'My permission?' asked Molly, somewhat flustered. Martha had never seen Molly flustered before. She seemed indomitable.
'Yes, I’d like to move on.'
'Move on?'
'To the next life, whatever comes after this. I’ve found someone I’d like to step over with. And you know how it is, being lonely. I can’t wait around forever. It’s not like I meant for anything to happen, but it just worked out this way. What do you say, pet?'
'Ungrateful bastard,' spat Peg, with unusual venom.
'Peg!' cried Anna, aghast.
'Now, girls, I think we’ve all got our own opinions on the matter.'
'But after all we’ve done for him!' said Peg, fuming.
'I understand what he wants, and I want it for him too. He is my husband.' Molly’s tone made it clear enough she was scowling. She might be old, but damn, thought Martha, screwing her eyes tight shut, she’d learned a thing or two about scowling in her ninety some years. 'Leave it to me. Reg?'
'Yes?'
'What’s she like?'
'Well, she’s not much to look at, but she’s a great one for chatter. You can speak to her if you like.'
'No, I don’t think so. So you’re happy?'
'As Larry.'
'Oh, is he there? What about Moe?'
'Pipe down, Martha,' Molly said. Martha piped down.
'Move on, Reg. I give you my permission,' said Molly, her voice catching. Martha sneaked a peek at her. There were tears on her cheeks.
'Thank you! You don’t know what this means to me.'
'Be at peace, Reg,' Molly said, somewhat magnanimously, Martha though. Magnanimous. She was just full of it tonight.
And without a further word, but a sigh upon the candlelit air, Reg was gone.
The girls all opened their eyes.
Molly was crying softly, but there was a smile on her face. Martha rose and put her arms around her friend.
Peg said, 'Now, sweetheart, don’t you cry, he’s gone to a better place.'
'Oh, thank you, Peg,' said Molly. 'But that’s not why I’m crying. Now come on, back to your seat, Martha. I need all your strength for this. Just one last thing to do before the night is out.'
'What are you talking about?' said Anna. 'I thought we were finished for the evening.
'Not yet, child, not yet. Now, close your eyes, all of you. For me.'
Martha sat back down without complaining. If Molly had something in mind, she’d play along.
The candle was still burning brightly. A chill, perhaps from Reg’s passing, pervaded the air, though, and Martha suppressed a shiver.
'Ready?' asked Molly, rather cheerfully, under the circumstances, Martha thought.
'Ready,' the ladies chorused.
Molly was quiet for a moment, steeling herself. Then she called out, strength returning to her voice. 'Then...Spirit...guide us. Guide us this night.'
A bit unusual...Martha sneaked a peak at Molly. She was shining. Pure shining.
What the hell was going on?
Molly didn’t shine. She was ninety-one, for God’s sake.
'Perry? Perry Ogden? Are you there?'
'Who?'
Molly quieted them with a vicious cluck.
The three younger members of the Sunday Night Séance Club opened their eyes and looked at each other questioningly. Martha shrugged, a tacit admission that she was as lost as her friends were.
But an answer came.
'Molly? Is that you?'
'Yes, Perry. The girls are here. Say hello.'
'Hello, girls.' The spirit’s voice was smooth. Martha imagined a supple young man, charming and witty.
'He’s gone, Perry. He left tonight.'
'No, really!? I can’t believe it. After all these years?'
'It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?' said Molly. Anna, Peg and Martha all had their eyes open now, staring in disbelief at their friend.
'Seems like a hundred,' the spirit agreed.
'Seventy of them. I’ve been counting,' Molly said, tears coursing down her face.
'Free at last! I never thought it would happen,' the man was laughing, actually joy in his voice. Martha had never known a spirit to be happy before. Playful, sometimes sad, sometimes lost…but happy? She was almost happy for him. It was contagious.
'It’s the chance we never had,' said Molly. 'Ever since you died in the war I thought I’d never find you again. We’ve been luckier than most.'
'That we have, my love, that we have,' he agreed.
'I have to go now. I have some explaining to do.'
'You know where I’ll be. Waiting for you, as always.'
'Until that day, Perry. I can hardly wait,' said Molly with a smile.
And with a whisper like the wind, he was gone.
Molly opened her eyes and looked upon her friends’ faces. She looked somehow lighter to Martha. Younger, free of concern. Worry that had been etched on her face for so many years fled with Reg. The door was open to the future.
'I’ve always loved him,' said Molly, by way of explanation. Martha was, for once, utterly speechless.
Anna sniffed, and wiped a tear from her face. 'It’s the most beautiful thing. All this time?'
'All this time,' Molly agreed with a nod. 'But not much longer. I’ve got cancer, you see.'
Martha thought for the right response. ‘Bugger me’ didn’t seem fitting somehow. For a moment, she felt stunned, like someone had given her the most expensive present she could ever wish for, then smashed it with a hammer. She felt her friend’s joy, and her own sudden sense of loss. What do you say to a friend you love who is dying? Martha was uncharacteristically stumped for words, but only for a heartbeat. The right words always come around, in the end.
'I’m so happy for you!' she cried, and, she realised, she meant it with every ounce of her heart.
*
Vampires are so passe. I don't write many vampire stories - this short, and a novel 'Vigil: Vampire Apocalypse'. I love this tale. It was published at Nth Degree Zine, with pride of place. I liked it then, I like it now. Gothic, fantastic, and dark as a dark thing on a dark night...another of the Rythe World stories, this one...
The House of Dreams
The essence of dreams, the stark reality that makes the mind doubt what is real and what is not, is the suspension of disbelief. For a time, most often whilst asleep but sometimes while the dreamer sits with a mug of ale, or a glass of fine wine, time is forgotten and a moment can seem drawn long and pulled out of shape. With a smoke wheel burning, a man might hallucinate and see his lost wife, a child he never had, or in a darker moment his own death come to him with a blade in hand and steely teeth bared in a snarl.
Perhaps, you might think, a dream will come true. A daydream, holding the local barmaid’s full breast in one hand while your wife is forgotten. A dream of a young princess, sullied by your attentions in a deserted hallway, hallowed ground of royalty and your body terse with excitement while your imagine your hands drifting over forbidden flesh…even the evil have daydreams.
But daydreams our not our concern for they do not come true.
Daydreams, sweet dreams. These are not our dreams. Our dreams lurk in the night. They haunt the sullen hours when the moon does not shine and we forget that starlight comes from other suns than ours.
Ours are the dreams that another gives us…the sneak illusions of the vampire…the befuddled mind…the glamour that covers the approaching stench of decay.
The nightmare. That is our province tonight.
*
Shawford Crale knelt on the hard floor and took a fine brush and palette from his manservant. His servant stood ready behind his master holding a lamp for better light while Crale painted. He began with a circle. It was a perfect circle, drawn by hand.
He painted a pattern of intricate design within the circle.
An hour later and dusk had fled.
'Night comes, my lord.'
'I feel it, too. It is time. I must begin the incan
tations. You know what to do.'
'A courtesan, this time?'
'No, I have a taste for the seedy tonight. A wench, I think. One that nobody will miss.'
'As you will,' said the manservant. He turned without a further word and left the dining hall.
Shawford Crale sprinkled sand on the design to dry the paint. Then he placed a chair within the circle and took a sip from the wine glass that was beside him on the cold stone floor. He took a steadying breath and began to chant. It was not easy, conjuring demons, and they were ever hungry. But he paid the price in blood and they were sated.
The rewards, though…they were considerable. His returning youth and new found wealth that came with the foreknowledge to play the markets. He was fast becoming an immensely wealthy man. A man to be reckoned with, even though Ulbridge was just a small town…one day it would be bigger. Perhaps he would even take to the wider world.
The price? Blood. As always.
But never his.
*
A cockaril crowed the evening call over Ulbridge, signalling nightfall, if not bedtime for some. On the King’s Row sots walked wearily from their day time lives to drown their sorrows in their cups. Wives wiped evening meals from careless children’s mouths. Careless children pulled their covers high, snuggled into their pallets and straw mattresses. Horsehair, for the few.
On Sunday Street in the Pauper’s Green a small child pulled a rare book from under her covers and brought her candle closer to the bed. She had read the story cover to cover since her mother bought her the book. She knew they could ill afford books, but she loved her mother for the expense and the thought. It was the most beautiful story she had ever read.
It was called a ‘fairytale’, her mother had told her. There was a Lord in it, and he took a pauper’s widow for his wife, and her daughter for his own.
It was her favourite story, but this night she felt restless.
The front door closed quietly as her mother left her once again for the night. The little girl wished her mother safe from harm.
Her mother joined her neighbour. Together they walked the streets. They walked from Sunday Street along the canal, hitching their skirts high as they stepped over a puddle on the canal way. They would be hitching their skirts aplenty tonight.
A short walk later, a kiss for good luck, and Ellisindre stood alone under a lamplight. It was early yet, for a courtesan. But she had no illusions. She was no Lord’s filly, bought with a ruby and a smile. She would not be spending the night perfumed and drunk on fine wines. She was a common whore. A penny and she would perform, for the fat and toothless, for the rough and shy. For old men angry with their dirks for their rusty steel, young men drunk in their cups thinking of their wives in distant cities or perhaps a lazy walk away on a different street.
A man walked by and she swung her hips to one side and pulled her skirt to show an ankle.
'’tis early yet, love', said the man with a kind smile, unusual for most. 'Perhaps later, if I have the time.'
She smiled back and shrugged sadly. He moved on and the street fell quiet. It was too early for most gents, but she worked a full night. She was no stranger to hard work. And it was hard work. But she could earn no more working the fields or sweeping the Thane’s manor. Pulling mugs of ale for the drunk? No longer. Perhaps, had her life taken a different turn…but not now. Not now they knew her for what she was.
And what of her, when she grew too old to turn an eye with her ankle and too old to turn a trick?
Another man walked past and ignored her a little too forcibly. Too good for her, he thought, now he was sober. But she was a good judge. He’d be back after he’d sunk a few and was perhaps one or two to the good.
She shivered and pulled her shawl round her neck tighter. She could drop it an inch or two when the next gent came a-by, but she felt the chill more than usual tonight. She looked up through the lamplight to gauge the stars, but there was nought to see but a low bank of cloud moving down. Fine luck and an ill night for work. Fog rolling down from the sky and in from the lakes. A dangerous night for a girl on the streets.
And a poor one for working. She could hardly bark her wares out loud on the street. Fog would hide her from her gents and dampen their ardour. No one wanted to be out in the fog. Men were a superstitious lot. Creatures prowled the night in the fog. It bred stories like a man bred children.
It was coming in fast. Coming down the street. A dark, starless night and damp fog a-rolling.
Madal’s horns, an ill night for her kind of work.
The taverns down the street were growing in noise. On a night like tonight she wished she could afford to give a percentage of her takings on a licence. Then she could work the back rooms of the taverns. Work in comfort…well, at least the warm. But she could not afford a groat, let alone a penny.
An hour passed slowly, muffled carousing coming from down the street and across the cobblestones. Occasionally she heard a boot heel walking unevenly through the deadening fog, a gent passing by on the other side of the canal, unaware of her and another penny passing her by.
Each time she heard footsteps in the distance she cursed her luck.
Her little girl was sickening. The priest could do little and her daughter shrivelled in the light, becoming a creature of the dark like her. She had tried all that she could think of and it had availed her little. The poor child withered like a dry shrub, like she had at the age of thirty after she had birthed the child and her no good husband had sold her to the street for a mercenary’s life on the border and, no doubt, a stream of women he could buy for a penny and feel no guilt about.
She turned tricks for a penny and her husband was off paying others a penny for what she had given him for free.
Useless bastard. She could ill afford to lose the business. If he’d paid her a penny for all the times she’d spread her legs for free…
Well. Perhaps her daughter would not have sickened the way she had. Perhaps she had some unheard of pox she’d passed to her daughter. There was more guilt in her head than she knew.
In many ways she was a simple woman. She’d paid the priest with all she had to offer. Every penny she had, and then with every ounce of her flesh. And still her daughter sickened. He came back still, but she was simple, not stupid. He didn’t come back for her daughter but for her.
If he knew the sickness was in her, too, perhaps he would be a little less eager.
She sighed and puffed in the chill air, fog swirling around her breath. Her hair was damp and lank on her cheeks. All that time curling it as was the fashion among the high class courtesans. Who did she think she was?
A waste of time, she thought, as the sounds of a horse clopping along the cobbled streets came to her. Some lord slumming it tonight, she thought…the horse came nearer, its location unclear in the fog. She could not tell how near or far it was. She chanced to hope…perhaps the lord would pass her way and throw her a silver for a roll along the canal bank.
Fog curled in the murk and a black horse came into view.
Ellisindre forced a smile onto her pale face and pushed her hip out, her hand resting on the swell, her skirt hitched.
The rider came close and looked down at her. His cloak was dark and hung loose over the horse’s flanks. His head was covered by a low hat, the brim pulled down to hide his eyes.
A fine cloak, she calculated. A silver, at least.
'Good evening, my Lord. A sad night to be alone, for sure…'
'Save your wiles, my love. My master requires a woman’s company tonight, and you will suffice. A gold piece for the journey, and one for the work.'
Two gold!
'I’m game. To where, my Lord?'
'Just a squire, whore. I’ve no time for your games. Get astride the horse and shut your mouth. You can open it later for my master if you like, but I’ll not suffer you to sully me. Come or as not, it makes no difference to me.'
He held out his hand.
She was no stranger to men w
ith ire at her, for what she never knew. Perhaps they hated her for what she was. Mayhap they hated her for what they were.
She did not care. For two gold he could call her all the names under the moon. She took his hand and pulled herself up.
*
On Sunday Street the little girl wheezed and coughed. She put her book down and listened in the night. In the distance she heard a horse clipping down the street…two streets over, she judged. Riding heavy.
She did not know how she knew these things she did. She was more awake this night than she had ever been when she had known the kiss of the sun.
She worried for her mother. She worried for herself. No longer could she take the sun. Her hands were weak but her eyes were strong. Even in the flickering candlelight she could make out the picture that hung on the wall, hung there by the priest. The priest who had used her mother in the other room while she was supposed to sleep.
She did not know how she felt about that. But she could feel something…something indefinable. A pull. She’d felt it for about a week now. She didn’t know what it was.
Tonight it was strong. The night was calling her.
The horse’s hooves clapped on the stone perhaps two streets over. For some reason she felt she should see what the ruckus was. She’d never seen a horse. Her mother wouldn’t be back until the dawn’s first light…she’d never know.
The little girl pulled open the window and hied herself over the windowsill into the night. Her bare feet slapped on the uneven stone and she walked slowly toward the sound of the trotting horse.
Revelling in the smells of the night and the smooth refreshing feel of the silken fog on her skin, she roamed the night. She walked by a man taking a piss in the canal, the steady splash beside her. She was silent for a moment, then passed on. In the fog, she was invisible.
And free. Finally free of the confines of her room. She was enjoying herself. She marked her route and decided immediately that she would do this every night while her mother worked the streets. Perhaps she would find a purse or a gem…yes! She would search the streets for a gem…just like in her book.
Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection Page 10