Terror Scribes

by Adam Lowe

  She put Moira and her horrible boyfriend out of her head and began to collect lime-coloured caterpillars. She knew that this species of caterpillar grew up to be Cabbage Whites and she knew that they would flit around all over her garden in the summer.

  She would lie in wait for the butterflies. When one rested, finally, she would catch it and put it in a jar. Caroline was bewitched by the tongues of butterflies. They protruded long from their mouths and ended in a neat little spiral curl. She had once caught the end of a butterfly’s tongue and held it between her small fingers. The butterfly made no protest. What could it do, after all? The same as the flies. What could they do, once their wings had been plucked?

  Grown-ups never spoke of insects feeling pain, so Caroline had always assumed that they did not. The way that the denuded flies had buzzed madly on the table in the garage seemed to suggest otherwise, however, and Caroline felt ashamed of her experiment. Still, she had a restless, insatiable need to know, to investigate life—and death. She arranged the caterpillars, all wriggly on the paving slabs, and cut them in half, with her pink nail scissors. She wasn’t a bad little girl and no-one would ever have said that she was cruel. She was, however, an inquisitive little girl.

  She had heard some rumour about worms, that when they were cut in half, they would become two new worms. Caroline wanted to see if that was true, and would the two new caterpillars be friends and be happy to see each other? Would the two halves recognise each other for who they were?

  When this didn’t happen, she was distraught. Even though the caterpillars were mute—to her ears at least—she could hear a silent yet deafening agony emitting from their desperate writhing. She felt appalled at her own actions and quickly made tiny tissue paper bandages. She placed the bisected pieces of caterpillar together again and carefully wrapped them, trying to bind the severed pieces. It didn’t work. The caterpillars bled dark green and died quickly. Her sadness immediately forgotten, Caroline became instead fascinated and surprised. She knew that humans bled red. This was one of the many lessons which her sister had taught so proficiently.

  Years later and for the rest of her life, Caroline dreamed about men who would hurt her. They would hurt her and then heal her, make her feel special.

  She found exactly who she needed when she met her empty-eyed monster in a usually safe bar. Dmitry was a professional, but enjoyed his work to such an extent that he didn’t mind bringing it home every night. Caroline needed to feel pain. The bruises and the raw areas made her feel grounded. Most of the time, Caroline was frightened that she might just disappear from the face of the earth, even before the eyes of whoever happened to be around at the time. Dmitry made everything real for her. He was her god. She worshipped at his feet, where she fell. When she was alone, when her beast was elsewhere, she could not help the way her mind sometimes drifted backwards.

  II.

  It’s a stretching-for-ever walk-way, over the river. It’s a frighteningly narrow bridge, even to me, just a little girl. I look down. I should never look down. Mum tells me this. I look down and see all of the gaps in the fragile wood, underneath my feet. The river rushes below. It wants me. I can feel it. It wants me to jump. It wants me to fall through the rotting boards so that it can get me.

  I look back towards the abattoir. I see metallic walls, the spill of dark blood, washing the floor and running down to the river. The stink wakes me. It lets me know. Something is not right.

  So many times I cross this bridge in nightmares, the old boards falling away beneath my feet, my heart leaping upwards, the death plunge, the freezing, hugging water and the pounding, gasping awakening.

  III.

  I knew that Caroline was sick when I met her. She’s not right in the head. I don’t think she ever has been. She tells me about her childhood sometimes, when we are both drunk, before I hit her, before I restrain her. She trusts me. She knows that I love her and, anyway, the pain I offer her is nothing compared to what she suffered at the hands of her elder sister. I’m certain that she is the reason why Caroline is in torment. She is the reason why Caroline needs vodka. She is the reason why Caroline needs my fists and the hard, relentless punishment I give her when I fuck her. Caroline needs to have her life filled right to the brim with whatever I can inflict upon her, because the pain blots out her thoughts. Caroline wants to feel nothing. She does not want to think.

  I’ve seen photographs of her when she was young. She was a happy, smiling baby, sat in the lap of a scowling, hateful sibling. What could she do?

  Yes, Caroline has grown up to be quite a hard woman, at least when she’s out of the house. She always attacks long before there is any need for defence. I feel sorry for her. Sometimes, she shocks people with her callous brutality. She needs to keep her mouth shut a bit more. She doesn’t seem to care what is acceptable and what is not.

  Her work-mates keep a sensible distance from her. Work is work. Work is not the problem. Life is the challenging stuff. Have you seen what I’ve seen? No. I didn’t think so. I can tell that you don’t know. Get right up in my face. You’ll see. No reaction. I stand my ground, always. You’re the one in danger. In fact, I’m always hoping for attack. It’s the perfect excuse for self-defence. Perhaps I could argue reasonable force, if it came to that. I would just have to be careful that they didn’t realise how much I had enjoyed it. Be my recreation. Be my vent. Venting is healthy. I know that. I read it somewhere once, in a magazine, I think. Come on. Take me on. Take me on and I’ll do you harm. I’m asking for it. Don’t stand too close to me in a queue. Don’t ever disrespect me. Don’t make me smell your breath in my nose. Don’t touch me without my express permission. Don’t even fucking think about it . . .

  IV.

  In truth, Caroline often felt unhappy and persecuted at work. Before she left the house in the morning, she liked to give Dmitry a really thorough and lovingly-executed blow-job. When the boss was a bitch to her and she had to reply, she replied to her using the lips that had been around her beloved brute’s formidable cock. It did make her feel vastly superior—and she relished that. She needed all the help she could get. It was a comfort to know that, whenever she spoke, she could feel the memory of Dmitry in her mouth. She loved the feel and the taste of him. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the sex-life of her fat and lazy manager did not include such delights.

  One day, she gave gleeful and certain self-defence advice to one of her colleagues.

  “If you’re walking somewhere you’re not sure of . . . SWAGGER!” she told her. “I always fucking swagger and no cunt ever bothers me. Keep your house keys in the palm of your hand, but have the sharp points protruding from your balled-up fist. That way, when you hit the fucker, you’re going to do some serious damage. And if you don’t have your keys on you—or if you don’t have a home at all—hit the fucker on the nose, but upwards, with the heel of your hand. At the very least, he—or she—will suffer excruciating pain. At best, you’ll drive shards of bone right through the front of your attacker’s brain. Well, they have it coming, right? That’s what the heel of your hand is for, driving home a point.”

  V.

  Caroline had a dream last night. She was holding the blade of a kitchen knife and she had it positioned just at the entrance to that fucking bitch’s decrepit, stinking vagina. And using the heel of her hand, she drove the point home. She kept replaying the moment over and over in her mind, during the day. It was one of the nicest dreams she had ever had.

  Caroline says to me. “Take me to the river. Take me to the river, walk me by the burn. Walk me through the woods and hear the twittering birds. See the unknown walkers and imagine. Imagine serial killers and rapists in the den. Imagine the drama. Imagine the reconstruction of my very last walk, on the television. Take me by the river. Take me in the park. But only if I want you to, only if I pretend that I really don’t want it.”

  Caroline has one close friend whom I tolerate. I know he’s not going to fuck her. He doesn’t think of women in that
way. He gives her all of the tenderness which she does not want from me. If I were to be kind to her, her mind would shatter, once and for all. I wouldn’t do that to her. I love her. She goes to her friend’s house sometimes and they drink. Sometimes they go out dancing. He loves her as much as I do, but he’s not going to fuck her. She worships me. She’s my little acolyte.

  “Remember the Rape Park? We arrived home, late at night, from Glasgow, drunk. We heard the pig-squeal of the victim, the voices of the men. We saw the standing circle through the trees and we thought, Get into the house. Lock the door quickly, behind us. We were sure that they didn’t want any witnesses. Once inside, we laughed and gasped and drank again and we never thought to call the police. We sometimes speak of the Rape Park and I suppose we should have been traumatised, at least by our indifference, but we’re not. Perhaps that’s the most frightening thing about the whole event, for an onlooker now. We just didn’t care about the person on the ground.”

  Caroline is really beautiful, you know? If you like that kind of pale, haunted look, anyway. She would never believe me if I told her how beautiful she is, so I don’t. I fucking love her and I love fucking her. It always reminds me of a fight to the death. Don’t believe her if she tells you that she’s the only one who comes out of it injured. Sometimes she bites. She says she likes the taste of me after the bite.

  Why is she so hard on the outside? I’ll tell you why. She’s completely and utterly consumed by hatred, by rage. She told us this, years ago. She has forgotten those childhood prayers to her gods. Caroline doesn’t know that her words were heard then and are not forgotten now, by those who listened. Caroline has no concept of mercy at this time. We don’t advocate forgiveness. It’s not part of our creed.

  VI.

  She watched a film on her laptop. Men in robes stripped themselves naked and beat themselves with knotted ropes until their backs were bloody. Caroline thought about religion and she wondered about penance. She thought about forgiveness and dismissed it.

  A woman’s body had been found early that morning. The papers hinted at dreadful injury, but it was not until much later that the extent of the victim’s torture was made public. A serrated kitchen knife, a frenzied attack, some kind of sex offender, no doubt. She hadn’t stood a chance. Caroline knew all of the details, of course. The dead woman had been her sister. The police were very kind to her. Anyone could see that Caroline was in shock. She looked pale and haunted. She hadn’t been in contact with her sister for years, but when it comes down to it, family is family, right?

  Caroline was relieved that she had never shared her dream with anyone except Dmitry.

  She was devastated that he was gone. She had returned from work and there was no trace of him at all. None of his clothes in the wardrobe, none of his food in the cupboards, no gags, no handcuffs in the bedroom they had shared. She pulled open a drawer in her dressing table and brought out a little photo album. She had to see his face.

  As a child, she often didn’t understand their words. “I think it’s over her head,” they would say. But she looked above and nothing was there.

  Caroline wondered all over again about what they could have meant.

  She knelt at the side of her single bed and began to pray.

  “Take me by the river . . . ”

  Wendy Jane Muzlanova has led a checkered life. She has had many different jobs, ranging from tomato picker to teacher, and many different husbands, ranging from Egyptian to Russian. She is, she says, a foul-mouthed polyglot. In addition to writing nasty stories and poetry, she also creates rather good visual art. In her free time, she destroys reputations, especially her own. When she grows up, she wants to be a spy. Her writing has featured in Women Writing the Weird (edited by Deb Hoag) and Bite Me, Robot Boy (edited by Adam Lowe). For more on Wendy’s amazing adventures, visit her at soutarwriters.co.uk/wendymuzlanova.

  Cry Baby Creek

  by David Price

  The rain is pouring down, shattering the surface of the water. For those who dare to listen, restless spiritual voices can be heard; it is a cry of anguish from the victims of Cry Baby Creek.

  The hostel had a comfortable lounge and the weather wasn’t too good, so Kelly Barbiero was happy to relax with a good book and a cup of coffee. There was just one other guest in the lounge that evening; a rather studious young lady called Alison, who tended to keep herself to herself.

  Alison was tucking into a chicken salad and keeping an eye on the weather. It was supposed to clear up later. She hoped so. Like Kelly, she would soon be making her way home.

  “Lousy weather, huh,” Kelly said.

  Alison peered at her through a rather large pair of glasses that gave her a somewhat owlish appearance.

  “I’m sure it will clear up,” she replied.

  “Hope so.”

  Alison glanced out of the window.

  “My name’s Kelly.”

  “As in Ned?”

  “Barbiero.”

  “Ah. Well I’m Alison White. I suppose you want to know what I’m doing.”

  “Well . . . ”

  Kelly blushed and looked to the floor.

  “I’m studying the paranormal,” Alison told her. “And there’s a place around here that interests me. They say there are ghosts hanging around it. I’m going to try and contact them.”

  “Right.”

  Kelly was intrigued, obviously, and it was a very quiet evening; and like most teenagers, Kelly was always up for an adventure.

  “So you’re going ghost hunting?”

  “Just beyond that ridge over there,” Alison replied, pointing through the window at a distant hill. “there is a stream called Cry Baby Creek. It has a rather dark history.” She glanced at Kelly, and there was a mischievous glint in her eye. “Maybe you’d like to hear about it?”

  “Sure.”

  Alison placed her empty plate to one side and smiled at her.

  “There was a series of unsolved murders around here back in the ‘60’s,” she began. “No one knows who was responsible, but whoever it was, he dumped the bodies in that creek. They say . . . if you listen real careful . . . you can hear the dead crying out for justice. I’m going to try and record their voices.”

  Kelly’s eyes were almost popping out of her head. “Gosh,” she said. “you can do that?”

  “I can try.” Again, Alison smiled. “So what do you say, Kelly Barbiero—would you like to come ghost hunting with me?”

  Oh Lord, no, Kelly thought, I wouldn’t like that at all; I’d be scared to death.

  But of course, the only word she said was ‘yes’.

  Alison nodded. “Half an hour, then; it should have stopped raining by then.”

  As soon as the weather cleared they set off, Alison’s equipment crammed into their backpacks.

  Kelly was nervous, and in truth, so was Alison; but with the bravado of youth they marched on.

  After the rain, the air felt cleansed and the walk was quite pleasant; even if they were trudging through mud!

  In a little over twenty minutes they arrived at Cry Baby Creek (which, according to a rather dilapidated sign, was actually called Bentley’s Creek).

  “You really think the dead are going to talk?” asked Kelly.

  “Here’s hoping, kid. We’re listening, and these ghosts want to be heard.”

  Alison began setting up her equipment (which was quite elaborate), and talked about EVP and clairaudience, all of which went right over Kelly’s head. Still, it was a lark.

  In less than ten minutes, Alison had set everything up; now it was time to play a waiting game.

  “They’ll talk when they’re ready,” she said. “We just have to give them time.”

  So they waited. At length, a wind picked up and shadows started flitting about. Occasionally, Kelly fancied that she could hear a voice, or the sound of weeping. But of course, it was getting dark and they were in a secluded spot; this was bound to play on their imagination.

  Yet the sounds
continued until, finally, Alison ventured a question.

  “Is there anybody there, and do you wish to speak to us?”

  Was that a mumble, a word? Surely not! But Alison knew that her equipment would pick up far more than the human ear.

  “Tell me your name.”

  A machine clicked, a little like a Geiger counter.

  “How long have you been here?”

  It was surely just the wind, but Kelly was certain she could hear an excited babbling; yet as the wind died, so did the (apparent) sound of voices.

  The dead don’t talk, really they don’t.

  For the next few minutes, Kelly comforted herself with this thought.

  After a while, Alison started picking up her equipment. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Back in Alison’s room, the equipment was set up and ready to be studied. Kelly was fine with that. Now that she was back in the sanctuary of the hostel, she was a little happier.

  “Here goes”, Alison said, pressing a button on a recorder.

  They listened; at first to the wind.

  Then Alison’s voice came on—Is there anybody there, and do you wish to speak to us?

  Was that an answer?

  Alison stopped the tape, played it back, and then slowed it down.

  Wrr irrr, wrr irrr.

  “Does that sound like ‘we’re here’ to you?”

  Kelly shrugged; that was an obvious interpretation, and it certainly did sound like a feminine voice. Alison wrote ‘We’re here’ in a notebook, and switched the tape back on.

  Does anybody here know the identity of the Cry Baby Creek killer?