A light tapping sounded on the ground behind her and she spun around, breathing rapidly. Nothing was there; just the black shadows of trees and bushes. Geez. I need to stop watching those scary movies. She continued on, moving a little quicker than before. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk in front of her, straining her already tight nerves. The wind created a soft whistle as it blew through the bare branches of the trees above her. The streetlamp was getting closer, and her pace increased even more, anxious to get home, change into sweats, and sit and watch her shows with a nice mug of hot chocolate. Just get home. Just get home, she thought as she turned the corner onto her street. A breath of relief escaped her when she saw her house, porch light shining brightly. Finally. I am NEVER walking home alone in the dark again. She jogged up her front steps, keys already in hand. When she reached for the doorknob, a wave of cold swept over her, and consciousness faded.

***

She heard a noise, like water dripping in a cave. It echoed all around her. She felt manacles chafing her wrists, and her shoulders hurt from being suspended in the air. Her feet were enclosed as well. Grace opened her eyes to complete darkness. Her eyes were straining to find some sort of light, a glimmer of hope. But there was nothing.

She hung there, forcing tears back. It wouldn’t help to cry. Her back was pressed against some sort of rock wall, the jagged edges cutting into her skin. She was shaking in fear, but somehow her heart rate was steady.

A light clicked on, blinding her momentarily. When she could finally see, she saw a silhouette lumbering toward her. There was a large weapon in its hand, the glint of metal shining in her eyes. Then it stopped directly in front of her. After studying her for a moment, it laughed, and she saw its teeth. There were several rows, pointed and sharp, like a shark’s mouth. And it was dripping with blood.

She tried to scream, but nothing would come out. It kept laughing as it backed up a step. Tears poured from her eyes, and the thing became a blur. Grace was glad, because it would make the situation less horrifying somehow. And it didn’t make her as scared when the flash of silver arced toward her body. Then it everything turned white.

_______________________________________________

©2013 Braylie Barrier

Braylie Barrier is seventeen years old. She is currently writing a novel, but likes writing short stories and flash fiction on the side.

“Look over there, you guys…that man’s staring at us.”

My older siblings quickly followed the direction of my pointed and trembling finger. We stood seized, focused on the strange man’s features. He was balding, thin wisps of white locks accenting his decrepit features. My stomach churned with a nervous and sickening twist. His gaze firmly focused and showed his displeasure, an unwarranted hatred. My immediate response as a six-year-old was to produce tears. I fled into the house in search of mom. My brother and sister followed quickly with the front door slamming behind them. At once, the three of us bombarded our poor mother with all the graphic details, real or imagined. After piecing our story together, she investigated our claims with a fury of a protective mother. The old man was nowhere in sight.

Thinking back, this was the first experience I recall, of peculiar events that would plague our family. The withered and horrible visage of the bald man watching me, now deeply ingrained. It’d be several weeks later when my brother and I would see him again while riding in the backseat of the family car and nowhere near the proximity of home. Our father was treating us to a meal at our favorite fast-food restaurant. All was right in the world.

My dad, pulled slowly away from the parking lot when we’d finished eating, something tugged at my senses. The stomach regained that sickened twist. Like a nervous sparrow, I looked over my shoulder, out the rear window of my dad’s Charger. There he was, staring again. I nudged my brother to verify what I was seeing. The bald, old man glared at us coldly from the backseat of the vehicle that carried him. Once again paralyzed with fear.

My mind cried, go faster, Dad!

We moved often, in my youth. I’d only spent one school term in the house near the cemetery. The only fond memory I recall from that place was the Halloween party hosted by the schoolteachers. This would be the beginning of a string of events that in my belief, phantom or physical, held the old man at the core.

_____________________________________

©2013 Dave Dormer

“I’m pretty sure I used this last year to get to Lake Shasta when me and the guys went hunting,”Harry said.  “I don’t understand what’s going on.  Last year it was paved.  This year it ain’t.  I can’t imagine why they’d tear up a perfectly good road and turn it into something as primitive as this.”

“You sure this is the right road?”

“Of course.  You saw the sign.  Wait a minute.  Somebody just lit a flare up ahead.  Let’s find out what’s going on.”

When they approached the flare, they were surprised to see a man wearing a clown suit.

“What’s going on?” Harry called out.“Having car problems?”

“No.  I heard your car.  I lit the flare to get your attention.  If you value your life, turn around and go back as fast as you can.”

“Did something bad happen?”

“Yes.  The fact that you are on this road is very bad.  Saints preserve us…they did it again.”

“Who’s they? What did they do again?”

“Demons.  They moved the road sign to trap you.”

“Let’s get outta here,” Marcia said. “I’m scared.”

“Hold on.  I wanna find out what’s really going on. Hey, Mister. You gotta be kidding me. Demons in this day and age?”

“Yeah.  Very nasty ones. Go now!”

“Well, how come they haven’t grabbed you?”

“I’m protected.”

“Please, Harry,” Marcia whispered.  “It’s the middle of the night and the guy’s in a freakin’ clown suit.  Maybe he’s an escaped lunatic.”

“We’ll leave in a few minutes.  This guy’s so nutty, he intrigues me.  He’s giving me a great idea for my next short story.”

“So, you say demons might get us?” Harry asked. “Let’s say they did.  What would they do?”

“You don’t wanna know,” said the clown.  “Listen it’s twenty minutes until 11:00.  If you drive fast, you can make it back to the main highway in time.”

“I thought demons don’t come out until midnight?”

“Not this bunch.  They strike at the eleventh hour.”

Marcia poked Harry in the ribs.  “Let’s go now!”

“We will.  Just give me another minute.”

“I was wondering what you’re doing here?” Harry asked, “considering this road is supposed to be haunted.”

“I come here every night to warn people like you who are misdirected to this road by the evil ones.”

“But why the clown suit?”

“It protects me. These kinds of demons don’t like clowns. Clowns are funny. Demons hate anything humorous.”

“Well, that’s a new one on me.  Hey, is this a short cut to Lake Shasta or not?”

“No!  It’s is a short cut to Hell!”

Harry chuckled.  “That’s a good one.  Short cut to Hell.  Great title for a story.”

“If we don’t get the hell outta here right now, I swear I’ll file for divorce,” Marcia said.  “You’re always taking stupid chances.  This ain’t the time to be screwing around.  Let’s go before this goofball tries something.”

“Well, thanks for the info,” Harry said.  “Have a nice night.  Oh…where’s the actual road that’s a shortcut to Lake Shasta.”

“When you get back to the highway, it’s only a mile from there. Route 11.

“Thanks for warning us.  I sure don’t wanna be a Happy Meal for a bunch of nasty demons.”

Harry laughed hysterically, as he turned the car around and headed for the highway.  “Wasn’t that a scream?  Demons switching sign posts.  And a guy wearing a clown suit standing on a dark road, in the middle of nowhere. This is worth its weight in gold. I can’t wait to get to the motel so I can start writing my story.”

They reached the highway, drove a mile, then saw another road sign that said, “Short Cut To Lake Shasta.”

Harry stopped the car. “Well, if that ain’t the weirdest thing.”

“Whadda ya mean?” Marcia asked.

“That sign says this is a short cut.  The state doesn’t put up road signs telling people that roads are short cuts.”

“Well, maybe they’re finally getting driver friendly. C’mon.  Let’s get going.  I’m tired. I wanna get to the motel at Shasta.”

Harry turned onto Route 11.

Marcia put on the radio. The eleven o’clock news was nothing but doom and gloom.

Suddenly, flashes of horizontal lightening shot across the road.  Weird, pulsating lights filled the sky. Wind and debris slammed the car.

Harry couldn’t believe his eyes when a fire-filled hole opened on the road. He hit the brakes so hard, Marcia’s head bounced off the windshield.

The car skidded to a stop, inches from the edge.

“Marcia. Are you OK?”

No answer.

Harry shrieked when he saw her smashed, bloody face.  “Hang on, Honey.  I’m gonna get you to a hospital.”

When Harry threw the car into reverse, it smashed into something hard. The rear view mirror showed boulders that hadn’t been there just moments ago.

The engine died.   While trying to restart it, Harry saw the back end of a tow truck emerging from the flaming pit. It bore a sign saying:  STARVING DEMON’S TOWING SERVICE.

Panicked, he tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge.  Reaching across Marcia, he tried her door.   Same problem.

Grabbing a pistol from the glove compartment, he fired through the windshield at the tow truck moving toward him.

The truck’s hook crashed through the Mustang’s roof, grabbed hold, and pulled the car toward the pit.

Harry thought he saw a clown with a carving knife and oversize fork standing on the edge.

_________________________________________

©2013 Michael A. Kechula

Tommy  is a big man with a big head of wavy blonde hair. His eyes are a wintry shade of  blue. He’s handsome, well-toned and smart. He used to hold me close and call me his “pixie wife,” sometimes just “Pix.” Those qualities endeared him to me so many  years ago.

“Here’s  the man who will make my life beautiful,” I predicted to my friends.

Looking  back, I was dangerously happy.

Like  some good-looking men, my husband seems especially well-equipped by nature to  deceive like a mallard or peacock with puffed up plumage so startling it blinds  the eye. I nestle deep beneath those proud feathers and listen for heart sounds  sometimes. But I feel only a faint throbbing far from the spot where a heart  should be.

My  husband seems to have a schedule for destruction.

Tommy  has big hands. On Mondays, it seems, he likes to slap, depending on the outcome  of the major league football and baseball games.

On  Tuesdays he pushes when I’m in his way, picking up his dirty clothes or just  walking past him down our narrow hallway.

“Move,” he says simply.

Wednesdays  are generally quiet. It’s Poker Night with the boys. He drinks too much and  falls asleep almost as soon as he walks in the door.

Staff  meetings are held on Thursdays. Sales of luxury items are down. So he shouts his  way around the house using choice expletives I won’t even repeat; so many of  them directed at me, so many cruel words ricocheting off the walls like bullets,  even when he’s gone.

Friday  evenings are dedicated to family events and Tommy can be as charming as a cobra  or as entertaining as Johnny Carson. He manages to be a social, genial guy once  a week.

“Let’s get the hell out of this shit  hole, have a good dinner for a change,” he suggested last Saturday. He berated  our waiter and spoke not a word to me, making eye contact with all ten TV’s  scattered around the restaurant and some cleavage at the bar. I never touched my  Chicken Marsala. He didn’t notice. I was grateful.

Weekends  are intermittently peaceful and horrid. He is fascinated by the Military Channel  and a fan of Great Tank Battles of  WWII. That keeps him busy for hours. The explosions coming from the next  room are relentless. I withdraw into the quiet of our pale yellow bedroom.  Alone, I shut the door and retreat into the lies of a romance novel. They’re  piled up next to the bed. It doesn’t matter which one I pick.

A  while ago, I considered packing up and leaving. There are no children to  complicate matters. Frankly, I don’t want to leave. It’s too late for that now.  I’ve sealed all the exits in the labyrinth of my mind. All options have been  considered and found lacking. Things have gone too far and the plan is in place;  the only plan that will satisfy. I haven’t told the therapist about my  intentions. In fact, I’ve cancelled my last three appointments and ran out of my  meds two weeks ago.

It’s  Monday and today I’m wearing crystal balls. That is, crystal ball earrings. They  belonged to Janet, my friend of twenty years, who is now dead. I hope, I imagine  that they’re going to guide me; that they will whisper to me in Janet’s soothing  voice so that I’ll know exactly what to do when the moment comes. I stroke the  earrings gently every time I stop at a red light or wait for my computer to find  a file. They don’t warm to my touch or sparkle or do anything but hang out on my  ear lobes, pulling them both down uncomfortably. I’ve never attempted anything  like this in the fifteen years I’ve had the earrings. It’s irrational, I know,  even psychotic to expect or to wish for such dreadful things but today I’m  livid. There’s a fresh handprint on my face and a purple bruise flowering on my  shoulder like some kind of bizarre tattoo.

I  start dinner, stirring plenty of rage into the vegetable soup.

“I’m  making your favorite; garlic potatoes, broccoli and flank steak,” I say sweetly  as I mash and mash. He hates lumps. I pour some gravy into the potato craters  I’ve designed. We eat in silence except for reports on Fox News about the latest  in gun tragedies. I don’t own a gun. He does.

Tommy  likes his coffee at 6 PM precisely. So, I whip up two cups of steaming espresso  and add a capsule of cyanide to one of them. A splash of amaretto covers the  scent nicely. Then, I flip a coin and I wait.

There’s  a faint buzzing in my ears, like static. Then, I hear it, softly, gently, “It’s  OK, Pricilla. It’s OK. Heads or  tails, you win.”

__________________________

©2013 Marian Brooks

Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some  short fiction. Her work has appeared in One Million Stories, Post Card Shorts,  The Rusty Nail, Micro Horror and others.

The sun was still high, but was waning in the west so she snapped the reins once more, prodding the horse onward. She desired to be home before twilight—have the provisions put up in the storeroom—make a cold supper for the children, and read them a short story before getting them tucked in for the night.

The river came in to view. But something was wrong! Weyman Teasdale was waving    Abigail to pull over as she approached the ferryman’s crossing.

“M’am,” he said, “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the ferry isn’t operating.”

“What happened, Mr. Teasdale?”

“The pulley the other side of the river snapped. I lost a good length of rope, but that    isn’t the only hitch. See, that pulley is what the ferry was pulled from to    make the crossing—and what with the rains, there’s no way I can get over there. Besides, I’ll need another pulley—and that I can’t get right now.”

“But what shall I do? I must get across. I have the children with me!”

“Yes, I see that, m’am. And all that you can do is head north up to Seeger’s Mill—there’s the crossing there.”

“But that’s twenty miles! ”

“Yes, m’am, I’m very sorry.”

In the back of the wagon the children sat on a large sack of flour. The boy was six,    his sister almost five. “Mama?” called the girl, “Aren’t we goin’ home now?”

“Yes, baby, we are. But it’s going to take a little longer.”

Abigail tugged left on the reins and pointed Skeeter and the wagon north. The path led along the river on the right and a large gloomy wood loomed on the left.

Some miles on the road took a sharp turn left and skirted a small stream and then turned abruptly again to the right and through the stream at a shallow, narrow point. The wagon lurched as it exited the stream, nearly spilling over. And as Abigail regained control, the right wheel sagged and suddenly splintered, bringing their journey to an abrupt end.

Abigail jumped down from the wagon and assessed the damage. It was beginning to get dark now and they would just have to make do until morning.

About this time an old woman suddenly appeared. She approached the wagon. “A bit of trouble, my dears?” she said in a raspy crackle of a voice. “Now you just can’t stay out here on the road and my cottage lies just a half mile up this pathway. You come now and find some rest from your weary travels, my dears.”

Abigail was overwhelmed with gratitude for the old woman’s kindness and quickly agreed to her offer.

“These are fine children, dear missus. What are their names?”

“The boy is called Hans—after my husband’s father. And the girl is Gerta—for my mother.”

“Gerta and Hans! What fine names—and so very appropriate, too! I knew this is how it would be. Come children! Run on up the pathway. It leads straight and true to my cottage.”

The children looked on, horror-stricken, as the old woman picked up a large stone from the path and struck Abigail’s head a forceful blow. She fell to the ground,dead. The children ran up the path in terror.

“Oh, go run and hide! I’ll find you, my dears!”

Amy dropped the last sack from Wal-Mart into the trunk of the old Honda. After securing the kids into their car seats, she started for home. The drive all the way to the city in the old heap was tedious, especially with the kids, but what with Harry still away in Afghanistan, she had to try to save every penny she could. A week of rains had kept her inside and she was glad to get out    even if only for the twenty mile trip to the big box store.

It was close to sunset as she approached the river. A flashing police car’s lights brought her to a stop. She rolled down the window as the officer approached.

“Sorry, miss, but the bridge washed out—all that rain! We had to pull one car out already—don’t want any more!”

“But what’ll I do?”

“Well, you have to take route 23 there north…”

“But it’s twenty miles to Seeger’s Mill!”

The officer looked sympathetic, “Yes, miss,” was all he could say.

Amy turned sharply and headed north, sun setting now on her left and a full moon rising over the farmlands across the river on her right. The road wound along the river and suddenly at a small bridge, Amy struck the mother of all potholes! What luck! A flat tire—just what she didn’t need! She pulled    onto the verge and looked grumpily at the deep woods that loomed on her left.

“Mommy! What happened?” cried the small girl.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry now.” But Amy did worry. Her cell phone was terminated for lack of payment and sat at home in the junk drawer–so what to do out here in the middle of nowhere?

Suddenly an old woman appeared next to the car. “Are you having troubles, my dears?”

“Yes,” said Amy, “A flat tire!”

“Well, you can’t stay here!–and my cottage isn’t half a mile along that path across the road. Perhaps you have someone you might call.” She smiled like a kindly grandmother. “Say, what are these darlings’ names?”

Amy smiled, grateful at the kindness. “The boy’s name is Henry, but we call him Hank. And my girl’s name is Gretchen—after my mother.”

“Gretchen and Hank! What fine names—and so very appropriate, too!”

_______________________________________________

©2013 D.J. Barber

D.J. Barber lives in the Willamette Valley of Oregon and lives with his wife and small dog. He writes when he can and whistles when he should.

“Good morning, sir,” the tall man said “Are you satisfied  with your current power provider?”

“Now, I ask you, is anyone satisfied with their power  provider? Electricity seems to be a commodity that defies supply and demand  economics, at least where I live.

“Not exactly” I replied,  evasively.

“Well”, said the visitor “How would you feel if I could  arrange for you to receive totally free electric  power?”

“Free, eh?” I said. Who are you- your power company- I  mean.”

“I represent Galactic Power Resource” he said “We can  provide all your power requirements at a very minimal rate.”

I thought I had him at this point. “Minimal rate  means…?”

“As a first estimate, I would say one thousandth of a cent per kilowatt.” he said.

I was totally cynical by now. “Yeah, and ten dollar per day line charge?”

“No, sir,” he replied.

“Twenty dollars?”

“No, sir,” he said. “No hidden charges at  all”.

“Listen, Buddy” I said “I didn’t just emerge from under a cabbage plant.”

He looked confused. “A cabbage plant?” he said. “I don’t quite understand.

“Nor do I buster, and I’m not interested,” I said. “Free  power- get outa here!”

“But sir,” he said “Our costs on Earth are so small in  the scale of things, we can totally ignore the charge. You can have all the  power you need for nothing. What we are hoping for is total galactic  interconnection.”

“Yeah, right” I said. “Well I’m not interested. Good  morning” and I pushed the door shut. Just before it closed I heard the short  green man speak for the first time. He said “It’s a mystery, Griggle, no one  here has taken our offer up. Every planet in the Galaxy that we have approached  has signed up, except this one. Should we persevere here or move  on?”

“Call transport” said the tall man “I’ve had enough here.”

___________________________________

©2013 Wayne Hunter

Wayne Hunter  is an ex industrial scientist and teacher of high school physics who is now  enjoying exploring the possibilities of the future: hunterval@yahoo.com

He’d put it back by the time I’d turned round to face him, but I mentioned it anyway.

“It’s a crystal ball. Belonged to my Grandmother.’”

He started as though someone had jabbed him with a pin.

“How did you know? Are you psychic?” His expression had elements of curiosity and respect, but mostly fear.

I tipped my head back to indicate the glass-fronted kitchen cabinet behind me.

“I could see your reflection, when I opened the door to get the coffee mugs. Besides everybody goes for that, like moths to a flame.”

‘Careful!’ The voice in my head was barely a whisper, but at such a pitch it set my teeth on edge.

“Shit!”

“You alright?”

“I spilt coffee on my hand.”

He’d been studying the ball again, and hadn’t seen me spill the coffee so didn’t realise it had been effect rather than cause.

“You’d better run that under the tap.”

“No need, it was only a drop, and it wasn’t hot enough to burn, only to sting a bit.” I turned my wrist so he couldn’t see the blister.

He nodded, and held the ball up as though he was showing me something I hadn’t seen before.

“It’s full of cracks.”

“That’s where the Djinn hides.”

I was ready this time; I had already put my coffee cup on the mantelpiece, but there was no reaction.

“What?” The curiosity and fear were tinged with confusion this time.

“Djinns are spirits that hide in the fissures between realities and feed on the ignorant and careless.”

“All that stuff’s crap. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

‘Perfect.’ The voice was like a caress this time and I felt a chill terror in the pit of my stomach. I opened my mouth.

‘Don’t you dare.’

The warning died in my throat.

Mark was looking at me, expecting me to speak. I hastily improvised.

“Crystal balls like that are called Dragon’s Tears. They form when volcanoes spit out molten mica which forms into balls that instantly harden if they fall into water, like the sea, for example. The cracks form at the same time, due to the internal heat of the ball.”

He nodded, looking again at the ball, intrigued and then, fascinated.

I left the room. I had seen the process once. I had been forced to watch. I had no desire to see it again. I would gather up what was left of his belongings in the morning and dispose of them. There wouldn’t be much. Then I would be left in peace until the Djinn needed feeding again.

____________________________________

©2013 John D. Ritchie

The two I killed tasted just like the others. Like that thing the man and the woman lead me around on sometimes, when I turn my head and try to chew on it. The bones were brittle, too. They snapped when I took them into my mouth, no marrow. I got sick again. This time, though, it was before I went up onto the deck to lie down as the sun came up.

I think maybe it’s the little one here that attracts them. I mean, we never had this problem before she was born. I’ve noticed it too, all the different smells. It took a while to get used to. I know the man and woman don’t like the way I smell after I’ve been out all night. I can tell by their tone. The woman gives me a bath just about every day. I don’t like that much either, but what can I do?

I’ve been eating a lot more since this began. I need to keep up my strength. There’s one more around here to protect now. A bigger pack means more responsibility. I can’t let anything happen to them. I’d be ashamed. Besides, the man and the woman would never forgive me. I wish I had some help. None of the others in the neighborhood are loose at night.

I’ve seen what those things do to the smaller animals, rabbits, squirrels, mice and voles. It’s not nice. They don’t do it to eat them. You can tell. They do it because they like it. We get like that sometimes, too, but usually only when we’re sick.

The man and the woman don’t realize the danger. They can’t sense it the way I can. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. What would they do without me? Still, I can feel how frustrated they are.

As I lay in the sun this morning, the woman came out and reached down to scratch me behind my ears. The little one in her arms looked at me with liquid eyes.

“Rusty smells like hell again this morning,” she said to the man as he came out onto the deck to join her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Listen,” the man said, as he adjusted that collar-thing he wears around his neck, “give him another bath, would you? On my way home tonight I’ll stop at the hardware store and pick up some chain. I’m not sure what he’s getting into out back but I think we need to keep him tied up from now on.”

Bad idea!

____________________________________

©2013  James C. Clar

James C. Clar has published short fiction in print as well as on the Internet. In addition to contributing previously to Flashes in the Dark, he is also the author of a series of stories featuring Honolulu Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele.

She could not listen to any more and moved out of her father’s house in Rutland north to Stowe, where her older brother Howell lived.

Howell and his wife were pleased to have Cecily, who promised to be quiet and not to bother either of them for as long as she lived there.

“You couldn’t give us a minute of trouble if you tried, Cecily,” Howell’s wife Irene insisted.

Cecily read Tom Gage’s letters from Panama too many times. She put them away in her dresser, and after that she felt restless even when they came to mind.

She couldn’t sleep at night, and when spring finally came Cecily took walks under the stars through the garden behind her brother’s house. The garden was big, and people from Stowe sometimes visited during the day. A tall black fence with points and ivy surrounded the garden, and Howell locked the gate at night. Cecily took a key without asking her brother and strolled through the garden every night thereafter. The walks became like her dreams. She stepped on frosty paths through red clover and bleeding hearts when she should have slept.

One night Tom Gage came to walk with her. Cecily pulled the key from the lock, and he stood there by the ivy and the gate. He wore rags. A scruff had formed on his chin, and his eyes drooped. “They said you were dead,” Cecily murmured, squeezing the key. Tom didn’t talk, and Cecily thought perhaps it was the middle of the day, and she was in her brother’s house, dreaming.

They walked together through the red clover and the bleeding hearts, and Cecily’s pulse throbbed when Tom kissed her lips.

She woke up trembling in the morning chill, lying in a patch of dew-soaked clovers. Tom was gone and the gate was open. Cecily’s nightgown was stained red, and she gasped. Howell and Irene came running through the gate.

“Your neck,” Howell whispered.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Cecily drew her finger along the wound that stained her nightgown.

“Give us the key, Cecily. It’s much too dangerous for you now,” Irene said.

Howell helped Cecily up. “You could have been killed.”

“He wouldn’t do that. It was Tom.”

“Tom is gone, Cecily. The police instructed Irene and me to take care. A lunatic is loose, and he wounded you. They say he killed someone in Addison County.”

Cecily gave them the key, and at night she looked at the garden from her window. The doctor came to care for her neck, but she died on the fourth day.

They buried her quickly. Her father came up from Rutland and sobbed with guilt until it hurt to speak. Howell told him about Cecily’s secret walks in the garden, and they had a little tomb for her built in the middle of the clover patches. They had her exhumed and they moved her there.

Cecily awoke in her tomb two weeks after she died. She wanted to lie there and scream, but she did not possess the strength to do it, and she lay there in silence instead. A marble slab stood on top of her vault. Soon the urge to remove it grew, and she pushed on the slab as hard as she could. In time it gave way, and she crawled out of the vault with a quiet moan.

Her tomb was small, and lit by the night sky through a little window near the ceiling. She gazed at her arms; her moon-white skin was speckled with black shreds of dirt. Tom crouched in the corner.

“I couldn’t bear to be alone,” he said.

“What on earth has happened?” Cecily said. She stumbled into Tom’s arms and they embraced.

“You have breath like clovers,” he said.

“Tom,” Cecily stammered. “You died.”

“I didn’t die. And you didn’t either.”

They walked outside into the cold spring night. White flowers littered the path. “Look,” Tom said.

Above the door to the little tomb hung a plaque. It read, “Cecily Bonner: darling to many, woe to none. Her heart took her to where Tom has gone.”

“They think I’m dead.”

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” said Tom. “I came from Balboa to Stowe. I sneaked onto trains sometimes, but mostly I walked. I didn’t talk to anyone. They just chased me. They were afraid of me.”

Tom’s eyes were vacant, but his voice touched Cecily terribly. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

They walked again along the paths with the smell of red clover. “They drink blood in Balboa,” said Tom. “That’s all I have the stomach for. They buried me, like they buried you, and I couldn’t eat since.”

“Are you weak?”

“Just a little.”

They climbed over the pointy fence and entered the Bonner house quietly. Cecily did not want to wake Irene or Howell. The thought repulsed her. She and Tom instead found themselves at their necks, unthinkingly. They were not careful at all, far less than Tom had been with Cecily, and they left black stains on the bed. “Is your father still in Stowe?” Tom asked.

Dawn came near the house. Cecily, shaking and wide-eyed at what she had found herself doing, did not answer. She held Tom’s white hand as they stole back to her tomb. She noticed above the gate a new sign that read “Cecily Garden.”

__________________________

© 2013 Cecily Garden

People ever get burned with that stuff? you ask, pointing at the storage tanks of liquid nitrogen.

Although you have betrayed me with another woman, we lie clasped together easily on a pile of thermal blankets used to treat frost-bitten workers. Not often, I reply, because the nitrogen is so cold it evaporates on contact with human skin in what’s called the Leidenfrost Effect. It takes prolonged exposure to become injured or frozen.

So you really have to fuck up to get hurt by it? you say. I press into you. Far out.

A woman craves touch and yours is exquisitely soft for a man’s. I loved you. And you betrayed me. I smile.

The human body, I say, is so complex. I trace your delicate labyrinth of veins, tangling like water lilies just below an opaque surface. Thousands of cells, I whisper, and arteries and organs all working together like a complex symphony.

Mine’s not much of a sympathy, you say, not because you misheard me but because you’re stupid and think sympathy and symphony are the same word, like nuclear and noo–KYOO-lur. I smile. Your skin will shatter at my touch.

I love you to bits, I say.

You look uncomfortable. Then you look away. And I know right then. I know. They speak of broken hearts but they have no idea.

I am no ordinary woman, I say. I know things.

Oh yeah? What do you know?

That you are no ordinary man. I run my hands down past your lower belly to your waistline. And that is enough. You seize me. I feel your passion rise. You crash against me, the front of your jeans distended. I allow you to take me once more. It is no good. It hasn’t been ever since you found her. But I give myself to you fully, knowing it will be the last time.

I love you to bits, I breathe, lying in the afterglow.

That sounds like something a little girl would say. Why do you keep saying it? I hate it.

Because it’s true, baby. I roll to a sitting position, my fingertips feathering your knee-cap. Like I was saying, the body is complex – too complex to love all at once. I can only love the bits. I love this knee, for example …

Stop it, you growl and I recognize the tone: growing impatience. You have had sex. Now you want space. I give it to you, rising from the blanket and moving naked toward the tangle of apparatus in the shadows near the storage tanks.

You want to get high? I ask. This piques your interest so I continue: You didn’t know liquid nitrogen can get you high? I learned about it the summer I worked here after graduation. One of the older girls taught me.

I screw a bleeder hose to its grooved nozzle. There is, I say, a wheel here that adjusts the speed and flow of the nitro. Just put the end in your mouth …

Hunh? You start up onto your elbows. Won’t that freeze my lungs?

Shh. Baby. The Leidenfrost Effect. Remember? I twist the wheel. Liquid nitrogen evaporates when it contacts skin. But the concentrated chemical gives you a massive head-rush. I proffer the tube end to your lips and I imagine you kissing that other woman.

You gaze skeptically at the hose for several seconds. Then you place it to your lips. Take a gentle suck.

Hang on … I need to set the flow. I smile. Breathe out.

You do.

Now. Deep breath in …

As you suck I twist the wheel as hard as I can. A moment later you are flat on your back, stunned and motionless, the liquid nitrogen having caused your lungs to seize. I straddle you and stand high above, naked and triumphant.

Your skin will shatter at my touch, I say. I loved you. And you betrayed me!

I plant a kiss on your icy forehead then begin moving around the compartment, positioning the blast flues that concentrate the liquid nitrogen for flash freeze.

I say: I loved your body – the cells and arteries and organs working together in a complex symphony. They speak of broken hearts. But they have no idea.

The crystals of liquid nitrogen that have seized the lining of your lungs have thawed and now you are struggling to breathe. I position the last of the blast cones and step to the control panel as you struggle to stand.

You betrayed me, I say. But I am no ordinary woman.

I hit the switch and a sustained, concentrated blast of liquid nitrogen sluices from the storage containers to engulf you. You twist briefly in the cloud of liquefied ice until the flash freeze takes hold. When the cloud clears you stand motionless in a tableau of agony, white, covered with condensed crystals of liquid nitrogen.

The body is so complex, I whisper. Too complex to love all at once. I can only love the bits.

I pick up the sledgehammer.

A woman craves touch and yours is exquisitely soft for a man’s. But I am no ordinary woman. How many times have I traced your delicate labyrinth of veins, tangling like water lilies just below the opaque surface of your skin? A thousand times, a thousand cells, I whisper, and arteries and organs all working together like a complex symphony. But your skin will shatter at my touch.

I stand beside your frozen form and raise the hammer.

I love you to bits, I whisper, and swing.

____________________________

©2013 Jamie Mason

“Maybe not. I heard that before the fall, they’d been penning the zeds up in here,” Rima said, motioning towards the fence they’d just scaled.

Tam panned her flashlight through the increasing gloom, sick at the thought. “We didn’t find a single break in that fence, and old rotters can’t climb, or swim…so where did they go?”

“Don’t suppose it matters, long as they’re gone,” Rima replied. “Ancient history.” It was a history that would never be recorded in any book, nor broadcast over any frequency. Only people like Rima, who listened to the older survivors, knew such things.

Across the bay, the sun bled from sight. “Let’s hurry it up,” Rima said, and they entered the first warehouse.

***

“Oh well. It was worth a look,” Tam shrugged. Rima sat beside her on a concrete slab. Wind howled through the ruined buildings around them.
“Let’s head back,” Rima said. “Just one more sweep first.” She pointed her light across the street at a half-collapsed warehouse.

Inside, the darkness seemed to increase tenfold, and the pair stuck together, pushing carefully past fallen beams which swung from a web of cables.

Their footfalls echoed through what had to be an enormous room. Tam thought again of the zeds that had once populated this district, and where they had gone.

Her next step dropped past where the floor should have been, and she was falling.

With a clap she struck something soft, and wet, and yielding; a spongy mass that stank of seawater and rot. She must have fallen right into the bay. Gripping her flashlight, she thrust it toward the underside of the building. There was almost no underside to be found.

Looked like most of the floor had given way long ago. She cried, “Rima!”

There she was! Tam saw her face overhead and breathed a sigh of relief, then gagged on that foul vapor. Couldn’t get a handhold to push herself into a sitting position – what was she lying on—

There was a soft moan.

Rima’s expression said it all, but Tam had to look anyway.

She was lying on a corpse. She was surrounded by corpses, bloated blue things that had been here so long, their softened flesh seemed to be melting together in places. And dear God, they were all beginning to move – eyes opened, and skinless hands reached up between the undead around her, splitting their fused flesh. They had to be piled ten deep in this water.

Tam looked back up. Rima was gone. This was a story she wasn’t likely to repeat.
Teeth and claws seized Tam. Before she could scream, she was pulled down through the moaning membrane.

_________________________________

©2013 David Dunwoody

Website link: http://empirenovel.com/

He lay there for awhile before admitting it to himself: There was no chance he was going to get back to sleep, and that depressed him. “Third time in a row” he thought “This is getting quiet tiresome.” He looked at the clock, 2:00. Damn. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and padded across the room, in the dark, naked, found the robe on it’s hook. The silk felt cool against his skin.

He had her direct number on speed dial by now, this was happening more and more often, so he’d added it, a few weeks earlier. He sat there, still in the dark, for a few moments before she answered. “Hello, Robert, shouldn’t you be tucked in somewhere right now?”
“Hah, hah” he replied sarcastically “This is the third time in a week I’ve awaken at this hour. You’re supposed to be helping me with this, and I can’t say I’m terribly pleased with the outcome thus far.”

When there was no response he continued with a frustrated tone.  “What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Well” She replied, with a note of concern “Besides the obvious first things that come to mind, perhaps you’re feeling guilty, and your subconscious mind is trying to tell you that you need to change the way you live.”

“You know Doc, I’ve been doing this for a long, long time, It’s just been the past month or so since I’ve started having these bouts of insomnia.”

Silence on the other end urged him to continue.

“This is Los Angeles Doc, there are people here that do worse things than I do to stay alive and they sleep like a baby.”

“And you don’t drink coffee” she replied, heavy with irony.

“You know I don’t touch the stuff. Or alcohol for that matter. I haven’t had a drink for ages, I credit my addictions in the past for the way I live today.”

“Interesting that you use the word credit”

He ignored the jibe and continued, “They say Vegas is the city that never sleeps, but I think L.A. has them beat. I mean really, there are places in this town that have a Starbucks on every corner. The country may run on oil, but this city runs on caffeine.”

“Uh-huh” she replied with that “I’m getting bored with this” tone. “And your diet, I assume that’s been healthy as well?” she asked. He could hear the slight nervousness of the question, as if she expected him to go off on a rant.

He replied calmer than she expected “Yes, as healthy as I can be sure of. There are of course, not many ways I can make sure it’s 100% organic or cholesterol free. But yes, I do try to make an effort.”

He changed the direction of the session ” Come on doc, what’s wrong with my head? I’m pretty sure it’s not my diet that’s waking me up at this hour.”

“I’m not so sure” she replied, with a sense of confidence “You said it yourself that this town runs on caffeine.”

Perhaps you should try finding people that only drink decaf, and feed off of them for awhile.”

She added before he hung up “Maybe you’ll sleep all day tomorrow, call me if you don’t, we’ll try something else…”

___________________________________

©2013 C.Bradley Guest

C.Bradley Guest lives in Portland Oregon, where weird is considered normal. He and his wife live full time in a 39 foot motor home, along with their cats.

I, Susanne Hailes, being of sound mind and body, make this Living Will to state that if I should become unable to communicate my own decisions on life sustaining or life support procedures then my dying shall not be delayed by medical science. It is my intent, hope and request that my instructions be honoured and carried out by my physicians (see clause A(i) ), family and friends.

If at such a time the situation should arise in which there is no reasonable expectation of my recovery from extreme physical or mental disability, I direct that I be allowed to die and not be kept alive by any of the following: resuscitation (CPR), intravenous/tube feeding, and life sustaining surgery or “heroic measures”.

A. Physicians and others in attendance

I direct that the only people permitted to attend me in my final days are Dr Hugo Leap and Dr Conrad Fenwick. No other specialist, family member or friend shall be admitted into my presence. I would like to explicitly state that I do not wish my family to arrange for the Last Rites or for any other religious intervention to take place.

I wish to die at home. Only in the event of my demise being a protracted one, over weeks or months, do I give my permission for Doctors Leap and Fenwick to remove my person and rehouse me in a place of their choosing.

I declare that no medical bodies other than Doctors Leap and Fenwick are permitted to supply a Cause of Death Certificate.

Between the hour of my death and the time of my cremation I declare that Doctors Leap and Fenwick are the only parties permitted to handle my remains. This restriction applies to undertakers, family members and any other investigating body.

B. Drugs and medication

I declare that if my behaviour becomes strange, violent or is otherwise degrading, I want my symptoms to be controlled with appropriate drugs, even if that would worsen my physical condition or shorten my life.

I do, however, ask that medication be mercifully administered to me to alleviate suffering.

All medication is only to be administered by the above named parties (see clause A(i)).

C.Funeral arrangements

I wish to be cremated with no Christian service and no mourners in attendance.

I have a small lacquered box in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. It is locked. I direct that this box should not be opened under any circumstances. Instead I wish to have it placed in my left hand by Dr Hugo Leap immediately before cremation.

I direct that the crematory be thoroughly cleaned before and after my cremation to insure my ashes are not combined with those of another person.

I direct that following my cremation I my ashes are to be mixed with salt and returned to the earth. I have identified the specific location for this in a separate communication.

I direct that no notice of my death or obituary is to be published in the public domain.

D. Estate

At the time of writing this will I declare no existing financial assets; my property and accounts having been signed over to Doctors Leap and Fenwick during my lifetime. I wish to have my remaining possessions distributed amongst my relatives as they see proper. The bed in which I have died should be incinerated immediately, along with all bed linen, pillows, mattress etc.

E. Pregnancy clause

If I am pregnant at the point of incapacitating injury or illness I declare that I do not sanction the prolonging of my life for the preservation of my unborn child. It is my wish that my baby be allowed to die with me and that the aforementioned cremation instructions be honoured without delay or alteration.

This Living Will is made after careful consideration and is in accordance with my strong convictions and beliefs. I want the wishes and directions here expressed carried out to the extent permitted by law. The importance of following these instructions to the letter cannot be stressed strongly enough. Insofar as they are not legally enforceable, I hope that those to whom this will is addressed will regard themselves as morally bound by these provisions.

SHailes Date: 1st May, 2013

Witness: Dr Conrad Fenwick

Witness: H Leap

_____________________________________

©2013 Sara-Jane McGeachy

I had come here to hide from the burning, the smoke and the charred grayness of the outside. I had been the only person out there, too, and I had hoped to find someone inside. I still had the second floor to search, though. I ignored the rumbling in the pit of my stomach. It only reminded me of how long it had been since I had seen so much as an apple.

I walked up the stairs, clutching the white banister for support. I brushed my blond hair back from my eyes to watch the landing for signs of life. But, as I had come to expect, there was no one there. No one anywhere.

I reached the second floor and stood facing the double doors at the end of the long, rectangular room. I walked toward the door, but hesitated, my cold fingers hovering over the doorknob. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I turned and hurried away from the double doors as if they were hot. Within a few feet, I reached the next door. It was smaller, but no less white. I opened it without pausing.

Oh, God, the red. Splattered on the walls, pooled on the floor, even dripping from the ceiling, there was so much red my eyes hurt. I shut the door before I had a chance to see what lay on the floor in the center of the room.

I ran to the next door. I held my breath and pushed it open forcefully. Red was everywhere, a spray of it on the back wall, a thick puddle of it on the floor. In the center of the puddle lay a dark form. I approached carefully. It did not move; it merely lay there, marring the perfect red liquid in which it rested. I lifted my skirt and stepped in the puddle, reached out with a shaking hand, and rolled the form toward me.

A human face contorted in agony stared unblinkingly at me. The eyes were a bloodshot blue, the color of the sky of my memories, a shade I had not seen in months. It was a long time before I realized I was looking at Ellie. Her red hair had blended in with the blood—I knew it was blood now—and was pasted to the side of her head, sticky with the red fluid.

I backed out of the room and shut the door. I leaned against the door. My breath came in forced bursts; my chest heaved with dry sobs. I should have been used to seeing death, but I wasn’t ready for Ellie. I had hoped Ellie would have escaped, like me. Most of the dead had been faceless to me, unknown and safe.

I finally regained my senses. I opened the next door; it creaked in the white silence.

Blood was spattered almost artfully on the walls; it had soaked through the white boards of the floor and made them look like red tile. I stepped inside toward the still form in the center of the room. I rolled the body so its face looked me in the eyes. I felt as if my heart was ripped from my chest. Joe, gentle Joe, looked up at me in death, half of his face lacerated open. I could tell it was him from the wrinkled brown eyes.

I rushed to the next room, where Lizzie lay in death, her face screwed up in terror, but her pretty white dress unmarred by the blood that painted the room around her. The next room held George, and I broke down and wept over his corpse, holding his severed hand even as I was repulsed by it. George had been the last human being I remembered seeing alive, all those weeks ago.

As I opened each door, I saw someone I recognized, mutilated almost, but not quite, beyond recognition. But slowly I realized the bodies were not burnt or chewed like the ones I had seen outside.

My grandmother was in the last room before the double doors. My cries echoed through the emptiness of the place, the white tomb. My fingers ran through her white hair, arranged her limbs just so. After I was through crying—and it was a long time—I was ready to face the double doors, finally.

I walked with my head high, as if someone was pulling on the crown and yanking my spine straight. I flung open the double doors with both hands.

A woman in a white dress was there, in the center of the room, standing over a still figure. The room was splattered in red, red blood. I had never seen a shade of crimson quite so pure, so brutal. The white dress was drenched in blood—an arc of scarlet here, a ruby droplet there. The woman’s long blond hair fell back over her shoulders as she cackled. The laugh was a chilling thing. She clutched a dripping knife in one hand.

I recognized those green eyes and that long white skirt. I blinked. She still stood there, laughing over her kill. I gasped and collapsed to my knees.

I was staring at myself.

________________________________

©2013 Jessie Peacock

There are about ten of us out here, I was the third. Shallow graves, they call them. A tombstone of pebbles. Just down the dirt path from her trailer. About once a year she gets the blood lust and I get a new neighbor.

I don’t like the shallow grave. Too hot in the day, too cold at night, scorpions too close for comfort. I’d prefer six-feet-under in a nice, damp, cool and crowded cemetery – maybe the one in L.A. where Marilyn Monroe is buried or the crypt holding Valentino’s bones. At least then, I’d have a lot more neighbors to talk to. I wouldn’t be just counting the days, each measured by the hot sun baking what’s left of me.

Hell, I’m close enough to the surface to know when I’ll get a new neighbor. First, the grunts of passion. Then, muffled screams which go on for a few hours or so. Then, nearby scraping, a thud, and the soul of a new neighbor, complaining, crying, begging for release from eternity, drops in.

I’m also close enough to hear the radio news – she blasts it from the trailer while she’s fixing her truck. Salesman disappears along I-10. Trucker missing. Pastor of the First Full Pentacostal Church not found after exhaustive search. The generally say the guy’s name. Makes it easy to introduce myself to the new guy.

“Hi Bob, I’m Jerry. Welcome to the neighborhood” I say with a bit of a snicker. Usually, I get the “What happened? What about my family? Will they find me?” sort of questions.

I’ve learned not to be too definite or too clear. Being kidnapped, ritually executed, and buried in a shallow grave in West Texas takes some getting used to – especially for those of us just passing through. I keep it to general.

I’ll never forget the question I asked Dave – the guy who showed up a year after me. He was whimpering about his family. I asked “you had life insurance, no?” He let out a wail. “No,” he cried, “I forgot to renew it!” It was ten weeks before we could talk again.

It generally takes six months for someone to accept their new reality. For about 3 months, before their soft bits get eaten away by the carpenter ants, they wonder what happened to their manhood. For some reason, they feel that it is missing – and it is. Probably in a jar on her credenza. That’s just her M.O. … our manhoods are her trophies.

Then they settle down and begin to wonder if they will ever be found. Does it matter? I usually try to assure them that this place isn’t that lonely – she’s 30 and there are already 10 of us . By the time she turns 50, we could have our own sign in West Texas off of US-90: Mort’s Crossing, Population 30.

______________________________

©2013 Flechewounds

Flechewounds is the pen name of Gary Zeiss, a lawyer in Los Angeles who occasionally writes fiction and essays.  This story was first presented to the Texas Mountain Trail Writers retreat in Ft. Davis, TX during April 2013.

His blog can be found at http://flechewounds.wordpress.com

Or connect through his Facebook page : https://www.facebook.com/pages/Flechewounds/146574672190588