Just got notified that Beyond the Grave Anthology (Static Movement) have accepted my dark humorous horror short, The Prey (set in a Havana cemetery). Pleased to have published this one.
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Tag: horror
Review: Dark Minds (Anthology)
SPOILER ALERT
I enjoyed this small anthology by Dark Minds Press (their debut) – none of the stories were poor and no small number were well above average in quality. It is great seeing new and emerging writers do their thing. While the cover is excellent, I have to make an early point – the editing and proofing really needed to be better – the choice of font and internal formatting was, in my mind, weak, and there were typos and lack of indenting of a fair number of paragraphs – this does detract from the overall experience. However, it is not a major factor.
I offer the following reviews against each story.
The Ghost Rain (Gary McMahon )
This was a story that started great and disappointed somewhat in the end. This is the first time I have read Gary and there’s no doubt we have an accomplished writer here – his style, and the way he interweaves character issues with the plot, oozes craftsmanship and talent. The concept of rain as a tangible symbol of the protagonist’s haunted past (which in effect transfers to his present), is thoughtful and interesting, and the way he was able to depict the rain in a myriad of ways, growing in darkness, is commendable.
Even the relationship with the protagonist’s wife is consistent and contributes to the build up of tension, along with the unfulfilled excitement of a new relationship.
Then we had the ending. I love horror and without a doubt there are large slivers of the genre that warrant and are in fact fundamentally right in having oozing, slavering, pinchering supernatural creatures – but not for all stories. Some benefit from the hidden darkness, some aren’t about tangible monsters but instead are about the psychological state of the protagonist, and just some undefined ‘other’ place. The psychological and the dark was the theme of the first three-quarters of McMahon’s story, and then he inexplicably went b-grade at the end.
I give 3 stars, on the basis of the start and middle of this good, but not great, work-horse short story.
Berlin Shushi (Benedict J. Jones).
A short piece that treats the brutality of war very well, despite the poor taste title (this is such a well depicted, serious piece, then Jones throws in a pun/lighthearted title, sheesh). Aside from this weakness, Jones painted a realistic end of war Berlin, and even the cannibalism, as unlikely an outcome as it is, nevertheless resonated well as a metaphor of the consequences of the war.
Well done, I give 4 stars.
The House of Constant Shadow (Stephen Bacon)
A brilliant short story, on a number of levels. This story skirts horror, as it really is a psychological piece about the degradation of Ernest, an aging curmudgeon, who made a fundamental mistake in his youth, and paid for it for the rest of his life – and yet the storyteller paints a picture where (despite himself) the protagonist had found a form of niche in his world, which included tormenting his unwitting disabled wife. His is an ugly, unsightly world, and Bacon paints it very well indeed.
What I particularly like about The House of Constant Shadow is the well crafted characters – the protagonist and his wife are incredibly real, unique, and even the bit players, like Crystal, the aged prostitute and the unsavoury neighbours. The metaphors of the football stadium casting a shadow of their home, the hooligans, the young couple who moved in across the street and reminded him so much of himself.
Is this horror? Yes, of a psychological nature, but I’m not so sure it was necessary to add an extra layer with the mysterious man who stared at him/his home at night – perhaps stretched it slightly too far.
I give this 4 stars.
The Rat Catcher’s Apprentice (Ross Warren)
Warren writes a nice period piece, describing the grotesque story of a rat catcher’s apprentice being disfigured by a large rat, and turning into a…I suppose you could call a ‘were-rat’. It is well constructed and the characters of Black and his wife are convincing and interesting. I think Warren’s effort at Victorian English is weak, and the style and grammar is slightly unpolished. An archetypical example is the use of the modern term "urban legend". I was also distracted by the inexplicable choice of the editor to use single quotation marks for dialogue (which I hate anyway), inconsistent with stories read thus far (and unfortunately used again in one later story).
This is a good work-horse piece. I give the story 3 stars.
The Anchorite’s Daughter (Shaun Hammel)
I have mixed views of this story. There’s a lot of metaphor and symbolism, each individually creative, evocative, insightful. And yet I feel he crammed too much in it. Too many cooks have spoiled this broth. I also have an issue with the extent to which he changed POVs – doesn’t hurt as a principle and can be effective, but this had a loss of symmetry, which is what you at least want, if you have to do it at all. Having said all this, I did like the way it all came together – what we saw, through the eyes of several protagonists, was the degradation of a community to very dark ways, paralleled with the degradation of two men (maybe 4 if you count the itinerants).
This is an ambitious piece that didn’t quite succeed, for the very reason that he tried too much. 3 stars
Gehenna (Anthony Watson)
This is a very well written WWI supernatural story. It doesn’t cover anything original – the number of stories written about the twilight of life and death on the battlefield (and especially WWI) is legion. And yet, Watson was able to add freshness to his short piece, and vividly painted the backdrop.
4 stars
Last Laugh (Colin Hersh)
I enjoyed this story, in its simplicity and its portrayal of the thoughts of an aged stroke victim. I particularly liked his stoicism, right until the end. The twist in the end is not far reaching, nor brow raising, yet it was apt.
I know a few folk who are the main character’s age and have a similar philosophy of life, and that is why it resonated with me.
4 stars
The World Shall Know (Jason Whittle)
I have an issue with this story – not the writer or the story itself – in fact, it is quite reasonable. What my issue is that it isn’t, in any way you look at it, horror. It is a post-apocalyptic, dystopian story, which makes it science fiction, if anything. Since the publisher/editor claims it is a horror anthology, I think this is poor form.
Now that I have that out of my system, I can talk about the short. Whittle doesn’t create anything significantly original in terms of plot, but I do like the characterisation of the main protagonist. A woman – a real woman, but with balls. She will do anything to save her son. I liked it, and I like the way she kept her head high and beat the bastards. I also think that the story is a little unrefined in plot construct and style. The ending, while satisfying for the protagonist (and reader), just didn’t feel like an ending – is there true optimism for the mother and child, or is there a dark future?
3 stars
Blood Loss (Colin Drewery)
This is an (almost) great short story. Getting into the head of a small time hood, beautifully portraying organised crime with all its brutality. Vengeance, so strong, you can taste it. Then the changes that happened to the protagonist – inexplicable, and surprising at the end. As a reader I had the nagging concern why he survived the shot to the gut, and so quickly, and yet it made sense in the end – this was done at just the right level. Very very good. The only concern I have is the need for an explanation at the end. I think it spoiled the story somewhat. Drewery didn’t even need to say ‘vampire’ – it was bleeding obvious (excuse the pun). All he had to do was hint at the blood transfusion – the incredible coincidence, or perhaps intervention. It just told too much, without showing, and somewhat insulted the reader’s intelligence. I think it was unnecessary to paint Alex as some ‘new breed’.
Still, a powerful, wonderful story.
4 stars
Vengeance of Hades (Joe Mynhardt)
This has depth for a zombie story. The bulk of the story is reminiscent of a classic zombie movie – a bunch of people hold up in a derelict house, being assailed by an army of zombies, some of whom were friends. Classic. His action sequences and descriptions kept the interest going, instead of the reader ho-humming and going to the next story. Some character interaction (could have been explored a little more, I think) also held interest, in particular between Nick and Sarah, and it becomes important at the conclusion of the story. The conclusion lifts the story – or should I say more accurately, is the purpose of the story. Love conquers all, including common sense. In a dark, twisted way, Sarah and Nick are joined again. Tragic but with undertones of poignancy.
If Mynhardt had developed the characters just a little more at the beginning – to add the extra sheen of the ending, then I believe this would be a classic zombie story. I praise the author nevertheless for making something that is the ‘taste of the month’, and essentially boring now, into something fresh.
4 stars
Under a Setting Sun (Clayton Stealback)
This story explores, in essence, what would have happened if Father Damian Karras (of The Exorcist fame) failed to kill himself when the demon Pazuzu transferred to his body. It would be unkind to suggest that Stealback exactly intended this, and believe me, this is a compliment. Aside perhaps from an incredibly short exorcism at the start of the story, the short paces extremely well and provides a thorough description of Father Michael’s transformation.
Father Simon’s character is also very well wrought. The ending was appropriate and cosmic in nature – no mean feat.
Aside from the short exorcism, I wonder about the dialogue of the demon – I get it that it speaks perfect English (even idiomatically appropriate to who hears him), but I feel that perhaps the dialogue combined with description should be more otherworldly. Otherwise, the technique (as used) is a little worn.
Terrific story. 4 stars
Bury the Truth (Carole Johnstone)
Probably the best for last. Johnstone’s story is rich with the thoughts and emotions of the protagonist, and reveals information in iterative cycles until the end. It has sorrow and regret, but most of all it has a horrifying inquisitiveness in the main character. I personally cannot find fault – this is an excellent story.
5 stars
I rate the anthology, overall, as 4 out of 5 stars
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Cover Reveal for Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation
It would appear that Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation, will be released on time in April 2011. My short story, The Happy Mouth, is one of the 14 short stories contained therein (along with 2 full length novels) totaling to 550 pages. A large tome (tomb?) indeed.
Thanks to Unearthed Press for including my Mythos story into their project.
So here's the cover – pretty full on; I like it.
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Ginger Fred
Late last night finished (largely) my latest short story, Ginger Fred, the Pavement Artist. Somewhat different for me – light horror, more a mystery with undertones of the supernatural. Difficult to classify, but at a high level, perhaps horror. Hmm.. Fantasy? LOL
Wont go into it too much – it involves a tramp who regularly visits a seaside town and creates masterpieces of pavement art – but it gets weird when the pictures are able to convey what will happen in the future.
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Short Story: The Past Catching Up
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First Lieutenant Samuel Parker lifted his felt hat, embroidered with the company insignia, from his sweat-soaked head and briefly glanced at the naked sun high above him. He squinted in pain, swung his hat several times to cool it down, making a feeble attempt at drying it, and returned it to his head. There was about two seconds of reprieve before he started to sweat again.
“Desert gets darn hot; what d’ya say?” Cal commented from the mount beside him.
Parker grimaced and peered at the scout. It was always difficult to look at Cal “Bear Trap” Johnston in the eyes. The Montana frontiersman had a reputation of being more predator than human – uncomfortable in human company. He would stare at people with his steel-grey eyes – more wolf than man – and keep them focused until they had to look away. They never found it easy to concentrate on what they were talking about.
“Never been this cooked in all my life,” Parker replied, “and I’ve been posted in this desert since the beginning of the War.”
Cal seemed suddenly interested in conversation, something Parker hadn’t seen in the five days the company had been riding out from Fort Piute Hill. “War’s been over a year, Lieutenant – that means you’ve been here five or six years. Didya fight in the east, or play shenanigans out here in the west?”
“Neither, Cal.” Parker had been in this conversation before with other people in other places, and had the answer well rehearsed. “I served in the California Volunteers and admit it was long and wearisome. But there were a few skirmishes and we protected the trade routes into western Arizona.”
Cal lifted his hand, smiling – something never witnessed before by Parker or in reputation. “Wasn’t pickin’ a fight, Lieutenant. Just interested. I was around these here parts in some of those years. What ‘skirmishes’ were they?”
Parker started to feel uncomfortable. This was the type of question no rehearsal could fix. “Most… most were too small to be worthy of mention. There was one where rebel sympathisers were harassing our military mail run – I led a company to counter their force. We won, but there was some loss of life on both sides.”
“Was that out near the Springs?”
Parker now felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Yes… very near it.”
“I heard you fought Indians – Navajo, not sympathisers in the normal sense – yeah, I know, they got some help from the Rebs.”
The company leader closed his eyes, as if in pain. “Yes, they were Indians. Navajo, with a few Apache scouts.”
“And women and children, Lieutenant. Women and children.”
“They often brought their women and children with them, in camp.”
Cal’s cold eyes started to drill into Parker’s as he chose his words carefully. “I was at the scene soon after the ‘skirmish’, Lieutenant. It was a massacre. Most of the men, women and children were still in their camp when they were shot and cut down. Many were decapitated, and not by accident. Some, including women, had their heads put on poles. I’ll never forget that day, Lieutenant, not until I meet my Maker.”
Parker didn’t reply; at least not for a few minutes. The company column continued its comfortable trot down the desert trail and the horses’ hoof falls click clacked on the stony terrain. “I couldn’t control my men, Cal. They had the blood-lust and they were angry because two of our men had been killed by the Navajos the day before. We were excited to have found their camp, but I… lost control of them.” Tears started to well in his eyes, smudging the desert dirt that was caked beneath them. “I too will not forget what I saw.”
Cal shook his head, his eyes downcast. “It’s not fer me to pass judgement, Lieutenant, ‘cause I’ve done things that’ll keep the pearly gates shut to me. But fer what its worth, you should’ve held back yer men.”
“I know.” Parker and Cal fell silent again, and in the background they could hear the usual mutterings and jibes of the men in column, thirty yards behind them. They remained quiet for the next few hours, deep in thought, battling the ghosts of their past.
Then, much like a stroke of inspiration, Parker decided that to exorcise his ghosts he had to say more. To tell the plain truth. He began to speak, and inexplicably Cal listened as if he knew this was going to happen. “When I gave the order to attack their camp at dusk, having succeeded in dispatching their sentry, we charged in on foot. At first I was in complete control and I gave orders to the men, making it clear that women were not to be harmed unless they posed a threat; that men were not to be harmed if they surrendered. It started off fine. Then some of the men started to shoot and stab Indians randomly, and it spread among the men so quickly that it was impossible to stop them. Then many of the men started to shout ‘For Jed! For Merle!’ and… I don’t know; I just got caught up with them.
“God forgive me, Cal, I started to shoot them too, and I didn’t care who they were. I lusted for blood, and I wanted more – I wanted each action to be more disgusting and horrid then the next! I then rushed into a tent and to my surprise I found a squaw – but she was white! I heard that some white women were with Indian men, and again I saw red. I aimed my pistol at her and shot her in the chest. She collapsed like a mannequin, and I was going to close in with my sabre to… never mind. What happened next chilled me to the marrow and shook me out of my blood lust.
“The white squaw pulled herself up, in agony, and pointed her bloody hand to me. In perfect English she cursed me. ‘Dog! You rape and slay innocents to satisfy your lust! There will come a time when the eyes of blood will stare upon you, and you will pay for what you have done to my people!’
“I would have laughed at her delusional croaking, but suddenly her eyes turned completely red, having filled with blood, and the look upon her face! – it was of complete and utter hatred. It was demonic. Not for want of blood – but to rid myself of that horror, I cut her down with my sabre, over and over again. I was so tired I could barely hold my blade, and then I saw her visage. The eyes were still open, blood red, and I swear they were looking at me! I ran out of the tent and did my best to gather my men.
“As I ran away from the camp, with my men following, I saw the carnage scattered about. Each lifeless face had its eyes open; each was blood red and staring at me.
“You may call me mad, Cal, but I swear that what I described is the truth. Since then I have not seen those bloody eyes again, but I fear that one day I will, and… I believe God will have a reconciliation with me.”
Cal’s face was expressionless throughout Parker’s account, eyes downcast, and it did not change afterwards. He expertly rolled a cigarette and lit it with a match. He sucked in the tobacco smoke and exhaled. “Lieutenant, I believe you. I really do. People who are dyin’ can have the second sight. Those injuns have a way with the second sight too. I believe you’re cursed too.”
Parker didn’t know what to say, as Cal’s matter-of-fact statement was completely unexpected.
Again, they fell into silence.
The sun started to set and the company were still on the trail. Parker broke the long silence with Cal. “Where do you intend us to camp?” he asked.
Again, Cal comfortably slid into the conversation. “Just around that bend there, in a canyon, is a water hole. The only reliable one for three day’s ride. Sacred to the Indians. Ideal for our camp.”
“Good.” Parker felt relieved, as he sensed his men and their horses were in dire need of rest as well as cool, clear water.
As they approached the mountain side, whose prominent rock outcrops hid the life-sustaining spring, Corporal Maddison – ‘Maddy’ to the cavalrymen – came riding in from his forward scouting mission. “Lieutenant Sir, we struck it lucky! They’re camping at the spring!”
Parker couldn’t believe his luck. What was thought to be a pursuit that could take weeks, perhaps even a few months, had turned into a doorstep exercise. “Get the men to stay put to the right of that outcrop, Maddy. We will catch the scum at dusk.”
“Yessir!” the corporal enthusiastically replied, saluting. He galloped to the waiting men.
Parker turned to the east, expecting Cal to be inspecting the trail a hundred yards ahead, but there was no scout to be seen. He felt moderately annoyed, as Cal’s expertise was useful to plan the ambush. He knew Indians. Parker assumed the old man would be back sooner rather than later.
At the outcrop the men were excited about the prospect for a fight. This was more than just a necessary task, it was also personal. Parker followed his usual ritual of dusting off his uniform, using his last canteen water to wash his face, and shaving his two day growth. He peered into his small shaving mirror and saw a serious face, one where the ghosts that he carried weighed heavily on him. He didn’t like what he saw. Suddenly the reflection of his eyes turned blood red, filling like a pair of wine glasses.
He jumped back, dropping his mirror, shaking in fear and shock. Slowly, he approached his mirror and picked it up and peered in it again. His eyes were normal. He sighed, but it was not completely with relief. His past seemed to be rapidly catching up to him. God! Is it my time?
He looked at the setting sun and realised it was now time. Cal hadn’t returned, which deeply worried him, but he decided to attack the camp nevertheless. My eyes – my destiny lies before me.
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Parker had spent some time giving Cal the account of what really happened, and in some ways it made him feel better… but only to a point. It also vividly replayed the horror of that terrible dusk attack on the camp at the Springs. Cal, riding slowly in the hot sun, kept the poker face he was well known for, eyes downcast.
Parker felt he needed to say one more thing. “You may call me mad, Cal, but I swear that what I described is the truth. Since then I have not seen those bloody eyes again, but I fear that one day I will, and… I believe God will have a reconciliation with me.”
Cal kept his eyes downcast. He always did when they were filled with blood. He had done this many, many times before; and eternity lay before him. There was no reconciliation.
Short Story: Hunger
The Comte de Lyonnesse sat stylishly in his outdoor seat and closed his eyes, allowing the smells of his sumptuous banquet to invade his flaring nostrils. His sense of smell was renowned throughout the land and on this evening he could discern every meal laid before him and his four guests, and he could even identify the most subtle of ingredients in all of them.
Some of his favourite meals were laid on the table, including venison tartare – so fresh he could smell the blood pooling on the plate around the finely chopped flesh; roast buffalo calf – again, he could sense that it had the right rawness about it, so that the flesh could be fully appreciated; and lightly braised blood sausage – dark with the richness of congealed sanguis, contrasted with delectable globules of bone-white fat.
He opened his eyes and caught the remnants of the setting sun behind the far-off hills, the sky blazed in burnt umber, and in places nearly as red as life-blood. His eyes turned to his guests, the Vicomte du Mal and his wife, and Margrave Champoleon and his very lovely daughter, Cybele.
Cybele. He had loved her the moment he saw those emerald green eyes, her jet-black hair, surrounding her porcelain-white skin. It was her skin that drew him in at first, that flesh which promised so much softness to caress and to place one’s mouth against. He swallowed hard. This was always so difficult, so frustrating.
He had seen her that first time four years ago in a royal function, and it took nearly twelve months for Champoleon to finally agree to attend a dinner engagement on his estate. The elderly nobleman enjoyed his feast, and eagerly agreed to return regularly. This was what he wanted, in order to be near Cybele, and hopefully win her heart. Unfortunately she was shy, or perhaps disliked him, as she only spoke to him when responding to his questions or statements; and when she did speak, she never allowed eye contact.
Tonight was the nineteenth dinner where Cybele attended.
He worked his way slowly through the dishes, always sticking to his favourites, finding rapture in the taste and texture of the raw or near-raw animal tissue. He was the perfect host, responding to each guest’s needs, partaking of small talk, offering titbits from the banquet table when they were out of reach. Much of his behavior was automatic: his mind was only half devoted to etiquette. The other part of his attention was centered on Cybele, as it always was, hoping that he could break down her barrier.
A servant refilled his goblet with the dark, blood-red wine, and he sipped it, feeling the soothing effects of the alcohol permeate his body. He noticed that she hardly touched her own. He wished she was less inhibited, to give his love – his need – a chance.
Like all previous dinners graced with Cybele, this night saw no progress at all. His disappointment was tangible, heart-rending, but he still continued to feign the perfect host.
There was one last meal that was numbered among his favourite that was not sampled this night – the tartare. It was untouched, and on the far side of the table near his object of adoration. He studied the small plate with the minced venison molded in a slightly rounded shape – much like a young girl’s breast he thought, and he felt himself salivate at the bright redness of the freshly chopped flesh, and the glistening, diluted blood around the rim. He then turned his eyes to Cybele, as he frequently was want to do, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. Gods! Is there a possibility that the ice is melting? His heart started to beat faster, his anticipation started to rise.
He saw her pick up the venison tartare dish and offer it to him. He couldn’t help but stare at her, and her eyes locked onto his and she smiled. “Comte de Lyonnesse, are you still hungry?”
He smiled back; his teeth were long and straight. “Yes thank you, Mademoiselle Cybele, I am hungry like a wolf.”
Short Story: The SInkhole
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I awoke with the sound of rushing water jetting from above, and the chilly swell lapping at my face.
It is pitch black. I groggily get to my feet.
I cry out in pain. The echoes of my voice reveal a confined space. I remember what happened.
The sinkhole is deep; it’s amazing I didn’t die in the fall. I know I’m bleeding all over, and I have broken ribs. I must be a ghastly sight!
It’s night up there and it’s still probably pouring. I’m numb from the cold, shaking from shock, and the acrid water is rising. It’s up to my ankles already.
I was running for my life. I thought they would never find me, especially in these wild hills… but they’re resourceful. The stormy winter night didn’t help me evade them, so I simply ran. I was drenched but didn’t care; my runners were soaked and heavy from the scrambling through rushing creeks and puddles. I never saw the sinkhole until it was too late.
The churning water is up to my thighs and I can’t feel my legs any more. The cold is oppressive. I am holding onto the rocky wall, trying to think. I need to figure out how to get up and out of this death trap.
Brian had it coming to him. He cost me a hundred thousand and the Johnson brothers will be after me now. They’re unforgiving. They’ll kill me if they find me. I dragged him into the freezing surf and when the waves lapped against my upper legs I let him go. A drowning. I was sure it’d work. I covered my tracks and headed for the mountains.
I’m scared. Terrified. I’m in the middle of nowhere; the only humans within miles want to torture and kill me, and I’m too injured to climb out of this prison. The water is high up my waist and I can barely stand. I have companions… several rats trying not to drown. I laugh. We have much in common.
I cast my mind back ten years. I was fifteen, already a year on my own – escaped my loveless, smacked-out parents. I joined the Johnsons – they taught me how to survive and make quick money. My first big job was to collect drug drop-offs – and all I had to do was wade waste deep into the estuary, locate the buoy, and retrieve…
It’s up to my neck now and rising faster than ever. I’m done for! I can’t even swim ‘cause my body is half dead already. I have no God to pray to, no parents to mourn me. I so wish I could do this all again, differently…
Things are fuzzy, slowing down. I am surrounded by a warm and comforting liquid, and it is dark. My heart beats but there is no breathing. I feel pressure and there is a dim light before me. I am born, and I am free…
Short Story: My Animus
I am eating my own soul with hatred. I am curled up, gnawing at my knees with loathing. I despise the world and nothing would please me more than seeing it destroyed.
I do not know how long I have been imprisoned in this watery world. I am blind and immobilised; I remember nothing of how I got here. I dimly recall fighting the righteous in the fields and being vanquished, and my spirit soared the ether for two ages as humans counted years. I burned in hell-fire for thrice that period, punished for crimes against humanity. Now I have my new prison – this confining space, where my mind is addled; where all I have is my animus.
Why is the water so warm? Is it close to where I suffered the agonies of the fire? Perhaps. Why am I alive, given that I am immersed in this viscous liquid? I cannot be sure, but I feel that I am being nourished in some way. I have wondered about many things, and never get any answers. This is part of the torture, the punishment.
I’m special, anointed, superior. That was why I was persecuted and banished from the world. Death is not a finality for me, and I know I will return. One day. Oh they will suffer. They will grovel before me and pray to be my slaves.
The water has its own special sound. It is like the wind rustling in the trees, or waves breaking on the shores. It has a rhythm to it, like a heartbeat, and it seduces me with feelings of comfort and security. It lies. How can it give the impression of wholesomeness when it knows that I am confined in this agonising eternity? Another, more cruel dimension to the torment.
Wait! Something is happening! The rhythm is picking up pace and I feel pressure about me. Is this it? Is this the time I will be freed and finally fulfil my destiny?
The water, it is receding. Rapidly. I feel like I am being crushed, and yet I am being liberated. Freedom!
Chaotic, churning confusion. I am constricted and I feel that my life-system is shutting down. I feel something grasp my head with a titanic grip, and now I am washed in a cold blast of air! Light penetrates my eyelids and I force my eyes open, as I am choking – dying from lack of air. My back is slammed and I vomit the remains of the liquid that was in my lungs. I see nothing but indistinct images around me as I gulp for air. I cry. I cannot help it!
Laid on some bed I see blurry human figures, masked, stare at me. I continue to cry. I try to move my body and all I can do is wave my arms and legs uselessly. I have no control. I catch a glimpse of a golden cross around one neck.
My torture continues.
Short Story: The Prey
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On the fourth floor balcony of an aged, decrepit apartamento block in Old Havana, a flower petal began to sway in a salty breeze, sourced from the Straits of Florida. The older folk who lived in the street, despite the very late hour, made themselves comfortable at their open windows, for the stifling November heat was now being relieved by the rare wind, and those in the know started to chat about the chances of a hurricane coming their way. They whispered because they considered the midnight hour to belong to the dead.
The yellow petal suddenly separated from its parent flower and zipped up, over the rusted iron railing. It spiralled and climbed a hundred feet into the air, far above the sweaty, smelly streets of the oldest sector of Cuba’s capital. The updraft ceased and it then followed the prevalent wind, toward the Vedado district of the old city. It dropped and climbed, depending on the chaotic rhythm of the breeze, finally plummeting into the 140 acre Colon Cemetery, dodging the multitude of mausoleums, and racing along the narrow paths among the many hundreds of thousands of grave stones.
The petal bounced along the concrete path and missed the footfalls of a pretty young girl, who purposefully trudged toward the centre of the massive necropolis. The wind ceased for a moment; the tiny object rested lightly on the dimly lit path, and was crushed by the young girl’s left shoe.
As quickly as the flower petal was pulverised, thunder and lightning cracked over the sky, and heavy drops of rain spattered about, and within seconds, the rain fell heavily, soaking the young girl. She completely ignored the change of weather; it was as if the rain did not exist.
***
Nearby, deep beneath a ninety year old, cracked grave, amongst the dry and mouldy bones of a coffin’s inhabitant, something stirred. It wasn’t like a wakening, as the being was not exactly asleep, and it wasn’t something physical, terrestrial; the spirit had been preoccupied within its own world and it had sensed that something alive was walking the path in the hours that belonged to him. Alive. Breathing. Disgusting. I am not breathing. Join us, mortal. Feel the worms and decay erode your body; feel your flesh corrupt. He expanded his consciousness and allowed himself to rise to the surface…
The spirit of Emilio Esteban eased its way through the ground into the necropolis proper, the place for the dead, yet part of the world of the living. At night, however, the living had less right to claim the place theirs. He had no interest in the weather, only the fact that it was the dead of the night, and that there was, inexplicably, a young living being taking a seat on a nearby bench. The nerve of her. Is she insulting us? Does she take pleasure in flaunting her aliveness?
“Emilio, do not fret,” came a very familiar spirit-voice from behind. “She seems like a lovely girl, doesn’t she. Very young – surely no more than seventeen, no?”
“She’s alive, Beatriz.”
“Ah, Emilio, you are so depressive, so morose. We all were alive, and now we are dead. She has an unknown allotment of time on Earth – why begrudge her her time?” The female spirit could not be seen, but was tangibly sensed by a matronly presence – empathic, warm.
Emilio was about to retort with a barrage of reasons why he was angry and why, as a result of a bitter betrayal, his life was cut short, when a third spirit emerged from the depths of the earth. He grimaced; it was Alejo, that estúpido writer.
The spirit of the young novelist joined the other two phantoms. “My, my, my, what do we have here? A young, and pretty girl sitting in Colon? How interesting. Ah, if only I was made of flesh and blood… what a scrumptious looking thing.”
Beatriz laughed. “And what are you planning to do? Woo her with your skeletal visage? Caress her with your bony – oh my – the best you could come up with is a chill on her flesh!”
Alejo feigned injury. “If I did not know you well, I would have thought you were being cruel. Yes, it is just my imagination at play. Alas, all I would do is frighten her.”
Emilio jumped in. “Why not? Sneak up on her and frighten her! With luck she will die from heart failure and then you would have the companion you so yearn for.” His eery presence intensified with his malignant words.
“Now that was cruel,” Alejo replied. “I could not do this to such a frail girl. Look at her – she ignores the downpour and just morosely sits on the stone bench. What is she thinking? Why is she here?”
“Hard to tell, my friend,” Beatriz replied. “It does seem strange. She is small and fragile – must be from some well-to-do household. And yet she should be asleep. Look at her face, it is angelic, although a little pasty. Perhaps she has had some bad news given to her, or someone close has recently died and lies here.”
Alejo sighed. “I believe she is depressed. I recall that some adolescents – many of whom have moments when they are dark of mood – cannot escape it as the years roll by. Her frowns lay too comfortably on her face. I fear she may be a troubled child.”
“Poor dear,” Beatriz said. “If I could only console her. I fear that if I make myself appear before her I would only make matters worse.”
“And why not?” Emilio chimed in, venom dripping from his words. “She is doomed! Look at her; of course she is loco! Why did she come to this God forsaken place? Because she means to commit suicide. I have seen this before, a number of times. This is a favourite spot for those fools.”
“You can’t be sure, my friend,” Alejo said, indignant at Emilio’s tone.
“Don’t call me friend! I am no-one’s friend. If I had friends I would have died an aged man and passed to a better place. Instead, I am here, stuck for eternity with a pair of pathetic ghosts!”
Beatriz ignored Emilio. He ranted so often there was little meaning to his words. “There is too much speculation. She is a mystery, and only time will tell us why she is here. Let us just wait and observe.”
“Why?” Emilio blustered. “I am sick and tired of both of you – why should you care for her? She is ALIVE – do you understand? She is a blasphemy to us! This is our territory, where we can suffer the agony of our existence. Why should a young girl come here and remind us of what we have lost, and yearn for so much?"
Beatriz looked in Alejo’s direction quizzically, expressing concern at a turn of emotion Emilio had not demonstrated before. When she turned her attention back toward Emilio, the spectre had gone. “Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t do something rash!”
***
Emilio materialised ten yards behind the girl. He studied her, angry that she was there at all, but nevertheless trying to explain the mystery of why she was sitting in the pouring rain, alone, in the cemetery. He could not see her face, but her body language was that of someone broken, or depressed. Her head was slightly tilted downward, and her long auburn hair was soaked and clingy, exaggerating her posture. She wore dark clothing and had long leather boots, which were alien to him, as he was accustomed to women wearing light colours and much more modest dresses. There was a moment – only fleeting – when he felt sorry for the young one, and thought of retreating, but his anger flared again. He revealed as much of his being to the mortal world as he could muster.
Aniya, the young woman who sat on the stone bench, sensed that someone – something – was approaching, and she jumped to her feet and spun around. She saw a dimly glowing human form approach her slowly, wearing a wispy shroud, but revealing skeletal hands and a skull where a face would normally be found. A dark green luminescence emanated from the eye sockets, and liquefied flesh oozed from all of the ghost’s spectral bones.
She sucked her breath in quickly, not in horror or dismay, but in glee.
The young girl pulled out of her right sleeve a small doll made of wicker and leather, depicting a terrifying skeletal god, and out of the other a wrinkled, severed human hand, decorated with colourful feathers and blood. She quickly raised her clutched objects into the air and cried in a Haitian accent, “Dieux de la mort, permettez-moi à manger!”
Emilio was taken completely by surprise and reacted slowly – too late to fade into the earth. He no longer had control of his form, and to his horror, he was slowly being drawn to the girl.
What the spirit was witnessing was a nightmare he never thought he could have. This child was petit, and she had porcelain skin. Her eyes were brown and her lips were red and full… and then he realised that her face was actually painted white and was already starting to run, and her lips were red with blood. She screamed in some foul, uncouth tongue and her teeth were bared, and each tooth was filed into triangular daggers. Emilio shuddered but could do nothing. As he got within a few feet of the witch-girl, her mouth extended to four feet in diameter, and he felt his being drawing into her hell-maw.
“What are you doing? This is my home, not yours!”
She said nothing, but her eyes turned claret-red and there was a slight turn to her cavernous mouth, that resembled a smirk.
Emilio almost instantly disappeared into Aniya’s gullet. She closed her mouth, and in moments appeared again as the lonely, rain-drenched girl. She gazed about her, and stopped for a few extra seconds, staring in the direction of the Baseball Hall of Fame Mausoleum, nodding slightly to Beatriz and Alejo, who were cowering behind a monument. She smiled, invigorated with the energy she had consumed, and retraced her steps out of the Colon Cemetery.
The Chronicles of Evyntyde 