Friday Frights: They’re not from around here!.

About three quarters of an inch in length, they looked like small, black, hairy caterpillars. The wriggling bodies congregated at the edge of Roy’s fish pond, around twenty of them. “What are they?” Mary asked.

“Don’t know. Never seen anything like that, not in water at least. Must be the larvae of something. Still, I guess the fish will soon make a meal of ‘em.”

Roy had a dozen large koi-carp. They would swim lazily among the lily pads. The majority of them he had kept in the same pond for twelve years. They had grown to quite significant size in that time.

Mary turned back to the kitchen. “Don’t stay out here too long,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m just about to make dinner.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Roy answered before drowning any further comment from his wife with the sound of the lawn-mower engine.

* * *

Mid-morning the following day, Roy had spent an hour, carefully weeding the rockery surrounding his pond. After retirement three years ago, gardening was now his main occupation. The early summer sunshine was quite warm as he picked a few small red worms from the loose soil. Standing at the waters edge, he dropped them onto the surface and watched the multi-coloured fish devouring them. One large and juicy worm he kept for his favourite fish, the largest in the pond, coloured black and gold.

Roy waited ten minutes, but the fish did not show itself. He walked all the way around the pond looking for that fish. The fish was not in the pond. There were a few more of the little black larvae however.

Mary was drinking coffee and reading the morning newspaper. She knew her husband was not happy when he slammed the kitchen door. “What’s the matter dear?” she asked. “I’ve just made coffee if you want one.”

“That bloody cat of Mrs. Johnson’s! Only gone and eaten the best koi in the pond. I’m going to have words with her about keeping the damn animal under control!”

“It’s a cat dear. You can’t…” Mary was speaking to an empty room.

* * *

“But Mr. Arkwright, Tommy was here with me all night. How do you even know it was a cat?”

“Mrs Johnson! Cats eat fish! I have fish missing! Seems pretty clear-cut to me! I’m just telling you. If I catch him near my fish pond, he’s dead! Good-bye Mrs Johnson!” Still puffing, his cheeks red with exertion, Roy turned on his heel and stamped back down the gravelled drive, crushing the heads of a few geraniums that encroached in his path.

Staring at the fish pond on the way back to his kitchen door, he noticed that the little hairy caterpillars congregating in the shallow water had now almost circled the deeper water where the fish were. He knelt at the edge while trying to get a closer look at them, but his eyes were not good enough to deduce what they were. Perhaps his son would know, after all, Andrew had studied zoology at university. He was about to slip his hand into the water to lift one out for closer inspection when Mary called him.

“Roy. Can you take me to the shop. I need to get something for lunch.”

Roy sighed, stood up, and walked to the kitchen door.

* * *

Roy locked the car and followed Mary back to the house.

There’s Mrs. Johnson’s cat now.” Mary stood, pointing with her finger at the black and white animal sunning itself on the stones of Roy’s rockery.

Roy put the bag of shopping on the path and picked up a large pebble. He hurled it at the cat, striking the creature in its rump. The cat leaped into the air meowing and toppled into the water with a splash. Roy laughed. “That’ll teach it,” as the animal clawed at the edge to get out.

With shopping unpacked and put away, and while Mary prepared the lunch, Roy strolled out into the garden. Just to make sure the cat hadn’t caused too much damage, he thought.

There was no sign of Mrs. Johnson’s furry pet, but he could see scratch marks where it had clawed at the wooden decking of the ornamental bridge. He was about to go back to the house to eat when he noticed the small black larvae congregating around a lump of congealed slime in the water. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he bent for a closer look.

“Lunch is ready!” Mary called from the kitchen doorway.

Roy sighed. He would need to get rid of that slimy muck as soon as possible.

* * *

As normal, Roy took an afternoon nap for an hour after they finished eating. He was awakened by Mary’s call that Andrew had arrived. The three of them went out to the pond where the wriggling black larvae were slowly starting to spread toward the deeper water.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Andrew said. “Have you got a jam-jar mum? I’ll take a few into the lab and put them under a microscope.”

He dipped the jar Mary gave him into the water. Four of the creatures were sucked into the jar and he screwed on the lid. “Strange little buggers aren’t they?” he added holding the jar up to the sunlight. “Look at those weird little suckers they’ve got for mouths. I really don’t think they’re native to this area of England. I’ll phone you if I find anything.”

Mary waved as Andrew drove away while Roy went in search of a shovel to remove the foul slime from beside the bridge. Oddly though, the slime had vanished when he got back. There was still a faint odour of something rotten, but the water was clear – apart from the hundreds of little black wriggling bodies.

* * *

As the evening cooled, Roy took a basket and a ladder out to the two cherry trees to collect the ripening fruit. Mary had some washing on the clothes line that was now dry. As she passed the pond to take it into the house, she noticed two of Roy’s largest koi floating on the surface of the water. Dropping the washing on the kitchen table, she put on rubber boots and took the fishing net her husband used when he removed a dead fish.

The two koi floated near the centre of the pond. Mary waded in. The water was even deeper than she anticipated. Before she realized, the liquid poured into one of the boots. She felt tiny wriggling creatures squirming around her foot and ankle, then between her toes. She shuddered and tried to get back to the shallows at the side, but slipping in the mud on the bottom, she found herself sitting and up to her waist in the cold water. She felt tiny wriggling things on her legs. They found their way up under her skirt. She screamed when deep red swirls and eddies of water rose up around her.

Roy was carrying a filled basket of fruit into the kitchen when he heard Mary screaming. It only took a moment to realize the screams came from the garden. Then the telephone started ringing. Roy looked toward the phone, then at the door. Damn! The answer-phone would have to take care of the caller.

He ran outside to where Mary’s head was disappearing beneath the water that was now blood red. Without a thought, he leaped into the pond to help her.

“Dad! Dad! Are you there? Dad! Pick-up! Please!” The only sound in the earpiece was the hum of the answer machine. “Look, dad. I’m coming over. Whatever you do, don’t go near that pond. These creatures are nasty little flesh eaters from South America. The Amazon, I think. Whatever you do, don’t touch them. They’ll eat you alive!”

© 2012 – Robert A. Read

She Wasn’t Invited.

This is the first dinner party I’ve held in this house. Although I’ve dwelt here for several years, my contact with neighbours, until now, has been minimal. Well, not only am I a foreigner in their country, but I’m a writer, and as an author of stories macabre in the horror genre, I am entitled to a little eccentricity.

Then last year, with the arrival of new neighbours, things changed. Around the same age as me, they also were not of this country. We found we had many things in common, such as tastes in music, art and entertainment. After being invited to many dinner parties they have organised and from whence, I was introduced to many of the neighbours I previously shunned, I realized I had become accepted in the community. Over the past few months, I have received several invitations to visit the homes of these people for a meal. Recently, I have been made to feel uncomfortable that none of them have ever visited my home.

I made all the excuses I could think of, my kitchen skills are non-existent; living alone, the house is a mess; the cats are likely to maul strangers and I will not be held responsible. All my motives were scorned. For this reason, I decided on this little soiree. Not intended as a big celebration I have invited six of those inhabiting homes of closest proximity.

My three black cats have taken exception to the intrusion and decided on their own night out. I suspect there is a feline party in progress in one of the barns adjoining my property.

I am sitting at the head of the table for easier access to the kitchen from where I can serve the food to my guests. To my left and facing the staircase to the upper floor are Michelle and her husband Guillom, and Nicole. The other three guests have their backs to the stairs.

The music is playing at reduced volume through the speakers in the room, a little haunting music from bands like Nox Arcania.. Conversation ebbs and flows as the effect of the wine loosens tongues. I have just served the main course, I thought something traditionally English, a cottage pie made to my own recipe, which includes mushrooms, red wine, sour cream and English cheese. At the first taste, and to my utmost surprise, they all compliment me on my cooking.

As they begin eating, Michelle nudges my arm. “I didn’t know you had a daughter staying here with you. Or is it a granddaughter?”

I am certain there is a look of shock on my face as I reply, “No, there is no one staying here other than me.”

“Well who is that?” She points a finger at the staircase. “There, at the top of the stairs.”

I turn my head in the direction she is pointing.

Oh no!

There in the half light stands a small figure wearing an ankle length nightgown. In one hand she holds a battered teddy bear by its one ear. Her head and shoulders are in deep shadow. She begins to descend the stairs. As the dim light s illuminate her face, I hear the hiss of indrawn breath from the guests on my left.

The grey-white nightgown is torn, splattered with green mildew and stained with rust: or is it blood? Shoulder length dark, almost black hair, lank, tousled, uncombed, frames her face. It glistens in the poor light as if from some slimy film that drips and congeals on the fabric of her dress.

The skin on her hands and face is parchment yellow and drawn so tight over the bones as to make her little more than a walking skeleton, a withered frame almost the colour of a corn husk. Her lips are shrivelled, blackened by death making her mouth little more than a gash through which decaying, broken teeth protrude. A sickly yellow parody of a tongue squirms lizard-like from the lower jaw.

She has the eyes of the dead, large white sightless orbs sunken into the sockets in her skull, but they glow with an eerie pallid light. Green mucous oozes from a hideous slit across her throat.

The stench of something that has lain dead under rotting leaves for far too long invades the room, overpowering the aroma of cooking.

The air is rent by screams from two of the female guests, and I hear chairs scraping and grating across the wooden floor. A male voice growls, “What the fuck?”

There is the clatter of a chair falling and the tinkle of breaking glass and cutlery scattering on the floor. I an unable to move, rooted to my chair as those eyes of the damned stare, burning into mine. She reaches the bottom of the stairs, not walking, but floating several inches above the ground.

As if the heat is being sucked from the room, the temperature falls alarmingly. I am aware of people shouting and running. A door slams and I realize I am left alone with this gruesome, grotesque apparition.

I swallow the lump in my throat that is restricting my breathing and try to speak. After several attempts I manage to croak the words “Monique! Why? Why now?”

The room is silent, but a telepathic voice fills my mind. “You didn’t even invite me. And after all we’ve done together…”

Authors Note:

Monique is my muse. A French call-girl—I musn’t call her a whore, she gets upset. She was murdered in spring of 1966 by some insane psychopath. She is/was the owner of a skull I unearthed while digging in the garden, and which now sits in pride of place in a cabinet beside my computer. She frequently appears to me in spectral form, often when I’m not expecting a visitation, and always with the intention of putting the fear of God into me.

© 2012. Robert A. Read.

Dance Macabre.

Dance Macabre.

My father was curator for an art gallery and museum in Paris. No, not the famous one; this was a small establishment off Rue de ***.

He often told me tales of the weird exhibits stored in the basement that, for one reason or another, were not on display. My interest was piqued when he described a painting in oils that they considered too disturbing for exhibition. So gruesome was his description that I had to see it. At last, after much badgering, but not till after my twentieth birthday, he took me down into the underground vault. The experience remained with me for life and may have influenced my choice of writing genre.

The title of the picture, written in a Gothic style of lettering was “Finale de la Danse Macabre”, but there was no signature of the artist. Style of clothing gave no indication, but I guessed from hairstyles that the setting was late 19^th century. Shades of lurid red light bathed the scene detracting much of the detail. A group of figures, probably male, dressed in hooded, crimson gowns of the type often shown as being worn by practitioners of occult beliefs were depicted in various dancing poses, each with a female partner. That the partners were female was easy to see as each, apart from a mask resembling a bird’s head was completely naked. From the voluptuous female charms they showed no sign of shame in displaying, I would guess that none were older than their mid twenties. The male dancers I would not be sure, as the majority had their face hidden in the shadows of the cowl attached to the robe.

The couples gyrated in a dance similar to a waltz around a stone altar on which reposed the naked form of a young man. His arms and legs outstretched were fastened to beams of wood in the shape of an “X”. On closer inspection, I could see him held in place by large metal spikes through his limbs. From the minute detail, his torture seemed to be the focus of interest for the artist.

Symbolic shapes of strange design, cut into his skin, bled profusely. He had been castrated, the genitalia having been cut so deeply, I at first assumed the figure to be female. A deep gash, almost from lower sternum to pelvis, had opened up his stomach from where entrails spilled like writhing snakes. Blood dripped and pooled on the altar and floor around him.

His injuries were horrendous, and yet, from contortions of his face and wildly staring eyes, he was obviously still very much alive. Even in such agony, his face was beautiful, the flesh smooth, almost effeminate.

At his head stood a woman, a long, stiletto bladed knife in her hand. She too was naked, wearing only the bird-like mask, but adorned with a golden headdress similar to those worn by the Inca priests of South America. The metal blade of the knife gleamed in the red, glowing light as blood dripped from its tip..

I took the picture from the wall for closer inspection. Turning the frame, I noticed writing on the back. Although in French, the English translation would read, “Dance Macabre performed at Theatre of Dreams, Rue de ***.”

“The theatre was on the same street as the museum then?” I asked my father.

“I have no idea,” he replied, “but now you mention it, I heard once that the museum was converted from an old theatre.”

“You know?” I let my gaze pan around the vault, “I think it could have been painted in this very room.” Carrying the painting I made my way between the displays noting how the pillars and columns supporting the roof matched those in the picture. Until I came to a brick wall where no wall should have existed. “Hey! This shouldn’t be here. Can you bring a flash-light?”

It was immediately obvious that the wall was not part of the original structure, and erected in some haste. The mortar between the bricks had crumbled making the blocks easy to dislodge.

“We can’t do this!” My father had never been one to push the limits of authority.

I ignored him and continued removing bricks until I had a hole large enough for me to squeeze through. Shining the flash-light around showed me this was definitely where the scene was painted. The roof columns and floor although now covered with a layer of dust and cobwebs were exactly as the painting depicted. 

The beam of light picked up a shadowy object in the centre of the room: the altar. I approached, casting the beam over the stone plinth, the grotesque carving of the block. The beam of light flickered over the top of the altar. I froze in mid-stride. A human figure sprawled across the top, stretched out and pinned to two wooden beams in the form of an “X”.

Blood dripped from strange symbols cut into the pale flesh. Entrails spewed like writhing snakes from the split belly. How could this be? According to the undisturbed dust and cobwebs, no one had been here for years. Perhaps, even, a whole century. Yet the figure appeared to be as fresh as the day the painting was made. I approached more slowly, playing the light over the horrendous injuries. Of course. This could only be a very lifelike manikin. A dummy. I shone the light on the pale, effeminate face, stooping to gaze at the beautiful, lifelike features. The beam glanced over the closed lids of the eyes. It all looked so real, like real flesh.

And then the eyes flicked open. A deep moan escaped from his mouth. The wild, staring eyes locked on to mine and I realized I was staring into the tortured depths of hell.

© 2012 Robert A. Read

The Last Tango.

The Last Tango.

I stand waiting, gazing across a surreal world of silver and black, wondering as always if this night will bring solace to my torment.

Isis, the night goddess, is visible as a half disk floating in an ocean of twinkling stars. Her pale gown reflects a shimmering translucence on the rippling surface of the lake before which I stand. Finger-like, almost transparent fronds of mist roll across the water; they beckon to the spruce and pine trees, standing like sentinels on the shoreline, to join them in gavotte among the wavelets that kiss the shingled beach. Only the plaintive hoot of an owl, a single mournful cry, disturbs the placid serenity and intensifies the solitude of my sojourn.

I think back to an evening long ago, a pavement café beside the bank of the Seine where I first saw Catalina. In those days, there were not so many auto-mobiles on the streets of Paris. Most vehicles during the first decades of the twentieth century were horse-drawn cabs.

I had set up my easel and paints to capture on canvas the carnelian and flame-orange Parisian sunset of early summer, when I saw her watching me. She was sitting with a group of students from Madame Bouvier’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Of Satanically dark Latin beauty, her obsidian hair and tanned complexion rivalled the creamy hue of the dress she wore, holding my itinerant vision entranced. Her appearance and innocent demeanour were far removed from the fairer cast of her more lascivious companions, who incited the café artists to distraction.

She appeared to distance herself from her more bawdy associates, and I felt little surprise when she excused herself from their company and sauntered across the esplanade to view my work. Seeing her silhouetted against the sunset, it was imperative I persuade her to allow me to capture that wondrous moment in oils for eternity. Pose she did, and not just that one time. In the following months I captured the essence of her innocent beauty against numerous settings around the city.

From Buenos Aires, she resided in Paris with parents, her father being a high ranking Argentinian diplomat. Perhaps it started from her infatuation with being seen in the company of an artist, but Catalina took it upon herself to promote my work among her friends at college, and guests at the soirées hosted by her mother. In those months, our relationship flowered like a rose in the gardens of Versaille.

That autumn, a new dance craze swept like a fire-storm through the bars and cafés of Paris. Catalina was an immediate aficionado of the novelty, the dance having its origin in the country of her birth. During one of the sittings at my studio, she proposed to teach me to dance the tango. Whether it was the excellence of my teacher or my natural instinct for the rhythm I am unsure, but soon we were two of the best-known proponents of the steps in Parisian society. I am certain that her erotic elegance fuelled the explosive popularity of the dance.

It soon became clear that our amour was not in accord with the wishes of her parents. More and more, our clandestine trysts were conducted in secret, often beside the lake behind the château where her family resided. Sitting in romantic embrace among the shadows beneath the trees, we whispered vows of servitude, swearing our undying love, whatever adversities our differences in upbringing should inflict on our happiness.

One such night in late May, as I savoured the seduction in her brown eyes, her papa discovered our romantic liaison. He being a military man, I doubt if I would have fared better in a fair fight, but, accompanied by several minions from the embassy, the outcome was inevitable. He made his displeasure clear in words pertaining to the termination of my life if I approached again within five kilometres of either Catalina or the château. He dragged his weeping daughter back to the house, while the henchmen stressed the point with several vicious blows to my face and head before pitching me onto the street.

I heard nothing more from my beloved for six weeks. Then a letter was delivered to my room by a household servant, in which she begged that I might find the courage to rendezvous with her the next evening. The date was her nineteenth birthday. During the party in celebration of the event, a public announcement would be made of her engagement to Signor Romano de Silva, the son of one of the wealthiest men in South America. I surmised the match had been made through her parents with no regard for the wishes of their daughter. Devastated, but uncertain whether she intended a final farewell, or something more, I returned a letter stating that a garrison of mounted cavalry would not prevent me from making the effort to see her, and arranged a time to meet at our regular haunt.

In the shadows cast by the trees encroaching on the water’s edge, I waited. Like tonight, a half moon gleamed as if some apparition floated beneath the black surface of the lake. Sounds of laughter and music drifted from the veranda of the château like moths fluttering on the evening breeze, leaving no doubt about the carefree party atmosphere inside.

Ten minutes passed before a familiar sylph-like form flitted from the recess at the back of the house. I watched her silently slipping through the shadows until she reached my secluded location. We embraced without speaking, for words were unnecessary. The delicate allure of perfume on her neck teased my senses as we kissed. Her long hair was pulled back in a tight coil and secured with two tortoiseshell combs.

As we gazed into each other’s eyes, the orchestra broke into the tune I knew so well. Almost inaudibly, she murmured, “In two days I am forced to obey the wishes of my parents and board a ship for Buenos Aires. I asked that the band play this now so we may dance one last tango together.”

Icy fingers of anguish clutched my throat. I tried to speak, but she pressed a finger tip to my lips. With a faint shake of her head she said, “Please, say nothing to spoil this moment. I swear that one day, if you have not forgotten me, I will return to this place and we shall spend eternity together.”

There seemed a futility, a hopelessness in my life as I led her into the first ‘el paseo’, or slow walk. In all the times we had danced together, I had never known her movements so explicit as we performed ‘el cruzado’, the scissors step, and then entwined our legs for the ‘la vigne’, the grape vine. The tempo increased as we whirled in the moonlight until the final steps, when we dropped almost to our knees on the beach, lips pressed together in a final kiss. I wish I could have held that kiss until the end of time, savouring the perfume of her skin, the warm sweet taste of her breath.

But a single slow hand clap brought reality rushing back to my senses.

In horror I looked up to see two male figures emerge from the shadows. The taller, with bearded face and dressed in military uniform, I recognized as Catalina’s father. The other, a younger man with sallow complexion, immaculately dressed in black tuxedo over white dress-shirt, I assumed, was the one she would marry. It was from his hands that the applause originated, yet his face was twisted into a sneer.

“Bravo! For someone alien to our national dance, that was some performance.” With voice, whining and weak as his complexion, he continued, “Such a pity there will never be an encore.”

He reached out, grabbing Catalina by the arm. She stumbled as he pulled her from me. It was only then I saw the glint of moonlight on something metallic in the hand of her father.

Catalina must have seen it at the same time. She screamed words that sounded like, “Papa! No!”

I tried to stand as a flash of fire and the sound of an explosion tore through the stillness. Something struck me in the chest like the kick from a race horse. I felt ribs shatter and flesh burn in a brief moment of searing agony that seemed to continue for eternity.

Eventually the pain dissolved into nothing, blown away like dust in the moving stream of air from the lake. And then came the sudden realization that I was sprawled on my back in the shallow water. I saw horror on the face of my beloved as she tore free from the grip of her captor. Her mouth was moving as if in agonized scream, yet I heard only silence. She knelt in the water beside me, lifting my shoulders and pressing my cheek against her breast. Thick blood oozed from the hole in my chest, staining the cream silk of her dress to burgundy, dripping in globules into the lake. The two men grabbed her, one on each arm, pulling her away. I stood up and watched as they dragged her back along the shore to the house.

It is difficult to realize that almost sixty years have passed since that night. Whenever the half-moon rises in mid-summer I am drawn to this spot, knowing that one day she will be free to return as she promised; one day we will be together, in accordance with the vows we made so long ago.

I wait, inhaling the silence of the night. Never, in all the years that I have been held to this place, have I felt so close to my sweet Catalina. Then I hear those strains of music from the crumbling walls of the derelict château, the same orchestra playing our song. I hear a whispered voice in my ear, “I asked that the band play, so we may dance one last tango together.”

Turning, I gaze on her Satanically dark Latin beauty. Even in the darkness, she shines with radiant light, not one day older than the last moment I saw her. Her eyes have a mischievous gleam that I have never seen before, and her perfect mouth curls into a smile of unadulterated happiness. We kiss, my cold lips pressed against hers, so warm and so alive. It is as if she breathes life into me as we embrace. There is no need for her to ask me twice. Our bodies begin to sway, then our feet begin to move in response to the rhythm. In the moonlit shadows, two spectral figures now haunt the shore at the water’s edge of a lake on the outskirts of Paris as we dance our final, never-ending, last tango.

© 2010. Robert A. Read

Happy Birthday

Warning. This story contains no vampires, no zombies, werewolves, ghouls or ghosts. There is no adult content, no blood, no gore, no rape, pillaging or incest. I was after Gothic Weird, rather than Gothic Horror. Sorry it is more than flash fiction. 2500 words approx.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow will be the saddest birthday I have ever known, made all the more poignant when I consider how wonderful the previous 22 have been. This is the first birthday I will have spent alone.

Heavy rain beats a staccato cacophony on the leaded windows of my room. I shuffle the armchair nearer the flickering flames that dance across the logs on the open fire in vain attempt to glean a little of the warmth into my aching bones. Apart from a single, guttering flame from a wax candle and the orange beacon of the fire, the room is in darkness.

I once looked forward to birthdays with immense relish, but, since Alice died, shortly after the last celebration, there is only bitterness.

She arrived at my door on this day, twenty two years ago, in answer to an advertisement I placed in the Yorkshire Times for a qualified nurse to attend my bed-ridden mother. It would only have been a temporary appointment as my mother was not expected to survive more than another six months, such was the virility of the cancerous growth in her stomach.

She stood on the doorstep between the two stone columns that support the porch roof. Traces of white autumn mist hovered like smoke around her shoulders. In contrast to the grey, November day she seemed to glow with an ethereal inner light. The hood of her blue cloak was thrown back from her head, sending honey-blond hair cascading around her shoulders. The thought struck me that here was an angel.

I assumed, the coach in which she had arrived, must now have departed, the driver, probably, hoping to traverse the five miles across open moorland before nightfall. She had only a small wooden trunk on the step beside her.

“You must be Alice,” I said. She seemed a lot younger than the impression she gave from the letter of introduction which accompanied her application for the position. 

Lowering her eyes, she clutched the sides of her skirts and curtsied. “Sir, I am so grateful that you saw fit to give me this opportunity.”

Due to the short term of the appointment, there had been only two applicants, so my choice was not difficult. But I thought it best not to let her know. I waved away her gratitude. “Is that all you have brought?” I gestured toward the box, “Only, I expected you to be living in until the inevitable conclusion of the post.”

She looked most apologetic, her large grey eyes turning imploringly to mine. “This is my entire wardrobe, sir. My whole life has been spent being moved from one orphanage to another that I have very few possessions.”

As a music hall singer in her youth, mother owned a surplus of fancy clothing and finery which she would never wear again, and which, I believed, would suit Alice with very little alteration. Alice showed embarrassment at my offer, but eventually accepted it with more than a little grace.
Through the next ten months, Alice performed her duties admirably. I am certain it was only through her love and affection for the patient that mother survived so much longer than doctors had predicted.

Six weeks before my twenty-fifth birthday, the sickness made its final claim. I believe the entire population of around 100 villagers attended the funeral service, such was mother’s popularity in the community.

Alice begged me to let her stay until she could obtain further employment, which I was only too happy to allow. Her company was certainly beneficial to my adjustment to the situation, especially being so close to my birthday. We celebrated the day in conjunction with the anniversary of Alice’s arrival with a delectable meal she had prepared without my knowledge.

Perhaps it was an excess of good food and wine, perhaps it was our, now, close tie of being alone in the world, of both being orphans, but that night we became lovers. It felt to me that there was an inevitability in such an arrangement, and within a few more months, I asked Alice to do me the honour of becoming Mrs. Richard Collins. To my intense joy, Alice accepted, and we made arrangements for confirmation of our union at the village church on 10th November 1878.

The orphanages in north of England had no record of Alice’s date of birth. She had been found, abandoned on the steps of one such facility on a freezing January eve in 1859. The staff estimated she was born between October and December of the year before. Alice never knew who her parents were.

A single date for my birthday, her faux birthday being the day we met, and a wedding anniversary seemed a logical arrangement. On our wedding night, we both vowed that neither of us would ever forget this date.

Over the last few hours, the loneliness I feel has become almost intolerable. Being such distance from my nearest neighbour, and on a night like this, I can expect no company. Other than the slow rhythmic tick-tock of the mantle clock, there is only silence in the house. Outside, the rain still beats a tattoo on the glass while a mournful wind hums a low dirge around the eves and guttering of this old house. I feel there is no reason to continue this lonely existence. If only I might find the courage to end it now. The “pop!” of exploding wood in the hearth startles me for a moment before I realize the cause and return to my painful reminiscences.

Each year, our celebrations have been memorable, non more so than that of 1880 when, on the day, Alice presented me with a son. I like to think it was more than coincidence that Edward should choose that day to vacate the cherished warmth of his mother’s womb. He too became part of our celebrations for this date.

But not this year. Not tomorrow.

Having been enlisted in the British army, he was despatched to Africa to serve his duty in the Boer Wars. Five days a go, I received a letter from his regiment to confirm he had died in action. The letter contained his papers and a medal awarded posthumously for bravery in conflict. The following day, I stood at the grave of my wife and placed the medal and letter in a small niche I opened up beneath her headstone. It would be wonderful to think they are now together in some afterlife, but I am not a religious man.

The clock on the mantle whirs its mechanical introduction to the series of chimes before striking the midnight hour. I take a glass and a decanter from the table beside my chair. Pouring a good measure of brandy, I wait for the chimes to end, denoting the beginning of the new day, the day of our joint birthdays and anniversaries.

Standing before the fire, and raising my glass to the picture of my bride hanging on the wall, I break the silence following the twelfth strike with, “Happy anniversary, Alice, my love. As we vowed twenty-three years ago to this day, we will never forget.”

I drink, long and slow, letting the brandy engulf me in its warm and heady fire. Refilling the glass, I raise it again to the smaller image hanging beside the first. “To our first and only son, we both wish you a very happy birthday, wherever you are now.”

I am about to drink again when there comes a sudden rap on the front door of the house. So startled am I that the glass falls from my hand to shatter on the stone hearth. Who could be calling at this time of night?

As I explained, the house is so far from the village and with such inclement weather as to be almost inaccessible to the local community. Perhaps some traveller from further afield has become lost on the moor, and seeing a light from the window seeks shelter and a little food. However, this seems unlikely as the house is not situated on a marked route between any of the towns. I dally so long in thought that I almost convince myself it could only been the wind blowing something heavy against the door.

And then the knock is repeated, even louder than before.

Attempting to shrug off my concerns I take the candle and walk to the door. “Just a moment,” I call, “but being almost asleep, and you knocking so gently, I believed it was no more than the wind.” I place the candle where it should be protected from the sudden rush of air as I open the door and turn the key in the lock. “I am so sorry to keep you…”

The small amount of light escaping onto the porch shows me there is no one there. I throw the door open wide and step out onto the porch. A pale half moon makes a feeble attempt to light the scene through ragged clouds.

“Hello! Is anyone here?”

The wind plucks my voice and hurls it into the darkness as if it is no more than a scrap of paper. The only response is the groan of swaying branches in the tree that rises like a sentinel at the corner of the house. Even the lashing rain now falls in gentle splashes on the pools of water beyond the awning of the porch.

“Strange,” I murmur to myself. “I could have sworn…” I turn back into the house, closing the door behind me. As I step into the lounge, I stop in utter amazement. There, in the arm chair on the far side of the hearth, the chair that Alice always claimed as her own, sits the largest black cat I have ever seen.

“Hello, and who might you be?”

Speaking as if expecting the cat to answer, I can only assume that it slipped past me in the dark when I opened the door to look out. The cat stares at me with large, limpid green eyes as if she has the answer to all of life’s mysteries. I am unsure how I suddenly know the cat is female. We, as a family, have never had cats, although Alice told me many times she was fond of the creatures and we should get one to control the population of small rodents that occasionally come in from the fields during the cold months.

“I wonder if you would like some milk.”

Walking through to the kitchen, I pour a little from a jug into a small bowl. The cat has silently followed me as if she understands. I watch her drink.

When she has finished, I follow her back to the lounge where we retake our respective chairs.

For some reason, I am beginning to wonder if Alice sent the cat to me. Yet how can this be? Alice has been dead for almost a year. And yet I wonder. Has the cat been sent to me as an anniversary present? We both made the vow never to forget the date. I shake my head. This feels surreal and stupid. The cat watches me all the time which makes me uncomfortable as if there is something I fail to understand. I would like to know if she has a name.

A half hour passes. A heaviness in my eyes reminds me it is time for bed. The cat, however. holds me in some sort of spell. Would it not be discourteous to leave so early?

At last, the cat gets up, stretches by arching her back, and jumps to the floor. She glances at the clock, which shows a few minutes before one, as if she has an engagement for another function to attend. With head and tail erect, she pads silently to the front door, then turns and glowers at me still sitting in my chair.

“You want to go back out into the night, do you?”

There really is no need for me to ask. I walk to the door and hold it ajar. She steps through the gap then turns and sits so that I am unable to close the door.

“Well, go on then. Shoo!”

There is no response other than that silent feline stare. Even an attempt to move her by gentle persuasion with my foot yields no success. I have no intention of using force sufficient to risk hurting her. The vicious claws she occasionally flexes warns me against such action. I can only leave her for now and return to my chair in the hope she soon goes.

Before I can make myself comfortable, she is beside me, clawing at my leg. I sigh and get up to close the door. The fire having gone out, the temperature in the room is already falling. The cat forces her way between my feet almost causing me to fall. When I recover, she is again in the position to prevent it closing.

Her action makes me wonder if there is something preventing her from leaving the house. Ignoring the damp and cold, I pull the door open wide. The pale glow from the moon and few stars limits my sight to the immediate view of the steps and the shadows of shrubbery in the garden.

The cat moves to the top of the steps as if she is about to descend, then turns to stare again at me. Realization hits me like the sudden glare from a lightning flash. She wants me to follow. I reach inside to the back of the door where my winter cape and hat hang from a hook. Garbed against the worst of the weather, I remove the keys from inside, then close and lock the door. The cat moves like a darker shadow in the dim light while I try to follow without falling.

The dark shape of of a coach with two horses appears in the shrouds of mist. All remains silent, motionless, as if they are unreal. Clouds of mist from my breath blur my vision. I can see no driver, but the cat leads me to an open door. Without a sound, the door closes as I enter, like the closing of a cell or prison. There is no sound of horse’s hooves, no crack of a driver’s whip, no creak or groan from the wheels, but my senses tell me we are moving. At this moment, my senses also tell me I will not be coming back. Today is my birthday.

Dental Hygiene.

The child appeared quite normal when Matthew first saw her. It was only a momentary glimpse as he passed the open door to the waiting room, where she sat on a chair, turning the pages of a book. Matthew guessed the prim woman sitting with her was the mother.

“Your first patient is Veronica Marsden,” the nurse read from a single sheet of paper clipped to a pad. “Six years of age, and recently moved into the area, this is her first visit to the practice.” She pushed a pair of gold framed glasses more severely on her hose with her middle finger. “Her mother says she was unable to feed the child last night due to chronic tooth ache.”

The dental surgeon washed his hands and slid them into a pair of disposable gloves.  “Ask her to come in will you, Liz?”

While waiting for the patient to arrive, Matthew arranged his instruments on the tray attached to the chair. Humming a nameless tune, he fitted the obligatory mask over his nose and mouth.

Mrs. Marsden ushered the small girl into the surgery followed by the nurse who closed the door. “Hello Veronica.” Matthew tried to keep his voice jovial. “If you jump up into the big chair, we’ll have a look at that nasty little tooth, shall we?”

He thought she seemed a little small and thin for her age. Undernourished. She wore a red coat, a red, woollen hat pulled down below her ears and covering her hair, and a red, knitted muffler. The skin of her face was pallid, anaemic looking, and pinched around protruding cheek bones. The most unusual thing about her was the eyes. Larger than any he had seen on a child, they seemed too big for her face. An amber pupil filled the wide, staring eye socket like a coloured marble. Apart from the extreme corners of the eyes, the whites were invisible. The black iris, more than two thirds the size of the pupil was not circular, the vertical dimension being significantly greater. The girl’s unblinking, cat-like stare made Matthew feel uneasy.

“No good talking to her. She can’t hear you.” The mother’s voice twanged with an accent Matthew was unable to recognise. “She’s been deaf and dumb since birth.” The woman grasped the child about the waist, and none too gently, plumped her into the leather recliner.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What a shame for the poor child.” Matthew felt even more saddened by the woman’s apparent lack of affection. “Can you take her hat, scarf and coat off so I can fasten the bib?”

“She won’t let me take the hat. She’s grown very attached to wearing a hat. Probably because the older kids make fun of her ears.”

“That’s not very nice. Children can be so cruel sometimes. I’m sure, in a few years, those ears will look quite normal.” Matthew added the last comment in consolation for the girl before he remembered her deafness.”

“Not very likely.” There was a hint of sarcasm in the woman’s voice. “She has none.”

“Born with no ears? How awful.” This explained why she was deaf. “The poor little girl. That is so sad.”

Matthew sat in the swivel chair attached to the patient’s recliner and reached to adjust the bright lamp. “Could I get you to open her mouth, wide, Mrs. Marsden?”

“Of course doctor.” The woman jabbed her thumb and fingers into each side of Veronica’s cheeks forcing the jaws apart, while at the same time, opening her own mouth wide for demonstration.

Matthew guessed Veronica knew what was required by the ease in which she complied. “Do you know which side of her mouth is causing the problem?”

“The right, I think.”

With his free hand, Matthew adjusted the light to get a better view. The brightness of the beam, he noticed, had caused the iris aperture in her eyes to narrow into slits. How strange he thought. Unable to suppress a shudder at the intensity of Veronica’s stare, he leaned forward to examine the inside of her mouth.

The hiss of inhaled breath through his teeth was audible across the room. “What the…?”

Eyes bulging wide in amazement, he sat back in the chair aghast, staring. “I’ve never seen anything so bizarre in a patient, particularly not a child. Mrs. Marsden, is this some sort of sick joke?”

“What do you mean doctor?”

He could sense the false innocence in her voice.  “I mean the weird surgery that’s been inflicted on her mouth. You can’t tell me this is natural.”

“I assure you it is. That’s exactly how her teeth grew.”

Matthew leaned forward again, as if to confirm his initial reaction was not due to hallucination. The upper and lower incisors appeared to have been ground into needle sharp points. Her lower canines, twice the length of the incisors were similarly modified, while the upper canines, even longer, and wickedly curved, looked similar to stilettos embedded in the gums. They reminded Matthew of the venomous fangs in the mouth of rattlesnake.

Even through his mask, her breath stank of decomposing flesh. A reddish tinge, like rust, was visible in the gaps between her teeth, as if her gums had recently bled.

“Does she regularly clean her teeth?”

“We’ve not been able to for a day or so because of the pain.”

Matthew would have believed her if she admitted to months rather than days. Taking a mirror and periodontal probe, he held his breath while prodding the tip tentatively against the inside of each molar. “Ah! This looks like the cause of the problem.” He looked up at the nurse standing behind the patient. “I think we can fix this with a composite resin filling if you could mix one for me.” Turning back to the reclining patient, and without thinking, he asked. “Does this hurt?”

The gargled, choking shriek of agony, and the speed at which her mouth snapped shut, startled Matthew. For several long moments, he felt nothing. Mesmerised, he watched the trickle of blood oozing from the corner of her mouth. His blood! A numbing ache edged into the palm of his hand before chaos erupted in the room.

The girl’s mother screamed. From the sound of the slap, she must have hit the girl, and then Matthew was aware of the jaws being forced apart. His hand came free, and he felt a burning sensation, as if he was holding it in a flame. He staggered to his feet sending the tray of dental instruments clattering across the floor.

“I’m sorry doctor! I’m so sorry…”

Mathew hardly heard the words. He clutched his lacerated palm in attempt to quell the flow of blood. Liz was at his side with napkins trying to assist. Neither of them saw Mrs. Marsden bundling Veronica into the red coat, then, clasping the girl against her chest, run from the room.

“I’ll be alright, Liz. Could you get me a cup of tea?”

Liz disappeared through a door into the adjoining room. Matthew felt sick. He could feel the room spinning. The pain, like molten steel, engulfed his whole arm and shoulder. He leaned back against the wall. His knees gave way and he slid into a sitting position on the floor.

Liz returned with the tea, pushing the door open. For a moment, she stood gawping at him. “Oh, Mr. Roberts, are you alright? You’ve gone a funny colour.”

He could feel perspiration running from his forehead and around his neck. The last words he was able to utter were, “Not feeling so good. You’d better phone for an ambulance…”

© 2012. Robert A Read.

1250 words

Vamplit #FridayFlash: Crucifixion.

Loriel, a guardian angel, is exiled to a post apocalyptic earth for failing in her duties when the soul of her ward was lost to the dark forces of evil. Her only chance of redemption is by locating the reincarnated spirit and returning him to the light.

Warning. Gratuitous sex and violence. Adult content.

Today’s #FridayFlash fiction is adapted from my novella, Angel In Stilettos. 

The next hour became a nightmare of agony. I lost count of the number of times my body was raped and abused. Most of the demons seemed to be turned on at the idea of causing me pain, striking with their claws to my breasts and stomach, or pulling my wings at angles to which they were not accustomed. I felt many of my flight feathers torn from the skin.

I do not believe I lost consciousness, but reached a point where I felt so drunk from the suffering, I was unable to feel pain. I only realized my ordeal must be over when they carried me back to the main hall. They laid me on, what at first appeared to be, a narrow wooden bench, yet it was only about half the width of my back. I dared not move for fear of falling from the beam. My arms, stretched out to the sides were held by several pairs of clawed hands.

Lord Bazial came to stand beside my head. He seemed amused. “I found the inspiration for your punishment in an old book in the city library,” he said. “Something humans devised in the past that I thought might be fitting for an angel. I have to admit I’m impressed. The sadistic nature of humans knows no boundaries.” He waved, a summoning gesture to someone out of my sight.

My arms were turned so that the palms faced upward, then something was pressed against each fore-arm, just above the wrists. Unable to see what they were doing, I waited in terror. Fear made the anguish more intolerable. I heard the thud before my senses registered the searing pain that screamed through one arm. My shriek of agony was drowned by cheering from my captors. Almost immediately, my other arm exploded with searing fire. The pain was so intense, I hardly felt the remaining three or four blows on each side. I seemed to hang suspended in a world of nightmares, unable to tell if this was really happening.

My first thought was that they had cut off my hands. I had no feeling of the fingers, while the wrists seemed to be immersed in a furnace from which I was unable to move. Two of the demons passed across my sight as if in slow motion. They were carrying large hammers. I thought they were leaving for another job. I almost wanted to laugh at the bizarre image. They stood either side of the beam, raising the hammers to shoulder height. Almost in unison they swung them in an arc. I stared, watching them, until a blast of agony seared up through my legs. I almost forgot the fire raging through my wrists. I could not understand why they were using hammers now to chop off my feet.

They stepped back as if to admire their work. Tears of pain filled my eyes yet through blurred sight the feet were still visible, attached to my ankles. Red gore oozed from around two metal spikes pinning them to the wood. I was confused as to why they felt it necessary to nail them to the beam. It was not as if I had the strength to get up without help. Turning my head to the side took an infinite amount of courage. I was surprised to see there were no flames licking at my arm. The hand was still in place but more of the red sap oozed from a large metal nail driven through the wrist.

My head and shoulders jolted against the beam as the wall toward which I was looking moved. It took several moments to conclude that I was the one moving. Someone was raising the beam into a vertical position, and with me attached. It made more sense now; obviously, the nails were to prevent me falling, but I could see no reason why my abusers would not just let me remain in a prone position. The weight of my body pulling against my shoulders forced me to straighten my legs for additional support.

I could look down on the heads of every human and demon in the auditorium. Even Bazial, the tallest one there, was about a foot below the level of my eyes.

Looking up at me, he spoke. “I believe this was called crucifixion. Does it hurt?”

My inability to answer seemed to amuse him. “You probably find it a bit painful to speak, do you? Aw! I’m sorry.”

His voice became indiscernible above the guffaws of hilarity from those standing near. He waited until the chortles subsided. “I’m afraid it will only get worse. As you get weaker, you will not be able to stand; thus, the weight of your body will be hanging on your arms, and you will slowly suffocate. The amount of time this takes depends on how quickly you weaken, the amount of blood you lose. During historical times, when this form of punishment was popular, they would sometimes end the torment more quickly by smashing the bones in the victim’s legs. Alternatively, they might drive a sword or knife into the body to increase the blood loss.

“You may be pleased to hear that I will not resort to such barbarity, although you will, probably, soon be begging for me to end your suffering. It depends on your willpower. How long will you try to stay alive? Oh! But I forget. You say you are immortal, so how can you die? Perhaps it is your fate to remain in agony for eternity. What a hellish thought.” His sardonic chuckle was joined by amused laughter and clapping of hands from the crowding onlookers. He turned to the audience, raising both hands to subdue the applause. “But good people of earth and Sibalbá, let us party on for the night is still young. I will keep you informed of further developments with our angel. Bring more wine! Musicians!” The clapping of hands that endorsed his speech was drowned in the cacophony of amplified distortion as the band increased the volume of their instruments. I shut my eyes.

Numbness froze my arms and legs, deadening the pain, but breathing was becoming more difficult. It felt as if a leather strap was being slowly tightened about my chest. Less air filled my lungs each time I inhaled, so that I had to breathe more rapidly. A red mist drifted in front of my closed eyes and my head felt as if it was spinning. With the amount of blood I had lost during the last few days, it should not be long until death claimed my physical body. I had no idea what would happen then. With my task incomplete, my ka would be trapped in this hell for eternity.

© 2011. Robert A Read.

My Undead Muse.

It is dark, so dark I can not tell if my eyes are open or closed. A heavy weight presses down on my chest, pinning me to the bed. Am I awake? Perhaps a paralysis struck me as I slumbered.

Something has disturbed my sleep, something alien to the lonely stillness in this empty room. Living alone in an old farmhouse set in woodlands and several miles from my nearest neighbour, I would feel relieved for almost anything to explain my sudden return to consciousness. The creatures of the night, owls, badgers, foxes and the varied rodent population I am used to. This was something different. I try to listen, to hear again the noise that woke me, but now there is only silence.

Then I hear it, the whirring sound of an inkjet printer spraying globules of dye across a page. I relax. So, I am not going mad.

Hell! Yes I am! The computer should not be on. I distinctly remember switching it off before going to bed. I sit bolt upright and open my eyes. The digits on the bedside clock glow red at 03:15. It is still almost as dark, even with a definite awareness of being awake. A pale silver luminosity from the full moon beyond the curtained window only softens the blackness between the shadows to a dull shade of grey.

The chattering of the printer continues from the other room. I hear it clearly. Only a thin, partition wall separates my bedroom from the spare room I use as an office. The bed is warm, cosy; I have no desire to move, but throw back the covers and lower my feet to the ground. The linoleum is cold to my feet as I stand and pace across the room. A feeling of trepidation seems to exude from the walls, immersing and hampering my movements in glutinous folds, almost like wading through muddy water in a lake. I open the door and step into the corridor, surprised that even with no electric light I can see as if in twilight. The door to the computer room, as always, is ajar.

The printer still hums and I hear the slapping sheets of paper as they feed into the machine. I push the door further open, and put my head through the gap. Relief calms my fluttering heart. It is only a small child, a girl of no more than eight or nine years of age, bending over the computer.

I step into the room.

Wait! I have no young daughter now! As far as I know, there has never been a small girl in this house…

Monique: My Undead Muse

She must have heard me enter; she turns toward me. I wish she hadn’t. I have no idea how long ago she died; it must have been a while. Her petite face, blue, swollen and bloated with death, exudes a sickly luminescence. Her lips are cracked, and purple, while the eyes, white sightless orbs, gleam with an eerie pallid light. From the sight of the hideous gash across her throat, I guess she was brutally murdered by some insane psychopath.

Her hair is dark, tousled, uncombed and drips dank slime onto her shoulders. She wears a grey-white funeral gown, splashed over the rotting fabric with patches of green mildew. Something black, spidery, a parody for a tongue squirms between decaying teeth as the putrefying flesh of her cheeks draw the mouth into an evil sneer.

I want to run but can not move. She glides toward me, not walking, but floating several inches above the ground. The sickly stench of decomposing flesh from a mortuary or a mass grave assaults every gasping breath of air in my throat. Those eyes of the damned stare, burning into mine as she holds out two hands clutching a sheaf of papers. Without comprehension, mine reach out to take the sheets from her. The moment I hold them securely, she begins to fade, beginning from the lower part of the shroud until the only thing that remains is that ghastly face. Even this dims, becomes transparent. The light from the eyes pales into oblivion. The final part to disappear is the sneering, Cheshire-cat grin leaving me alone with the papers.

I begin to read…

© 2008. Robert A Read.

Note: I submit this to introduce you to my muse. Her name is Monique. She can take one of many visual forms, usually with the intent of putting the “fear of God” into me. Does she not realize? I am a writer; I have no fear of God or muses… I love her, even if she does disappear on vacation when I need her most.

An Unholy Halloween

My appearance may be misleading if you are unaware of my story. From the wispy feathers of white hair, the gaunt features and wrinkled parchment yellow skin, you may think my age to be near eighty years. In fact my true age is less than half that total. I am entirely to blame. If I had paid more attention to the warnings from the local villagers…

In the three autumn seasons through which I have lived in this tiny, Devonshire village on the edge of Bodmin Moor, I have never been visited by the local children on All Hallows Eve. I realize that ‘trick-or-treat’ is more of an American theme, but in the last twenty years or so, it has become almost as popular here in England.

The first two years were understandable; I needed to earn the villagers’ trust. My little thatch-roofed cottage set among surly horse-chestnut trees and away from the main road was a little creepy. That fact, added to the suspicion of a middle-aged man living alone, and with stories of sex-offenders and paedophiles making almost daily headline news, how many parents would be willing to allow their precious offspring to come near my abode?

However, by the third year, I was on first name terms with all my immediate neighbours. They knew by then, that being an artist, I had an excuse for a little eccentricity. Several of my better paintings hung on the walls above the bar of the quaint little pub, the Red Lion, and I had received requests from two of the patrons for portraits of their young ones which I completed from photographs they supplied.

Through the harvest season of that year and the next, I received gifts of home-grown vegetables from, at least, four families, which I repaid by allowing their older children to collect apples and plums from my small orchard. I was therefore, even more surprised to have no costumed revellers standing on my doorstep through that last night of October.

My fourth Halloween was the time I decided to show them I was happy to become involved in the yearly festivities. The shop windows of the stores in the nearest town were filled with the masks, costumes and trinkets to which we have become accustomed, almost from the end of summer. The week before the end of October, I purchased half a dozen plastic jack-o-lanterns, several cut-out, broomstick riding witches and black cats, and felt almost ready to entertain. These items, displayed on the trees and walls of the house, I hoped would attract the village children. I also bought a supply of sticky sweets and chocolate goodies to hand out in the best Halloween tradition.

The night before All Saints’ day, while sitting in the bar of the Red Lion, I noticed that Pete, the landlord of the house had made no attempt to add seasonal decoration. The half-timbered walls and dark stained low wooden beams were made for a touch of Gothic horror.

“Do you not celebrate Halloween?” I asked him?

The moment I mentioned the time of year, a cloying hush fell over the ten or so drinkers. I felt their searing gazes burning into me. For a moment, I thought I had spoken some profane blasphemy.

Lowering my voice I added, “I ask because I’ve never seen children trick-or-treating like they do in the towns.”

“You’ll not see such tom-foolery celebrated in these parts. Maybe those city dwellers have nothing to fear with their bright lights, but here the night when the dead walk abroad is a night we fear most deeply.”

“Oh, come-on,” I said. “It’s only a bit of fun. A few sweets for children in fancy costumes.”

“It’s the one night of the year we keep our doors firmly barricaded. If any children come a knocking on your door my friend, you will be well advised to keep it firmly locked. Now I will be obliged if you make no more mention of this”

His manner and that of his customers unnerved me as I walked home that evening, but passing several houses with candle-lit lanterns in the windows, I put his reticence down to the likelihood that a night of partying would reduce his weekly profit margin.

The following evening, as darkness fell, I hung the lighted lanterns at the entrance to the porch of the house. I had already nailed the witches to the trees on the driveway from the road so that they pointed like direction arrows to my door. With sweets and chocolates displayed in bowls on a low table inside the porch, I waited.

I waited in vain for what must have been four hours. Several times, I went outside in the hope of seeing moving lights or figures under the street lamps. There seemed no sign of a living soul. By ten-o-clock, with wisps of cold mist drifting between the leafless trees, I came to the conclusion that this was another wasted Halloween. I closed the door, leaving the candles in the lanterns to burn themselves out, stoked up the log fire and settled down to read.

I must have slipped into a state of sleep from the warmth of the fire, before I was startled into wakefulness from a sudden noise. I jerked upright in the chair as my book fell with a thump onto the carpet. Apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantle there was only silence through the house. I was still trying to work out if it was imagination that had woken me when the same sound resolved into a tapping on the front door.

A visitor at such a late hour was most unusual. I was concerned as to who would call at this time. The door of my lounge opens onto the porch, the outer door of which, I remembered having left open to the night air. Moving quietly to the door, I pressed my ear against the wood for any sound that might identify my visitor. I believed I could detect faint whispering voices the way children whisper in classes when they should be studying.

I had an uncomfortable feeling, laced with fear. Whatever would children be calling for at this time. The clock indicated it was past eleven. Then I remembered the Halloween inviting lanterns pointing their way to my door. Of course! But still, this was much later for trick-or-treat than I expected.

At that moment, I regretted having no safety chain or peep-hole in the door. As I debated the predicament in my mind, another gentle tap caused me to jump in alarm. I was certain I heard the tiniest giggle from the other side of the door. It had to be two or more children calling for their trick or treat goodies.

Steeling myself, I reached out for the door handle. A small voice in the back of my mind urged me most vociferously not to open the door. But it was only children. What could be the harm in letting them have some of the chocolate treats?

I convinced my nervous state into believing the fear could be no more than due to waking so suddenly. I turned the door-knob. The door emits a creaking groan if opened slowly as in the best traditions of haunted houses. My intention was to use the effect to scare my visitors before I would step from the shadows like some ghastly ghoul.

As the entrance came into view the surprise hit me. I stared!

On the stone step stood a child, a girl of no more than ten years. She wore no mask, but she was made up to look the part. With long dark hair and pallid skin, I guessed she was meant to be a vampire. What caused me the astonishment was her attire. Dressed only in a white, short-sleeved smock that fell below her knees she must have been freezing. The garment may well have been a nightdress from my limited knowledge. Her hands were clasped across her stomach, and she clutched a raggedly dressed, china doll, while gazing at a point on the floor in front of her.

Bedraggled and dripping moisture, I could believe she had come in from the rain. Perhaps the mist had thickened since I had been inside. Behind her stood two more children, a boy and a girl dressed in similar gowns. Several years younger, these two could have been twins from their similar appearance

I looked into the moonlit night for a parent I could admonish for letting children wander the streets in such a state. There was no one in view. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound could I utter as the girl looked up at me.

Shock hit me as if I had been thrown into an icy river. Her eyes, staring unblinking at me were large and black as a piece of jet. Entirely black, yet alive, glistening from the reflected light of my lounge.

I stepped back as she spoke. I was expecting her to say, ‘Trick or treat.’ The voice was hoarse as if from a sore throat. The words that came from her were, “Feed me!”

The other two shuffled forward into the light. Their eyes, totally black like the girl’s gazed at me as they echoed, “Feed me.”

A sensation came as of an icy hand gripping my throat and I could not prevent a shudder running through my body. “I have some chocolate which…” My tongue struggled to form the words.

“So, so cold,” she continued. “Let us in. Feed us.”

I was almost numb with an uncontrollable fear, yet I tried to think logically, they are only poor children. How could I refuse a little charity? I stepped back to allow them entry.

The events that proceeded my awakening in hospital I have no recollection. Apparently, a neighbour found me the following morning. He said that the door was open, and, with no response to his knock, he had entered. I was sitting in the chair before a fire that had long since gone out. Apparently, I was babbling about evil, dead children and not even knowing their names.

That is my story. You may believe it or not as you like. They say this is an old peoples’ home, and that I am not capable of looking after myself. I feel like a prisoner. I am certain, although the doctors will not admit, this is a mental asylum. They treat me reasonably well, but I feel the eyes of the other inmates burning me with contempt.

The children? They took nothing from me – nothing in any physical form that is. They took nothing other than forty years of my life.

© 2011 Robert A. Read

#FridayFlash Fiction: Halloween Costume.

“Timmy!” his mother called from the hall. “There’s a parcel for you. I think it’s from your father. Come and see.”

“Looks like it might be the young man’s birthday then,” said the postman.
“Yes, Halloween and birthday rolled into one. He’s ten today.”

“Wheeee!” Timmy squealed as he left his breakfast. “Where…where?”

“Happy birthday Timmy,” said the postman handing him the parcel.

Louise shut the front door while Timmy tore at the brown wrapping paper as fast as his small hands were capable. Soon, there was a pile of ripped shreds on the floor, and he was able to lift the lid of the box. Two envelopes lay on top, one addressed ‘To Timmy’ and the other marked ‘Louise.’

“I think this one’s for you mum.” He handed it to her, and then dropped his own unopened on the floor. Ripping white tissue paper away, he lifted out a red and black cape.

“A Halloween costume! Count Dracula! Wow!” His shining blue eyes were agog. He pulled out another package. “And a vampire mask! Look mum.”

Louise looked up from the letter she was unfolding. “Yes dear, that’s very nice.”

“Can I go try them on?”

“All right, but only for a minute. You still have breakfast to finish before school.” She focused on the open sheet of paper and read, Dear Louise, You now have your wish for the divorce; however, I will not let you take my son away. I will fight you for legal custody of Timmy any way I can. Your ex-husband, Bruce.

Louise screwed up the letter, picked up the discarded wrapping paper and walked back to the kitchen before dropping them into the waste bin. It was not the first time Bruce had made such threats, but as the case had already gone through the courts, there was nothing he could do.

“Raaaawr!”

Startled, Louise jumped. She spun round clutching at the edge of the table. “God Timmy! You scared the hell out of me. That must be the most horrifying Halloween costume ever, Come on, take that mask off now and finish your breakfast.”

Timmy peeled the latex film over his head, dropped it on the table and picked up the spoon to attack the boiled egg. “Mum! Can I wear the mask to school?”

“No, the other kids will damage it, then you’ll have nothing to wear tonight when Michelle takes you trick-or-treating.” She picked up the pasty-white face with dark shadowed eye sockets, holding it to the daylight. A red-tinted film covered the eye holes through which the wearer could see. two sharp fangs stained with red paint hung behind blood-red lips. She stroked the long strands of white hair. “How do they make them so realistic? Trust your father to find something like this.” She placed it back on the table. “Have you finished? Get your books and let’s get you off to school.”

The doorbell rang at two minutes to six. “Hello Mrs Taylor,” said the witch as Louise opened the door.

“Michelle. I’d never have recognised you in that costume. Come in. Timmy’s almost ready.” She led the way into the lounge. “Now remember, Timmy must be back here and in bed by nine thirty. I should be back by eleven. Any emergency, my cell-phone number is programmed into the main phone.”

“Yes Mrs Taylor. You enjoy your date and don’t worry about us.”

Louise watched from the door as they joined other children dressed in macabre outfits. Timmy turned to wave. The yellow glow of street lighting shone on the long grey hair blowing around his shoulders. Closing the door, she returned to preparations for her dinner date with work colleague, Derek. She wanted to make a special effort, this being her first real date since the divorce.

Derek arrived at eight, punctual as he always was at his desk. Louise was nervous, but the food was good, and after a second glass of wine, she began to relax. She had almost finished the second course when her phone rang. Furrows of concern showed on her forehead when she saw the caller’s number displayed was her home number.

“Mrs Taylor? You’d better come home quick.” The female voice sounded distraught. “It’s Timmy, I can’t get his mask off.”

“All right Michelle, let me talk to Timmy. He’s only being difficult.”

“No, you don’t understand. He’s not… Timmy? Timmy, what are you doing?” There was a short pause. “No Timmy! No!” The sudden scream from the earpiece almost caused Louise to drop the phone.

“Michelle? Michelle! Are you okay?” There was a clatter as if the phone had fallen then a loud thump. “Michelle!”

Derek looked up from his food, eyes wide. “Is everything all right?”

“Can you take me home now? Sounds like something awful happened.”

“I’m sure it’ll be okay. Finish your meal first. They’re only playing games.”

“No Derek! This is serious!” Louise jumped up from the table.

“Okay. I’ll just settle the bill.” He stood beckoning the waiter as Louise ran for the door.

The car screeched to a halt outside the house. Louise had her door open before the vehicle stopped moving. She ran up the steps to the front door, which swung inwards at her push. She searched inside for the light switch. The sudden illumination showed a scene of chaos. The hall table on which the telephone normally rested was knocked over, the phone and stand thrown against the wall. A dark trail of blood led into the lounge.

Louise gasped, raising her hand to her mouth. “What’s happened? Derek asked joining her in the doorway. “Oh my God!”

The door to the lounge was open, red hand prints smeared over the white paint. Light from the hall showed Michelle lying in a heap, face down on the floor. Derek ran to kneel at her side. He picked up one hand, searching for a pulse without success. Rolling her over, blood still oozed from puncture holes in the side her neck. The bulging lifeless eyes showed terror.

Louise watched from the doorway. “Where’s Timmy?”

“I’m here mum.” The voice of the boy standing behind her was calm.

She turned. “Oh Timmy.” He stood in the passage, hands behind his back.

She ran to him, “Thank God you’re all right. Come on, take this mask off.” She slipped her fingers under the long black hair searching for the edge of the vampire mask. There was none. “Timmy?” A memory from breakfast flashed through her mind. Had the hair not been white?

A sudden stabbing pain in her stomach caused her to flinch. She stepped back and looked down in horror at the wooden handle of a kitchen knife. A stream of yellow bile ran over the handle as she fell forward, embedding the blade into her gut as she hit the floor.

“And you must be the new man in her life.”

Derek looked up. Still on his knees, he never saw the meat cleaver sweeping down to embed itself in his skull.

 

© 2011 Robert A. Read