“Did you see that?”
The man before me was a horror. It’s pale face was twisted in anguish like a Halloween mask held to the fire. It scratched at it’s scalp, at the visible, glistening wounds that ran like muddy rivulets between tuffs of matted hair. It’s eyes, milky and dull, were set deep into it’s skull. It’s jaw hung slack. Teeth haphazardly stacked like a tombstone lying abandoned upon a vandalised grave. A monster. Always watching. I hated it.
What was it’s intentions?
Continue readingThe robin is perched on the railing of the balcony outside. I can tell without even looking out there. I’d know its song anywhere, though I wouldn’t have expected to see one here, at this time of year, and in this idyllic holiday cottage where I’m staying. I smile to myself and finish making my morning coffee. I picked up these coffee beans in the local market yesterday, and their chocolate-rich aroma fills my nostrils as I stir in the milk, the spoon jangling pleasingly against the china cup.
A robin used to arrive in our garden every year on the anniversary of Grandma’s death when I was a child. Mum would ask me to help write a newsletter for the bird to take to her, wherever she was, updating her on all that we had been up to that year. I used to love sticking in photos and drawing pictures of all the activities we had done and all the holidays we had been on.
Continue readingIt’s Joe’s turn to tell a story by the campfire.
“One night, a boy went missing on Scout Camp,” he whispers. I shiver, despite the heat, and huddle in closer. I’m not scared, it’s just that it’s hard to hear him when he’s whispering like that. Behind him, the shadowy outline of tree branches could be horns growing out of his head.
“Every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, another boy goes missing. But right before he does, he sees the missing boys. No-one else can see them…”
The fire spits and we all jump, then we’re laughing uncontrollably. This is way more fun than singing boring camping songs.
Continue readingThe little bell above the door tinkles cheerily, and she moves through the beaded net curtain behind the counter to see who her latest customer is.
He’s looking nervous, fidgety, and like he’s bothered someone has seen him enter. She’s dealt with this type before. Probably after the… ahem, special merchandise that isn’t available to regular customers. He’s picking things up and putting them down again, trying to look nonchalant and utterly failing to pull it off. She needs to be careful how to approach him, so that he doesn’t startle like a baby deer and gallop off. That produces a smile that she has to work to suppress, the idea of this guy scampering anywhere would be worth watching just for entertainment value alone.
“Can I help you?” she asks, brightly. “If there’s something you’re looking for, we have additional stock out back, if you know what I mean.”
A look of relief washes over his face.
“Yes,” he mutters, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”
“So,” she responds, “what are you looking for, what’s your tastes? No need to be self-conscious here.”
He looks confused, then starts.
“You mean,” he says, “adult material?”
She nods.
“Oh, I think I’m in the wrong shop. I’m not after that.”
Ah. Oops. Misjudged him.
“I see,” she says as he turns for the door. “You mean the stuff in the other back room. You’d better come through.”
*
Two minutes later, they’re squashed into a too-small space rammed with miniature, carefully labelled wooden boxes, each containing a tiny vial. Within each, a cloud of viridescent gas swirls and pulses. He reaches for one, then stops, shakes himself.
“Who are you after?” she asks.
They both know what this means; one of the city’s residents is going to die tonight. Whoever owns the box controls the life expectancy of the individual whose label adorns the outside.
He mutters a name, and she steps away through the stacks to find it.
A moment or two later, she returns, reverently holding one on a small silver tray.
“You know,” she says, “the price?”
He nods, mute.
Her eyes glow gently as she holds it before him, his gaze transfixed. “So,” she says, “do we have a deal?”
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asks.
“I don’t ask questions.”
He nods again, then carefully picks it up, turning it back and forth. The life inside swirls like liquid in a half empty glass, but something is wrong. She’s seen all human emotions when people come in here; anger, fear, disgust, even lust for revenge, but his stare is flat, dull, almost lifeless. She tries and fails to repress a shudder. He seems inhuman, even to her.
Finally, he looks up.
“This one,” he says, “is me. We do not have an accord.”
He smashes it on the floor and, as the life force evaporates, he drops to his knees, finally free.
I must say, it was the weirdest outing ever. I can try to laugh about it now but really, it just reinforced all my early fears about not getting into things where you can’t see a clear way out. (I completely blame the Brothers Grimm for this, what with Hansel and Gretel having such a close encounter with an oven – nightmare).
Dilly, my sister, (Delia, but she hates the name)and I live far apart so we take the occasional weekends together and meet up for hotel stays, meals out, the odd show and whatever we fancy.
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Those were my brother’s last words to me as our phone call ended. I was quite taken aback. Was this outbreak really going to be that serious? Those words haunted me for days.
His letter from his GP had stated to stay in for twelve weeks, shielding they called it. We would still be able to phone each other, or even use Skype or Zoom, but would that really be enough.
I had not even considered him in the past, when I jetted off around the world for months on end, so why did this feel different. As the daily death tolls rose, so did my worries.
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“Can you picture her face?” My words tumbled out of my mouth as soon as my sister picked up the phone.
“Huh? Whose face?” Evelyn replied.
“Mum’s,” I said.
At sixty years old, I had just learned that most people possessed a superpower. They could visualise objects, places, events and people in their “mind’s eye”. I could not. Suddenly the darkness of my mind seemed blinding. What’s more, I felt the loss of my mother more acutely than ever.
Our mother had died six months earlier, after a long battle with cancer. Evelyn and I had nursed her until the end. Now there was a gaping hole in my life. It was Larry, my husband, who had suggested giving meditation a go.
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