Wrong Wail [FICTION]

The day before Halloween and our Irish wake had barely gotten started. Great uncle Seamus would have been proud of his three sons for getting us all together to celebrate him. But he would be most proud that they convinced his best friend to foot the bill for the finest Irish whiskey. His pride would have faded when they refused to share the whiskey and were falling down drunk before the ladies of the family had set out the array of treats he enjoyed so much in life.

Their mother cuffed them soundly about the ears and sent them to sleep it off in his stead. Then the party really got started. Thankfully, Seamus was more clown than cad, so as we shared our memories, we found cause to roar with laughter and raise our glasses. 

As darkness fell deeper outside, eyes turned to the clock. Slowly but surely, people began to take their leave with more hugs, more Irish blessings baptized in the dregs of the bar, and reminders to the widow that family was just a call away.

When only a handful of people remained, the remaining hands banded together to help clean up the remains of the celebration of life. They might have finished in record time had she not interrupted. 

An unearthly wail filled the room. A pinpoint of light grew with the earsplitting sound until the silhouette of an angular woman in rags revealed herself to the remaining mourners. The widow sank to her knees, adding her own wail to that already permeating the air. The mourners closest to her, knelt beside her as if to shield her with their bodies and the rest stood staring at the banshee with slack-jawed, wide-eyed fear as her hollow, soulless eyes looked through them.

She turned her head with disturbing slowness to scan the room. Finally, her eyes rested on the image of the deceased under the in memoriam banner. Her head whipped back around to face her quivering audience and emitted an even more plaintive wail. 

“Late,” she dragged out the word and turned once more to Great Uncle Seamus’ photo, addressing it with a lingering wail of despair. “Already called.”

She disappeared with less fanfare than she arrived. The mourners still huddled together as coldness gripped the room. When the temperature finally rose, so did the mourners. They rushed as fast as feeble legs could carry them to vacate the banquet hall before anyone else could be called.

~~~

Happy Halloween, dear readers! Feel free to take this last chance opportunity to inspire my National Novel Month Writing but posting suggestions in the comments.

Real Character [FICTION]

Writing about Carlotta Asterom always lead to interesting occurrences—from uncontrollable laughter to apologizing for that laughter when Carlotta’s antics proved to be deadly. That’s probably why I kept coming back to her and my publisher couldn’t get enough. I had found my niche. In my latest novel, she plotted and performed the perfect crime. I knew she would work it out but my ease in writing it for her disturbed me. The publisher loved it and my novel would be out soon, so it was out of my hands. I wanted to enjoy a few months of letting ideas foment in my tired brain before leaping into the next writing project.

In the interest of relaxing, I started taking walks after lunch. On my tenth walk, I happened across a moving truck at the end of my block. Two burly movers paid no heed to me as they hefted huge boxes from the truck to the wide open front door. I carefully stepped around the hustle and bustle, intending to carry on with my walk. But motion drew my eye to the trunk of a black Kia Forte. As I looked at my new neighbor, she looked up and grinned at me. I blinked, shook my head to clear it and then took another look at her.

Tall and willowy, she had jet black hair falling in straight sheets over her shoulders then down to her waist. Dark eyes twinkled with humor or evil as she offered me a half smile that revealed canines which extended a little too far beyond their neighbors. I tried to smile back or continue my walk as if I hadn’t just stopped to stare at her, but my feet betrayed me and remained frozen to the spot.

Her smile widened as she finished grabbing items from her trunk—duct tape, lengths of rope, a shovel, and a hefty bag of quicklime. She set these next to her car nonchalantly and stepped forward to extend her hand.

I took it tentatively, hoping she didn’t notice my eyes widen as her clammy skin met mine. Then she spoke in a soft voice that begged me to allow myself to be hypnotized.

“Hello, new neighbor, I’m Carlotta Aston.”

My jaw dropped and my hand went limp. She raised an eyebrow as one corner of her mouth curled up in amusement.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Um. No,” I barely recovered enough to protest as I stared at the character who had leapt from my novels fully formed.

“Oh, good,” she laughed softly, “I would hate to get off on the wrong foot with my neighbors.”

I nodded numbly as she looked at me expectantly. Finally, she cleared her throat, “So what should I call you the next time we meet?”

“Bella,” I croaked.

“That’s a lovely name, and it was lovely to meet you, but I should check on my movers.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Enjoy your walk,” she waved her hand and turned away from me.

My traitorous legs finally propelled me forward. I picked up speed but not as much as the thoughts in my head that raced along with questions and concerns about my new neighbor. I resolved to try to avoid her as much as possible. I would have to completely rethink my walking routine to do that, but it would be worth it for my sanity.

~

I held to my goal of steering clear of my new neighbor for a whole day before my attitude changed. With her here right down the street I felt the inexorable promise of death. I tried to shake away my foolish imagination, but no amount of head shaking and verbal reassurance that my Carlotta and my new neighbor had nothing to do with each other failed to calm my troubled mind.

Thus I found myself slowly trailing her black Kia in my own nondescript grey Nissan Versa down our quiet little neighborhood streets. This went on for about a week before I started to lose interest. I had followed her to the local pet store for the third time that week, so I allowed myself to get distracted by an offer on my phone. When I looked up, her car was gone. Startled, I scanned every visible patch of road, but no sign of her remained.

A few days later, the front page informed our small town that one of our residents turned up in the local park, covered in quicklime. Had the unusual aroma not interested Mrs. Abernathy’s trio of bloodhounds, Mr. Harp’s body may have never been discovered. Someone buried him fairly deep, but Mrs. Abernathy couldn’t control all three of her little babies, so they managed to unearth him before she got them back under control.

Sadly, no one had any clue who would want to end Mr. Harp’s life. No one except me, but I wasn’t talking because around that time, I realized I wasn’t the one watching anymore. Carlotta was. So if anything happens to me, someone else needs to watch her.

~~~

Writing the canon of Carlotta’s story is in the runnings for National Novel Writing Month this year. As everyone in my high school creative writing class can attest to, no one can resist writing about her when a story prompt suggests you pick an existing character and put them in a spooky situation. Hope this little piece of fiction about fiction coming to life brightened your Halloween prep, but didn’t inspire you to homicide.

Haunted House Party [FICTION]

“I’m so glad you finally saw reason and agreed to host the first of many haunting parties,” Glenda winked at me as she surveyed the spiderwebs hanging happily from any surface out of my reach and, honestly, most within my reach as well.

“Me, too! This place is too perfectly spooky to waste,” Rae flicked back a stray lock of jet black hair with a red-tipped nail.  

The chandelier flickered as a tentative knock sounded at the door. We exchanged looks and then Glenda and Rae watched me expectantly. I sighed.

“I guess it is my house,” I muttered as I pulled open the door.

The skinny figure on the other side of the door stopped biting her thin lips to flash me a huge smile. I smiled back before turning to look at Glenda who had been nothing but mean to Lacey since they first met. 

She shrugged and mouthed, “Later.”

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head at her as Rae stepped forward to grab Lacey’s hand and pull her into the foyer. Lacey seemed unaware of the manhandling as her eyes wandered over every surface with wonder and admiration.

“It’s almost like we’ve stepped back in time,” she murmured breathlessly.

“Or time stands still here for the ghost,” Glenda grinned at her.

Lacey’s eyes went wide and then sought out mine as she released a breathless whisper, “Ghosts?”

“Don’t worry. They only come for the naughty teenagers,” I looked pointedly at Glenda, who responded with rolled eyes and a rude hand gesture.

Then she turned abruptly and headed toward the kitchen, “I hope you have some spooky snacks to fortify us for ghost hunting tonight.”

I sighed and followed with Lacey and Rae so close at my heels that I may not have imagined their anxious breaths on my neck. As my small troop inspected my snack offerings and found them worthy of digging in, the itinerary for the evening got finalized.

“So when we have full tummies from all these yummy snacks, I vote we watch a scary movie,” Rae grinned over a concoction of pretzels coated in chocolate to look like a spider web.

“And then the ghost stories,” Glenda wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at me, “Or tales about the previous owners.”

“Sounds good,” I refused to let her rope me into this argument again.

She grinned and I crushed a sigh deep down inside my chest and grinned back. Rae and Lacey nibbled at some popcorn as they looked between the two of us, no doubt feeling the tension and waiting for the real show to begin.

Hours later, after getting our adrenaline flowing with not one but two scary movies, we opted to save our spooky tales for the following evening. If my guests hadn’t scared themselves out of making a weekend of it. I grinned at their backs as I followed them up the stairs. Another one of my friends volunteered to make a special treat for the next evening’s repast: a “corpse” made of deli meats and cheeses that looks disgustingly realistic.

We muttered our goodnights as Glenda and I slipped into my room and Rae and Lacey took the room down the hall. The house has six bedrooms, but I only have beds in two of them because that was how the house was furnished when I inherited. I tumbled into the queen bed in my room and Glenda sighed a little as she slips under the covers on the opposite side.

“You really need more beds.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Sleeping with you is weird.”

“You can sleep on the floor.”

“You need more beds.”

Now I sighed as I repeated, “No! I don’t!”

“You do if you are going to have friends over.”

“This is my first sleepover in the five years since this became my house. I think I’m good on beds.”

She sniffed derisively and rolled away from me. I rolled my eyes and mirrored her movements, snuggling into my pillow as sleep overwhelmed me.

I woke with a start, sitting up and taking in the sounds around me. Nothing sounded off. Wondering what roused me, I reached out for Glenda and found an empty space where she had been.

“Glenda? Where are you?” I whispered.

Getting no response, I slipped out of bed and padded to the doorway. The door hung slightly open, so I stepped into the hallway. A faint light filtered through a picture window at the end of the hall, revealing that I alone stood on the worn carpet leading off toward the stairs. I shuffled  resignedly down the hall, half-expecting to find Glenda sleeping on the couch downstairs.

The couch proved empty, but as I turn the corner toward the kitchen, I heard the fridge dispensing water and shuffled faster. As I rounded the doorframe, Glenda looked up at me with her eyes wide and mouth hanging open. That lasted for the two seconds it took to realize I was just me.

“Thirsty, too?” She asked glibly.

“No. Just wanted to make sure the ghosts didn’t get you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wish they had. I came here for some excitement.”

I snorted. “I told you the house isn’t haunted. It’s just old.”

“We’ll see,” she offered cryptically before draining her glass and setting it in the sink. “Coming?”

“In a minute. Maybe I will have a glass of water.”

“Ta-ta,” she waved her fingers at me and tiptoed out of the room.

After finishing my own midnight libation, I crept back up the stairs. As I stepped onto the second floor landing, a noise turned my attention away from my own doorway which Glenda had left ajar. I turned toward the shuffling sound and peered into the darkness. In the ethereal light of the picture window, it resembled an unruly sack of laundry. As it shuffled forward, I noted that it was about as tall as Glenda and encased in a skin of rough burlap material.

“Glenda, knock it off,” I muttered waving off her theatrics.

“Huh?” Glenda’s voice filtered sleepily out of my room.

I stared at the creature for a moment. Then the door to my room opened wider and Glenda peered out into the hallway. Seeing the creature, she squealed and slammed the door shut. I glanced at the door of the room where Rae and Lacey presumably slept on but didn’t want to risk finding it locked as the creature shuffled toward me. I pondered my options only briefly before stepping back onto the stairs.

Unbelievably, the creature followed me to the stairs. Without eyes, maybe it didn’t see that the floor drops off, but then how did it know where I was? I paused on the bottom step to stare up at it as it slowly shambled to the edge of the top step. It stopped and I let out a relieved sigh. The sound spurred it forward and it shuffled over the top step.

As it tumbled forward, the burlap tore. I started to laugh but it died halfway up my throat as dozens of glowing orbs poured out of the tear. The burlap collapsed to the stairs but those orbs came right for me. I ducked down and noticed a two by four leaning against the wall from my last redneck repair effort. I grabbed it up and stood up, ready to do battle with whatever horror had been unleashed in my home.

As the first orb neared me, I knocked it out of the park—or at least out of the foyer. It bounced off the nearest wall and fell to the ground. I repeated this maneuver with the next couple of round creatures. Then they caught on that I was not an easy target and began floating upward toward the ceiling. When they reached the solid wooden beams, they shimmered and disappeared. The ones I knocked to the floor came to and followed the others. As my eyes followed their trajectory, I saw my friends leaning over the banister with a eyes filled with a mix of wonder and terror.

“Believe in me,” the last floating orb beseeched before floating up to join its friends in passing through the ceiling.

-

Hopefully, this tale satisfies all those Friday the 13th needs to be disturbed. 

Pain and Punishment [FICTION]

Welcome to your punishment. Imagine if you will that you are to be punished for every lie you tell. What would be the worst possible punishment? Would it be looking at the faces of the those who suffered for your lies? Would it be hearing your own voice spouting such untruths? Could we develop a punishment more insidious and fitting? Or has one already been devised by someone who couldn’t take falsehoods to heart anymore?

~

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be right back,” Roy tipped one corner of his lip up in that heart melting way he had.

Henny smiled back at him and though her heart didn’t fully believe his reassurances, it beat out the drumbeat of the lovelorn. She watched him walk away as sadness settled into her heart, calming its percussion. As his car roared out onto the street and disappeared into the distance, sadness gave way to disappointment that he could still make her feel this way. 

“Why am I so stupid?” She asked the empty air.

“You’re not stupid. You just haven’t reached the point where you want to do something about all those lies,” a voice cackled in her ear.

She jumped back and turned to face the speaker—her elderly neighbor. She forced a smile onto her face as she took in the scrawny woman’s wild grey hair and black sack of a dress.

“Hello, Janice, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Too focused on that fool of yours. I know,” she grinned showing surprisingly straight teeth. “Might be about time to teach him not to tell lies, particularly such bad ones.”

Henny shrugged uncomfortably, rubbing her bare arms as a chill ran through her. “I think I need to get back inside.”

“As you wish, my dear, but I am right next door if you ever get tired of being lied to.” She patted Henny gently on the shoulder and hobbled down the stairs.

The heels of her shoes clacked loudly, making Henny question why she hadn’t heard her until she spoke. As she watched the older woman make her way slowly back to her house with her dark dress and silvered hair blowing in the soft breeze, every whispered warning to beware the witch next door rushed back into her mind. She shook it off and headed back into her house. Janice had been nothing but kind and helpful to Henny and her little family. She even forgave their dog digging up her prize tulips, refusing to accept money or help to replant them. The other neighbors just hadn’t bothered to get to know her. And witches aren’t real. She glanced over her shoulder one more time after repeating these reassurances in her mind, but she bit her lip a little as she realized Janice had disappeared without her door ever creaking open.

~

A few days later, Henny found herself on Janice’s porch. She hadn’t heard back from Roy until this morning when he called to ask her for a few bucks because he was running low. He called from her front step and rapped on the door until she opened up and handed over what little money she had. She plastered on a smile as he left a hint of a kiss on her cheek. Inside she was seething as the hint of someone else’s perfume wafted off of him in waves on his way back out the door.

As her door creaked open, Janice smiled sweetly at Henny, inviting her inside. She glanced around, curiously. Thick burgundy curtains were pulled back from the windows to allow light to pour into the room. A recliner sat in the middle of the window, with a cat perched regally on either arm like tiny gargoyles soaking up the sun. Off to one side, a loveseat nested between two bookshelves filled with worn tomes and crystals.

“Would you like some tea, dear? Or something stronger?” She offered as she gestured toward the loveseat and wrinkled her nose, “I saw your young man leaving like his tail was on fire.”

“No. I don’t think I could drink anything.” Henny looked down at her hands, feeling her shame rise forcefully to her cheeks as she avoided the second topic.

Janice reached out to pat her hand as she settled down beside her, “He is the one who should be unable to look a person in the eye. We have all had young, foolish love.”

As she raised her eyes to meet Janice’s, Henny felt a warmth filling her stomach as if she had accepted that drink. It gave her courage to ask, “But what do you do when you start to think that love isn’t good for you?”

“Teach them a lesson.”

Henny’s eyes widened as Janice took her hand and helped her up from the couch. She remained silent as the neighbor led her into a tiny back room where only candles lit a small altar. She tried to pull away, but Janice’s grip proved inhumanly strong.

“Just let me do one small thing for you. I don’t like how that man treats you.”

She took Henny’s other hand and pulled her into a circle she had drawn on the floor. As they stepped into it, a gust of wind swirled around them. Janice began mumbling strange words quickly under her breath. Henny held her breath and closed her eyes tight, unsure what else to do. Her lungs began to burn and her eyes popped open as the last words left Janice’s mouth.

The older woman patted her hand again and lead her back to the living room, where the cats observed them both warily before closing their green eyes again.

“I think I’m ready for that drink,” Henny croaked.

~~~

At first just hints of words echoed through the room. Then they coalesced into phrases and sentences in his own voice that he recognized for he had repeated them as often as he needed to in order to keep Henny content to wait for him and take care of him.

“I heard you”

“I have only ever loved you”

“You need me more than I need you”

“They didn’t have my check ready today”

“You know you’ll never do better than me” 

Then the dust swirled around his feet and each lie rose up like a hurricane being birthed by the ocean. As if changed by the mere thought of the beach, it turned to sand, grinding away at his skin as it swirled around him. The words grew louder and more familiar phrases joined them. With each new lie echoed from his guided tongue, the swirling increased until he disappeared inside it. His screams drowned out the lies, yet still they came back to his remembrance as sand sloughed off his skin and his streams echoed through his deafened ears. At last, he found solace in unconsciousness.

~~~

When Roy awakened, familiar walls assured him he was home. The dingy sheets of his own small apartment held the sweat of his night terrors but no blood. When he reached up to his face, it seemed intact though the skin burned as if exposed to too much sun. He took a breath of relief and stood up from his bed, searching for his pants in the clutter on his floor.

“I’ll go to Henny. She’ll tell me everything is alright,” he reassured himself as he raced to the door.

As he drove to her house, he put the top down on his convertible despite the chill in the night air. By the time he arrived, he had the tousled windswept look that he knew melted her heart and other areas he cared more about.

He rang the bell. Her soft footsteps approached the door and pointed his most winning smile at the peephole.

“It’s late, Roy. Go home,” she said through the door.

“But you are my home, baby. I missed you.”

He heard her sigh, but the door didn’t open. “I can’t do this anymore, Roy. Go home.”

“I told you. I am home. Let me in.”

He thought he heard her determination waver, but he wasn’t the sort to risk it where a fool woman was concerned. He fished in his pockets for his keys. Carefully selecting the one she had entrusted him with and putting it in the lock. It didn’t turn.

“Baby, my key isn’t working.”

“I changed the locks. I can’t listen to anymore of your lies.”

“What lies?”

The door opened a crack and she peered out at him, so he could see her red-rimmed eyes and the knowledge deep inside them. “You know what lies.” She hissed and started to close the door.

He wedged his toe in the door and leaned his weight into the door until the chain strained and both wood and metal squealed a warning, “Come to your senses and let me in.”

“Go away. I don’t want to see you again,” Henny gasped as she pushed harder against the door.

“Young man, I would do as the young lady says and not come back,” a raspy voice turned him round

The overall picture presented by its owner should have convinced him to listen. At first he laughed, but she raised a double-barreled shotgun to reinforce her suggestion. Roy released a string of expletives and stepped away from the door. It promptly closed on his back.

“Old woman, mind your own business.”

“This is my business. We look after our neighbors in this neighborhood.”

She cocked her head to the houses across the street. Porch lights cast a soft glow on people standing inside open doors with phones in their hands. A few even waved their own firearms in salutation as he looked their way.

He spit on the ground at the old woman’s feet, “She isn’t worth it anyway.”

“She is to us,” Janice said.

He snarled and spit at her again before stepping into his car and pulling away from the house.

“I wouldn’t have done that twice,” she called after him.

An icy chill settled into his shoulders and began to spread from there as her words suddenly brought back the dream of of his own words coming to cause him harm. He shuddered violently and the car swerved…

~

Realized the title might have got friends who love horror and Jane Austen a little excited. Sorry. I wasn’t taking a dark take on Austen’s writings. Maybe next time? Probably not, but if you want check out some novels written based on “What if?” Questions involving dear Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth, I can refer you to the writings of a dear friend of mine.