Praise for Into Bones Like Oil
“Warren delivers a tale of creeping dread. Dora is in a house that we all know and despise from traveling, but where the guests are used as conduits. For Dora, the haunting by her past may be worse than anything supernatural and in Warren’s hands, the horrific encroaches inexorably on the familiar. Recommended.”
—TADE THOMPSON, author of Rosewater and
The Murders of Molly Southbourne
“This dark, ethereal novella by Warren . . . will especially appeal to horror readers who appreciate melancholic and atmospheric stories.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Beautifully written and profoundly disturbing, an evocative meditation on sorrow and loss, a ghost story in which the most terrifying specters come from within.”
—TIM WAGGONER, author of The Forever House
“Dark, disturbing, visceral . . . it taps into a deep fear of not having our voice heard, our history recognized, our feelings taken into account and our motivations understood. Yet it is also a story which offers the chance of redemption, forgiveness, justice and, eventually, cathartic resolution.”
—LINDA HEPWORTH, NB MAGAZINE (5 STARS)
“Warren stirs awake an everyday fear that comes at you one hundred and one ways . . . an accomplished story that is most unsettling.”
—EUGEN BACON, AUREALIS MAGAZINE
“A gripping and idiosyncratic story of horror and redemption . . . the uncanny is actually the normality, and what we call ‘normality’ is actually the real horror.”
—SEB DOUBINSKY, author of the City-States Cycle series
“An unusually effective tale; hard to define, and harder to forget.”
—FANTASY BOOK REVIEW
ALSO BY KAARON WARREN
NOVELS
Slights
Walking the Tree
Mistification
The Grief Hole
Tide of Stone
COLLECTIONS
The Grinding House
The Glass Woman
Dead Sea Fruit
Through Splintered Walls
Cemetery Dance Select: Kaaron Warren
The Gate Theory
Exploring Dark Short Fiction #2: A Primer to Kaaron Warren
into
bones
like
oil
kaaron warren
Meerkat Press
Atlanta
INTO BONES LIKE OIL. Copyright © 2019 by Kaaron Warren.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For information, contact Meerkat Press at [email protected].
ISBN-13 978-1-946154-42-2 (Paperback)
ISBN-13 978-1-946154-43-9 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019948180
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by S.A. Hadi Hasan
Printed in the United States of America
Published in the United States of America by
Meerkat Press, LLC, Atlanta, Georgia
www.meerkatpress.com
For my Green Shed girls, for providing me with so much inspiration, support and friendship.
FIRST DAY
TUESDAY
NIGHT
The reception desk sat empty when Dora arrived at nine p.m. Good. That was the plan. The key to her room was in a lock box that wasn’t locked (“It looks locked, that’s the main thing,” the landlord had told her). The key was there, along with a grease-stained sheet of rules and conditions (No Cooking In The Rooms ) and a hand-drawn map showing her where to find her bedroom.
She was on the ground floor, although it was really the lower ground level now since the building had sunk further into the ground over the years. She passed the doorway her map indicated opened into the breakfast room (7 a.m.–8 a.m. sharp). The room was dark except for the light of the hallway spilling in, but she could see six or seven tables already set up. Each table was laid for one person and she smiled; that was one less thing to worry about. The idea of having to eat with a stranger horrified her. She could barely stand eating with her own family. She thought she could smell bacon, but there was also mustiness and something else, like hot metal.
Someone had hand lettered a sign for the bathroom door—vacant—and that was a relief too, unless someone thought it was funny to turn the sign over when someone else was inside. She glanced up and down the hallway and, seeing no one, ducked into the bathroom, flipping the sign. The other side said: fuck off I’m in here.
The bathroom’s floor and walls were tiled in pale purple streaked with gold. It gave the room an odd glow because the pale green glass-globed light fixture was set high in the ceiling and dimmed by dust and dead insects. The toilet was old but clean. There was no sign of spare toilet paper in the room. Against the wall was a shower and bath combination with a large, pale purple bathtub that sported rust stains and paint chips. The shower curtain was moldy and stained, but at least it existed. She hated showering without one.
She’d wash later, once she figured out who was around and where they were.
She listened at the bathroom door and, hearing nothing, stepped into the hallway. She flipped the sign back to vacant. There were three doors off this stretch, one marked linen, with a lock, the others numbered. It was very quiet, but from each room came a slow murmur, a hum like a one-sided conversation.
She heard the gentle ticking of a large clock but couldn’t see one.
The map said her room lay at the end of the hall. The key was small and flimsy, and she hoped it would work. She was relieved when it turned smoothly as it must have done a thousand times before.
Dora slid the door open. It was lightweight, shaking in the track as it moved. It would provide very little security. But then she was in an inner-city rooming house, so her expectation of security was low.
Her room had once been the foyer, when the house was much smaller and the entrance faced the other way. Now, after renovations and changes, it faced an alleyway. The old front door, now most of one of the walls, was covered with clothes hooks of many kinds. Her wardrobe. She thought previous tenants must have hammered the hooks in as there was nowhere else to hang clothes. There was no chest of drawers in the room, only one shelf over the bed, set into the wall. It looked like the place where, decades ago when a family lived here and milk was delivered to the door, the milkman would have put the bottles. She didn’t remember those days, but her grandmother did, once wistfully and now as if it were still the case, as if milk was delivered each morning. There were six or seven books on the shelf.
Dora had very little with her. One small suitcase that she’d used as a seat and a pillow over the last week. There was no room to lay her suitcase out on the floor so she hefted it onto the bed. Opening the zip, she threw back the lid. She hung T-shirts and skirts and pants, two of each, on the hooks, folded her underwear onto the shelf. She had one book (Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul) but no photos. She zipped the suitcase closed, lifted it off the bed, and placed it upright on the floor. Once she covered it with a pillowcase or a towel it would be a fine bedside table.
She moved the seven books, all by R.L. Stephenson (Confessions of the Dead, Parts I–V, Lore of the Sea, a
nd The Wreck) from the shelf and placed them beside her suitcase. There was a blue bottle she left on the shelf, and—beside it—she placed two children’s hairbrushes, pink and run through with strands of hair.
It was dead quiet outside. She hadn’t eaten since lunch but was loath to go out. She wished she could leave by the old front door, but it was nailed shut. At least she had a window, a bay window looking onto the alleyway. Thick lace curtains covered it, and successive tenants had layered paper over the window for privacy, but someone had scratched a small square at the top to let light in.
She placed her book on the suitcase-table. She had half a cheese sandwich she’d saved from lunch so she ate that, then turned the light out and changed. The single bed creaked as she climbed into it, and the sheets felt slightly clammy. The rooming house shifted and she could hear footsteps, voices, cars outside. She could hear the ticking of the old clock. She heard something heavy being dragged, and a creaking noise where the door used to be, as if that door was being opened.
She sat up. The door was only a reach away, and she could see by the streetlight leaking through the layers on the window and streaming through the bare patch. She could feel when she touched it that the door was nailed shut.
She lay back down, hoping for sleep.
It had been many months since she’d slept well. Even before the children disappeared and were found, her worries had weighed her down, kept her awake and thinking when all she wanted was blessed sleep.
Even when her mother looked after the children and she was on her own, still she couldn’t sleep. Back then, she’d convinced herself her ex-husband was a monster, and she sat curled up in an armchair (one they’d paid a fortune for, which she’d never regretted) swamped by the large blanket crocheted by her grandmother, holding her phone, waiting for the call to confirm he’d taken them, that her children were kidnapped by their own father, the man who’d loved her once.
The call never came. The children were always fine at her mother’s.
Dora pulled the blanket up under her chin. It felt clammy and smelled faintly of wet hair and bleach.
A gentle noise streamed from a corner of the room: the rhythmic wash of the sea rolling into shore and back. The sound came from a speaker in the ceiling. She’d heard about this, the white or pink noise that would supposedly help her sleep. Over that, she could hear the upstairs neighbor moving around. It sounded like they were dragging furniture and bouncing a ball and throwing glasses onto the floor—all at the same time.
She was tired. Very, very tired at her core. The body shuts down, sleeps when sick or starving or dying. You only had to look at footage of starving children to see that.
SECOND DAY
WEDNESDAY
BREAKFAST
She slept fitfully, must have slept because she dreamed of people in the room, walking over her bed, standing over her, watching. At the time she’d thought they were real and froze in her bed, unwilling to move, thinking they were the other tenants. They’d rifle her shelf, her pockets, find nothing, leave. If she kept still they might not realize she was there.
It wasn’t real, though. No one was there.
On awakening (so, again, she must have slept), she forgot where she was for a moment. How small the space was. At first she thought she’d been buried alive.
The house sat quiet at six a.m. She gathered her things, the bare minimum of toiletries: a toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, shampoo, soap. She’d had a whole bathroom of crap at home, shelves of it, and there was a certain pleasure in now having so little.
Her towel was thin but good quality once. Left behind by a tenant, perhaps.
She slid open her door and peeked out. The hallway was as empty as it had been the night before, so she stepped out, slid her door closed, and locked it. Everything looked different in the morning light. Outside her door she saw there was a small bookcase containing Confessions of the Dead, Parts VI–X and some historical romances. She wondered if everyone had a similar collection: science fiction books in one, the next full of crime novels. She wondered if anyone had ever touched these books beyond the apparent librarian who had placed them.
There were paintings on the walls, all of them dark depictions of sea wrecks from various eras. The floor was linoleum, although she could see remnants of old carpet in some of the corners, an indication of lazy renovations in the past, or perhaps a lack of funds to complete the job.
She could hear the clang of dishes in the breakfast room; staff preparing for the onslaught, perhaps.
She showered quickly. There was no lock on the door. (How could there be no lock on the door?) She moved the old wooden chair up against it, so that at least the door would open slowly if it was pushed. The water didn’t heat beyond lukewarm and the pressure was weak, but it felt good to wash her hair, her face, and to dress in the fresh shirt, underwear, and pants she’d saved for when she was clean herself.
•••
The first thing she noticed in the breakfast room was the wall color. It was a sickly yellow and she wondered about it: why? Was it once white and had slowly stained to this? It made her feel faintly ill, but the smell of bacon, of coffee, of toast made her stomach grumble and she knew she would happily eat two plates of food if she could.
There were three men in the breakfast room. One standing near the window, looking out. One sat at a table eating his breakfast. One fussing behind the food service area, a tea towel over his arm. He was in his sixties, receding gray hair, greasy comb-over, acne-scared face.
“I’m Roy,” he said, “And you’ve made it to breakfast. Well done!”
She wasn’t sure how to respond, although it did feel like an achievement to have made it through the door.
“You must have come in late last night. How’d you sleep? My office is behind reception if you ever need me for anything. Anything at all.”
He smiled at her. His teeth were crooked, discolored, but when he closed his mouth and smiled he looked almost handsome. “I’m the landlord. Boss of all I survey. And writer. A ghost writer, you might say. R. L. Stephenson, in the flesh.” He didn’t shake her hand, which she was grateful for.
“Congratulations,” she said, unsure what you were supposed to say to a writer.
“I’m Larry,” the second man said. He stood up from his meal and held out his hand. He was enormous, easily six-foot-eight with broad shoulders, a strong jaw. He was in his sixties, too, but looked far healthier than Roy. She shook his hand and felt pain all the way up to her shoulder; he was so strong even this gentle gesture hurt. Her hand was swamped by his. He shook her hand six times; she could see him counting.
“I hate odd numbers,” he said. He must have been a powerful man when he was younger. His hair was white now, tufts of it on his chest. He wore a blue singlet and an unbuttoned checked shirt.
“Help yourself,” Roy said. “It’s boiled eggs and bacon and toast today. Good to get in early before the hordes arrive.” He was neat, with his hair slicked back. She would have said Brylcream, like her grandfather used. He spoke carefully and clearly, like a drunk pretending not to be. He waved his arm at a blackboard notice:
Monday spaghetti on toast
Tuesday baked beans on toast
Wednesday Boiled eggs on toast with bacon
Thursday Cereal diet day
Friday Herrings
Saturday sausages and toast
Sunday eggs and bacon and pastries
Dora piled her plate with hot food. There were no pastries or yogurt, no fresh fruit, but she hadn’t expected that. The coffee was the good sort of instant and she almost wept at the sight of it. She ate quickly, hoping to be gone before any of the other tenants spoke to her.
The ticking of the clock was louder in the breakfast room. She saw it sitting on the mantel. What a magnificent piece it was: a large, dark-wood mantle clock, curved along the top and straight dow
n the sides. The clock face was ornate, with a rounded, yellowed, glass face, copper hands. The second hand ticked smoothly but not noticeably; mesmerizing. There was a red segment at three minutes before twelve and one at three minutes before six. She hadn’t seen this before and stood close to it, wondering what it meant.
“It’s called the three minutes of silence.” This was the third man in the room, standing now beside her. He was remarkable among the rest of them. Strong and healthy looking. Handsome. “For distress signals to come through. So they’d maintain radio silence at those times.”
He smelled clean and fresh and Dora was glad she’d showered before breakfast. He was wearing slacks and a shirt but no tie.
“Luke,” he said, holding out his hand. “Ex-navy, but it’s in the blood, as they say.”
“Dora,” she said. “Ex-wife,” and she felt her cheeks burn with the stupidity of the statement.
“Good to know,” he said and he winked at her. “I’ll catch you tonight. Gotta go out and bring in the bacon.”
Dora felt uncomfortable following him out of the room so she sat at her table with another cup of coffee. She’d wait three minutes, she thought.
The room was quiet until a woman rushed in at a few minutes to eight. She was barefoot, wearing layers of soft pastel clothing, including a diaphanous skirt, a vest, scarves, and a belt hung with bells.
“You just made it, Freesia! How’d you sleep?” Roy said.
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