The Slow and the Dead

by Joey Payne

Ben screamed as the top of the thing’s head flew off from the gunshot. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, the old colt revolver still held out in front of him. As smoke lazily rolled from the barrel Ben shook his head. The ringing in his ears from the shot sounded like a siren’s wail. “What the hell…” Ben said to himself  as he tried unsuccessfully to make his feet move forward. After a few moments he swallowed hard, and this time was able to force himself to move forward slowly.

As he approached the creature on the ground he kept the gun pointed at it even though his hand was shaking uncontrollably. As he approached he was scared that it was one of his friends or neighbors in a costume, a prank that had gone horribly awry. Ben shook his head again to try and clear it of adrenaline and think clearly. It couldn’t have been a costume he told himself. After two tours in Afghanistan he knew what real wounds looked like… didn’t he? His suspicions were confirmed as he got a clearer look. As his eyes scanned the body his training kicked in and his mind was suddenly crystal clear. The thing’s skin was gray and glistening, slimy almost. Under the skin were spider web patterns of bluish purple veins. He noted that it looked like ruptures under the skin. A bite-sized chunk was missing from his arm that no makeup could replicate. A green, thick, puss oozed from the wound. By the time he assessed the thing’s face he did not doubt it wasn’t a costume.

It was his neighbor, Carl, or at least it resembled Carl’s face. Besides the half dollar-sized hole in his head, his face had the same deathly gray pallor. Blood poured from his eyes and like tears. The eyes themselves were a dark red where all the white should be. Ben knew that a head wound from his revolver wouldn’t cause that kind of wound pattern. Trying to make sense of it, Ben played the morning through in his head again.

He had woken up and was going to go the shooting range to test out his new colt revolver. As he walked out to his car he saw Carl across the street in his other neighbor’s back yard. He remembered calling out a friendly good morning and waved in a neighborly fashion. Next thing Ben knew Carl screamed like an animal and ran at Ben while wielding a hammer. He was fast, his feet pumping like a sprinters even when Ben screamed “Whoa hang on!” Ben had fumbled for his keys and dropped them as Carl closed the distance. As Carl had reached the top of the driveway Ben knew he would have no time to retrieve his keys and raised his Colt. He remembered saying “Stop or I will shoot!” clearly as Carl ran at him, slavering and bleeding from the eyes. Ben fired when Carl was halfway down the driveway ending Carl’s assault with one shot.

“But what the fuck happened to you Carl?” Ben whispered to himself as he fumbled for his cell phone to dial 911. Ben’s mind warred with itself, as he didn’t want to say the one word he knew described the situation. A deep fear Ben had carried his whole life, Carl had become a zombie. Since he was young Ben had suffered from nightmares about a zombie horde ripping him limb from limb… Their sharp teeth tearing into his flesh… Of his dead friends and enemies clamoring and groaning as one for him to join them. He had fought it down for years but after a zombie resurgence on the internet he could do almost nothing without seeing a reference to the coming zombie apocalypse and the nightmares had returned. Ben shook his head to clear it of the troubling thoughts as he held his cell phone to his ear and listened to the steady, rhythmic ring on the other end.

“Come on!” he growled as the phone rang over and over. And breathed a sigh of relief as the ring was interrupted by someone picking it up. “Hello,” Ben said, “I need help, I’ve had to shoot someone.” Ben waited for a second for any reply to his statement but was met with silence. “Hello?” he asked again and was met by a low groaning sound from the other end. A lump formed in Ben’s throat as the monotonous groan continued. Ben looked at his phone slowly to make sure he had dialed right. The animal growl from the other end audible as he saw he had indeed called 911. His attention was torn from his phone as another scream was heard at the top of his driveway.

Two more creatures stood there, a woman and a child, pointing and screaming like banshees. The child began to run at him with her arms thrown wide. Blood poured from her eyes and her teeth were, chipped and jagged. The woman was right on the little one’s heels with arms outstretched. The nails on her hand were like talons and dripped with blood. Ben didn’t waste a moment and fired off two quick shots. The first caught the smaller zombie square in the forehead. The other bullet caught the woman in the shoulder causing her to spin as she fell to the ground. She writhed on the ground, her back arching and hands clawing as she screamed.

Ben cursed as he saw that her screams were attracting more of them. Bloody hands smeared windows as they peered out at the commotion. They ran out into their yards and were pointing bloody hands at him. They were all screaming their gurgling, animal-like screams, drawing more and more of them out of hiding.

With another deep curse Ben ran back into his home and slammed the door. His mind raced as he thought about what to do next. “Gotta be the rapture…” he said to himself in an attempt to figure out the situation.  “Reload…” he said, reminding himself. As he opened the cylinder on the old colt he let his mind wander to when he bought it yesterday.

He had bought it from an old Cheyenne man at a gun show. Ben had just gone to look; he didn’t own any guns and had not even touched one since the Army. As Ben handled it he could tell it was old and not a replica because of the patina on the metal and the worn front sight where it had been pulled from a holster many times. He had noticed the tick marks in the grip of the gun and when he asked about it the old man had shook his head sadly.

“My Grandfather told me those were left by the people who owned the gun throughout the years. Before it came to my Grandfather it was owned by a Calvary solider who was hanged for murder. Grandfather said the owner was a bad man and the gun held bad medicine.”

Ben wasn’t the superstitious sort and had bought the gun to shoot for fun and to brag about. Now he sat running his thumb over the 6 tick marks in the gun’s grip, worn down from years of use. Each one still a stark reminder of someone’s life. As he felt them he wondered who they were, why the gun’s owner had killed them. He was pulled from his thoughts by a banging on the door. A loud slam of meat against wood and the groans of something horrible wanting in.

“Go Away!” Ben screamed and shot a round from the gun through the wooden door. Suddenly the sound of glass breaking filled the room as the zombies shattered through in force. The loud crack of the back door breaking down and the sound of multiple footsteps seeking him out, demanding his life. Ben fired shot after shot at the lumbering dead, counting each one until he knew there was only bullet left. This last shot he had saved for himself and lifted the gun to his head as he pulled back the hammer. But before he could pull the trigger they were upon him, clawing at him with bleeding eyes and fetid breath.

“NO!” he screamed as they grabbed his arm, pulling the gun from his grip and forcing him to the ground. Ben closed his eyes and waited for the end.

“We got you now you bastard!” a voice said angrily in his ear and Ben opened his eyes suddenly. Police had him pinned down and were putting cuffs on him. “W…What’s going on??!!” Ben stammered

as he was pulled to his feet. “What the…” Ben began as he saw two dead and one wounded police officer in his living room. “No. No! But they were dead… I mean they were zombies… wait!!” he stammered on as he was dragged out of his home. “No! No! NO!” he screamed as he saw Carl lying in his driveway with the body of Carl’s daughter lying close by.

“Monster!” Carl’s wife screamed as paramedics tended the bullet wound in her shoulder.  “Went crazy…” his neighbors whispered. “Might have been bath salts,” they said as they pointed. Ben shook his head frantically as they pushed him in the patrol car. “You’re gonna fry for this!” the cop said and Ben tried to explain to them… tried to tell them that he had defended himself. That they had been zombies and he was innocent… they had to believe him!

From within the plastic evidence bag the old colt revolver lay still. If anyone had been listening to it they would have sworn that from somewhere inside the bag was a deep yet quiet laughter. And a faint scratching noise as a seventh tick mark appeared on the gun’s grip.

***

Joey Payne enjoys writing post-apocalyptic novels and horror short stories. His first release, a book set in a grim future world, entitled Love and Radiation (Book 1 of his Radiation Tales series) was published in October of 2012 and is currently available via Amazon’s Kindle and Kindle App Store. The second in the Radiation Tales Series—Death and Radiation—is expected out sometime in 2013. His latest published work, The Slow and The Dead, a horror short, appears in this year’s 13 Stories Till Halloween 2012 edition.
Joey is a Georgia boy and lives with his wife and children in his beloved home state. He also loves river boating, fishing and collecting antique firearms, which he shoots often to help him concentrate.

Attached

by Kayanne Smith

As a young reporter, Ella Case was eager to take on any story to come across her desk, so when her Editor in Chief breezed into the office and requested she do the annual Haunting Story for the paper’s Halloween edition, she happily agreed.

Ella stepped out into the crisp autumn air and made her way down to the local library. Sure, she could stay chained to her desk and find just about any information she would need right at her fingertips, but she always enjoyed the hunt for information, thumbing through old books, newspapers, and microfilm, and of course her greatest source, the local people of Temple.

The Annual Halloween Haunting Story was usually something one would expect to hear around a campfire or in the wee hours of the morning at a slumber party, nothing with any depth, and definitely short on actual fact or history. Ella was determined to make this year’s story different, to write something more than just a “fluff” or “filler” piece, maybe even uncover a real life ghost story right there in Temple.

“Good afternoon Ms. Case,” the librarian trilled as she approached the front desk, “tell me dear, what exciting story are you working on today?”

“Well if you must know I’ve been assigned the task of writing the paper’s yearly Halloween Haunting story, and I really want it to be special this year, so I decided I’d begin as I always do with some honest to goodness research.”

Mrs. Cox clasped her hands in excitement. Ella never quite knew if she was really ever excited to hear about her assignments, or if she was simply being kind, nevertheless, it always made her feel someone actually did in fact care what she had to say.

“What creepy tale will you be sharing with the people of Temple this year?”

“I’ll be doing a piece on the old Wingarten Place,” Ella offered, when suddenly the old librarian’s whole demeanor changed. She had never seen this side of her, didn’t even think she was capable of having any emotion other than happiness.

“Mrs. Cox, are you okay? Did I say something to upset you?”

“Be careful my dear, there are some things – some stories, that should remain buried.” And with that, she turned and left Ella standing there not really knowing what occurred between them. All she did know was she absolutely had to find out what made that sweet, unassuming lady react as she had.

Ella combed through town histories, newspaper clippings, taking notes and making copies of anything that seemed odd and relevant to the topic at hand. As her research continued she learned the Wingarten Place was originally owned and built by Joseph Wingarten. It operated as a plantation and after the Civil War he’d been forced to sell the property and home to the state. After a few years it was restored and made into a hospital for the mentally challenged. Those members of society who were different – not necessarily dangerous, but perhaps misunderstood.

She hurried home, eager to go over her notes and do some research on the internet, thinking how she could take this story to the next level. It was rumored to be haunted, but had it ever been confirmed by anyone other than the local kids who had broken onto the property as a dare? Not that she could find. But amid all the supposed paranormal experiences recorded she not only discovered it was one of the most sought after locations to be investigated, but what exactly made Mrs. Cox react in the way she had earlier that day, her daughter, Sara Rue Cox  a patient at the hospital before it been closed down for good, and had died as a result of “unknown causes”, which actually meant they’had taken one of those experimental treatments too far.

Over the next few hours she researched various paranormal groups and decided on one that seemed to have the best knowledge, equipment, and experience of any of the others. She jotted down their information and made a point to contact them the next morning. Ella spoke with the team leader and soon all the details were set for the upcoming investigation of the Wingarten Place.

On a gray and chilly October afternoon Ella met with the paranormal team to go over the process of the investigation, where to place cameras and audio recorders, and who would be teamed up to investigate. Ella would be joining each pair, observing how they gathered their data, and hoping to have her very on experience.

Throughout the course of the night each team seemed to be having unexplained experiences, but nothing more than what she would learn was a residual haunt. As she followed the final team through what used to be a beautiful home a chill came over her, and all the energy seemed to be sucked out of her. Had she just had a paranormal experience or was it just that she was standing in a drafty old home after a very long night? The common sense side of her leaned toward the latter, but it didn’t stop the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

After all the equipment had been gathered they parted ways, promising to get back to her as soon as all the data had been analyzed with a fine tooth comb. They were all hoping to find some extraordinary evidence!

Ella arrived home as the sun was just beginning to peek its head over the horizon. She was so tired, but energized at the same time, she just knew it had been a successful venture. She crawled into bed, falling into a deep sleep. She awoke later that afternoon and as she brewed a strong pot of coffee she stood under the stream of the shower allowing the warm water to envelop her and soothe the ache and chill that seemed to reach down to her bones, a cold she just couldn’t seem to shake.

She returned to work the following week and finally received the call she had been waiting on from the paranormal team she worked with. They found some pretty compelling evidence and were very excited to share all they found with her. Ella met with them the next afternoon and was overwhelmed with what they found, she couldn’t wrap her mind around all that was going on around them, not having heard most of it during the investigation. The team members gave her copies of all the data, which Ella would put up on the paper’s website for those who dared to listen.

Now that she had everything she needed, Ella began feverishly writing the story that was turning out to be all she hoped it would.

“Mr. Thompson, here it is, the BEST Halloween Haunting Story ever to be published in The Daily Temple,” Ella chided as she plopped the finished copy of her story onto his desk.

With a sigh, he glanced up at her with a bewildered look, “I’ll be the judge of that, Ms. Case. Now go home and get some rest, you look as if you need it.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Now don’t be a girl and get all sensitive and take it the wrong way. It’s just that you’ve been looking a little pale and drawn lately and I know how much you’ve put into this, though I can’t seem to understand why.”

For whatever reason, his last statement infuriated her. Yes, she put a lot of time and effort into this, but it was no different than any other story assigned to her. She didn’t half-ass any other assignment, why would she start now?

Spinning on her heels, and taking her boss completely off guard, she laid into him, “Well, maybe if everyone else around here put in the same kind of effort we’d have a much better paper!” She could not believe what she’d just done. Ella was usually mild mannered, never wanting to rock the proverbial boat, what was going on with her, she felt as if something was taking over, something she didn’t have any control over.

“Ms. Case I suggest you leave this office immediately and go home for an extended vacation! This is not a request, it’s an order!”

She ran out, not looking back, not wanting to see the disappointment on his face. She wondered if he would even run the story after the way she had behaved. Ella arrived home and threw her belongings on the ground, not caring about the mess it made, just wanting, no craving rest. She looked in the mirror and saw for the first time just how sick and tired she appeared and made an appointment for the following day to see the local physician. Over the past week Ella had barely been able to sleep, haunted by dreams which were beginning to feel more like memories than the nightmares they were. As badly as she wanted to sleep, she feared it at the same time.

The next morning she went to the doctor and was told just what she thought she would hear, “what you have dear is the common cold, all you need is rest and to let it run it’s course.” Feeling even more defeated Ella returned home where she stayed for the next two weeks, seeing no one, speaking to no one, living in what was becoming a daily hell. Nightmares becoming ever increasingly more vivid and horrible, being so cold no amount of clothing or blankets could warm her, and her appetite seemed to disappear more and more every day. She had to get some help, Ella felt as if her very self was being taken over by something, or was it someone? But who could help her, who would help her? She’d pushed everyone away, except for one person, Mrs. Cox. For reasons she couldn’t explain she was more and more compelled to reach out to her every day. Maybe it was because of her kind nature, or because she’d always to have some interest in her life, but it felt like so much more than that. Something far deeper than she could even begin to grasp. Ella grabbed her phone and dialed the number for the library, she had to see her, now.

“Temple Library, this is Mrs. Cox, how may I help you?” It was a greeting Ella had heard countless times, but today it almost brought her to tears, “Hello, hello? Is anyone there?”

Ella gathered herself, “Yes, Mrs. Cox, it’s Ella, could you come over? I-”…

Before she could finish her thought the sweet librarian interrupted her, “I’ll be right there.”

Her heart raced, Mrs. Cox just couldn’t believe what she’d heard over the phone. This had to be some horrible prank, or maybe it was the horrible memories Ella’s story and conjured up, the years of grief over losing her only child taking it’s toll. As she turned into Ella’s driveway she took in a deep, slow breath and made her way towards her door.

The door opened. Mrs. Cox let out a shriek. Standing before her was not the young, vibrant reporter she had come to love, but her dear deceased daughter Sara Rue Cox.

“Hi Mom.”

***

Kayanne Smith lives in Gainesville and works at The Coffee Shop, one of the few remaining drug store lunch counters, minus the soda fountain. When she isn’t working she enjoys reading, listening to music, traveling (which she wishes she could do more of), going to the theater and concerts, spending time with friends and family, and coming up with new creations in the kitchen. Kayanne has always enjoyed writing (admittedly it has been awhile), and is very excited to be included among so many talented writers!!

The Watcher

This is not your typical, ordinary ghost story. This is the story of a ghost who wanted to be a real little boy. The ghost’s name was Dustin, and he was a very unhappy little ghost because he wanted to be a real live, normal little boy — to be able to play ball with his friends, and to go to school. He wanted to ride the bus, and have sleepovers, and tell secrets with his friends.

Dustin did have a life at some point, but if you ever asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you much about it. See, he didn’t have many friends. He kept to himself. He was too afraid to put himself out there, risking his heart. He always wanted what others had, but was never really happy. Being a ghost, Dustin now longed for a chance to change things. He wished he could be who he should have been, and stand out instead of always trying to find purpose in someone else’s life or dream.

Dustin hid in the shadows and corners. He followed people and watched them as they lived out their lives. “I wish I had friends like that,” he would say to himself. He watched boys playing ball together, and how they would choose their teams. Sometimes, Dustin would float onto the field with the boys as they played and he would pretend to play with them — pretend they were his friends. “I’ve got it!” he would yell as he dashed to catch a pop fly, almost forgetting he wasn’t really a part of the game. It felt good for a little while, but then the game would end, and everyone would go home, then the little ghost Dustin was all alone.

At night, he’d watch through windows while kids had dinner with their families. He listened as bedtime stories were told, and wish it were him getting tucked into bed. “Ugh! I wish my life could have been different,” he would say with a sigh.

Each day, Dustin would travel to different places just watching and listening to the children. He visited the school, and pretended he too was part of the class. Sometimes he would spend the whole day there, among all the other kids. Learning, going to art and science, and recess. He pretended what it would be like if he were there too. At lunch he would sit and listen to the kids laugh, and talk and act like they were his buddies. He would even tell jokes and stories, although no one ever laughed at his jokes or heard his stories. After all, he was still a ghost.

On the weekends, Dustin would visit the lake, or following around the boys as they played, went fishing, had sleepovers, and played pine cone wars in each other’s yards. He loved being a part of this group, laughing at them, playing along beside them. He got so wrapped up in following them and pretending to be in their world, that he often forgot that he wasn’t one of them.

One day Dustin saw a little boy sitting by himself on the porch of an old country store. He looked sad, and Dustin wondered what might be wrong. He stopped to check him out. Dustin watched as the little boy sat on a bench and cried. A few moments passed and an angry man left the store holding a paper bag with the shape of a bottle inside. The man jerked up the boy by his collar and yelled at him. “Get your butt up from there boy! You stupid child!”  He shoved the boy and smacked the back of the head before they started to walk away.

Dustin didn’t like the way the man treated the little boy, who looked so scared. He followed them as they walked away. As they arrived at their house, Dustin saw the man drag the boy inside, yelling at him. The man ordered the boy to do many chores, and the boy did them. If things were not done properly, or something was out of place, the boy got yelled at more. “You can’t do anything right, you good for nothing piece of dirt! I don’t know why I put up with you!”  Dustin didn’t like the way this made him feel, so he left. But the boy was the only thing he could think about all night.

The next morning, Dustin returned to the house to see the boy, who was walking all alone to school. The boy seemed to stay back from the other kids. He sat in the back of the class, didn’t try very hard on his school work, and never played with anyone at recess. He just sat around watching others, always to shy or scared to get involved or make friends. Dustin followed him home after school, and watched as the boy tried to stay out of the man’s way. The boy would just sit in the corner in his room, and daydream until he fell asleep. Dustin wished he could help him.

Dustin decided that he wanted to do whatever it took to appear to this little boy, even if it meant for only a moment, or that he would never be able to watch the other kids ever again.

So that night when he went home he approached the “Elders”.

The Elders were the older ghosts, who looked after the younger ones — telling them what was and wasn’t allowed in the “ghost” world. Dustin had never approached them before because even in his ghost life he’d been too busy following happy, living children he wanted to be like instead of meeting anyone like him.

There were six elders. They varied from different times and places on earth. There was Mort, Stephen, Yar Yang, Clara, and Ruth. Dustin visited them and told them his story – pleading with them to allow him to break the rules to appear to this boy. “Please!” he begged. “I need to speak to him. I need to tell him that life is better than what he thinks it is. You see, I lived that life. I was made fun of, beat up, and pushed around. I was the outsider. I felt alone and no one liked me.  I can’t let this happen to him!” At first they were hesitant but they continued to listen to Dustin’s story and felt sorry for him as they felt Dustin’s pain through the story of this boy. They could feel the physical pain Dustin felt, and the empathy he now felt for this young child.

“We will allow it,” Ruth said, “but… you will never be able to watch anyone, or hear anyone, or follow anyone from the living world again. You will be nothing but a ghost of space, like the wind in an empty room.”

Dustin didn’t care and he agreed. If it meant he could help this boy, he wanted to do it.

Later that night, while the man slept and the boy cried in his room, Dustin appeared to the boy. He told him about his own life and struggles. How he was picked on, and pushed aside. How he needed to tell someone about his dad so he could find some peace, and learn to try and to grow. He told him no matter how hard life seemed to be that it was still worth living and making the most of it. That there were people out there that would touch the boy’s life. He told the boy, “Don’t give up.” The boy listened to Dustin, and they talked for a long time. The boy began to cry, but he thanked Dustin for visiting him, for he now saw hope.

Suddenly, a gust of wind came out of nowhere. Dustin and the boy were confused. “What is that?” the boy asked, puzzled. The boy’s bed started to shake, pictures fell off the walls. The boy was very scared. “What is going to happen to me?” he cried.

Dustin assured him everything was fine. “It is my elders. They are here for me not you. Do not worry.”

Another figure appeared in the corner of the room. The boy tried to focus on it, but no matter how hard he tried, it seemed to just be a blur of white. Then they heard a voice. “Dustin,” the voice called.

“Yes Ruth,” Dustin replied. “I know what must happen now,” Dustin told her.

Ruth spoke very strong, yet quiet to Dustin. “Because you have put another beings’ interest above your own and shown that you would sacrifice yourself for the well being of another, we have decided that we will give you another chance.”

“What?” Dustin questioned. “You mean I will still be able to watch all of the people? I won’t have to go into the nowhere place?”

Ruth looked at Dustin and smiled. “No, honey, another chance at life.” And before anyone could say anything else a tornado of wind circled the room… and with a loud clap of thunder and a flash of light — Ruth was gone.

Dustin sat, confused for a moment. Then he looked at the boy, who was sitting with his mouth wide open in awe. “It is ok,” Dustin told him. “They are gone. You do not have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” the boy replied. Then he pointed at Dustin. “You’re different. I can’t see through you anymore,” he told Dustin. “It’s like, like… You’re real!” The boy reached his hand out and touched Dustin. “I can touch you, you are real!” the boy yelled.

Dustin jumped up and looked into the mirror. He saw himself, and he was a real boy! He cried with happiness. Then he sat down, reached out his hand and said, “Hi, I am Dustin, It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy smiled. “Hi Dustin, I’m Sean, Nice to meet you too!”

New found friends, the boys talked until they fell asleep.

Over the next few days, Sean told the police about his father, and his father was arrested. The cops found and reunited his mother and Sean. He told his mother what Dustin had done for him. She was so pleased and grateful; she adopted the boy as her own son. The boys grew up, happy healthy and had a bond that no one could explain.

***

Dylan Lee is a thriving 6 year old boy with a great imagination. He loves reading, riding his bike and playing with his friends. He likes to draw and come up with stories all his own. He enjoyed helping his mom with this short story

Deborah Lee is a wife and mother of two.She writes music and poetry, and decided to attempt a short story with her son. She hopes to one day write a stories based on a troubled past.

Two Blinks

by TrickWild

As I sit in my favorite chair, by the lake, at my most favorite place on earth, the ache of my muscles, the pain in my head, the twinge in my neck, all remind me of last night’s restless sleep. Five acres of nothing but trees, encircling a lake that had never known a rod and reel. Inherited from my grandmother, it was the one place where I felt remotely normal, safe.  I rolled out of the bed early, because I had to. Life doesn’t stop, it goes on, appointments have to be kept and bills have to be paid.

I am a photographer by trade, mostly because it affords me an outlet for my creativity, but also because it enables me to meet a client, do my necessary work, and then move on. I don’t have to deal with co-workers or family, I don’t have to explain my life, my choices, or explain why I am 30 years old and single. For some reason, it’s expected that I should have a husband and 2.5 kids. But in my life, there is no room for more faces. The faces I see day to day in my head are enough to fill a dozen photo albums, to be placed on a coffee table and shared with guests. If I had a coffee table, and if I ever had guests.

My name is Lena, by the way. As I said, I am 30 years old, and alone. I walked away from my family 10 years ago, with just my camera and a duffle bag. The next milestone for Mother to write in her book that she cherished so, was my admittance into a psychiatric hospital, and I was not going to stick around for that. No amount of therapy can help me, believe me, they’ve tried it all. Doctors have diagnosed me with schizophrenia, which is bogus, because I do not live in a fantasy world, the fantasy world lives around me. I am fully functional; I just can’t and won’t deal with someone else’s interpretations of what I see, what I hear, and what I go through. Another Doctor in another state diagnosed me with Depersonalization Disorder. Beep, wrong answer again, I don’t think or feel that I am in a dream world — my dreams are just more vivid than others. I have taken numerous antipsychotic medications, but none took the faces away, if anything, it made them much more animated. Sleep studies, and being hooked up to machines and analyzed like an insect, is not my idea of a normal childhood. So I walked away.

My visions began when I was 5 years old. What started out as “awake dreams”, slowly turned into a nightmare. The first one that I remember began on a normal night. I had just began kindergarten that day, and was settling in my bed for the night with my dog, a German shepherd named Major. Being an only child, and somewhat a loner, I was allowed to have whatever pets I wanted, to keep me occupied, and it seems that it was always a dog. I chose the bigger breeds, because I relished the feeling of security that a burly canine provided.

Major awoke me growling. That low, guttural, snarl that usually indicated he was startled from sleep. Without opening my eyes, and thinking he was having a dream, I just patted his back and told him it was okay, and nestled back into slumber. I awoke again to another growl, this one more gravely and louder. As I sat up in the bed, I startled Major and he jumped up and planted himself beside me. I looked to find that my cover had been pulled from my bed, leaving me exposed, and my legs and feet like ice. That is when I heard another loud growl.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for what could be making that noise, and Major jumped off the bed with his hair standing on end, and starting barking. I jumped off the bed, and gathered all the covers and jumped back onto the it and pulled them up over my head. I trembled with fear, wide-eyed and my heart pounded out of my chest. I mustered my courage and peered out. In all his enormous glory, stood a grizzly bear. Yes, a bear, in my bedroom, at the foot of my bed staring back at me. I yanked the covers back over my head, and raised my legs straight up and then back down so that the covers enveloped me like a sleeping bag. My mind raced, and my hands got tingly, and I knew this had to be a dream. It had to be. There are no bears around here, and how on earth would one end up in my bedroom, at the foot of my bed, staring back at me? It occurred to me that Major had quit barking and I knew I must be brave and coax him back into bed, under the covers, ’til this nightmare was over. I jumped straight up and off the bed, only to find him lying in the floor, sound asleep. Had I dreamed   he was barking

I looked over my shoulder. The bear reared up on his hind legs, like it was human. I blinked. I blinked again. I rubbed my eyes frantically, hoping that this illusion or nightmare or whatever it is would disappear. I don’t know why I could not muster a voice or why I did not run from the room and wake my mother, it just occurred to me to climb back in bed and it would go away. I venture to guess that I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, and I slept soundly until my mother came to wake me for school. All through class that day, as I was struggling to keep my eyes open and wanting very badly to go back home and go to sleep, I pondered just exactly what I saw, and the even at such a young age, I reasoned that it had to be a nightmare, that there was no other logical explanation. That night, I slept like a baby. And the next. Over time, I would continue to see what I learned to call my visions. But none have ever been as scary as the first.

Let’s skip ahead 10 years. High school. Freshman year. A whole other world, different challenges and deeper pitfalls. I didn’t fit in. This was the time to try and conform to all the others around you, belong. The harder I tried the more of an outcast I was, so instead of yielding to the trends and making-nice with the cliques, I drew myself inward, and that is pretty much the bulk of my high school years. I made excellent grades, and having no friends or social life, I had plenty of time to study. My grandmother purchased a second-hand camera and a bag of film for my birthday, and photography became my escape. I read everything I could get my hands on, and I practiced every day.

If I could not have been a normal teenager, I would be an extraordinary photographer. My mother, ever worried about me fitting in, believed the tales I told of visiting friends, all the while I was hiking, photographing landscapes, bugs, rabbits, anything that crossed my path. She truly believed that I was a popular girl, and rather than break her heart, I allowed her to believe that I had many friends and that my social calendar was always full. Fair? Probably not, but I truly didn’t want her to be as miserable as I was.

My Dad, you ask? My parents divorced before I was born and he remarried when I was two. He lives in another town with another family. I’ve never laid eyes on him. My mother threw away all photographs of him, so I have no idea what he looks like, if I took after him or if he thinks of me as his daughter, or if he even thinks of me at all.

I do know from the grapevine that he has two other children, a boy and a girl, and that they live in a fine house, the American Dream. Am I bitter? No, really. I would not call it bitterness, just an acceptance; knowing that I was cast aside for whatever reason and moving on. If I dwelled on it, it would not change it. Nothing could erase or make up for the years lost.

As I grew older, my visions matured as well. The visions not only came as nightmares at night, but also manifested into daydreams, so that it all seemed an appendage to my life. Something that I had to learn to accept, conquer, interpret. I saw normal, everyday looking people, bloody cadavers, soldiers in war zones, patients in hospital beds. It was all so much to conceive, but as time went on and the visions became more prominent I began to understand that I was a messenger of sorts, and that the people in these visions were looking to me for comfort, support, to be their voice. I gained an understanding and learned to not be afraid.

One day, as I was hiking and snapping pictures, an old man appeared to me on the path before me and asked if I could help him. I knew that this was an apparition and that he was not real, but I asked him what he needed help with. He told me in the time before his death, he had hidden a gun in fear that his grandchildren would find it and be injured. He had placed it in a brown paper sack and placed it in a metal box and buried it behind his home. His wife had since passed away and their home and land was sold to be developed, and he worried that the gun would be found and end up in the wrong hands. He simply wanted me to go and dig it up and throw it in the river. He gave me the address, and I went and dug it up and threw it away, pleased that this was an easy assignment.

While I believe there are a thousand miracles to behold each and every day, it still troubles me how I play into the whole scheme of things. Why did I receive this “gift”, and is this what I am to expect for the rest of my life? Will there ever be a day or night when my daydreams will be of puppy dogs dancing in fields of wildflowers or children frolicking and jumping rope? If this is my destiny, am I supposed to give up the hope of ever finding my true love? Should I bring a child into my world of illusions?

I have a photography assignment, product imaging for a local jewelry store, so I must tear myself away from this serenity and gather my gear. The assignment should only require a few hours and maybe I can finish up early, knock the editing out and still have some daylight left to hike. I load my jeep and head out. Traffic is heavy and anxiety kicks in. It seems that the panic attacks I’ve acquired over the years only rear their ugly heads when I’m driving, so that’s became another of my many dilemmas- I have to drive to assignments, I have to pay bills, I have to eat.  After battling the congestion of early morning road chaos, I finally reach the store and the employees help me load the boxes of the goodies I am to photograph. They requested a fresh, outdoorsy feel, and that is my specialty. I decide that I will go back home and utilize the beauty of my own property, so I drive to the backside of my lake and unload the boxes, and sit down on a fallen tree and take it all in, seek my inspiration.

As I am pondering, I hear a splash behind me, which startles me. I turn around to find a man, in his thirties, dirty and scruffy making his way out of the lake. He’s staring at me with cold eyes, and as I always do, I smile. I wonder what he will “need help with.” I blink and he’s gone. I blink again, and still, he’s disappeared. I look around, positive that he will appear again, but nothing, no sounds, and he’s nowhere to be found.

I get up and start unpacking the boxes, and on an oak trunk scattered by a pile of oak leaves, I see a spider’s web. I find a beautiful charm pendant unusual shape, looks almost custom made, and place it carefully in the web. The lighting is perfect at this time, so I grab my camera and kneel down to get just the right angle. Compose, focus, click. Adjust my aperture, compose, focus, click. Perfect.

Behind me, I hear another splash. I stand and am paralyzed by the scene before me. The man I saw only moments ago is in the lake, to his waist, and is holding someone or something under the water. He looks at me, with a cold, hard stare. I don’t know what to do. My visions have never been so vivid, and the splashing and gurgling, attempts at breathe I hear makes this scene look as it’s happening in this moment. I have to do something, but I feel an anxiety attack gripping me and each time I try to take a step, a pain runs through my chest, taking all the air from my lungs.  Who is he trying to drown, and how am I supposed to use this vision for the good, save this person?? What benefit is this vision, if I am helpless to stop this? My heart is beating so hard, I can feel the thump in my ears, and I cry out for him to stop! “Who are you, why are you doing this?” I scream. I blink, I close my eyes so hard it hurts, and blink again, only to find his glare, still aimed at me, and a slow, evil grin creeps across his face. It is a woman struggling. I can see her long hair, as her head bobs up from the water, trying to claw at her assailant, trying to get to her feet to get away.

I sit down, frozen in my panic, and scream to persons unknown for help. No one can hear me. I am miles from another house. My head is throbbing, I cannot breathe and my legs feel as though they are glued together and I am helpless to do anything. The scene before me brings tears to my eyes, my throat is raw, and my body is doused with sweat.

I hear a scream, the woman has her head above water and she is gripping the man’s arms and clawing and tearing, “Who are you, why are you doing this?” she breathlessly wails. She has almost gotten her footing and he pushes her back down, attempting to place all his weight on her and take her life. Adrenaline kicks in and her strength is gaining, as she stands to face him, still slapping and struggling to break free. But she is no match for his strength, and her determination only fuels his fervor. He pushed her down once again and her arms go limp, as I scream for her not to give up.  It is at this moment I realize that the woman before me, fighting for her life, is me.

Darkness falls over my vision like a veil… a black, mourning veil.

***

TrickWild (AKA Angie Callahan) is a mother, wife, photographer, and bookworm. Click here to check out some of her work at her TrickWild stalker page!

A Perfect Night

by Becky Sain

The dogs bark constantly. They see a cat and bark. They see a squirrel and bark. They see a bird, a bug, a leaf blowing, a child walking… they bark. This gives her comfort, a living security system. She feels safe on the nights she stays up late editing the campus paper – the only freshman to have ever been named editor. She stays away from the sororities and fraternities, no late night trips to the local bars. Her world doesn’t involve friends or people even… her world is here, in her little house at the end of the street, in front of her computer with no one to bother her… just her and her dogs.

The dogs always stay at her feet while she sits at her desk, springing up and running to the window, barking at whatever catches their attention. Each night is the same as all the nights before, her school newspaper is all she is interested in, a doorway into the world of journalism. She doesn’t notice the world all around her, her world revolves around her computer –here, she is lost in her own words.

She sits in her chair at her hand-me-down desk, typing away. The words flow effortlessly this night. It is magical. Every thought makes its way to the computer screen flawlessly, no misspelled words, no unnecessary words, no pausing — just perfect writing, as if she is being taken over by something, something no one can see but she can feel.

It is Fall. A chill has just recently begun to show itself in the nighttime breeze. She has her windows open; it’s so quiet on her street. All the houses are tucked in and sleeping, the street lights are faintly bright, no sounds in her neighborhood. The absence of outside noise means her dogs haven’t jumped up to bark in hours — she is lost in the writing and has forgotten about their nightly walk until one of her dogs barely nudges her leg, bringing her out of her hypnotic state.

She looks at the clock and is shocked to see it is 2:30 am. She has been sitting at her computer since 7:00 that evening — never moving. She reluctantly pulls herself away from the computer, grabbing the leashes as she opens the door. The dogs smile and turn in circles with excitement, biting each others tails. She starts down the street on her usual path around the neighborhood, her thoughts are back at her desk, designing her next sentence, naming her next story — she smirks as she thinks about how amazing this writing session has been. She walks once around the block and heads back down towards her little house at the end of the street, barely visible under the fading street light. She thinks her house looks unusually dark from the street, she pauses before going in.

Settling back in, she grabs a bottle of water and positions herself into her chair, reigning over the computer in front of her — this is her kingdom — hoping she can return to the unbelievable writing zone she has been in that night. She pulls herself close to her old desk and looks hopeful at the screen, then begins typing again — once again the words flow effortlessly and she is lost in her own arrogance.

Barely 15 minutes has passed since they returned from their walk when the dogs jump up and start barking. She reaches down with one hand to calm them while still staring at the screen and typing with the other. They stop barking and put their heads back down. Another 5 minutes passes and the dogs start barking again. Again she calms them with the touch of her hand while never taking her eyes off the screen filled with the words she is creating. Almost instantly, the dogs jump up and start barking once again… this time with sharp growls and snarls, their hair standing up on their necks, rearing back on their haunches.

The anger in their barks startles her as she rotates her chair around to look at them… their barking grows louder. She walks over and closes the window she has open, hoping that blocks out the mysterious noise that is creating havoc for the dogs. She looks intently into the night to see whatever cat is causing her dogs to be so alarmed, but there is nothing. The streets are bare. As she turns around, expecting the dogs to be beside her, staring out the window at the phantom noise, she realizes they are still standing next to her desk, staring at her computer, their ears perked, their teeth bared, the bright glow from the computer screen making their eyes flash with anger.

She kneels down to pat the dogs as she eases back into her chair and begins to write… again the dogs bark wildly, gnashing their teeth, nipping at the air. She turns quickly to look at them, still unaware of what is making them so upset. She touches their heads and they stop snarling, look at her, then back to the glowing computer screen… their ears are perked.

She turns to look at her computer, not at the perfect words that she has been typing out all night, just to look at the screen — a spider maybe. She could feel her neck pulsate with each beat of her heart, she tries to hold her breath, listening and scanning for the cause of the nervousness that now envelopes her entire house. There is nothing, she sees nothing; she takes a deep breath, and begins her writing again. Immediately the dogs become vicious with their barks, baring their teeth, jumping at the screen, protecting her from something that isn’t there. She jerks around to quiet the dogs once again, it doesn’t work. They continue their assault on the air in front of the screen. She turns back to the screen, staring at it, moving her eyes from corner to corner, up and down, examining the screen so fast it makes her dizzy… trying desperately to see something only visible to the dogs.

There.

A flash, something moving across the bottom of the screen.

A face.

She leans in closer to the screen, wiping her eyes, wiping the screen. The dogs’ barks are becoming increasingly louder, they are frenzied; drooling, jumping, and rearing back.

There it is again, a blurry form, not quite a face – something more distorted.

She turns to the dogs but they are no longer willing to quiet at her command, their animal instincts more prominent than their domesticated obedience.

Quickly reeling around to face the screen again, the words are gone… all her flawless words, gone. The only thing there is the cause of all the frenzied behavior — a blurred outline of a face darting around on the screen, too fast to decipher its age or if it is a man or a child, too fast for her brain to register what it is. The dogs’ agitation heightens as she jumps out of her chair, tripping over them, falling clumsily to the floor.

The dogs continue their attack, trying to get in between her and the screen. She scrambles on the floor, crawling towards the front door, her legs refusing to allow her to stand. But, it’s too late, the distorted face grabs the back of her neck by its abyss of a mouth, and with a movement too quick to time, it pulls her into the screen, into the stories she is effortlessly typing out.

The room is quiet.

The computer screen glows.

The dogs stop their raucous attack immediately, confused, whining, whimpering — licking the screen in hopes of bringing her back.

They nestle down at the foot of her chair, waiting for her to return and type out the rest of her stories, waiting for her to take them on their next walk, waiting…

***

Becky Brewster Sain lives in the Nashville area with her three joyfully imaginative children and two large willful dogs, or is that large willful children and joyfully imaginative dogs? She writes poetry and prose on her blog, First Pages ( http://bsain.wordpress.com/ ) as well as a few scattered short stories. She is feverishly submitting poems and stories and trying to expand her creative boundaries. You can stalk her on twitter @beckysain or follow her Facebook page, First Pages.

Into The Dark

by Jay N. Daniel

I will disappear to nothing…

No pain…

No tears…

No rage…

No fears…

Nothing in my way, but myself…

Broken and used…

Sifting through the pieces of my heart, I see you…

One last thought…

One flickering memory…

Into the dark I walk.

***

No bio was given for Jay, however if you would like to know more about Jay, feel free to send 13Stories a message, and we will make sure he gets it!

As You Lyc It

by Emsee Plum

Detective Thomas Baxter opened his front door and peered around for his husband; so far, all he heard was excited barking and the clicking toenails coming from his trusty sidekick, Wolfgang. He flipped his keys into the bowl on the little table at the entrance of their home just as the little black dog got underfoot.

“How’s my sweet boy, how’s my Wolfie?” he said as he scratched his faithful companions’ ears. Thomas rubbed his tired eyes and moved over to plop on the couch. The dog immediately jumped atop his lap and let out a whine, begging for more cuddling and when his beloved human didn’t immediately respond, howled pugnaciously.

“You know we can get dinner faster if you got daddy.” Wolfgang looked him straight in the eyes, growled menacingly, licked his cheek, and ran off into the bedroom. Thomas watched him scurry with a smirk on his face.

“Hey Babe, I’m home!” Thomas yelled throughout the apartment.

“You know you are, Silly! I’m just changing!” yelled back Andy from the bedroom. “I just got back from a run!”

“So I’ve noticed.” He said sardonically as he looked at the sneakers and leash scattered on the living room floor. “Did Drew accompany you tonight?”

“Yeah you know it! Who else is going to protect me during night jogs in these mean streets while you’re out protecting the city? You know she’s a fantastic walking partner, so vivacious.” he giggled.

“Don’t make fun of me, it’s dangerous out there, there was another werewolf attack tonight!” He shouted back.

“Oh yeah?” Andy said with a very concerned tone. “Have you guys found anything? That’s like the fifth one this year.”

“Yeah it is; once every full moon, like clockwork…” He rubbed his face again. “Sarge is going hard on us, extra classes in preparation and combat, that kind of thing; we’re getting pressure from all sides now. They’re working us to death!”

“That’s terrible! I’m sure you’ll catch it soon though, won’t you? Almost finished then we can eat!” Andy shouted excitedly from the bedroom.

“I don’t know about that, he’s too good, never leaves a trace of himself about. By the next full moon, we’ll have people at every one of his hunting grounds waiting. They’ve stocked every conceivable kind of silver-loaded weapon, even crossbows! Can you imagine? Crossbows in this age?” Thomas chuckled as Andy strolled out dressed for going out to dinner.

“Well-” said Andy. “I suspect if this “monster” (he finger quoted the air) has eluded them this far they’re not going to have much luck anyway, he might even be finished terrorizing this area.”

“We can only hope.”

“Besides…silver is not my color.” Andy twirled on the spot then. “How do I look lover?” he chirped, and he kissed Thomas spritely and waited for an answer.

“Uh baby?” he pointed at Andy’s backside. “Your tail is sticking out.”

“Oops.” Andy giggled at that and morphed his tail in, grabbed his best friends hand, and they walked out the door.

***

Emsee plum is currently on nyQuil due to a terrible cold. When she’s not visiting the happy land magical lollipops, she likes to be a mum and a writer. Please stalk her at WWW.Facebook.com/emseeplum. She’s fun!

Crows

by Jolene Mottern

Katie woke up with her head on the car window and a kink in her neck. They were far from the city now. She stared into the dreary landscape. Fields of green grass and broken corn stalks stared back at her. It had begun to rain. They were going to some house called Stony Hill. Surely it had to be some pretentious place when people actually named their home. The party was supposed to have apple bobbing, pumpkin carving, arts and crafts, a costume contest, face painting and a bonfire. She suspected the bonfire would be canceled because of the rain. A crow on the fence nodded in agreement with her.

Her parents were happily singing folk music in the front seat.
“Where are we?” she asked. They didn’t hear her. They thought the countryside was quaint. They even liked the rain. Great Halloween weather, they said. They thought the gray haze added to its mystique. She traced the outline of the crow in her window’s fog and went back to sleep.

She woke up to a dusky sky, the sound of the car crunching through gravel, rocks jumping up to hit it. She hoped they were close, because she had to pee and with every bump, it grew more painful to wait. “Are we almost there?” she asked.

Up ahead, Katie saw a lawn with kids running around in the damp air, their breath a constant. Most of them had costumes on. One kid was dressed as a cowboy, waving his shiny pistol around, another one a superhero, the girls all seemed to be dolls, their jaunty runs trailing long hair and ribbon. Katie saw no one close to her age, causing disappointment.

The farm house was falling apart. It looked dirty, with its peeling white paint. Some of the shutters hung crooked and loose. At the widow’s peak, the entire window was out, not even a frame remained.

The house was cold, despite all the busy people. The hostess was a pudgy blonde woman, shorter than Katie. She smiled warmly even though the Cowboy Kid ran through the house scraping the walls with his pistol, and all the cute little dolls seemed to scream constantly. She was led through the hallway, to a room off to the left, as a place she could put their coats. A bare mattress, striped and stained, was propped up on an old iron bed. The wallpaper was tattered. In some places it had been ripped down and in others, it fell down like heavy eyelids. Her teeth chattered some, although she was cold, she had to admit she’d grown nervous.

The hostess started rambling about how they’d only just acquired this property, but it would be a renovation project, so why not enjoy it for Halloween, while it still had all of its creepy charm. She laughed. Katie didn’t find it funny. Who throws a party in a nasty, old house?

She made no hesitation in asking for the bathroom. Ascending the stairs, the whole house seemed to shift and sway in her path. With each step, the din below grew quieter. She gripped the handrail. The bathroom was the first door she came to, just at the top of the stairs. The hall beyond it appeared endless. The bathroom had one of those old-fashioned toilets where the tank perched high above the bowl. The seat was like ice. The cold startled her and she decided to hover. While she went, the floor creaked under her. She had images of herself falling through the floor, probably into that nasty mattress, with her pants still down to her knees. She heard the Cowboy Kid scrape his pistol on the wall up the stairs. Ever so slowly and softly he slid it, along the wall and then across the bathroom door. “Hey!” Katie yelled, “Stop it!” He stopped, but he was still out there, she knew it. She hadn’t heard his feet going back down the stairs.

Something hit the window. She jumped up and clutched her chest, pee ran down her leg. Once she got her pants up and caught her breath, she tried looking out to see what it was, but the window was so dirty, she couldn’t see much beyond the vague tint of green turning to blue where the grass met the sky. She pressed her forehead to the glass and cupped her hands over her eyebrows to get a better look. Just then came another crash.
“Jesus!” She jumped back. A bird. Just a big, black bird.

Behind her, the Cowboy Kid started with the pistol again, this time from the opposite end of the hall. He crept slowly, toward the bathroom door again. Annoyed, Katie decided she would scare him by jumping out of the bathroom when she heard him hit the stairs. She stood in wait, smiling. He was so careful with his footsteps, she couldn’t even hear him walk, just the sound of his pistol etching the wall. When the pistol got to the door, she saw that he was trying to scare her. Katie watched the doorknob turn back and forth. She’d show him, she thought, and wedged herself carefully against the wall behind the door.

Her chest pounded. She could actually hear her own heart beating. Katie’s anticipation was causing her breath to deepen. Outside her, there was only the sound of the doorknob turning again and again. She grew impatient. Finally, the door opened with a squeak. Katie pounced out from behind the door, “Boo!” she hollered at nothing. No one was there.

Terrified, she stepped into the hall. A cold wind passed by her. Goosebumps and their tiny spears pushed through her skin, making all the hairs on her neck stand up. She shuddered. Her teeth chattered. The sun was going down. The house only grew colder. Katie tucked her hands into her jacket and wondered how much colder it had to be before she could see her own breath.

Another bird hit the window. As carefully as she had gone up, she held tight to the rail and pressed herself to walk down the stairs. At the bottom, she turned to look at the bathroom door. It slowly fell closed as if was signaling to her. A squeaky wink it gave her, for their shared experience.

Behind her, Cowboy Kid ran through the front door, waving his pistol and shouting, “Pow pow pow!” Suddenly comforted by his presence, she asked him, “What are you shooting?”
“Crows!” he yelled.

From the back of the house, a woman’s voice came. “Dalton, surrender your weapon and come make me a masterpiece!”

“I won’t never surrender it, Granny, but I’ll holster it and draw you somethin pretty!”

“Fine enough,” she said, “Come draw me a picture and I’ll make you a cup of hot cocoa.”

Katie followed Dalton the Cowboy Kid toward the kitchen. “Can I draw a picture for hot cocoa, too?” she asked. “Or am I too old?” She peeked around the corner to find an old woman at the stove.

“Ain’t never too old to draw Granny a pretty picture,” she replied with a sweet smile. “Sit down here at the table and draw me something all Halloween like. “ She patted the tabletop. Cowboy Kid sat at a miniature table, happily coloring a bright blue sky.

Katie smiled, and sat down. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been given a blank sheet of paper and been granted the freedom to draw anything she wanted. The smell of brand new crayons and chocolate eased her mind. She’d laughed when her parents told her there’d be arts and crafts, but there was a strange comfort in coloring. The kitchen felt warm and safe. Her fingers started to thaw as she shaded.

Granny brought her cocoa and told her what a lovely picture it was. Katie was feeling so much better now. She sipped her cocoa, but it didn’t taste right. It didn’t taste sweet. It tasted more like when she held bobby pins in her mouth.

“Thank you. Never gonna be enough of these for Granny.” Granny fastened her picture under clothespins on a line above her head. Picture after picture of crows waved from the clothesline. Not one of the children had drawn anything other than a crow.

Katie woke up then. She must have been dreaming. Pink tinged her vision. Her head was throbbing. She wasn’t in the house. She wasn’t in the car. She could feel dirt under her hands. As Katie opened her eyes, she saw a pale gray sky and then a crow diving down over her, just a few feet away. It squawked at her as it neared. Its yellow eyes clearly sought Katie’s face. She reached to put her hands over her face and saw her hands were spattered with blood. She screamed out, but her voice failed her. Katie swatted at the crow, it was so close to her, she could feel a deft feather graze her fingertips. She tried to sit up, but it was too hard.

Katie slid her hand over her aching forehead. It was slick with blood. Her head bled from somewhere. She flipped over on her stomach, discovering she was in a ditch. Dead in a ditch, she thought. She saw only broken corn stalks ahead of her. She knew the car must be the other way. Turning around and crawling forward, her legs felt like lead and her right shoulder burned. Katie could hear the flutter of feathers over her. The crows thought she was soon to be carrion, too weak to fight back. They chattered and squealed over her. She stopped, over and over, to bury her bloody head in her hands. Her voice was missing, but she kept trying to cry out. Her voice was the sound of a hushed amimal, wimpering. She could actually feel the air moving from her mouth into her lungs, and it felt like sand. As she dug her feet into the earth, she grabbed the grass with her fingers and wriggled back to the road.

Her hands above her, she finally felt the roadside ahead. She felt her hopes rise. If she could get to the road, she could be rescued. The crows’ calls pierced her ears. They were relentless. Katie buried her head in her hands again and wept silently. Tears and blood streamed down her face. Chunks of gravel scathed her palms. There was nothing to pull anymore. She pressed her toes into the ground below her, trying to gain momentum. Katie wanted so badly to stand. When her eyes finally met the horizon, she took in the scene, squinted her eyes as tightly as she could. When she realized closing her eyes wouldn’t make it go away, she expelled an almost silent scream.

The big blue station wagon lay on its side, as crows swarmed the car. Her father’s legs were pinned under the car at his knees and his head was held upright only because his neck was shoved between the car and the side mirror. He almost looked as though he was praying, if his body hadn’t been so twisted. His gray tweed scarf flew as a flag to the left of his neck. His lifeless eyes bulged forward, but the rest of his face was just a featureless mess of blood and bone. A crow perched on his skull and tore at his hair. Other crows dove in, pecking greedily at his face.

Her mother’s head rested in the rocks directly in front of Katie, staring sideways at her. A look of surprise seemed frozen on her perfectly still made-up face. Crows flew in and out, swooping down to feast from her open throat. Over and over, Katie screamed silent screams of horror. She could do nothing to save her father from the crows, but Katie pulled her mother’s head toward her and tucked it into her chest.

Unnoticed, Katie watched as the sheriff arrived. She tried to scream and she threw rocks, but he couldn’t hear her. He radioed for help, and in the meantime, loading his gun over and over, he shot so many crows, when they finally subsided, the gravel seemed to wear a black feathered rug.

It was a pudgy old blonde woman who finally discovered her. “Sheriff Dalton!” she yelled, “There’s a child! There’s a child!”

Katie couldn’t seem to let go. For over an hour, she lay belly down on the shoulder of the road, clutching her mother, burrowing her face into the disheveled bun of a decapitated head, wailing in a whisper. When she finally relinquished her grasp, the old lady pulled her up close to her, put her arm around her, poured her a cup of cocoa from a thermos and told her, “A flock of crows is called a murder, you know.”

***

No bio was given for Jolene, but if you would like to get in touch with her, please feel free to send 13Stories a message, and we will make sure she gets it!

Mourning

by Moxley Bugg

.

Beware of Mourning with her hair of frost

and Grief with his eyes of coal

or something precious will be lost

and the ghrybs with eat your soul

 ~~~

In their fourteen years, Mourning and Grief Lovelace rarely had visitors and they preferred it that way.  The citizens of Mortierella were a superstitious lot and, as such, the twins’ inferiors.  The children yelled insults at the twins because they always dressed in black and they never smiled.  The adults had christened them the Doom Twins and believed death followed close behind them.  One popular belief held that Grief, with his dark hair and eyes so black they swallowed up everything around him, had leached all the color out of Mourning as they shared their mother’s womb, leaving her with pale hair and eyes that could only be called clear.

The rumors started two months before the twins were born, when their mother decided to name them Grief and Mourning in memory of their father’s tragic death.  All their lives, Mrs. Lovelace saw any joy the twins found in life as dishonoring to their father.  Still, what truly kept the gossip mill rolling was that occasionally people did die or lose a family member after encountering the twins.  Like the day, old man Jasper took his fatal fall shortly after barking at Mourning and Grief to get out his way as he wobbled to his house.  He had angered the twins but he had angered everyone he passed that day on his slow journey to the hardware store and back home again.  Any one of them could have cursed Mr. Jasper.  Anyway, what did everyone expect would come from a ninety year old man attempting to fix the leak on his roof?

Despite all the superstitions surrounding the Doom Twins, Mrs. Lovelace’s death brought with it social rituals that could not be ignore and respects had to be paid.  Mrs. Lucinda Brown released a shiver as she and Miss Jane Habersham stopped in front of the Lovelace’s home.

“I don’t care who died.  This is a terrible idea.” Mrs. Brown attempted to peep into the yard as she spoke but the tall evergreen shrubs block her view.  “I have it on good authority that they killed their mother.  According to their house maid, they haven’t shown the least bit of distress at their mother’s death.  She was present when their governess told them the terrible news and the Doom Twins didn’t react at all.  Not one tear or wail or single mope to be seen from either of them.  They only stared in that bored way of theirs.”

“That hardly points to murder.”

“Who else could be so unfeeling and heartless than a couple of cold blooded killers?”

Grief chose that moment to call over the hedge. “The cold blooded killers are bored with your conversation.”

Mourning watched from her bench as her brother pace away from the shrubs without any regard for the chaos he created on the other side. “That was a bit rude.”

“They were rude.”  Grief leaned against the oak tree that shaded the bench.  “Anyway I convinced them go away, didn’t I?”

Mourning felt too relieved they had left to argue with her brother.  Normally, she was immune to such talk but today their words gnawed at her confidence.  As she looked up at the window to the bedroom where Mrs. Lovelace’s body would rest until the funeral tomorrow with nothing more than a feeling of resignation, she wondered if the superstitious fools had been right all along.  ”Grief, what if there is something wrong in us?”

Grief studied his sister. “They’ve not convinced you that we are evil? We did not kill our mother.  She died from a build up a fluid around her heart.  All that weeping, I suspect.”

“I know but Mother died and I don’t feel sad.  Neither of us have cried at all.”

Grief pushed out his chest.  “Of course I haven’t cried.  Anyway why must we feel anything?” He began to pace about the garden.  “Mother spent our entire lives in misery and did her best to make us miserable with her.  We should feel relieved she’s gone.”

“Grief, she was still our mother.”

He shrugged in response.

Mourning quit the bench and wandered over to the oak.  Her ears picked up a rustling in the hedge but her mind was too busy to register it.  “Have you ever experienced sorrow?  I mean true heartsickness like the stuff of poems or what plagued Mother?”

“I don’t care for poets.  I never understand poems.  I say they’re just a bunch of nonsense.  I prefer my National Geographic and my history books.  Things you can depend upon.”
Mourning sighed as she twirled a leaf between her fingers.  “I can’t remember ever feeling sorrow either.  Do you suppose we were pieced together wrong?”
“I don’t know. Do you remember ever feeling happy?”
She dropped the leaf and considered the question.  She found a hazy memory of Mother reprimanding her for giggling.  She tried to focus on what had made her laugh or how she felt in that moment but she came up empty.  “No.”
“I can’t remember it either.”  Mourning’s distress must have shown of her face because Grief embraced her.  “It’s nothing to worry over.  The poets are foolish.  Come, let’s go inside and read about ancient cannibals.”
She allowed her brother to lead her towards the house.  As the passed, she looked at her mother’s window and resolved to feel something before the woman went into the ground.

Once the house settled into its evening sleep, Mourning slipped inside her mother’s room.  She tiptoed over to the bed and placed her candle on the table there.  She took her time in studying her mother.  The maid had brushed out her colorless hair so it fanned around her head like the tail of an albino peacock.  Her hands had been placed over her chest in restful pose but her face looked as tormented as ever.  Mourning started to take her mother’s hand but the coldness made her recoil.

Desperate to prove to herself that she was not evil, Mourning gave up on thoughts of her mother and focused on the only person who mattered in her life.  In her mind’s eye, she saw Grief stretched out before her.  His normal pallor turned chalky in death.  His hands folded on top of a chest that no longer rose and fell.  His dark eyes forever hidden.  Mourning fought for breath as a terrible weight settled between her lungs.  A sharp pain pierced her heart, making her cry out and her eyes water.  She thought she might be drowning.

At the moment, Mrs. Lovelace’s mouth popped open. Mourning’s anguish turned to horror and she stumbled backwards, as a brown furred covered paw complete with four inch long curved claws slipped out of her mother’s mouth to push against the bottom half of her jaw.  An identical paw appeared to shove at the top half.  They stretched her mouth open until she reminded Morning of a snake regurgitating its meal.  A creature resembling an overgrown hedge hog rose out of her mother.  The roly-poly monster was roughly a foot and a half tall with soil and leaves matting its spikes.  Its swollen belly and face was bald and matched the inflamed pink color of a skin infection.  It planted its feet on Mrs. Lovelace’s face and shook saliva off itself.  Then it fixed its greedy black eyes upon Mourning and they gleamed with hunger.  She screamed with all the breath in her, which seemed to puzzle the creature.

Then the door slammed open and Grief spilled into the room.  ”What is it? What’s wrong?” Mourning pointed a trembling hand at the bed.  Grief mumbled an ungentlemanly phrase as the twins ran towards each other.  They stood together in the middle of the room watching the creature as it appraised them from its spot on Mrs. Lovelace’s face.

Finally, the creature spoke.  Its words came out in a garbled growl but they were words the twins knew. “How can you see me?”

Since the twins did not know what they saw nor whether or not they should have the ability to see it, they didn’t bother to respond.  Instead, Grief grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace, pointed it at the thing and ordered, “Get out of here, demon!”

The creature chuckled but hopped over to the window. It moved with a shocking spryness for something so round.  Perched on the window sill, it grinned a mouthful of pointed yellow teeth their way.  ”I’ll be back soon,” it promised and then disappeared.

Mourning fought the urge to rest her eyes as she stood next to Grief in the cemetery.  They spent all night awaiting the creature’s return.  It never showed and the preacher’s voice lulled her mind into a restive state.  She glanced across her mother’s casket at the handful of mourners on the other side.  Those brave souls whose sense of duty outweighed their fear of the twins.  She knew that they watched her.  If she fell asleep, the whole town would have heard of it by dusk.

Mourning let her eyes travel the cemetery in search of something stimulating.  They alighted on a young woman wandering amongst the headstones.  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.  Mourning took a moment to appreciate such a gentle display of sorrow, when she noticed a much smaller version of last night’s nightmare skipping from headstone to headstone in pursuit of the woman.  Mourning squeezed Grief’s hand and tilted her head in the widow’s direction.  They watched as the creature launched itself at the woman’s back.  Its sloth-like claws allowed it to cling to the woman. It pressed itself against her so that it looked as if the widow had a huge spiky mole growing from her back.  Then the creature vanished and the woman’s tears changed into wails.

Mourning and Grief turned to each other with mirroring looks of panic.  Over Grief’s shoulder, she noticed three more of the creatures tripping towards them.  Before she could warn Grief, he turned Mourning around to show her the five approaching from that side.  She looked to the preacher and the mourners and spotted at least twelve creatures creeping up behind them.  The creatures surrounded them but no one seemed to notice except her and Grief.

Not sure what else to do, Mourning began screaming, “Run! Run! They are coming! Run!”  The adults scanned the area but they looked past the terrors hiding in their shadows.  The mourners began to whisper, as the preacher attempted to soothe Mourning with phrases like “over-wrought” and “too much for a fragile young girl.”  Meanwhile, the creatures grew ever closer.  She reached for Grief’s hand but he didn’t notice and shifted away from her.

“This will be your last day breathing if you do not leave this instant.”  Grief spoke with a calmness that demanded attention and everyone fell silent.  ”The Doom Twins don’t want you here.  You know we have the power to curse you all to an early grave so leave now or suffer our wrath.”  His words had the desired effect and the adults tripped over themselves in their rush out of the cemetery.

The twins found themselves alone in the cemetery, except for the few hundred creatures pressing in on them from all sides.  None of monsters exceeded a foot and they shared the same greedy gleam in their eyes.  The larger creature from last night appeared on their mother’s casket.  ”Hello again, dearies.”

“What are you?” Grief demanded.

“We are the ghrybs.” The giant ghryb spoke and the others repeated grunts of ghrybs.

“If you are thinking of eating us, we won’t make a filling meal.” The ghrybs met Mourning’s attempt at bravery with a hearty round of laughter.

“We don’t feed of human flesh.  Anyway, we come as friends.”  The other ghrybs grumbled friends.

“What do you want from us?” Grief kept a firm grip on Mourning’s hand as he spoke.

“We only want to help you to reach your potential.  You are special children with special powers.” This time special echoed around them.  ”Come with us.”

Mourning shared a bewildered glance with Grief and asked, “What if we refuse?”

The giant ghryb’s eyes glowed red.  ”You must come.”

“You can have me.  I will go with you but my sister has to stay.”

“No, we must have both of you.” It snarled and lunged for them.  The twins tried to run but scores of claws had already wrapped around their calves and ankles.  It caught their wrists on its descent from the casket and began tugging them.  ”You will come with us or we will take you.”

“Take you,” garbled the chorus.  The claws on their legs pushed and pulled until Grief and Mourning started walking against their own wills.

The oversized ghryb led the way to the oldest crypt in the cemetery.  He opened the doors and they all entered.  As the last ghryb slipped in, the doors shut and darkness swallowed up the twins along with any goodness in them.

A few years later, Mrs. Brown pushed a baby carriage down the street to her home.  Her visit with Mrs. Jane Hall had lasted longer than she had intended and most of the townsfolk were tucked inside their homes.  Halfway home, her darling boy began crying so she stopped to settle him.  When she turned to start walking again, two figures stood before her.  The young woman had hair so fair it glowed and the young man had eyes like bottomless pits.

“How pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Brown.” The man said with a cordial nod. “It’s been far too long.”

The woman leaned over carriage.  “What a handsome babe,” she cooed and stroke the boy’s cheek.  He started crying again.

“We need to be going,” Mrs. Brown explained and hurried down the road but she could not outrun the illness already spreading throughout the baby.

Grief and Mourning shared a grin that was echoed in the faces of the ghrybs hanging off them as one jumped off Grief’s shoulder to follow after Mrs. Brown.

***

The descendant of a long line of story tellers, Moxley Bugg earned a Bachelors of Art in Creative Writing at Georgia State University. She writes short stories in whatever genre inspires her at that moment and plans to turn Mourning in to her first novel. Moxley lives in Sandy Springs, Georgia with three roommates plus two cats and a maltese named Voodoo Mama Juju.

For sneak peeks at her stories or just the strange workings of her mind, you can find Moxley Bugg at http://moxleybugg.blogspot.com/ or follow her on twitter http://twitter.com/MoxleyBugg
or tumblr http://moxleybugg.tumblr.com/

Knock Knock

Knock-Knock by Heather Moore Niver

Beguiling little beggars brandish scythes, screams
surging through the cold October air. Costumed
with fresh bloody frills, they creep

through a tempest of thickening shadows.
Their late-night mimicry echoes
past their tonsils in hollow giggles

and ghastly fancies. Dainty corpses chase sugar
down among the shadows, cleverly dodging
haunted visions. What trickery

is this? There is never more horror
than the dentist’s grim discovery
of a lifeless root, his poised drill whirring

a ghastly dirge.

***

Heather is a coffee-fueled freelance writer and editor in New York’s Hudson Valley. She writes nonfiction children’s books about everything from sports cars to sports marketing to animals to the nervous system. Her poems have appeared in Peer Glass and The Berkshire Review, at YourDailyPoem.com, and as part of the 2008 National Poetry Month exhibit at the Sherry French Gallery. One of her poems also appears in the 2013 Poet’s Market. When she’s not reveling in language and roasting coffee, she hikes and snowshoes, dabbles in photography and music, and makes maple syrup with her husband. She’s also determined to learn how to spin the wool of her four excessively woolly sheep, collectively known as The Lovely Ladies of Lanolin. She tweets about coffee, poetry, and assorted whimsey as @nivermoore.