STRANGE GIRLS

WOMEN IN HORROR ANTHOLOGY

Stories Selected by Azzurra Nox

FOREWORD

Often times, being described as a “strange girl,” is seen with a negative connotation. But in this anthology, I wanted to celebrate and exalt the strangeness that the girls in these short stories share. Sure, what sets some of these girls apart in the stories can be a physical attribute that either helps or hinders them, and other times their strangeness is more concealed, less showy. The girls in this collection are both villains and heroes. But one thing is for certain, each girl is strong in her own defining way, whether she’s capable of using her strangeness for good or evil, it’s only a matter of choice.

And in a world where everyday women’s choices are dwindling or are at stake, this anthology serves to celebrate these girls’ choices.

So get comfy with your favourite cuppa and be ready to take one sinister ride in the world of these Strange Girls.

You’ll never see females as being the weaker sex once you’re done reading these twisted tales that promise to linger with you even after you’ve settled into bed at night.

Take a walk on the dark side. I dare you.

Cheers,

Azzurra Nox

24 HOUR DINER

Charlotte Platt

She was sat in the diner again, hypnotised by the chipped green mug holding her cold tea. Tobias didn’t know what was so fascinating in the liquid, or what it was that took her mind far away, but he was interested. She wasn’t there every evening, but he’d seen her more frequently over the last few weeks with the same vacant expression.

Most of the regulars avoided the woman. Her electric blue hair and tatty, patterned tights under tea dresses scared the old bag-women and disturbed the monotone life of the lorry drivers. Even the insomniacs avoided her, and they were usually fine with everyone.

She was always somewhere else, thinking over things he couldn’t even guess at. It irked Tobias – he could usually tell what people were thinking. Most never noticed him in the background, watching and listening, and he heard all the tales of the city this way. Never anything about her though. Even the guys who took over from him didn’t know anything about her, and the day shift got gossip.

She must have sensed him watching, her steel grey eyes catching his, a small smirk on her lips. He smiled in turn, quickly taking in her features. Her face was young, almost heart shaped, skin paler than healthy but no obvious blemishes, painted red lips. She wasn’t sick looking, more tired. She was gone again, hair down and once more absorbed in her own thoughts.

If she’s in again I’ll make a move, he decided, going back to his usual tasks of cleaning the counter and making sure what food was being cooked in back was edible. His night was filled with such banal jobs, time ticking past.

The regulars came and went, the same problems repeated to him each night: Mrs Smith’s trolley had lost a wheel, Mr. Greg had lost his dog’s lead and wasn’t sure how to replace it, the insomniac old couple were arguing over who should pay the bill.

Tobias often thought it would kill him with boredom.

The diner was the only 24 hour one in the city, a beacon for the unbalanced types. The people he saw were always the weird and the unfortunate: those who begged enough to get a cup of something hot, or the drivers who were exhausted and needed a caffeine fix. A lot of them were serial killers, you heard about them years later; littering bodies along the roads like aggressive carrion birds.

Occasionally, when he worked the day shift, he saw the other side of the city. The desperate high-flyers commuting with espressos and something sugar based ‘to go’ or the cleaners who worked all night and most of the day to make rent. He preferred the night: people were more interesting at night. None of those scrabbling, grasping people, their footholds on decency and propriety dependant on the scrum of the day, the next open hand. Night time let him see what was available in the city. He filled up someone’s cup with coffee and got one himself, the shift dragging on.

He was on day shifts for the next week, the usual guy having broken an ankle. Tobias didn’t mind, he didn’t need much sleep so he could work any hours so long as he got a little warning.

He carried on as usual, speaking to the cleaners and learning the talk of the town. He finished at five, and though he sometimes stayed back to get dinner he never saw her. When he spoke to Jill, who took his usual shift, she said woman had only been in once or twice. Jill didn’t like his mystery woman, he could tell from the way she crossed herself. Tobias found it funny: she would cross herself a hell of a lot more if she knew about his tastes. But she didn’t, and for that he was grateful.

As soon as he was back working nights she was there. Sat at the back once more, her hair now down and curtaining her from his view. Her top was cut off the shoulder, crimson, paired with smart black trousers: a smarter look. Nice.

He called to one of the cooks to cover him while he took his break and poured two teas, taking them over to her. He sat across from her, setting the mugs on the table. Although her hair still hid her eyes he saw her smile, the indulgent stretch of her lower lip. He had a good chance with this one.

“That other mug must be cold,” he said.

“It usually is by now,” she agreed, bringing her head up to look at him. She gave him a slow once over and smiled again, tilting her head to one side.

“I’m Tobias,” he said, offering his hand.

“Mercy.” She took his hand and shook it, a firm grip.

“You’ve been in here a lot,” he said, and she nodded slowly, seeming to find something amusing in it.

“I have. But so have you.”

“I work here.”

“Don’t you just. I suppose it’s a job.” She shrugged.

“It keeps me alive. This place is my lifeline.” He shrugged back.

“Yeah, this place can be like a lifeline for me too.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he decided.

“Listen, I get off in an hour. How about we chat, maybe grab a drink?” To his surprise her smile widened, showing blindingly white teeth. They looked professionally done which was a bit odd, but everything about this girl was.

“Sure, that could be fun,” she said with a slow nod.

He winked and went back to work, his plans for this evening looking up.

Tobias led her back to his flat, a small place in a tower block with enough problems in it to be officially uninhabitable. Not that that stopped people living it in when a landlord couldn’t charge you rent.

He was struggling to keep a smile on his face, the slow burn of desire and anger smouldering low in his hips and gut. The drinks hadn’t helped. If he could get her in his flat then he’d be able to have some fun. They’d talked for hours, gulping cheap whisky at a basement bar, and she’d been open with him – no family back home, and since moving to the city she hadn’t made any friends. She was hostel hopping just now while she tried to get her acting career some traction. Poor little starlet, all alone and almost homeless.

It was rare for him to find someone that no one would be looking for, especially someone so attractive. He’d had to dump the last one so quickly. Not many others lived in this part of the block but he couldn’t risk it.

Opening his door he went inside, not turning the light on. She hovered at the doorway, peering into the darkness.

“You coming in or not?” he asked, and she giggled, tipsy.

“Just letting my eyes get used to the light.” She stumbled in with a grin to him. Tobias still couldn’t figure why a poor girl had good teeth, but he pushed that to the back of his mind – they wouldn’t be important. He’d knock ‘em out with a hammer afterwards. “So, what did you have in mind?” Mercy asked, pressing up against him.

“I thought you might like the view from my bedroom – you can see right over the city.” He grinned, showing her through to the sweeping windows. The moon was swollen full, casting bright over the clutter strewn about.

“God I’ve not seen it that well since I was back home,” she said, peering out.

“Drink?”

“Any bourbon?” she asked with a smirk over her shoulder.

“Of course. So, what do you think?” he asked, slipping around her to the drinks cabinet. He drew a blade from the drawer and slid it up his jacket sleeve, before pouring two measures. Hers was a double.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice was liquid velvet, warm and seductive as the drink. Tobias almost found himself regretting what he had planned for her.

He knew his tastes were perverse, that he was considered sick, but he couldn’t face going to another therapist, having to move again when they called the police. He’d come to terms with what he liked, and he didn’t hurt anyone important – street walkers and the girls that slept rough. No one of any use. He was helping the city, in his own way, and helping himself at the same time. They should thank him.

But they never would, because he was ‘unwell’, went against the normal sensibilities, and they feared him for it. He tried to quash the flares of useless rage licking up his back: he needed a clear mind to finish this business then he could have all the fury and violence he wanted.

“Most people can’t appreciate the beauty of the night,” he whispered, his voice thick, as he grazed his lips against her bare shoulders and then neck. She let a small laugh escape, leaning into his touch.

“A lot of people are just scared of it,” she said, turning so they were both illuminated by the silver light. He passed the glass to her and flicked his hand, feigning nerves. The liquid spilled down her chest and stomach.

“I’m so clumsy,” he muttered, moving the blade closer to his wrist as he reached for a tissue.

“It’s okay.” She laughed, wiping the liquid off.

“No, here, let me get it,” he said, thrusting his hand forward and pushing the blade in, then up, beneath her sternum and through her heart. Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating far quicker than with the last few. She fell to her knees, looking at the blade and then back up at him as she gave a little gasp of shock. He pulled the knife from her and wiped the blood against her top as she slumped forward. It was only slightly darker than the material, barely a stain.

He moved to the door and turned the light on, a grin spreading over his face. He went back to the cabinet and poured himself another drink, savouring the kick as he downed it. The adrenaline always shook him up when he took them, but it was worth it for what he got with the bodies. Just looking at her living had almost aroused him, and now that he knew she was there, dead, it was nearly too much. The sheer desire. He’d drag her to the bed in a few minutes; he just needed another drink.

It was odd for Mercy to feel pain. She hadn’t felt it for the longest time, her strength and speed keeping her safe. The stabbing had been unexpected, and rather agonizing. She hadn’t even considered him a possible physical threat. She could easily overpower most humans, even the stronger specimens.

Oh but this motherfucker thought he was going to do that to her?

She slowly stood up, her eyes narrowed in anger.

“You stabbed me!” The sound of her voice sent a cold bolt of shock through his system. “You stabbed me! And you ruined my top.”

She was next to him now. He turned to look at her, prickles of fear dragging over his scalp. The wound of his blade was still sputtering small splashes of blood, seeping into her top. Her face was outraged, glaring at him with those blue eyes almost black.

“Y-you’re dead.” His voice didn’t want to work, leaving his mouth gaping and moving like a dying fish. He didn’t understand this: he’d killed her.

“You utter bastard,” she spat, the back of her hand catching his jaw as she fumed at him. He hit the cabinet and crashed to the floor as bottles accompanied his decent, shattering around him. She stamped on his leg and he heard a sickening snap, felt his stomach twist to eject the drinks of the evening. As his head spun he heard her shout, “You’re not even worth drinking!” before a door slammed.

Mercy stormed out into the evening, fuming. She’d have to find someone else to drain tonight. She cursed the wasted hunt, livid that she’d not had her meal. Vampires in this city were careful, they never left too many bodies in one spot or got greedy with their deaths. It kept them safe here. She’d used that diner on and off for years to mark out her prey but this had been a thorough fucking disappointment. She was skilled in her hunting, she’d never lost a meal here before.

Spying a drunk wandering towards her she tripped and fell to the pavement, seeming helpless. She looked up with the most innocent expression she could manage, noticing his hungry smirk as he moved towards her. Maybe she would get to feed soon enough.

Charlotte Platt is a young professional who writes horror and urban fantasy and is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Charlotte spent her teens on the Orkney Islands and studied in Glasgow before moving to the north Highlands. She lives off sarcasm and tea and can often be found walking near cliffs and rivers, looking for sea glass. Charlotte was shortlisted for the Write to End Violence Against Women Award 2017, placed second in the British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition 2017 and has had short stories published in Unfading Daydream, Dissonance Magazine, Econoclash Review and Horror Tree. She can be found on Twitter at @Chazzaroo.

SIDESHOW

Jude Reid

His tongue is in her mouth again.

Against her back, she can feel the fabric of the tent, the wet canvas smell mixing with the taste of ketchup and soda and Juicy Fruit gum. Her right hand is closed around a guy-rope; her left, for want of anywhere else to put it, is on Richie’s belt. He has taken hold of her right breast and is squeezing it rhythmically and not especially gently. This is your fault, she thinks to herself, eyes closed and mouth open. You didn’t say no.

The tongue retracts back into his mouth, slick, fat and slug-like. She imagines it leaving a trail of thick mucus behind itself, and her stomach lurches at the thought, sending a tide of acid rushing into her mouth. Her own tongue flicks out and runs across her lower lip, as if it were possible to lick away every trace he had left behind.

“You liked that, did you?” he says, grinning, wet-mouthed. She realizes he has mistaken the emotion behind her reflexive gesture for enjoyment.

“It was nice,” she says. He takes a stick of gum from his pocket, rolls the paper and foil into a ball which he tosses to the dusty ground.

“You want some?” he asks, as he folds the stick into his mouth. Before she can answer, he leans close and kisses her again, his probing tongue pushing the chewing gum behind her teeth. The back of her skull makes contact with a tent-pole, hard enough to rattle her jaws together, and he pulls back, laughing. “Sure you don’t want some?” Her face feels tight, her laughter hollow, but he seems neither to notice nor to care. “So what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t mind.”

What she really wants to do is go home, but her mother won’t be back to pick her up until ten and it’s too far to walk alone. Even if she did set off and somehow make it back before midnight, the sudden change of plans would open her up to questions she doesn’t want to answer right now. Her parents like Richie, just like everyone likes Richie. All she has to do is go along with it. It’s only two hours.

He takes her hand, and leads her down the midway, all bright lights, steam organ and cinder toffee smell. At the candy butcher he buys pinwheel mints for himself and cotton candy for her, which she teases apart into individual strands, and sends them drifting, weightless into the air. Richie crunches the mints one after the other, little shards of boiled sugar spraying to the ground like broken teeth every time he speaks.

“You want one of those?” he asks. She follows his pointing finger to the prizes on a shooting gallery, overstuffed animals with glazed eyes hanging from its roof. “I’ll get you one.” The little crowd parts to let him through, and he swaggers up to the stall, where money changes hands for three shots on a beaten up old air rifle.

Sylvia watches the pockmarked tin ducks rising and falling as they make their unsteady voyage from right to left. Richie puts the rifle to his shoulder, squeezes the trigger and sends a ball-bearing down the gallery into the wooden backboard, to the accompaniment of a mutter from the crowd. A second shot, another dull impact into wood instead of metal, but his aim is improving. He takes his time over the third, adjusting the sights on the rifle with exaggerated care, a sniper taking careful stock of his target.

This time his aim is true, and the metal ball punches a sad little dent in a tin duck, knocking it out of alignment with the rest of the flock. There’s a round of applause from the crowd, and Richie whoops with delight.

“All right!” he crows, pointing to the dead-eyed bears and rabbits hanging over their heads. “Which one do you want?”

It seems the barker doesn’t hear him. “Bad luck. Try again?”

“What do you mean, try again?”

“It didn’t go down. You want another try?” The barker’s voice is bored, eyes half closed, as though he is slipping towards sleep. On the wall behind him, the dented duck reaches the end of the river. The beak dips first, then the body chases after, like a canoe going over a waterfall.

“I hit it. That means I win.” Richie’s hands are tight on the air rifle.

“Not unless you knock it down.”

Richie makes a noise that’s somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Sylvia feels herself stiffen, poised for fight or flight, except to fight would be unthinkable and to fly impossible. Richie hurls the rifle across the counter with a broad, round-arm swing, the butt end clipping the barker across the shoulder then clattering broadside into the painted wooden river. He turns his back on the stall and the man’s outrage, slings a casual arm around Sylvia’s shoulder, and throws his hands wide for the benefit of the onlookers.

“It’s all rigged,” he says, as the crowd parts to let them through. “Who’d want that junk anyway?”

As they walk away, she wonders if she’s expected to congratulate him on his shot, or commiserate with him on the unfairness of the loss. In the end, she does neither, just nods and smiles as he holds forth on the corruption inherent in the carnival business model, how he could and should have beaten it, how these games are all a con anyway. She risks a surreptitious glance at her watch – quarter to nine, still over an hour to go – which turns out to be the wrong thing to do. Richie’s temper, only just subsiding after the altercation at the duck shoot, flares again into life. His fingers bite into her shoulder. “You bored?”

“I’m not.” She blurts the words too quickly.

“You still sore about last night?”

Her face burns. His arm lies heavy on the back of her neck. A sudden memory of the precise smell of freshly crushed grass floods her mind.

“If you didn’t want it, you should have said no,” he continues, voice deceptively light. “I didn’t make you.”

She shakes her head, but not in disagreement. He’s right. He didn’t make her, never applied force or pressure or threat, yet there had been no single point at which she felt she could have stopped him, no threshold that he crossed in a bold leap, only the smooth flow of one action into the inevitable next. “You been telling folks about what happened?” Another shake of the head. “I thought you enjoyed it.” Then, as an afterthought he adds, “Frigid bitch.”

They walk aimlessly down the midway, past tents, barkers, advertisements, salesmen. “What do you want to do then?” he asks, and when she says nothing, snaps, “Jesus, can you just make a decision?” For a second she fears that his temper is flaring again, but it seems that it’s burned out for now, anger replaced by disgust, his face twisted in contempt. “Screw it. I’ll choose. This one.”

He stops them outside a medium sized tent, dimly lit from the inside. A banner pinned to its walls depicts a semi-naked woman reclining with a snake draped over her naked body, head thrown back in a crude approximation of ecstasy. A small group of men are clustered at the entrance, where a boy is exchanging crumpled notes for admission.

“Why?” she asks, with difficulty.

“Why not?” He shoves her to the doorway and pays for two pink slips of paper. The ink clings to Sylvia’s hands as they take their seats, blurring the curlicued border and the ornate Gothic script. ‘The Medusa – Snake Charmer – Will You Risk Her Coils?’ Sylvia realizes she is, for now, the only woman in the tent.

The low wooden stage is covered in sand, the canvas behind painted to resemble an Egyptian skyline, complete with pyramids, obelisks and a lopsided sphinx. The air is heavy with incense that smells of cedar and sandalwood, and something dark and aromatic that makes her think of expensive perfume. The music begins, a wailing reedy melody and a meandering drumbeat, ersatz Orientalism in audible form. The men of the audience whoop and stamp. Sylvia folds and unfolds her ticket, searching for ways to compress it into a tinier wedge of paper as her fingertips turn gray.

As the music accelerates, the stage becomes a flurry of spinning limbs and billowing silk. Three semi-clad woman appear, making twirling, sinuous leaps that have nothing in common with any dance she has seen or participated in before. The audience react immediately, clapping and catcalling at the dancers. The two girls to either side have long silk scarves held between their outstretched hands, the gossamer cloth billowing across their shoulders, but the girl in the middle—her face veiled in gray silk to preserve a modesty disregarded by every other part of her body—has a snake across her shoulders, a creamy white monster six feet long and a thigh’s width broad at the middle, its round pink eyes surveying the tent with a jaded air. The music swells then falls to a single, low, trembling note, and the two flanking women gracefully fold to the ground, a sweep of silk trailing behind each like a fluttering pennant. The one in the middle – the one holding the snake, steps forward, descending the stage towards the wolf-whistling crowd.

She is beautiful. Even through the lenses of envy and discomfort and something else that she is finding difficult to identify, Sylvia has to acknowledge that. The girl’s body is long and sleek, her skin a smooth, supple mantle over the taut, muscular strength beneath. Long black hair falls across her shoulders in dozens of tiny braids, each tipped with a silver bead, and the eyes above the veil glow a translucent amber in the tent’s dim light.

She weaves between the men with sinuous grace, too quick to touch, brushing greedy hands aside and moving on like smoke through trees. The snake lies dormant over her shoulders, soothed, perhaps, by the heat of her skin, the occasional flick of its tongue all that betrays it as a living creature. Once every few steps her dance takes her closer to one of the seated men, and she fixes the lucky one with a calm amber gaze, running a finger down a chest or across a cheek. They laugh and curse and blush, this roomful of grown men, reduced to teenage boys floundering in the wake of her hypnotic progress.

The snake-girl feigns surprise to perfection when she stops in front of Sylvia. Surely she must have noticed her before, but then, perhaps in the dimly lit room the presence of another girl has gone unnoticed by her up until this moment. Sylvia feels the blood rush to her face, unable to tear her gaze from the deep golden eyes that are suddenly inches from her own. The smell of incense is overwhelming, and her head spins so violently that she wonders if she is about to faint. The dancer reaches a hand towards her, brushing the back of her warm, dry fingers down Sylvia’s cheek, lingering on lips, chin, the hollow of her throat, the lapel of Ritchie’s jacket where it sits over the curve of her breast. Sylvia is aware of the noise of her own breath, blood rushing quick in her ears. The dancer is silent, holding her in amber eyes like a butterfly pinned to a board—

And then the snake-girl is laughing, her hands around Richie’s neck, pulling him to his feet, dancing the pair of them up onto the stage. Richie, all red cheeks and grinning white teeth, is looking back over his shoulder, not at Sylvia but at the rest of the noisy, envious crowd. He waves triumphantly to them, and they whoop and curse and cheer and applaud as he is led across the sandy stage – this lucky one, their appointed representative, through the curtain, and away.

The music fades, and the soft lighting of the tent is replaced with a harsh electric glare. The tent’s flap opens, and the boy starts ushering the audience outside, cheerfully wishing them better luck next time. The crowd dissipates into a cloud of lust and frustration, and Sylvia is left standing with her face to the sealed-up canvas door.

Five minutes pass, and then ten. She considers wandering away, but she has nowhere better to be, no one else to be with, and more than that, she wonders what Richie will have to say on his return. The possibility is there that this event might be all that is needed to end things between them, although she is still not entirely sure how exactly she would feign the requisite level of outrage and betrayal. She could tell her parents, but she doubts their reaction would be anything more than an indulgent acceptance of the fact that “boys will be boys”.

The carnival is taking on its nocturnal plumage, and there are no longer children around her; instead, there are clusters of young men and women, courting couples, the occasional older man. Most of the activity seems concentrated around the Ferris wheel, and she watches it lurch into life, music and light streaming down to the ground below. It’s so loud that it takes her a while to notice that the snake-charming music has started again, although the Medusa tent is still pitch black.

She picks her way through the guy ropes round to the back of the tent, noting the skip and scratch of the gramophone needle as she goes. Something is moving in the light behind the tent, shapes dancing on the canvas wall opposite, but the shadow play is formless, without meaning. She can hear quick, grunting breaths, a noise she recognizes as Richie’s. She creeps forward, fascinated, repulsed and suddenly eager to learn what exactly is occurring in the little space behind the tent.

Cast in the light of a single lantern, Richie on the ground. At first it seems he is wrapped in heavy rope and for one wild moment she wonders if she has stumbled upon a kidnapping—and then the rope moves, and she realizes that he is held in the coils of an enormous green-gold serpent, one easily twice the size of the snake the girl had carried in the show. The grunts she had heard are his shallow, desperate attempts to breathe.

The coils shift and tighten, and Richie lets out a breathless, panicky squeal. He jerks his head back, desperately trying to loosen the crushing grip that holds him, and the movement brings her into his line of sight. His face twists with recognition and a surge of obvious relief.

“Sylvia—” he manages. “Help—”

Richie is not the only one to notice her. The huge snake lifts its head and fixes her with two huge amber eyes, deep, wide and lucent. Sylvia realizes, with no real idea of why this understanding is suddenly so firmly in her mind, that they are the eyes of the dancing girl on the stage, the one who had touched her skin with such delicate precision. The eyes, even looking as they are from the face of a monstrous reptile, wear that same inscrutable look of curiosity, mixed with a faint and gentle pity.

He is still trying to scream, she realizes, but the thrashing of his head and neck does nothing to slacken the coils around him. His lips form her name again, but the snake has him so tight that all he manages is a voiceless wheeze.

The snake holds still, despite all Richie’s struggling, the amber eyes calm, serene and questioning, and Sylvia knows, as surely as she knows her own name, that she need only tell the snake—the girl—to stop, to tell her “no,” and she will release Richie and all this will be over. She opens her lips, tongue pressed behind her teeth, ready to articulate the syllable.

Just say no.

But the word doesn’t come.

The snake waits with reptilian patience for a reply, but eventually, when none is forthcoming, the coils tighten again. Richie’s mouth gapes open, his face red, eyes bulging with panic. He tries to scream, but instead, a series of wet snaps like breaking green wood emanate from his mouth as one rib breaks after another. His thrashing intensifies, then subsides, and then ceases. The snake lowers the slack-limbed marionette that he has become to the ground and brings her massive, heart-shaped head into alignment with his. Sylvia watches the snake unhinge her jaw, slide the open edges of her mouth over the crown of Richie’s head, and begin the languorous process of ingesting her meal. Sylvia thinks of Richie’s tongue pushing into her mouth, his weight pressing her to the ground, the insistent and unwelcome push of his flesh into hers. Unsure if the thought makes her want to laugh or scream, she presses her hands across her mouth and in the end does neither.

It takes fully ten minutes before Richie is quite gone, the only sign of his existence the long elephant bulge in the snake’s side as she lies there, tumescent and satisfied. The forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air experimentally. Sylvia smells sandalwood, cinnamon, burned sugar.

Later, she’ll say that Richie left the tent with the dancing girl; that she waited for him, and when he didn’t return she assumed he’d gone on alone. Rehearsing the words inside her head, she navigates through the guy ropes, the benches and the crowds, back to the entrance where her mother is waiting.

“Did you have a good time?” her mother asks.

Sylvia takes a moment to consider.

“No,” she says, and folds the memory of two golden eyes beside her heart like a love letter.

Jude Reid lives in Glasgow and writes in the narrow gaps between her day job, chasing her kids and trying to wear out a border collie. Presently she writes for Tales From The Aletheian Society and Novitero Podcast, studies ITF Tae Kwon Do and drinks a powerful load of coffee. You can find some of her work at www.hunterhoose.co.uk.

THE DOLL’S HOUSE

Alyson Faye

There had only been the three of them in the house when Alan plunged to his death, rolling head over heels down the cellar steps. Alice’s guilt was assumed. After all there had only been her and their daughter, ten-year-old Sophie, in the house at the time. The neighbors, when questioned, admitted Alice had been beaten by her spouse, more often than a rug. The police arrested her. Alice confessed. One day it was headlines, the next fish and chip wrappings.

The problem of ‘that poor little mite,’ as the neighbors dubbed her, was solved when Sophie went to live with her maternal aunt and uncle in their large detached house on the nouveau-riche Greenwoods estate. A handful of geographical miles away, but socially a seismic leap.

“You can choose whatever colors you like for your bedroom, darling,” Jen eyed her silent white-faced niece, but she also was careful to ensure she stood facing her and spoke clearly. She was never sure what Sophie was thinking, with her impassive almost adult gaze. How her sister Alice had coped with it all, the spousal violence and this strange child, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

“We’ll make this as cozy as your old bedroom, you’ll see.” Jen smiled, aware it was a clown’s grin. Trying too hard, she knew.

Sophie barely reacted, but her eyes tracked Jen’s lips and her hesitant hand signing. Not like mum’s fast and fluent hand patterns. Nothing in this modern lush house was like her old home.

Sophie’s thoughts drifted from her aunt’s chit-chat. She couldn’t pinpoint how old she’d been when her parents’ rows affected her: memories of her father’s flushed face, eyes bulging, hovering above her or her Mum flashed into her head.

Later, as her lip reading improved, Sophie pieced some of her father’s words together “…it’s your fault… no one in my family’s deaf… bad genes… drain…”

There was something else in his face too. Sophie could smell it on him, apart from the ever present alcohol. She was nine years old when she understood her father was frightened, not for her, but of her. She didn’t understand why, but it gave her a warm cozy feeling. This huge man who lashed out, was wary of her. Of her! It amazed her.

“She doesn’t look like me, Ali. Are you sure she’s mine?” he’d demand, smirking.

Alice’s eyes would well up, her nose turn pink and Sophie’s tummy would clench; a fist of pain and sadness.

Sophie knew her Dad didn’t love her. He never put his arm around her, like other dads or took her out to the park to play or helped with her homework or read her a good night story.

He said he loved Alice, but one wet Monday, Sophie, along with her favorite doll, were playing their game of shipwrecked inside her Mum’s mammoth wooden wardrobe, which involved emptying the shoe boxes, when through the crack in the door, Sophie caught a rare glimpse of her Mum undressing. Sophie had had to bite her lip hard not to give her presence away when she saw the ugly pattern of black and blue bruises scattered over her mum’s body. The sight of them made Sophie feel sick. She pressed her own hands hard onto the doll’s plastic body, until it cracked.

Later that same day, in her bedroom, Sophie pulled out the doll’s fair nylon hair and drew purple marks on its plastic shoulders with a felt-tip pen, before carefully redressing the doll and

placing it inside her doll’s house.

“Now you’re safe,” she whispered. “No one will hurt you in there. Look after her, Fanny.”

A ‘family heirloom’ her mother called the doll’s house. “Look after it, Sophs. It’s been handed down from mother to daughter for over a hundred years.”

Sophie traced her fingers over the wood’s grain, memorizing the angles and corners, letting it take a hold in her head. Over the years she learned every detail of its paintwork, every splinter in the woodwork, every corner of each miniature room.

The doll’s house had a Victorian heart, built by a master craftsman. Then pre-World War I several wings had been added and within rested a mosaic maze of interconnecting rooms and linking staircases. It housed an eclectic mix of several generations of young girls’ choices in furniture and dolls’ clothing encompassing ‘mini’ skirts and crinolines.

The oldest doll had always been known as Fanny, Alice told her. She was a late Victorian lady, who wore a blue velvet dress, now somewhat worn down, with her hair in a chignon and lacy gloves. Fanny was the undisputed mistress of the doll’s house, ruling her world, from the cellar to the attics, with a will of iron.

“Make no mistake, no one argues with Fanny,” her Mum would say smiling. Sophie wasn’t sure if she was joking or not; for she knew it was true. No one stood against Fanny. She’d tried and failed.

Fanny employed a household of staff, who reported to her plus her husband, Edward and her son, Edwin. There were two French maids, a chauffeur, a trio of gardeners, Cook, Nanny and several babies, who came and went from the premises, rather mysteriously. There was even a pet dog called ‘Patch’ sporting one black eye.

(Just like mum’s, thought Sophie).

The dog, being a new addition, was added to the household by Sophie’s mum, to placate Sophie’s burning demands for a pet.

Sophie didn’t choose to linger on what happened to the one and only pet her parents adopted. Her memories were fuzzy – of a tiny scrap of kitten, boneless and supple, who batted at the doll’s house with her paws in play, rousing Fanny’s ire, before disappearing between one sleep and the next morning. Neither of her parents had talked about keeping pets after that and Sophie wasn’t sure why. She had loved the kitten and missed her. Had she loved her too much? Had her love driven her away? It was confusing.

The night her father died, Sophie and her mum had been home and asleep in their beds.

“I found Alan, lying… at the bottom of the stairs,” Alice sobbed to the calm female police officer, hands trembling and holding a mug of tea. “His eyes were… blank. I knew he was gone.” Though Sophie couldn’t hear her wails, but she saw her shoulders shaking.

The female officer asked if there was a family member to come to stay with Sophie and that was when Sophie knew they were going to take her mum away.

“Nah!” she’d yelled, and everyone in the room had stared at her with that strange mix of repulsion and concern which was the usual response her speech incurred. Except her mum, who gazed at her with love.

“Yes, my sister, Jenny. She’ll come. I’ll phone her.”

Sophie raced back to her room, wrapped herself in her duvet and stared at the ceiling. That was where her aunt found her several hours later. Her aunt, not being adept at sign language, scribbled on a pad. ‘Your Daddy is… at the hospital and your mum’s had to go with the police…”

Sophie noticed how composed her aunt appeared, no tears in her eyes for her brother in law. Sophie knew her Dad was dead and she was pretty sure she knew who had killed him. She glanced across the room to her doll’s house. Good, all the doors and windows are closed, she thought. They can’t get out. I’m safe.

Sophie didn’t see her mother after that fateful morning. Her Aunt Jen decided her niece was too young to attend the court proceedings nor did she let her go to her Dad’s funeral It turned out hardly anyone else went either. Alan had not been a popular chap.

Sophie didn’t mention her Dad, but she did ask about visiting her Mum. “When can I go?” she would sign, fingers fluttering, tapping her aunt’s shoulder to get her attention. “Tomorrow? The next day?”

Her aunt’s lack of answer infuriated her. She had to see her mum, there were things to talk about with her. It was one more topic to add to the list of worries Sophie snuggled close to her chest. She had so much to remember, it was overwhelming for a ten year old. She had to keep on reciting her worries in bed at night. She mustn’t forget anything or get caught out, for there was too much at stake.

One of the secrets Sophie harbored was how Fanny and the dolls liked their new home and how happy they were at the change. Sophie ‘heard’ them whispering at night, while she lay under her pink frilled bed covers trying to sleep. She wasn’t sure how she could ‘hear’ the dolls’ voices so distinctly when she couldn’t hear those of her classmates or her family. Perhaps it’s by magic. After all the doll’s house is magic, so that makes sense.

She could feel the dolls’ movements as they went about their tasks. She could see their attenuated shadows moving around inside the doll’s house, climbing the stairs, eating, cooking, bathing and the rooms’ lights flickering on and off.

Fanny, in particular, worried Sophie. The other dolls did as Fanny ordered them to. Sophie knew Fanny could be malicious or worse downright dangerous. Fanny didn’t know she had to follow rules. She made up her own rules. It would not be safe for Sophie to tell on her. Not even to Aunt Jen, however kind and helpful she seemed. Fanny demanded total loyalty.

Lying in bed, her mind roaming, while she watched the doll’s house, Sophie remembered an odd incident when she’d been around six years old. One morning she had found the downstairs maid—Cleo—lying face down in the kitchen, her face marked by a red scratch and with tufts of dark hair missing from her head. Hair, which later that day, Sophie discovered clutched in Fanny’s right fist. Fanny had worn a smug expression. Cleo, Sophie knew, had been caught kissing Fanny’s husband in the pantry, and no one got away with that.

“Poor Cleo, you silly girl.” Sophie crooned, wiping her face and gluing her hair back to her scalp.”Don’t upset Fanny again, will you?” And as far as Sophie knew the maid had not ever stepped out of line again.

It had been hard work hiding the evidence of Fanny’s misdeeds from her mother. There had been

other incidents over the years. Patch, the dog, had gone missing for several weeks and when he returned, he was tailless. The appendage had been chopped off, Sophie guessed, with the garden axe. Sophie had bandaged the stump to hide its absence and claimed she was playing at being a vet, when her mum asked her.

Babies appeared and disappeared, some came back, some did not. Doll’s hands were buried in the garden, poking up out of the Astro Turf and sometimes worse of all, heads lay hidden under beds or were kicked around by the gardeners as footballs while Fanny stood and watched. Sophie knew Fanny used these cruel games as ways to keep her household under control.

“Fear is the best weapon of all,” she would whisper to Sophie. “Remember that. Are you afraid of me, Sophie?”

Sophie would shake her head, lips trembling.

Aunt Jen, in her efforts to help her niece, located a child psychologist.

“One of the best,” her family doctor informed her.

Dr. Vivien Lucas signed and smiled a lot at Sophie. She reminded the girl of a cat; a sleek brunette cat who watched you with amber eyes and stroked you better. Except cats stalk and kill small animals, Sophie reminded herself. So am I a little mouse?

Fanny had whispered to her that morning, “Beware. Be careful. Say nothing, child. We want to stay living here.”

The Victorian matron’s lips barely moved, but Sophie heard her clearly. Muttering to herself she held Fanny close to her own face, staring intently into her dark glass eyes. Did she see a flicker in their depths? Some intelligence? Yes, she was sure she did.

“Keep us safe.” Fanny had begged her. “We want to be safe, always. We are your family, Sophie. You belong to us.”

Sophie watched a tear fall from Fanny’s eye. It looked like a felt-tip dot, if you didn’t know better. But Sophie did know. Fanny was alive and this was the proof. As if she needed more proof.

“I promise.” Sophie whispered and kissed Fanny on her chilly, porcelain cheek. “We are family.”

Sophie didn’t mind the sessions with Dr Lucas.

“Please call me Viv, Sophie. I would like that,” she said.

But she did mind not being allowed to visit her mother. She switched from asking her aunt to asking Viv when she could to go to the prison. Sophie sensed the doctor held the power to decide when this would happen. In that Sophie was correct.

Four months after Alice began her sentence for matricide, Viv greenlit Sophie for a prison visit, with her aunt along as a chaperon. Delighted, Sophie drew pages and pages of smiley faces on her regular notepad, writing Alice’s name repeatedly in bright pink felt-tip pen with plumes of stars shooting out above the I. Jen laughed at her niece’s unusual giddiness.

“Happy?” she signed to Sophie.

Sophie nodded. Yes, for once, she knew she was happy. Not confused, or upset or downright sad.

It continued to worry Jen how quiet and withdrawn Sophie appeared. Though, of course, her deafness contributed to her isolation.

Aunt Jen told everyone, “You have to make allowances and she’s a lovely girl.” Secretly Sophie’s obsession with the doll’s house and its inhabitants worried her aunt.

“She treats them as if they’re real,” Jen told her husband one evening. “I worry they’re more real to her than we are. Mark, are you listening?” She chucked a cushion at her husband who was gazing hard at his tablet.

“Jen, aren’t you just glad she’s playing games? Like a kid should? She’s been through a hell of a lot. Just leave her be.”

Thank God Sophie’s not much trouble, Mark frequently told himself.

He’d barely noticed his niece’s arrival into their house. The less disruption there was to his routine the better. He’d never fussed about having children and this way he could be a fond uncle and never have to be a dad.

The night before the planned visit to the prison, Sophie lay in bed, sensing the dolls’ growing agitation; their frantic shuffling and rushing around the doll’s house, up and down the stairs, running the bath, throwing open cupboards, shouting at each other, breaking the kitchenware. It was as though the world inside their miniature house was in turmoil. Did they know what I’m going to tell Mum tomorrow? How can they?

Several voices overlapped and mingled. “We have to protect ourselves.”

“Hurry, hurry…” Tiny footsteps pattered.

“Check the locks. Check the windows.”

“Find the knives. Who knows who is out there?”

“We have to keep the girl safe.” Different dolls’ voices chirruped and whispered inside Sophie’s head.

“Family is all that matters.”

“Sophie, Sophie are you listening?”

Unable to drop off to sleep, Sophie churned over and over in her head the words she’d prepared to say to her mother. When her bedside clock flared 01:00 with its neon blue light, the doll’s house finally fell silent. Sophie sighed in relief. Glancing towards it, she jerked against the bedroom wall, knees tucked up to her chest with the duvet pulled around her for protection.

No! It can’t be.

By the dim glow of the mermaid night-light she espied a sea of faces pressing up against every window in the house. The dolls, the twelve of them, were standing propped up, staring at her, from the attic window down to the basement window. Their mouths open in silent screams; their china or plastic fingers pointing at her bed. The air vibrated.

Fanny was standing at the parlor window, where she raised one dainty porcelain hand whilst beckoning to Sophie.

“Stop it! Stop yelling!” Sophie whispered. “Go away!” She searched the windows for their mistress.

The girl climbed out of bed and crawled over the bedroom carpet on her hands and knees. She bent her face to Fanny’s eye level and heard the doll’s house matriarch murmur, “Don’t tell, Sophie. Never tell. We are your family now.”

Sophie gasped, pulling away, at the pin-prick of pain stabbing into her cheek. She pressed her finger there and a tiny droplet of blood transferred onto her index finger. Glancing down she noticed the pin in Fanny’s hand. The doll smiled at her. The smile transformed the impassive china face with the painted red lips into something Halloween like and cruel. Cracks appeared in Fanny’s cheeks and a flow of black mites poured from her eyes. Her lips pouted and she blew a kiss towards Sophie. The other dolls giggled and shuffled, leaving their window spots.

Sophie rushed to the safety of her bed, holding a tissue to her cheek and pulling the duvet up over her head.

Leave me alone, she begged silently. Please. I don’t know what you want.

“Time to get up.” Jen sighed, the next morning at 8am. She threw back the curtains.

Her signing’s really improving, Sophie thought. Dear Aunty Jen, she does try so hard. Sophie hoped nothing bad would happen to her aunt. She prayed Fanny would leave her alone; leave both of them alone. I love Aunty Jen. I don’t want to lose her like I lost Mum. She didn’t allow herself to remember her Dad, Fanny had been right when she’d said, “He was a wicked man, dear.”

“OK, Aunt Jen. Won’t be long.” Sophie signed back. She dressed without looking at the doll’s house but couldn’t resist a fleeting glance as she left her room. The rooms were in darkness, the frontage closed, no doll stood at the windows but on the front lawn lay Patch, head and tail missing. Just his canine torso lay there. Sophie shivered. Fanny was sending her a message.

Jen and Sophie drove the hour long trip to The Northern Women’s Prison, mainly in silence, which didn’t bother Sophie. Silence seldom did. It puzzled her why adults felt the need to fill it with idle chatter.

Jen kept asking, “Are you up to this, Sophie? We can go back if it’s all too much?”

“It’s fine, Aunty. I’m fine, Don’t worry.” Sophie signed, then closed her eyes to end the conversation.

It seemed an age to Sophie, – the waiting on the black plastic bucket chairs, until she spotted her mother being escorted through to the visitors’ room. When she glimpsed her, Sophie’s heart picked up a beat and her stomach flip-flopped with love and worry.

She looks the same, but thinner and her hairs short. But it’s still Mum. Oh Mum I miss.

Sophie started signing so fast, it was as if her hands were flying. She knew it would be too fast for her aunt to keep up. This suited Sophie. She and her mum were giggling, finishing off each others sentences. It was like old times. Her mum hadn’t forgotten anything, Sophie realized, she was following all of the word shapes.

It’s now. Now is the time to tell.

“I know you didn’t do it, Mum.” Sophie’s fingers raced.

Alice’s face grew still and her eyebrows went up. She began to look anxious. “Why do you say that, darling?” she signed.

“I know who it really was. The dolls told me. It was Fanny’s idea. She organized it. She tripped Dad when he was at the top of the stairs. She had help. The chauffeur and the gardeners did it, following her instructions. The dolls do whatever Fanny tells them to. But you know that, don’t you? Mum, I can get you out of here. I just have to tell the police.”

Sophie’s smile lit up her face. Aunt Jen looked pleased to see her niece looking so happy and animated, although she felt rather left out of the conversation.

Alice’s eyes flickered, first to her sister and then towards the female guard standing, bored, apparently indifferent, near the door. She chewed her bottom lip hard, but her hands never stopped moving.

“No, darling. Don’t say that ever. To anyone. It was me. Your dad hurt me once too often. I just cracked. You’re safe now, aren’t you? You’re happy, with Aunty Jen?”

“Oh yes, Mum. It’s lovely at their house. But it’s not the same as being with you. Let me tell them…”

“NO!”

The word exploded out of Alice. There was no doubt at that moment as to what she was saying and how upset she was. The guard stepped forward; on alert. Jen shoved her chair back in alarm. “What’s wrong, Alice? What’s Sophie saying? I can’t follow you both when you sign so fast.”

“Nothing, nothing. Just keep her safe. Please Jen—” Alice pleaded, grabbing her sister’s hand. Then she stood up, squeezing Sophie’s face between her hands and kissing her on the forehead. Sophie felt like crying. Her great plan to get her mum freed had gone wrong.

“Five minutes left.” The guard intoned, professionally impassive.

Sophie had nothing left to try. It was useless, she saw that now. Her mum didn’t believe her. She realized she should have told Alice years ago about the dolls and their secret lives. She must sound mad pouring it all out here, like this in the prison. As though it was a lie and a trick to get her out. It wasn’t though.

Alice stretched out to take her daughter’s hand. She sketched the letters ‘I- l-o-v-e y-o-u’ on Sophie’s palm, just as she had done many times before. Then quickly she drew the letters, ‘I- k-n-o-w.’

She folded Sophie’s fingers into a fist and kissed them. Alice looked into her daughter’s eyes and nodded – once. Sophie was confused. What did her mum know? What was she trying to say?

“Love you, Mum. To infinity and back.” She signed off with the special code phrase they’d used since Sophie was a tiny tot.

Her Mum got up and walked away, and crushed by a sense of failure, Sophie took hold of Jen’s offered hand and walked away from her mother. Her stomach shriveled into a tight ball.

“What did Alice say to you at the end there, Sophie?” Jen knew she had missed out on something important. Sophie didn’t reply. She had no words at that moment.

Jen kept tight hold of Sophie’s hand as they walked along the prison corridors recalling everything Dr. Lucas had told her in confidence: – how concerned she was that Sophie was transferring the blame for her father’s death from her mother onto herself. This was quite common. Sophie was just a child and Dr. Lucas said, she couldn’t process the horror of her mother committing murder. Apparently it would take years of therapy to get Sophie over that hurdle. But Jen was committed. She would do whatever it took to make Sophie well. This was her blood, her family, her sister’s only child. She owed her.

Jen escorted Sophie to their Audi, put it into gear and set off. The grey façade of the prison’s walls became a speck in the rear-view mirror. While her niece stared out of the window, Jen continued to follow her own line of thought.

She recalled occasions on the landing outside her niece’s bedroom door, where she would listen to Sophie playing with her dolls. In Mark’s words, “That weird, creepy, antiquated house, your grandma insisted on passing on to her.” She’d watch her niece through the door crack, positioning the dolls, moving them around, whispering to them for hours in her blurred speech, then waiting as if for a reply. Jen noticed the damage appearing on the dolls’ faces and bodies. The scratches, the broken limbs, even the total loss of limbs and the dolls’ body parts scattered around.

To Jen there was something unnerving in the games Sophie played and in the intensity of her demeanor. But she made excuses for her niece, for she knew too the undercurrent of violence simmering in the family home. Her sister Alice, could never pick a good man.

“We don’t all settle for boring, like your Mark. Some of us want a bit of excitement in our marriage.” Her sister tossed this at her from behind a cut lip or black eye and a wine glass, on several occasions.

Jen had riposted, “Yeah right! He’s always drunk and when he is, he does that to you.”

She would drag her sister over to the kitchen mirror and face her with the reality. Alice would sob and promise to throw him out, but she never did.

Jen recalled her sister’s hysteria echoing down the phone line, when three years earlier, she had found the broken body of the new kitten lying in Sophie’s room near the doll’s house. Her sister had quietly disposed of the corpse, refusing to question Sophie.

There had been other incidents too, which she doubted her niece remembered. The little boy at nursery school who came for a rare play date, and tea, whose parents threatened to sue over the bite marks he went home with.

“It’s like Dracula bit him,” Alice sobbed down the phone, “that’s what they said. They called my lovely Sophie, Dracula!” Her voice rose to a shriek of despair.

“Did you ask her what happened, Alice?” Jen pressed.

“She said Fanny did it. That bloody doll! I’ve given up asking her anything.”

Sophie had moved to another nursery, which better suited her ‘special needs’ and where she would receive the right sort of help. Alan had shown, as usual, no interest at all in his daughter’s education.

Then there had been the girl who lived two doors down, who had tripped and fallen over in the back garden whilst playing in the sandpit, breaking both her wrists. She’d been in casts for months afterwards. The family put their house up for sale later that year and moved away.

“She shouldn’t have been burying the dolls.” Was all Sophie said, by way of explanation. “They didn’t like it.”

The grey lanes of motorway unfurled before Jen, as she motored towards home. Hers and Sophie’s home. It occurred to her that the doll’s house was another home within theirs too. A miniature universe with its own inhabitants. The idea bothered her but she wasn’t sure why. As children, she and Alice had argued over who would play with the doll’s house. Each had their own favorite doll, but Jen had never liked Fanny. The Victorian mater’s face was sour as lemons, it spooked her. Not so Alice, who merrily held tea parties and elaborate dances with Fanny in charge.

Jen’s mind looped deeper into the family’s history, recalling her own grandfather sitting at the kitchen dining table recounting vague stories of ‘goings on and lights, parties and disappearances, in the doll’s house,’ chuckling all the while and rolling his eyes.

Saying “Your grandma, well what tales she’d tell.”

Grandma had been dead at fifty of a thrombosis, so there was no way to ask her.

Jen glanced at her silent niece and noticed a droplet of blood on the curve of her right cheek. Her niece was oblivious to it. “Here take this tissue, Sophie darling. Your cheek’s bleeding.”

“Thank you, Aunty Jen.” Sophie answered in her blurred voice, which her aunt still found difficult to understand and still to her shame, disturbed her.

“Fanny made me bleed, you know. She can be very naughty sometimes, Aunty.”

Jen paused, unsure of what she’d heard. “Fanny did it? Is that what you said, darling?”

Sophie turned her smooth, otherwise unblemished face towards her aunt. She looks so much like Alice, thought Jen.You can hardly see anything of her father. That’s a relief. She’s such a lovely girl. Everyone says so. Well nearly everyone.

Sophie nodded. “She likes to hurt me. She likes to hurt people.” She was concentrating hard in order to enunciate clearly. “She hurt Daddy.”

Jen let the car wheel slip away from her for a moment. The Audi slid to the left towards the hard shoulder. Jen glimpsed headlights behind her flash and tasted sour bile in her throat. She knew she couldn’t show her feelings. She had to get both herself and the car under control. It was vital. They still had twenty minutes of driving on motorway in near darkness, before they got back home. Somehow the darkness inside the car was worse though and harder to navigate.

“How did she hurt your Daddy?”

Sophie looked anxious. “She said Daddy was a bad man. She made him go away. Don’t worry, Aunty, we like it at your house. Fanny is happy and she wants to stay. She won’t do anything naughty, ever again. She promised me.”

Sophie turned her face away to the window, pressing it to the pane of glass. Staring out at the grey skies and bare trees.

Jen stared at the snaking tarmac unspooling, wondering about the power of family, the games children play and the stories they tell themselves.

In the living room Mark settled into the Conran sofa, hit up his usual porn site and plugged in his ear buds. Alone at last to do as he liked. Bliss.

Upstairs in his niece’s bedroom the dolls woke up, they’d been sleeping for hours, waiting for Sophie to come home. She belonged to them. Without her they were powerless, they needed her.

“Hurry home to us,” Fanny said and in the car Sophie murmured from the shallows of a light doze. “There is another bad man to take care of. I need you. We are as one, you and I. Family forever.”

Alyson Faye lives in West Yorkshire with her husband, teen son and 4 rescue animals. She has been a teacher, a carer, a road safety instructor and a lifetime film buff. Currently she teaches creative writing workshops and writes dark fiction, both short (flash) and long. Her short stories have appeared in print in the anthologies, Women in Horror Annual 2, Stories from Stone, DeadCades:The Infernal Decimation, Coffin Bell Journal 1 and Crackers. Her debut flash fiction collection, Badlands, was published in January 2018 by indie publisher, Chapel Town Books and her own Trio of Terror – Supernatural Tales (all set in Yorkshire) came out in December 2018. Her flash fiction has appeared in several charity anthologies and can be heard on several podcasts. Her fiction has won, or been shortlisted in several competitions.

Her most recent E-book, Book 18 in the Short Sharp Shocks! series from Demain publishing, Night of the Rider, came out on May 10th and reached the top 10 Amazon kindle horror shorts best seller charts.

When not writing Alyson enjoys singing, swimming, crafting, time with her Labador, Roxy and eating chocolate, the darker the better.

Her blog can be found at www.alysonfayewordpress.wordpress.com.

Her amazon author is at https://www.amazon.co.uk/l/B01NBYSLRT and she’s on twitter as @AlysonFaye2.

BLOOD

Claire Hamilton Russell

Despite being a princess, one of the ways I was like many other little girls in the kingdom was that my mother and my grandmother used to bleach my hair once a week. They were too skillful to do it blonde; it made the new growth at the scalp too obvious, and it was too obvious anyway from the tone of my skin that that was not my true color, no matter how often they bathed me in milk or refused to let me see the sun without a veil. Instead they left the bleach in long enough to lighten it to brown and put in honey blonde highlights and streaks along the curl-paper ringlets to make the overall effect lighter still. When I was dressed for any public occasions, they skillfully powdered my face paler and dressed me in blue and green so that my eyes would reflect the colors.

The Church had blamed my great-grandmother’s power on her blood – she had traveled across the inland sea from Aragognhy in the East to marry my great-grandfather. She was far from the only one, of course. Before the war and the Interdiction, there had been generations of travel and trade and, of course, the intermarriage and settling that goes with that between our two nations. The Rooting Out is vivid in my mother’s memory, though the worst was over before she was born, but the scars ran deep enough even in her far country manor that she speaks of it as if she was there.

For most of the girls whose mothers did this now, it was a matter of beauty and fashion and marriage prospects. Not a matter of life and death, as it still was for my little sister and I.

My grandmother was the most talented at it, though she peered painfully as she worked even with her face an inch from my head. They would not have let my grandfather live if his cousin Anri had not been killed in a rockfall the previous autumn. As it was, he was the only halfway legitimate heir – and even the Synod did not have the gall to kill the only scion of the Blood remaining.

They kept him close, though, in a cell not quite three paces across, Testing and testing him over and over until he was a broken wreck of a young man who would denounce his mother every Sabbar and Festing. And they married him to the purest vessel they could find – a virgin noble maiden given to the Daughters of Darkness at the age of three, just about to take her final vows at the age of twenty-six. I’ve seen an image of their wedding. My grandfather was so thin and frail he could barely stand in his cloth-of gold-robe, his dark eyes staring out of his tic-twisted face. My grandmother was near-albino in white silk no paler than her face, the pearl-embroidered veil draped over her hair not quite hiding the strip of dark cloth tied over her eyes to prevent her screaming in pain at the light.

She was a bad choice for them, despite all of that. They had broken my grandfather, and he remained broken; fading away after barely seven years of the weight of the Synod’s Will upon him, but after doing the vital duty of siring my father and continuing the Bloodline. But they put little weight on my grandmother, assuming that the Daughters and the dark she was raised in had broken any will in her long since. She does a very fine impression of that, I must admit; I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her speak above a whisper, and her head is always demurely bent low under her grey widow-veil. They never considered, somehow, that perhaps a soul that could survive the Daughters and the darkness might have acquired two things; a will of stone and iron, and the patience of quiet, dripping water. I have no doubt that, without her, my family would not have survived to the conception of my sister and I, let alone attained the limited freedoms we have today.

Once, when I was a tiny child, not much more than an infant, I went wandering in the Palace. My sister was badly sick with a fever, I believe; at any rate, for once no one was looking after me or for me. My wanderings carried me into the Throne Room.

I had not been there since my public presentation after my baptismal. I wandered the empty, echoing room on my little legs, fingering the cloth-of-gold drapes and gawping up at the splendor of the murals inlaid in the ceiling – toddlers are the finest riposte possible to any idea that manners are innate with breeding – and eventually curled up on the thick carpet and fell asleep behind one of the Noble’s Boxes.

I awoke to the familiar sound of my grandmother’s whisper-soft voice. Peering out from my hidey-hole, I saw my grandmother, kneeling in her accustomed place on the grey cushion at the right-hand side of the Throne. Instead of being bent low though, she was kneeling tall, looking upwards.

I was too far away to catch more than the merest snatches of what she said. And perhaps I am wrong. My grandmother is and always has been a devout woman, after all. Perhaps she was simply praying there for strength to carry the burdens life has laid on us all. It would be a fitting enough place to do so.

I do not believe so, however. I think that, some day, the Synod will regret the symbol they chose. I think they will regret having her son and her blood enthroned beneath my great-grandmother’s skeleton, bound with iron chains and thorns and her wings nailed to the arms of the iron crucifer.

I can still see my grandmother’s face turned upwards to the skull’s empty eyes, her mouth shaping words, as though it was before me this very moment. And when I think of it, I feel a bone-deep ache, and a tiny, flexing movement in my shoulder blades, as though something is fluttering and growing there beneath my skin. Waiting for its moment to burst forth.

Claire Hamilton Russell is in her thirties and lives in Glasgow, Scotland, with her partner and Staffie. A keen Live Action and tabletop role-player, she worked with marginalized populations for many years and is now involved in disability, queer, environmental and other social justice activism. Read her activism blog at www.rightdownwiththesickness.wordpress.com.

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH PEARS

Rachel Bolton

Adam couldn’t stop himself from staring.

His eyes were drawn to the girl’s blue hair, held in place by a point-up pencil. She sat in the back corner of the commuter lounge among the puffy yellow chairs, feet tucked under her legs as she read. Her too-big college sweater spattered with paint, and the girl gnawed at a growing thumb hole in the left sleeve.

Josh nudged Adam while they were stuck in line at the grab-n-go at the other end of the lounge. “I have drawing with her. You might get along.”

His roommate had to run to his next class, nearly spilling his large coffee all over himself as he tripped through the doors. But Adam had no place to be and settled in the opposite corner to watch the girl as he did his homework. Instead of writing about pre-Columbian history, he tried to come up with an excuse to talk to her. Picking up his laptop, Adam sat down in a stained chair next to her.

“I like your hair,” he said.

The girl flinched. “Oh, you surprised me. I felt like a change and bam! Blue hair,” she said with a wave of her hand. She smiled and went back to her design textbook.

Adam tugged on his shirt. “I’m Adam by the way, Josh’s roommate.”

“Josh’s great. I’m D.C.” She closed her book.

“D.C.? Like Washington D.C?” he teased, hoping he was funny.

D.C.’s nose was freckled, and Adam loved how blue her eyes were. They weren’t quite the same blue as her hair. “Is it short for something? What’s your real name?”

“Does it have to be short for something?” D.C. tilted her head away from him. She checked her phone and looked out the window that overlooked the quad. “I gotta go to class.”

“I’ll walk you there.” Adam opened the campus center’s door for her, and they walked together over the quad to the impressive gray gloom that was the Jefferson building. Adam heard it was haunted. Maintenance blew away the fallen leaves, drowning out Adam’s early conversation. D.C. was quiet as he talked about himself, his plans to be lawyer, and how obnoxious his floor-mates were. None of them understood that he actually took college seriously. D.C. nodded and smiled.

Adam waved goodbye to her at Jefferson’s stone steps. She wriggled her fingers slightly back. She must be shy, he thought. D.C.’ d be more talkative once she got to know him. There had been other girls in Adam’s life, ones who gave him the cold shoulder. But he knew that sometimes people need to be encouraged to say yes.

Adam’s thoughts went back to D.C. over the next few days. The more he thought about her, the more he wanted to know her real name. It was a mystery, and Adam liked mysteries when he could solve them. A few days later, he asked Josh to look up her given name on the professor’s attendance sheet in the class they shared.

“Dude, I know what it is,” said Josh, his voice light, not looking at Adam as they played video games among the mess that was their dorm room. Josh’s side was worse than Adam’s. His had art supplies over every surface. Adam forgot to put his dirty clothes in the hamper. “It’s Prudence. We joked about it.”

Prudence! No wonder she wanted to keep it a secret. Adam thought the name belonged to old ladies who spent their days playing bingo. He said the name to himself a few times when he was alone. The word felt prettier the longer Adam played with it. He wondered if D.C. would let him call her Prudence. It sounded better than calling her “D.C.”

Adam dwelled on possible futures. No girlfriend since the junior year of high school, he hoped D.C. would become his next one. Not right away of course. They still didn’t know each other well. He already knew D.C. was quiet and thoughtful. Josh mentioned her art was a head above the rest of the class. The girls in Adam and Josh’s dorm were trashy and wore too much makeup. There was no way a girl like that would look good once she took it off. D.C. on the other hand, knew how to have self-expression without going over the top with her beautiful blue hair. Besides, they complemented each other physically. D.C. was short and busty, while Adam tall and athletic.

He friended D.C. on Facebook later that night. She was easy to find, there was only one girl named “D.C.” in Josh’s friend list. Adam kept checking to see if she accepted while he worked on a paper. After she accepted, he sent her a message and looked through her photos, enjoying them as he went.

As the next few weeks went by, it was easier for Adam to hang out with D.C. Josh had become friends with her, and Adam would sit at one of the less broken tables in the lounge with them after their class, drinking coffee and doing homework. Adam was grateful to Josh. His roommate was an excellent wing-man. Josh might’ve been a little strange with his ancient docs and purple painted nails, but he and Adam hadn’t any problems. He’d heard numerous stories of people stuck with shitty roommates freshman year.

“So your given name is Prudence, right?” Adam asked when Josh got up to get coffee at the campus grab-n-go, the name sounding elegant. Her parents must have been creative people.

“Oh, Josh told you that didn’t he?” D.C. rolled her eyes. “He’s such a goofball?”

“Yeah.” Josh was chubby and harmless. Adam had offered to help get him into shape, as he had played soccer in high school. “Could I call you Prudence?” Adam nudged his hand closer to hers, hoping she would take it.

“Only if you want to talk to my Grandma,” said D.C., tucking her hands into her lap. “She died a few weeks before I was born, so my parents changed their mind at the last minute. They were originally going to name me Amanda. They made it my middle name instead.”

“I think it’s pretty.”

“I know how much my dad loved his mom, but I really don’t like it.” D.C. started to chew on a barely existent fingernail. Adam frowned. What a disgusting habit, didn’t she know better? “And I got teased,” she continued. “That’s why I changed it to D.C. when I was in middle school.”

Josh returned with three coffees. Adam’s jaw twitched. In spite of seeing D.C. bite her nails, he was still going to ask if she wanted to go to a movie with him. He was going to do it while it was the two of them. Oh well, he could ask anyway. It was only Josh after all.

“Hey D.C., do you want to go see that new Marvel movie on Friday?” Adam knew it was smart he put on extra cologne that morning.

“Sure! I’ve been excited to see it!” D.C. waved at a distracted Josh, who was trying to text and drink coffee at the same time. “Hey Josh, wanna come with us?”

He looked up from his phone. “Hell yeah!”

Adam stopped himself from saying something rude. Did Josh know better? The anger washed away with Adam’s second thought, what girl would pick Josh over him.

The trip to the movies went well. All three of them laughed at the jokes and enjoyed the special effects in the battle scenes. D.C. sat between him and Josh. Adam was close, so close, to holding her hand, but D.C. was too busy eating popcorn to let him get a good grip. His fingers brushed against hers several times before the post-credits scene. He was a little wary of her bitten nails, the skin around them puffy with inflammation. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? D.C. was so pretty it was distracting. Adam would suggest ways of helping her stop after they got together.

When the movie was over, Adam suggested getting food at the pizza place down the street.

“Thanks for the offer, Adam.” D.C. yawned widely. The fall breeze ruffled her hair. “I think I’m ready to go sleep. I have a pile of boxes to draw tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Maybe she didn’t like pizza, thought Adam. “Josh and I can walk you back to your dorm.”

“Okay.”

D.C. and Josh animatedly talked about the film and how they were already worrying about what they were going to put in the freshmen art show this semester, while Adam walked behind them. He wished he had more in common to discuss. Adam could barely draw a passable stick figure. He tried to turn the conversation to topics that he could contribute to, but whenever he interjected, Josh or D.C. started talking again from where they left off. The walk ended before Adam could retake the conversation. D.C. lived in one of the nicer female dorms. The hall still had an air of newness the other campus buildings lacked.

“Goodnight guys.” D.C. said as she headed inside.

“Hey D.C., what’s your room number,” called Adam.

She didn’t reply. She must have missed it.

Adam didn’t see much of D.C. for the next two weeks. He didn’t ask Josh about her. He didn’t want to appear clingy. Clinginess was what he hated about girls. His buddy’s girlfriend in high school texted him every five minutes, needing to know where he was at all times. Talk about a pain in the ass.

While they were at dinner together, Josh casually mentioned that D.C. sprained her ankle. The words were jumbled over the chatter in the dining hall. Adam hid his anger. Why hadn’t Josh told him about that? He would’ve sent her flowers or some other thoughtful thing.

“It wasn’t that bad, relax,” sighed Josh, spooning mashed potatoes. He explained she had tripped coming out of the shower in her dorm.

Adam tried not to blush at the image that came to mind. “Are you guys planning on doing anything this weekend?” he said quickly. “I wanna hang out again with her soon.”

“Uh, not really,” said Josh. “I think D.C. wants some time to herself.”

Why would she want time to herself? She had friends who wanted to see her. Adam texted her over the weekend, but she never responded.

Sunday night he messaged her on Facebook.

Hey DC what’s up?

…

We really don’t talk anymore and I miss that.

…

Don’t you realize how much I miss you?

…

Why haven’t you replied. Youre not a very considerate person.

…

An early November frost made the grass crunch under Adam’s feet as he walked to the lounge, hoping he’d see D.C. there. He never ran into her at the dining hall. According to Josh, it was because of her class schedule. Art classes were long and oddly placed throughout the day. But during this trip to the lounge, his persistence paid off. D.C. was sitting in her usual chair. When he looked more closely, Adam could see why she had been hard to find. Her foot was wrapped in a hindering air cast, crutches leaning against her chair, but she smiled all the same. D.C. blinked when she saw Adam.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning over her. “You never texted me back.”

“I’m fine, and I forgot to charge my phone. Whoops.” She chewed on her pinkie.

“I sent you some Facebook messages,” Adam continued.

“I’m just a little busy these days, and everyone knows Facebook ‘s garbage anyway,” she said. D.C. sounded sharp. Was she in pain? Adam thought about offering to get her a coffee. That would improve her mood.

“Hey, I do have class soon,” said D.C. interrupting his thoughts. “See you later.”

Adam inwardly sighed. It wasn’t fair. He waited so long to see her and this wasn’t enough. He noticed the pile of textbooks on the table next to her.

“I can carry those to your next class for you.” Adam thought it romantic.

“No thanks Adam,” said D.C. quickly. “Cindy is going to carry my books for me.”

A toothpick thin Asian girl walked out of the bathroom and waved at D.C. That was Cindy? Adam frowned. D.C. needed someone with real strength to help her, like him.

“Are you sure? I don’t think she’s strong enough,” said Adam, ignoring Cindy’s appearance behind him.

“Thanks, man. I weight lifted in high school.” Cindy grabbed D.C.’s books.

Adam snatched them from her arms. “No, I got this!”

“What the fuck is your problem!” D.C. was red with anger. Everyone else in the lounge stopped and stared.

Why wasn’t D.C. letting him help her? Adam had been so nice to her. He just wanted to be with her, and now she was acting like she was too good for him. Stunned, he didn’t notice when Cindy took the books back from him.

“Jesus D.C., you don’t have to shout,” Adam hissed, so none else would hear their conversation.

“I don’t have time for this.” D.C. wrapped up in her scarf. “Come on, Cindy, let’s go.”

Adam tried to backtrack as the two girls moved around him. “Hey D.C., I’m sorry, let me make it up to you somehow.”

D.C. didn’t look at him. She limped away, Cindy following behind her. Adam heard stifled giggles.

“What’s wrong with D.C.?” Adam lay on his unmade bed, talking to Josh later that evening, while his roommate edited his art history essay.

“I thought I told you she hurt her foot,” said Josh, turning on his desk lamp.

“No, I’m talking about just now. She was really cranky about me carrying her books.” Adam ran a hand over his face.

Josh shrugged. “I think you ought to lay off the whole D.C. thing.”

“What do you mean?” Adam sat up and glared. “You’re the one who introduced me to her!”

“That’s cause you said you liked artistic girls when we met. And… I might have been trying to impress you,” Josh said hesitantly. “Honestly, if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have introduced you two.” Josh started to gather his books and shoved them into his backpack, his Steven Universe key-chain slapping against it. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go read about Matisse in the library.”

Adam flopped back on his bed. Great, the last thing he needed was Josh to be mad at him. Adam was ashamed to admit it, but Josh was the only friend he’d made at college so far. He didn’t want to be friends with the guys who asked stupid questions in class, nor did he want to be friends with the pot heads who played their ukuleles on the quad. Josh might be an art major (what was he going to do with that? Pre-Law was much more useful) but he had come off as reasonable at the start of their friendship. Why was he picking D.C. over him? What, did he think that she would date him? What girl wanted to get crushed by a fat guy?

Adam spent his next weekend trying to think of ways to make things better with Josh and D.C. He bought his roommate a video game he knew Josh had been trying to find, and the pair spent a few hours playing the co-op levels together as way of an apology.

As for D.C., Adam knew trying to talk to her in person wouldn’t work. It was as if she could turn invisible if she wanted to. She’d neglected his texts before, and Adam noticed she had deleted her Facebook. There would be other ways to be direct. D.C. needed to know that he just wanted to love and take care of her. There was no need to be so shy. He remembered The Notebook. It worked to write letters. Old fashioned, but Adam could do the same. Besides, wasn’t a handwritten note more romantic anyway?

He checked out a private study room in the library so he’d be free of people, especially Josh, from judging him. The tiny white room’s fluorescent light kept blinking, but Adam wrote devotedly. The letters started simply, but each progressive draft got longer and longer. Adam wrote to D.C. of how sorry he was, of all of the ways he could make her happy if she just let him. He had to rewrite several passages because he found typos on revision. By the last minute of his checkout time, Adam had three well-written love letters. He couldn’t decide which one he thought best. She should have all of them, he decided after much consideration. Wouldn’t D.C. think it nice to have multiple to read? All he had left was to find a place to put them.

“Dude, you’ve got to stop trying to get with D.C.!” Josh slammed the door to their room open.

Not even a hello? Adam tugged off his headphones and leaned back from his desk. “‘Get with her’? Don’t call it that,” he said. “I only sent her a few letters. I was trying to apologize.”

“Bullshit!” Josh shouted. “I don’t even wanna know how you figured out which cubby was hers in the art center.” Josh grabbed his toiletries and another set of clothes. “She came to me fucking crying about finding your creepy letters shoved in there. You need to stop, Adam, D.C.’s gonna go to campus security if you don’t.”

Adam stood and walked over to Josh hoping his height would intimidate his roommate. But Josh stared back at him.

“You’re trying to date her aren’t you?” Adam said his voice low.

Josh turned from Adam and pinched the bridge of his nose, dropping some of his clothes on the floor while he did. “You really are that fucking oblivious, aren’t you? Whatever D.C. wants in life is her own business, not yours.” Josh got the rest of his stuff. “I’m gonna stay with Brett. Keep away from D.C.”

Adam kicked his trash can when he was alone. How dare Josh tell him what to do? He was probably the one who freaked D.C. out over the letters. She would have liked them if Josh wasn’t whispering negativity in her ear. He needed to talk to her in person. Adam sat down and sighed, feeling defeated.

Adam could never get D.C. alone to speak. She would always be surrounded by a group of girls, including Cindy. He knew better than to try to talk to D.C. .at her usual booth with them around. Josh was no help either. His roommate came back after a few days to sleep in their dorm, but they didn’t speak. Adam wasn’t interested in rebuilding their friendship. He didn’t have the time for losers like him.

Soon anger sat in the pit of Adam’s stomach. How dare D.C. treat him like this? Didn’t she know he was stressed over finals? One afternoon, Adam was writing a paper in the library basement. Silent and private, his table was hidden behind a bookshelf. He stretched and yawned, he’d been sitting in the same chair for several hours. The sound of a laptop being placed on a table around the corner made him look to his right. It was D.C.

D.C. sat with her headphones in, her back to Adam, but he knew it was her. Her hair was shorter and dyed bright red, but other than that she looked exactly as Adam remembered her. His anger stared to vanish, and Adam quietly closed his laptop and got up.

“Hey D.C.,” he kept his voice low as he stood next to her.

D.C. glanced up, flinching as she did. “I don’t want to talk.” She slammed her laptop shut and scooped it up from the desk.

Adam took a step forward, keeping her against a bookshelf. “What did I do wrong?” he pleaded. “Tell me what I did wrong!”

“Leave me alone!” D.C. brushed past Adam, but he reached out and held her forearm.

“I want an answer D.C.! I thought you were different!” Adam adjusted his hold.

D.C. attempted to pull away. “Let me go!”

“Come on D.C.-”

Adam didn’t get to finish his sentence. Her laptop dropped to the table. A quick snap of motion and the heel of D.C.’s palm hit his face.

He let go of her arm and stumbled back, pinching his nose shut to stop the bleeding. Adam’s eyes watered. “What the fuck!”

D.C. dashed from the corner, shoving him out of the way.

“Excuse me, what is going on here?”

Adam froze at the question. The head librarian had come around the bookshelf with two students staring wide-eyed behind her. They all witnessed D.C.’s lashing out at him.

“None of your business,” he grabbed his materials quickly and ran.

Adam hurried back to his dorm room. He leaned against his bed for a few minutes trying to calm down. The librarian would talk to campus security about what she saw. Adam recognized the students with her from the dining hall. They’d certainly tell people about D.C. hitting him. Everyone would think Adam was violent. He wasn’t. D.C. hit him. Why hadn’t she just told Adam that she didn’t want to be with him in the first place? She was an uptight little bitch after all. He couldn’t stay in his room. He expected security to knock on his door. Adam sprung up from the bed, heart pounding in his chest. There was one thing he could do.

He tore through Josh’s art supplies, not caring if his roommate would notice if anything was missing. Adam poured a clear tool box out on his bed, at last finding what he was looking for.

The art center was still unlocked when Adam got to it. The walls of the narrow hall were covered with nude sketches as he tried to find the main exhibit space. He wished he’d paid more attention to the layout when he put the letters in D.C.’s cubby. At last, he turned to a door that said Freshman Fall Semester Art Show. It would open tomorrow evening. Adam looked for D.C. Baines’s painting. A self-portrait, the girl on the canvas was surrounded by green pears.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care about what people would think of him afterwards. He didn’t care about D.C. He didn’t care about Josh. He didn’t care about the security camera watching him from behind. Tongue tucked between his teeth, Adam pressed the box cutter’s blade deep into the portrait’s eye. Slash by slash, the canvas turned to shreds.

That would teach her.

Rachel Bolton is a writer working on more projects than she has time for. Her work has previously appeared in Ms En Scene, Scriptophobic, Women Write About Comics, SideQuest, Rose Water Magazine, My American Nightmare, and Weirdbook Annual: Witches. She enjoys crocheting, reading massive amounts of books, watching true crime documentaries, and playing video games. When not writing, Rachel works as an ESL teacher in Massachusetts. Follow her on twitter at @Ladyrbolt.

PERSONAL DEMONS

Angelique Fawns

The locker was dark and smelt of old sandwiches and foot odor. Sam was small and easy to shove into the coffin shaped cubby. Tears tracked over chubby cheeks as Sam tried not to hyperventilate. Was the locker air-tight? Was there an oxygen issue and she was going to die in here?

High school can be cruel. Especially when you are a non-binary student on the day your English teacher outs you. Mrs. Wilson had given Sam’s essay an A+ and read it aloud to the class, exclaiming on what a wonderful teaching tool it was for fostering acceptance and awareness. Boston was supposed to be an enlightened educated city, but teenagers were basically the same everywhere.

Teachers could be so stupid.

Sam had written the essay on how they identified as both male and female. It was a deeply personal piece on the struggles of growing up not feeling either female or male, but always sensing both genders at all times. This was why Sam wanted to be referred to as them or they, and not he or she. Born with female genitalia, initially Sam considered transitioning surgically but felt very conflicted. They didn’t feel all male but felt both the yin and yang. So, they decided to accept themselves as they were. It was the final year of high school and time to stop pretending. Too bad their classmates weren’t as accepting.

“What are you Sam? A boy or a girl? You gotta be one Sam, which is it?” Jeremy, the school alpha male taunted.

He had cornered them after English by their locker, a group of five behind him. Jeremy was a tall physically imposing senior with dark skin and super white teeth. Those teeth looked like the mouth of jaws to Sam as his gang got up into their face.

“She’s got short hair like a boy, and she dresses like a boy, but she’s definitely a girl,” his sidekick Caden sneered.

Jeremy’s girlfriend Ling said, “You could be so pretty you know? You should let me do your hair and makeup. Maybe some fashion advice. We teach you to look like a girl, maybe you feel like a girl,” she said with a hand on hip bouncing obnoxiously.

Sam whispered, “I have a right to choose, and you should respect my choice. Just leave me alone.”

“Who chooses to be weird? You are either one OR the other. Not both,” Donna added. Donna was your prototypical blond cheerleader and BFF with Ling.

Donald rounded out the group and he was the worst of them all. A fat red-headed boy with greasy skin, he was popular only because he loved to fight and was a surprisingly good athlete.

“Looks like you should have stayed in the closet Sam,” he said. “Let me put you back there.”

Before Sam could react, he wrapped his meaty arms around them and shoved them into an empty open locker. The metal door slammed shut, and Sam sat scrunched in shock trying not to cry. The tears came anyway. At least they hadn’t cried in front of the bullies.

A sudden burst of bright light made Sam gasp and cover their eyes.

“I thought I heard someone in here. Hi, I’m Lilith and I’m new to the school. Do most kids hang out actually in their lockers?” The most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen was offering them a hand.

Sam grabbed it and got a good look at the rescuer. Lilith was almost double the height of Sam and impossibly slender. She had a full Afro of black hair framing an exquisite face with high cheekbones, slanted brown eyes, and a cupid’s bow mouth.

Sam fell immediately in love.

“I heard about your essay in the hall. The whole school is talking about it. I admire you. Talk about brave and honest. You’re not the only one who feels different you know. We are going to be fast friends,” Lilith put an arm around Sam and escorted them down the hall.

Groups of students became quiet as they walked by, staring at the odd twosome. But Sam didn’t care, they had a new best friend. The new kid and the non-binary person became inseparable.

A couple weeks later, Lilith suggested going to a football party hosted by Jeremy. Apparently, he had the hots for her, and dumped Ling a few days ago.

“Who wouldn’t have the hots for Lilith?” Sam thought to themselves. Out loud, “I don’t know Lilith, all the school bullies will be there.”

“You’ll be fine with me. Plus, I feel like I have to go. It’s been a while,” Lilith said, licking her lips.

“It’s been a while for what?”

“Since I’ve been with a hot young man. A girl’s got needs,” Lilith laughed. “Drunk parties are the best. You can hook up, get what you want, no attachments afterwards.”

“What!? You’re talking like a dude. I thought only guys were into unconditional sex. I was sort of hoping you liked women. I am definitely more attracted to women.” Sam said, disappointed. They had hoped their friendship might evolve.

“Nope, being a lesbian doesn’t suit me. So, you will go with me? Friday night?” Lilith asked.

Sam nodded. They would do anything for Lilith.

Sam told their parents they were sleeping over at Lilith’s and the friends showed up outside the McMansion in West Roxbury around 11:00pm. It sat on a huge lot and big lamps lit the path to the front door. Music could be heard faintly and a few kids were sitting out on the lawn with red solo cups.

They went into the house, and Sam felt a little panicky at first in the crush of drinking, dancing and shouting. The smell of spilled beer lingered in the air, and music pulsed from a high-end stereo system. There must have been fifty kids with not an adult to be seen. Jeremy came up to them and put a beer in each of their hands. Lilith took a big swig and grinned at Sam. They just held their beer awkwardly; Sam hated the taste of the stuff. Lilith leaned down and whispered into Jeremy’s ear and he bobbed his head enthusiastically, heading for the stairs.

“I’m going up to the bedroom with Jeremy, but I won’t be long,” Lilith shouted at Sam, “are you going to be okay?”

Sam felt a blast of irritation but nodded anyways. What were they going to do? Grab onto her leg and beg her not to leave them alone?

It wasn’t a short time. Sam watched the football guys play beer pong on the kitchen counter and kept an eye on the clock.

“Hey, it’s the he/she who doesn’t know what they want to be!” Donald chortled when he noticed her.

But then keg beer splashed up into his face from a ping pong ball scoring a direct hit, and he went back to the game.

Sam noticed twenty minutes gone by, so they decided to make sure Lilith was okay. Pushing through the throngs of now very inebriated kids, they went up the stairs.

“Lilith, are you okay? Lilith!” Sam shouted over the music, but Drake’s latest single was drowning them out.

They pushed open the closest door. It was full of jackets and bags on a bed. Two guys sat on the floor taking turns with a hash pipe.

“Sorry for disturbing,” Sam muttered, not even sure they were noticed.

The next door was more successful. Lilith was sitting fully clothed on the side of a Queen bed, a naked Jeremy laying on the covers beside her. He was passed out, his normally dark skin pale, his burly chest deflated. Lilith had a satiated smile on her face. In contrast to Jeremy, Lilith looked impossibly gorgeous and healthy. Her skin glowed and pink roses blossomed in her cheeks.

“What’s going on here?” Sam asked looking with concern at Jeremy.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m a succubus,” Lilith said, standing up and stretching languorously.

“What?! A succubus. Like a demon?” Sam asked hysterically.

A low laugh trilled out of Lilith, “yes my dear friend, but you are safe, I only feed off men. I told you we were both different.”

“Non-binary is not in the same category as being a soul-sucking demon,” Sam said taking a few steps back.

“I only feed when I absolutely have to, my beautiful friend. Jeremy will be okay. He’ll just feel weak for a couple of days and then shake it off. He kind of deserves it for leading that lynching mob that tossed you in the locker,” Lilith gently enfolded Sam in a hug, “never let anyone take your power, you can take theirs, but never let anyone steal from you.”

Sam felt warmth and energy as those beautiful long arms wrapped around them. Who was she kidding? Succubus or not, Sam loved Lilith, and she was their only true friend.

Now that Sam knew Lilith’s secret, life got more exciting. Lilith persuaded Sam to get a fake ID from “this guy she knew” and they started going to clubs on weekends. There were always bars in Boston that didn’t look too closely at their patrons’ age as long as the money flowed. Some nights Sam went home by themselves when Lilith picked up a man. While Sam struggled with dark circles under the eyes and teenage acne, Lilith seemed to grow more gorgeous by the day. Her exotic height and beautiful body turned heads everywhere. Sam just enjoyed being in her aura, and soon her friend’s sexual proclivities became normal to them.

The days (and nights) seemed to fly by and before they knew it, they had both graduated high school, Rather than go directly to college, the friends decided to head to the coast. Cape Cod was beautiful in the summer and Sam loved the well-kept cottages and sandy beaches. They took a short-term lease on a small cottage in Mashpee and both worked as maids at a tourist resort. Lilith continued her nocturnal conquests -never sleeping with the same man for more than a night.

Sam focused on trying to choose a college for the fall. They went on a few dates with a couple local women, but didn’t hit it off with anyone. Besides they were still secretly in love with Lilith, knowing full well having a crush on a succubus could never end well. Before they knew it, November rolled around and the weather was about to turn. Mashpee was lovely in the summer, but the Cape was known for harsh winter weather. Lilith and Sam decided to head to South Carolina. Sam wanted to check out the College of Charleston, and Lilith was looking for fresh hunting grounds.

They started the journey in sunny weather and high spirits but after about seven hours on the road, the weather turned. Sam was driving and the skies opened up pummeling them with icy rain.

Sam tried to keep the car on the road by re-adjusting the steering every time they heard the rumble strips vibrate the tires. It was early evening and visibility almost nil. Lilith had her head on the window peering into the inky blackness. The rain was creating a cacophony as it bounced off the hood in waves.

“Hey, did you see that? By the side of the road?” Lilith said grabbing her friend’s arm.

“What?” Sam shook her off in annoyance. They needed to focus to keep them out of the ditch.

“Someone hitchhiking. Let’s pick them up,” Lilith started whacking on the dashboard in excitement.

“Picking up a hitchhiker is not a good… whoa,” Sam started counter steering as the car hydroplaned on the highway.

Lilith screamed, pressing her hands against the ceiling as they fishtailed wildly. Sam counter steered into every skid and slowly let the old sedan slow down. Regaining control, they pulled over to the side of the road.

Lilith was digging her nails into the upholstery, “oh my god, I thought I was going to die. That was insane!” she giggled.

“Can you die?” Sam asked, starting to laugh a little themselves.

“Yes, Google says the only way to kill a succubus is by trapping her in a mirror, but being impaled through the heart in a car accident would also do it.” Lilith’s giggle turned into a full belly laugh.

“You have some seriously dark humor,” Sam said in shock.

Lilith’s laughter was contagious and Sam started chortling themselves. Then they were both roaring.

A sudden rap at the window.

The laughter stopped immediately. Lilith and Sam jumped and grabbed hands as a dark face peered in at them, the night and pouring rain obscuring his features.

“That must be the hitchhiker we passed,” said Lilith.

“Well what do we do?”

“Two choices, we either put the pedal to the metal and leave him in the pouring rain, or I roll down my window and see what he wants,” Lilith rubbed the condensation off her window to get a closer look at the face.

“And if he has a gun, or wants to kill us?” Sam hissed. “Now that I know you can die and all.”

“It’s not that easy to take out a succubus,” Lilith said nonchalantly.

Another gentle rap at the window and a hand started waving through the glass. Lilith rolled down her window.

A wet head leaned into the car. It belonged to a young man with a shaved skull and several fresh scratches. His grey jumpsuit clung to his muscular torso.

“Wow, that was some stunt driver stop, glad you pulled over” he said.

Sam braced their foot on the gas pedal, ready to roar away if there was a weird vibe from him. The guy was really good looking. Sam relaxed and saw Lilith go into flirt mode. The stranded highwayman had a very charming smile.

“No problem! What’s a guy like you doing out on a night like this?” Lilith asked batting her eyelashes.

“Not the best night for a stroll is it? I have some family down in Florida and I was going to try and visit them. Are you heading that way?” he ran a hand over his head taking ice rain out of his eyes.

“I don’t know Lilith,” Sam murmured.

But it was too late. Lilith unlocked the back door.

“Get in! This weather could drown cats and dogs alike,” she stretched over to the back seat to grab the handle and pushed the door open.

The fellow slid in. He was dressed head-to-foot in a grey jumpsuit and wasn’t carrying any bags or even a backpack. Alarm bells went off in Sam’s brain, but he was already in the car, so they decided to play it very cool. Pulling away from the curb, Sam kept a close eye on him in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t appear to have any weapons on him. What does worry them is the standard issue outfit he’s wearing. Was there a number on the back of it?

Sam looked over at Lilith to see if she’s noticed they may have picked up an escaped convict, but she’s draped over the back of the seat, flashing perfect teeth at the big man.

“So, introduce yourself, stranger of the night. I’m Lilith,” she tilted her head at him seductively, “and our chauffeur here is Sam. I wish we had a towel to give you.”

“I’m Diego, and you two are absolute lifesavers. Thank you once again for picking me up!”

Sam strained to hear their conversation over the rain. One of them should ask him about his jail house jumpsuit. It was like their friend was a mind reader.

“So why are you wearing felon fashion?” Lilith asked.

Sam listened intently to Diego’s answer.

“There is an undocumented immigrant detention center about a mile or two from here. It is the single most horrific place you can imagine, they picked me up when I was surfing in Chesapeake Bay, so they made me swap my wet suit for this. I got tired of waiting for Trump to deport me,” the smile dropped off Diego’s face.

Up ahead on the road there were flashing lights. Barricades across the road, with the red and blue glow made blurry through the rain.

“Uh oh. Do you think those light up ahead are about you?” asked Sam.

“That seems like a lot of resources to waste on one guy from Mexico,” Diego answered unhappily.

“No matter what they’re looking for, as soon as they see your outfit, I think you’re going back to that center. Or someplace worse. Is it a crime to sneak out of detention after sneaking into the country?” Lilith asked.

Sam made a snap decision. Turning off the headlights and wrenching the sedan off the road onto a little dirt path. Lilith screamed and Diego hit his head off the roof of the car as they careened down the uneven path.

Bouncing and shuddering, Sam frantically tried to keep the car on the narrow lane. The sound of the branches whacking the car made it hard to concentrate. Sam took their foot off the gas and let the car slow to a crawl.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Lilith sputtered.

“Well either we save Diego or give him up. Maybe we can keep one guy out of Trump’s clutches,” Sam said.

“I’m not sure that was a wise decision for you, but thank you. You are what really makes America great again. Thank you so much,” Diego said, the relief clear in his voice.

Further down the farm path, there was a big barn partially fallen down. Sam drove slowly keeping the lights off till they were at the wood and stone structure. All three of them agreed that it looked abandoned. One half of the barn seemed in fairly decent shape, but the back half had almost completely collapsed.

“Wait here, let me see if there is a safe place to hide the car,” Diego said while sliding out the door.

He dissolved into the inky darkness and disappeared around the side of the barn. The rain finally seemed to be tapering off.

“Are you sure this was a good idea,” Lilith asked when he was out of sight. “Are we criminals now? Some sort of harboring and assisting thing? Even demons don’t do well in jail.”

“I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted. Here he comes,” Sam said quickly.

Diego gestured at them to follow him, and they drove down a slight hill around the side of the barn. He pushed open a wide door and Sam pulled the car in. It had a dirt floor strewn with old straw and half fallen down wooden horse stalls along the wall.

Getting out of the car, Sam popped the trunk and pulled some blankets out.

“We can make up some beds and spend the night here. That roadblock will be gone by tomorrow morning. I hope. It was probably for a drug bust or something. Maybe it had nothing to do with Diego,” Sam handed the blankets to both of them.

Lilith pulled out a cooler that was pre-packed with soup, sandwiches and drinks.

“At least we have some dinner. Let’s eat and turn in. I’m sure everyone is exhausted,” Lilith said biting into a steak wrap.

“I still can’t believe you are doing this for me. Sandwiches and ice tea even. Who needs a fancy restaurant?” Diego picked out a tuna for himself.

He ate the sandwich quickly and then stood up and pulled off his wet jumpsuit. He had a pair of boxers on underneath.

Sam paused opening a can of soup with the big Swiss army knife they always kept in their jeans. He was built, a few hours spent lifting weights. Lilith’s eyes glittered as she also checked out his spectacular body. Tattoos of skulls, roses, and bits of prose decorated his skin.

Oh dear, Sam thought as she pulled her blanket to the other side of the barn. They recognized that look in Lilith’s eye. It meant she has her sights set on her next victim. Sam hoped she wouldn’t drain Diego too much. He would need his energy if he was actually being pursued. Sam felt an affinity for him, he was quite likable, and kept flashing them kind little smiles. Sam felt a deep wave of exhaustion and cuddled into the blanket falling into a coma-like sleep immediately.

Sam woke up as the first rays of sun came through the dusty windows of the barn. Getting up from the blanket, they walked over to where Diego and Lilith had been cuddling.

“Lilith what have you done?” Sam asked in dismay.

Diego was lying naked on his blanket with his impressive physique looking shrunk and drained. His skin was ashen. Lilith sat beside him with a languorous smile on her face. She looked spectacular; her skin blushed with vigor.

“Did you take too much?”

Lilith didn’t answer.

“Is he going to be okay?” Sam pushed.

“I don’t think so,” Lilith said as she picked up one limp Diego hand and let it drop, “I went a little too far this time. I think he’s dead.”

Lilith laughed and jumped to her feet with the grace and power of an Olympic gymnast.

Sam stared at their friend. Their beautiful, gorgeous, friend who never seemed to age a day. Lilith stared back; one eyebrow arched. Just sipping from her victims and leaving them alive was something Sam could live with. But murder? Sucking a man dry and leaving him for dead?

Sam had an important decision to make. It might mean the difference between spending eternity in a fiery hell, or meeting Saint Peter at the pearly gates.

“So…” Sam said slowly, walking towards Lilith, “can you teach me how to do that?”

Lilith threw back her head and laughed, “Demons are born, not made.”

Sam took another step towards Lilith, then pulled out the Swiss Army knife in their pocket and plunged it into Lilith’s heart. The succubus’ eyes opened wide, and a stream of gooey purple blood stained her chest.

“Why Sam?” Lilith sputtered as she fell to the ground. Sam stepped back, wrinkling their nose at the odd smell coming from the dying demon.

“You were right Lilith, I should never let anyone take my power, and I have the power of choice. Between good and evil, today I am going to choose good.”

Angelique Fawns is a journalist who began her career writing about naked cave dwellers in Tenerife and parasailing in Australia. She has a full-time job creating commercials for Global TV in Toronto; and lives on a farm with her husband, daughter, cows, horses, fainting goats and an attack llama. You can find her fiction in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The Corona Book of Ghost Stories, Demonic Carnival, Econoclash, and Tech Noir: Modern Pulp. www.fawns.ca @Raingirl51

FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

E.F. Schraeder

“What’s on your wrist?” Weston turned over the pale girl’s arm, rubbing his thumb across a small round, scabby lump.

“Nothing, get off.” Liza yanked her hand back.

“That looks bad.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” her dad said. Voice quiet.

“Whatever.” Mumbling, an eye roll.

“I’m keeping an eye on it if you won’t.” He hoped she wasn’t cutting herself again. The doctors warned him it was a tough behavior to modify. He narrowed his eyes and sighed. “Well, I’m on your side if you want to talk.”

She didn’t.

Weston didn’t say another word about it. Too much pressure and he knew Liza would speak even less than she did already. “Breakfast? I made oatmeal.”

“Fine.” Liza plopped down at the kitchen counter without looking up. A ribbon of her thick brown hair hung over her right eye.

Her dad stared at her for a moment, then decided teasing her about her hairstyle was a generally bad idea.

The kitchen lights flickered over the counter and table, then winked out. Weston scooped the oats into a bowl. “Here you go. I’m going to go check the fuse. Be right back.”

Liza said nothing. She rubbed her thumb over the mark on her wrist and stared at the lumpy bowl of oats.

Liza hopped off the bus, her thumb still scraping over the bump on her wrist. Stop trying to figure out when the hell it got there. She seriously couldn’t remember, and that was something since she hadn’t been drinking since she got out of the loony bin for head-fucked teens. She pulled out her phone and texted her sort of boyfriend, Reed. She laughed out loud when he texted back a picture of the black kinky fuzz in his armpit with the words “PRACTICE LATE. I STINK.”

Liza texted back a masked emoji face with “CUL8R” as she opened the back door.

No one home. “Hi.” Her voice echoed in the empty room.

She couldn’t get used to her mom being gone. It sucked. And she hated her dad for trying so hard to be Mr. Cheerful, World’s Best Dad. Total crap. Other than being pretty sure he started on cigarettes again since he always smelled like smoke, he was practically perfect. Tomorrow being her dad’s birthday made her feel even worse. Like she had to try.

She pulled out a box of yellow cake mix and a can of chunked pineapple, wondering if her mom had bought them. Probably. Her phone rang and she picked up immediately, “Hey Reed! What are you doing?”

“Driving home. You?”

“You aren’t going to believe it.”

“Thinking of me?” Reed teased.

“Well, sure. But sweeter,” Liza said. “I’m baking.” She dumped the can into the gooey batter and pushed a wooden spoon around the edges of the yellow glass bowl until a swirl of pineapple chunks blended into the cake mix.

“Naked?” he asked.

“Eww. No!” Liza laughed. “Like the opposite of that, you jack ass!” She dropped the spoon into the batter. “Shit.”

“Okay, not naked, then.”

“I’m baking a cake for my dad.”

“Huh. Your dad as in the dad you haven’t been able to talk to for ten minutes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh.”

“You got anything else to say?” Liza lit a white candle and watched it burn, then stuck her forefinger into the melted wax and let it harden around her fingertip. After she made a tiny wax cup for each finger, she popped them off and set them on the counter in a row.

“Sorry. So, you need any help with the cake? That’s not really your thing,” Reed said.

“Sure. Bring some frosting,” Liza said. She bit off chunks of her cuticles and slid them inside each wax finger cup.

Reed chuckled.

“Still not naked,” Liza said.

“Still on my way.”

At school the next day Liza slammed her backpack down on the lunch table and slid next to Kendra. She hiked up her sweater sleeves and stole a french fry.

“Shit, what is that?” Kendra stared at Liza’s arm.

Liza pulled her charcoal colored sleeve down. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Kendra asked.

“Oh my God. Could I catch a break from the after school special shit? So my arm is cut. Who gives?”

Kendra grabbed her friend’s arm. “Honey, a lot of people do. Trust me. And I’m one of them.” She stared at Liza, her green eyes sparkling. “Tell me. It’s not your dad, is it?”

“God, no! Mr. Perfect? As if—” Liza rolled her eyes. “He’s trying so hard right now he’d never lay a hand on me.” Liza forced herself to make eye contact. “Look, I don’t know. I bumped it or something, okay? Can we move on?”

Kendra pulled her red hair back in a ponytail then reached out and pushed up her friend’s sleeve. “Let me see.”

The reddish mark looked swollen. Agitated. Maybe infected. Kendra squinted, and her lips turned down in a sharp frown. She withdrew her hand, careful not to touch the bump. She shook her head.

“How long have you had that?” You should let the nurse look at that,” Kendra said.

“Thanks for the advice.” Liza pulled her arm away. “I’m hungry. Be right back.” She jerked up and headed to the front of the cafeteria. “Not that there’s crap to eat there.” She motioned her head toward the lunch line.

Kendra smiled, but kept her lips closed to hide her slightly yellow teeth. “Get some more fries, will you?”

Liza nodded, turning from her friend just fast enough to hide the tears in her eyes. How was she supposed to explain the damn scab? She really needed to talk to someone about it, and was worried it’d gross Reed out too much. She got back to the table with a red plastic tray with two bags of greasy fries, an orange, and two slices of cheese pizza.

“This is as good as it gets. Best of the food pyramid today,” Liza said. She sat back down and slid one bag of fries and a slice to Kendra. She peeled the cheese off her slice and dumped it in a clump on the tray, her lips curling in disgust. She took a deep breath.

“Kendy, can I tell you something?” She stared up at her friend, her brown eyes pleading.

“You hate pizza?”

“I’m serious.”

Kendra shrugged. “Sorry. Go on.” She folded her pizza in half and took a huge bite, then dabbed a dot of grease from her chin. “This is going to give me zits.” She glanced at her friend, still doe-eyed and serious. “Seriously, go ahead.” She waved a hand at Liza. “I’m listening.”

“That mark came from nowhere, Kendy.” Liza glanced down and didn’t bring her face back up. “I mean, I really don’t know. And it’s getting bigger. Not that you can see it, but deeper. I can feel it, like, eating into me.”

Kendra’s eyes locked on Liza’s arm, even though it was now covered.

“It’s been there forever. Weeks. I noticed it, and it’s just not going away.” Sweat trickled along the edge of Liza’s face. “It’s scaring me.” She caught her breath and choked back a sob.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I wish I was, Kendy. I’m freaking out. I’ve put everything on it. Antibiotic to cleanse it. Hydrogen Peroxide to sterilize it. Alcohol to dry it. It’s just not going away. At the center it’s got two small dots, like a bite or something. And a line across it, like a slice. Or a weird face. I don’t understand where the hell it came from, but it’s gross.”

“Okay, this is way out of my expertise, but, let me see it again, okay?” Kendra leaned across the table. “Is that why you’re wearing long sleeves all the time?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Liza held out her arm. “Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want anyone else finding out about it.”

“Of course.” Kendra took a long look at Liza’s wrist. “You might not buy this, but I think I recognize that mark.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I mean it. It’s like a symbol I saw someone put up in a chatroom.” Kendra pulled out a pen and notebook and drew it.

“A symbol? For what?”

“I can’t remember, sorry. I’ll try to find it again, though. Tee three marks just look really familiar.” Kendra paused. “Does it burn?”

“Sort of. But you’re shitting me.” Liza pursed her lips and cocked her head. “What kind of ‘chatroom’?”

Kendra stared at her in silence, then shoved in another bite of pizza.

Liza leaned forward, her voice low, “Are you still into that LARP crap? Lions and witches and losers or whatever?”

Kendra held her fingers at her eyes, “Don’t judge. I see things. It helps to talk with others who have the gift. Besides, you’re the one asking. And I’m the one helping.”

“Fair enough.”

Liza stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a thick towel. As her towel slid across her back she noticed a strange sensation, tingling, at a point on the base of her left shoulder blade. She tried to line up a view, adjusting the bathroom mirrors, but couldn’t quite see. It looked like a sort of welt.

“What the fuck?” She reached her hand behind her back, but couldn’t quite reach the spot. From what she could tell it felt vaguely like the point on her wrist. Liza quickly got dressed and ran to her room to text Kendra. She scrambled for the phone, then typed, “FIND SYMBL?”

Liza peeled up her top and positioned herself carefully between two full length mirrors on her bedroom door and dresser, adjusting the door for the clearest view.

“Oh, God.” Liz made out the same outline, visible on her back, as if she’d been stitched, end to end, with her hand over her heart.

What the hell?

In a panic, Liza ran a finger along her chest. Exactly opposite the mark on her back was a thick mole over hear heart. She never thought much about it, but now it seemed beyond coincidence. Had it always been there? She couldn’t even remember. She stared at it closely, looking for what she didn’t know. Were the dots there, too?

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t stop pressing on the spots now, her hands reaching back to front like her body was an instrument, and she had to reach the keys in just the right order. Sensing they were connected somehow— to something— was unnerving. Nothing was okay about this. It was bizarre. Sick.

An obsessive fixation grew, and the more agitated Liza became, the more insistently she ran her fingers over the bumps, anywhere she could reach. The mole and pair of scars were red and sore. She stripped to nothing and ran her hands over her body searching for more evidence of whatever it was, appearing on her.

Finally, Kendra texted back. “not 4 chat. U wont blv.”

“COME NOW.” Liza hoped she would just materialize in front of her. She had a lot to do. I’ve got to get it together. She forced a deep breath as she heard her dad’s car pull in the drive.

Weston yelled upstairs as he opened the front door. “Is it time for that cake yet?”

Liza got dressed again and ran downstairs.“Hi, Dad. Happy birthday.” She kissed his cheek and he gave her a giant hug. “I used Mom’s recipe. Your favorite.” She pulled the cake off the top of the fridge and set it on the table. “Do you want to do candles and everything?”

“Well, I was thinking we’d eat dinner first, actually.”

“You’re covered.” Liza pulled a dish out of the fridge and clicked on the oven. “I made birthday casserole.”

“You are a fine young woman, Liza.” Her dad leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“What?”

“You just seemed more cheery.”

“Well, faking it. Thanks. Trying not to be a downer on your birthday.”

“See, you’re a fine young woman.”

Liza rolled her eyes and sighed. “It’s the first family birthday without her, Dad. How am I supposed to feel?”

Weston nodded. “Well, it’s going to be hard. For both of us. The best we can do is try. It’s what Mom would’ve wanted. And I love that you’re making the effort.”

“I did manage to make everything from scratch. Right down to the candles.”

Weston pulled of his jacket and hung it on the back of the kitchen chair. “Oh, wait. I’ll put this away.” He tugged up the coat and hung it in the hall closet. “You having any friends join us? Reed, maybe?”

“Just Kendra, I think. I don’t think Reed’s ready for family dinner yet.” Liza pulled out a chair. “No one else could make it.”

“You asked Jason?” Weston asked, his eyes wide.

Liza nodded.

“You hate Jason and his wife.”

“I do. But he’s your brother, so—” Liza shrugged.

Weston pulled opened a box of crackers and took out a handful, then started crunching.

“Dad, if you start on that ‘fine young woman’ crap again I’m going to hurl.”

“Okay, then.”

“And don’t spoil your dinner.” Liza wagged a finger at her dad just as Kendra knocked on the front door.

“I’ve got it.” Weston walked to the door to let the girl in. “Hello, b-f-f,” he said.

In the other room, Liza rubbed her wrist the the second her dad turned away. She pulled up the sleeve and gazed at the scar, then covered it again as soon as she heard them coming. She carefully pulled out the candles and set them into the frosting gently.

“Hello Mr. Liza,” Kendra replied.

“You two are dorks,” Liza said, fingering the mark on under her sleeve.

Weston glanced at Kendra and smiled. “Well, I guess we’ve been told. Nice to you see you. You hungry?”

Kendra nodded. “Starved.”

“She’s always starved. Like, always,” Liza said.

“What are we having?” Kendra asked.

“Birthday casserole. Mom’s specialty.”

“It’s stuffed shells with a homemade sauce,” Weston said. “Well, I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some music on for this par-tay.” He pumped his hands in the air a few times.

“Dad, don’t.” In a few moments, a bright disco beat chirped from the living room. “God he’s an idiot,” Liza said. She pulled a salad out of the fridge and tossed it.

“So, what’s up?” Kendra asked.

“You tell me,” Liza whispered. She handed her a stack of silverware, and set a bowl of bread on the table.

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to like it.” Kendra set the table.

“Hurry. He’s going to be right back.”

“It wasn’t from a chatroom,” Kendra started. Liza stared at her blankly. “But I definitely saw it,” she paused. “On your mom.”

“What?” Liza yelled.

“Shh. I don’t know how to tell you this, but, well,” she pulled out her phone and clicked open a picture, then turned it to Liza.

“No. You did not take a picture at my mom’s funeral. Of her, inside her casket. What is wrong with you?” Liza kept her voice low, but her eyes were seething with anger.

“It was for a rite of passage spell, okay? For you. To help.”

“You were casting? God, that’s fucked, Kendy.”

“Well, fine. Sorry, but look at her brooch.”

Liza squinted at the picture, then zoomed in on the brooch. “Oh my God. I didn’t recognize it.” She backed away from the phone, her eyes still transfixed on the photo. “What does it mean?”

“It’s on you, so a binding spell is my guess.”

“Mom’s power?”

Kendra shrugged.

“Well, well,” Weston said, his voice smooth.

“Dad, hey!” Liza forced a smile, and jumped back.

“Catch you two up to something?” Weston prodded, peering around the room. “I don’t smell any wacky tobaccy, so…”

“Seriously, Dad. Biggest dork ever,” Liza said. Kendra closed the image on her phone and went back into the kitchen.

“Go. Help your friend,” he said, watching Liza chase after Kendra.

“If your mom is reaching out,” Kendra whispered.

“Like my mom’s way of communicating? No way. It’s her power. A gift. But why does it burn? She wouldn’t want to hurt me.”

Kendra shrugged.

“Birthday dad, coming in,” Weston stepped into the kitchen. “We about ready?”

“She is,” Kendra turned to Weston.

“She knows?” he asked.

“Almost everything,” Kendra said.

Liza took a step back.

“You’ve been marked,” Weston said. “Like your mother.”

Liza gasped, backing away from them.

Weston held a hand over the cake, then marked it with his fingernail, drawing two dots and a line. He lit the candles on the cake carefully.

Liza’s face contorted, “But why? Why tonight?” She stared at the cake. “Say it. Why are we celebrating?”

“It’s time,” Kendra said.

“Kid, it’s worse than you think. Your mom—” Weston hesitated, then grabbed Liza’s arm and exposed the mark, “she’s the one who marked you. We’re trying to undo it, but—”

Kendra slammed her hand down on the table, “But she’s too strong.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Liza cocked her head.

“I didn’t want you involved in this. In the craft.” Weston shook his head.

“I saw your dad at the funeral putting a symbol on her wrist. It looked like ash,” Kendra explained.

“Charcoal,” Weston and Liza said. Simultaneously. Her dad shot her a surprised glance.

“Right. I recognized the mark from a binding spell, with the red and white candles beside the casket, remember? And that lock of hair you said your dad wanted to bury with her? I could tell he was casting, too,” Kendra said.

“Once Kendra figured it out, I knew I may as well get her help,” Weston said.

“So you know the mark is from Mom?” Liza stared at her dad.

“Yes, hand to heart, you’re bound to your mother. She’s claimed you,” Weston said.

“Meaning, what, exactly?” Liza’s voice pitched.

“Meaning you’re going to join her,” Weston said.

Kendra looked at the floor.

“Like, in death?” Liza said. Liza sat down at the table, then blew out the birthday candles. “Or like in power?”

Her dad shrugged. “Relight the candles.” He fumbled with the lighter to get them lit. “Tonight’s the last chance I have to see her before she takes you.” He hovered over the cake, mumbling a quiet chant. Kendra at his side.

Liza stared at them both like they were insane. Eyes wide. “Why tonight?” she backed out of the room slowly.

Weston looked directly into Liza’s eyes, trying to read her expression, “Tonight’s the night you were conceived.” He sighed, adding, “That’s all we can do. At least we can say goodbye.” The overhead light flickered in the dining room, and he glanced up at it nervously.

“It’s your mom. She knows I’m interrupting her flow.” The candles went out on their own.

“That’s it,” Kendra said.

Weston sat down at the table and nodded for Kendra to join him. They took hands. “Come, sit,” he said to Liza. “She always said you were special, like her. Powerful. When she died, I didn’t realize the crossing was part of her plan. Now she’s gained even more strength,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “When I saw that mark on your wrist, I knew, she’d claimed you.”

Liza rubbed the mark on her arm, then looked up at her dad as he tried to explain the impossible. “That’s right. It’s on my back too,” she said. Eyes blank. “I’m more powerful than ever.”

“No!”

“Looks like it’s over,” Kendra said.

“Either I’m dead, or you are, Dad,” Liza said, smiling. She pulled a small piece of wax out of her pocket and rolled it in her palm. She pressed it onto her fingertip. The overhead light crashed onto the table. Colorful rays of light shot from Liza’s finger at Weston.

Kendra jumped up, heading to the door. She winked at Liza.

Liza stood across from her dad and yelled to Kendra, “Make sure to tell Reed it worked.”

“What the—?” her dad asked.

“A reversal,” Kendra said, smiling.

Liza raised her hands. Her body quivered, an iridescent glow still emanating from her finger. She grinned though her face grew pale. “Tell Reed to expect me soon.”

E. F. Schraeder is the author of two poetry chapbooks, most recently Chapter Eleven (Partisan Press). Schraeder’s work has appeared in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Mystery Weekly Magazine, Mystery Weekly Magazine, Birthing Monsters, Mummy Knows Best, and other journals and anthologies. Current projects include a queer monster’s coming of age novella and a full length manuscript of poems.

NIGHT TERRORS

Angela Sylvaine

Dani pushes my wheelchair at an excruciatingly slow pace down the sterile, white hallway. The urge to bolt from my chair and sprint the distance to freedom is almost overwhelming. Still hopped up on painkillers, I’d get all of five feet before the dizziness took over, causing me to face plant on the tile floor. Even if I did make it, the black clad guards flanking the door would never let me pass alone.

My dad walks beside me on the right, my mom on the left. The plastic bag containing my belongings swings from his wrist. “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer, string bean?” A grin splits his tan, rugged face.

“I never want to see the inside of a hospital again.” Memories of the operation rush back, try to overtake me. Pressure inside my skull. The gleam of a scalpel under fluorescent lights. My breath speeds up, rushing in and out.

“Anastasia Elizabeth.” Judgment taints my mother’s voice. “They saved your life. Show some respect.” Her dark hair is pulled into a high, tight bun, accentuating her pinched expression.

I clench my teeth and dig my fingernails into the vinyl padding on the arms of the chair. My dad lays a hand on my shoulder, and I bite back a retort. She’s right. The experimental brain surgery saved my life.

Dani leans down from her spot behind me and whispers, “I’ll definitely miss Dr. Shaw. That man is H.O.T.” She giggles and her chin-length, strawberry-blond curls brush my cheek.

A smile curves my lips. “Gross. He could be your father.”

I run one hand over my head. The bare hint of white-blond stubble tickles my palm, followed by the scrape of the jagged row of stitches running lengthwise across the top of my scalp. I’m like some hulking, teenage Frankenstein’s monster.

“You won’t even be able to see the scar once your hair grows back,” Dani says. I hope she’s right.

We reach the end of the hall and my dad supplies the documentation detailing my release. The guards take their sweet time scrutinizing the paperwork, but finally scan the chips in each of our wrists and lets us pass. The doors slide open and I suck in a deep breath of fresh mountain air. The scent of pine cleanses my system, purging the antiseptic odor of the hospital.

I push myself to my feet, and my stomach flips. Blowing out a slow breath, I let my dad take my right arm. “These stupid pain meds are going to make me lose my lunch.”

Dani grabs my other arm. A full foot shorter than me, her head barely reaches my shoulder. “If you puke on me, I will never forgive you, Ana.” She wrinkles her freckled nose in disgust.

I laugh. I mean, really laugh, for the first time since I woke in the operating room. “Come on. I want to go home.”

I wake up unable to move, pinned to my bed by an invisible force. I struggle against it but can’t even wiggle my little finger. Each beat of my pulse pounds through my veins. My eyes are wide open. I try to blink, but even my eyelids are frozen, immovable. With my head locked in place, I can only stare straight up at the ceiling. What’s holding me down? Why can’t I move?

The air is too thin. I can hardly breathe. Every muscle in my body tenses as I twist and strain, but it’s no use.

My vision is hazy, as if my face is covered by a gauze veil. Blurred figures are visible in my peripheral. They wear light blue tops, surgical masks, hospital caps, and latex gloves. There are seven in all, three on each side of the bed and one at the foot. I want to open my mouth, to scream for help, but I can’t.

That figure at the foot of the bed speaks, his voice the low baritone of a man.

I strain to hear. Something about administering medication. The person closest to my head on the left responds, “Yes, doctor.” A woman. She has something in her hand. I focus on the object, try to see through the veil.

A syringe.

My breath catches in my throat. No. Leave me alone. Let me go!

Pain pricks the inside of my elbow, and a slow burn spreads through my veins, building into a raging inferno. Tremors shake my body, and a scream swells in my throat. Unable to open my mouth, the shriek stays locked inside, silently ripping through my brain.

I bolt upright in bed. My legs tangle in the sheets as I kick them away. No menacing figures surround me, but I can still feel the pinch of the needle as I rub my thumb over my inner elbow. The spot feels tender, like a fresh bruise.

Now I’m hallucinating actual physical injuries. Great.

It’s been six months since the accident and almost that long since the nightmares started. At first, I thought I was going crazy, driven mad by the trauma of the operation. They had only woken me for twenty minutes of the five-hour surgery, but I remember every agonizing second. The surgeon probed my exposed brain, sending an electrical charge to different areas as he asked me a series of questions. Unable to move and blinded by the fluorescent lights, panic overwhelmed me and I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

When the hallucinations came, I assumed I was going crazy. Then I heard about sleep paralysis, or night terrors, a disorder characterized by the sensation of being held down, of seeing menacing figures in the room. Good to know I’m not going mad, but no less terrifying.

After weeks without an episode, I’d hoped they were gone.

Pressure beats against the inside of my skull, sending pulses of pain through my head. The headaches are always worse the day after a nightmare. I should tell my parents, I know, but they’ll make me see a doctor and I can’t go back to that hospital. The thought of stepping one foot into that long, white hallway is like a giant weight on my chest, crushing me until I can’t breathe.

The thin black tank top I wore to bed sticks to my sweat-soaked skin. I peel it off and toss it on the floor, then pull on an old practice track uniform; a gray t-shirt stamped with our mascot, the golden eagle, and black pants with a yellow stripe down the side. I shake one of my seizure pills from the bottle and swallow it dry. Epilepsy is a side effect of my brain injury, and I’ll have to take the medication for the rest of my life. Small price to pay for being alive, I guess.

I shuffle into the kitchen, grab a Coke from the fridge, and gulp it down, savoring the cold, carbonated liquid as it stings my throat. Taking the half-empty can with me, I sit at our breakfast nook, facing the windows. Snow blankets the backyard, and the stark whiteness burns my headache sensitized eyes. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I drop my gaze from the window.

The cereal and milk sit in the center of the table and I pour myself a bowl. Maybe food will help.

“I thought you were off caffeine.” My mother sits down across from me.

“I gave up.” I thought giving up caffeine and sugar might help with the nightmares, but they’re back. Might as well enjoy my favorite foods again.

“Juice is more appropriate for breakfast.” Her plate holds one piece of toast, burnt to a crisp, no butter.

“Have some, then.” I grab the sugar from the center of the table. Her eyes narrow as she watches me dump the sweetener in my cereal.

My dad saunters in, barefoot and wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt. “Morning, string bean.” He ruffles my hair.

“Morning, Pops.” My words are garbled by the cereal in my mouth, earning me a glare from my mother. “Nice outfit.”

“Hey, it’s my holiday break, too, you know.” As the school psychiatrist, he only works when school is in session.

He takes a seat next to my mother. With their matching dark hair and complexions, they could be brother and sister. I wonder for the thousandth time how I could possibly be their child. Dad insists I look just like his mother when she was a kid, but she passed away before I was born. Maybe my appearance isn’t the only thing I inherited. According to the articles, sleep conditions can be genetic.

“Do you guys ever have trouble sleeping?” I ask.

My mother drops her toast on her plate.

Dad’s eyes sharpen, peering through me. “Occasionally. You having trouble sleeping?”

I resist the urge to look away and force a smile. “Nothing major. Just tossing and turning.” I can’t risk being taken to a doctor, not yet.

“I’ll get you a prescription for a light sleep aid. How’s that sound?” My dad smiles and moves from his chair to grab a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, Dad.” The tension in my chest eases a little.

“Seriously, you’re trying to kill me.” Dani comes to a stop beside me on the track, bending to brace her hands on her knees. Her hair sticks from the bottom of her black beanie in a burst of strawberry-blond curls.

I grin and put my hands on my hips. “You’re the one who offered to be my running buddy.”

“Don’t remind me.” She starts walking. “Let’s cool down. I’ve hit my limit.”

“Sure.” I gaze out over the horizon at the jagged snow-topped peaks. I don’t run on the mountain roads anymore, but at least the track has a good view.

A black SUV, one of the security vehicles, makes a slow pass through the parking lot just east of the track. Dani and I wave, and it pulls away. The town is centered around CyTech, a top-secret research facility where my mother works, and they’re super paranoid about corporate espionage. Hence, the constant patrols.

“I guess they don’t get a holiday break,” I say, scratching at the chip embedded in my wrist. At least security didn’t insist on coming over to scan us. The tracking chips seem like overkill to me, but mother insists they’re necessary.

“Yeah, kind of makes me feel better to have them around though.” She tugs her cap lower to cover her ears.

“That’s probably why we have, like, no crime.” The hit and run that put me in the hospital is the only incident I remember hearing about in years.

My vision blurs and a burst of pain hits the base of my skull. I gasp and clench my eyes closed.

“Ana, are you okay?”

The pain subsides to a dull throb. I lower my chin to my chest. I don’t know how much longer I can handle this.

“Should I call your dad?”

“No!” I jerk my head up and cringe as the pain rebounds through my skull.

“Okay.” She raises her gloved hands, palms out. “Will you at least tell me what’s wrong?”

I have to tell someone or I really will go crazy. “I’ve been having these… episodes.” I bite my lip. “I get headaches the day after.”

Dani cocks her head to the side. “The day after what? What are you talking about?”

“I think I’m awake and lying in my bed, but I can’t move. An invisible force holds me down. Figures surround me, and I know they want to hurt me.” My mouth goes dry. I swallow several times before I continue. “It’s called sleep paralysis, and I know it’s a hallucination, but it feels so real.”

All color drains from Dani’s face. “How long has this been going on?”

“Uh, ever since the accident.” Will she be angry I kept it a secret so long?

“Shit.” She fists her hands at her sides.

I cover my mouth with one hand. She never swears. “Dani?”

Her lips twist in a snarl. “Shut up and let me think.” She paces back and forth.

Dani is always quick to offer a hug, some comfort. What the heck is wrong with her?

She stops her pacing to grab my upper arms. “Have you told anyone else?” Her fingers dig in, her grip too tight.

My breath speeds up, sending puffs of white into the air.

She gives me a hard shake, snapping my head back. “Have you told anyone else?”

My headache rages, worsened by the sudden movement. “No, no. Just you. I was afraid my parents would take me back to the hospital.” I angle away from her.

Dani exhales. “Good, that’s good.” She releases me.

I stumble and fall, landing on my butt. The cold of the track seeps through my pants.

Dani looks down at me, her expression harsh. “Do not tell your parents about the nightmares.”

“What?” I’d expected her to call me crazy for not telling them, for not asking for help.

“Ana.” She crouches and grips my chin. “This is important. You cannot tell your parents.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain everything tonight. Tell your folks we’re going for another run after dinner and meet me at mile marker ten on Eagle Mountain Road. We should be safe from prying eyes there.”

“Why can’t you just tell me now?”

“I need to get a few things together first. Just be there tonight.” She pins me with her icy blue stare. “Those figures from your nightmares are real.”

I gape after her as she sprints off the track and jumps the school fence.

Her words echo in my mind. The nightmares can’t be real. It’s not possible.

She’s crazy.

Dani steps from the shadows, her face stark white against her black clothing.

“Hey.” A shiver races through me, and I shove my gloved hands in my pockets. Ever since this morning, I can’t get warm.

Headlights pierce the darkness as a vehicle rounds the bend. The SUV slows as it passes us and a spotlight attached to the driver’s side blazes to life, sweeping across the tree line.

Dani pulls me back into the evergreens. “Don’t move.”

The light moves over the trees we’re hiding behind. I’m sure we’ve been seen. My pulse pounds in my ears, and my hands break out in a sweat.

The light flips off, and the car continues down the road.

Blowing out a breath, I slump against the tree trunk. We’re safe, for now. Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away.

“You okay?”

“I found this on my bedroom floor.” I fish the thin plastic cap from my pocket. “It’s for a syringe.” I’d locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and cried for an hour after realizing the hallucinations were real.

Dani slings the backpack off her shoulder, dropping it to the ground in a spot clear of snow. “You better sit down.”

I sink to the dirt, and she sits across from me. Lines crease her brow, her mouth, the edges of her eyes, making her seem much older than sixteen. She’s pulled her unruly curls back and braided them close to her head. Even her voice sounds different.

The silly, good-natured girl I thought I knew is gone. “What’s going on?” I whisper.

She waves a hand toward the road. “This isn’t a normal town, it’s an installation, owned and operated by CyTech.”

“Yeah, everyone knows that.”

“CyTech is my employer. I was assigned as your handler three years ago.” She unzips her pack and pulls out a thin, rectangular piece of plastic, handing it to me. “My security badge.”

A picture of her takes up the middle of the card. She looks as she does now, serious and reserved. A blue stylized logo covers the top of the card: CyTech, For a Better Tomorrow. The name under the picture reads “Catherine Scott, Handler.”

The card slips from my fingers and hits the ground. “No. We’ve been friends since second grade.”

She picks up the badge and sticks it back in her pack. “Those memories are false, implanted to make you trust me, trust your life here.”

“No.” A slideshow of birthday parties, school trips, sleepovers, and more scrolls through my mind. They can’t all be false. She’s a liar. Heat creeps up my neck and face. “My parents would never let you do that to me.”

“They aren’t your parents. They’re your keepers.”

I jump to my feet and grip my head in both hands. “You’re lying.” The throbbing pain in my head spreads. “Why are you doing this?”

She grabs a newspaper from her pack and holds it out. “Look.”

I want to turn and run away, forget everything she said, go back to normal.

But memories keep playing through my mind, one after another. Moments from my life. The slideshow starts to repeat. Still images, frozen in time. My thirteenth birthday, blowing out the candles on my cake, surrounded by her and my parents. But what happened before the cake, and what happened after?

Why can’t I remember the rest?

A sharp pain slices across my skull. I clench my hands so tight my nails dig into my palms. I still have the syringe cap in my grip.

She rustles the newspaper.

I make myself look.

The black and white photo is a group shot, a bunch of doctors in white coats. The headline reads, “CyTech Receives Government Funding for Controversial Artificial Intelligence Project.” My mother and father stand in the front row of the photo.

Dani points at my dad. “Dr. Paulson is his real name. He’s a neuroscientist.” Her finger hovers over my mother’s face. “Dr. Vankoff is in biomedical engineering They’re not even married.”

I push the paper away, but the image is burned on my retinas. They’re scientists. My whole life is a lie, every memory faked. Everyone I love has betrayed me. “Why?”

“Artificial intelligence will be the greatest invention in human history. The applications are limitless, ranging from companionship to forced labor.” Her nose wrinkles as she says the last two words.

“What does that have to do with me?” The truth tries to needle through my brain, my instincts screaming that I already know, somewhere deep inside.

“You’re the second generation of an A.I. project called the Cy. The first generation were told the truth: that they weren’t human. They displayed extreme violent tendencies and a lack of conscience.” She shakes her head. “Dr. Paulson was the one who came up with the idea to make you more human. Give you friends, family, a life.”

It isn’t possible, can’t be.

A joke; this is all just a big joke.

“But, I’m human. I’m a person.” I shove my hands in her face, showing her the marks where my nails dug deep into my palms and broke the skin. “I hurt. I bleed.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice breaks and moisture glistens in her eyes. Finally, some emotion from this person who is supposed to be my friend. “You are partially a biological organism, that’s true, but other parts of you are mechanical.”

Blood smears my skin, but what lays beneath the surface? Metal and wires? My stomach twists, sending bile up my throat. I lurch to the side and throw up.

I’m not human.

I wipe my sleeve across my mouth and stand, glaring at Dani. My best friend. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You know things you shouldn’t.” She rubs her gloved hands down the front of her pants, as if trying to wipe them clean. “The hallucinations are real. The problem is, you’re not supposed to be awake.”

“The figures⎯who are they?” I clench my eyes closed, my body shaking under the memory of being paralyzed and helpless.

“Your parents and their team. They monitor your system to ensure its functioning properly and upload any minor alterations to your memories. The control chip in your brain is supposed to keep you in a state of perceived sleep.”

I hunch forward and wrap my arms around my stomach, try to hold myself together. I’m just some kind of experiment to those people. An experiment.

My chest feels like it has been ripped open, my heart pulverized. If I even have a heart.

“Your controls are failing. When that happens, you get reconditioned. They wipe your memory and start over.”

“But, how? All the others in town, the kids at school, they’d notice.” My breath races in and out of my lungs, faster and faster. My friends would know something had been done to me, wouldn’t they?

“Everyone here is an employee like me, or a test subject like you. We’re briefed on anyone who’s been reconditioned, and the Cy just get uploaded with new memories.”

“They can’t just wipe us out. Wipe me out.” I rub my hands up and down my arms.

She drops her chin to her chest and averts her eyes. “Your accident wasn’t real, Ana. They reconditioned you.”

“That’s not true.” My memories are real. My life is real. It can’t all be a lie.

Dani moves toward me and I scramble backward, my heal slipping in the gravel. She grasps me by the shoulders. “Don’t you get it? That wasn’t the first time you’ve been wiped, and I can’t do it again. I won’t.”

Tears flood my vision. “How many times have they… reconditioned me?”

Her breath hitches. “Seven since I became your handler. I’m not sure how many before that.”

Oh, god. I’ve been erased over and over and over.

Sobs rack my chest and I sag against her. I can’t let them take my life away from me. “You have to help me. Please.”

“I won’t let them hurt you ever again.” Her voice cracks. She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. “We’re getting out of here. Tonight.”

I peek through my blinds, but there’s no sign of Dani. The red display of my alarm clock blazes through the darkness. 12:59 a.m. She should be here any minute.

Returning home and acting normal for my so-called parents was unbearable, but I had to do it. If they can pretend, then so can I. Someday, they’ll pay for what they’ve done to me, but first I need to get out of here.

I shove an extra bottle of pills in my pocket. According to Dani, they aren’t for epilepsy at all. The biological elements of my immune system fight against the mechanical parts. Foreign body rejection, she called it. Without the pills, I won’t live for more than a week.

Dani may not be who I thought she was, but she’s the only person I can trust. I’m not sure where we’re going, or what will happen once we get there, and I don’t care. Anywhere is better than this prison.

A thump sounds somewhere in the house. My heart pounds, picking up pace until I think it might explode. If my parents find me, find out what I’m doing, they’ll recondition me. Erase me, erase their own daughter.

Bitter laughter claws my throat, and I swallow it back. I’m not their child, though, I’m their experiment. They don’t love me, and the fact that they’ve made me love them, made me care, is the cruelest part.

The floorboards creak in the hall outside my door, and I dive for my bed. Fully clothed, I hide under the covers. My stomach clenches in a tight knot. Where is Dani? She should be here by now.

Pain pierces my temple and I gasp. I try to raise my hands to my head, but an invisible force pins my body to the bed. No! This can’t be happening, not tonight, not now. I twist and strain, but can’t move any part of my body.

My bedroom door opens, and my parents walk in. They aren’t wearing any scrubs or surgical masks this time. No disguises. Standing side-by-side, they lean over my immobile body and peer down at me.

Liquid pools in my eyes and runs down the sides of my face. I try to open my mouth, to cry and scream, but can’t. Where’s Dani? Why did she leave me to these monsters?

“Don’t cry, string bean.” My dad reaches down and brushes my bangs off my forehead with a light touch. “We’re here to help you.”

His caress makes my skin crawl. My breathing picks up speed, rasping in and out through my nostrils. How can he not see that what they’re doing is torture?

“You don’t have to be scared, anymore.” He smiles and inclines his head toward my mother. “You won’t remember any of this.”

No, please, don’t take my memories away. I want to scream and beg, but can’t.

My mother’s face remains impassive. She doesn’t even pretend to care as she plunges a syringe into my arm.

Terror grips my mind with sharp fingers as darkness creeps into the edges of my vision. Please, let me live. I want to live! I put every bit of strength and will into a last push against the bonds that hold me and manage to open my mouth. My screams fill the room as I lose consciousness.

The automatic sliding glass doors at the end of the bland, white hallway seem miles away. My mom and dad flank me on either side, while Dani pushes my wheelchair at an excruciatingly slow pace. The urge to bolt from the chair and sprint the distance to the doors is almost overwhelming.

Dani leans down from her spot behind me. “Forget it, Ana, you’ll never make it.” She gives a low, husky laugh and her long black hair brushes my shoulder.

“I might.” She’s right, of course. Still hopped up on heavy duty painkillers, I’d get all of five feet before the dizziness took over and caused me to face plant on the tile floor.

I run one hand over my bald head, cringing at the feel of the stitches against my fingertips. “Just hurry up, okay? I want to go home.”

Angela Sylvaine still believes in monsters, both real and imagined, and always checks under the bed. Her work has appeared in multiple magazines and anthologies, including Supernatural Horror Short Stories (Gothic Fantasy Series), Disturbed Digest, and My American Nightmare. You can follow her on twitter @sylvaine_angela and you can find her online angelasylvaine.com.

THE GIRL WHO NEVER STOPPED BLEEDING

Sam Lauren

Barb washed her panties in the bathroom sink between classes and the water ran pink. It stained her nails. She scrubbed them with hand soap and course paper towels but they never came clean. Neither did the panties.

It was her first time. Some of us knew how she felt. We didn’t give her advice; we teased her as if we didn’t have folded bits of toilet paper stuffed between our linens and our aching, leaking bodies.

By the fifth day everyone knew. Boys wouldn’t touch her. Girls claimed to smell her from lockers away.

The Bible says a bleeding woman is unclean. We thought it was funny, a myth, a lie told by parents to make kids remain chaste. It didn’t prepare us for Barb.

Two weeks in she killed a plant. We can’t prove it but they both sat by the window, wilting in their own filth. The plant hadn’t changed its dirt. She hadn’t changed her panties. Some say she touched the stem of the flower, turned it toward the light, but others say it died just from being near her.

A month later she was still scrubbing her panties after every bell.

In Home EC she beat her whipped cream into a curdle, right there in the bowl for everyone to see. She had no shame. She said it was natural. We all whispered that it wasn’t, something was wrong. Cream isn’t supposed to do that. Women aren’t supposed to do that.

The Bible stopped being funny five weeks in.

A boy tripped her in gym class and the grass beneath her scuffed palms and bare knees turned brown. The students behind her in the lunch line got curdled milk in their cartons. All of us were lathering our skin in menthol scented sanitizer to keep a barrier between us and Barb’s curse.

By seven weeks she was still bleeding. Barb was irritable. We all were. We jumped out of the way when she walked by in the halls. Boys called her names if she got too close. She even slapped one of them.

He went home sick. The red hand print across his face shined with layers of sanitizer but that was nothing. The coughing disrupted class. His nose soiled tissue after tissue with snot and then blood. The teacher sent him to the nurse when sores burst through his skin.

He didn’t come back. The staff said he moved but the plants kept dying and Barb kept bleeding. We couldn’t prove it but we knew she killed him.

We just tried to keep clean.

Sam Lauren is a horror writer from Northwest Indiana. Her works have been published in NonBinary Review, Enchanted Conversation, and other fantasy e-zines. You can follow her career on her website thewordofsam.wordpress.com.

LEDA AND THE FLY

Marnie Azzarelli

Leda looked at the wall next to her bed the second she woke up until it was too dark for her to see. She would still stare though, the darkness like a blanket on her eyes, until she would drift off into a fitful sleep that could last until the next afternoon. It became an obsession to the point that she would hardly move, her right hip and shoulder constantly aching from barely leaving her bed.

Her girlfriend, May, would try to shake her from her stupor. She would get Leda to use the bathroom regularly, and get some food in her. She would try to get her to walk outside, and once tried to take her to see a movie. But Leda was shaking for days over the rapidity of the film’s frenzied, colorful lights. Thereafter she would barely budge from her bedroom if it was a particularly bright day.

May soon gave up on trying to get her to leave the house. She only ventured into their bedroom to make sure Leda was still breathing, and to let her stare endlessly at that blank, white wall. May didn’t understand it, but it calmed Leda. The wall was clean, empty. It was devoid of everything except for a window near the left hand corner. It was small, and when May put in some Blackout curtains for her when she first started complaining of the brightness, it was perfect. But after Leda gave up on leaving her bed entirely, May took out the curtains while she was asleep, one night.

Leda woke up to a Texas sun blazing into her eyes and nearly screamed. When she heard May leave their house to go to work, she snuck into the extra room that she once used as an art studio, and stole a few tubes of her black acrylic paint. She used to only paint pictures of dark rooms, haunted forests, and caves full of terrible – half seen – creatures, but on that day she squeezed tube after tube of paint on the window, smearing it with her hands in thick layers. She moved faster than she had in a while as the paint hardened quickly underneath her touch, but after an hour or so, the inky black shut out the afternoon sun entirely.

She smiled faintly at her work and at her palms that were completely covered as well. The paint encroached the backs of her lily white hands, which were in a constant state of unrest, but they settled after her hard work was finished. Even her usual heaving insides felt still for once. She ambled back to her bed with a hint of actual happiness. She could stare at her wall in peace.

Time meant nothing to her anymore, and with the window darkened, she could only rely on May’s comings and goings, but even those started to blur. She couldn’t remember if May went to work or was coming home, or if she went to the store, or if she just left to get away from Leda for a while. Leda counted time by how much paint was left on her hands. She didn’t bother to clean them as she was so proud of what they did.

By the first day, half of it was gone, and by the next only the tips of her fingers and nail beds were covered in the stuff. The paint was mostly on the white sheets, and odd parts of her body, but she barely noticed it. She turned the lamp on next to her to look at her wall night and day. She didn’t even notice when she would drop off to sleep, and barely remembered when she would get up to release the pain in her back or to go relieve herself in the bathroom attached to the room.

She could only see that wall, and even though the artificial light from a 40-watt bulb was barely enough to take the entirety of it in at once, it was much better than the blinding light of a Texas sun during the summer. “It’s hotter than hell on fire,” her mama used to say.

But her mama had been dead for years, buried under a weeping willow in Savannah, where she was born. Leda’s father was still alive, and still a strapping Texan who lived in his black, leather cowboy boots, and matching Stetson. It had been almost a year since she last talked to him. She knew he would talk to May daily over the phone, but she refused to listen to those calls as all they cared about was how “depressed” she was.

Leda wasn’t depressed. She was numb to the point where her entire body, heart, and mind felt like it was wrapped in raw cotton, but she was not depressed. Her reverend had told her that she had a touch of postpartum depression from the “trauma” she had been through; “trauma” being a relative term. Her dad simply said that the devil was in her after her third overdose. He was at her house even before the ambulance could get there, to help a stricken May.

She never saw him cry like he did that night except at her mama’s funeral, and even then it wasn’t the tortured bawling that belonged more to a little body who fell and ripped his knee on the playground. They did not belong to her 50-year-old father who twisted and turned his hat in his hands as he and May waited for the ambulance to come. When she OD’ed, her head was filled to the brim with static and pressure from her inner ear. She could barely hear or see, but she remembered raptly watching that deflated man as tears dripped onto the black felt. They immediately absorbed into the fabric, leaving a stain darker than black.

She didn’t remember May finding her in the bathroom, half conscious, or how she held Leda’s head in her lap as they waited for the ambulance, or even arriving at the hospital at all. But she remembered his tears, his shaking shoulders, and how he said the devil was inside of her again through his wracking sobs.

She could feel a pain hit her in the chest as she thought of those things, so she let them go by staring at her unblemished wall. The shadows couldn’t touch her there. May only checked on Leda twice on that particular day, and at some indiscernible time later, Leda could hear her snoring on the couch in the living room. She figured it was nighttime, but taking care of the ranch house they shared, taking care of Leda, and holding down a full-time job wore May out. She would nap in the middle of the day for hours at a time. Leda preferred those times as they would stop May from checking on her constantly.

May had been taking care of Leda for three of the six years they had been together, and Leda truly appreciated her, but she needed focus. She needed to be alone. As long as the wall stayed clear. As long as it was white and free of any imperfection, she was okay. She was just fine.

She must have fallen asleep at some point because she could only see the muted red light of the lamp filtering through the thin skin of her eyelids when she did return to consciousness. It wasn’t the light that was pulling her mind from the deep REM sleep that she hadn’t fallen into in a long time, it was a sound. It tore at her from the inside and she knew its source before she even decided to wake up. It was a sporadic, grating noise that could drive the sanest person crazy after hearing it for awhile.

She felt thunderclouds churn in her stomach after the lightning of realization hit her brain. She was no longer dulled, no longer in her peaceful black numbness that kept her snowed under better than any drug ever could.

The sound wouldn’t let her, so she opened her eyes to let the inevitable sink in. She opened them slowly, one eyelid at a time. They were unfocused when fully opened, her sight blurred by the lamp that seemed so harsh for her teetering mental state.

When she went to the hospital during her overdose that kind of light was all she saw, but magnified by a hundredfold in bright fluorescent tubes that met and followed her hospital bed all the way down to Intensive Care as she laid with little feeling in her body, a fire starting to gather in her brain because of the Narcan.

She couldn’t block the light out then, and she couldn’t now. She rubbed at her eyes and little bits of paint flaked onto the sheets. She opened her eyes again to diamonds dancing in her sight before it cleared so she could focus. She slipped out of bed gingerly and plopped to the floor, smacking her ankle off of the metal bed frame on the way down, but she didn’t notice that particular pain.

She knew instinctively where the noise was coming from, where it would be. And it was right where she thought, right at the edges of the lamplight, barely perceptible to her tired eyes that only knew white walls and dark insides, plain things, right things.

But that noise, that thing on her wall was neither plain nor right. The thunder was spreading to her chest, walloping her ribcage with each loud boom. She got up achingly, her body accustomed to anything but her bed. She crouched when she got closer to the wall, her knees popping protest, but she knew she needed to be as quiet as possible.

She moved in closer to the ring of light and that terrible sound like a stalking cat ready to spring; her body taut and still, her eyes closed to slits. The thing started to flit in and out of the light, but Leda’s usually dulled senses were sharpening just by the sight of her prey. She could see it almost too clearly.

It was there staining her pristine wall with its filth covered feet, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing through the quiet of her mind.

A fly.

Musca domestica.

Six hair covered legs, antennae, a small head with two compound eyes, prothorax, mesothorax, a large abdomen, and two transparent wings.

Its front two feet were probing the pure white of Leda’s wall, searching for sustenance only to buzz out its frustrations over the empty surface. Her frustration was built on its existence in her, once sacred, space. Her only solitude after her body had been hollowed out, wiped clean from the toxins and waste that fly thrived on.

She felt the storm rage throughout her and let it out with a low moan, her vocal cords cracking to attention after months of disuse. She groaned softly at first, her knees starting to shake slightly. She took another step towards the fly and her voice came out louder, her legs ready to give out on her in any second.

The fly buzzed louder, startled by the other presence in the room. Its movements became a little more frantic as it bounced to different parts of the lit wall. Leda tried to follow, but she was so focused on that one spot, she couldn’t imagine it going anywhere else. But it decided to move and ruin more and more of her wall.

She started to cry, small tears hot and salty falling down her tingling face. Her nerve endings were all firing at once and she suddenly felt like she was dancing on a thousand pins and needles. Each step was another sharp stab to her that almost broke the skin, but didn’t. Her legs finally gave out on her and she fell keening to the carpet.

Her body was being buffeted by its own storm and she could no longer see out of the eye. She held her skull together with paint flecked hands, while the fly, in a complete panic, started to flit closer and closer to the window. It was finding a means to escape but had no idea that the window was sealed shut.

The buzzing was only growing louder and louder, obliterating any thoughts she had of quiet. She attempted to lift her heavy head and opened her eyes and saw a doubled wall in front of her. It spun out of control for a second, but her eyes settled onto nothingness. If it wasn’t for the sound she would’ve thought the fly was gone. She could no longer see it anywhere.

It took her pushing her body up, with little grace, and moving ever closer to the wall to see that it was now near her precious window that she spent so much time on. It was only one little step to the left and she was right in front of it. She kept her eyes trained on it the entire time, not daring to let it out of her sight again.

When she was almost within reach she thought she could even smell the thing, its stink as rotten as the garbage it ate and was reborn in. The fly didn’t know it was being cornered. It still wanted to leave but the window was shut and the door so far away. It was trapped and without knowing what to do, stopped moving altogether. The only sign of its awareness was its ever-moving antennae. Even the buzzing of its wings was quieting down.

Leda held her breath and moved even closer to the thing, her eyes unblinking. It was finally quiet enough for her to focus, and in one swift motion, Leda’s stained hand was pressed, palm flat, against her wall. The fly’s body burst open with a crunch between the white painted wood and her hand, its fluids filling the lines of her palm, the wings ripped and crumpled like tissue paper.

She killed it before her brain could even process what she was doing. She stared at her hand but couldn’t move it. She felt the fly’s pulverized body press against her skin. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing its gore on display. Its guts plastering the white space she kept so pure.

More tears leaked down her face but instead of setting her on fire, they quenched whatever was left of her adrenaline and she felt the gauze starting to replace the thunder within her. She weakened so quickly that she fell again, her hand sliding down the wall as her knees hit carpet once more. On the ground, she dared to look up and see the smear of death she left in her wake. Most of the fly was still up where she stood, but bits and pieces followed her hand all the way to the bottom.

She was looking at that stain, the last nail in her coffin, when she understood. She didn’t know why it took her so long to get it, but when she did, she actually smiled. She pulled her hand from the wall and found the solace she was searching for in the middle of her palm. So she ate it.

She put her cracked lips to her palm and ate the death waiting for her there. She tasted it with relish and sucked at her fingers when she was done. With a newfound fervor, she got back to her feet, and following the trail, placed her tongue against the wall and brought her face all the way back to where she originally killed it, a faint black handprint marking it so. She licked at that spot greedily until every part of that fly was within her.

That beautiful, blessed fly.

When she was finished, she was not only smiling but laughing too. Inside the gauze was being torn away and a new, stronger storm was starting to ricochet within her. Her stomach cramped and her lungs felt like they were burning but she was so happy, so alive that she couldn’t stop smiling and laughing until she fell to floor for the last time, dizzy, sick, but oh so happy.

May found her in the morning. Leda was asleep against the wall May saw her stare at for the last few months. Leda’s pajamas and body were dotted with black paint and she was sleeping sitting up, her head tipping back on the wall. May wanted to get her up but Leda hadn’t looked that peaceful sleeping since May first met her. She knelt down and caressed her lover’s thin, sleeping face gently.

Leda slowly opened her eyes and when they finally focused on May they were filled with a love and life that brought May to tears. They held each other for what seemed like ages until an alert and bubbly Leda suggested May get started on breakfast while she took a shower. She wanted to eat outside on the patio while the sun was growing in the sky. She wanted to spend her day with May and maybe even call her dad. She wanted to live again.

When Leda was little girl she ate a fly on a hot summer’s day and was never the same after. Growing up, she was a dull girl who didn’t like to read, or go to school, or do anything besides napping and eating things she shouldn’t. That’s why she ate a fly while it was meandering across the windowsill in her room. She was sitting there, bored but doing nothing about it when it flew to her particular spot. She snatched its wiggling body up immediately and crunched its hard body between her baby teeth. She enjoyed the sandy texture in her mouth until swallowing it in bits and pieces, savoring each part.

She didn’t feel the change immediately but as she continued to stare lazily out of the window, her senses started to sharpen. Suddenly it wasn’t a boring summer day in her boring little neighborhood in Georgia. She could feel every inch of the beating sun’s warmth on her as the clock moved closer to noon. A breeze came through and rustled her curtains, shifting the usually humid and sticky air. She could feel the sweat dry on her brow exquisitely and her skin darken slowly from the sun’s rays and she could hear her neighbor’s yappy, little dog bark its head off down the block, while the old man next door mowed his lawn for the umpteenth time that week. She could smell the clippings, earthy and strong, as they fell behind the retiree and his ancient grass-cutter.

In the meantime, her mama was pulling into the driveway at the front of the house, her tires rolling over some dirt and gravel. She could even hear her mama on the phone complaining to her father about something while turning her keys to shut off the tired, old hatchback. She saw none of it, but by sounds and smells and guessing, she could picture it all clearly in her head and she was enthralled. All of the mundane things she went through every day of her eight years were finally something to notice.

For once she wanted to experience everything with every one of her senses. It was like she had been freed from her own ignorance, a soft blanket lifting from her little mind. From then on she was a straight A student, a star athlete, and popular all throughout her years in school. She was her father’s pride and joy, and she planned to stay that way.

That’s why she never told him what happened when the neighbor’s yappy dog went missing or why the old man next door suddenly stopped cutting his grass only to be found dead in his recliner three days later. She didn’t even tell him what happened to her mama’s car right before the accident that took her life. As long as her dad was happy about Leda, she was fine.

She learned how to deal with the freak accidents that always seemed to follow her wake. If she wanted to keep the world as clear and as beautiful as she liked it, she couldn’t think about the things she sometimes had to do for that specific purpose. Soon her compulsions only became a minor nuisance that stopped fazing her entirely when she finally left Georgia for college.

She was on the other side of the country learning computer technology at Berkeley when she met May and they fell for each other in ways that scared and thrilled Leda. But the closer she got to May the more apprehensive she’d feel about the things she had to do to keep her world perfect.

There was a rash of suicides by top students during Leda’s final year. They had authorities keep a good eye on her at the time, not because she was a suspect, but because the school was afraid that she would take her own life next. The school was immediately heartened by Leda’s perseverance and her Summa Cum Laude speech at graduation, all about love and loss during that year, brought the house down.

When she got her degree, she moved with May to Texas where her father was living, got a great job in her field, bought a house and thought about proposing to May the following year. Then she got into an argument with her. It’s not like they hadn’t fought before. They were a normal, healthy couple that had their moments and pushed passed them to become a stronger pair, but May was feeling differently. May was concerned about the death that hung around Leda her entire life. May didn’t want to accuse Leda of anything but she was afraid. May nearly came close to having a kitchen knife in her heart that night.

Leda found herself wanting to choke May in her sleep almost nightly, and dreamt of her demise during the day. And as May’s suspicion grew, Leda thought more and more on how to get rid of her. But this time, Leda couldn’t go through with it. Whenever she’d have those intrusive thoughts that turned into inevitable accidents, she would lock herself in her room and cry, holding onto the sheets of their bed with dear life. She didn’t want to act, and didn’t want to move. She prayed nightly to a God she didn’t know if she believed in to save her from those thoughts, and one day, God did.

Leda woke up and her thoughts were unclear for the first time in nearly 15 years. She sighed and instead of getting up to go for her normal morning run, she rolled over and went back to bed. The mind she had as a child came back and leached away her knowledge and clarity. Even her love of May seemed dull and lifeless, and soon she couldn’t remember why she was in so much pain over May’s existence to begin with.

She quit her job, stopped going out, and nothing seemed to matter to her at all. Inside all she wanted was to be who she used to be. Her new mission, as lethargic as it was, was to find what made her life worth living to begin with. She spent months experimenting the only way she knew how: by eating pills, drops of acid, ecstasy, PCP, Adderall, anything her simple mind thought of to bring her back again, but it all failed.

She moved on from eating to stabbing herself with needles filled with heroin that only numbed her more. She thought that if she couldn’t feel life the way she did before, being numb entirely was the next best thing.

She OD’ed, multiple times, but her father and May sent her to a hospital after the last one and they cleaned her out entirely so what was left could stare at a wall. She didn’t know if she was fine with her fate, she didn’t know anything anymore, but when she saw that fly, when she fully understood what it was, she thanked whatever power she could because it was back. It came back and it accepted her like it did all those years ago. It didn’t matter that when May embraced her the next morning, she wanted to take her partner’s head and smash it against the blank, white wall just to see what stain she’d leave behind. It didn’t matter anymore, none of it did. Leda was possessed again, and it was all okay.

Marnie Azzarelli’s short horror work has appeared in multiple publications including magazines like The Mad Scientist Journal, and anthologies like My American Nightmare. She has co-authored two regional history books and writes original plays for community theaters in her area. She holds a B.A. in English from Marywood University with minors in Writing and Women’s Studies and in 2014, she was awarded the J. Harold Brislin Award for Distinction in Creative Writing. In her spare time, Azzarelli likes to read scary stories before going to bed and pretending to be other people onstage. She currently lives with three cats, two parents, and one dog in Scranton, Pennsylvania. You can find her at marnieazzarelli.net.

JENNY’S BOBO

Hillary Lyon

“Jenny, look at me when I’m talking to you. How did he get out? Did you leave the gate unlocked? Again?”

Jenny crossed her arms defiantly and answered with an insolent teen-age, “I dunno.” She looked down at her sneakers and dug her toe into the freshly mowed lawn; she declined to make eye contact, which enraged her father even more, and convinced him of her guilt.

“That’s not good enough, missy. The last time this happened, you left the garage door up and he slipped out.” Her father was quickly losing patience. She imagined him vibrating like a cartoon tea-kettle, about to blow steam in all directions.

“You’d better hope he gets back before dawn, or we’re all going to be in a heap of trouble. He is not a toy. He is not a pet.” Her dad shook his head in dismay at what he assumed to be her carelessness. How many times did they have to go through this? he wondered in frustration.

“Do you understand what it cost us to acquire Bobo in the first place? Do you understand the chaos that will be unleashed if he never comes back?”

Here we go, Jenny thought. She knew this speech by heart—and she also knew better than to talk back to her father when he was in this self-righteous, lecturing mood.

Jenny was vaguely aware of some contract her folks had made at one of their many parties the previous summer—a contract that provided them with Bobo. She had fuzzy memories of her parents’ parties last summer—parties in which she was banished to her upstairs bedroom with a paper plate of hors d’oeuvres and a cold can of diet soda, where she watched endless video-blogs about the latest celebrity gossip and fashion tips. From behind her closed door, she could hear the party-goers drone monotonous songs, and she caught a whiff of an acrid smell, like burning hair.

She figured it was all some old hippy-dippy Woodstock-y level of partying; creaky adults trying to be the cool kids again, she scoffed to herself, and only embarrassing themselves. Most ridiculous of all, she heard grown women squealing like panicked little piggies—probably laughing at her dad’s lame jokes. The only good thing about those parties, to Jenny’s mind, was that she didn’t have to help clean up the next day. The house was always left spotless.

After what seemed like hours, Jenny at last heard her father say, “Go to your room, young lady, and think about what you’ve done.”

Jenny turned on her heel and stomped into the house, slamming the back door behind her. Why did her dad have to be so uptight? Bobo would come back; he always did. She’d let him out lots of nights—lots of nights her parents didn’t know about—and she never worried about him disappearing. Sure, once in a while he’d show up filthy and maybe a bit bloodied, with a chipped fang or a torn wing, but she cleaned him up and put him to bed and no one was the wiser.

Besides, he always promised to come back, and she trusted him more than her parents, who—to her fourteen year old mind—only kept their word when it suited them. Like when they said she could go to her school’s Winter Carnival, then locked her in her room. Just because she’d been caught shoplifting a designer lipstick at the mall. Like that was fair.

Her parents didn’t understand that she and Bobo had a special connection—he could read her mind like the Sunday paper. And she let him. They had a silent agreement that she’d release him any night he liked, as long as he visited one or two of her so-called ‘frenemies’ during that time.

So what if those kids ended up in the hospital, or the psych ward, or the graveyard? That’s what they got for teasing her, for making her the butt of their cruel pranks. Pranks that went beyond petty slights and into emotional torture territory. Why did girls have to be so mean to each other?

It was Bobo, not her parents, who came to her rescue after one of the worse days of her young life: The day she learned her ‘secret admirer’ was not Brent Haufstrom (as she had hoped), but Laurie Carlyle, the girl who had only pretended to be her best friend. All during the Fall semester, Jenny found notes from a secret admirer slipped into her locker at school, or tucked into her textbook for her to find later. The notes began sweetly enough, but as the weeks went on, they became more and more creepy. In one, the secret admirer likened Jenny’s eyes to steaming, bubbly cesspools. Jenny had to ask her mom what a cesspool was, and wasn’t happy to learn the answer. Jenny’s heart dropped; how could some one who claimed to have a crush on her pen such an awful note?

But the last note she found, tucked into a side pocket of her backpack, was down right threatening.

I’ll creep into your bedroom some night, when you least expect it, and show you just how much I really love you.

The word ‘love’ was written and over-written so many times it almost tore through the paper. Jenny immediately threw the note away. She spent the remainder of the school day looking over her shoulder, jumping like a scared rabbit at every loud noise, sick to her stomach.

Jenny had confided only in Laurie about these notes. Her friend ooh’d and aaah’d, made her feel special and reassured her that she was loved, even when the notes became viciously perverse. It was pure happenstance that Jenny overhead Laurie laughing it up with the girls in the chic clique in the school cafeteria one morning before class, where they always gathered like a flock of vultures to tear apart anybody who wasn’t one of them. They laughed and cawed over the contents of the latest note, which Laurie herself took credit for writing. Though they giggled at the savage contents of the note, they laughed most gleefully at Jenny’s earnest gullibility.

When she got home from school that afternoon, Jenny locked herself in her room with Bobo, and cried bitterly into her pillow. Bobo stroked her hair and licked away her tears with his forked tongue, all the while looking into her eyes with genuine concern. It was at that point that Jenny opened her mind, and allowed Bobo to read the memories of the notes, to scan her pain. He rose up to his full height and growled, bearing his fangs in righteous anger. In his burgeoning wrath, his black wings shook like a willow tree in a once-in-a-century storm. He had a plan of action, and Jenny, hurting, agreed.

It was all good until the night Jenny’s parents realized Bobo was missing. Her father marched into her bedroom with Bobo’s empty chain in hand. He’d hoped Bobo was nesting in a corner of her room, as he often did when Jenny stayed up late studying. But he wasn’t, and Jenny got the third degree. But she held her ground, insisting she knew nothing about Bobo’s whereabouts. Still unsatisfied with her answers, her fuming father stormed out, rattling Bobo’s chain like a text-book ghost. Hours later, Bobo crawled through her window long after everyone had gone to sleep, and clawed a comfy nest in a pile of her dirty clothes. Jenny stroked his scaly forehead, and he slept like a sated puppy.

This went on for weeks, this game of cat-and-mouse between Jenny and Bobo, and her parents. One of these nights they’d catch Bobo sneaking off—or so they vehemently proclaimed. Jenny pleaded wide-eyed ignorance, smiling on the inside all the while. She knew once the chic clique was disbanded—or better yet, in her mind, destroyed—life would settle back down, and there would be peace and contentment across the land. And maybe Brent Haufstrom would ask her to the end-of-school May Day Dance. If he didn’t, perhaps Bobo could persuade him to do so.

So when her freaked-out father confronted her about leaving the gate unlocked, or the garage door up, in all honesty she could proclaim her innocence. Bobo didn’t leave that way; he didn’t have to—he had wings, for heaven’s sake. All he needed was a mission, and an open window.

Since 2008, Hillary Lyon’s speculative, horror, and sci-fi stories have appeared in more than 60 print and online zines, as well as in over 30 anthologies. She is also an illustrator for horror, sci-fi, and pulp fiction sites. Having lived in France, Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides in southern Arizona. https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/

EXTINGUISHING FIREFLIES

Rebecca Rowland

I.

Lea rinsed the soap suds from the dish in her purple-gloved hand and gazed aimlessly out of the picture window in front of the sink. A group of neighborhood children, all about nine to twelve years of age, were gathered in a loose huddle by the large oak tree at the bottom of the hill on the corner, all of them dipping their heads as if in shared prayer. Her daughter, Arielle, squatted down as if to study the ground a little more closely, her strawberry blonde hair glinting in the sun like slivers of pure gold had been surreptitiously woven into her locks.

Everyone had told Lea to avoid cats when she was pregnant with Arielle. “Toxoplasmosis,” Barbie said, actually pointing her finger in the air, dictator-style, to solidify her solemnity at the advice. Barbie, too, was pregnant, two months ahead of Lea, her belly rounding like a strange mushroom top on her stumpy torso. “It’s serious shit, my friend. ‘Causing all sorts of dementia and birth defects and God know what else,” Barbie continued. “Remember the movie Trainspotting? That guy died, and from a kitten, no less.”

Lea rubbed her tummy. She’d taken to running her hand along the uterine outline pushing urgently between her belly button and topmost tuft of pubic hair as of late; it soothed her somehow, feeling the taut, hard musculature hardening in preparation for what she knew would be a difficult labor. All of the women in her family had spent multiple days in the delivery ward, chewing ice chips and sweating like cattle dressed in ill-fitting pastel hospital gowns. “Try to convince your doctor you need a scheduled C-section,” her aunt had warned. “It will save you hours of agony and frustration.” But Lea welcomed the challenge. She’d pay her dues just as all of the women before her had done.

“I think that character was supposed to be severely immunosuppressed,” Lea explained calmly. “And there was cat poop all over his apartment. It’s fine, Barb: really. I wash my hands all the time.” Barbie’s cat elimination crusade was inspired by her success at forcing her own wife to permanently relocate their feline ward to her mother’s house two years earlier. Barbie had never liked cats, or animals in general, and her first pregnancy had been the perfect opportunity to rid her world of her partner’s odious remnant from college apartment life.

Lea didn’t formally own a cat, but she often fed and cared for the sparse local feral colony, leaving a few cardboard boxes with discarded bath towels next to her garage in the winter months and even brushing and feeding a few of the friendlier strays when they ventured onto her porch on quiet summer evenings. After she gave birth, she’d have a cat in the house: she was certain of it.

Barbie rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “Alright,” she said with an audible sigh, “but when your kid comes out with four legs or extra fingers or whatever, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Four and a half months later, Arielle was born with bright pink skin and a swirl of downy hair on her head. A year later, her blue eyes darkened to a hazel-green and her forehead crinkled into a tiny M-shape when she cried. And as a bonus, Maleeshka, an orange tabby kitten, joined Lea’s household as a permanent resident.

II.

It was a cloudless Sunday morning in late May. Lea had made pancakes for breakfast, and after wolfing down at least five of them, barely registering the sweetness of the maple syrup, Arielle bounded from her chair and out the back door of the small Cape Cod home she shared with her mother. Lydia, her best friend who lived just three houses away, was already at the end of their deserted side street, drawing a hopscotch grid on the blacktop. Arielle stopped just inches from the edge of the court, then bent slightly to catch her breath.

“Hey,” nodded Lydia, pushing herself to her feet and brushing the pavement dust from her knees.

“Hey,” answered Arielle. She lifted a hand to her forehead and pushed away a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her barrette. She held her fingers together like a tiny fist. As her best friend one-two footed her way along the hastily drawn court she’d constructed, Arielle looked up into the dusty incline of new homes that sprawled languidly up the steeply paved hill that intersected their street. “Let’s go up there,” she said, pointing to the road that seemed to lead directly into the sun.

“Why?” Lydia asked. “Kelly and Sarah will be coming soon. Shouldn’t we wait?”

“I don’t know. I just want to see,” Arielle explained. She picked up the hopscotch marker, brushed the dirt off of it, and carefully placed it in her pocket. Lea would be irritated if she got dirt on her clean clothes so early in the day.

Lydia shrugged. “Alright.” They bounced, side by side, up the hill. The girls weren’t worried about oncoming traffic: hardly anyone traveled the winding suburban side streets in their neighborhood, and certainly not on a weekend morning. Arielle played the balance beam game she sometimes did when she was walking from one place to another and she wasn’t in any hurry to get somewhere: she placed the heel of her shoe directly in front of the toe of her other shoe, forming an unbroken line, then repeated the process with the back foot, walking like this as fast as she could without breaking the line or toppling sideways. Arielle was so focused on keeping her foot alignment straight that she didn’t see the boy on the bicycle barreling toward them from up the hill. He stopped short when he reached the two girls.

“Hey,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Who are YOU?” answered Lydia without missing a beat, her hands on her hips. “We live down there.” She pointed to the bottom of the hill, just a few houses away.

“I’m Robin. We just moved over there.” He pointed across the street to a greenish-grey bungalow with redwood trim. A botanical garden appeared to be spilling over the side of one of the balconies. A set of brick steps that led to the front door was crumbling, some of the stones askew.

The two girls sized him up. He was about Lydia’s height, but he was definitely older. His skin was very pale, and the exertion of riding in the morning summer sun had ruddied his cheeks. His hair was shaved military-style: painfully short on the sides and less than an inch long on top. What hair could be seen was light brown but showed carrot orange in direct sun. His eyes were squinty and brown and were framed by pale blonde, almost white, eyebrows.

“I’m Lydia,” the more brazen of the two girls finally replied. “I’m ten. Arielle here is nine.” She thrust a thumb in her companion’s direction, then replaced her hands on her hips. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” answered their new alabaster neighbor.

Just then, Lydia leaped backwards as if stung and grabbed Arielle’s arm. She stared at the edge of the curbing next to their feet. “Did you see it? The thing that just ran by?”

Arielle and Robin turned in unison and looked in the direction Lydia was pointing. Three feet in the distance, a small, brown ball with black stripes scurried away from them, toward Arielle’s backyard.

“Duh. It’s just a chipmunk. You guys are chickens,” Robin rolled his eyes. “Girls.” Arielle said nothing but stared at him for a long minute.

“Want to walk up the hill with us?” asked Lydia.

Robin hopped off his bike and smiled. Only one side of his mouth moved upward, giving him a Wile E. Coyote appearance. “Okay.” He held onto the silver handlebars of his bike and walked it beside him. The three children sauntered in silence until they reached a broad driveway flanking a wide expanse of lush green lawn, and the two girls watched in horror as Robin’s front tire ventured onto the blacktop an inch.

“Don’t let your bike touch their driveway!” Arielle yelled. “Get off! Get off!”

Robin, startled by the outburst, pulled his bike away like an alligator had suddenly appeared and was hungrily snapping by the foot of the road. “What? What do you mean? Why?” he asked. His mouth had formed into a curious O.

Lydia looked carefully around, then lowered her voice. “Werewolves live there.” She pointed up to the house at the end of the driveway, her eyes wide. “We’re not even supposed to walk this close to their grass.”

“Aw, you guys are stupid,” Robin said, his sideways grin making another appearance. “There’s no such thing.” Robin swung a leg over the seat of his bike and positioned his feet on the pedals and laughed a little, but he backed the bike’s wheels away from the driveway at the same time.

The girls glanced at one another. “All I know is, a few months back, like maybe two or three, a kid went missing,” Lydia explained in a hushed tone. “They put fliers in everyone’s mailboxes about it. I mean, not about them being werewolves, but about being careful about playing after dark and stuff.”

“We’re not supposed to be outside alone,” Arielle added. She looked down at her feet. There was a black smudge on her right sneaker. She licked her index finger and bent down to rub away the blemish.

Robin kicked his pedal defiantly and jerked his head backward. “So what? So a kid went missing? And?”

Lydia looked quickly at her friend for confirmation, but as Arielle was too busy wiping the grime from her shoe, she continued alone. “So they found the kid two days later, right here on this lawn. His body was all cut up… like, sliced. Blood everywhere. And—and here’s the creepiest part—his chest was ripped open and his heart was missing.”

Robin swallowed. “Sliced, like with a big knife or something?”

“No,” Lydia said. “Rows of cuts, four or five of them, over and over. Claw marks, they say. And his chest had bite marks where the heart was torn out, but not human teeth marks: deep pricks, like fangs had made them.”

Arielle straightened and put her hands in her shorts’ pockets. “They found pieces of fur in the blood. That’s why they think whatever killed him wasn’t human. Probably a dog, but a big one. Or at least a really scary one.”

Robin edged his bike further away from the driveway, bent down, and wiped the sides of his tires, as if removing the invisible murder cooties from their treads. “It’s a good thing I met you,” he said finally. The girls nodded at him solemnly. Then the three turned around and made their way back to the corner hopscotch court where Kelly and Sarah were waiting for them.

III.

Lea squinted at the window. The girls remained in their loose circle. What was so fascinating, she wondered? She peeled the gloves from her hands and draped them gingerly on the edge of the sink, then shoved her feet into the old clogs that lived nearly year-round by the entrance to her three-season porch. It wasn’t until she was within a few feet of the children that she saw it: a small puddle of oily black liquid encircling a dead chipmunk. At first, Lea thought the rodent must be sleeping, playing possum for the audience of little girls, but after she slid her body, hips-first, into a small opening in the cluster, she saw the inch-wide half-moon circle missing from the back of the tiny animal’s head, its gooey insides moist and shiny. Her daughter was still crouched, staring at the carcass.

“I bet Robin did this,” said Lydia finally, not acknowledging Lea’s arrival.

“You don’t know that,” said Arielle without looking up. She stood up then, stretching her arms downward toward the pavement and shaking her hands like a gymnast preparing to mount parallel bars. “It was probably an owl or a fox or something. Besides, you don’t even like chipmunks. You scream when we see them run by.”

“It looks like someone bit it,” added Sarah. “You think Robin bit a chipmunk? Gross.”

Lydia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “He’s weird. So maybe.” She looked around nervously as if to check that the topic of their discussion wasn’t standing right behind her. “I don’t like him,” she added.

The other girls shifted visibly in their sneakers, the small crowd teetering side to side slightly. “Yeah,” punctuated Sarah, but she said nothing else.

Kelly, a tall girl with brown hair and eyes, looked at Lea. “Miss Bastille, could you get rid of it? I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

Lea looked at her daughter. Arielle stared back at her but said nothing. Finally, Lea smiled and turned back toward her house. “I’ll get a garbage bag,” she said. Before she began to walk, she added, “Don’t touch it.”

In unison, the girls’ mouths drooped downward in disgust. They didn’t need to be told.

Later that night, Lea sat on her three-season porch in the moonlight, listening to the incessant chirping of the crickets in the rhododendron bushes just outside. If she tilted her head just right, she could gaze at the faint stars in the sky. There hadn’t been many fireflies that season, which saddened Lea, as she loved to watch them dance around the rows of tiger lilies that lined her property line. It was mid-July, late in the season to catch a beautiful light display, but still, she watched hopefully in the dark from her vantage point in the worn chair behind the screen.

When Arielle was small, about four years old, Lea handed her an old jelly jar and led her quietly to the blinking insects hovering along the back edge of their property one late, sticky evening. When they reached the faint outline of the flowers, Arielle dropped the jar, and Lea leaned down to feel around in the dark grass and retrieve it. As her fingers caressed smooth glass, she looked up just in time to see Arielle pounce violently forward onto the congregation. Her daughter began to slap the dancing lights to the ground with ferocity, one by one. Arielle cackled with delight as each of the lights were extinguished until mother and daughter stood in the stark darkness, cold grass tickling the sides of their sandaled feet. Lea did not bring Arielle to see the fireflies again after that.

A warm wind whispered through the window, bringing with it the summer fragrances of honeysuckle and fresh mowed lawn, and Lea heard a soft scratching at the screen door. She rose to open it, and as she did, Maleeshka bounded inside and immediately onto Lea’s chair. “Oh no you don’t, you seat hog, you,” Lea said, picking up the orange cat and sitting back onto the chair.

Maleeshka balanced herself on Lea’s lap and rubbed her face on the woman’s chin. Lea stroked the soft back of her feline companion, now fully grown. Her cat had become somewhat aloof in her adult stage, and Lea had to remind herself that this was all part of life: you nurtured a living thing in order to prepare it to thrive in the world independently. She ran her palms along the thick muscles on Maleeshka’s wide torso and felt the cat’s body vibrate with happiness.

“My Maleeshka,” Lea cooed softly. The cat ducked her head into Lea’s arm and purred even louder, her whole body shaking. “Did you kill that poor little chipmunk?”

Maleeshka said nothing, only pushed her head into Lea again, then dropped to her side and exposed the stripes on her stomach, her white fur luminescent in the pale light. Lea leaned closer and gently stroked her soft belly. “What am I to do with you, my little killer?” She continued to pet the cat softly as she looked out at the backyard again. A lonely firefly blinked weakly along the fence.

IV.

Robin’s father had bought him a vintage Schwinn American bike when they first moved to the neighborhood. It had a navy-blue seat, silver handlebars, and white hand-grips, but the rest of the body was a deep apple red. Robin rode it everywhere, sometimes pedaling all the way to the top of steep hill where he lived just to sail dangerously back down, gaining speed as he swerved along the curves of the suburban road. He rarely had to worry about obstacles: the street was traveled by residents only; even joggers avoided it due to the treacherous incline.

Robin lived alone with his father; no one knew what had happened to his mother. Robin never volunteered an explanation, and he was an only child, so the secret remained carefully hidden. The only thing the neighborhood children learned was that Robin’s dad loved to front-load emotions onto his son, lavishing him with marathon bonding sessions, barrages of hugs, and games of catch for a full weekend, then forgetting Robin existed for the remainder of the week. He was a primary caregiver dressed in a divorced dad suit.

On a late weekday morning at the end of August, just before school was set to resume, Robin rang the doorbell of the white shingled Cape and shifted nervously on black rubber mat, waiting for a response. After a moment, the door opened and Lea appeared in front of him. She was wearing a red kerchief on her head, something his father’s mother used to call a babushka, and she wiped her hands on the front of her t-shirt.

“Hi, Miss Bastille,” said Robin. “Is Arielle home?” He looked at Lea’s right breast; she’d left a white smudge of whatever had been on her hands and it highlighted the outline of her nipple.

Lea saw his eyes and smiled but kept her lips pressed firmly together. “No, Robin,” she said, “she left hours ago. I think she went to Lydia’s house. You’re welcome to come in and help me with the rest of the pies, though.”

Robin forced himself to look at the ground, at anywhere except Lea’s nipple beaming at him through the screen door. “No,” he said finally, “no, that’s okay. I’ll see her later, then.” He walked quickly down the three cement steps and righted his bike, which he’d left carelessly on the front lawn, and wheeled it back into the street. He was out of Lea’s sight before she could shut the door.

Robin didn’t want to go to Lydia’s house, but he didn’t want to go back to his house either. He was certain that the girls would be out to play soon: the sun was hot and high in the sky, the perfect weather for savoring the last hours of freedom before they’d be trapped in a claustrophobic classroom again. He pedaled his routine climb up his street, passing his own house and continuing up the hill. He passed the werewolves’ home; the front of their small, tidy house was guarded by large, green shrubbery, the kind of bush arrangement his father said only funeral homes should sport. Robin saw that they had planted marigolds along the margin of their walkway. The flowers’ strong scent kept tomcats from spraying, he’d heard once. Makes sense, if they really are wolves, Robin thought, and he chuckled to himself. Stupid girls.

It was a good half mile to the top, and the street ended in a patch of woods that disappeared suddenly into a steep ravine that hid a small stream. The neighborhood had settled into a droning hush, the late summer heat causing the homes’ central air units to work overtime to neutralize the humidity. He edged his bike backwards so that his back tire touched the mossy edge of the undeveloped land and mounted his Schwinn once more. Determined to reach maximum velocity this trip, Robin began the adrenaline flight downhill.

He sailed past a woman pulling rakes and other garden tools out of her garage; he whooshed past a mail carrier stuffing a small package into a street-side mailbox. As he raced around a sharp curve, he tilted his body so severely, he knew that if he hadn’t been going so fast, he certainly would have fallen over. He might want to chart that move using a protractor when he got back to school, he thought.

He was straightening himself out of another curve just as his house came into view, and then it happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, a large orange cat appeared in his path. It must have been a suicide mission on behalf of the feline interloper, as it sauntered part of the way across the road, then stopped, sat, and looked directly up at Robin as his shape grew larger and larger. The bike had picked up such momentum, a split-second decision had to be made. Choosing to spare the wayward pet an unpleasant demise, Robin cut his handlebars sharply to the left to swerve around it. The bike lurched sideways and the front wheel struck the curbing with such force, Robin was thrown forward, off the bike, and onto the grass in front of his house. He managed a half-hearted somersault but struck his head on the bottom of the brick stairway his father had recently repaired. The cat, for its part, turned around and walked back to from where it had come without a hint of apology.

Stunned by the suddenness of the whole incident, Robin remained on the ground for a moment. He felt something warm and sticky on the back of his neck and was horrified to see gobs of bright red blood on his palm after he touched his hair with his hand. He felt nauseous and curled up into a fetal position on the front lawn, closing his eyes against the midday sun.

He fell asleep—undoubtedly the worst thing to do with a probable concussion—and remained on the lawn, bleeding from his head wound, until the sun began to dip low in the sky. It was only then that his father, who had been working at home all day, wandered outside, not to check on Robin, but to check the mailbox. He ran immediately to the abandoned bike and inspected it for damage, then returned to his son’s bewildered face, which was caked with dried, brown blood and sunburned a deep crimson on only his right ear, right cheek, and right side of his nose, so that he resembled some deranged villain from a comic book.

“What happened?” he asked Robin incredulously.

“I swerved so I wouldn’t hit a cat,” Robin explained. “My head hurts.”

His father pursed his lips like he always did when he was thinking. Then he said, “Come on inside and wash up for dinner. I’ll take a look at the bike in the morning. I have to finish one more thing and we’ll eat.”

Robin’s dad returned to the house, shutting the door tightly behind him so as not to allow any more of the cold air to escape. Robin pushed himself to a sitting position and blinked, his eyes stinging. Seeing a movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned sharply to the right, the taut and injured skin on his face and neck screaming in response. There, just a foot away, sat Maleeshka, thumping her tail against the grass and staring at Robin.

“Thanks a lot,” Robin said to the cat. He scowled and waited as if expecting the animal to respond with an explanation. “Why’d ya go and do that?” he asked. Maleeshka continued to stare at him silently, but her tail’s slapping accelerated its rapid rhythm. “Idiot,” he added.

Robin picked up a stray rock from the grass near his leg and threw it at the cat’s head. He missed his mark, but not because he had bad aim. He missed because at that same moment, Maleeshka folded herself back on her hind legs, then sprang full-force at Robin’s head, landing on his face and immediately digging her razor claws into his blistering, tender skin. She screeched and moved in a wild frenzy, tearing the damaged skin in strips from his skull, piercing his eyeball and pulling it from its socket, clamping her jaw on his nose and jerking her head back and forth until she’d ripped a hunk of flesh and cartilage from bone.

Robin’s arms flailed in an attempt to bat the animal away, but they were useless. His scream was immediately muffled by a choking of matted fur over his mouth as the cat continued to bite and claw his face and neck. He could see nothing but felt himself falling backwards, back onto the grass that had begun to cool in the absence of direct sunlight. He heard the hum of the neighborhood air conditioners join together in a united requiem, and then nothing.

V.

Lea pulled the shades of her daughter’s window against the blackness outside. The lamp on Arielle’s nightstand cast a pinkish glow around the room, making the air feel even warmer. She sat on the edge of the twin bed and smiled. “Are you excited for school next week?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Arielle rolled her eyes. “No, but it’s getting boring here anyway. And soon it will be Halloween!” She opened her mouth in a wide grin.

Lea poked the bottom of Arielle’s left incisor with her finger. “Are you ever going to lose this one?” she asked.

“Maybe I already did and it grew back overnight,” laughed Arielle. “Didja ever think of that?” She smiled again, then closed her eyes. The two were silent for a moment, then Arielle spoke again. “Are you glad it’s just the two of us, Mommy?” She opened one eye and waited cautiously for her mother’s response.

Arielle had asked this question many times before, and Lea always responded the same way. It was their special, secret game. “I am,” Lea said. “You’re my sweet pussycat girl.”

Arielle smiled and closed her eyes again. “And are you always proud of me?” Her lids stayed shut this time.

Lea stroked her daughter’s forehead, pushing the stray locks of hair back onto her head. Then, she took Arielle’s hand in hers and gently tickled her fingertips along her daughter’s palm. She traced the tiny lines that ran from her wrist to the base of her fingers, then angled Arielle’s hand downward and looked at the child’s nails. They were still caked with dried blood and bits of skin, and Lea delicately ran her own nail under each ridge to pull the debris away.

“Always, my Maleeshka,” she said, and turned off the light. “Always.”

Rebecca Rowland is an author, editor, and librarian. Her stories most recently appeared in The Year’s Best Hardcore Horror (vol 4), Movie Monsters, and Strange Stories (vol 1), as well as in the magazines Waxing & Waning and Coffin Bell and the Women in Horror month on-line collection “The Ones You Don’t Bring Home.” Her first fiction collection, The Horrors Hiding in Plain Sight, and first novel, Pieces, were released by Dark Ink Books. Despite her love of the ocean and unwavering distaste for cold temperatures, she currently resides in a landlocked and often icy corner of New England. You can follow her publications at RowlandBooks.com.

THE EYES OF THE DEAD

Danielle R. Bailey

Trigger Warning: Contains scenes of violence and rape

Ants crawled down the pale, white cement walls and lined the crease between the carpet and basement interior. Smoke bellowed out of the rusty pipe in the ceiling and melted snow dripped and fell against the log home’s floor. Old food sat out on the counters, along with open cans and black socks while the smell of stagnant mildew clung to the yellow, cigarette stained drapes. Outside crows cawed and cawed endlessly, the atmosphere had become death itself.

A small corner of the torn blue tarp protruded from the perm-a-frost, the only marker for her extremely shallow grave that was just behind the dilapidated cabin. The cold had kept her preserved, her blue skin clung to her bones like the silk of her gown used to cling to her thick thighs back when blood flowed freely through her veins. That same blood now ice, seemed to be the only glue keeping her together. Her eyes were now gone, only a gel mold encased the inside of her sockets where those deep emerald eyes once took in the beauty of the earth. Years had passed since he closed the lid on the old and retired cache; she knew she had long since been forgotten.

Her blonde hair was held on only by the frozen tarp, some lay against her bare and bruised shoulders. One half still in the French braid her best friend had put it in before their camping trip. Her long and slender fingers clutched against her throat from where she had taken in her final breaths and her once purple nails were now black and bloody from the soil where she struggled and fought to stay alive. Blood splattered thighs lay spread open, a womb that had yet to bring life was ripped away leaving only an empty, gaping, and dark chasm behind. Her breasts, still exposed by the shreds of shirt that had been ripped from her body, still held the form of her flawless, 23-year-old figure. The figure that attracted the violent killer to steal her and leave her lifeless, alone and cold in a grave marked only by the fluttering, tattered corner of her blue tarp.

Jessie still remembered, the feeling of her cat when he stretched out his massive black paws against her side while she was working on the thesis paper that seemed so important, she still remembered the feeling of the hot cup of coffee against her fingers and the way that fleece throw draped over her shoulders while the Alaskan winter wind whipped through her cold apartment in downtown Anchorage. She could still hear the sound of her phone vibrating against the shaggy, old and blue hand-me-down sofa her Aunt T had given her, and she could still smell her mom’s cinnamon rolls that were delivered to her home every Monday. The cinnamon rolls she always tried so hard not to eat out of fear of the implications with her yoga class. Her mom annoyed her, but right now, all she wanted was her mom. Unable to move, her presence draped over her, three feet under the surface of the frozen ground, it stared back at her rotting corpse, day after day, hour after hour. She wanted to scream, to cry out; to dig for the sunlight… but nothingness was before her, just the trapped and suffocating feeling from within her tomb.

It was supposed to be just a small photo shoot; the temperatures had stayed stuck in the negatives for weeks and Jessie felt the cabin fever setting in. When she wasn’t wrapped up in layers of winter clothes and scarves burying her face against the wind and running to her classes, she was curled up in that throw, working on college paper after paper. Her life was mundane, boring and bland. She regretted not choosing to go out of state, not traveling and seeing the world while she was still young, but in-state costs were just so much cheaper. Plus, Corinne, her high school girlfriend had agreed that she would also choose in-state, that is until she got the secret acceptance letter from Washington and bailed. She was bitter and broken, every day she grew a little colder inside and she was only one semester into her four-year term. It’s just the winter… she thought to herself. It gets to us all…

That’s when she had the idea; she needed to feel good about herself again. She needed to find that spark of self-confidence that had been lost in the dark. She would do a photo shoot! She knew of a few trails that stayed open year-round, the snow would be deep and heavy, but she could push through. How beautiful would that be? She thought, her pale skin against the white snow. It would be cold, but that black lace teddy against the natural white backdrop would be incredible. Her Instagram would explode, and maybe, just maybe, Corinne would see them and realize the mistake she had made… maybe she would even transfer back? They still followed each other on all social media accounts, and she watched her posts daily for any hint of her moving on with another woman. So far, all Corinne posted was beer bottles and neon lights. Rave after rave, she seemed to be having so much fun; Corinne had to jerk herself back to reality before she felt her blood begin to seethe again.

She sent a text to Rhiley, her partner in crime. The two had been best friends since the seventh grade; growing up in the Matsu Valley they were almost never apart. They spent summer after summer, hiking, horseback riding and even hunted together in the fall. They had matching bumper stickers that read Alaskan Girls Kick Ass on their big, jacked up Chevy trucks. They had been living the dream for years; she would be up for it. Hell, Rhiley was always up for anything! Within moments her phone buzzed, Rhiley was on board on the premise that the two would get ready together. Hair and make up were a must! Jessie already had her wardrobe packed and ready before Rhiley could even leave her dorm just a few blocks away.

When Rhiley got there, they spent about an hour on hair and make up, Rhiley put Jessie’s hair in pretty French braids and the two of them talked about how the natural curls would look gorgeous in the snow. They packed up some winter clothes and snow boots and headed for Rhiley’s white Chevy with the pink rims and emblem. Once inside they turned down the blaring hip-hop and started discussing where they would go. They had a few ideas and started driving around scoping out prospects; it was still early enough in the morning they figured they had a few hours before the sun would set.

The first two trails they checked out had been closed from the amount of snow, they both watched as the clock in the lit up Chevy hit 1pm, and in desperation to get their photos done, asked a stranger in a parked car who appeared homeless where the closest trail was. He replied to them in a muffled and high voice that just up the highway on the right was an entrance to the closed trail that the state had forgotten to lock down. The girls, beaming with excitement, peeled out and headed north while making comments of the homeless man being high on meth. Anchorage had developed a nasty problem; the girls viewed them more as parasites than as people in need of help. They talked about maybe throwing him some cash but then again, that would be as useful as throwing the money directly into the trash.

The addict had given them shitty directions, but directions, nonetheless. The snow was so deep that Rhiley shifted down into four-wheel drive just to pull off into the makeshift parking lot. Pieces of tarp and old tent were scattered across the pull out, some of them frozen into the ice. Litter was strewn from one end to the other, empty bottles, cigarette cartons, needles, used condoms and their wrappers…

“How on earth does the city just let this go?” Jessie asked Rhiley.

“Dude, I don’t know but this shit is fucking nasty, do you really want to do a photo shoot here Jessie? I mean I feel like we might catch something even getting out, that dude probably lived here.”

“Oh, Rhiley its fine, he said it was right back in through the trees then we will be on the trail anyway and we can hike back. Obviously, no one is going to bother us out here, the place is deserted so I can change without being walked up on.”

“Whatever dude its your shoot… or should I say your funeral.” Riley ended with that and shut the truck off. She knew how intense Jessie was and didn’t want to waste her breath trying to convince her otherwise.

Stepping down and out of the massive truck a gust of wind lifted up Jessie’s long coat, she pulled it inwards toward herself to keep warm. It was going to be cold… she grabbed her bag and the two of them slowly made their way over the mounds of trash and human waste. The closer they got to the forest lining the deeper the snow became. At one point, Rhiley being the shorter of the two girls fell through an unusually deep patch being caught only by the prickly needles of a black spruce tree that looked more like a brown and green pipe cleaner than a plant. Snow fell into her red auburn hair and down her shirt; she let out a loud groan of annoyance as Jessie helped lift her to her feet. Brushing themselves off they made their way through the brush, pushing against the weight of the winter.

Once through, they could almost make out the trail before them. Jessie, even though she had never heard of the trail, was so desperate to take these photos; she reassured Rhiley that she had been on the trail before and knew her way around it. They trudged through the snow and decided collectively to walk about a mile up the trail. They both tried hard to stay fit and didn’t think much of a mile. They figure at a brisk walking pace it would take them about twenty minutes to make it up that far, they could spend about an hour taking photos and another twenty minutes back to the truck. That would put them back at the truck between three or four pm just as the sun would be setting. They made plans to go out to eat after, somewhere nice where they could warm up and start editing the photos on their cell phones. After all, Instagram filters would make anything that much more intense.

They watched their phones as they walked, service bars appeared and disappeared the further they ventured. Time slowly slipped, the cold made it harder to stay moving than they anticipated. Their fingers became sluggish and texting had become virtually impossible. After a little more than twenty minutes had passed, the girls stopped and put their bags down in the snow. The wind had really picked up and they knew that they were going to have to make this fast so they wouldn’t freeze. Jessie began taking off her coat, each button became increasingly difficult, and she had discovered this coat was more of a fashion statement than actually useful.

The coat slipped off her shoulders and fell to the frozen ground. Next, she lifted her charcoal gray sweater over her head and let it fall to a spot next to the coat. Stepping onto her coat she pulled off her boots and unzipped her blue jeans. She was thick, and in the freezing weather rolling her pants down took all the effort that she had. She stood only in her black lace bra and matching panties, she reached up her back and unbuckled her bra, exposing her breasts to the bitter cold. Her nipples hardened against the biting breeze and she quickly reached into her bag and pulled out the black lace teddy that completed the matching set. She pulled it over her head and down her sides, its hugged and caressed her; even in the freezing weather it brought her comfort.

It reminded her of the night Corinne bought it for her, she remembered the way she bit her thumb and rubbed her forehead and big hazel eyes with the palm of her hand as she walked out of the bedroom with it on. Brushing the blonde hair from her face she moaned and sunk her thumbs into Jessie’s hips, pulling her thickness down onto her lap. Corinne buried her face in Jessie’s breasts and gasped hard, it made her feel confident… sexy and wanted. Something she hadn’t felt in months… as her body temperature lowered, she snapped back to the task at hand and stepped down off of the coat.

Standing barefoot in the snow she did her best to pose and look sexy, she bit down on her bottom lip and grabbed her tits. Rhiley turned on the same hip-hop radio station the two always listened too as Jessie slipped the tips of her fingers into her crotch and pulled her thighs apart. The weather couldn’t stop her from being sexy, she loved her curves and every inch of her body. Turning around and popping her ass out, Rhiley stood behind her phone like an amazing cheerleader.

“Oh yeah, get it girl!” Rhiley hollered, while whistling and cat calling.

Her enthusiasm boosted Jessie into over drive, her skin was cold to the touch, but the music and the electricity had her numb with confidence. After what seemed like a hundred photos, Jessie reached for her clothes. Her fingers were too numb to try and put her bra back on, so she pulled her shirt over her hardened tits. The shirt did nothing to cover her up, but she knew the coat would help until she could warm up. She pulled her pants up around her thighs but decided to leave them unbuttoned until they reached the truck. She finished the last few buckles on her jacket and the two girls grabbed their things when they realized the wind had blown over their tracks in the snow.

“Alright Jessie, which way? You know I am shit with direction ha-ha; there’s a reason I am majoring in art and not science.” Rhiley chuckled.

Jessie stood motionless for a moment, a sick-to-your-stomach feeling washed over her, she had gotten so into taking the photos she honestly didn’t remember which direction the two had come from. She knew a decision had to be made, closing her eyes she swallowed and pointed to the direction she thought seemed most familiar.

“You sure J? You seem nervous… you have been up here before, right?”

“Yeah obviously dude its fine, it’s that way, the snow just threw me off for a sec… but it’s definitely that way.”

Rhiley followed in line behind Jessie’s blonde braids, they continued for about ten minutes before they heard the sound of a snow machine. They squinted their eyes in the now setting sun. They took longer than they thought with the photos… The sun was going down and Jessie had a feeling they were further away from the highway than they thought. The snow machine drew closer, and soon they could make out the shape of it in the distance.

“Thank God, maybe this guy can give us a ride back to the highway.” Jessie said.

“Dude Jessie you literally don’t know this person, and there are obviously homeless drug addicts living out here, are you crazy? We should be to the road any minute; we will hear the cars.”

“Rhiley I don’t know, I feel like we should have heard cars by now. Let’s just see if they stop.”

The snow machine slowed down, and an older man stepped off. His beaver hide hat lined with red flannel on the inside gleamed in the setting sun. His eyes drifted and stared past them, almost as if he had trouble concentrating. His red flannel shirt was stained with what looked like coffee and cigarettes and his blue jeans were caked in dirt and mud. His boots were worn and tattered and a single toothpick hung from his mouth. His stature was small; he was on the older and frail side. For some reason, his appearance being non-threatening put Jessie at ease as she walked up to him to speak.

“Hi, my friend and I… we have been out hiking. I think we got turned around and need to get back to our truck… we are parked in this turn out just off the highway… can you help us?”

The man stared at her, before his eyes ran the length of her neck down to her breasts where he stared intensely and without breaking. Her nipples still protruded from the cold, his eyes met them and slowly he began moaning.

“Jesus Christ Jessie the dude is a fucking creep just like I said, if only you would just fucking listen to me for once. He is probably a homeless meth addict with mental problems just like the last guy who sent us up the way to begin with. Now lets fucking go!”

Rhiley’s harsh words seemed to hit the man like a ton of bricks and he turned to face her. Staring her down like to wolves meeting face to face, he said nothing. Just locked eyes.

“What the fuck are you gonna do old man? Go back to whatever god forsaken rock you crawled out from. Fucking disgusting.”

Rhiley leaned forward to grab Jessie’s arm when the man turned around behind him and grabbed a pickaxe. It was seconds… mere seconds when the pickaxe contacted the top of her skull. Jessie could hear the crack as the axe split down the top and exposed white chunks of bone and flesh fell into the snow. Blood poured down Rhiley’s face as her eyes rotated to her lids and her arms flailed in uncontrollable spasms. Her body hit the ground and the man put his boot on her right shoulder and started thrusting and pulling on the axe in a move to retrieve it. Jessie was frozen, she thought she was screaming… but no sound pierced through that of the axe rotating inside her best friends’ skull.

The man freed the axe and started dragging the hair and brain matter that clung to it through the snow to clean it. Jessie fell to her knees; still unable to make a sound, she heaved with everything she had to scream. She grabbed Rhiley’s face in her hands and the shock started to blind her. Her vision became like a tunnel, but the whites of Rhiley’s dead eyes were seared into Jessie’s vision. She felt pressure against her shoulder as the man pulled her backwards into the snow.

Grabbing a belt loop on either side of her pants he pulled them off without resistance, being unbuttoned, the pants alone put up no fight. Neither did Jessie. Fear had paralyzed her entire body; she couldn’t move a single muscle. She lay there as if she was already dead and the man was rotating body parts into some sort of sick and twisted art. He reached down with a pocketknife and started cutting away at her long black coat as if he was gutting a moose. Once through the thick fabric he started on her shirt, slicing away leaving shards of fabric to cling to her now cold and sweaty skin. Only the black lace teddy and panties remained in the blistering cold.

The man spit out his toothpick over his shoulder and let out a loud moan, sticking his hands down his pants, Jessie could make out the protrusion of his erection. Kicking her thighs apart, he stood above her jerking himself off. He unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the tops of his boots; she stared up at his flesh. Still unable to breathe or make a sound. He dropped to his knees and she could feel his cold dick inside her, she wanted to cry… to let tears spill down her cheeks. She wanted more than anything to kick, to scream and fight back. This man was so small, she could hurt him if she wanted to… and she wanted to kill him, but nothing. Shock gripped every cell in her body. She was a prisoner inside herself.

The man thrust harder and faster with each stroke, his blackened fingernails pinched and tugged on her hard nipples and she knew he was taking his time. She could feel his mouth against her skin, the heat melting each inch he kissed and licked as he worked his way up her sides. She could feel her entire breast slip inside his mouth, and the smell of stale cigarettes and stagnant coffee manifested in her face. The feeling of his gums against her tits finally caused her to stir. Sound slowly filled her lungs, and her slow and quiet cry grew into a loud scream. She gave it all she had, with all the breath in her lungs she shrieked until the old man became nervous. He let off her tits and cupped his hand over her mouth to try and silence her.

She struggled to breath in between his fingers but her screams continued. She felt him speed up in his thrusts and pause; he clenched his teeth and eyes as he finished. With a few more thrusts he pulled out of her and stood up. Pulling his pants up he walked back to his snow machine and came back with chains. The scream left her helpless once again. She had given it all she had, and she was now completely drained. She felt him wrap the chain around her ankles and followed him with her eyes as he stepped back up and over the snow machine. As it roared to life her gaze lifted to Rhiley’s, who lay motionless where she fell.

“Rhiley… Oh God Rhiley…”

Her sobs turned to screams but were drowned out by the sound of the machine’s engines. The man slowly gave it gas and as if everything around her was in slow motion, she reached for her best friend and she was drug away through the snow. Her tattered clothing lay in segments around her, it lay next to her best friends’ body. The machine stopped and the man got off and began pulling Rhiley into the trees, throwing Jessie’s pieces of clothing over the top of her along with snow and branches. She would stay hidden there until spring… Jessie knew it.

Getting back on his machine, Jessie was drug through the snow. Her head smacked large rocks and debris as he sped up, she could see pieces of flesh being torn away from her, but she was numb and felt nothing. Blood poured down her forehead, filling her eyes and matting her hair. She wasn’t sure what would be left of her after they stopped. The machine took a turn off the trail and through some brush. She could smell a wood stove and blinked the blood from her eyes enough to make out the cabin.

Slowing to a stop, the man stepped down and unchained Jessie from the machine; throwing the chains still around her ankles over his shoulder he pulled her behind him to an open cache in the ground. A frozen moose hoof protruded from the dirt, the fur still matted down and a line where the animal’s hide had been skinned from its body. She watched as chunks of filleted flesh still fell from her body and into the white and blood splattered snow. She couldn’t believe she was going to die here it just didn’t seem real. That one small simple photo shoot and her life was about to be over before it had even begun. He dropped the chains in an opening in the ground next to her and walked back over to his cabin door.

Her bright blue eyes wept as her mind raced, she rotated to her side and digging her fingers into the snow she pulled herself over to a downed tree. Squatting as much as she could she freed each foot from the heavy chains, and in what seemed like an eternity she was free. She darted, unable to feel her legs or feet she stumbled and hit tree after tree. She would fall to her knees in deep patches of snow, but she just kept going. She would rather die, alone in the forest then at the hands of the man who had destroyed everything. It was dark now; the midnight sun had finally set. Fear was gripping her, but she didn’t stop until one wrong step.

Her bones had finally had enough and buckled beneath her, throwing her right leg out in front on her to catch herself and as her foot pierced through the snow, she felt an excruciating pain radiate through the bone in her leg. Letting out the loudest scream she had made thus far, she started sifting through the snow trying to figure out what had caught her, blood was seeping around her and she knew it wouldn’t be long… that’s when she felt the metal teeth of the bear trap that encompassed her.

Her shrill screams faded to throbbing sobs as she watched the bright red blood pool around her. The freezing moon was huge and blue, shining down on her and illuminating the quiet forest. Snow fell softly from the iced over branches and then silence. Deafening silence. It was over. She knew there would be no surviving the night, she had tried, she had fought, but she had lost. Knowing that she fought him back, knowing that she didn’t lie down and let him finish her brought her an unusual feeling of peace. Laying down on her back in the cold and comforting snow she stared up into the piercing night sky, a blood red aurora danced and played above her as if her suffering was so small and insignificant that the world would continue on as if she had never existed.

What a beautiful night to die, she wondered what her mother and Corinne were doing, if maybe they were looking up into the same night sky. Watching the aurora sway and dance and the stars flicker behind them. The moon was huge and cold, she could feel the Earth as it rotated, and she took her final breaths. She wanted to wake up in outer space and watch the Earth rise; she wanted to escape the pain of her fleshy prison. She gulped air and closed her eyes when she felt her vision begin to fade.

It will be over quick she thought to herself. All of this will be over, and I won’t have to fight anymore, I can sleep.

Her eye lids felt like they had a thousand bricks attached to them and just then she felt her chest fill up for the very last time, and all fell silent as her heart beat slowed and then stopped.

She felt herself lift from her chest, like rising up from the depths under water, and then as though she hit some sort of a surface, she stopped. She could feel each eye lid peel back and become exposed to the elements. She was still in her own skin, her piercing blue eyes that were wide open now, and her cracked and parted blue lips. Her thoughts we incoherent and foggy, she could not move, breathe or speak but she was still right where it had all ended moments before. She lay underneath that still frozen moon and felt the frost collect on her eyelids. As the night progressed, snow began to pile on top of her, burying her in an icy tomb.

As dawn began to break, sounds of crows echoed through the trees. She was listening as they drew closer and closer before the first one landed on her chest. Its tiny black and beady eye glared down at her, before it began pecking at her cheeks the same way she would watch them peck through bags of bread in grocery store parking lots. It pierced through the first layer of skin like it was nothing more than a piece of thin paper. No blood followed it, just the sensation and pressure of peeling flesh. The crow pecked deeper and harder into her cheekbone, pulling with it sinew and strings of red flesh.

The crow cawed in delight as it feasted on Jessie’s frozen flesh. Soon crow after crow swooped in and circled above her. News of her death was now traveling from tree to tree and alerting the forest of the meal bestowed upon them. The crows landed and punctured her body; beak after beak perforated her internal organs, strewing them out through out the snow. Her eyes were next, and with a pop and ooze she felt her left eye explode and run down her exposed bones. Their tiny, clawed feet scratched the top of her scalp as the stepped through her hair, slicing open her head like a scalpel on a cadaver. The sound of coyotes yipping stirred the birds, not wanting to give up their seat at the table the circled in the crisp morning air, dipping and diving at the incoming coyotes and at Jessie’s partially devoured corpse.

The coyotes circled her and as the first bit into her toes they were jolted and spooked by the sound of an incoming engine… she recognized that sound even in death she recognized that sound. That was the snow machine of the man responsible for all of this.

“Get outta here, get the fuck out…” That was the first time she had heard that man’s voice. It was shrill and high pitched… it was ugly.

The coyotes bolted, their tails between their legs, the man walked over to her, his large snowshoes leaving racket shapes in the snow beneath him. He mumbled and groaned as he got down on his knees and started to undo the bear trap, pulling its teeth back one hand at a time, he wiggled and yanked her foot free and cast the trap aside. He pulled himself up and walked around her body, picking up pieces of organs and shoving them back inside her abdomen, kicking random pieces of flesh aside. He dragged her to his machine and rolled her onto a large blue tarp. Once on the tarp he rolled her up and placed her belly down on the back of his machine, a few of her organs slipped out of the top past her face and fell to the ground. The man kicked them aside and hopped on, before slowly gliding away from the grisly scene.

Pulling up to the cabin the man pushed Jessie off and she hit the snow like the hindquarter of a big game animal. Pulling her up the one step and into the small one room cabin, he lifted her up onto his old farmhouse style table. Knocking over old tin cans and rusty silverware. The blue tarp fell open, exposing her frozen body to the heat of the wood stove. Slowly water began dripping from her pale blue skin onto the table, it made the slow rhythmic sound drip… drip… drip… barely audible over the sound of the man rifling through drawers in the kitchen. With a handful of knives and a bone saw he returned to his prize, standing over her like a trophy.

The sound of his pants unzipping drew her dull and hazy attention, she was cold, so cold, and she couldn’t feel anything but the pressure of him forcing himself back inside of her. The shoddy, hand made kitchen table sent slivers into her back while he pushed his thumbs into her dead skin, the stubble of his unkempt face further tore into her open and exposed cheeks while the sounds of his moans raced through the cabin and bounced off of the walls like a horror film. Grabbing her thighs, he pulled her towards him and used his old and scrawny muscles to pull her from side to side as he struggled to stay in position, the smell of old urine and sweat seeped into her pores, the few that remained, at least.

A bear trap hung on the wall, just above the wood stove. Unable to move her head, it was the only thing she could stare out of her one good eye, as it was, she could feel a cloud slowly encompass her cornea that would soon steal what sight she had left. She was fine with that. She was fine with everything now. She stared intently at the trap, her thoughts wondered to how many animals found themselves in the same spot as her, dying and hopeless, at the hands of that very trap. Why was she still here, why could she still feel the pressure of the mans body on top of her? Why could she feel his hands gripping her, becoming enveloped by her internal organs? Why could she still feel the thawing slime dripping down her cheek and her flesh peeling away? Where was she going to go? Would this be eternity? Hell, for the first time, sounded like an incredible place. Maybe this was Hell; maybe the Bible had it all wrong.

The man slowed his rhythm; she was hoping this was a sign that he was close to finishing with her. Arching his back and grunting hard he thrust forward one final time and collapsed onto her paralyzed figure. She felt the tips of his fingers circling her neck and chest; slowly they felt their way to her nipples where he played like a little boy with Legos. Unable to recoil or move away, unable to even close her eyes or swallow, his icy fingers clawed her back and that was torture worse than any damage the crows could have done. After what seemed like hours the man pulled himself off of her and turned for the tools, he had set out earlier.

Lifting a butcher knife, he swiped it from left to right against a black stone that sat next to her. The sound of the knife gaining its sharp edge left a feeling of imminent doom looming over Jessie. She knew that whatever was next would be worse than what she had been through thus far. In seconds she felt the tip of the knife insert itself into the top of her groin. Slowly, and methodically the knife shifted down and around against her right thigh. Once at the end of her violated orifice, the knife turned and started back up on the left side of her inner thigh and met back at the top of her groin. His fingers forcing themselves into the flesh of her pelvis, he began peeling away her dead vagina like an Apache war trophy.

The sound of tendons popping and her pelvic floor separating made the man stop momentarily. The smell became overwhelming even for him, coughing and grunting he turned back to continue his work. The last tendril tore, and he held his prize above him before dropping it in what Jessie could only assume was his kitchen sink. The feeling of cold air moving up through the inside of her was a feeling that she was not expecting and lasted only moments before he grabbed her ankles and yanked her off of his butcher block.

She hit the floor with a loud thud; she listened to the sound of dirt moving beneath her skull as he dragged her across the rough-cut log floor. Kicking the door open in front of him, he circled around the back of the cabin and to the cache where he dropped her ankles and lifted the heavy, wooden ceiling in the frozen ground. Getting on his knees he pushed her until she made one final drop into the dark and death filled hole. A severed moose head lay on the same blue tarp; its dark and cold eye stared at her. At least she wouldn’t be alone, she wondered if he was still there too, watching in horror and torment as his massive body rotted away beneath him. The man slowly closed the light on them as the massive wooden ceiling locked into place, a sense of peace filled the cache. He would be back, she thought as she heard his soft footsteps make their way back to his cabin.

Months turned into what she could only assume was years as the sound of his footsteps faded. Her eyes she believed were gone now, but the darkness swallowed her long before, maybe he had finally died himself, or maybe he had left the cabin. The only sound that would fill the cache day after day was that of the starving crows cawing and pecking against the wooden tomb. Her life, long since forgotten would be only remembered by her. Unable to finish decomposing due to the frigid cold of Alaska’s frozen ground, she knew one day someone would stumble across her body and wonder what it was that befell her.

…Or maybe she would be doomed to lay forevermore, her soul trapped within the boundaries of her flesh.

Danielle Bailey is an accomplished poet and author who’s first short story can be found in Rebecca Rowland’s Ghosts, Goblins, Murder, and Madness anthology. She is a former charter boat deckhand who is pursuing a career writing horror and suspense stories. Influenced by heavy metal music and horror films, her hobbies include photography and being out on the ocean in Alaska. You can find more on her website https://dray5032.wixsite.com/website.

MY MIRROR WIFE

Ash Tudor

Ethan

I expected the station to be cramped with the regular suits and skirts on their morning trek to work, but breathing in the crowd makes my chest pound. I keep my face low and weave a narrow path, my hands secured in trouser pockets. The platform is two toned grey; dark where the rain has struck, light beneath the steel frame cover. Near the end of the platform, I see her. She’s detached from the crowd and sitting on a bench, head down towards the steaming cup in her hands.

I inhale to steady my pulse. There’s no need to rush. I’m running on time, even a little early, and I sure don’t like to rush. The photo in my jacket pocket shows a bright faced woman wearing a summer dress, long hair whipped by an invisible breeze. The woman on the bench has her hair coiled and pinned under a cream hat and her svelte frame is covered by layers of scarf and coat. Can’t take out the photo, not in public, but I’m confident the woman is the same one inside my pocket, her plump lips drenched in color are a match. Amelia. And now I’m a little close, I see she’s crying. Hiccups escape her throat and I smile. A real smile rather than the one I’ve rehearsed.

“Is the coffee really that bad?” I say.

I take my place beside her, the metal bench is so cold it feels almost wet. Amelia doesn’t flinch. Her hat covers part of her face, but when she lifts her gaze I receive a clear view of the grey pearls beneath. I’m surprised to feel my stomach tighten.

“Do I look like the sort of woman who cries over bad coffee?” she asks.

“I meant it only as a joke, miss.”

Her voice has a bite and I’m not proud to admit I feel her sting.

“It’s wonderful,” she shrugs, “so long as you like the taste of dirty dish water.”

She giggles like a young girl, the bite disappears, and her voice floats around like smoke. Her double tone is intriguing, roaring one moment and purring the next, but also disheartening. Unpredictability is a dangerous trait—even more than brute strength in my professional opinion—and it means I must treat Amelia with more caution. This is precisely why I don’t like to rush. I don’t rush and I don’t falter.

I take the drink from her hands and place it down next to the bench. Her fingers feel like warm velvet.

“Tell me, what’s the matter?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t spill my problems to strangers, not unless they own a long couch and charge me ninety dollars an hour.”

This is my cue to tell her my name, I hear it loud and clear, but I know better and instead I offer one of my nice-guy smiles mixed with a heavy dose of bashfulness.

“You never know,” my smile widens. “I might be able to help.”

She raises one brow in a sultry twitch, streaks of tears cover both cheeks.

“What the hell do I look like to you?”

Another bite. I wasn’t ready.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard. What do you see when you look at me?”

I’m good at this, I’ve always been good. Even as a kid I had a knack of opening doors using only words. Here with Amelia’s pearl eyes blazing through me, my mind stumbles. I search through my list of acceptable answers. You look like someone who needs saving; cheesy but a hit with the housewives. I’ll tell you, but let me buy you a drink first. That one won’t work, not at a station and not this early in the morning…

Her long fingers run across the collar of her coat and her gaze holds me firm. I think if she concentrated a little harder, she’ll be able to hear my thoughts and the feeling makes me want to grab her shoulders and turn her away.

When logic fails, trust instincts; and my instinct is clear; nothing will be worthy. I’ll tell the truth, just this once.

“Alright,” I straighten my collar. “When I saw you sitting here, I thought you belonged in an old movie, one of those beautiful black and white ones.”

A testing silence and I’m confident I’ve broken through. Then she throws back her head and laughs, and my nice guy grin drops onto the empty train tracks. Several people nearby turn around, curious at her outburst, and I’m forced to move my face away. The spectators quickly return to their phones.

“I’m sorry, but you’re ridiculous,” she pats my knee and leaves a warm patch.

This plan of mine isn’t working, I’m slipping further off course. She, on the other hand, is growing more vibrant with every awkward passing second, drawing strength from my missteps. I turn to relieve myself of her face- and the relief is both real and somehow unsatisfying.

Alright, it’s time to pull back the reins.

“I probably am ridiculous. I saw you over here and was worried. But I can leave you alone if you want.”

Amelia wipes remnants of tears off her chin. “Oh don’t sulk, Mr. Bingham. You know perfectly well why I’m crying.”

My face seizes. She couldn’t have said it. A dinging noise announces an approaching train and we’re quiet during the growing roar of engine. The train passes us at blurring speeds, a connection train not meant for our platform, and the heavy crowd takes a universal step back.

“Do you prefer it if I call you Ethan? I’ve always loved that name.” She says my name slowly and the fine hairs on my arm tingle. “Ethan.”

Quick. I must rethink the small eternity I’ve spent on this bench. I’m certain, I haven’t said my name and so, in these situations the protocol is clear. I need to walk away without a backwards glance, I must reconsider my position and form a different approach. Walk away now. I scream the order to myself but outside I’m frozen and my backside is glued to the seat. Amelia is no longer facing me, her attention turns towards the tracks, and this upsets me. I’m not sure why but I blame her grey pearl eyes. They’re horrible and they’re fierce and, God help me, I want them.

“My name’s not Ethan,” I say, miles too late.

“Maybe it’s not your real name but it’s the one you gave my husband,” she says, her voice too calm. “You, Ethan, are the reason I’m crying.”

I face my shoes. I want to throttle that bumbling husband, I told him multiple times to burn his tracks. Wouldn’t be too difficult to find the man and lay some sense into his soft belly, but no, I can’t commit to the idea. I can hardly commit to feeling angry. A hot bubbling rises in my belly but the sensation isn’t rage. Not even close.

I look up. Amelia has turned, both knees facing towards my leg. Her pearls have found me again and I realize there is little chance of me leaving that platform, or at least leaving alone. I don’t want to say anything, I’d rather wait for her to say my name again.

No. No, damn it. I’m a professional and I won’t falter. I will not falter.

“Me?” I say. “I’m the reason?”

“Of course you are. You’re here to kill me.”

Amelia

I stayed at the motel a while even though I hated that room and, you know sweetheart, I don’t usually hate anything. The room was despicable. Curtains were like fishing nets, can you believe that, and if the sheets were once white they surely weren’t anymore. The bed was a petri-dish of body odors.

The mirror in the plastic frame was the room’s saving grace and even that was riddled with fingerprints. I picked Ethan’s Burberry pants off the floor, spat on the cuff, and used them to wipe clean my reflection.

The mirror version of me waved hello through the glass and I winked back. She sat on the mattress corner, the same spot I sat, hair tussled and chest bare, her lipstick smudged beneath her nose and over her chin. Not like my lips. My lips were precisely in place from the last time I kissed you and my hair smelt like your cologne. The other me, reflection me, sat on the bed giggling and crying all at once, rubbing the teeth marks on her collarbone, but I’m sat calm and waited for her to finish. I smiled because she deserved a big smile, she did well. When I left that room, I took a goodbye glance and saw her through the mirror, still on the bed with fingers stroking her throat in that special way. She did so well.

Ethan. Such a pretty one. I noticed his over ripe chin trailing me in the reflection of shop windows this morning. He walked like a soldier on campaign and when I arrived at the train station, my tears were ready. Didn’t take long to know the man he was underneath his sharp jacket and strong hands. He was easy, my love. I suppose I didn’t need to kill him straight away, but you’re used to having me home before six and I had no intention of making you wait.

We talked a while at the station, three trains passed us. He resisted, denied his job and denied the heat in his skin. Denied. Denied. Denied. I promised him I wouldn’t go to the police and, with more time, his tight laced façade cracked.

“Leave the state,” he told me. “You’re not safe going back to him. You’re only choice is to run.”

“He’s my only family. Where else am I supposed to go?”

You know, I think it was four trains. I remember a fourth train whistled and stopped, Ethan had to lean in close over the noise. He hesitated— I imagine he doesn’t hesitate often —before reaching for my hand.

“Can we talk somewhere else? Amelia please say yes. Please.”

I imagine he doesn’t often beg either.

“I know a place close to here.”

The bar I chose was next to the motel we later visited and the two places shared similar levels of refinement. The bar cast a dark mood lighting and was oddly full for a midday visit. We sat at the counter facing the shelves where I spotted numerous dead blowflies lying beside sticky Kahlua bottles.

It wasn’t me who chose that bar at all. The other me, the one inside the mirror, was the one desperate to put a drink in Ethan’s hand. I bought the first round—two glasses of disgusting whiskey—while Ethan kept careful eye on the unemployed drunkards behind us. Our drinks were pushed forward and, placing a single finger on his chin, I forced his attention on me, on my face alone. And her face too. He didn’t see her add the extra ingredient to his glass, he didn’t see her mix the little treat into his drink using her fingertip.

“You’re a beauty,” he told me. “I must be an idiot.”

“At least one of those is correct, I think,” I teased. I teased and she stirred.

Easy as it was, I worried about timing. I only ever use strong doses but I still needed another couple hours before the arsenic erupted in Ethan’s stomach. He ordered another whiskey and I weaved stories about our marriage, spoon feeding nightmares of an abusive husband. That was the hardest part, sweetheart, telling those repulsive lies, but all part of your game.

“He was being worse than ever.” I said. “I snooped around his computer and found the messages he sent you.”

Ethan put a hand on my leg. On the far end of the bar a football game played on screen and a pivotal goal sent the barflies into a roar.

“I’ve met a lot of evil bastards in my work, there’s a lot out there trust me,” he said. “But they’re not usually as stupid as your husband. It’s like he wanted to be caught. Fucking idiot.”

Other me gripped her whiskey. She wanted to scream, wanted to smash the glass and plunge the shards in his eye and I struggled to hold her back.

“Can we talk about something else,” I stroked my neck. “Can we pretend we met here in this bar?”

Ethan sipped his drink. “My job mostly involves playing pretend. I’m good at it. One of the best actually,” he put the glass down, then changed his mind and sipped again. “Or at least I was. I should be completing the job, Amelia. Don’t worry I won’t hurt you, but we shouldn’t be here together.”

He opened his mouth as if to say more, but lucky for me another score announcement blared off the screen causing a hooting celebration. Sounds of bottles smashing were followed by brainless laughter.

I fought against the noise and whispered against his cheek.

“Ethan, if you walk out I won’t stop you. But-” I placed my hand behind his head and swept fingers down his neck, you know the way I mean. “But I’ll go crazy if I’m alone. And I swear, if you leave me I’ll never forgive you. I forgive you for what my husband hired you to do, it might sound insane and make me ridiculous but it’s true. After everything, if you walk away I’ll hate you and I don’t want to hate you. In fact I was hoping to love you, just a little.”

He kissed me and I kissed back, and I thought of you sweet husband and how proud you’d be. Ethan slipped his tongue inside and I thought about you, the musky scent of your inhaler compared to the stiff taste of whiskey and aftershave. Soon we’d be close again but first I needed to earn my place beside you. I will earn you, Oliver.

A single kiss in a bar burns no time at all, but fucking in the motel worked nicely. I’ve never stayed in a place with neon lighted signs or with hourly rates handwritten at the check-in desk. I’d rather not stay again. Ethan handed the clerk enough cash for two nights. He bragged too, saying he’d protect me and he’d make me forget about my husband, but he was no match for you, my Oliver. He failed in the only way that mattered, he failed to truly see me. And he never saw the mirror, so he had no clue where she began and I ended. Soon enough, the poison blossomed inside him.

It began with a coughing fit, her naked body still straddled on Ethan’s lap while I watched from the mirror. Tremors started small through the hands and feet, and then he struggled to inhale. She was quick to pin his wrists above his head. Pretty Ethan thought he was strong, thought he was one of the best, but when the poison erupts no one is strong enough. No one. He kicked heels against the mattress like a child in tantrum, arched up and took a bite of her shoulder. Then he sank teeth into her naked breast and white hot agony made me want to scream, but she never made a sound.

He ended with a seizure, blood riddled foam spewing from his pretty mouth.

What I left on that motel mattress was artwork. Do you want to see? I took a photo, couldn’t resist. Look, he’s still pink but his skin turned grey fast and his veins popped up all over his body, especially his neck. His jaw looks broken, doesn’t it? It’s not. That’s just how his mouth froze when he died. The eyes are my favorite part though, so wide open and all the white parts swimming with blood, I feel he almost sees me.

I love you, my sweetheart, and I know you’ve always loved me but after today I feel we can survive anything. Absolutely anything.

Oliver

Amelia saved me for the brutal hell of high school. I was fifteen, a big kid battling asthma and I spent my lunch breaks watching other boys play basketball from a safe distance.

One lunch break Amelia sat beside me. Her long legs and honey hair joined me on the grass, I had no idea a person could be so beautiful outside the movies. I knew her, she was in my year, but we’d never spoken. She sat down without uttering a word and, God, I was speechless. For forty minutes we sat in silence. She ate her apple, I ate my sandwich, and then the bell rang.

She returned every lunch at the same place with a different apple, completely silent. Then after two months of wordless lunches, I took action. I waited until she sat in our usual spot then, head down, I offered her an apple. I still remember blood pumping through my ears.

“It’s a pink lady?” Her voice was husky, even then.

I nodded. They were the only type she ate.

She didn’t accept my gift. Instead, she rolled the apple out of my palm and laced her fingers tight between mine. When I finally turned, I saw eyes the color of storm clouds. We kissed for the first time, soft at first and then not soft at all. We abandoned the apple and I imagine it rotted into the grass.

After school I took her out for ice cream and Amelia said she loved me, said I saw beneath her sweet coating. I had no idea what she meant, but I didn’t care. I’d gotten lucky. I was the luckiest lard-bucket in the world.

We were engaged straight out of university. I lost my job soon after, but found another at a better accounting firm where apparently the last intern quit under strange circumstances. Everything worked out, just like Amelia said it would, and aren’t I the lucky one? God damn lucky.

We bought our dream home—Amelia’s palace—perfect in every way but one; our neighbors never lasted longer than six months. Ms Pratt was the last, an elderly miser who didn’t like our shared fence. Police said she committed suicide by gulping down a tumbler of bleach. They said her dog, a gorgeous corgi, starved.

Amelia saw the bright side; we’re lucky there’s no one to infiltrate our love bubble. I agreed but I didn’t feel lucky. I thought about Ms. Pratt and felt sick.

Then last year, mum passed way. A massive gastrointestinal bleed, the doctor said. I keep thinking about the last time we spoke, stupidly fighting over Dad’s inheritance money. At the funeral Amelia squeezed my hand and said at least the fighting was over, and I squeezed back without looking at her. Only then did I start to question my luck. Only then did I see my angel wife’s maggot-riddled core.

Twelve years of marriage has brought me to a strange place where I seriously want my wife to die. And while I’ve tried, I’ve held a pillow above her beautiful sleeping head with the intention of pushing down, I can’t. I can’t do it.

But Mr. Bingham is a professional and I’m sure he can do what I can’t. I’m sure he will free me.

Amelia has left the house, saying goodbye with the usual kiss on my neck, and now I can finally call Mr. Bingham.

“I’ve transferred the money.”

“Good.” Mr Bingham has a talent for speaking quietly without surrendering his firm tone.

“I increased the price by fifteen-percent, like you asked.”

“You’re a generous man.” I hear the mockery and hang my head.

“She’ll be at the train station in one hour,” I say.

“I know.”

I hear traffic in the background, it makes my silent house feel even emptier. “She might be early. Amelia sometimes prefers to buy her coffee at the-”

“Hey,” he said. “What did we say about using names on an unsecured line?”

“Oh yes. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Fucking hell.”

My body tenses as I prepare for him to hang up. He doesn’t, but I hear the last strings of his patience ready to snap.

“Anything else?” he says.

“Y-yes. My wife… She is…”

“What?”

I grab the phone handle and thud it against my greasy skull.

“Mate. You’ve told me everything I need to know, right?”

“Right,” I say, close to crying.

“Good. Now stop fucking around and wasting my time.”

Ethan Bingham has been all smiles for the last month. I suppose now I’ve sent him the money there was no need to switch on his charm, but I don’t blame him for despising me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’ll be done by this evening. You’ll receive no call, there will be no notification. This’ll be the last time we speak. Report your wife missing tomorrow morning.”

The line goes dead.

I’ve taken the day off work, told them my stomach ulcers are playing up and it’s not a complete lie. I want to throw up except there’s nothing inside me to expel. My wife murdered my appetite long ago.

God, I’m so tired. I don’t sleep at night anymore, I’d rather arrive early to work and sleep in my car. The boss has caught me snoring at my desks too many times. All I want is to sleep without fear pounding on my skull, all I want is to eat without searching every mouthful for that fatal almond flavoring. If I could have that I’d be the luckiest oaf that ever lived. Soon I will be. Soon I’ll be free.

I wander around dripping sweat trails. I open a book but the words go blurry, I make a sandwich and then spew the contents in the kitchen sink.

Finally I attempt to nap on the sofa. I succeed, but my sleep is restless and full of dreams of summer days spent with Amelia, picnicking in the botanical gardens and making love against a tree while the ants eat our quiches.

I’m in the early stages of waking up when I hear the key wiggle in the front door. Bile rises and burns my throat.

“Sweetheart, I’m home.”

She enters, the fold of her hat covering too small a portion of her face. My Amelia, as alive as when she left this morning and the walls begin to spin. I could be sick again, one small cough and I’m certain something would come out. And yet, a part of me isn’t surprised.

I stand in slow motion.

“Babe, you’re home early.”

She’s at the door head down in her purse and I watch her lips turn upwards at the sound of my voice. My body works on memory and I wipe the sweat from my top lip before kissing her cheek. Her skin feels like sandpaper. Her colorless eyes rise without animation, without life. My angel, expression like stone.

“How’s your mum?” I say.

She passes me, heels tapping on the kitchen stone tiles and with one click of a pin, she removes her hat. I notice a mark on the side of her neck, almost a bruise.

She hands me the hat and I take it.

“I didn’t visit mum. Got caught up with something else.” A brow arches upwards.

“Really?”

“I had an interesting day with your new friend.”

God save me. The air becomes so cold I step back and hold the hat over my chest. I could run. My keys are in my pocket, I could fly out the door, start the car and drive away towards nowhere. I’ve tried before, maybe this time I’ll succeed.

“Honey, you’re shaking.”

She removes her coat in a swooping motion then drops it on the tiles, the scent of her perfume infecting the house. Slowly, Amelia wraps her arms around me and her head pillows my chest. My arms are frozen, my hands locked into fists.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” She speaks in a slippery whisper.

“Amelia, I—”

“Shhh,”

She brushes the tip of her tongue over my bottom lip, then the top. Sudden arousal mixes with my terror and sends thunder through my blood.

“My sweetheart. You did it, you finally did it. I always knew you had it in you. I was worried I’d have to fight your battles forever.” She kept whispering the same words. “You did it.”

Arms drape over my shoulders, as if we’re in a slow dance. I’ve dropped the hat without realizing.

“What—what did I do?”

“You were incredible. I was quite incredible myself, so aren’t we just an incredible pair.”

She rubs her nose against my chin in an Eskimo type kiss and, piece by piece Amelia tells me. Mr. Bingham finding her at the train station, the bar and the arsenic laced drink acting like a slow motion bullet to the brain. She tells me about the motel room and when she says she slept with him, I bloat with jealousy. I didn’t know I can still feel jealous. She tries show me a photo but I bury my face in her shoulder.

“Hiring that beast of a man was a dangerous task, it must’ve taken all your courage, sweetheart. That’s the incredible part. With one move you show me you have the strength to act on your own and at the same time, you gave me a chance to prove myself. It was genius, Oliver. I’m in awe.”

“What? What are you saying I did?”

“You tested me, my loyalty and my love. But, more importantly, you proved the kind of powerful man you are underneath all this—” she licks my lips again. “—softness.”

“But,” Every word is a potential death sentence and I’m shaking harder. “Why do you think that? Why?”

Amelia tilts her head. “Because it’s the truth. It’s the only explanation.”

“So, you’re happy?”

“More than ever. I love you, honey.”

It’s worse than I ever imagined. My plan hasn’t sparked rage, it hasn’t even unhinged the chains of this damn marriage. God, I’m more trapped than before and now I see, my Amelia will either destroy me or let fear decay me from the inside out. I’ll never be free.

My misery bursts and I fall onto my knees, my sweaty hands gripping her skirt.

“Please. Either kill me or let me go. I can’t—I can’t live like this.”

My brain is splitting down the middle. I make a noise I hardly recognize as human, a high pitched wailing that echoes around our home. Long saliva strands pools onto the tiles, then I make the grand mistake of retching and a fiery mucus fills my nostrils.

It takes all my strength to raise my head. Amelia is paying no attention. She’s taken a tissue from her bag and wipes her lipstick with an expression bordering on dreary. Her stormy eyes are upwards and somewhere else.

“Sweet husband, we should play no more games tonight, at least not until after dinner.”

She pulls her skirt out of my grip with ease and, as she passes me, my head follows. I watch her exquisite backside through watery vision as she bobbles up the stairs. The bobbling stops halfway up.

“Come,” she says calm as the grave. “You’ll tell me about your day while I get changed.”

The staircase is right next to the front door, one path adjacent to the other. I stand. I’m going to walk through that front door, in fact I’m going to run. I’ll leave and finally escape this prison that’s been camouflaged by her loveliness for too long. I can’t kill my wife, my angel Amelia, but I can leave. I must leave.

“Oliver?”

“Coming, sweetheart,” I say, then softer I add. “I’m coming.”

First I pick up her hat and coat, folding the woolen material over my arm and flattening the collar the way she likes. Wiping the remnants of my outburst off my chin, I follow my wife upstairs.

Ash Tudor lives in Perth, Australia where she enjoys hoarding books, hiding from the sunshine, and writing disturbing tales. She has a degree in ancient history and is a trained ancestry researcher. She lives with three house plants (all of which are still alive) and one husband (also still alive.)

Ash dedicates her time to writing short horror fiction and creating nightmares. Her stories have been shortlisted in competitions, including Albedo One’s Aeon Award, and you can find her recent work on Writer-writer, The Horror Tree and in the upcoming anthology Predators in Petticoats.

PATTERNS OF FAERYTALES

Azzurra Nox

The night before Cillian’s wedding, his soon to be mother-in-law stopped by his house. It was raining and the wind forced the scattered showers to fall sideways, causing his mother-in-law to be drenched in the short span of time it took him to save his work on his flash drive and walk towards the door. He could smell the scent of gin on her breath and he pulled the door wider to let her in.

“My god, Lydia, what made you brave this bloody rain at this hour of the night?”

She had a stricken look on her face, and slight bags under her eyes highlighted by dark circles. A wild thought entered his mind. Maybe Olivia wanted to call off the wedding and sent her mother in her place? Perhaps she was having second thoughts about having to move from Oban once he accepted that promotion in London on Monday. Cillian had noticed that Olivia lately was absent-minded, forgetful, always lost in her daydreams and staring at the sea. Maybe she felt like too many changes were happening at once and wanted to backpedal? But by God shouldn’t she have tried to speak to him first before deciding that?!

“There’s something I need to give you.”

He was still standing dumbfounded, unable to grasp the meaning behind her visit when he noticed the dark bag she carried.

“Oh.”

“A gift.”

“You didn’t have to. We already appreciate that you’re paying for our honeymoon.”

“No, not that kind of gift, you bampot.” She said verging on the annoyed.

He was taken aback from her sudden change in tone. He closed the door behind her, not sure what to say.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Enough of the pleasantries.” She walked past him and took a seat on the couch. “I advise that you take a seat and a stiff drink.”

Shit. Were things that bad? He did as he was told, leaving the living room and heading to the kitchen to pour themselves each a glass of gin and went back to deal with his imminent mother-in-law. He looked down at his wrist watch. Half past midnight. Christ. He sure hoped Lydia wouldn’t take long with whatever it was that she wanted to give him, because he was thoroughly exhausted.

“Here,” he said, handing her the glass of gin (not that she really needed another from the scent of her breath but he didn’t want to touch that subject). “Now please explain to me this sudden visit. What’s going on? Is Olivia having second thoughts?” He couldn’t help but think of his first encounter with Olivia two years prior. Her bike’s tire had deflated and she had been stranded on the side of the road in a heavy rain. He could still recall how pretty she looked with her red locks curling from the rain and how her wet clothes had clung to her voluptuous curves. It was enough to drive any man crazy.

“No. Olivia doesn’t know that I’m here. And you must never tell her.”

Lydia pulled a medium sized box out of the bag she was carrying. The box looked ancient with scratch marks clawed into the sides of it as though a cat had gone to town with it. The wood was chipped and had a slight mustard tint in places where pieces were missing. A strange scent of sea salt lingered to it. A heavy lock, rusty with age hung from the pivoted hook.

“What’s in that?”

“Not so fast. I first need to tell you something important.”

Cillian took a swig of his gin as he nodded. He really shouldn’t be drinking the night before his wedding. He didn’t want to wake up with a hangover, but Lydia’s deliberate stalling was making him feel anxious.

“You think you may know Olivia, but you don’t. You see, she’s different….” Lydia explained, then she looked away, her hands gripping the box so tight that her knuckles turned white. He was positive that her frail bones would snap in two if she held on a little tighter.

“What do you mean different? How?”

“She’s not human.”

He chuckled. It was clear the woman was mad! Drunk for sure, but quite possibly even mad.

He stood up.

“I’m sorry, Lydia, but I’ve really got to get some sleep tonight. I don’t have time to listen to your fanciful tales.”

“SIT BACK DOWN!” Her tone was harsh, it felt like a slap to the face. He couldn’t help but do as he was told. “Olivia’s not my daughter, at least biologically speaking. But I’ve always loved her as my own and would do anything for her happiness. And it’s because I want her happiness that you must know what she is.”

“Is this the moment you’re going to tell me she’s an alien?” he joked, taking another swig of the drink and laughed.

“No, she’s not an alien. Olivia is a creature that belongs to the sea.”

“The sea?” Cillian thought of the many times he had seen Olivia stare absently at the sea, all those walks along the beach, and how she’d swim in the icy waters even in the dead of winter. But that didn’t mean anything! Many people loved the sea.

“Yes. I found her stranded on the beach when she was barely two years old. She was a sweet little thing. Her big brown eyes implored to be loved.”

“What happened to her parents?”

“Gone. Her mother was slaughtered when a hunter went after Olivia.”

“Jesus. Why was he after her?”

Lydia toyed with the box’s lock.

“The hunters, you see, they want her kind for their fur. Especially when they’re still babies. Once they grow older their fur falls out, and is replaced by a thick, coarse skin.”

“Wait… fur? What the fuck you talking about?” His head was spinning from both the gin and this mindless game of half truths and blatant lies. Why was she telling him this mad story? What was that thing his father had always told him? Sometimes the truth is far scarier than one thinks. Was this a case of that? But he couldn’t possibly believe it!

“She’s a sea creature. But her kind can transform into a human once on land. Some of them live on land for many years. Their memories of the sea diminish with time and I think that they may forget about their former lives forever if they’re not reminded. I think that’s been the case with Olivia. She doesn’t remember anything about that fateful day nor does she know what she really is. This is why I have to tell you, so that you can keep her away from this box. It must always remain locked or you will lose Olivia forever.”

A dreadful chill ran down his spine. It was like having a million spiders crawling down his back. He shivered. The last thing he wanted to do was lose his soul mate.

“So what exactly am I supposed to do with this box?”

“Keep it locked and away from Olivia.”

“Why haven’t you just buried it then?”

The look she gave Cillian was that of disbelief, almost as though he had suggested to torch the damn box.

“You must never do such a thing!”

“Why not?”

“Because this is part of her, and you can’t bury it like it’s a box of bones you’re trying to get rid of!”

“What would happen?”

“There could be fatal consequences.” With that she got up and handed the box to Cillian. “Be careful, and remember… never let her see the contents of this box! Keep it locked.” And with those parting words, Lydia left as swiftly as she had entered.

Cillian was left speechless.

He toyed with the lock and shook the box trying to hear what was inside of it. But whatever was inside wasn’t particularly noisy, rather it made a swish sound as though it were a heavy bundle of fabric. Cillian was too tired to try to open the box that night, despite his promise that he never would. So he set the box aside and forgot about it.

Several years passed before Cillian saw the box again. He hadn’t thought about it after that night, and when the movers came to take his things for his move to London he hadn’t noticed that it got placed in a cardboard box with several of his old books that still remained unopened in his closet. That is, until Olivia pulled out said box from the closet one idle Thursday night. Cillian had forgotten completely about its existence and Lydia’s warning till he walked in and saw Olivia picking away at the lock.

Fear gripped his throat and suddenly that night before his wedding came crashing down on him with the force of a ton of bricks.

“What are you doing?!” His tone was agitated although he had no reason to be. He had never seen the contents of that box and didn’t know what secrets were buried inside of it. And although a part of him never truly believed what Lydia had revealed to him that night seeing the box kind of cemented its existence and possible threat.

Olivia’s brown eyes widened in disbelief at his violent outburst. He rarely raised his voice with her and couldn’t understand what she had done wrong to cause a similar reaction.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to snoop. I was just looking for some books to donate to the charity book sale. I know you have so many in here that you haven’t read in years. But I never knew you kept this box in here too. What’s in it?”

“Nothing important.”

“It looks old.”

“It is old.”

“What’s in it?” Her fingers traced the lock as she shook the box trying to understand the contents that lurked inside.

Cillian was desperate to tell her the truth, but then he recalled Lydia’s warning. That he must never show Olivia its contents. Although it pained him that he couldn’t be sincere, at the same time he feared losing her. A part of him was skeptical about Lydia’s fabricated tale, then the other didn’t wish to tempt fate. He grabbed the box from his wife before she had a chance to mess around with the lock once more.

“It’s just an old family keepsake. I’ve lost the keys to this lock years ago. But it holds sentimental value so I keep it.”

“But what’s in it?”

“Just some old documents,” he lied.

She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side waiting for him to confess the truth. When he didn’t she shrugged and said, “Okay.”

Cillian thought that the matter had been settled. That he no longer had to worry about the box. But he was sorely mistaken. He should’ve known that the seeds of curiosity had been planted in Olivia’s ripe mind and slowly began to grow everyday. She hadn’t thoroughly believed his story about the box merely containing documents, for her husband wouldn’t have been so nervous if that had been the case.

A week passed since the incident, and it hadn’t crossed Cillian’s mind anymore. Work had kept him busy as usual. He had been assigned another project that he needed to be complete by the end of the week. Designing logos for companies had been his passion when he first started, but lately he was starting to feel burned out.

Perhaps that had been his downfall, because when he returned late one night from work he initially hadn’t realized that something was wrong. Everything in the flat looked the same as always, but there was a stillness in the air that made his skin crawl.

“Olivia? I’m home!” He called out, setting his keys on the counter and placing his folder on a nearby stool.

Silence.

This was strange for usually he would be greeted by the sounds of the radio playing music while his wife cooked dinner in the kitchen. He walked further into the flat and noticed that the kitchen was empty. His wife wasn’t in there and the table wasn’t set for dinner. Looking around he saw that their cat, Oscar hadn’t come to greet him either. He cautiously walked into the bedroom.

“Olivia, darling? Are you home?”

The room was dark, except for the light illuminating the walk-in closet. He continued to walk in the direction of the light when something sticky caused him to stop dead in his tracks. He bent down to touch the slippery substance and it held a coppery scent to it. He inched closer towards the light and saw that his fingers were tinted in red. Panic stiffened his limbs. Was Olivia hurt? Had someone possibly gotten into the flat when he had been at work?

“Olivia? Are you okay?” His voice was strained and barely audible.

A slow slurping sound came from within the closet. He walked slowly. He could hear his heart beat fast against the cavity of his chest. Ka-bam! Ka-bam! Ka-bam! Sweat trickled down the side of his brow.

“Olivia?”

She was crouched over, her back facing him. Dread washed over him like a sudden blast of cold water as he realized that the box had been opened. The lock lay on the floor beside her. A bobby pin lay next to it. She probably had been trying to unlock the box all day. Then he saw the blood.

“Olivia? What happened?”

She turned to face him. Her eyes seemed dazed, her expression faraway. He looked down at the heap of fur she was cradling in her arms.

It was Oscar.

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know…. I just found him like this,” her eyes filled with tears and he couldn’t bring himself to question her further. His eyes moved over to poor Oscar.

The cat seemed desiccated, as though it had been dead for several weeks or left out to dry in the desert.

“You opened the box,” he whispered.

“It was empty…”

Empty?! Could that possibly be true or was it just a lie? Suddenly, Cillian felt foolish. All those years he had been keeping that box away from her and now it contained nothing?! It made no sense.

“But your mum… she said… she asked me to keep this always locked.”

“My mum? Why would she ask you that? I thought the box was a family heirloom.”

“It is… kind of. It belongs to your family. She gave it to me as a wedding gift of sorts with the promise that you should never open it. She said I’d lose you otherwise.”

“Oh, darling, my mum can be so silly at times.”

“But she looked fairly stricken.”

“You’re never going to lose me, baby,” Olivia placed her hand against his cheek. He flinched as his eyes settled on her fingers. They were bloody and her nails were broken as though she had been clawing at something for hours. He shuddered. Her skin felt somewhat sticky, almost slimy like fish against his flaming cheek. He wanted to pull away but her sweet smile made him forget his initial unease. His eyes moved over to a white substance in the far corner of the closet. It was like talc powder.

Rat poison.

Looking back at Oscar’s limp body he finally understood what had happened. The cat must’ve eaten some of the rat poison. He never would’ve thought that Oscar could’ve been at risk when he had laid that down. Now he knew that it had been a fatal mistake. And yet, it didn’t quite explain why the cat’s body would be in such a dreadful condition.

“Let’s bury him,” he said kissing her cheek. “We can eat out tonight.”

He wanted to put this strange evening behind him. If only he hadn’t been so careless.

The nightmares began shortly after. Cillian’s sleep was disturbed by images he couldn’t easily grasp the meaning of. In some of the nightmares he would wake up to find a seal sleeping in place of Olivia. The creature was grotesque and slimy. Other times, he’d wake up at night to the sound of that awful slurping noise, as though someone were sucking up broth. Dreams of drowning in a stormy sea plagued his nights. They were extremely vivid, so much so that he was certain he could taste saltwater in his mouth. He’d often wake up feeling ill-rested and drained of energy. Olivia cautioned him that work was stressing him out too much. He tried to take on fewer projects, but that didn’t help much. The nightmares continued.

In the mornings he would study his reflection in the bathroom mirror where he’d see that he had severe black under eye circles and his lids were a sickly shade of lavender. His skin slowly became ashy, almost grey like that of a walking corpse. He lost weight. His body was gaunt, his limbs looked lankier than usual. One particular morning, upon closer inspection, he noticed that he had a curious bruise the size of a tennis ball on the side of his neck. With careful fingers he touched the purple skin and winced. There were two crescent moon red marks with a slight scab. It throbbed in pain. It almost looked like a bite. Was it possible that an insect had bitten him? Or maybe a rat? Or maybe all the stress from barely sleeping for so many weeks was causing him to breakout in hives? The possibilities were endless. And yet, deep down, he knew that neither of those explanations were the truth. But he couldn’t explain the bruised wound otherwise.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he soon became plagued by the scent of salt water. No matter where he was, he could smell it. It was as though the whole flat had been soaked in saltwater, and when he’d go to work, the scent lingered on his clothes. It was driving him mad! But whenever he’d mention this to Olivia, she’d say she smelled nothing and had no idea what he was talking about. He was certain that he was slowly losing his mind. When he brought this up to his therapist he was diagnosed of suffering from a severe case of homesickness. It made sense to him. Maybe he missed the sea and the tranquil, slow life of Oban.

So it seemed obvious for Cillian to suggest that they go on holiday to Oban. Olivia was beside herself with joy when he told her, and he soon realized that she had been just as homesick as he was. Throughout the years they hadn’t visited that often. Many times, Lydia or his parents would visit them instead in London. They were certainly due for a change of scenery.

As soon as they reached Oban, he was hit by the powerful scent of saltwater. It should’ve made him feel better, but it only brought back memories of the nightmares. His whole body tingled with a sense of uneasiness. But he tried to dismiss it and focus on his time off with his wife. He and Olivia decided to take a walk along the beach. The cold water lapped slowly at their bare feet as the sand slithered like worms between their toes. Olivia looked particularly radiant. Her skin glowed against her long red locks that hung loose upon her shoulders. He had missed his wife. It was true, he was in her company everyday, but between the stress from work and his troubled sleep, he barely paid much attention to her lately. Overcome with sudden emotion, Cillian kissed her, but abruptly pulled back because her lips were cold like a frozen lake.

“I’ve missed this place,” Olivia’s voice was soft.

“I know you have.”

“I don’t know why you kept that dreadful box hidden away from me.”

He wasn’t expecting her to bring that up. But he finally thought this was the right moment to come clean. So he did.

“Your mum made me promise.”

“Yes, I’m sure she did – the hag.”

Cillian was taken aback by her harsh comment. Peering at her he noticed that her demeanor had changed. She no longer looked soft and fragile, but rather a bit predatory.

“How can you say that? That poor woman saved you from being killed! She took you in and loved you as her own!”

His eyes widened. Shit! For all he knew Olivia knew nothing of her past. But she surprised him by bursting out in laughter.

“Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. The night before we got married she came to me with that box and told me that your mother had been killed by a pair of hunters on this beach. And that she saved you from them.”

“She killed my real mother!”

“How do you know? You can’t possibly remember that. You were so young….”

“Because it was in the box.”

“What was in the box? You said it was empty!”

His mind was spinning furiously. He wasn’t sure what was happening. He couldn’t believe that Lydia had killed Olivia’s real mother and then stolen that woman’s baby so that she could have one. Or could she?

“I lied.”

Olivia looked eerie beneath the pale moonlight. Her teeth resembled little daggers, sharper than how they were just seconds ago. The scent of saltwater became more pungent.

“So what was in the box?”

“The truth.”

She smiled wider and he could see that her front teeth had elongated and gotten thicker in width. Fear strangled his windpipe and he couldn’t utter a single word other than exhale a frightened gasp.

“What’s wrong Cillian? Cat got your tongue?” She burst out laughing. “Poor kitty… although he did nourish me.”

“Nourish you?” A look of disgust contorted his once handsome features, now too gaunt and sickly. “What’s happening to you?”

“What’s meant to happen. You see when I found my fur, it all came back to me in a rush. I finally understood what I was.”

“Bloody hell! Your mum was right! You’re a sea creature!” He had always dismissed Lydia’s words. Thought that maybe she was drunk and perhaps didn’t want her daughter to get married and had made up that insane fable. He watched in horror as Olivia’s pearly human teeth fell out one by one and her front fangs – for they were fangs now – grew longer and reached down to her breasts. He wanted to run, but his feet seemed stuck in place. The wet sand had become like quicksand.

“Are you going to kill me?” He uttered in a frightened whisper. The waves had grown fare more restless than just a few moments ago. They crashed against his legs in a wild manner, some of the cold water reached his chest.

“Silly boy, I don’t wish to kill you. You’re my husband. I want you to be like me.”

“What do you mean?”

She reached out to touch the bruise on the side of his neck. He shuddered at her touch.

“I’ve been infecting you with my disease for the past few months, baby. I knew that if I had to go back to the sea, I wanted you to come back with me. I didn’t want to go alone.”

“What if I don’t want to go with you? What if I don’t want to turn into this… this creature that you’re now?”

“You either become like me or you die. Choose wisely.”

Cillian looked at Olivia, at what she had become. Her fangs had now gotten longer and sharper, her skin was slowly transforming into a smooth seal-like texture. He thought about their wedding day. How she had looked so delicate in her simple, white lace dress and how the sun had caught the gold in her red hair. His heart was swollen with love back then. And now?

She was pulling him into the water. Tears streamed down his cold cheeks. A part of him was still in love with Olivia. With the old Olivia. But if he loved her shouldn’t he accept this part of her too? Lydia had warned him about the box. That he would’ve lost Olivia if she ever had found its contents. But Olivia had no intention of letting him go, unless he let go.

Cillian wanted to hold on. But the sight of her sharp fangs and the nauseating scent of saltwater only made him weep more. The water was up to his chest now, creeping slowly to his neck. It felt like being buried in the ground with his head slightly above and an army of fire-ants steadily approaching. The sensation of dread grew thicker with each ticking second.

Till death do us part.

His looked down as Olivia’s feet transformed into a flipper. He looked at his own hands in astonishment as the skin grew thicker and slippery. He had a moment of doubt. To hold on or let go. His was hit by a flashback of when he had first met Olivia. There was an aura of romance in the air the way the rain hung to her locks and eyelashes. He was so tempted to kiss her right then and there. But it wasn’t until their second date that he dared to crush his lips against her own. He didn’t want to let go.

And yet.

His heart cracked in two. It was as loud as the crashing waves. C-R-A-C-K!!

He looked at her. Watched this creature tug him into the ocean. He looked back at the land behind him. A fleeting thought entered his mind. There was very little time to choose.

Cillian was being pulled under and he thought that maybe he could do this. Maybe all he needed was to take a leap of faith. Water engulfed his nostrils, the salt burned both his nose and eyes. If he didn’t make a decision soon he was going to die. Was death better than living with his wife?

That’s when he took hold of her and embraced her new body.

Olivia sunk her sharp tusks, now grown in length to approximately three feet into his neck. He cried out in pain but continued to hold on. The scent of his own blood sickened him. For a moment he thought that maybe this was the end.

That was until his legs fused and he could swim with his new flippers.

Azzurra Nox was born in Catania, Sicily, and has led a nomadic life since birth. She has lived in various European cities and Cuba, and currently resides in the Los Angeles area. She has a B.A. Degree in Letters – Classical Studies and an M. Ed. in Secondary Education. She’s always been an avid reader and writer from a young age, entertaining her friends with ghost stories. She loves horror movies, cats, dancing, and a good rock show. She dislikes Mondays and chick-flicks. For more info on her writing go here: https://azzurranox.com/books/. She’s also the founder and curator of the lifestyle blog The Inkblotters: https://theinkblotters.com/ where she shares her love for makeup, movies, books, music, traveling, and skincare with her readers. You can follow her on Twitter @diva_zura or Instagram at @divazura. Her latest works are “Good Sister, Bad Sister,” appearing in Betty Bites Back: Stories to Scare the Patriarchy and her first anthology as editor, My American Nightmare – Women in Horror Anthology.

CAMPFIRE TALES: THE BLOODY RINGS

Emma Johnson-Rivardy

It’s Halloween time and we’ve come again for a story. Some small town carnage to light up the night and oh, this time, history provides.

Are you ready?

Good.

Let’s go back to the beginning.

We’re going to a little town up in the great North Woods, a town called Mandrago, which used to be something before it ran out of timber to mill and turned to tourism to make ends meet. But that’s not important, not really. That’s not why we’re here.

This story has a name. It’s even got a song, but don’t ask me to sing it. Not even on Halloween, sorry. Not even for you, my darling.

It starts with history. Oh, this tale’s been around. Most people call it The Folly of Cassidy Day. The Mandrago library boasts a collection of diaries, secreted away from attics and estate sales over the years, and they talk about more than town gossip in those yellowing pages. They go back all the way to the town’s founding, if you can believe that. Mandrago likes to write things down. They like to account for themselves.

Don’t look at me like that. I never said they were honest.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. There are seven mentions of The Folly of Cassidy Day in those journals. The earliest one comes from 1887, ripped from the personal diary of one June Howell, a local woman. And what an eager beaver she was! Ms. June was ahead of her times. Her personal library, including her journals, was donated to the Mandrago Public Library following her death in April of 1922. Howell maintained a detailed record of her life and dealings in her journals, and has been cited in several books of Minnesota history. They’re all horribly dry; don’t bother looking for them. But I digress. Where were we?

Oh, right. The Folly of Cassidy Day appears to be much older than Ms. June’s diary. That’s worth reading, if you can get passed the handwriting. Look it up sometime. Anyway, Ms. June wrote in her journal that she heard the story as a child and only recently decided to record it as an older woman. She reported that the story “disturbed her anew” when she heard it again, and wrote about it several times in 1887. I guess it got into her head. I don’t know for sure. Ms. June didn’t write about her feelings much. You have to wonder about that, don’t you? What kind of person keeps a diary and doesn’t bother sharing their feelings? Makes you think.

Well, Ms. June, she of the unknown heart, told the story several times to family members, and to a woman friend she doesn’t name. This woman appeared distraught upon hearing the story. After this point, Ms. June never brings the story up again. Her diary continues on for several years, detailing her routines and practices and never once knowing her heart, until she finally died and the library pounced on her books.

And so the story comes to us. Are you ready?

The Folly of Cassidy Day goes like this:

Once there was a man called Cassidy Day. He was a fisherman who lived next to the river and made his living with the water and beasts of the earth. He went into the town to sell his wares, and this was where he first saw the carpenter’s daughter. To the eyes of Cassidy Day, she was the most beautiful woman in all the town and places beyond. Cassidy Day decided that he would marry this woman. But since she was so beautiful, he would keep her inside his house, in a room full of mirrors, so that only he could ever look upon her. The carpenter’s daughter had no love for Cassidy Day, though he left her gifts of the best fish, beaver-skin hats, and finally a necklace of stones so beautiful that it hurt to touch them. All of these things were wonderful and fine, but the carpenter’s daughter still did not love Cassidy Day. He went to see her at her father’s home, and asked for her hand in marriage. The carpenter’s daughter refused.

The following night, Cassidy Day returned and presented her with a ring made of gold and red gems, more beautiful than anything the town had ever seen before. “I have suffered to bring you these things,” he said, “but I suffer gladly because I love you. You are the best of women. This I know. I have seen many women, I have traveled far in this world, but you are the only one I love.”

Still, the carpenter’s daughter did not love Cassidy Day. She told him, “Take your gifts, fisherman, and go find a woman who loves you back, for I do not.”

Thus spoken, the carpenter’s daughter put all of his gifts, the hat and the fish and even the necklace of beautiful stones, into a basket and this she presented to Cassidy Day.

Now, Cassidy Day was a proud man from a long line of very proud men, and was not used to being refused. All his life he had been told he was charming and handsome, and little had been denied to him. The carpenter’s daughter might have been the first to ever refuse him outright, without even a smile to soften the blow. So he took the basket and went back to his home at the river, and began to think.

That night, he came back to the home of the carpenter with a gold ring shaped like a fish bone. He snuck into the carpenter’s house, stepped past the old man quietly, and put the ring on the finger of the carpenter’s daughter. The ring was slender and sharp, and it cut the carpenter’s daughter as she wore it.

When she awoke, her hand was covered in blood, the ring cutting in deep. And try as she might, she could not remove the ring. The more she struggled with it, the more the ring cut her hand and made her bleed.

Cassidy Day came for her then, with a basket of fresh fish, a crown of flowers for her hair, and a long silk veil. “Come now,” he told the carpenter’s daughter. “For we are married now. We have bled together and risen as one.”

On his finger, Cassidy Day wore a similar ring.

The town elders were consulted, and it was agreed that since the carpenter’s daughter could not remove the ring, she did indeed consent to the marriage. And thus, a ceremony was conducted by the edge of the river. Cassidy Day’s bride covered her face with a woven veil, ivy woven into her hair, and no one could see her crying. Her hand bled and bled throughout the ceremony, even as wine was given and the dancing began.

Later, after everyone had danced and laid their gifts down on the riverbank, Cassidy Day took his wife inside his house, and in there happened things that only the river knows.

In the morning she went walking by the river, but her new husband found her there. So the carpenter’s daughter ventured further into the woods, nearly losing herself among the branches, until she came to an ash that stood apart from the other trees. She came to the old hanging tree, where criminals had been put to death and justice done, and the carpenter’s daughter threw herself down on its roots. “Oh tree,” she said, “old tree, have mercy yet on me.”

She lay there for a long time, the ring making her hand bleed. Eventually she slept. The tree did not speak, but it felt pity for the carpenter’s daughter. So it gave her an answer in a dream. When the carpenter’s daughter awoke, she knew what to do. She reached into its roots and her bleeding hand curled around something cold. The carpenter’s daughter reached down a little further and came up with a small knife. Thus armed, she cut off her finger and the fishbone ring upon it, and left the bloody things to the tree.

That night, she returned to her father, no longer married. Cassidy Day was found the following morning, strung up in the branches of the hanging tree. And such was the folly of men to force the hand of women.

That’s how it goes, this small town yarn. And people still tell it, people still listen. It’s a funny little story.

Here’s a funny thing, before you go. There’s an old ash tree on the banks of the river, just like the story says. Every year, the kids go down around Halloween time and stick knives into the trunk just in case the carpenter’s daughter comes back. She never did get her finger back.

So here’s to you, sweet carpenter’s daughter. We’ll never know your name, but we’ll leave you a hundred knives on the night in question.

Oh, you thought it was over? Sorry. You’ve heard the tale, and on it goes.

So go find yourself a good kitchen knife, friend. It’ll be your turn soon.

Emma Johnson-Rivard received her Masters in Creative Writing at Hamline University. She currently serves as the Poetry Editor and Assistant Fiction Editor for the Macabre Museum. Her work has appeared in Tales to Terrify, Fearsome Critters, and others. Some of her work can be read at (emmajohnsonrivard.com) and her twitter is finalgirlz.

CRACKED

Regan Moore

It’d just been sitting there on the floor. The old woman who had carried it onto the bus clearly didn’t care too much about it, or else she would’ve been keeping a better eye on it. As it was, her eyes were locked on the passing scenery outside the window, while the bag sat there on the floor, unattended and alone. Honestly, it was best that Gabby stole it. The lady needed to learn to keep a better eye on her things while on public transportation. Gabby was doing a public service, really, walking past three stops before she needed and casually grabbing the bag off the floor as she passed.

She wasn’t sure what was in the canvas bag, but she didn’t want to draw suspicion by checking before she was safely in her own home. She wasn’t, however, expecting the porcelain doll she pulled out once the apartment door shut behind her.

It wasn’t a horrible looking doll. In fact, it reminded Gabby of the ones her mother collected, before she was eaten alive by pancreatic cancer. Sure, it was old and a little dusty. Its blonde hair was ratted in a few places. The blue eyes were faded. The dress was eaten in certain places by moths. But there was still an age-old beauty to it that made Gabby’s heart ache. Her soft hair, her secretive smile, the way her eyes lit up in the low light—it was almost like her mom was there with her again.

She moved some of the knick-knacks and pictures around on a shelf to sit the doll in the dead center. It may have just been the shadows, but it almost seemed like the doll was smiling.

The smile was still there the next morning when Gabby walked into the living room. She walked over to touch the smooth face but paused halfway. The wear and tear of age was gone. The eyes were bright blue. The hair was soft and strawberry blonde. The dress was crisp as though made yesterday. Gabby took a step back and frowned. Had she imagined the doll’s appearance the night before? Had she been so caught up in the memories of her mother’s dolls that, somehow, her mind made her see what she wanted?

That had to be it. There was no other explanation. Dolls don’t just fix themselves.

She thought nothing of it for the next week. Not while she robbed three ATMs on Main. Not while she pick-pocketed tourists at the boardwalk. Not while she and her partner in crime, Louis, hustled people on Market Street.

She’d come home, count her money, put it in a box under her bed, and go to sleep.

The next Sunday night, a week and a half after she took the doll, she realized something was wrong.

She and Louis were hitting the convenience store by the highway. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out job. The cashier was a teenager, it was late enough there were only maybe two customers, and the store got a hell of a lot of money, being so close to the interstate.

They hadn’t planned on an off-duty cop being one of the patrons. Louis had an empty gun, but Gabby had thought ahead and brought a clip. The pair ran out of the store, cash in hand, as the officer bled out onto the tile floor of the gas station.

Once they were a few blocks away, Louis rounded on her.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “Now we’re gonna have heat on our asses!”

Gabby rolled her eyes. “So, it’s my fault that you didn’t check the hostages for weapons? That was your job!”

“Oh, so I was supposed to know that some off hours pig decided he had a craving for a Zero bar at three am?”

“Yeah, that was your job!”

He scoffed, but she knew she was right, and she didn’t regret the choice she’d made in the moment. If a cop had to die to keep her out of prison, so be it.

When she got home, for the first time in over a week, she looked to the shelf. She froze in place, her hackles rising. The doll was gone, the objects on the shelf moved back as though it’d never been there. Immediately, she moved around, gun drawn, checking the windows and rooms for any sign of intrusion.

When she saw none, she relaxed, dropping her gun, but keeping it tucked in the back of her pants. She did another sweep of the apartment, trying to find the doll—maybe she moved it without thinking? But even after an hour, there was nothing. For a few seconds, she wondered if she’d just imagined the doll.

She pushed the thought to the side. She wasn’t crazy. She must have just lost it.

Yeah. That was it.

She crawled into bed, laying the gun under her pillow.

Gabby was woken in the middle of the night by a sharp pain. She shot up, gasping for breath and wiping drips of sweat from her brow. What the hell?

She raised her shaking hands to her face and swallowed hard, pushing down the fear that had settled in her chest. It was okay. She was okay. Whatever it was, it was only a dream. Some devilish nightmare caused by a regrettable moment of conscience and regret.

She squeezed her eyes shut, repeating the mantra that had kept her going since her mother’s death—they don’t care about you, you don’t care about them. They don’t care about you, you don’t care about them. If she said it enough times, she might start believing it.

Sighing, she kicked off her blankets and climbed out of her bed. She finally tore off her clothes from the robbery and padded into the bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection, she screamed.

Her olive skin was tinted red from dried blood caked all over it. There were four deep slashes across her face, each the width of her thumb and stretching from her dark brown hairline to her chin. It was a miracle they’d completely missed her eyes, but she deduced that whoever had hurt her wanted her to see the damage.

She hurried into her room and grabbed her phone, hitting the first name on her contacts list. It rang once, twice, before finally Louis answered with a grumble.

“Get your ass to my apartment,” she said. “It’s an emergency.”

She heard his blankets get tossed followed by the sound of urgent footsteps and blew out a breath of relief. She paced back and forth, until Louis came bursting into the door. When he caught sight of her, still in the bathroom, he recoiled in terror.

“What the hell did you do to yourself, Gabby?”

“I didn’t do shit!” she insisted. “Someone busted into my apartment, stole my doll, and then used my face as knife sharpener!”

Louis frowned. “You mean that cracked up doll on your coffee table?”

Her heart stopped. Pushing past Louis, she ran into the living room. Just as he said, the doll was standing on the coffee table. Now, though, her roots were dark. Her skin was darker. The scariest part, though, was that there were three large cracks across her face.

“The doll…” she whispered, taking a step back.

Louis looked between her and the doll with a frown. “Gabby… you okay?”

She shook her head. “The doll… the doll did this.”

Hands fell to her shoulders and pushed her back into her room. Louis sat her down on the edge of the bed and knelt at her feet. “Gabby, I’m going tell you something, and I don’t want you to freak out on me.”

She nodded slowly. He took her hands in his.

“The doll is just a doll. It’s not plotting against you. It’s not hurting you. It can’t. It’s just a doll.”

“But the scratches…”

“…are just scratches,” he interrupted. “Maybe you did it to yourself in your sleep.”

“With what?” she asked. “My Freddy Kruger claws?”

He shrugged, and for a second, she considered grabbing her gun and shooting him in the leg. She decided against it, but the urge was still there.

“I’m not imagining this,” she insisted. “That doll did this. Can’t you feel it watching us?”

He glanced back towards the doll, which was facing them on the table. He shook his head.

“It was already facing that way. It’s not eavesdropping or watching us or plotting. It’s just sitting there.”

He didn’t believe her. Of course he didn’t. He thought she was crazy. She would’ve thought she was crazy, too.

“Get out.” She said it quietly, though she knew he heard it. Hanging his head. Louis rose to his feet.

“Try to get some sleep, Gabs,” he said, turning to leave the room. She resisted the urge to say something rude.

Once she heard the door shut, she stood up and strode over to the doll.

“You think you’re so smart,” she hissed, grabbing it by the hair and raising it to her face. “I don’t know what your game is, but I ain’t playing it.” She stomped over to the window and slid it open. With a satisfied huff, she threw it out, watching gleefully as it dropped twelve stories to the alley below. There was a crash once it impacted, and she grinned wildly.

She returned to the bathroom to patch up her face, and then crawled back into bed. She slept like a baby for the rest of the night.

The rest of the next day passed normally. She didn’t check for any broken pieces of porcelain in the alley, convincing herself that she didn’t need the reassurances. In all honesty, she didn’t know if she’d find the broken pieces. Deep down, she was almost positive it would be gone.

She prayed the rest of the day that it would be done. That the doll was gone, and there was no evil in it at all.

When she went into her apartment that night, she half expected to find it waiting for her again. She checked the whole apartment –the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen, even under the bed—but there was no sign of the doll.

She sighed. The doll was gone. It was done.

“Never should’ve taken that damn thing,” she grumbled, stepping into the bathroom. She stepped into the shower and let the warm water wash away her worries. Her mind started swimming with ideas for new cons and schemes. When she pulled back the curtain, part of her expected to see the doll sitting on the toilet lid or sitting in the sink. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that she was alone.

Throwing on pajamas, she headed into the living room with her laptop. Biting her lip nervously, she opened a search browser. It was so dumb, typing in ‘disappearing doll’, but no one had to know this scared her as much as it did. Just one peek.

Her heart shot into her throat as three news articles appeared as the top results.

Woman disappears after drowning four-year-old child

Wife grieves after third week passes on missing persons case

‘It wasn’t me!’ Kidnapper claims after blaming doll for missing girlfriend

Gabby’s hands acted on their own as she opened each article, her stomach souring with each word. In all three stories, a porcelain doll was found—not always by the missing; sometimes, like in the case with the four-year-old, their child or spouse was the one who found it—someone did something terrible—the mother drowned her child because she was drunk and not paying attention, the husband hit a sixteen-year-old girl and fled the scene, the girlfriend burnt down the house of one of her boyfriend’s female friends while she was still inside–and the next day, that person went missing.

She wanted to throw her laptop. She wanted to scream, to turn away in horror. The doll was evil. It would take her, too. Each person claimed before they went missing that the doll looked like them, even though their loved ones denied it. They all thought they were nuts, just like Louis thought she was nuts.

Her fingers twitched nervously. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go down the rabbit hole of fear. Still shaking fearfully, she forced her attention away from the doll and over to better things—new jobs. Nothing made her happier than planning a well-though-tout rip off. She grinned to herself as she picked through her options.

There was a QuickLoans looking for new security guards –if Louis could get it under a fake identity, they would have one hell of an in.

The bank on seventh was having renovations. That meant that their alarms wouldn’t be working as well, and it’d be easier to get into the vault. It was a bigger job than they normally did, but it was a tiny branch with rent-a-cop security. The payoff would be worth the risk.

Then, there were the easiest targets –snowbirds who stay in their hometowns for the summer and then come to their fancy, expensive houses in the winter to avoid the snow. Sure, the security on the houses were the best money could buy, but when one has an in with the agency, that wasn’t much of a problem.

She smiled with glee as she grabbed her phone to text Louis, only to nearly jump out of her skin at a knock on the door.

She didn’t move. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and Louis always called first–he was too afraid she’d just shoot him out of fright if she didn’t know he was coming. She didn’t make a sound, hoping whoever it was would get the message and think that no one was home.

There was another knock, harder this time. She ignored it again.

There was a long bout of silence. At first, Gabby thought that the person on the other side had left, but then, there was a harder, louder banging that shook the door in its hinges, kicking dust off the edges.

She yelped and hopped on the sofa. Swallowing hard, she grabbed her laptop and brandished it like a weapon.

“Okay!” she called out. “I’m coming!”

She stepped towards the door carefully, actually hoping it was the police, because now, that wasn’t the worst thing that could be on the other side of the door.

Steeling herself, she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

No one was there. Not a salesperson, or a Mormon, or a cop. She frowned and opened it the rest of the way. She looked left, then right, but no one was hanging around the hall, and there were no retreating footsteps on the stairs.

Somehow, it was worse than if someone had been on the other side with a gun. Shaking away the fear, she closed the door.

Gabby froze. There were eyes on her. Whipping around, she nearly screamed again. The doll was on the couch, but now, the blonde hair was replaced by dark brown. The skin was olive. The eyes were no longer blue, now a deep brown.

Just like Gabby’s.

It was even wearing the same pajamas as her. The once hinted smile was now a full-blown, toothy grin. Gabby didn’t even try to go for her cell phone. Instead, she grabbed her car keys out of the bowl by the door and ran out of the apartment. She ran down the stairs, into the lower level parking garage, and didn’t dare look back as she threw her car door open and climbed inside.

She peeled out of the garage, white knuckling the wheel. She had to get away. No one would believe her about the doll, so she needed to get as far from it as possible. She tore through the streets, running red lights, speeding through construction zones, and even nearly hitting an old woman about to cross the street.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t, because that doll was going to kill her. Around sunrise, she was in the next town over. She didn’t stop until she was at the limits and nearly into the next. Finally, she took her foot off the accelerator and slowed to a stop.

Plan time. First, she would need some money. There was probably a gas station or something she could rob. Second, she needed a phone to call Louis. Then… what was then? Avoid a doll for the rest of her life?

Gabby plopped back in her seat and groaned. There was no contingency for evil dolls. How was one supposed to avoid them, anyway? In Annabelle, they all pretty much just gave in to the doll and then locked her in a glass case. That wasn’t going to happen, because there was no way in hell she was ever letting that doll anywhere near her again.

There were people for this kind of thing, though. Demonologists and ghost hunters and all those weirdos who decide to surround themselves with creepy shit. Yeah, she’d track one of those down, tell them about the doll, they could take care of it, and then everything would be right as rain.

Blowing out a breath, she sat back up again and prepared to throw the car back into gear. A giggle from the backseat stopped her.

No.

No.

She turned slowly, knowing what would be waiting for her and dreading it.

The doll was in the backseat, now in her exact appearance. She shook her head, unable to deal with the fact that there was no running, no getting away. She didn’t even bother to scream.

The police found a car abandoned on the side of the road two days later. It’d been reported stolen over two years ago, and the fingerprints inside had been a match to the victim’s, who was serving time in prison for grand theft-auto, daughter.

There was no sign of the girl, though, apart from some bloody bandages on the seats. They searched the woods and the next town over for any sign of a lost twenty-one-year-old, but no one had reported anything yet.

Nichols, the officer in charge, clicked his tongue. This wasn’t the kind of case he wanted–one that would drag on for years because some con artist had gotten in too deep and didn’t wanna be found. There was no sign of foul play, though, except for the bandages, and there were no tracks around the car suggesting anyone got in or out.

In fact, the only strange thing he could note was the doll sitting in the driver’s seat, buckled in as though it belonged there. He picked it up and smiled. It reminded him of the kind his daughter collected. Eventually, if no one claimed it, the department would auction it. Maybe she would want it.

Regan Moore has been a writer her whole life but has recently focused her career towards it. She is an avid writer, reader, and cinephile, who loves a good story more than anything in the world, except for her family. She is currently living in Florida with her mother, step-father, and grandmother while working on getting her degree in creative writing for entertainment and writing her first novel.

ANGEL OF DEATH

Phoebe Jane Johnson

The Queen peered in to the foggy glass as a world so close and yet so far away came into view.

It was looking grim for her favorite warrior. Her court stood at attention as the sky darkened at noon. The impending death weighed heavy on the hearts of all those in attendance as the Queen watched the events unfold before her.

Soon the image started to appear before those in attendance, the whispers filled the court. Unfamiliar voices drew them into the grey room as the woman found guilty of multiple counts of murder was led down a corridor.

Two guards stood at Adelaie’s side as she shuffled along with her arms and legs shackled. Usually a priest would follow behind the convicted, but Father Grail refused to attend in this instance. In fact, no priest, minister, or any other “man of faith” was willing to take this walk with Adelaie. It did not affect the woman as she kept her eyes forward, refusing to bow at the stares of the spectators.

Adelaie Rash would be the first woman to be executed in the State of California in decades. Capital Punishment had been banned many years ago but so-called “Conservatives” had made the push to bring back the death penalty after years of rising violent crimes committed in the state.

Politicians had been looking for a villain to point to in the media as justification for the need of capital punishment. They found that villain in La Angel de Muerte, The Angel of Death.

Twenty men and women had been found dead in the span of two weeks. Each victim was found without a sign of forced entry, physical injury nor a drop of blood. Instead, every individual was found in a seated position with a peaceful look on their face. The only other detail tying the victims together was accusations of some type of crime.

Lena Williams had been acquitted of all charges of child endangerment after being accused of exposing her children to her sex offender boyfriend Charles Hudson. Mr. Hudson had all charges dropped after the Child Protection Services turned over their findings after investigating claims of sexual assault. The couple made headlines as they walked out of the courthouse, arm-in-arm, free of any repercussions.

A technicality got Kevin Lear off on his vehicular homicide charges when a night of drunk driving resulted in the death of an entire family. Dennis May was found guilty of fraud when he swindled his employees leaving a hundred without the money they contribute to their 401K and retirement.

However, he was able to walk out of the court as a free man. His sentence? Time served.

One by one each of the twenty had found some way to escape judgment for their crimes. In some cases, such as Laura O’Lynn, charges were never brought up in court. Each had some sort of connection, or benefit that resulted in alignment with them and the law. Lady Justice was neither blind nor fair.

Then Mr. May was found dead in his car. Initially, investigators suspected suicide. However, a day later neighbors knocked on the door belonging to the sweet young couple they had not seen in days. Police conducting a welfare check found Lena Williams and Charles Hudson sitting on the couch, both passed as well.

Within a two-week span, the twenty deaths were discovered, and the media ate up the story of vigilante justice. It was a Spanish news cast in Madrid that first gave the unknown killer the moniker La Angel de Muerte. American news outlets loved it and quickly took up the name in English.

The consensus from the public was that there was no immediate threat. This person appeared to only target those who had committed some unforgivable offense. He was like Batman, fighting in the shadows to right wrongs. Every time the news reported a lack of suspects, many cheered at the thought of this unknown super-hero sticking it to the privileged but guilty.

Then there were those who were very afraid. Money was being passed and an informal bounty placed on the head of the killer. All this was done behind closed doors as the wealthy and culpable exerted all of their resources to have this killer found.

It was the discovery of the death of Senator William Gelson that sent fear through the hearts of the elite. Senator Gelson appeared to be the lone outlier in the killer’s modus operandi. A retired Marine who took up politics in order to serve the public. He was a family man devoted to many charities and to all appeared to be a model citizen. Yet, those who knew him, were aware of his vile sexual appetite for the young.

Apparently, the Angel of Death was aware of this preference and judgment was executed upon the Senator. He was found dead at his desk.

Initially, the media reported the death of the Senator as possibly being a copy-cat killer. Until a young man who once played soccer on a team the Senator coached, came forward with claims of assault. His one statement gave way to many others who found the strength to voice their experiences at the hands of the once revered Senator.

Adelaie was ready to return home. Moments before blinking, SWAT team members burst into the tiny room and she was bound and chained.

Newscasters were ready outside of the building as the woman was brought in handcuffs. Cameras angled to get a glimpse of La Angel de Muerta as officers carried her from the building. A bloody nose, black eye and swollen lip were evidence of the treatment she would receive at the hand of investigators.

As she was brought to the truck a familiar face caught her eye in the crowd. Only for a moment, then he was gone. It was then that she knew how she was discovered; everyone had a Judas. Her heart hardened as she was thrown into the back of the SWAT vehicle.

Reporters outside of the local jail waited for the accused to be brought into the facility. Upon arrival, there was an audible gasp, then outrage as the woman was no longer recognizable. Her swollen face was the least of the trauma inflicted upon her as she was dragged into the detention center.

The trial was a mockery. No true evidence was presented – and a swift ruling was handed down by the jury. Being found guilty of seventeen of the twenty charges was another insult. Everyone knew that only one killer committed all twenty crimes. Yet, the show of a legitimate ruling was laughable.

Many filled the courtroom at sentencing. Cameras rolled as the judged handed down the death penalty. Crowds of protesters outside the courtroom screamed in anger at the inequity of it all. Through every stage of this circus Adelaie was silent. There were no words that could change the course set by those who thought they ran the world.

Now as she was secured to the gurney, attendants began to probe her arms with needles, searching for the dark purple veins that they could not find. Even at the end, they could not resist finding some way to extend physical torture. With the needles firmly secure, the executioner looked at the clock and nodded at the attendants.

It was then that the Angel of Death committed her final act. A flash of light cut through the room and each person sat glassy-eyed and dead.

Adelaie knelt before the throne. Her blood boiled at the thought of what had almost happened. However, she was not some hot-headed soldier. She was a highly decorated clandestine operative who reported only to the Queen.

“Adelaie Winterfire. You have returned from your mission. It has been many years since you have departed our land. Come rest. I look forward to your full report in the morning.”

“If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I am ready to provide my report now.”

The Queen nodded, noting the urgency in Adelaie’s voice.

“Yes, report.”

“Earth is a primitive world full of many evolving creatures. With each cycle of the planet, there is change and growth. I have seen the good in many of those we call mortals. They are full of compassion and love.”

Here as Adelaie paused, many members of the court nodded as they heard her words.

“However, there is a viciousness about these beings. They can be cruel, vindictive and full of greed. Their governments tear down the most vulnerable and provide protection to only the wealthy. Young-lings cry in hunger; females are considered subservient and large sections of the population are punished for insignificant reasons such as pigmentation and beliefs.”

With every word, members of the court began to stand straighter. Adelaie’s voice had transformed in tone. She was no longer providing a spy’s report to her superior but issuing a judgment against the accused.

“Corruption has laid waste to every economic system in their world and although I was hopeful that they may soon evolve into a transcendent state, it has become clear to me that they have only increased in their savagery.”

“Understood. Your recommendation?”

“For the sake of all realms, they must be eliminated.”

No one moved at these words. Instead all eyes were on their ruler, now standing full length before her throne. Her expression was indiscernible, and the court stood silent.

Then, a single nod.

As drums echoed throughout the court, a horn blasted a single note and the sky turned red as blood.

Phoebe Jane Johnson is a rock star project manager by day, technology addict, book dragon, and monster maven by night. After being called to task by Dean Koontz and Oregon Scott Card, she began harnessing those demons of doubt and made a commitment to her writing. You can find her online at: https://iamphoebejane.com/.

HER GARDEN GROWS

Maxine Kollar

I love when Rosamund comes walking out of the kitchen with the dishtowel over her shoulder. She only does this when she is trying her hand at some kind of nouvelle cuisine, new to us at least. Poor girl can’t get the ingredients right and I don’t even think she is trying to get the measurements right. It takes a certain brokenness to believe that you can substitute hoisin sauce with ketchup and she is that broke. Can’t tell a dollop from a pinch to save her life but I love her.

She watches one girl or the other on the small TV screen and smiles as she writes down the recipes and all their little hints and tips. Once but sometimes twice a moon she will stop at the store on her way home from work with the regular food and then the new items for the next creation. She smiles and her shoulders come up around ears as she tells me how the grocery clerk stammered and held up the bottles close to her face looking for the words ‘extra virgin’. I almost joined her in laughter when she said something about ‘more better’ and ‘giving 115%’ but I stop myself.

Mostly she makes a mess with her food experiments but I get to do some of the clean-up. She cleans up the little kitchen floor nice enough that even if some of my food falls I can still employ the five-second rule and eat it anyway. Rosamund uses the ten-second rule but she is so much farther from the ground so it’s understandable. She blows on the fallen food anyway and I can see her breath giving it wings and I watch it ascend while she puts the empty carcass in her mouth. She’s special but she doesn’t even know it.

Rosamund has hair like her chickens, feathered and in different hues. The colors used to be subtle and blended like rainbow colors but when she couldn’t afford to go to the hairdresser anymore, she started doing the cut and color herself and well… poor girl. Her nerves are starting to get to her too because I can see how quick and jolting her movements are becoming. Between the hair and the quick head movement, she is starting to look like her chickens, which they say happens but mostly with dogs and cats and I guess I’m chopped liver.

I try to get past this but the joke just tickles me so much sometimes that I have to run out behind the coop and stretch myself out and laugh. The chickens were startled at first but they have become accustomed to the sound. It’s not so much that I trust them with my little secrets, it’s just that who is going to believe them. When I told them the story of that crazy chick and its bat-shit sky predictions they were appalled but I think they got the message that nobody listens to poultry. I didn’t need to tell them about grown people hanging on the weather predictions of a large rodent but I did it anyway. They clucked disapprovingly and I laughed until they shut the coop door. They are good girls but not as good as my girl, Rosamund.

Rosamund is a good egg but that guy she has that comes around sometimes is a rotten egg. He supposedly is a trucker and is gone for long hauls across many states but I don’t know if we believe that anymore. When she asks him about which states and what cargo, he is always vague and grouchy and says he is so glad to be back that he doesn’t want to talk about it. You would think he would come back with more money in his pocket or at least a bath in his pants but not so much. He throws a few dollars on the kitchen counter and tells her to cook him up ‘somethin’ fancy’. He knows she likes her cooking shows and we both wonder if he considers himself some kind of food critic or gourmand.

The last stack of money on the counter was so slim that Rosamund felt she had to ask if maybe he had some unexpected expenses come up. He lowered his already low brow and asked her if he was some sort of gravy train. She laughed. I almost laughed.

Pretending not to notice that he is a bad egg, she cooks him something or the other but he is partial to omelets. She puts all kinds of stuff in them and he grunts as he shoves large chunks in his mouth. The toast is perfect, no soft or soggy spots and with that seedy jam on it. This is good for breakfast and brunch and maybe even lunch but he starts wanting more for dinner. Don’t they always. The ground beef is fatty and cheap but he starts talking about a nice batch of fried chicken and asks which of the old girls ain’t producing anymore.

In shock, maybe even horror, we followed him out to the coop and watch him grab one of the chickens by the neck. I arched my back and hissed and Rosamund arched her back and hissed and he put the old girl down and she ran to the comfort of her sisters in arms. He had the nerve to turn back to the coop and say, ‘soon’. Fuqur. He laughed at the look on Rosamund’s face and swatted her on the behind. He cast a quick glance at me before hugging her with fake affection. There was one time he swatted her, not that hard but harder than either one of us liked and I swiped the hand with my claws, fast and deep and then Rosamund crossed my lines with the tines of a fork. Once those lines were drawn, hee hee, he never crossed them again.

Rosamund is clean and I am clean but that guy, Vann, is not clean. The extra spices she cooks with help cover his fragrance but I know she is ashamed because she knows my sense of smell is so keen. I wonder how she lets him get in the bed with her and all I can do is wonder because he always puts me out the door. I know she always washes the sheets the next day and wonder if he would be insulted if he knew. I wonder if he could get insulted and stretch out behind the coop because of all the insults that rise up inside me.

The chickens are clean too. They preen their feathers and search the yard for parasites. I liked them but the chicken shit I could do without so I dug holes in soft earth and showed them how to use them. They are good at scratching so it came natural to them. They wondered why they hadn’t figured this out for themselves and I reassured them that all things in their time.

Rosamund has that crinkle between her eyes as she tries to figure things out, like where are all the white dots, but then she gets to her gardening and that is pretty much that. She can grow so many things in this Zone but she has a few basics that she sticks to. She doesn’t like waste and is afraid to invest all that time and energy in a new crop. Vann – explained, I’m guessing. He grew sloppier and smellier over the years and the pile of bills that he threw on the kitchen counter grew thinner. She thinks he did have that fancy driving gig at one time but there is a crick in his back, she hears it sometimes, and she thinks the gig flew away in the smoke that issues from his back.

It’s not a trailer park. She yells this to her parents a couple times a month. It really isn’t. I’ve looked around. The homes are not going anywhere, at least not intentionally and they each have their own plots of land. They want her to come back home but Rosamund needs… so many things. They think that Vann is keeping her stuck where she is or maybe he is threatening her so she can’t leave. Yelling back at them that their theories are garbage is all well and good but Rosamund cannot counter the argument with anything because she doesn’t know why she stays. Not really.

Still, when the emotions are drained out of the hoarse voices, she admits that she is trying to figure things out and make a way for herself and she stumbles with ‘bye’ and ‘love ya’ before the call ends.

The parents came once to visit for a few days then left the same day. It was not a great day. I like that the parents are still together. They don’t even like each other anymore but divorces are messy. Hey, and children are messy, as they found out when they had Rosamund and then they wised up. Pity that it takes so many people so many years to wipe the muck and mire of children off their paws. They love her though and talked of the terrible decision they made to let her drive three states away to a friend’s wedding. They wanted to pay for airfare but she really wanted to drive.

The car had been making some funny noises and she was tired from her journey so she stopped to eat and rest at the Stop N Eat N Rest. Rosamund wasn’t trying to get away from her family as much as she was taking a much needed break. She never quite fit with them, like a puzzle piece that seemed just right and almost fit but you had to force it. You had to twist it just a bit but enough for it to buckle and crinkle and it never looked quite right.

Walking out to the Stop N Eat N Rest, everything was lined up for her to just knock them down, for the first time in her life. There was a help wanted sign in the small town clerk office and there was a sign for homes for rent (garden area included) and there was me. I had recently been… de-homed. The youngest had come home from school early with a fever and crept quietly in to the bedroom while the mother went to the kitchen to make her a tea. I was stretched out on her bed laughing at something that had tickled my fancy earlier. The sound started her and even though they tried to tell her that it just the fever, she just screamed and screamed until they drove me off and put me out. I made my way to this little town just in time to meet my Rosamund.

I waited for her outside the clerk’s office like I was waiting for a train and sweet girl rolled right up, picked me up and we chugged into the sunset; two of a kind; too unique to fit.

That crinkle between her eyes stayed there from the time Vann walked out the door to almost up to his next visit. The papers were spread out all over the kitchen table and she tapped and tapped on the calculator. She did this once every moon but this time she was beside herself. I’ve been beside myself sometimes, but my way is more fun.

I couldn’t believe what I heard next, her asking her mother for a loan, not a gift. I thought I had lost my mind but then she cleared her throat and asked again with a few words moved around so I realized she was practicing. She looked at the phone in her hand and threw it onto the couch. It bounced and landed with a thud on the floor but she was already so distraught that she wasn’t even relieved that the pathetic device didn’t shatter.

I climbed up on top of the papers and sat there looking at her. I wanted to comfort her, even though that’s not really my thing, but I thought it best to let her feel and go through the pain. There would be understanding on the other side of that fear and I would be there when she made it to the other side.

The door was left open just a crack for the first time and I knew when to enter. The moon shown through the window and rested on another moon. Rosamund knew what to do but was still hesitant as if there might be another way but she sighed with the understanding and uncapped the Monkey Glue. She had purchased the extra-large tube and so was generous with the application as the glue traversed the horrible crevice. It was a dollop that Julia Child would have been proud of. The funnel she used for pouring powdered drink mix into old juice containers was then discarded on the floor. That thing could never be used again, no matter how many times she washed it but she had just heard about the trick of cutting a hole in the middle of a coffee filter and folding it to make a funnel. She used a generous pinch on the tip of the only member that would ever join his disgusting club and then she rolled over.

Whenever someone awakens to screaming and cursing they should be startled, at the very least. Surely some fight or flight response would grab hold but Rosamund awakened to the sounds as if they were soft chirpings were in her ear and dappled sunlight were on her shoulder. I was staring at her as she opened her calm eyes and smiled at me. No quick, jerky, chicken-like movement for her. That girl!!!

She calmed him all around the little home and finally settled him back into bed as she promised him a call to the doctor and that all would be well. She told him she had heard about this weird intestinal constipation bug that was going around and he nodded his stupid head in disjointed agreement. After a few hours of screaming then sleeping, cursing then fainting, some very bad odors began to emanate from Vann’s engine since his tailpipe was out of service. She had cooked him a meal to end all meals the night before and it was doing acrobatics in his stomach trying to find an exit. Oh and all the beer, lots of beer she had bought for him. He was trying to fit his fingers up his rear to figure out what was going on but all his dainty digits were swollen and he couldn’t quite sort himself out. It wasn’t hoisin but it was just the right ingredient and all those cooking shows helped her figure how to cover the bitter taste. Rosamund put the glue and chamomile, it really is soothing, in some tea to settle his stomach and he soon calmed down.

I could see the light fading and blazing and dancing in his eyes but there was a chance he could linger for a while. Sweet girl just didn’t have it in her to do anything that was quick and final. I opened the door for Rosamund to leave and she did, good girl, and then I stretched out right over his meaty thighs and laughed and laughed. The tears spilled over his cheeks but, as we hoped, the vomit never left the vile creature and he choked and sputtered until the light dimmed.

I went out of the room to get Rosamund and she had her headphones on. She was missing that little ridge at the bottom of her ears and couldn’t use earbuds so she spent, quite a bit, on a good set of head phones and plugged them into her phone when she wanted to hear something or when she wanted to not hear something.

The mattress had a hard plastic cover so she was not only able to salvage the mattress but was able to use the plastic cover to enshrine, drag and park Vann in his final resting place. It was late morning but a Saturday and most people in the not trailer park were barely moving about. The dark skies kept most people in bed and the few up were glued to screens, as usual.

I was very proud of her and showed her where the ground was softest. I had been turning it over for months and the chickens had helped too. The white ground seemed like a fitting place for the pale form of Vann. Rosamund looked a little concerned but I meowed softly to reassure her that no one was watching, no one was caring, no one was listening, no one was hearing. She surprised me by laughing at my little ditty and I felt so connected to her. Shit, maybe it wasn’t a meow. I was never very good at that stuff.

All her gardening efforts have actually afforded us a ‘hedge of protection’… hee hee (it’s a religious thing, you wouldn’t understand). Anyway, some of her plants are growing pretty tall. She mostly does the gardening out back because of how the not trailer park is arranged. They kind of circle themselves together as if they are wary of attacks or something.

The little key twirled in the light of a bare kitchen bulb and twinkled in Rosamund’s eyes like love. I let her put me in her handbag so we could go to the post office together and collect the check. She had his wallet, obviously, and traced his name closely but not precisely like it was on his credit card and took it to the check cashing place and told them the story about him being too sick to get out of bed. They didn’t care who or what but her tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on my head and I took it because I knew we would head to the grocery store next.

Rosamund came out of the kitchen with the dish towel thrown over her shoulder and smiled at me. I wasn’t expecting the doorbell to ring but then that girl is just so full of surprises. His fragrance preceded him as he wafted into the room and commented on the exquisite smell of dinner.

She mouthed the word ‘soon’ to me and I had to go stretch out behind the chicken coop and laugh. I was so happy that I didn’t even feel the need to be quiet. I knew inside the small house, Rosamund would be telling the ‘corpse flower’ how it was just the sound of wind.

Rosamund is finally in full bloom and even though it makes my heart joyful, tears keep rolling down my face so I go to the mound of dirt and water it to keep it moist so sweet girl won’t have to work too hard when she adds to the garden.

Maxine Kollar a wife and a mother of three. Her works of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry have appeared on-line and in print in such markets as Mamalode, Funny in Five Hundred, A Lonely Riot and Halfway Down the Stairs. Recently, her works were included in print anthologies from Grivante Press, Pole to Pole Publishing, Wild Women’s Medicine Circle, Schreyer Ink, Millhaven Press and Madness Heart Press.

REVIVAL

Madison Estes

Sara screams my name as her assailant pursues her. When she reaches a dead end, she attempts to scale the chain link fence. I climb on the other side to get to her. The gate stretches higher and higher, determined to keep us separated. Sara clings to it, unsure of what to do. Her attacker approaches from behind. His blurry face shape-shifts. He yanks her off the fence and flings her to the ground. His hands wrap around her throat, squeezing until his knuckles blanch.

“Sara!” I cry, still hanging onto the gate. My face presses against the hard metal. Her body goes limp, the limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Life leaves her eyes, turning them into empty blue shells. She is gone.

That was how I saw her most nights, when the pills worked and I managed to sleep deeply enough to have dreams. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of water, staring at Albert and Newton. They were my most peculiar pets, a pair of conjoined pigs bridged at the chest and suspended in propylene glycol. Their jar sat beside Otto, my preserved octopus and Kermit, my first successful experiment in wet taxidermy. I usually enjoyed their presence, but their state of death reminded me too much of the dream. From my bookcase I retrieved the one thing I knew might help erase the nightmare and calm my nerves. I slid the jars to the side and placed the scrapbook on the kitchen table. Spending time with my sister Sara always made me feel better.

The memory book started with baby pictures, beginning with the day she was born. The third page had a picture of the first time I held her. I wore a grey suit with a striped tie, and my hair was combed to the side; my grandmother dressed me for the occasion. I remember pressing Sara close to my chest and sitting down, afraid I would drop her. Her tiny hand curled around my finger while she watched me with her blue eyes. As a five-year-old, I’d never held something so fragile and precious before. Nothing else has ever come close.

Sara’s childhood pictures came next: wearing pink and white dresses at ballet recitals, dressing up in costumes and putting on plays with her friends, and swimming at the YMCA. The last pictures were high school rites of passage: driving, prom, graduation, and a college acceptance letter. It ended abruptly since I hadn’t had the time or inclination to put in the funeral pictures or service pamphlets. I did have the forethought to cut a lock of her hair at the viewing when we were alone. I put it in an envelope and then put that inside the attached pocket at the end of the book to keep it safe. Sometimes I would take it out and touch it, admiring the golden tresses so unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Her hair was lighter when we were children, the color of an evening primrose, and it probably would have continued to darken as she got older; Mother said her hair did that.

I held Sara’s hair in my shaky hand. I pressed it to my face, imagining her next to me. We were children again, sharing a bed during a scary lightning storm, or some jealous girl insulted her and she needed comfort, or else she just missed me and needed a hug. Her arms wrapped around me, and I buried my nose in her lock of hair, wishing it wasn’t all I had left of her.

A cool blast of air sent a shiver down my spine as I entered the gross anatomy classroom. Bodies covered in white sheets rested on sleek metal tables, their coldness sapping heat from the room. I took my place near the back wall, towards the right corner. My lab partner Holloway greeted me with a nod; I returned the gesture. I put my backpack against the beige wall, next to an anatomically correct plastic model of the human body. Other students trickled in, chatting about our meet-and-greet with the cadavers. I would have shared their enthusiasm had I slept better the night before. The dream lingered. Sara’s face kept flashing before my eyes, distracting me and dampening my mood.

My classmates began lifting sheets and ogling the cadavers. Holloway shrugged and joined in, pulling the cover off to reveal an older man with hairy arms and a giant gut. I gave in to curiosity and did the same, exposing my cadaver from the collarbone up. While examining the specimen, I compared her to Sara. They were opposites in many ways. She had a black pixie cut in contrast to Sara’s long, light-colored hair. Jane Doe’s nose extended further down and stuck out more. Her mouth was smaller, and she had thin eyebrows. High cheekbones and a narrow jaw gave her a more slender face. Her hazel eyes were surrounded by forest green hues, like algae growing around a swamp with murky water.

Despite their obvious differences in appearance, Jane Doe reminded me of Sara. They were approximately the same age and body type. Both possessed a small scattering of freckles on their cheeks and neck. Most importantly, there was a similar innocence in her face. She looked like the kind of girl who still slept with stuffed animals and wrote lengthy descriptions about her latest crush in a diary.

I knew better than to give her a name, especially not a nickname. When I was twelve, I dissected a pregnant rat using a kit my father bought me for my birthday. As I made an abdominal incision and began pulling out the organs, I discovered her uterus engorged with tiny pelts. Sara cried when I showed it to her. I tried to apologize, but she locked herself in her room, sobbing into her pillow. Nothing would calm her until Mother said they were all in heaven together. I drew a picture for Sara of the mother rat and her babies huddled next to each other, watching over us as they sat up in the clouds. Then Sara had to go and name them all. After that, even I had trouble looking at “Nancy” the same way again. Never name your specimens, at least not until they are in jars.

I couldn’t help myself though. She looked more like a Janey than Jane Doe #2911.

I should ask for a different body, I thought. Someone less young, less pretty, less… alive looking.

My hand rose in the air, my head spinning as I tried to devise a reason why I needed to switch cadavers that wouldn’t sound foolish.

“Yes, Harrison?”

“I…” Dozens of eyes darted in my direction. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, then quickly closed it. I shook my head.

“Never mind.”

When I saw Janey again, the sudden change in appearance jolted me out of my lethargy. Her color was livelier than her cadaver counterparts. I gently poked her shoulder. The skin blanched, and then pinkened. My hand pressed against her arm, then her forehead. Warmth radiated from her.

“Holloway,” I whispered, waving him over towards me. “Do you see anything unusual about my specimen?”

“Uh, not really,” he said, casting a momentary glance, his eyes back on his phone a second later. I tried to get the attention of another classmate when the instructor strolled into the room, a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other.

“Ahhh, the smell of education,” he joked. A few polite students laughed. I was too distracted to pay attention to what he was saying. Jane’s flesh had taken on a lifelike pink glow. I placed two trembling fingers on her wrist in search of a pulse. The sweat exuding from my pores made it difficult to grasp her, like she was pulling away. I found a pulse on her neck, weak but persistent.

“Excuse me, Professor Morris,” I said, raising my hand. “Please come examine my patient—I mean, cadaver.” I winced at my slip of the tongue. A few chuckles and snorts permeated the air at my expense. “I think there is something wrong.”

The professor approached us, watching Janey and me with curiosity.

“What’s the issue?” he asked.

“How does she look to you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Can you check her carotid artery? I thought I felt something. A… like a pulse.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. His thin mouth pulled into a scowl.

“Is this some kind of joke? What, did you lose a bet?” he said. More laughter followed. I couldn’t respond. Continuing to inhale required all my concentration. Being the center of attention, worrying about Janey, and my recent lack of sleep took a toll on me. My eyes closed as the room blurred. I buried my face in my hand, fighting back tears of frustration.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” Professor Morris asked. He put a firm hand on my shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but the added heaviness constricted my chest, as if my lungs could not expand to get enough air. Tables, bodies, and classmates circled around me as the room spun.

“No, I’m not. Excuse me,” I said, bolting out the door to the restroom. I splashed cold water on my face and rubbed my temples. A wave of calmness flooded me. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a distracted or incompetent doctor mispronounced her dead, and somehow she hadn’t been embalmed. The chemicals I detected could have been from the other bodies in the room. I needed to inspect her again before doing anything else.

Dissections had begun when I returned. Holloway sliced through the abdomen of his middle-aged, obese man. The body’s flabby sides wiggled as my classmate dipped his hands inside the abdominal cavity and lifted up his stomach. Holloway’s mouth curled into an amused smile. Janey laid in the far right corner where I had left her, spared from the knife for the moment. I checked her pulse again. Her warm, colorful skin throbbed beneath my fingertips. The scent of formaldehyde was no stronger when I leaned in close to her neck; it could have just been the room itself saturated with the odor. Professor Morris glanced at me. “You okay now?”

“I think I need to go home. I still feel unwell.”

“Alright. Message me and we’ll schedule a time for you to come in and make this up. Maybe just come in early next class, if you’re feeling better by then.”

I nodded, my face tilted downward. “It’s okay, kid,” he added in a low voice. “There’s one every year. Most make it through the course though.”

I thanked him as I left. It wasn’t that I was weak. I performed my first dissection when I was eleven. I’ve cut into frogs, cats, pigs, rats, and various parts of sheep and cows. I’ve performed dozens of virtual human dissections without any pity or disgust. No, my reluctance had nothing to do with any squeamish tendencies. I kept this to myself though; no one would understand.

I returned that night, fifteen minutes before the campus closed. The janitor believed my story about forgetting my cell phone on the dissection table and possibly having stored it with my cadaver.

“You sure you’re still gonna want it after this? Even if it survives the cold, it’s not going to smell real good.”

“I can’t afford a new one. I’ll just be happy if it works.”

He laughed and let me inside the cadaver storage room. I dawdled, taking extra-long reading the identification numbers. I found Janey, and then strolled right past her, pretending to still be searching.

“You come get me when you find it, alright?”

“Sure,” I said, giving him a dismissive wave. “I’ll just be a minute.”

When he left, I grabbed the plastic bag she was wrapped in and carried her over my shoulder. My heart pounded as I checked down each empty hall, trying to avoid discovery. I kept my head down to avoid security cameras. I escaped through the side exit closest to where I parked. Her glacial body sent chills through my arms; they tingled with numbness by the time I got her to my car.

“I’m sorry, Janey. It’s just safer if you ride in the trunk. In case someone sees us on the drive home.”

It’s alright, I imagined her reassuring me. Her mouth hung open like a goldfish swallowing pellets. You do what you need to. I trust you.

I drove ten miles under the speed limit the whole way home. Despite the lack of traffic, my heart continued to race. Sweat saturated my shirt, giving me pit stains. My fingers fumbled with the temperature dials. Cool air blasted my skin, providing some relief.

When we reached home, I wrapped her in blankets, hoping to bring more color to her rapidly paling skin. The formaldehyde odor lingered. Her cold skin sent shivers through me.

It’s the room they stored her in. That’s why she’s so cold, I reasoned. The storage room was like a meat locker, for obvious reasons, but that didn’t mean she was gone; people have survived being frozen to the point where they showed no signs of life. Many made a complete recovery, and I sensed Janey was a fighter.

Janey recuperated in the spare bedroom. I wiped menthol vapor rub under my nose to block out the stench. I stripped down to my boxers and laid next to her, using my body heat to help warm her gradually. Once her skin warmed and her color returned, I left Janey with a heating pad and prepared warm tea and soup. When I returned, she was sitting up and shuddering.

“Thank you, Arthur. You have no idea how hungry I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate,” she said in a raspy voice as I spoon-fed her soup. Her vocal cords had been damaged by the cold.

“Being frozen slows down bodily processes like digestion. It’s a good thing too, or else you could have starved.”

“How did you know I was still alive?” she said, sipping the tea. She choked a little.

“I think you’re drinking too fast.” I wiped her chin with a washcloth. The liquid dribbled down her breasts. I dried it quickly and apologized.

“Sorry, I should have probably let you clean that. I’m studying to be a doctor, so please don’t be embarrassed about not being dressed. You’re my patient.”

“Oh, I know. And you’re taking such good care of me. No other medical student would have realized I was still alive. You’re going to be a great doctor,” she said, putting her warm hand on my forearm and squeezing.

“Thanks.” I smiled, placing my hand on top of hers. I couldn’t remember the last time I smiled.

“I need to rest,” she said as she lay back down.

“I agree. And so do I. I’ll check on you in a little bit.”

Janey was unresponsive when I returned. Panic surged through me; my breathing became uneven as I struggled to decide what to do. I considered calling an ambulance, but the memories of my instructor and classmates brushing aside my concerns about Janey worried me. What if they gave up on her like the doctor who mispronounced her dead? They would take her away, and I would have no control over her well-being. They couldn’t be trusted. I put the heating pad on Janey and used my own body heat again to warm her. Her pulse hummed under my fingers once more, and I sighed in relief.

“Thanks again, Doc,” she mumbled, resting her head on my shoulder. “You take such good care of me.”

Janey needed more rest, so after assuring her I was in the next room if she needed anything, I left and retrieved Sara’s scrapbook. I paged through it, fixated on recent pictures. I pulled out the photo of her passing her driving exam. Sara sat in the driver’s seat of our mother’s car, giving the camera a thumbs-up. Her hair hung loose in waves around her shoulders. When she smiled, the top row of her perfect teeth shined. Child-like excitement lit up her eyes. That photo was closest to how I remembered her. I turned to the back of the book and took the hair out, twirling it around my finger and pressing it against my cheek. I carried both items with me as I went back to the spare room to check on Janey.

The embalming stench struck me the moment I opened the door. Her face was pallid. My fingers searched her neck and wrist for a pulse, but I only found cold skin under my fingers. The heating pad that had created the false sense of her warming up had shut off, allowing her to cool again. I covered her with a bed sheet, my head hung low in defeat. Even if Janey had been mispronounced dead, the embalming process itself would have killed her. I knew this. I knew this, and yet I still brought her here. I still hoped to save her. I hoped. That was my mistake.

I set the photograph of Sara and her lock of hair down on the nightstand closest to Jane Doe. A heavy sigh escaped me. Even if it had worked, saving one was not saving the other. Sara was gone.

I lay in my own bed to rest, fatigue finally getting the best of me. A dreamless sleep offered me respite from disappointment. I awoke to footsteps in the hallway, an unusual cadence of step-step-thump, step-step-thump.

“Janey!” I said, half-terrified and half-relieved. She stumbled into the room. Her legs wobbled. She held onto the walls to keep herself upright.

“You shouldn’t be walking! You should rest. You need your strength,” I said. I pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead, and when I looked into her face, I saw not my cadaver but my sister. The longer I stared, the more obvious Sara’s features became. The lightened hair grew several inches. The nose shortened and rounded. The pink mouth expanded and her eyebrows widened. When she gazed at me, her beautiful eyes were the same color I remembered from nights of comforting talk and days of playful banter, the same shimmering cerulean of blue ice caves.

“Sara,” I said, cupping her face, running my thumb along her cheekbone. “Is it really you? Have you come back to me?”

Her hand rested on my jaw, mimicking the way I was touching her face. Her soft lips pressed against my cheek. She sighed.

“It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.” Her voice was gentle and fragile, a butterfly wing brushing against my ear.

“You should,” I said, shaking my head. “He wouldn’t have gotten you if I’d gone with you to that party. I was too busy with school. You needed me. You were always there for me, and I should have been there for you.” My voice cracked at the end as I held back a sob. The back of her hand stroked the side of my face. Her knuckles wiped away a tear trail.

“I wanted you to study and work hard. I was so proud of you, my super-smart, super-nerdy big brother. You don’t need to apologize for that. You did everything that you could do for me. It’s okay, Arthur,” she said. Her arms embraced me. I wept into her neck, her soft hair wrapping around me like a silk blanket.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sara,” I whimpered. “God, I am so sorry.”

Her eyes are closed now. I want to open them and find cerulean, but I’m afraid. Coldness pervades my skin. Her tiny icicles prod my side, those rigid fingers gleaming white in the dim light reflected from the moon. I place my hand beside hers and entwine her frigid fingers with my own. I’ve lain next to her for hours, stroking her hair, apologizing again and again for failing her. This body looks so familiar, yet it is a mystery I cannot decipher.

Her hair is darker than Sara’s golden hues, but lighter than Janey’s obsidian. Perhaps it is the tawny shade Sara’s hair would have become. Her facial features are a mix of high cheekbones, full lips, thin eyebrows, and a rounded nose. I jostle her, willing her to awaken and speak. I brush her cheek, willing her to return to me, yet she remains icy and lifeless against all my hope, and I lament that I do not even know who it is that I hold in my arms.

Madison Estes has had work featured in anthologies by HellBound Books, Transmundane Press, Soteira Press, TANSTAAFL Press, and Abomination Media. She’s also had work published in Mad Scientist Journal, Mojave Heart Review and One Sentence Poems. She is a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America Helen McCloy scholarship, and she received an Honorable Mention from the L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future contest. Her work is forthcoming in Tales from Gehenna (Gehenna & Hinnom), Unexpected Heroines (Grimbold Books), The Devil’s Doorbell (Hellbound Books), Mused, and with Mortal Realm. She is currently working with an editor and five other writers on The Complete Guide to Writing Horror Vol. 1 (Dragon Soul Press).

She lives in southeast Texas and has three dogs. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, swimming, sculpting, and drawing. You can find her on Twitter @madisonestes or Instagram @madisonpaigeestes or visit her website authormadisonestes.wordpress.com

A SONG ONLY SHE CAN HEAR

Wondra Vanian

Jewel had the best breast stroke on the swim team. She could also do an arm-stand dive without making a splash, knew the correct stance for the ultimate pike position, and could do the five hundred free in 4:35 flat. None of those facts were as impressive, of course, when one learned that Jewel was a mermaid – not that many ever had. Luckily.

Keeping the true nature of her birth a secret was less for Jewel’s sake than it was for her adopted parents’. If things got hairy, Jewel could just head down to the beach, jump in the ocean, and go looking for her own people. It was Dylan and Julie who would be left answering unanswerable questions. Questions like, “Did you know your daughter could sprout a tail when you adopted her?”

No, of course not. Dylan and Julie hadn’t learned that fun fact until they took the toddler to the beach the first time. Good thing it had been early autumn and not at the peak of the tourist season…

“Is your daughter covered in scales?”

Not most of the time. Jewel’s scales only shook free of her skin when she was in the water. Even then, Jewel could usually control the transformation as long as it wasn’t saltwater, which could instantly trigger the change, especially if it took her by surprise.

“Does your daughter eat raw fish?”

Eww. Jewel was a teenager. She liked Taco Bell.

“Don’t you think having a mermaid on the swim team gives the town an unfair advantage?”

Well, there was no getting around that one. Anderson Bay wouldn’t have been second in their division without Jewel’s unique talents, that was for certain. Jewel just had to keep her abilities in check and remember that, even if she wasn’t just normal teenager, she had to act like one. She had to make sure things never got hairy. Jewel liked her life and didn’t want to give it up if she could help it.

She chewed her bottom lip as she watched the boys line up for their next event. They weren’t as far ahead as usual. Repunport, the team they faced, was the only school above them in the division but her school was giving them a run for their money. Even though Repunport had been several points ahead of Anderson Bay the whole season, Jewel’s team was in danger of soaring ahead and, potentially drawing attention to themselves – to her, in particular – if she didn’t reign it in, at least a little. Jewel was trying to decide which of her next events to throw when a flash of green caught her eye.

Jewel dropped the towel she’d been dabbing her face dry with. Her gaze was drawn to lane three, where a boy from the visiting team was doing freestyle, a full lap ahead of the others. He glanced Jewel’s way as he came up for air and she could have sworn his eyes flashed silver. As Jewel watched, the boy reached the end of the lane and flipped gracefully, his skin shimmering turquoise for the fraction of a second it took him to complete the movement.

She gasped. It couldn’t be…

Could it?

How many merfolk could there be in one school district?

Jewel stared in wonder, heart thudding painfully in her chest, as the boy won his race and was surrounded by his cheering teammates. She lost sight of him then. Before she could untangle the boy from the excited mass of bodies on the other side of the pool, Jewel’s coach appeared at her side.

“What are you doing?” Ms. Frazer said in a fluster. “You’re up! Go, go!”

Jewel hurried to the starting block, but her mind wasn’t on the race. She went through the motions of taking her place and assuming weight-forward start position, thoughts on the boy who might or might not be a merman. Then, the gun went off and she dove.

The moment Jewel’s body sliced through the water, she knew with absolute certainty that the boy was 100% not human.

She could feel him in the water, even though he was no longer in it. His song filled the enclosed space. The eddies from the other swimmers’ movements drove his sound, his taste, against Jewel. Her body reacted instinctively; a ripple tore through Jewel, making panic rush through her veins. She clamped down hard on the transformation that tried to claim her.

At the other side of the pool, Jewel grabbed the edge and hoisted herself up. She shook so hard she could barely wrap her fingers around the towel Ms. Frazer passed her.

“Don’t worry about it,” the coach told her, rubbing her back in support. “Everyone has a bad day.”

She’d lost. Jewel had never lost a race before, not even to protect her secret. And not just lost, she’d come dead last. The loss should have bothered her more than it did, but Jewel was too busy looking for the boy to care about any of that.

There! He leaned against the bleachers on the opposite side of the pool. Giving Jewel a crooked grin, he nodded once in acknowledgment before he turned and disappeared into the boys’ locker room. Meet forgotten – everything forgotten – Jewel hurried into the girls’ locker room. She found the boy waiting for her when she emerged, hastily showered and dressed, several minutes later.

“Hey.” He sat on the low brick wall that surrounded the building, with one knee pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around it.

Jewel skidded to a half a few feet away. “Hey,” she answered breathless.

The boy hopped down. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard your song in that pool. You’re the only other merfolk I’ve ever met.”

“Me too!” Jewel answered, excitement growing. “I was raised by humans.”

“Same.”

People started spilling out of the building. The meet was over. It was unfair. Jewel had only just met another merfolk; a quick hello wasn’t enough. She needed more time.

He must have been thinking the same because the boy said, “Wanna get out of here before the parents find us?”

“Hell yes!”

They left the increasingly busy parking lot behind for the quieter path that led to the seaside. Although it was getting late, the promenade was brightly lit and full of laughing people. Jewel and Dillon (as she learned her new friend’s name was) hopped over the railing separating the sidewalk from the beach.

Jewel and Dillon walked close enough to the water that the waves tickled their toes. Every time the salt water teased her flesh, Jewel shivered.

“I can feel it, too,” Dillon told her. “The change, trying to take over.”

Jewel looked around. They were far enough from the lights and sounds of the pier. No one would see…

“Do you… um, want to maybe…” She felt ridiculous saying it out loud.

Dillon stopped, searching her face. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Mind? She’d been waiting her whole to find someone to share her secret with.

“I’d love it,” she answered honestly.

Grinning, Dillon reached for the neck of his RHS hoodie and pulled it over his head. His tee-shirt soon followed. Jewel looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He’d been wearing almost nothing at all in the pool, of course, but this was different somehow.

She undressed more slowly, willing the nervous tremble to leave her fingers as she popped the buttons on her jeans. By the time Jewel shrugged out of her bra, she heard the splash that told her Dillon had entered the water. She hurried in after him.

They swam out in human form, but much farther than a human would have been able to without succumbing to exhaustion. When they were a good distance from the shore, lights, and people, Dillon stopped. He tread water. His long, elegant limbs swept silently through the water with barely a ripple, but it was his eyes that mesmerized Jewel. They shone like liquid silver in the moonlight.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Dillon told Jewel, moving closer.

“Me too.”

Jewel’s whole body felt charged and alive with power. She longed to let the transformation take over, to shed her human skin and swim free. Then, Dillon kissed her. At that moment, Jewel couldn’t have stopped the change if she’d wanted to.

It was as though hundreds of tiny waves rushed under her skin. When they stilled, Jewel was covered in iridescent, aquamarine scales. Her feet had widened, elongated, become webbed. Her fingers were longer, too, gills stretching along her throat. She looked up at Dillon, suddenly shy.

Jewel gasped when she saw him in his true from.

He was beautiful.

“You’re beautiful,” Dillon said, mirroring her thoughts.

Alone, they were beautiful. Together, they were… wild. Exotic. They weren’t inhuman, they were more than human. For the first time in either of their lives, Jewel and Dillon were able to revel in the truth of what they were.

The few sexual encounters Jewel had shared with human boys had been okay at best. Making love with Dillon, in her true form, their songs harmonizing in the water around them, was better than okay. It was magical, everything a teenage girl dreamed of – and more.

More.

Jewel wanted more of Dillon. Needed more. Craved more. She wanted all of him. God, he was so good she felt like she could just eat him right up. Her need grew as the passion between them climbed higher and higher until she was lost in it. She clung to his shoulders as their movements rocked the waters around them. Her long fingers raked against the scales that lined his back, earning a startled gasp from Dillon as the action drew blood.

“Hey,” he laughed against her lips, “Easy…”

But Jewel didn’t want to take it easy. She wanted… wanted… something. Something she had never experienced but knew she needed. Something only Dillon could give her. Jewel ground harder against Dillon until his complaint became a moan of pleasure. After that, his own grip on her waist tightened and there was nothing else to do but give in to the hunger clawing at her.

When Jewel’s sense returned, she was in human form. Floating nearby was a single, large, webbed foot. It was easy to see how early sailors mistook them for fins. Jewel stared at it, heavy-lidded and languid, without really taking in what she was looking at. When she did, shock made her sink below the surface of the water.

She burst back up, spluttering and thrashing, eyes immediately drawn to the webbed foot bobbing nearby. A foot. That was it. Not the rest of the merfolk; just a foot. Blood dripped from its severed end. Horrified, Jewel turned and swam back to the shore as fast as she could.

She never even considered changing form to get there faster.

Dylan and Julie found Jewel on the beach, hours later, clutching Dillon’s green Repunport High hoodie to her chest. She’d cried herself out by then but the haunted look she wore never truly left her. Her adopted parents didn’t understand Jewel’s broken ramblings until weeks later when Dr. Ahmed gave Jewel and Julie the news.

“Don’t worry, though,” he said, as if trying to make the best of a bad situation, “you can still compete. For a while, at least.”

Jewel shuddered visibly. “I’m never going in the water again,” she swore. It wasn’t the first time she’d said those words since…

When she returned home the night she and Dillon met and… and… Jewel had grabbed her gym bag, trudged outside with it, and thrown the whole thing straight into the garbage can. She’d quit the swim team the next day. Jewel had never asked to be born merfolk, but she could sure as hell chose not to transform.

Jewel gave birth deep in the Rocky Mountains. The urge to transform had become increasingly overwhelming as Dillon’s baby grew inside her. Eventually, her adopted parents gave into her pleas to “get her the hell away” from the ocean. They only ever returned to Anderson Bay once more.

Dylan and Julie begged her not to do it, but Jewel refused to listen. They didn’t understand. What if something happened to Jewel – to them all? What if her daughter went to live with people who didn’t understand the monster she really was? What if she made the mistake of allowing herself to fall for a boy?

Jewel did her best not to think about Dillon as the boat cut through the dark water. She tried to ignore Julie’s quiet sniffles and Dylan’s gentle coaxing. She especially tried to ignore the cries of her baby which, to Jewel’s ears alone, sounded like a song.

It took a long time but, eventually, Jewel could hear it, the sound of merfolk, deep beneath the surface. She refused to think of them as her people. Jewel didn’t belong to that world anymore.

She didn’t, but her baby girl did.

Raising the infant high above the water, Jewel let the monster fall.

Wondra Vanian left America behind for the valleys of Wales where she lives with her husband and an army of fur babies. A writer first, Wondra is also an avid gamer, photographer, cinephile, and blogger. She has music in her blood, sleeps with the lights on, and has been known to dance naked in the moonlight.

TRIBAL INFLUENCE

Erica Ruhe

“Por favor! You don’t understand,” the terrified mother pleaded in Spanish. “My daughter needs special care. Only I can look after her.”

A guard stood stone-faced on the other side of the open chain link gate.

“Ma’am, the child needs to come with me.” He gestured the girl forward. “Vamos, chica.”

“Mama?” The little girl’s dark brown eyes grew wide. Her father stepped in front of his wife and child.

“No!” he demanded. “My daughter is staying with us.”

The overflowing detainment center hummed with apprehension. Confused conversation and the shuffling of feet hung heavy under the musty weight of acrid sweat and fear.

“Por favor, she is a very special girl,” the mother continued. “You must let me stay with her.”

The guard pulled out his baton.

“Sir, step aside. Ma’am—”

“My daughter needs me.” Tears rolled down the mother’s cheeks. “Por favor, let us stay together!”

“Hey!” An impatient supervisor called across the imprisoned throng of immigrants. “What’s the hold up, Sam? We gotta keep these cattle moving!”

“My daughter is not going anywhere,” the father insisted.

“Listen to me!” The guard pointed his baton at the young Guatemalan family. “Escúchame! Tu hija viene conmigo.”

“No, Mama!” the little girl clutched her mother’s neck. “No, Mama! No, no, no!”

The mother began to shake.

“Shh, shh, my love,” she cooed, suddenly sinking to her knees. A strange vacancy filled her face as the blood drained out of her cheeks.

“Mama!” the girl wept.

“Last warning.” The guard pushed the father aside with his baton. “Mueve tu culo.”

“Mama!”

But the father stepped in again, this time turning to his girls.

“Joaquina?” the father asked, tension in his voice. “Joaquina?”

“Enough dicking around!” the guard shoved the father aside. “C’mon!”

He grabbed the mother’s arm but he faltered and gasped.

“Let her go!” the father cried out. “Let her go!”

“What the hell?” the guard yelled, holding up a shaking hand to his face. “What the fuck is happening?”

The mother looked up from her crying child, tears trembling on the rims of her eyelids. She gazed in to the guard’s eyes with an eerie stillness.

“I can’t stop it,” she whispered.

“Sam?” the supervisor called, concerned.

The guard suddenly spasmed, as if stung. He grabbed his heart. Eyes rolled back. Jaw snapped wide. And in the next instant, his terrified scream consumed him.

“Watch the tracks,” the load-master shouted over the deafening drone of the C-17 jet engines. Hector clutched his leather satchel, gave a thumbs up and turned toward the blast of summer heat billowing through the plane’s aft ramp door. Squeezing past a strapped palette of heavy machinery, he descended out of the cargo hold’s gaping mouth to the tarmac. A small welcoming committee stood at the base of the ramp, crisp uniforms lashing in the wind. A tall man in Air Force blues stepped forward and extended his hand.

“Dr. Espinoza, welcome,” he projected over the engines and gripped Hector’s carpal bones out of alignment in a crushing handshake. “General James Boone. This is Dr. Harold Ryans, Office of Scientific Research; Chemistry and Biological division.”

The balding, studious man stepped forward and shook his hand.

“You two are a long way from Ohio,” Hector yelled over the noise.

“We have a valuable opportunity at hand.” Boone clamped a hand over his wrist, standing at ease. “We appreciate you flying out on such short notice. We know the cargo hold of the McCourt isn’t the most comfortable way to spend two and half hours.”

A broad figure stopped short beside Boone, dark blue Army coat buttoned tight despite the August heat.

“I believe you and Colonel Holden are already acquainted,” Boone gestured.

Hector gave a tight smile and offered his hand a third time.

“Hello, Carl.”

The stern expression cemented on Carl’s face did not ease at the greeting.

“Hector,” he nodded with an unceremonious squeeze of Hector’s hand.

A few hundred yards away an F-15 fighter jet screamed down the runway and lifted off into the southern Texas sunset. Hector smoothed a palm over his dark brown hair, whipping in the jet exhaust.

“I’ve been instructed to extend you every courtesy, Dr. Espinoza,” Carl said in a flattened tone of duty.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re going to be courteous about it, does it?” Hector challenged with a good-natured smile. General Boone raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. His feathers ruffled, Carl pointed an imperious finger at his old colleague.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he projected over the oncoming roar of another F-15. “You’re here on my recommendation.”

“I know.” Hector shook his head. “I’ve been pondering your motive the whole way here.”

A muscle twitched in Carl’s cheek.

“I can put past grievances aside for a greater good,” he said. “Can you?”

Hector nodded, diplomatic. “Of course.”

“Outstanding,” Boone prompted the group to the waiting SUV. “Now, do you mind if we take this pissing contest off the tarmac?”

Dr. Ryans suppressed a smile. Carl puffed up his chest of ribbons and marched to the vehicle. Hector gave his stiff neck a stretch and followed.

Air conditioning blasted through the vents as Dr. Ryans curved the black SUV around a large hanger and toward the main road. Boone twisted to face Hector from the front passenger seat.

“Before we take you to the facility you need to acknowledge that everything concerning this project is strictly classified.”

In the adjacent rear seat, Carl steeled his patience and handed the clipboard and a fine ivory pen to Hector.

“There’ll be no recording equipment of any kind allowed inside,” he said.

Hector glossed over the forms, his effort ceremonious. The legalese would take a common civilian weeks to digest.

“I have no equipment.”

“That means your phone,” Carl prompted and held open his palm.

Plucking his phone out of the zippered compartment on his bag, Hector surrendered it forward to Boone instead.

“I’d prefer if you hold on to this, General. The last time I gave up my research equipment to Carl I never got it back.”

Carl’s face burned.

“Jesus, Holden,” Boone chuckled and slid the phone into his inner jacket pocket. “When you said you two had a history you weren’t kidding.”

Hector returned to the clipboard of paperwork and initialed each as he shuffled through the stack of papers. He paused on the last form.

“A liability waiver?” he asked.

“Yes,” Boone said. “Standard procedure for these types of projects.”

Hector read on. His voice rose.

“Declaration of last will and testament?”

“Be sure to fill out your next of kin clearly,” Boone stated with a wink.

“What happened to the others?” Hector asked.

“Others?” Dr. Ryans parroted.

“The army of doctors and researchers you must have conferred with before me.”

Dr. Ryans and Carl exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror.

“I mean, I’m just taking a wild stab in the dark here,” Hector continued, “but the military doesn’t usually like to invite in civilians, especially on a classified project like this.”

He looked to Carl.

“I’m here because you’re out of options.”

“Well done, Dr. Espinoza,” Boone nodded in good sportsmanship. “We do like to keep our military intelligence incestuous. But I’ll need you to finish signing those forms before I can divulge anything further.”

Hector stared at the signature line for a moment, blew out a heavy breath, then scrawled his name with the fine ivory pen.

Hector leveled the clipboard at Carl who locked it on his lap with military efficiency.

“My pen?” Carl beckoned with his fingers.

“Collateral.” Hector clicked it closed and tucked it inside his breast jacket pocket. “For my phone.”

“Rest assured, doctor,” Boone lightened the conversation. “While there’s been setbacks, we haven’t lost a man yet. Our team’s made little progress in the past week and Colonel Holden informed me that you two worked closely on a similar project some years ago. A young woman with a genetic abnormality, was it?”

Hector’s expression darkened.

“I’m not sure I would have described it that way. She had an amazing mental ability.”

“Amazing?” Carl shook his head. “It turned her in to a monster. It drove her insane.”

“If you’d given me the chance to help her cultivate—”

“I’m not rehashing old history, Hector. What’s done is done.”

“Your executive decision making left her with no other options than to self-destruct. I’ll not be put in that situation again.”

“Hector—”

“I’m just making a fundamental request, Carl. General Boone.” Hector cast a hard eye on the two men. “You’re asking for my help on this matter. If I do not have the support to give my honest assessment then you can drive me back to the airfield. Now.”

Boone grinned.

“You get us some results, Dr. Espinoza, and all the resources in the military’s toy box will be yours to play with.”

A moment of silence hung in the car.

“So,” Hector continued. “Why am I here?”

Dr. Ryans cleared his throat.

“The subject has responded poorly to military personnel,” he said. “We feel a civilian approach might harbor better results.”

“Does this subject have a name?”

“Joaquina Perez.” Carl handed over a blue folder. “From Guatemala. She came to the U.S.-Mexico border with her family seeking asylum from gang violence. Resisting detainment, she severely injured two guards and put another in a coma.”

“I’m not surprised she became violent,” Hector said. “Border Patrol is separating families. A mother’s instinct is to protect her children.”

Carl lowered a brow at him.

“Joaquina is not the mother.”

Hector opened the report. A photo of a young Guatemalan girl with wild dark eyes and long disheveled hair stared back. Hector gawked at the profile information.

“She’s six!”

“Yes,” Carl replied, trying to stifle his annoyance.

“How the hell—” Hector caught himself. “Excuse me. How does a six year old, malnourished immigrant send three armed guards to the hospital?”

“She is not normal.” Boone tapped his temple. “This girl has the ability to get into people’s heads.”

“She’s capable of inflicting psychological trauma akin to acute shock and PTSD,” Dr. Ryans chimed in.

“How?”

Hector scanned the notes. Previous assessments and diagnoses scribbled in several different handwriting littered the stack of papers.

“We know she is able to sense the emotions of others around her,” Dr. Ryans replied, excitement creeping in to his voice.

“She’s clairsentient?” Hector looked up from the notes. “An empath?”

“Yes, but she’s also an influencer.”

“Influencer?”

“Somehow she’s able to harness a person’s emotional energy to her advantage,” Dr. Ryans continued. “She can reduce a hardened war soldier to tears just by touching his hand.”

“Or coerce them to give her anything she asks,” Carl said. “She’s already persuaded two guards to unlock her room in an attempt to escape.”

“We’ve had to bring in some of our more seasoned men just to keep her contained,” Boone added.

“She’s six,” Hector reiterated.

“This isn’t some innocent little child, Dr. Espinoza,” Boone leveled his tone. “Everyone she’s gotten a fingertip on has either gone soft and refused to continue the research or snapped in a nervous breakdown. We are taking extreme precautions with this girl. She could be a public threat.”

Hector furrowed his brow.

“Why haven’t you brought in the girl’s parents? I would think she’d be more cooperative with them in the room.”

“They’re dead.”

“Dead?”

“They were seriously injured in the incident she caused at the detainment center. We’ve been waiting for an opportune time to break the news.”

Hector was flabbergasted.

“You haven’t told her yet?”

“What kind of cooperation would we get if she knew she had no family? In this game we’ve got to think strategically and right now we have a bargaining chip. Without that we’re playing with all our money in the pot on a limp dick hand.”

“She must be told.”

“In time, yes—”

“No,” Hector demanded. “She needs to be told immediately. This is unacceptable—”

Carl interrupted.

“Let me remind you that you’re here to help with research not give us a lesson in morality.”

Hector studied his old colleague carefully. There was a strange intensity in his face; a silent demand for passivity. But Hector wasn’t buying in. Not just yet. Boone continued, relaxed and unflustered.

“Our methods may appear uncouth to the American people but we get shit done. As long as what we do doesn’t interrupt their weekend barbecue, the public doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what happens.”

“They don’t care because they don’t know,” Hector seethed.

“And that’s why they’re still alive. Knowledge can be dangerous. Knowledge can start riots and instigate wars. Knowledge is power, but ignorance—” Boone wagged a fatherly finger, “—ignorance always keeps the peace.”

“If you let me in that room, I will tell her the truth,” Hector challenged.

“Eventually,” Boone nodded. “But you need to build a rapport with girl first. Get her to open up; to trust. Then, once she knows about her parents, she’ll be primed to follow your every lead.”

“And what makes you think I’ll have any more success than the other doctors?”

“You’re not a uniform,” Carl said, bluntly. “You have more experience with this type of… thing and, being an immigrant once yourself, you and the girl have a common background.”

“We want to see what she can do,” Boone smiled. His tone was reminiscent of breaking in a new recruit.

Hector looked to Carl again.

“What if we don’t like what we find?” he asked. Carl averted his attention out the window.

“Well, we have to build a bridge before we can cross it,” Boone said with assurance and turned back to the road ahead.

After a few miles of silence, Dr. Ryans pulled the SUV to the hospital side entrance and parked at the curb. An elevator descent to the basement level led the group to a long white corridor. There was no evidence of humanity. No fliers or posters. No music or announcements from the PA system. Even the air was bleached cold and sterile. The group arrived at a nondescript door flanked by two armed Military Police.

“We will observe from the next room.” Dr. Ryans pointed to a windowless door beside him. “Remember, do not touch her and do not allow her to touch you. The psychological effects have only occurred during physical contact.”

White fluorescent light filtered through the door’s small square window. Hector peeked through. Joaquina sat alone, her tiny wrist shackled to the chair. Hector cast a caustic scowl at Carl.

“Are the handcuffs really necessary?”

“It’s for your safety, Hector,” Carl said, flatly.

“I will only conduct this interview if the girl is unrestrained.”

“Hector—”

Boone waved Carl away.

“Get acquainted, Dr. Espinoza. Then we’ll see if you think the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Dr. Ryans removed the keys from his breast pocket and unlocked the door to the interview room. At the end of a stainless steel table sat the swarthy, wide-eyed little girl. Her black hair hung long and tangled over her shoulders. A surge of mourning beat in Hector’s chest for the isolated innocent. Dark eyes zeroed in on him. A wave of cold prickled the skin all the way down his back and arms. Suddenly filled with melancholy, a dull ache took hold in his chest. His breath caught in his throat. The girl’s eyes narrowed, curious.

“Hello, Joaquina,” Carl stepped in, breaking her sight line.

The sensation faded. Hector straightened, unsure if he had revealed something to the girl in his expression. A large one-way mirror reflected the sterile, empty surroundings. The black eye of a security camera peered down from the far corner of the ceiling. Hector took a deep breath and followed one of the armed MPs into the cold room. A pond of water from a spilled plastic cup sprawled across the table in front of Joaquina and dripped to the white linoleum below. Butter crackers scattered the floor. Boone picked up the discarded cellophane wrapper.

“This didn’t tickle your fancy either?”

Joaquina’s eyes fell to the floor, pretending not to hear him. Hector pulled out a legal pad from his bag and eased in to a seat to the right of the girl.

“Hola, Joaquina,” he smiled.

Silent, Joaquina fidgeted, the handcuffs on her left wrist clanking around the arm of the heavy oak chair. Carl scooped up the fallen food and set the cup upright, depositing the crumbs into it.

“Would you prefer to dump a soda next, Joaquina?” Boone grabbed a handful of napkins from the center of the table and tossed them onto the water puddle.

“¿Una soda?” he asked with an abominable American accent.

Hector slid Carl’s ivory pen from his jacket pocket and clicked it open.

“It’s a wonder why she hasn’t warmed up,” Hector mumbled in Spanish.

“Say again?” Boone asked.

“Nothing, sir,” Carl said and landed a heavy look on his colleague. He slopped the soaked stack of napkins into the trash can beside the water cooler.

Hector jotted a brief note on his pad, unruffled.

“Perhaps you can rustle up an applesauce or pudding from the—”

Joaquina suddenly reached out for Hector’s arm.

“No!” a guard shouted. “No tocar!”

The man surged forward, maneuvering Joaquina’s hand away with his baton as Hector recoiled in surprise.

“No tocar! No tocar!” the guard shouted.

Joaquina cried out. Hector held up his hands against the attack.

“It’s okay!” he pleaded, suddenly breathless with adrenaline. “It’s okay! She’s okay! Everyone just calm down.”

Joaquina held her arm and sobbed. The guards stood poised to intervene again.

“Are you hurt?” Hector asked.

“Tell them to go away.” Joaquina cried. She turned her intense gaze to Carl, then to General Boone. “All of them.”

“Está bien,” Hector assured her. “It’s okay.”

“Make them go away.”

“Leave us, please,” Hector said.

Carl nodded and motioned to the MPs. Joaquina watched the men file out. The door closed and only the hum of the air conditioning whirred above them. Hector took a napkin and offered it to dry Joaquina’s tear-streaked cheeks. She accepted it gingerly and wiped the napkin across her face and over her nose. They conversed easily in her native tongue.

“Are you okay, Joaquina?”

She pouted a solemn lower lip.

“I want my mommy. I want my daddy. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“I’ll make sure we get you out of here soon,” Hector replied, careful with his words. “I promise. I just need to ask you some questions.”

Joaquina’s expression turned to genuine hurt and betrayal.

“Why are you helping them? They are bad men. They took my family away. They put us in cages.”

Hector observed the bruises on her arms and shoulders. Needle pricks flecked the delicate skin on both her arms.

“Did they hurt you?”

Joaquina averted her eyes to a crumb on the table. Hector turned a condemning glare to the reflective glass but nothing answered.

“I don’t want to go back to the cages,” she mumbled.

“No more cages,” Hector shook his head. “I promise.”

Hector organized his thoughts and continued.

“A few days ago, something happened. At the detainment center. Do you remember?”

Joaquina silently debated a moment, then nodded.

“Has that happened before?”

She nodded again.

“When?”

“When the bad men tried to hurt Daddy.”

“What bad men? Back home, in Villa Nueva?”

She nodded.

“What happened when these men tried to hurt your Daddy?”

Joaquina sighed, forcing herself back to the dark memory.

“I was holding Daddy’s hand and the bad man came up, like this—” She gripped an invisible knife to her throat. “And he said he was going to… kill him if he didn’t give him money.”

“And that made you afraid.”

“Yes. Then I got very hot. Like fire. My Daddy started to scream and so did the man. I made them feel fire too. Like me.”

“You realized the man was screaming because of you?”

Joaquina nodded.

“How?”

“Because I felt how scared he was. He tried to be mean but he was just scared. It felt bad. I felt sick.”

“And then what happened?”

Joaquina swallowed but said nothing.

“Did he get hurt?” Hector paused. “Did he die?”

She looked away. Hector took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t your fault, Joaquina.”

She shrugged but remained silent.

“You are a good girl, a kind girl,” he continued, compassionate. “I can see that in you. I’m going to get you out of here but I have to ask a few questions first. Will you help me?”

“You can’t keep your promise,” she pouted.

“Why do you say that?”

“They won’t let you.”

Hector was quiet a moment.

“They’re empty. They don’t feel,” Joaquina said. Her voice rasped like broken, frayed fibers over a metal grate.

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t feel. They are like…” she searched for the word, “…robots. They are dead inside.”

“They’re human like you and me.”

“They are not like me.” She fiddled with the crumpled napkin. “But you are like me.”

“Am I?”

“You feel like I feel.”

“Like anger? Happiness?”

“You feel outside.”

Hector cocked his head. “Outside?”

Joaquina held out a hand. Hector looked to her tiny palm. The PA speaker cracked to life with Carl’s voice.

“Hector, don’t—”

Then it fell silent again. A stifled warning. Hector imagined the disagreement taking place behind the mirrored glass. He swallowed and gave a small smile at Joaquina.

“Is this what happened to all the other doctors?” he asked carefully.

“All the others were empty,” Joaquina said.

A strange warmth tingled at the center of Hector’s palm. He closed his fist and worked his fingertips against the sensation.

“Are you doing that?” he asked.

Joaquina shook her head.

“I told you. You are like me. You feel.”

Hector frowned. “What does that mean?”

Joaquina said nothing but offered her hand to the extent that the handcuffs would allow. Hector hesitated a moment. Then, slowly, he eased his trembling fist across the table. She curled her fingers around his wrist. Again the sadness swept through him, hollow and cold. It was strong enough to make him gasp.

“You feel like I feel,” Joaquina said again. Hector slid his arm away, out of the girl’s touch. The emotion faded. Hector swallowed and steadied his breathing.

“You… you did that?”

“Si.”

“How?”

Joaquina shrugged.

“Joaquina, how do you do it?”

The girl lifted her palms.

“I just think it. I know what’s inside people and I think about it.”

“How do you know what’s inside them? Can you hear their thoughts? Describe it to me.”

“I can… feel their feelings. Sometimes they’re happy. Sometimes they’re sad or angry or afraid.”

“And you can find that feeling and amplify it? You can make it stronger?”

She nodded.

Excitement swelled in Hector’s brain. He held out his trembling palms.

“Show me again.”

Joaquina placed her hands on his and closed her eyes. A visionless, childhood memory he had long forgotten, echoed in Hector’s mind. The laughter of his mother. The smell of maize fields warmed by the summer sun. He took in a breath to clear the impression swirling in his head. Joaquina lifted her hands away and the ecstasy ebbed back into the empty space around Hector, leaving him heavy as he came down from the high.

“How are you doing this?” he smiled, incredulous.

“I felt it around me.” Joaquina shook her head. “It’s never happened like that before.”

She sat up in her chair and put her hands out again, this time hovering them a few inches above Hector’s palms. The energy built again, just as strong as when their hands were connected.

Instantly, Hector felt his chest swell with pride, like the first time he jumped his horse over the ravine on his grandfather’s farm.

Joaquina giggled.

The rush of the risk and the thrill of the reward spiraled up the base of Hector’s neck and flooded his brain with endorphins. His body eased. The emotion flowed through his arms, chest, brain and up into the ethers in an endless cycle. But with each revolution, the emotion grew stronger, like a feedback loop, until the energy compounded into joy. It was the touch of pure innocence, the overflow of bliss and wonder that only a child still shielded from the shadows of the world could know.

Joaquina’s giggles graduated to laughter. Hector opened his eyes, realized he was grinning without restraint. He laughed at his own foolishness.

“Do you think you could project further?” he asked.

Before Joaquina could answer, the door opened and Boone stepped in, a look of amazement plastered across his features. Surprise rippled through Hector’s chest. Joaquina’s energy closed in on itself at the interruption.

“You feel it too,” Hector said. He didn’t need Boone’s acknowledgment to know he was right. Boone shifted his focus to Joaquina.

“Can she do others?” He clarified. “Project other emotions, I mean.”

“Sir, give me some time—”

“Ask her!”

Hector turned back to Joaquina.

“Can you project other emotions?”

She stared at the table a moment. Joaquina’s shoulders hunched in at the proposal. Hector realized the answer a moment too late, nausea tightening in his gut. Boone’s elation melted to unease. He gripped his stomach.

“All right,” Boone nodded, his face turning pale. “All right, yeah, I get it. Now stop.”

Joaquina’s focus did not break. Boone coughed a dry heave.

“Joaquina,” Hector prompted.

Boone reached for the back of a chair to steady himself.

“I give up, kid!” he begged, eyes darting to the nearest waste basket.

“I want you to feel like I feel,” Joaquina muttered.

“Joaquina, please.”

Hector touched the girl’s arm but retreated, choking down a violent gag reflex.

“I want him to feel like I feel,” Joaquina said louder, pounding a tiny fist on the table. Boone stumbled to the floor near the bin and emptied his stomach. Military guards rushed through the doors and pinned the girl’s shoulders to the chair with their batons. The sickness faded from the general’s face.

“You think that’s funny?” Boone staggered to his feet, pale and sweating.

“I want to go home.”

“What did she say?”

“Sir, let me get back to the questions,” Hector suggested.

“I want my mommy!”

“I know what that means,” Boone nodded and dabbed his mouth.

“General Boone, this is not helping.”

“You want your mommy and daddy?” Boone asked. “Tu mama y papa?”

“Si!” Joaquina exclaimed.

“Too bad, kiddo.”

Hector shot to his feet.

“General Boone!”

“What?” Joaquina looked to Hector for an explanation. “What did he say?”

“Go ahead and tell her,” Boone taunted. “You swore you would.”

“What did he say?” Joaquina asked again.

“How do you say it in Spanish?” Boone continued. “Muerto?”

Joaquina’s eyes darted to him at the word.

“Dead!” Joaquina gasped.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hector slammed a hand on the table.

“They’re dead?” Joaquina bawled.

“Joaquina, don’t listen to him.”

“Dead? They’re dead?”

Hector shouted to the invisible observers behind the mirror.

“This interview is over. Uncuff her, now!”

Joaquina shook her head.

“No, no, no!”

Hector suddenly shivered. The hair on his neck stood up. His skin prickled with electricity.

“No!” Joaquina cried and pushed away from the table. “NO!”

“General, leave the room now!”

“I don’t think so, doctor,” Boone’s eyes were transfixed on the little girl.

She stumbled out of her seat and tried to make for the door, pulling the heavy chair with her. Boone motioned to two MPs.

“Restrain her.”

“Don’t!” Hector tried to intervene but they shoved him aside.

The MPs charged forward with their batons at her shoulders. The bruising impact thrust the girl back in the seat with a yelp. Tears glistened in her eyes and her head tilted back with sharp intake of breath. A strange calm enveloped her expression and her sight fell on one of the MPs.

“No puedo pararlo,” Joaquina whispered to him.

The two guards suddenly stuttered, paralyzed, gasping at some unseen horror.

“Let her go!” Hector shouted.

He grabbed one of the men’s shoulder. Immediately, a flash of icy fear surged from the guard into him. An invisible garrote tightened across Hector’s throat and he doubled over, crippled with terror. The second guard screamed as if he’d been shot. The revolutions of Joaquina’s feedback returned stronger with each pulse until the air was buzzing with energetic distortion. From around the corner, Carl suddenly appeared, leaning in to the room by the door handle. His face grimaced with discomfort.

“Hector!” he called, his body submitting to violent tremors.

Hector grabbed his own wrist with his free hand and tore away his grip, falling back from the effort. The first MP fell to the floor with the shakes. Carl slumped to his hands and knees.

“Dr. Ryans!” Carl shouted for help. “Dr. Ryans!”

General Boone backed away in horror and disappeared out of the room. Empty chairs vibrated across the floor from the kinetic energy. Warmth radiated from the steel table. Hector stumbled to his feet and turned his focus to the remaining guard.

“Let h-her go!” he stammered.

Joaquina gripped the guard’s wrist trying to free herself but instead, channeled a raw river of dark dread up his veins. The man’s body pleaded for an escape but he was paralyzed under her touch. Three more guards burst around the corner but they all stumbled over each other at the threshold. Overtaken by a bottomless void of fear, they broke in to a fit of screams.

“Joaquina!” Hector called, fighting the rip tide of panic in his chest. “Joaquina, can you hear me?”

Joaquina was entranced. Her dark eyes had turned feral, darting with panic. She panted and whimpered like a trapped animal. Hector fought against his seizing muscles and broke Joaquina’s grip on the guard.

One of the MPs at the door suddenly cleared his gun and, with a frantic war cry, shot off every round in to the room. Hector tipped Joaquina back in her chair and pulled her under the humming table. Another guard screamed as he scratched at his eyeballs until they were bloody vacant holes in his face. More shots exploded from the observation room next door and the mirror shattered under a barrage of gunfire. Tortured shouts and the beat of running boots carried down the hall. Joaquina crouched near a table leg and watched the melee with tears streaming down her face. The air around the metal table shimmered and refracted with the growing heat.

“Joaquina!” Hector’s voice cracked as he convulsed beside her. “Joaquina, s-stop!”

But shock had snatched her away. She could not answer him. She could only observe the men’s descent in to insanity. Hector reached out his arms to her. Radiating heat compounded through the molecules of the table above them, causing the metal to glow now. Hector gasped. Sweat ran into his eyes. Electric impulses from his brain faltered under the stress. His heart boomed and stuttered in his chest, on the verge of cardiac arrest. Gathering the last of his effort, Hector crawled to Joaquina’s side.

“Por… favor….”

He embraced the little girl. He yelled, in physical pain at the panic and adrenaline that pounded through his bloodstream. Fear overwhelmed him. His chest constricted. His lungs caved in on themselves.

Joaquina screamed.

The energy around them shifted up in frequency, now turning to a deafening whine. The injured guards crumbled to the ground and succumbed to fits of violent seizures. White foam frothed from their mouths. Covering his ears, Carl writhed and shrieked in agony on the floor. From the hall, more shouts echoed off the linoleum floors and whitewashed walls.

Outside, a distant explosion rocked through the building’s foundation.

Hector struggled but held the little girl firm, willing a tiny spark of hope in his solar plexus to radiate to her heart.

Then Joaquina weakened and collapsed in to sobs. The energy in the air around them suddenly fell silent. The rattling chairs froze. The only soldier still on his feet crumpled over the bullet-riddled water cooler and brought the five gallon jug crashing to the ground. His body flopped flat, motionless. The bottle glugged. Cool water seeped across the linoleum and mixed with rivers of hot blood.

Hector collapsed on his side, cradling the girl. Joaquina howled. He stroked her hair and hushed her tears. Slowly the terror faded to a desolate loneliness; an utter empty void of despair.

“Look what I’ve done!” she cried. “Look what I’ve done! I am cursed!”

“No, shh, shh,” Hector whispered. “You are a gift, Joaquina. You are a gift.”

Joaquina suddenly went limp and slipped in to unconsciousness. Hector eased her to the floor. His eyes darted over the bloody aftermath, terror rising again. He shut his eyes, evened his breath. Hector’s fingers touched Joaquina’s cuffs. He snatched his hand back, the flesh of his fingertips stinging from the burning metal. Bracelets of bloody bruises and charred flesh laced her thin wrist.

He stood, careful to avoid the scalding table top, and scanned the bodies around him. His attention fell to the nearest guard, flat on his back, eyes still watery in their death stare. Hector crawled to his body and patted the corpse’s coat pockets for keys. Nothing. He tried another guard. Then another.

“Dammit,” he whispered.

Hector rose to his feet and stumbled to the hallway. The door to the observation room was ajar and smeared with bloody hand prints. He pushed it open. In the corner, General Boone lay slumped on his side, his brains on the wall. Hector shut his eyes and took in another deep breath. He opened them again and glanced at the other motionless figure.

There, face down on the table, with the surveillance monitors still ticking off recorded seconds, was Dr. Ryans in a pool of his own blood. Hector did not investigate the man’s injuries. He patted pockets until he came upon the telltale clink of metal. Pulling his shirt sleeve over his fingers for protection, Hector lifted the burning ring of keys free.

Suddenly Dr. Ryans clutched Hector’s wrist in a death grip, a bloody screech gargling in his perforated throat. Hector froze and screamed back, his mind indelibly marred with Ryan’s disfigured face. A bullet had shot up his chin and exploded his right eyeball in to bright red jelly. Blood painted his neck and chest. Dr. Ryans arched back in the chair. His torso was riddled with blooms of red. A brain hemorrhage sent him in to convulsions, reeling away his last bit of life. Hector wrestled his wrist free and fled the room.

Rounding the corner, Hector stumbled over the leg of a dead guard and caught himself on the doorjamb. He stood there a moment, shaking. His gaze drifted to Joaquina’s still form, shackled to the chair. He stepped over the bodies, crouched beside her and unlocked the hot handcuffs.

“Hec..tor.”

Hector looked back across the room. Carl’s eyes fluttered as he slowly came back to consciousness.

“I’m getting her out of here,” Hector stated.

Carl gave a weak nod.

“Good,” he wheezed. “You’ll have to… destroy the computers.”

“What?”

Carl slid a nearby pistol spinning across the slick linoleum, leaving a red wake behind it. Hector paused, watching the gun’s revolutions slow to a stop at his feet.

“They can’t know what… happened here,” Carl said with effort. “She’ll never survive.”

Hector picked up the warm weapon. Pointing it through the shards of the one-way mirror, he braced his face behind a protective arm and unloaded the clip in to the recording equipment. Sparks and bits of glass and plastic flew through the air. Hector tossed away the empty gun.

“What’s going on, Carl?”

Carl rolled to his back and closed his eyes. A gunshot wound wept bright red from his thigh, another from his shoulder.

“Bringing you on… it was the only way to get her out.” He coughed and regained his ragged breath. “But I didn’t know it would… end like this.”

Carl opened his eyes again and looked up at his old colleague, regret in his expression.

“I didn’t want her to die like Leilani did.”

Hector held out his hand.

“Please…” Carl waved him away. “Just get her to safety. Call… Lieutenant Twyman. He’ll help.”

Hector slung the satchel across his chest and gathered Joaquina up in his arms. He shifted her to one side and held out his hand to Carl once more.

“You’ve pulled me into another one of your messes,” he said. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easy.”

Carl gave a grunt.

“Still hiding your emotions behind rationale, Hector?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The two men gripped arms and, with a mighty pull, Carl staggered to his feet. Leaning heavily on Hector’s shoulder, Carl shuffled down the long corridor as fast as his wounded body would allow.

“They were going to ship her off to a secret facility in Nevada,” Carl grunted. “Even I don’t know its location. And there’d be no hope of getting her out of a place like that.”

“Was this your attempt at redemption?”

“My wife… was everything to me.”

Hector punched the elevator button and the doors slid open. They stumbled in.

“I warned you, Carl—”

“How many ways are you going to punish me, Hector? I was doing what I thought was best for her.”

“No. You were doing exactly what the goddamned government told you. And you didn’t even realize it.”

Carl braced himself on the handrail as the elevator shot up to the ground level.

“You’re right. You’re right. It took losing Leilani to—”

Saying her name wilted his spirit. He coughed and continued.

“That’s why you’re here now. To keep this girl from ending up as another casualty of the U.S. war machine.”

“What makes you so confident I’ll succeed?”

Carl shook his head.

“God help us if you don’t.”

The elevator door opened. The hospital’s main floor was quiet, littered with toppled carts of supplies and broken equipment. The men limped past open examination rooms strewn with confused and injured staff and patients. No one acknowledged them. A catatonic doctor stared past them, murmuring at an invisible void. The receptionist shuffled by, bewildered at the scene.

“My God,” Carl whispered.

“You wanted to see what she is capable of,” Hector muttered.

Carl’s face crinkled with guilt. He cradled his side and withered a bit more. Hector hoisted him up again and nudged him toward a medical cart.

“Grab that gauze. And the alcohol.”

“Just leave me. The doctors can—”

“I’m not asking,” Hector retorted. “Grab that stuff and put it in my bag.”

Carl’s bloodied hands grappled with the supplies as he shoved them into Hector’s satchel. They trudged through the automatic double doors and in to the fading light of the afternoon. Hector worked his thumb over the key fob buttons until the SUV lights flashed and the door locks clicked open. He flung open the rear passenger door and buckled Joaquin in the seat while Carl crawled into the front. With a slam of doors and quick turn of the ignition, Hector tore the black SUV out of the parking lot.

“How do I get off the base?”

“Left,” Carl puffed. “Take this road back past the airfield.”

Hector laid the gas pedal down and the SUV lurched forward.

“Damn military dogs,” he grumbled. “Their barbarian brains discover something extraordinary and always leap to the primitive ambition of how to weaponize it.”

Carl shook his head.

“Her ability could be used to quell riots, stop wars. Hector, imagine how she could influence the world toward peace.”

Hector narrowed a skeptical side eye at his colleague.

“And General Boone shared your “kumbaya” enthusiasm? I know you’re not that naive, Carl.”

Carl took a deep breath and flexed his trembling hands.

“That’s why I called on you. I’d hoped that you could have taken over the project. Pushed the research toward that directive.”

“My research is meant to help people like Joaquina understand their abilities, not turn them in to a military asset.”

The tree lined road cleared on either side and opened to the flat expanse of airfield. Black smoke billowed high into the air. Remains of a helicopter engulfed in flames sprawled across the tarmac. A team of men in flight suits ran toward the wreckage to help.

“Dios mio,” Hector breathed, gripping the steering wheel.

Carl stared, silent.

“There’s still going to be surveillance of us leaving the hospital,” Hector said after a long moment. He patted his empty pocket.

“And my phone… dammit. How are you going to explain what happened?”

“We were injured bystanders in a terrorist attack,” Carl riffed. “An experimental bioweapon of… of some sort. I don’t know. The Department of Defense will come up with some bullshit excuse. As long as you play along and keep a tight lip they’ll let you back in to society.”

“And what about you?”

Carl lifted his arm to inspect a third gunshot wound that had shattered his ribcage. He coughed and winced from the pain.

“Hopefully I won’t be around to answer for it.”

A dart of compassion pricked Hector’s conscience.

“Shit,” he said. “I guess I should have left you at the hospital.”

“You always liked to fight me on everything,” Carl gave small laugh. “I’ll let you buy me a farewell beer once we get Joaquina to safety.”

“Where is that exactly?” Hector asked, concern rising. “How do you know she won’t fall in to the wrong hands?”

“I… don’t know,” Carl admitted. “I’ll cover what tracks I can and help her disappear in a rural town or an Indian reservation or something. That’s all I can do.”

He patted his jacket pockets, searching for something.

“My pen,” Carl said.

Hector reached into his inner pocket and surrendered it over. Carl reclaimed his ballpoint and gripped Hector’s wrist.

“I want you to memorize this phone number,” he said, pushing up Hector’s jacket sleeve to expose his skin. “Lieutenant Miles Twyman. He’s the one man I trust. Call him when you get to San Antonio. Use a burner phone, then chuck it.”

He inked the numerals deep in to Hector’s inner arm.

“He has resources but you’ll need to direct him.”

“What are you talking about, Carl?”

“This girl is going to need your help. You have to study her, guide her. Help Joaquina and her parents understand her gift.”

“Wait.” Hector did a double take. “Boone said her parents were dead.”

“A cruel bluff. His idea not mine,” Carl lifted his palms in innocence. “They’re still detained at the center but Miles can get them out. He’ll set you up with everything you need. Food, a place to stay, research equipment, new documents.”

“New documents?”

“License, passport, whatever. You’re going to need to lay low with the Perez family until you all figure this out. But once she’s taken care of, once the family is safe, you can surface again with your name and reputation intact. After some interrogation, of course.”

Hector opened his mouth to protest.

“Just questions, Hector. You’re a U.S. citizen on U.S. soil. They aren’t going to want any more blood on their hands after this.”

“And what do I tell them?”

“The truth,” Carl said. “How you were brought on board to help and… suffered temporary amnesia after the incident.”

Carl trailed off at the sight through the windshield ahead. At the front gate security checkpoint, a multi-car pile-up nearly blocked both lanes of traffic. A few men stood around their cars, dazed and injured. Others lay strewn on the pavement.

“We’re nearly five miles from the facility,” Carl mused with morbid awe.

A small fire consumed a crashed utility truck, its hood buried under the bricks of the guardhouse wall. Distant sirens pierced the air. Hector slowed to avoid the accident.

Carl coughed and dabbed at trickle of blood from his mouth.

“Hey,” Hector chastised, “keep pressure on your wou—”

“I’m sorry, Hector. I’m—” Carl coughed again. “I’m sorry I had to pull you in to this.”

Hector slowed the SUV and signaled to pull over.

“You’re going to bleed to death—”

“No!” Carl wheezed. “No. Just… keep driving, Hector. It’s too dangerous and… we’re running out of… time. Just promise me… promise me—”

“I’ll take good care of her,” Hector assured.

From the back seat, Joaquina stirred.

Cold and trembling, Carl pulled out his mobile, scrolled through his contacts and sent out a call.

“Lieutenant Twyman, this is C-Colonel Holden. The program is in… Dr. Espinoza’s hands now. I need you to personally arrange transportation for the—the Perez family. Reference case: Tango Sierra Charlie 775… 294881. Get them fed, clothed… and en route to San Antonio, ASAP.”

Joaquina blinked at Carl in the rearview mirror.

“And… destroy their detainment records.”

His heavy hand slid from his ear and back to his lap.

“Carl?” Hector’s eyes darted between the road and his old friend. “Carl, stay with me. Carl!”

Carl gave him a weak smile.

“Carl?” Hector’s voice quivered.

The Colonel closed his eyes. Joaquina reached out, her tiny bruised fingers finding his shoulder. Carl’s grieving heart ached and ebbed in his chest.

But he was not afraid.

Erica Ruhe is a Florida-based fiction writer and lover of all genres. In her free time, she draws inspiration from human nature, Mother Nature, and her divine muses. You can find some of her latest writings in the anthologies Uncommon Minds and Uncommon Origins published by Fighting Monkey Press. Her short story, “Fragile Fruit” co-authored with Azzurra Nox will appear in print in mid-2020 by Running Wild Press. For more info visit: https://www.facebook.com/erica.ruhe.

Interview with the Authors

Claire Hamilton Russell author of “Blood”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

The image of kneeling looking up at a winged skeleton nailed over a throne has been with me since I was a small child, and I’ve never known where it came from.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

It depends what I’m in the mood for, honestly. I think short stories have traditionally been considered the inferior cousin of full novels, and I am incredibly pleased that the Internet Age seems to have brought the medium back into popularity again.

I definitely find short stories easier to write because I am disabled with chronic pain and chronic fatigue, and writing can take a lot of cognitive energy, which I don’t always have in abundance.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

I’m genderqueer/genderfluid; I move between being female and being nonbinary, so “girl” often chimes much more for my identity than “woman”. There’s something so inherently fluid, dynamic, transgressive and *powerful* about the terms “girl” and “boy” that people try to deny by using them as pejorative terms, and it never entirely works.

And, yes, I am *very* much a Strange Girl. I am autistic and have ADD, and I am not sweet, cute or submissive. Before I knew enough to know I was genderqueer/genderfluid, “Strange Girl” was about the only aspect of “femininity” that I could see myself in. It was an aspect that let me explore and accept my own identity, and it means a lot to me. I still own lots of Emily the Strange and Raven merchandise.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

It has to be the woman who invented modern SFF, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. She really invented modern horror at the same time with “Frankenstein”; the Gothic novel extraordinaire.

What is your favorite horror book?

The classic MR James’ “Ghost Stories of an Antiquary” will always be my favorite piece of horror literature. It’s dark, subtle, lyrical and utterly chilling.

What song would set the mood for your story?

I’d recommend something by Emilie Autumn – possibly Dead Is the New Alive or Rose Red.

Emma Johnson-Rivard author of “Campfire Tales: The Bloody Rings”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

It’s a continuation of a series I’ve been working on where a narrator, thus far unnamed, tells a series of weird ghost stories. “The Bloody Rings” draws more into my research into American folklore and oral storytelling traditions, but isn’t based on any specific tale.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I don’t have a preference. They accomplish different goals artistically. Novels are harder for me simply because they take longer and it can be tough to tell when one is well and truly done. I can usually tell right away when a short story has hit the right end point.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

It’s hard not to feel strange in this world, and in these times. But yes, I’d consider myself strange. At first it felt like an insult the world was throwing at me – look at all the ways you don’t fit in – but I’ve embraced it as I’ve grown. I’m a queer, neurodivergent woman who writes weird horror. Yeah, I’m strange. And I’m happy to be strange because that means being myself.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

I’ll always say Mary Shelley.

What is your favorite horror book?

I have many, but Oyinkan Braithwaite’s My Sister, the Serial Killer blew me away.

What song would set the mood for your story?

“Slip to the Void” by Alter Bridge.

Wondra Vanian author of “A Song Only She Can Hear”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

Hey, if men can ghost us after hooking up, we should be able to eat them, right? Seriously, though… this question has two answers. One of my closest friends is obsessed with mermaids—but her tastes are also a little dark and twisted. I wanted to write something she’d enjoy.

The title comes from a line I read somewhere: “You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.” That really stuck with me. I just got a bit… literal with it.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

People who churn out novels like it’s nothing get my undying respect. I’ve written several novels (which will, for the sake of readers, never see the light of day) but short stories are my drug of choice. Backstory and character development are much harder when you’ve only got a few pages, rather than a few hundred to work with so, when it it’s done well, it’s magical.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

I’ve never identified as anything else! When you’re born on Halloween, it kind of sets the pace for the rest of your life, you know? Add the fact that I grew up pagan in a town with more than a dozen churches and… yeah. Strange is a start.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

The obvious answer is Mary Shelley because of Frankenstein’s lasting impact, but I think we shouldn’t forget about Shirley Jackson. (No disrespect to Shelley. I’d never brush her aside so carelessly if we were talking about science fiction.) Jackson gave us a darker, more brooding and lingering kind of horror. It’s more… thoughtful, more internal, and she influenced so many horror authors who have, in turn, influenced authors like me.

What is your favorite horror book?

My favorite horror book has to be Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black. Like Shirley Jackson, Susan Hill kills Gothic horror. And I do love a ghost story. Honestly, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve read The Woman in Black. It’s just delicious—and gave us two cracking film adaptations.

What song would set the mood for your story?

The first song that comes to mind is “Love Bites (So Do I)” by Halestorm. It’s edgy and has the kind of frantic energy I imagine driving the story to its tragic conclusion. Plus, Lzzy Hale is just badass.

Jude Reid author of “Sideshow”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I think it grew out of playing with the idea of how a normal-looking relationship can be a prison for one or more of the people trapped in it, and how sometimes when everyone else says your partner is wonderful you start to think there must be something wrong with you instead. After that it was just pretty much straight wish-fulfillment—is there anyone who doesn’t secretly long for a beautiful snake woman who eats abusive boyfriends?

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I love them both. As a reader, novels are a long term relationship, while short stories are a one-night stand-fun at the time and lingering in your memory long after they’ve passed. That’s not to say you won’t go back for another one, or even enter into a long term reading relationship with one of the same author’s novels, but there’s something special about the pace, the intensity and the way a short story can sweep you up in a wave of passion, before depositing you, slightly breathless, back in the real world after it’s over. When it comes to writing, a short story’s a sprint, a novel’s a marathon—it’s the same energy that goes into it, just concentrated over a different distance.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Yes, don’t we all?

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Mary Shelley. She’s often cited as the mother of the science-fiction novel, but what makes Frankenstein so remarkable is the slow build of horror throughout as we see it through Victor’s eyes as the decisions he’s made destroy everything he loves. We’re still returning to its tropes two hundred years later, and there’s plenty of life in them yet.

What is your favorite horror book?

Heart Shaped Box by Joe Hill. Honestly, it’s just flawless. It made me sleep with the lights on for weeks.

Angela Sylvaine author of “Night Terrors”

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

Currently, I prefer short stories. Because they are quicker to write, they allow me to explore many different ideas and experiment with tone and genre in ways I am not able to writing a novel. For me, novels are more difficult, certainly, and much more time consuming to craft well.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Shirley Jackson. I still remember reading The Lottery for the first time as a child. It stuck with me and haunted me in ways I never knew a story could. That is the story that taught me what horror can truly be, and she is someone I truly admire as a pioneer for women in horror.

What is your favorite horror book?

My favorite horror book is Doctor Sleep. I love the idea that what haunts us as children follows us into adulthood. The Shining was a book I read at a young age, junior high or so, and always stuck with me. I had always wondered how Danny would have turned out after all he went through, and Doctor Sleep answered those questions in a story that was heart wrenching and totally satisfying.

Marnie Azzarelli author of “Leda and the Fly”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

When I was 19, I worked as a cashier at a local Walgreens. One day a fly was buzzing around my head and bugging me (pun intended) so much that when it landed on the receipt printer, I swatted it with a coupon flyer, crushing its entire body. For some reason, that image of a mushed up fly on a white printer stuck with me. I really hated that job.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I’m a constant reader, and I’m usually drawn to the largest book I can find, but I’m such a sucker for writing short stories. I like to take a point of time and shrink it down to one solid story. Of course that can always be done with a novel, but I struggle with how much I should show or tell an audience at any given time. Short stories give me a contained area to grab someone and keep them there for a little bit of their time in the hopes that they’ll still think of that story for a while after reading it.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Every day.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

My two absolute favorites are Shirley Jackson and Mary Shelley. Their horror is both so simple and so absolutely Gothic that their atmospheres stick with me long after I’m finished reading one of their stories. They brought to life (again pun intended) so many future tropes, adaptations, and genre defining literature that they can’t be ignored as pioneers of both horror and literature as a whole.

What is your favorite horror book?

It’s a dance between The Haunting of Hill House and The Shining at the moment.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Change (In the House of Flies) – Deftones

Charlotte Platt author of “24 Diner”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I was challenged to write a love story where everything isn’t as it seems and the idea grew arms and legs and became this. It’s still something of a love story, if you look real close.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I prefer reading novels, so will usually read a whole anthology in one go if I’m reading short stories. I like getting to immerse into a world for a chunk of time. Writing wise they’re sure different creatures! I probably find short stories easier to write as you have to be much stricter with yourself, whereas with novels you have a balance of indulgence to create which can lead to a different sort of editing and lots of it.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Yes, quite often when growing up and it’s not something I’ve tried to leave behind. There was such a shaming around girls liking “weird” things when I was younger but I was a stubborn one so it never put me off, I was going to be weird anyway. Plus I had a lot of role models for following my own flavor of weird so it made it easier.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

A coin toss between Mary Shelly and Shirley Jackson I would say – MS made explicit, horrifying stories and SJ made such rich, atmospheric fiction that was just allowed to creep and grasp and shiver. They’re very different things but they allowed horror to be accessible in a way that wasn’t just the splatter and gore, or the horrifying maniac, their horror had challenges worked in from the start.

What is your favorite horror book?

This is a really hard question – my gut instinct would be The Picture of Dorian Gray which is more Gothic than strictly horror, but it has such a precise, vicious examination of various horrors. Wilde really tugs at all sorts of things in that book, and it’s subtle in some and bloodthirsty in others. If we’re focusing on just strictly horror then Haunting of Hill House – loved the show version, I think they did excellent things with it, but the atmosphere and tension in the book is a different thing.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Death in Vegas “Aisha”

Alyson Faye author of “The Doll’s House”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

A visit to a local toy museum in the town of Ilkley, West Yorkshire which has a doll collection dating back to the 1700’s as well as some gorgeous hand crafted Victorian doll’s houses filled with furniture.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I mainly write flash fiction (under 1000 words), supernatural short stories so I’ve never tried to write a novel, just a crime novella and a Y.A. novel. So far. I find the short story demands quite challenging, it’s not easy getting it done well!

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Yes. Growing up, as a teen, I felt I didn’t fit in at my school. There are a lot of molds I don’t fit into or in my perception, I won’t ever fit into. Writing horror stories people often ask me what it’s like to have these weird ideas roaming around in my head?

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Shirley Jackson.

What is your favorite horror book?

Tough one, currently I am reading Gwendolyn Kiste’s The Rust Maidens which is blowing me away.

What song would set the mood for your story?

I tend to draw more on my love of old movies for inspiration, often black and whites rather than music. So for this story for mood, The Innocents.

Angelique Fawns author of “Personal Demons”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I work as a Promo Producer for Global TV, and one of my most important shows is Big Brother Canada. This means I cut and produce all the commercials which air online and on Global for BBCAN. Last season there was a remarkable contestant who identified as non-binary.  Kyra Shenker did a wonderful job navigating the show and they were an inspiration to many. They talked about the challenges they face and how they overcame adversary. My main character struggles with some similar issues.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I love to read both, but I definitely prefer to write short stores. Creating a novel is a dream, but my need for immediate gratification always gets in the way.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Everyday of my life.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Charlaine Harris is brilliant. I love the Sookie Stackhouse Series, and Midnight Texas.

What is your favorite horror book?

Any short story compilation by Stephen King.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Strange Love by Depeche Mode.

Hillary Lyon author of “Jenny’s Bobo”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

My own experiences as a middle-school girl.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I much prefer to write short stories; my stories come to me encapsulated, more or less complete. I don’t have the patience to write novels.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

All my life.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Shirley Jackson.

What is your favorite horror book?

De Bello Lemures by Lucius Artorius Castus (annotated by Thomas Brookside)

What song would set the mood for your story?

My Stars by Alice Cooper (from School’s Out)

Erica Ruhe author of “Tribal Influence”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

Horror stories filter through the U.S.-Mexico border every day. Innocent people are seeking refuge from the terror that has taken over their hometowns. Then they arrive at the border seeking help only to endure the trauma of being wrenched apart from their families and kept in freezing cages. If I were in their shoes, that would certainly be enough emotional tragedy to awaken something terrifying inside, something superhuman.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I enjoy both. Short stories offer more of a challenge because there’s less time to develop characters, mood and lay plot foundations. However, when it’s done well it has the potential to flip one’s emotions and alter perspectives on the world in a very short amount of time.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Every day! I’ve had many strange encounters throughout my life — things no one would believe. I don’t quite fit in with society and that’s what attracts me to write horror and speculative fiction. I think the more we explore and share our fears openly the more it cultivates empathy, understanding and eventually binds us closer together.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

It’s hard to pick just one. No doubt, Mary Shelley broke social norms and paved a way for women writers. Even more striking though was Toni Morrison’s “Beloved”. It shined a light on the most visceral horror humans endure: losing control of one’s darkest secret; emotional turmoil we internalize until it becomes its own entity and cannot be contained. Morrison probed the cold, murky depths of love, shame and grief in a way that I think all of us on some level can relate to.

What is your favorite horror book?

Right now, “Alice Isn’t Dead” by Joseph Fink. This story parallels what I see in the real world: people who’ve succumbed to their inner darkness and out of which a hunger spurs them to consume the innocent. Facts don’t matter. Reasoning is lost. It chills me to know that, in some form or another, “Thistle Men” really exist.

Maxine Kollar author of “Her Garden Grow”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I have an Association issued black cat. Enough said.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Strange is the new normal and I am definitely not normal.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” is the literal and figurative embodiment of ‘creepy’. I read it eons ago in school but it has taken up residence in some dark corner of my mind and creeps to the forefront every so often. Maybe a bent figure hobbling down a dark street or a bright display in the rug section of the home goods store; Charlotte’s web would ensnare me again and I would be shaking at those bars. If you don’t know what I mean, read this story, but in a room with painted walls.

What song would set the mood for your story?

My heroine, Rosamund, definitely has “Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin playing on an old radio in kitchen. When she would sing along with it, her voice would be soft and crackly too.

Regan Moore author of “Cracked”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I had a roommate that I shared a bedroom with during an internship this year. For my horror writing class, I had to come up with a story idea. I was sitting on my bed, and on the vanity across from me was a doll. My roommate collected dolls and her mother made them. At this time, the doll was staring right at me, and the first thought I had was “what if there was a doll that killed you and made you take its place?” It’s simple as that.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

Both have their ups and downs, but I find short stories easier. I prefer getting straight to the point with my writing and getting my point across. However, I am working on my first novel, so maybe my opinion will change?

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

Every day of my life. I’m the monster girl, the girl who thinks about the perfect murder, the one who wants to see the demons instead of running from them. I always have been, and I never intend on changing.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

That’s such a hard question! There’s Shirley Jackson, the Queen of psychological terror and the haunted house. Anne Rice, who breathed new life into horror by adding her own vein of erotica to it. Even the Bronte sisters deserve some credit for modern horror—their stories had terror in them and were some of the most famous Gothic novels ever written. However, as with the science fiction genre, I have to say that Mary Shelley, the original goth, was quite the pioneer. Frankenstein was a masterpiece, combining science, terror, ethical debate, and the ultimate question that is reflected in many monster stories following—what makes a monster monstrous?

What is your favorite horror book?

I’ve been an R.L Stein fan since I was five years old. The Goosebumps series is what made me want to become an author in the first place. My favorite is The Nightmare Hour, a book of short horror stories that shook my elementary-aged self to the core and scared me to death.

What song would set the mood for your story?

I don’t know why, but the Psycho theme played in my head the entire time I wrote it. Honestly, though, I always find that horror is best enjoyed in complete silence, the kind where you can hear a pin drop.

Ashley Tudor author of “My Mirror Wife”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

This story began as a school project. The teacher asked the class to write a short story that involved a mirror and at the time I was a lovelorn teenager reading a lot of romance novels. The result was a misspelled 500 word version for the current story, which I considered a big middle finger to the unrealistic love stories I was reading at the time. I found the piece six years later and decided I almost liked it. I removed the angst and expanded the narrative, but the three-piece structure and the idea behind the story remained the same; it’s a dangerous game to judge a woman solely on her desirability.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

A few unfinished novels are stowed in my hard-drive, but I’m a short story writer down to my core. Call me bias, but the shorter the tale the harder it is to create. I think we writers love to run wild and writing a novel is like opening a window to a newly created universe, while a short story tries to show that universe through a peephole.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

‘Am I a strange girl?’ I asked the question to my husband who promptly choked on his morning coffee, laughed, and then said “Sure, if you want to put it lightly.”

What is your favorite horror book?

A couple weeks ago it was ‘Her Body and Other Parties’ by Carmen Maria Machado. Right now it’s ‘A Head Full of Ghosts’ by Paul Tremblay. Who knows what my favorite will be next week.

Danielle R. Bailey author of “The Eyes of the Dead”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I would say the inspiration behind my story is survivors of sexual assault and the idea that we can feel as though we are dead even after we have lived. That we can be trapped by our own thoughts and how we choose as women, to carry our past.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I think novels are much more difficult to write, they take more attention to details and making sure your plot has enough to hold your audience’s attention. One day I hope to successfully publish a novel of my own.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

I have definitely identified as a strange girl, I think I choose too. From my love of horror writing and film to my appreciation of black and death metal to how I choose to dress and carry myself. I identify myself by the strange and the beautiful.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

I don’t know who I would say was a pioneer for women in horror, but I can say that I believe Rebecca Rowland has picked up that torch and is continuing to carry it. She is definitely an author who I have gained so much drive and inspiration from.

What is your favorite horror book?

My all-time favorite horror book is Rose Madder by Stephen King. I have so many favorites from the Executioners Daughter by Laura E. Williams to H.P. Lovecraft and Clive Barker, but I found Rose Madder at a time when I needed to find myself as a writer and that book gave me the biggest push.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Any song by the band Katatonia would truly set a mood for this story but a song in particular that really stands out is Frozen North by Bruce Soord and Jonas Renske.

Madison Estes author of “Revival”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

“Revival” is a retelling of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Ligeia”. I wanted to tell a story about a medical student who has a strong emotional reaction to seeing a dead person and starts to believe the cadaver is coming back to life because he can’t psychologically deal with death. I wondered what it would take for a rational, intelligent person to slowly become a mad scientist. I started seeing parallels to Ligeia as I was writing, so I decided to intentionally make it a retelling.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I prefer to write short stories. I can usually finish the first draft in a week; instant gratification appeals to me. Novels are a commitment. They are a long-term relationship whereas short stories are a fun fling.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

In high school, I was the girl who wore mostly black, loved horror movies, listened to metal and liked anime (before it was cool to admit you like anime). I had friends with similar interests, but I definitely stood out, especially in my honors classes. I felt like a strange girl. I still do from time to time.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Mary Shelley was a pioneer for female horror writers and horror writers in general. Where would the mad scientist subgenre be without Frankenstein and his monster?

What is your favorite horror book?

It’s a three-way tie between “The Collector” by John Fowles, “Misery” by Stephen King, and “The Silence of the Lambs” by Thomas Harris. I also have to mention “The Dumb House” by John Burnside. It’s the most disturbing book I’ve ever read.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Bring Me to Life by Evanescence

Rebecca Rowland author of “Extinguishing Fireflies”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

Honestly, I thought about my own childhood. I was very fortunate to have grown up in a neighborhood where there were a lot of girls my age, and they loved to play outside and do imaginative things as much as I did. I was also lucky to have been raised by a feminist, independent mother like Lea who had four strong women as sisters. To say that I was surrounded by “girl power” would be an understatement. I think that’s what I tried to bring forth in this story: that precious vibe of female empowerment, not despite male influence but in the absence of it.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

Though I managed to produce two novel-length works, I am a short story writer at heart. It’s not that I don’t enjoy writing long pieces; I simply get distracted too easily and often abandon even my shortest stories multiple times before I complete them. I can’t seem to maintain the stamina necessary for growing, nurturing, and guiding one specific piece. Maybe that’s why I can never keep a plant alive? (I’ve even killed a cactus: sad but true!)

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

First and foremost, Mary Shelley, of course! With Frankenstein, Shelley came out on top in a contest against some of the most talented male writers of the Romantic period. The following century, Flannery O’Connor may not have intended to scare people, but the dark fiction she penned is positively terrifying. Today, Joyce Carol Oates is the master of masters. She is still testing the limits of where our human frailties and darkest inclinations can lead.

Azzurra Nox author of “Patterns of Faerytales”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I’ve always been fascinated with folklore about sea creatures, and selkies are one of those that have always fascinated me after mermaids. I also wanted to write a love story about a woman who had a terrible secret and how that secret could possibly tear her love apart.

Do you prefer short stories or novels? Which is more difficult to write?

I enjoy writing both. Novels can be fun because they’re like a TV series, where you typically hang out with the characters you’ve created for a year or more. While with short stories you usually get to be with them for a shorter amount of time. In my case, from two to four weeks. But I enjoy both mediums and think that both can be challenging in their own way.

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

YES. I honestly never saw it as a bad thing. I never cared about being like everyone else because I always followed my own passions and what I thought was right for me. Of course, that also puts you in a position of standing out in a crowd and when most people conform to society, you can easily stick out like a sore thumb. But the things that make me stick out are what make me, essentially me, so as Shakespeare famously said, “To thine ownself be true,” I find that in order for me to be happy I need to be who I am. Even if not everyone agrees with it, and even if others may deem me as strange.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Obviously, Mary Shelly was the pioneer for women writing horror. Shirley Jackson was also one in her own right. And although many may not define her as strictly a horror writer, I’ve always been a fan of Anne Rice and think that what she did for the vampire genre was phenomenal. Not to mention, she was the reason why I started writing on an every day basis as a teen.

What is your favorite horror book?

I can’t ever just pick one. So here are a few of my absolute favorites: Misery and Pet Sematary by Stephen King, Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe, We’ve Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, Audition by Ryu Murakami, and Haunted by Joyce Carol Oates. Each novel is terrifying in their own unique way.

What song would set the mood for your story?

Live In Salt by The National.

Rachel Bolton author of “Self-Portrait With Pears”

What was the inspiration behind your story?

I originally wrote this story my senior year of college. The professor didn’t want us to write any speculative fiction which I hated. I accidentally wrote a horror story. “Self Portrait With Pears” is partially inspired by the behavior of an acquaintance of mine from college. I didn’t like what I wrote after it was done, and I forgot about it for years. My roommate is an indie comics artist and we talked about old projects we had abandoned. I remembered what would become “Self Portrait With Pears” and reread it. I thought it was salvageable after a few serious edits. Thankfully Azzura thought it was good too!

Have you ever identified as a strange girl?

I think I did when I was younger. I was very isolated and bullied a bit from the ages of 11-14. I think those experiences would make anyone feel strange.

Which female author do you think was a pioneer for women in horror?

Shirley Jackson doesn’t get enough credit! We Have Always Lived in the Castle is immensely creepy! I wish she had lived longer and hadn’t had such a jerk for a husband. Her writing is very atmospheric and chilling.

What is your favorite horror book?

It’s hard to pick just one, right? My current favorites are We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Gone Girl, And Then There Were None. I’m also a huge reader of short story anthologies. I’ll read any ones I can get my hands on.

Dear Reader,

Thank you very much for reading STRANGE GIRLS – WOMEN IN HORROR ANTHOLOGY. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of the featured authors and think that their writing deserves any attention it receives, because this is one talented group of ladies. I’m very appreciative of having the honor to present them to you in the form of this short story collection.

If you enjoyed this book, I’d greatly appreciate it if you would take a moment to rate it on Amazon and/or Goodreads. And if you have the time, a review – no matter the length – will help new readers decide if this anthology is for them as well as provide these amazing authors with some valuable feedback and exposure.

Thank you and see you on the dark side.

Best,

Azzurra

Amazon Review Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0818HXP49

Goodreads Review Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48924518-strange-girls

Other Books Available from Azzurra Nox

CUT HERE

The future cannot remember. The past cannot forget. The present is a deadly angel.

Sixteen-year-old Lena Martin’s idyllic world shatters the night her mother dies due to a hit and run accident. Two years later, her dad relocates her from Italy to Los Angeles to help her put behind the time spent in a psychiatric ward following her mother’s death. But the move only proves to be a fatal mistake. Shortly after her arrival, the classmates of her new private school begin to commit suicide under mysterious circumstances after reading a cult book called Cut Here.

Determined to unravel the mystery behind the suicides, she bands together with loner Jonathan Russe and outcast Hope Peters to figure out exactly what is happening, not realizing that this places them under a dangerous radar. During this same time, Lena falls for a mysterious and attractive guy named Michael, who is as equally disarming as he’s dangerous.

As her attraction grows, so does the body count at St. Lucy Academy. Soon, Lena needs to decide whether to stay away from the guy she’s falling for, or to trust him. Is Michael behind the suicides, or is he the key that can unlock the mystery that can stop the bloodshed? Deceptions run high and Lena soon learns that nothing is what it seems.

Buy your copy today!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074LCGRTC

DOLL PARTS: Tales of Twisted Love

When love goes wrong, it can kill you.

A haunting trio of short stories about love, obsession, and secrets. Each short story is titled after a song, The National’s Apartment Story, Placebo’s Scared of Girls, and Skunk Anansie’s Post Orgasmic Chill.

Apartment Story

A lonely married woman nostalgically rekindles a friendship with a former lover and the apartment they shared. Dark secrets and mysteries surround the apartment building and its new tenants that delve deep into the woman’s psyche and prove to be fatal.

Scared of Girls

A glamorous go-go dancer and a failing university student are bound by a dark secret that may change their fates forever.

Post Orgasmic Chill

The destinies of a cynical rock star, a groupie, an arrogant DJ, and naïve university student intertwine in a rainy London that serves as the backdrop to their tormented lives. Secrets and lies coincide in this dark tale of love gone wrong.

Hauntingly spare, beautiful, and twisted, Doll Parts is a disquieting and at times darkly morbid collection of short stories about normal people who suddenly discover their own dark possibilities.

Buy your copy today!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016OXN0KI

MY AMERICAN NIGHTMARE – Women In Horror Anthology

Dare to take a walk on the dark side.

America, land of the free, land of the brave, land of nightmares? A group of female authors come together in this collection of creepy tales and psychological horror stories to bring you chills and disturbing images that won’t leave you long after you’re done reading. From zombies to rural small towns, to the foggy New England to the glamour of Hollywood, each story focuses on a diverse aspect of living in America and the horror found in bullying, being the “new girl,” starting your first job, and navigating the murky waters of adolescence and all the terrifying changes that come with it. Bold and haunting, My American Nightmare encompasses daring stories from new voices in the horror genre. This collection will unsettle your nerves and linger in your mind, demonstrating that women can show you a nuance of horror that isn’t always evident from the male perspective.

Buy your copy today!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074LCGRTC

BLEED LIKE ME: POEMS FOR THE BROKEN

This is how you draw a broken heart….

This is a book about love and the wounds that it can bring. It explores the exhilaration of first love, the damage of unrequited love, and the distress of abandonment. The poems are little memories that come alive, a journey between reality and fantasy, often mingling as one. Fragments of life depicted in words. This is a collection of poems both cruel and sweet. The poems depict the difference between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us. But most of all, this is a kaleidoscope of emotions that are multiplied and amplified as the reader looks into the window of a young woman’s heart.

Buy your copy today!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M5PZJF4

Betty Bites Back: Stories to Scare the Patriarchy

Who is Betty?

Betty is the girl who wants a plastic surgeon to put retractable teeth in her vagina.

Betty is the girl who takes your head off when you tell her to smile.

Betty floats. Betty revenge kills. Betty rules the potluck scene.

But mostly – Betty bites back.

Need a little extra feminism in your literary diet? Then take a bite of this horror anthology.

Good Sister, Bad Sister short story included by Azzurra Nox

Copyright

First Edition

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

STRANGE GIRLS. Collection Copyright © 2020 by Azzurra Nox. All rights reserved.

“24 Hour Diner” Copyright © 2020 by Charlotte Platt, “Sideshow” Copyright © 2020 by Jude Reid, “The Doll’s House” Copyright © 2020 by Alyson Faye, “Blood” Copyright © 2020 by Claire Hamilton Russell, “Self-Portrait with Pears” Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Bolton, “Personal Demons” Copyright © 2020 by Angelique Fawns, “Friends with Benefits” Copyright © 2020 by E.F. Schraeder, “Night Terrors” Copyright © 2020 by Angela Sylvaine, “The Girl Who Never Stopped Bleeding” Copyright © 2020 by Sam Lauren, “Leda and the Fly” Copyright © 2020 by Marnie Azzarelli, “Jenny’s Bobo” Copyright © 2020 by Hillary Lyon, “Extinguishing Fireflies” Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Rowland, “The Eyes of the Dead” Copyright © 2020 by Danielle R. Bailey, “My Mirror Wife” Copyright © 2020 by Ash Tudor, “Patterns of Faerytales” Copyright © 2020 by Azzurra Nox, “Campfire Tales: The Bloody Rings” Copyright © 2020 by Emma Johnson-Rivard, “Cracked” Copyright © 2020 by Regan Moore, “Angel of Death” Copyright © 2020 by Phoebe Jane Johnson, “Her Garden Grows” Copyright © 2020 by Maxine Kollar, “Revival” Copyright © 2020 by Madison Estes, “A Song Only She Can Hear” Copyright © 2020 by Wondra Vanian, “Tribal Influence” Copyright © 2020 by Erica Ruhe

Edited by Azzurra Nox

Website: https://azzurranox.com

Blog: https://theinkblotters.com/

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Published by Twisted Wing Productions

Cover Art by James

http://www.goonwrite.com/

First Edition, License Notes

This ebook/paperback is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook/paperback may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Content

STRANGE GIRLS
WOMEN IN HORROR ANTHOLOGY
Stories Selected by Azzurra Nox

FOREWORD

24 HOUR DINER Charlotte Platt

SIDESHOW Jude Reid

THE DOLL’S HOUSE Alyson Faye

BLOOD Claire Hamilton Russell

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH PEARS Rachel Bolton

PERSONAL DEMONS Angelique Fawns

FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS E.F. Schraeder

NIGHT TERRORS Angela Sylvaine

THE GIRL WHO NEVER STOPPED BLEEDING Sam Lauren

LEDA AND THE FLY Marnie Azzarelli

JENNY’S BOBO Hillary Lyon

EXTINGUISHING FIREFLIES Rebecca Rowland

THE EYES OF THE DEAD Danielle R. Bailey

MY MIRROR WIFE Ash Tudor

PATTERNS OF FAERYTALES Azzurra Nox

CAMPFIRE TALES: THE BLOODY RINGS Emma Johnson-Rivardy

CRACKED Regan Moore

ANGEL OF DEATH Phoebe Jane Johnson

HER GARDEN GROWS Maxine Kollar

REVIVAL Madison Estes

A SONG ONLY SHE CAN HEAR Wondra Vanian

TRIBAL INFLUENCE Erica Ruhe

Interview with the Authors

Other Books Available from Azzurra Nox

Copyright