.weebly.com

The paperback edition is going to be a beautiful addition to my bookshelf.

If your’re looking for your next horror read, I recommend you grab a copy of this one!

Available worldwide in paperback and ebook.

Mesachie Man

Trevor shifted the Jeep into third gear and accelerated. “Pass those beers around, bitches! We are officially off-road now!”

The road to Port Renfrew was a paved public road, but technically it was also a logging road, which created a grey area where the law was concerned. They could still get busted for drinking and driving, but the odds of meeting a cop out there were next to nil.

The Tall Trees Music Festival didn’t start for another three days. By leaving early, they planned to avoid the traffic and inevitable police presence on the normally deserted road. They would lay claim to a prime camp spot and be all set up by the time the crowds arrived.

“This is going to be sweet! Three days of music, sunshine and partying!” Cassie handed Trevor a beer and taking a second one for herself. Cassie’s best friend Nina Charlie was in charge of the refreshments. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the back seat, between her boyfriend Gordon and a cooler full of beer. The cargo space of the Jeep overflowed with camping gear. Coolers were stacked in the space beside Nina for easy access.

The road from Mesachie Lake to Port Renfrew wound through nearly sixty kilometres of scenic wilderness. There were no houses, stores or gas stations, and limited amenities in the tiny towns at either end. Every year, thousands of hipsters converged on the small seaside community of Port Renfrew to listen to live music and “commune with nature” at the Tall Trees Festival. “Communing”, for some, consisted of getting wasted on drugs and alcohol and passing out in their own filth. Paramedics were on-site around the clock and the first-aid tent was well-equipped with overdose kits.

The musky aroma of cannabis drifted from the back seat.

“Pass that up here, Gordo!” Cassie said, turning in her seat to take the joint from Gord. She inhaled deeply and then held the joint to Trevor’s lips. He sucked a lungful of the sweet smoke and then sputtered, trying to keep from coughing.

“Zmooth,” he croaked. The four of them busted up laughing. Everything was suddenly a lot funnier.

They crossed a bridge over a deep ravine. A jade-green river snaked between the cliffs below.

“Gosh, it’s so pretty,” Cassie said, looking down. “Hard to believe nobody lives out here.” She had lived in the city all her life, and had never seen any place so utterly unoccupied.

“This is the real deal, baby! Real Canadian wilderness. I promised you an adventure, didn’t I?” Trevor reached over to caress the front of Cassie’s blouse, then leaned in for a kiss. The Jeep swerved, and Cassie recoiled with a gasp.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!” she slapped his shoulder lightly. “Keep your eyes on the road and your hands off my tits!”

“I got it. Don’t worry, I grew up driving these roads.” Trevor gripped the wheel and glared at the road, embarrassed at being spurned in front of their friends.

“Fuck! How do people get here without a truck? This is crazy rough!” Cassie said.

“Most of them come from Victoria. The road through Sooke is better. That’s where most of the crowds will come from. Only us redneck types take the back way,” Nina told her.

Trevor jerked the wheel to the left and veered off the pocked pavement of the main road onto a narrow gravel road.

“You guys are going to love this. We have two days to kill and I’m going to treat you to one of Cowichan’s best kept secrets. There’s a little lake up here where we can camp, rave, fish and swim, and best of all, we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

Nina and Gord high-fived each other and whooped.

“Sweet!” Nina squealed. “I haven’t been to Lost Lake in forever!”

Trevor laughed. “See? My girl Nina knows what I’m talking about!”

They were climbing now, and the road had degraded to the gravel equivalent of a moguled ski hill. Trevor downshifted and put the Jeep into four-wheel drive. The vehicle bucked and bounced, turning their beer to foam.

“How much farther?” Cassie asked.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Trevor said, steering around an outcropping of rock. “Pretty soon you’ll see a little slice of paradise.”

The Jeep bucked down the road for some distance, then the front wheel dropped into a large pothole with a loud BANG. The force of the impact hurtled them forward. An avalanche of tents and sleeping bags buried the occupants of the back.

“Ow!” Cassie rubbed her chin, which she had bumped on the dash. Luckily they hadn’t been traveling very fast.

Trevor killed the engine. “Everyone okay?” He turned to see Gord and Nina emerging from a pile of camping gear.

“Yeah, bro, we’re cool. But that didn’t sound good. Sounded like something broke.”

“Yeah. Gonna check it out now.” Trevor got out of the Jeep and Gord followed. The girls joined them.

“Looks like a broken axle.” Trevor and Gord squatted beside the front wheel, which twisted sideways at an impossible angle.

“What does that mean?” Cassie asked, “Can you fix it?”

“It means we’re fucked,” Nina said.

“Yep,” Gord agreed. “This beast needs a tow truck.”

Cassie rushed to the vehicle to retrieve her phone.

Trevor chuckled and shook his head, glancing up at the treetops. “Oh, honey, you’re so cute. There’s no signal out here.”

“WHAT? No, there has to be some bars somewhere. We’ll take a walk until we find a signal.”

“There’s nothing.”

“What about at the festival grounds? We can’t be that far from there. We could walk.”

“We’re about halfway. It’s about thirty clicks to civilization in either direction. Plus, we’re another five or six from the main road”

“So we can walk it if we have to.”

“Yes, but not now. It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. You do not want to be out here in the dark.”

“But somebody’s bound to come by. What about the festival crowd?”

“They won’t start coming through here for at least another day or two. And they will be on the main road. Nobody’s going to come up this way. Besides, we will have gotten a tow truck by then.”

Cassie shivered, realizing the truth of what he was saying. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere, at least for the night.

“Your call, friendos. Do we hike to the lake, or camp here?”

Gord and Nina were already pulling camping gear out of the back of the Jeep.

“I vote we hike to the lake,” Nina said. “We were going there anyways. Might as well go ahead with the plan and enjoy our adventure, we came this far. At least we’ll have plenty of water there.”

“Seconded.” Gord looked at Trevor. “Bro?”

“Yeah. I’m up for a hike. The lake is way nicer than the side of the road.”

Cassie huddled close to her boyfriend. She was nervous about leaving the relative safety of the vehicle, broken as it was, but it was obvious she didn’t have a say.

They stuffed their backpacks with camping supplies, which included as much food and booze as they could carry, leaving the coolers behind. They set out down the dusty road, laden like pack mules.

The four friends arrived at the lake within the hour. The setting sun painted the treetops with majestic golden hues, but down below darkness crept over the forest floor. Cassie fought panic with every step, but there was no turning back. Finally they stepped out of the woods into a small clearing surrounding the glistening green gem that was Lost Lake.

“It’s so pretty! she breathed, in both awe and relief at being free from the creepy forest.

The group shrugged off backpacks and began to unpack.

Gord tossed a tent to Trevor. “We might as well set up right away. We’re here for the night.”

Trevor nodded. “Yeah, we are. We can walk out to the main road in the morning and catch a ride to call a tow truck. There won’t be time to fix the Jeep, but with any luck we can borrow something else to drive and still make the festival.”

* * *

The four friends sat around a crackling fire under a starry, moonlit sky. With the abundance of beers and joints, it felt almost like a regular camping trip. If they’d reached their destination as planned, the scene wouldn’t have differed much, except they would have had the Jeep and its booming stereo to scare away whatever lurked in the darkness.

Cassie had never been camping before, except for road trips in her parents’ RV. Those trips had always been to campsites with showers and electrical hookups. Sometimes even swimming pools. She couldn’t understand why her friends seemed so comfortable in such rustic surroundings.

She’d had to pee for hours, and didn’t know what to do about it.

Nina stood and pulled a small flashlight from her pocket. “Back in a minute. Gotta use the ‘facilities’.”

“Wait!” Cassie said. “Can I go with you?”

Nina shrugged. “Sure, c’mon.”

Cassie followed Nina away from the campsite, into a small grove of trees. She wondered what happened next.

Her eyes widened in horror as Nina squatted next to a tree, then pulled some tissue from her pocket.

She couldn’t possibly… but there were no other options.

Noticing her hesitation, Nina said, “You want me to wait for you?”

“Yes, please. It’s so dark out here. You got any more of that tissue?”

* * *

The girls were almost back to camp when a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the darkness.

Cassie grabbed hold of Nina.

“What the fuck was that?”

“You promise you won’t freak out if I tell you?”

“No. Yes.”

They walked back into the safety of the firelight and Nina grabbed two fresh beers from her backpack.

“Did you guys hear that?” Cassie asked.

“Sounded like a cougar,” Gord said. “When they’re mating, they sound almost human.”

“No way! That was – wait – there are cougars out here?” Cassie’s terror refreshed and rose a few levels.

“And wolves too. Actually, Vancouver Island has the highest concentration of cougars in North America. You didn’t know that?”

“It wasn’t a cougar,” Nina said.

Trevor met her eyes. “No, I’ve heard cougars, and they don’t sound like that.”

“Well, if it wasn’t a cougar, then what the fuck makes a noise like that? Jesus, it sounded like someone got murdered out there.”

“Light a joint, Gord. You guys up for a story?” Nina’s dark eyes glinted with a hint of mischief.

“Is this one of those tribal tales from your family?” Gord asked.

“Yessir, it is. But Trevor should know it too. His family has history here too.”

“You’re talking about the Mesachie Man, aren’t you?” Trevor said.

Nina nodded. “When the white people first settled this area, they chose to build their towns and mills at various spots around the lake. One settler, by the name of Frank Green, chose Mesachie Lake as the site for his mill. When he found the spot, he fell in love with it – pretty little place in the mountains, nestled between two lakes. He couldn’t believe nobody had already settled there. Not even the local tribes had claimed it. My grandfather liked to tell us kids the story. Apparently, the reason my ancestors didn’t use the land was they believed evil lived there.”

“Frank Green?” Gord said. “That’s your last name, Trevor.”

Trevor nodded. “I’m named after my great-grandfather, Trevor Green, who was Frank’s son.”

“So you know this story?”

“I know it well. It’s part of my family history as well as Nina’s. Frank settled the area, built a mill and a small town sprang up around it. Not much, just a church, a school, and about sixty homes, owned by the mill, where the mill workers lived. Frank’s wife, Louie, they called her, was curious about the area, and why the natives never lived in the area or even fished in the lakes. She talked to the locals, and they told her a story of a horrible man-beast that lived in a cave nearby. Rumor had it, the thing escaped from a ship that ran aground on the reefs outside Port Renfrew. It was said to have been part man, part ape and was en route to a freak show in San Francisco or elsewhere up the coast. Most people nowadays figure it was just an ordinary gorilla on its way to a zoo. Anyhow, they believed it found the Robertson River, remember that bridge we crossed?”

Cassie nodded, remembering the dark green river in the ravine.

“Well, legend has it, this creature followed the river inland and took up residence in a cave in Mesachie Mountain, which overlooks the town of Mesachie Lake. That’s where we turned off the main road toward Port Renfrew.”

Cassie remembered turning at a flashing amber light – away from the last inkling of civilization.

“So what was it? Did anyone ever find it?”

“No, but if it was a gorilla, it would have died at some point,” Nina said. “The stories from my family go way back to the early 1800s, as far as we know. And there have been reported sightings of something throughout the 1900s, as recently as the 90s. Whether or not it’s the creature from the legend or just a bear is impossible to know, but if it is the same thing my ancestors saw, then there had to be more than one of them.”

“Did anybody ever find the cave where it lived?”

“Nobody knows. There are plenty of caves in these mountains. It could have been in any one of them.”

“Come on! You guys are just fucking with me! Trying to scare the city girl with Bigfoot stories!”

“No, I swear, this is real history from my family and Nina’s,” Trevor said, putting a protective arm around Cassie’s shoulders and pulling her close.

“And there have been a lot of unexplained disappearances over the years. People have just walked into the woods and never returned. Like that guy years ago who took his dog for a walk and disappeared.”

“I remember that,” Gord said. “The dog came back but he didn’t. His remains turned up eleven years later, in a place far outside the search area. It didn’t make sense for him to have gone way up there.”

“The thing was,” Trevor added, “He was something of a legend in these parts. A serious outdoorsman. He knew these woods like his own back yard. The kind of guy you would call to help search when someone went missing. Not someone who would ever get lost out here.”

“What about that old woman last summer? They say she had dementia and drove onto these back roads and got lost. But when they finally found her she was eleven kilometres from her car. How does a woman in her eighties hike that far into the wilderness?” Nina said.

“And that other guy. They found his vehicle running on the side of the road with the driver’s door open, wallet and cell phone inside the vehicle. They also found blood in the vehicle and in the trees nearby. They searched for months, but when his body was finally found it was miles away in a place nobody would have looked.”

“Did they say what all those people died from?” Cassie asked, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

“Nope. The cops are always very hush-hush about these things, for the privacy of the families. They said there was no foul play in any of the cases, but they all sound fishy as hell to me. I mean, what makes anyone just drop what they’re doing and make a beeline into the deep woods? Where were they trying to get to?”

“Or away from.” Nina said. “One reason for charging blindly into the woods is to escape from something.”

“Stop it, Nina! That’s not funny.” Cassie said.

“I’m not trying to be funny, just stating facts. Panic makes the illogical seem logical.”

Trevor saw the terror on Cassie’s face and leaned down to give her a kiss. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll keep you safe from the Mesachie Man.”

The shriek echoed through the night again. It sounded closer this time. A wolf howled in the distance, as if in reply.

* * *

WOMAN RESCUED AFTER THREE-DAY ORDEAL IN WILDERNESS

A confused and dehydrated woman found wandering on Pacific Marine Route has been unable to offer police any answers. An abandoned vehicle and nearby campsite was found, but police have confirmed the vehicle was not registered to the woman.

Foul play is not suspected. Police believe the campers may have been en route to the Tall Trees Festival in Port Renfrew when their vehicle broke down. They are being sought for questioning at the festival.

The unidentified woman was admitted to hospital and treated for dehydration and minor injuries. She has been detained for psychiatric evaluation.

Anyone who has further information regarding the whereabouts of the woman’s alleged companions is asked to contact police as soon as possible.

* * *

“I need you to take this patient. I think you could make better progress with her than I can.” Dr. Phillips handed Cecily a file.

Cecily read the name. “Cassie March. What do we have here?” Cecily wasn’t a psychiatrist like Dr. Phillips. Her specialty was counselling victims of rape and other violence.

“Female, twenty-three years old, catatonia due to post-traumatic stress.”

“The source of the trauma?”

“That’s just it – we don’t know. She won’t talk to me. In fact, I can’t even enter the room without putting her into hysterics.”

“Does she react the same way to everyone? What about the nurses?”

“No, she seems ok with the nurses. It’s just me she has a problem with, or men in general, though the physical examination didn’t indicate sexual assault.”

“What were her injuries?”

“Aside from dehydration, just bruises and abrasions. The sort of thing you’d expect from someone who was lost in the wilderness.”

Cecily peeked through the observation window.

A young male orderly was in the room, putting fresh towels in the bathroom. The patient seemed undisturbed by his presence. The patient sat quietly on her bed, muttering to herself.

“What’s she saying? Has she said anything intelligible?”

“She just repeats the same phrase: ‘Mesachie Man’, over and over. I think someone may have done something to her, but I’ve made no progress because of her obvious fear of men.”

“She doesn’t seem bothered by all men, David.” Cecily nodded toward the fresh-faced orderly. “Maybe there’s something about you specifically that bothers her.”

Dr. Phillips stroked his bushy beard, remembering that he was overdue for a trim.

“Hmm… I wonder what it could be?”

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Take My Life

The night the meteor fell, Andy was watching a storm. He always watched storms, partly for safety. He kept a close eye on any lightning strikes on the mountain, in case they resulted in forest fires. If there was a fire, he needed to know immediately in case he needed to warn his friend Cade, who lived up the mountain. He would bring Cade down to his place in case they needed to evacuate by road. There were no roads up where Cade lived; only a trail, which they traveled by dirt bike.

Andy also watched storms for the sheer enjoyment of it. He didn’t own a television, and a light show courtesy of Mother Nature was the closest thing to watching a movie. Judging by the black clouds rolling over the mountaintop, it was going to be a gooder. Andy settled into his favorite chair on the porch, bottle of whiskey in hand. The wind picked up and light rain rattled on the tin roof overhead. It was starting.

Dusk was falling when the first crack of thunder sounded and electric flashes lit up the sky.

Andy smiled and raised the bottle to his lips. He paused mid-sip.

“What the fuck is that?” he said aloud, standing to get a better look.

A fiery orb hovered in the sky for a few seconds, before streaking downward and disappearing into the trees. It was no shooting star; it was much larger and moved more slowly. He pinpointed the location where he last saw it. He made a plan to search for it after the storm. Andy was an amateur prospector, and always on the lookout for interesting new minerals, valuable or not.

It rained heavily the next day, and flash floods rushed down the mountainside. Andy postponed his search until the weather cleared the following day. He hoped the floods hadn’t erased all traces of the meteorite. A space rock would make an excellent addition to his collection.

He found nothing the first day, or the next in the area where he thought the meteorite had landed. He expanded his search. After nearly a week of searching, he was ready to give up. He had wandered further into the woods than he’d planned and it was getting dark. In the forest, darkness fell long before sunset. He checked his compass and headed back in the direction of where he’d left his motorcycle.

He stopped. Something had caught his eye. A diagonal slash in the bark of a big fir tree. It was fresh. Maybe damage from the storm, but… he looked upward, following the direction of the slash. There, in a neighboring tree, he saw a broken branch. His eyes followed the trajectory down to the ground, and… there. Something glittered in the underbrush.

* * *

It wasn’t gold.

He sat at his kitchen table, staring at his newest acquisition.

The rock sat in the middle of the table, glittering in the filtered sunlight from the window. It was about the size of a football, and unlike anything he had ever seen. It looked like crystals embedded in metallic rock. When he looked at it from different directions, the colors changed, from gold to purple to green, to every color imaginable.

Andy didn’t know if the rock was worth anything, but it was by far his best find ever. He couldn’t wait to show it to his friend Cade.

* * *

“Isn’t that what they call ‘Fool’s gold’?”

Andy had hauled the big rock with him the next time he visited Cade. His friend lived in the wilderness for reasons known only to the two of them and Andy was his only contact with the outside world. Cade had provided Andy with plenty of cash for supplies, but Andy would have done it for nothing. He liked the companionship and looked forward to his monthly visits.

“You mean Pyrite? No, it’s definitely not Pyrite. I knew you’d say that, though. Here. This is Pyrite. Compare it.” Andy pulled a small stone from his pocket and handed it to Cade.

Cade held the shiny gold stone up to the light and then examined the larger one again.

“You’re right. This is definitely not the same thing. You figure this is a meteorite?”

“Yeah, I think so. I went looking for it in the area where it went down. There were marks on the trees like something had fallen from the sky. I’m positive it’s the same rock.”

“It’s probably a combination of stuff. But you should take it in somewhere and get it analyzed. Maybe you have something valuable here.”

“And then what? Trade it for money? I already have everything I need. I’d have a bunch of money I’d never use and I wouldn’t have my pretty space rock. Naw, I’m keeping the rock. One day when I’m dead and gone, this here rock is gonna be my headstone.”

Cade raised the bottle. “That’s not going to be for a long time, my friend. Here’s to you and your pretty space rock.”

“Gimme that.” Andy grabbed the bottle and took a big swallow. The whiskey wasn’t going down well that day, but he’d had a persistent headache and needed a painkiller.

That was the last time Andy ever saw Cade.

* * *

By the time Andy got home, the headache had turned to chills. He took some Tylenol and went to bed. A good night’s sleep would fix him up.

The next day he felt worse. His brow burned with fever and his joints ached.

The fever broke the third day, but he’d used all of his Tylenol. He also came to the realization that his medicine cabinet was sorely lacking in cold and flu remedies. He felt well enough to make a trip to town; in fact, he was feeling almost good as new. Plus, Cade had gotten him thinking; maybe the rock was something special. He wanted to stop in at the library and check out some books on minerals, and maybe use the internet for a bit of research.

* * *

Andy drove his pickup to town with the shiny rock on the seat beside him. He went to the pharmacy and restocked his Tylenol, plus bought enough cold and flu remedies to tackle any bug that came his way. He’d add some to Cade’s next supply run as well. He stopped for lunch at the cafe, proudly displaying his prize on the table. The waitress commented on the pretty rock as she moved it aside to make room for his plate. A big RV with New York plates pulled in beside his truck, carrying a family of tourists who sat in the booth next to Andy. They struck up a conversation.

Andy asked how they were enjoying Canada so far.

They told him they had crossed the border into Quebec and driven across Canada. They were planning to visit family in Vancouver before crossing back into the U.S. and making their way to Disneyland via Las Vegas. They also commented on the shiny rock and one of the children asked if she could touch it.

After the restaurant, Andy stopped in at the bank, the hardware store and the grocery store before going to the library, where he lingered for an hour or so, browsing the bookshelves and using the internet.

He drove home at sunset, proud that he had accomplished much of his supply run early. Maybe he would drop in on Cade sooner than expected and surprise him.

* * *

The next day, the fever returned, accompanied by a cough. Andy took some vitamins and washed them down with whiskey. He’d be fine, now that he had plenty of flu medication.

With each day that passed, the cough worsened in spite of all his efforts. He even tried drinking water or orange juice instead of whiskey. Nothing seemed to help.

By the second week, Andy grew concerned. The cough persisted, now accompanied by a pain in his back and a crackling noise every time he took a breath, and breathing was difficult at times. He concluded that he might need some medical help. He would head to the hospital in the morning if he didn’t get any better. Just in case, he wrote a note to Cade and placed it under the mattress of his bed with all of his important documents. He also left his wallet there. He wouldn’t need the wallet for a trip to the ER. All he needed was his health insurance number and enough cash for a prescription. If things went south, Cade would need the rest.

* * *

THREE MONTHS LATER

The lone hiker plodded along the winding trail. The large pack on his back was light; nearly empty except for a canteen of water and a bit of jerky; the last of his food. He hoped the pack would be full for the return trip.

“I outta cuss him out, that’s what,” he said. He often spoke aloud. Out in the wilderness there was nobody to call him crazy, and it alerted wildlife of his presence.

“The sonofabitch comes to visit, doesn’t even stay to fish, and then gives me the flu, to top it all off. And then he doesn’t come back for three damn months. Deserves a slap upside the head.”

Cade wasn’t angry with Andy; he was more worried than anything else. It wasn’t like him to stay away for so long. For the past eight years, Andy had visited every month without fail. He’d replenish Cade’s supplies, spend a couple of days drinking and fishing, and update him on news from the outside world. News usually consisted of a stack of old newspapers, collected from Andy’s post office box.

On his last visit, Andy hadn’t been his usual boisterous self. He’d barely touched the whiskey bottle they’d passed back and forth at the campfire. He must have been coming down with something, because sure as shit, Cade fell sick a few days later. It wasn’t a big deal; wasn’t like he had a job to go to. He took it easy for about a week and then he felt right as rain.

Andy’s long absence worried Cade, enough that he felt compelled to make the long hike to his friend’s cabin to check on him. Cade glimpsed the bright green of Andy’s Kawasaki dirt bike as the cabin came into view. The bike was Andy’s favorite mode of transportation. He only used the truck to travel into town for supplies. Cade also had a motorcycle, but he’d shredded one of the tires on some sharp shale and he’d been waiting for Andy to come so he could ask him to pick him up a new one.

Cade reached the front door of the cabin and knocked. All was silent.

“Andy? You here?

The door was unlocked. Andy never locked his doors. Cade entered the cabin. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light, and a thin film had settled on the table where Andy ate his meals. Telltale gray-green mold covered the dirty dishes in the sink. Nobody had been there for some time.

Andy didn’t stay in town for long; usually he went there and back in a day, with an occasional overnight trip. What if something had happened to him in town, or on the drive there? An accident? Or maybe he got into trouble and was arrested?

Cade left the cabin and walked toward the garage where Andy kept his truck. He expected the truck to be gone, but he had to check.

One of the large double doors was slightly ajar.

As Cade pulled the door open, he heard the buzzing of flies, and then the smell hit him.

Andy lay on the ground beside the truck, keys in hand. It looked like he died where he had fallen. From the look of him, he had been there for a while.

* * *

Cade shoveled the last bit of dirt onto the mound and then placed the shiny stone at Andy’s head, as his friend had wanted. The grave bore no inscription. No crosses or any of that bullshit; it wasn’t Andy’s thing. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket and poured some on the grave, then took a sip himself.

“Rest in peace, old buddy.”

Cade wandered back to the house and eased into Andy’s favorite chair on the porch with the bottle cradled in his lap. As the slow burn of the whiskey warmed his insides, his mind drifted back in time.

* * *

Cade would likely have died out in the wilderness, if not for Andy. He didn’t know the first thing about survival. He might have given up, marched back to civilization (assuming he made it that far) and turned himself in to serve a life sentence for a murder he didn’t commit. Giving up would have meant Lance won. Lance was the slimy bastard who had been sleeping with his wife. Lisa may have cheated, but she didn’t deserve to die. They’d worked things out and she was going to tell Lance it was over.

Cade should have known something was wrong when he came home to find a revolver on the floor just inside the front door. He recognized the gun as his and picked it up. It wasn’t until he held it in his hands that he felt the stickiness of blood on the weapon. He ran through the house, calling for Lisa. He found her in the bedroom with a bullet hole in her head. She had been violently beaten.

It wasn’t difficult to piece together what happened. Lance hadn’t taken the breakup well. He had come to the house to “talk” to her but it had escalated into violence. She had run to the bedroom to get Cade’s gun. Signs of a struggle indicated that Lance had wrestled the gun from her before she could use it and then beaten her with it before shooting her.

Cade panicked and ran. He wasn’t going to take his chances with the courts. It looked like an open and shut case of domestic violence. The scene played out in his mind as he cleaned out the safe in his bedroom closet. Police would find him standing over his wife’s corpse holding the murder weapon. Nobody would believe he was innocent, and he would spend the rest of his life in jail for a murder he didn’t commit.

He fled with fifty thousand dollars in cash, a passport he couldn’t use and no plan. Eventually he found himself lost and out of gas, on a remote mountain road. He hadn’t thought to bring food and water; he’d just started driving. He’d been sleeping in his car for days. Now he was hungry and dehydrated, and beginning to realize the gravity of his situation. He heard the crackle of a dirt bike engine and a bright green motorcycle skidded to a stop in front of his car. The rider was about ten years older than Cade, with a long gray beard and stringy hair.

Andy’s cabin wasn’t far from where Cade had broken down. Andy put some gas in his car, fed him, offered him a couch to sleep on and listened to his story over a bottle of whiskey. Cade figured he was done for; Andy would call the police and he would have to take what was coming.

But to his surprise, Andy had a different perspective.

“First thing in the morning, we need to get rid of your car.”

Cade followed Andy’s bike out of the wilderness, past a few towns, and then they traveled many miles down a winding road alongside a canyon. The fuel gauge of Cade’s BMW was nearing empty when Andy finally stopped.

“This should do it. Aim ‘er over there.” He pointed at the edge of the cliff.

Following Andy’s instructions, Cade put the car in gear and rammed the accelerator with a long stick. The car lurched forward and plunged into the river below.

“Now, with any luck they’ll find that and think you’re dead.”

Andy took him to the shack in the wilderness, taught him to survive, and brought him supplies every month.

* * *

“Promise me,” Andy said.

“What’re ya even… no, I’m, that’s not gonna happen. You shaddup.” Cade slurred.

It was late, they’d been fishing all day, and the whiskey flowed freely.

“Lissen! I’m telling you something important!” Andy leaned over to grab another log for the campfire and nearly lost his balance.

“You’re talkin’ crazy. Nothing’s gonna happen to you, ok?”

“But it might. Anything could happen to anyone, anytime.” Andy said. “Listen to me. I’m not a young man. My heart isn’t in great shape. Supposed to take pills and go to doctor ‘pointments, but I’m not gonna do that. Shit happens. If I die out here, it’s ok. I’m where I want to be. All I’m saying is, if something did happen to me, you could take it all. Take my wallet. The picture on my driver’s license looks just like you, now that you got the hair and the beard. You could be me. You wouldn’t have to hide out here anymore.”

“I can’t go back to my old life.”

“You wouldn’t have to. Take my life. Live in my cabin. Nobody is looking for you anymore. They found your car years ago. They think you’re dead. I got no family, no friends except for you. Nobody would even notice the difference. I would go to my grave happy, knowing I could give you one last gift.”

“I’ll probably kick off before you. You’re too damn stubborn to die,” Cade said.

“All you need to know is where to look. I keep everything under my mattress. It’s all there, everything you need. My pension is deposited every month and you can withdraw it at the gas station without even setting foot in a bank. My signature is easy, just a scrawl if you ever need to use it.”

That was three years ago. No mention was made of the conversation the next day, or ever again. Cade assumed Andy was just talking drunk.

* * *

Cade removed the folded piece of paper from his pocket and read the letter again. He’d found it when he went to Andy’s bedroom closet to get a bottle of whiskey for the burial. On a whim, he’d checked under the mattress and there it was, as promised: Andy’s wallet and all of his personal documents. Banking, pension, account numbers and passwords. There was also an envelope with a single letter printed on the front: C.

Inside was stack of cash and a letter:

C,

I know you don’t think I remember that conversation from a few years back, but I meant every word of it.

When I got back from our last visit, I got real sick. Hope I didn’t give it to you. It’s gotten worse. I’m trying to hang on, but I think I might need to make a run to the hospital, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.

Hopefully it will all work out and I’ll see you soon, but just in case I don’t make it back, you know what to do.

Do it. Let me live on.

Stick my shiny rock somewhere nice and have a drink on me.

Andy

* * *

THREE MONTHS LATER

Cade avoided town as long as possible, but Andy’s supplies eventually ran out. As he drove the truck down the windy gravel road, his apprehension mounted. He realized how many years had passed since he had seen civilization, or any person besides Andy. He hoped Andy was right, that nobody would notice him. He would keep as low a profile as possible. Withdraw money from the ATM, get gas, groceries, and then get the hell out of there before anyone noticed him. That was the plan.

The small town came into sight. It was quieter than he expected. No traffic; not even a little bit. Everything was closed.

Where was everyone?

He spied a 7-11 store. Finally! Something that would be open! He pulled in beside a gas pump and went into the store to pay. The door was locked. The windows were smashed and the inside of the store was a shambles. Shelves knocked over, bare of goods.

What the hell happened here?

A newspaper fluttered at his feet. He picked it up. It was dated a month earlier.

The word PANDEMIC! screamed at him from the headline. He scanned the article quickly.

A deadly virus was sweeping the world. Global state of emergency. Millions dead, no cure. The virus was unlike anything ever seen before, with only a ten percent survival rate. They had traced the pathogen to an early outbreak in a small mountain town, but no “patient zero” had been located.

Copyright © 2020 Mandy White