As Mad as a Hatter
A Short Story Collection
Catherine Stovall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system— including photocopying, recording—or transmitted by any digitally or print means without written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, establishments, names, companies, organizations and events were created by the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events, companies or organizations is coincidental.
Published and Edited by
CLS Services
Copyright 2014
Cover by CLS Services
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This book is dedicated to
My Freaks, Geeks, Ducky Dears
May you always chase the sun, howl at the moon, and reach for the stars.
Table of Contents
The Unwritten Poem
Lady Death Comes to Call
Independence Day
Tangled Webs
Drift Back Home
A Photograph of Home
Mad Ramblings
Torment My Soul
Room Number Four
Prisoner of the World
Forever’s Kiss
Sweet Sally Slasher
Voices in the Dark
The Queen’s Art
Down on the Banks
The Saga of Bonnie Clyde
Pretty Little Poppet
Secrets
The Unwritten Poem
"Write me a poem," the student was told by his master.
So he sat all day, and then the day after.
Though he thought hard, and he thought ever so long.
He found his mind strangely blank. His capability seemed to be gone.
"What type of poem would you like?" asked the student of his master.
"Write what is in your heart," was the teacher's answer.
The boy thought even harder, he thought twice as long.
By the time it was over, six days had come and gone.
"Where is my poem?" the student was asked by his master.
"I do not have one," was the boy’s answer.
Then the teacher said to the boy, "A valuable lesson you have learned."
"A poem cannot be given unless it is earned."
Lady Death Comes to Call
The first snowflake of the winter season gently coasted downward from the heavens. Drifting and fluttering, it glided past a woman and a man as they sat upon a bench in the center of a cul-de-sac. Their eyes both found the tiny, white speck and followed its decent to the already frozen ground. She breathed a heavy sigh, feeling the bitter chill a little more, and he remembered a time long ago.
He spoke to her, though she was a stranger to him. “I used to love winter. The clean look of the white snow, the crispness of the air, and all that makes the season so dreadful for some, once made me a happy man.”
The woman’s large, doe-like eyes looked up, seemingly gazing past him with a curious expression on her face. “I hate the cold. I just want to go back home to the sun.”
The words were almost a whisper, and he wondered if she were talking to him or herself. He risked embarrassment and continued, “Ever since I saw her—the lady who traveled the night in stealth and beauty, bringing sorrow to any she touched—I have changed my mind. I could tell you the story, if you like.”
Looking back down to her gloved hands, she didn’t speak for a long time. A compatible silence ensued. Then, her whisper came again, “I have nowhere to go, and the snow will be coming soon.”
The man nodded as if to say he understood. He’d spent many of hours, in his time, sitting on the little bench and watching the world go by. In a clear, deep voice, he began his tale of a winter’s night.
*****
The snow, glistening in a thick layer of blankness, covered the darkened houses with their windows like soulless eyes looking out to the street. Large icicles hung from the trees, bending their boughs to the point where they nearly broke from the weight. The storm had sent the world into a bleak and desolate paleness in the bitter grips of a raging winter, a blanket of death concealing all.
Only one creature dared to stir in the wake of the frigid whiteout. A trail, slight indentions where the bare flesh had sank into the snow, led up the empty street. As if their maker had been intent on a steady pace and specific destiny, there was no weave to the pattern and no sway. The straight line carved by each step seemed to divide the road in half, the humpbacks of the cars—like boulders of snow—were the only witnesses to who had passed.
To the casual observer, the tracks would not reveal it had been the form of a woman that had ventured through the night. Even if someone had braved that endless white landscape, they would have sworn to have seen a strange trick of the light. They would have not understood that the exposed flesh of her hands and feet did not feel the harsh winter chill. Not a soul would have believed. Neither would have I, if I hadn’t heard the tales of the lady that walks in beauty, who walks in the night.
Looking as if she were an animated sculpture chiseled from the ice, the lady made her way through the streets. Snowflakes gently drifted down, cold kisses on her rounded cheek, and her robes—as white as the snow itself—billowed in the wintry winds. Watching her across the great distance, I felt the chill of her presence. Being on the top floor of the apartment building that set on the high hill, I could see her clearly, though she was nearly a mile away.
Lady Death had come to call on the sleepy little town, and only I stood witness.
There was no doubt in my mind of who the woman was. No other could have borne the bone-chilling cold enough to walk barefoot through the night. No one else could have trailed her fingers across the frosted glass of cars and soundlessly laughed as the ice steamed beneath her touch. Not to mention, there was no other woman who could have turned my blood to ice in my veins as this woman did.
No, I didn’t discount her identity for a moment. However, I did wonder who it was she would take with her when she ventured back into the world from which she had come. Would it be the old woman in the little green house that often baked me homemade bread? Would it be the young boy on the corner who suffered from a cancer that had drained away his vitality, but could not steal his smile? Ticking through all those I knew who could be the lady’s destination, I thought of the drunk who sometimes slept in the alley by my building and the woman downstairs whose husband beat her. I considered so many souls who might not wake to see the morning come.
I was saddened, as I watched that lady walk. I felt a deep despair for those folks who I knew and loved. Each time Lady Death stopped on a stoop to contemplate who lived inside
, I held my breath, fearing I would know the poor soul within. The longer she hesitated, the harder my heart beat and the more I fidgeted.
Wringing my hands, my whispered words fogged the glass, “Please, not there. Please, dear lady, not that house.”
Each time she shook her head and turned to continue her procession, I breathed a sigh of relief that was immediately followed by the building dread it would be the next person I cared for. In the mix of emotions, guilt raised like a steel spike to puncture my heart. I did not pray as hard for those I did not know, but they did not deserve to die anymore or any less. I couldn’t help the human nature of wanting to save myself and others the pain of that loss, but then I questioned if I would somehow feel remorse that I had not cared more for those who I did not hold dear.
Slowly, meticulously, she continued her journey—footprints in the snow, white robes flowing in the air. Even the light from the street lamps seemed to shy away from her, so powerful was her existence. Drenched in shadow, and yet illuminated by the full moon as it danced and shimmied across the frozen world, she seemed not an agent of death, but an angel of mercy carrying a single white rose. A longing clawed its way up inside of me, a biting desire to look upon the lady’s face as she grew ever closer.
The thought crept into my mind like a thief in the night, stealing away my sanity. To look into the face of death would seal my fate, and it would be my soul she carried away. I did not wish to die. I had no want to leave the world behind. Yet, I wanted to see the color of her eyes and the curve of her lips. I couldn’t imagine needing anything more than I needed to gaze at that timeless being in awe.
Lady Death drew me from my thoughts as she approached a small house, cozy even in the terrible aftermath of the blizzard. Its green shutters, laden with snow, framed windows warm with firelight—a telltale sign the inhabitant was still awake despite the late hour. The low stone wall was barely noticeable beneath the heavy snowfall, but the little gate with the wrought iron roses stood open and inviting as always.
“No! Anywhere but there! Not there, sweet Lady Death. Please, leave that one alone!” I leaned so close to the window pane I had to use the sleeve of my night shirt to wipe my fogged breath away in rapid little circles.
Through the glass, I watched with unblinking eyes as that woman grew ever closer to the little house. The urge to run out into the street was nearly overwhelming. I wanted to sweep the drifts aside and push the gate closed. I wanted to slam the shutters on the fair lady that loomed too near. I wanted to rush inside the homey little cottage and bolt the doors and windows, douse the fire, and pray that death passed on by.
Instead, I sat as frozen as the world outside my window, powerless to prevent the woman’s progress. Her bare feet carried her through the gateway as she seemed to give the twisted roses an appreciative glance. Oh, how she looked the aimless wanderer, lost in the storm. I knew she’d have to do nothing more than knock to gain entry, for the woman who lived within held a heart of gold.
I desperately pleaded with God, the Devil, and Death herself, “Please, not my Marilyn. Spare her lovely soul, for she is beautiful, kind, and generous. To extinguish such a light from this world would be to cast so many hearts into darkness. Please, I’ll do anything.”
I wanted to hide my face from the horror and sorrow filling my gaze. I did not want to look upon Lady Death as she approached my love’s home. No words could give justice to the powerful fear and sadness that swallowed my heart. Yet, I could not look away. My eyes locked on to the ivory-clad beauty as she moved with a dancer’s grace, nimble and quick across the way. My heart, alternating between rapid beats and stillness, ached and broke under the grief. Still, I looked on.
Lady Death did not go to the door; her cold hand did not rise to knock. Instead, she wandered to the window and peered inside.
I was too afraid to move. I should have banged against the glass, threw up the window, and shouted into the night. I should have told her to take me instead, but I couldn’t. My body refused to obey my mind as silent tears slipped from my eyes and down my cheeks.
I swear, I struggled to overcome my paralysis, I did try. However, in the strange turn of fate’s hand, I was the helpless patron watching life and death play out as if upon a stage. Fear held me its prisoner, and I let my lady down, though she will never know. That undisclosed betrayal would never be discovered, instead, it was a secret to take to the grave.
Just as I seemed to come back into myself, the Lady straightened and turned away from where she had secretly watched my love. I felt such a relief in that moment, my tears of terror turned to tears of joy. Praising God, I fell to my knees before the window sill and shouted out in jubilance. Death had passed my sweet Marilyn by.
Wiping my face with the same sleeve I had used to clear the fog from the glass moments before, I shivered to feel the cold dampness. In my misery, I had become heated, and the sudden chill sent icy fingers down my spine. My torrent of agony over, I thought I might fetch my robe. Yet, I still could not tear my eyes off of the lovely woman who walked in cold, swift silence. I could not fight the need to know who she would whisk away into the endless night.
Still clutching that single rose, her journey up the cold and abandoned street continued—her bare feet leaving little prints in the snow, her robes blowing in the arctic breeze. She paused, she contemplated, and then she moved onward. Searching for the soul she would carry away, seeking the hand that would take the ivory flower and death’s final kiss. The picture she painted, a lone and spectral being strolling through the frigid and frozen world of Bradbury Street, was one of truly tragic beauty.
At last, Lady Death’s journey brought her up the hill, and she stood at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. Panic filled me. There were so many there I knew, so many that had become my friends. Names and faces flashed through my mind in rapid succession. My mouth grew so dry I could not utter a sound, and even if I had been able to, I couldn’t pray. I could not choose to hope for the survival of any one person over all the others.
Lifting her robes above her lily white ankles, so the high drift did not wet the edges, she stepped forward. Her face was nearly perceptible, she had drawn so close. In fact, I could see the perfection of her raven dark hair peeking outward to frame her features beneath the hood. Touched with moonlight, those long and curling tresses gleamed.
In my mind, I begged, Please, Madame. Please, turn away. For all those that live within are dear to me.
She, of course, could not know my wishes. I couldn’t fathom that she would care if she did. What were the desires of one man, one of so many? Didn’t all mortals plead and bargain with death? Did anyone really welcome that terrible loss that so often wrenched one’s heart?
Instead of turning away, she strolled forward at a leisurely pace. Her head turned side-to-side, her eyes devouring the unexplored terrain of ice and snow. A wanderer in a wasteland, she came nearer, until she stood on the path that would bring her to the place I lived.
I held my breath, hoping she would move on as she had so many other times. There were only six of us who lived within, and I wanted to keep her shadow from falling over my happy little home. A mother and her son on the first floor, oh how tragic their deaths would be. I couldn’t even think of how one would cope with the loss of the other. On the second floor, there was the husband and wife, the ones I had thought of earlier. I couldn’t help to think the poor and mistreated thing might welcome her end after living so long in such hell. The third-floor tenant was new. I had only chanced to meet him once or twice in passing. A kind gentleman, I was sure, but I knew nothing more. Then there was me, but I was not dying nor in any jeopardy. I worried for the others and for the sanctity of the building; after all, death came in threes.
To my utter dismay, she did not move on. Oh, I could never tell you the turmoil that thrashed within my belly when I saw her come forward, pass through the entryway, and disappear into the outer foyer of my building. A part of me wanted to throw open my door and rush out
into the hall. I wanted to raise some alarm, but what could I say? Could I tell them to hide or run? Even I knew death was an inescapable mistress. No man, woman, or child could flee her cold embrace.
So, I sat listening for some sound that would tell me who, some sign she had come and gone. The silence was unbearable, a heavy pressure on my ears that caused my heartbeat to throb within the inner workings. My hands shook as adrenaline and terror pumped wildly through my veins. In those quiet moments that stretched out like endless days, I began to think and count my blessings too. The mix of emotions swirled madly inside my brain each time I tried to process the idea that I had witnessed Lady Death on her journey to collect a soul, and I had survived the near encounter. Ever so thankful for those that were spared, grieving already for whoever would part from life on that night, and shaken by the proof of mortality, I took deep breaths and listened closer.
I’m not sure how much time had passed, each second seemed an entire hour, but the sound came like a cannon exploding within my domain. A knock at the door, three crisp raps shattered the endless silence. I leapt to my feet, grasping my chest as my heart shuttered within its cavern, but I could go no further. Sweat beaded on my brow, my body trembled and percolated, and my breathing came in jerky gasps. I cannot even describe those moments I stood near my chair and stared across the suddenly infinite distance to my door. I can only say the silence before had been unbearable, but the one that followed was worse—absolute and encompassing.
The knock came again, an insistent demand for attention that seemed to echo through my home. I sprang into movement, rationalizing it must be the husband, the wife, the mother, or perhaps even the child having discovered the other dead and seeking out assistance. They would need help, and there I was, a grown man afraid to answer his own door. The thought of the frightened and grieving child spurred me to move faster, and within seconds, my hand wrapped around the knob and was undoing the bolt. Never did I stop to think to check the peephole. Not once did I contemplate that it might be something other than human that stood upon my threshold.
As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Page 1