Shades: Eight Tales of Terror

by D. Nathan Hilliard

  “Who’s there, honey? Do you need to call the police?”

  Nothing but tight whispered gasps answered, the sound of somebody trying not to hyperventilate. Then Jessica returned.

  “It’s cold! A-And there’s dust and cobwebs everywhere! And the dress…she’s back in her dress!”

  The thin trickle turned into an instant river.

  “Who’s back in her dress?” Marge abandoned her cart and started pushing toward the front of the store. What in God’s name was going on back at her house? She thought Jessica had been asleep. “Jessica, you’re having a nightmare. Wake up!”

  “I’m awake, Marge,” the voice whimpered. “She’s really here. I think she’s dow….rs…..”

  Static fuzzed the connection, then her voice returned.

  “…scared, Marge. I d-don’t know what to do.”

  “Get out of the house!”

  “I’m – I’m trying. But I’ve got to see what’s at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “What?”

  “The stairs…Marge.” The whispered voice gulped. “I don’t want to just…OH MY GOD!”

  The ensuing shriek was followed by a loud clatter that Marge interpreted as the phone being dropped. The woman paused at the entrance of the store and pressed her own phone tightly against her ear, straining to make out anything that might give a hint of what was happening. She could make out a series of receding thuds that sounded like somebody stumbling and running away from the phone on a hardwood floor, then a slam.

  “Jessica!”

  Nothing.

  “JESSICA!”

  She prepared to fold up the phone and head for the car, then stopped and pressed it tightly to her head again.

  What was that?

  It took her a second to make it out. Then it became clearer as if the source were approaching the dropped phone.

  It sounded like…singing. It was faint, and possessed a strange quality as if the singer were at the bottom of a well, but with effort she finally made out the words.

  “Here comes the bride. All dressed in white…”

  The lyrics became clearer as the singer reached the phone.

  “Sweetly, serenely, in the glowing light…”

  It was the deadest voice she ever heard.

  ***

  “Lovely to see. Marching to thee…”

  Jessica put her back against the bedroom door and bit her hand to keep from screaming. Her one connection to the outside world lay back somewhere on the staircase. Her phone rested where she dropped it when she finally got that peek at the bottom of the stairs. She only got a glance at the veiled figure ascending the stairs, but it told her all she needed to know.

  Priscella Hatcher didn’t fill out her dress so well anymore.

  But she still liked butcher knives.

  The ghastly thing coming up the stairs had carried the knife in an almost ceremonial fashion in front of it…point up…as if it were a sharpened steel bouquet.

  “Sweet love united for eternity.”

  Jessica closed her eyes and gritted her teeth at the approaching sound. The voice possessed a strange hollow quality, as if it were coming out of a long pipe, yet also resonated in a way completely at odds with every other sound in the deadened atmosphere. The shuffling steps and rustle of old satin reached the top of the stairs and halted for a moment. Jessica could envision the grisly thing swaying there at the end of the hallway, as it turned to face down the passage toward her room.

  “Here comes the bride…”

  The singing resumed and Jessica knew the phantom had restarted its approach. The haunting voice drew nearer, reeking of both death and madness. Its strange tonal quality seemed to thrum against her nervous system, triggering a panic response she could barely fight.

  Worse yet, the temperature started to fall again.

  Fog began to appear on the glass surface of the mirror above the dresser, and the ceiling started to crawl with the beginnings of cobwebs. Even the dust coating the room seemed to thicken as the specter drew near. And that awful deadness to the air increased, muffling all sound but the now ghastly tune coming to an end outside in the hall.

  The door grew achingly cold against her back and Jessica scanned the room with desperation, hunting some form of escape. The windows were painted closed and over twenty feet above a cut stone patio. A dive through those would likely be fatal. To her right, the closet door offered little better…just a hiding place that would fool no one, and no exit. The final option, to her left, was the bathroom. It also had no other exit, but it featured a door with a little deadbolt lock.

  A single long scratching noise sounded at the door to her back, either a butcher knife or a withered nail, she really didn’t want to know which. All that mattered was what it meant…

  Priscilla now stood inches behind her.

  It was either the bathroom, or risk the dive through one of the windows. As much as heights frightened her, the windows were tempting. They offered the one sure-fire escape from the horror on the other side of the door. Jessica stared at the window blinds, knowing the old paper relics would hardly slow her down if she chose to make the dive. They also meant she would be diving blind, and wouldn’t be able to see what lay beneath her until she was already through the window and falling.

  A soft click sounded and she looked down to see the doorknob turning beside her.

  Jessica shrieked and charged the window. For one brief instant she thought she had screwed up the courage to make the leap…

  …but with a cry of despair acknowledged she couldn’t do it and bolted to her left instead.

  Behind her, the bedroom door slammed open and the stench of charred flesh flooded the air. She only caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the awful figure gliding into the room before ripping open the bathroom door and plunging inside.

  Maintaining her grip on the door, she slammed it behind her then turned to fumble with the lock. This bathroom didn’t have a window and, since she hadn’t had time to turn on the light, she scrabbled for the little deadbolt in the dark. Now screaming in both frustration and terror, Jessica groped for the little knob, expecting to have the door in front of her ripped open at any instant and finding herself confronted with the horrid wraith. She knew that would be the end of her, as she would probably die of sheer horror before the thing could ever bring the knife into play.

  After an eternity of split seconds, her fingers closed around the lock and she twisted it shut with a gasp of relief.

  Jessica stumbled backwards in the dark, away from the locked door, and leaned against the sink. She remembered the light switch, but it was beside the door to the bedroom and she had no intention of going back over there.

  Either the lock would hold or it wouldn’t.

  Her ragged breathing filled her ears in the darkness, making it impossible to hear what transpired in the other room. Jessica didn’t really need to see to know the horror must be near the door because the bathroom had already started to feel like the inside of a refrigerator. And that smell…like a barbeque gone horribly wrong.

  She bit a knuckle in the blackness, trying to regain some control. The taste of blood filled her mouth from biting too hard, but hardly elicited her notice. The pain did help her focus a little bit, and she remembered the small night light above the sink. Marge liked to leave it on at night when she had company, so they could find their way to the bathroom.

  Feeling along the edge of the now freezing sink, her hands fumbled around the soap dish then started exploring the wall. Jessica kept herself facing where she knew the door to be while she searched the wall by feel. She found the edge of the mirror and traced it over to where the wall socket had to be. Finally, her trembling fingers found the little nightlight.

  With a relieved exhalation she located the little switch and turned it on…

  And found herself face to face with what remained of Priscilla Hatcher.

  ***

  “Jessieee!” Marge hurried out of the c
ar and headed for the back door of the house.

  She clutched a cigarette lighter in one hand and a can of lighter fluid in the other—objects she had grabbed in her hasty departure from the store. She still couldn’t bring herself to believe Priscilla Hatcher awaited inside, not for one second, but she came prepared to send that evil bitch straight back to hell if she turned out to be wrong.

  On the other hand, she did believe Jessica was in trouble.

  The girl had gone to bed sick with allergies, and it could be entirely possible she developed a fever while she slept. And it took no stretch of the imagination to think she must have been in the middle of a feverish dream when Marge called and only succeeded in half waking her up. The idea of her young friend wandering the house in a walking nightmare prompted a fresh burst of speed from her old legs.

  “Jessie! I’ll be right there!”

  Marge yanked the screen door open, and fumbled with the keys. After a few abortive attempts, she managed to slip the key in the lock and twist it. She shouldered her way through the door into the kitchen, and came to an abrupt halt.

  The kitchen was a wreck.

  All of the drawers hung open, and silverware lay scattered all over the floor. The flour bin rested on its side, and the counter and floor were coated with the white substance. Marge eased her way through the wreckage, frowning at the mess.

  It didn’t seem to reek of violence, more of carelessness. It was as if somebody had shambled through, knocking over things within easy reach on the counter and clumsily pulling drawers out in search of something. All the cups and glasses in the cupboard were undisturbed, and no broken glass or china littered the floor like one might expect as the result of a violent frenzy.

  “Jessie! I’m home!”

  Nothing but silence answered her.

  Marge moved through the kitchen and out into the dining room. Here the mess was much less. Only the tablecloth lay on the floor, as if somebody caught themselves on it on their way by and dragged it off the table. Once again, the impression came of somebody shuffling along in a daze.

  Or sleepwalking.

  “Jessie! Honey! Where are you!?”

  She fought the instinctive urge to put the tablecloth back on the table, choosing to continue the search for Jessica. The girl had raved about it being cold and there being cobwebs everywhere, but Marge felt or saw nothing of it. Somehow their absence didn’t do much to make the older woman feel better.

  She now tiptoed through the dining room, checking under the table and behind furniture as she went. Nothing. She moved on toward the parlor, wanting to do a thorough search downstairs before heading up to the second floor.

  “Jessie?”

  The parlor showed no sign of having been disturbed, with Marge’s book still lying on the chair where she left it before going to the store. Her reading glasses glinted on the lamp table beside her chair, showing not a hint of the dust the girl had cried about, and the little glass figurines she collected gleamed from the fireplace mantel.

  The brittle quiet started to get on her nerves and she shouted again as she headed out the door of the parlor into the front hallway.

  “Jessie! Wher…OH DEAR LORD!”

  Marge covered her mouth, her eyes locked on the ghastly figure swaying on the landing where the stairs turned. For one brief, heart-shattering instant she thought she was staring at Priscilla Hatcher returned from the grave. Then reality reasserted itself and she recognized the figure weaving her way downstairs.

  “Jessica? My God, what are you doing?”

  The girl wore Priscilla’s wedding dress, staggering awkwardly in the dead woman’s shoes. Dust coated her from head to toe, and cobwebs hung from the ratty veil she must have found back up in the attic. Rolling tears left black trails in the grime caked on her face, where they ran down from her swollen eyes.

  “I-I know you?”

  “Oh, honey, of course you know me!” Marge rushed over to the young woman. “It’s me, Marge! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” She started wiping the filth off of Jessica’s face, succeeded in smearing it, then started searching her purse for a tissue instead.

  “M-Marge?”

  “Yes, dear. It’s me. It’s going to be alright now. We’ll get you out of this nasty thing and back into bed.” Rummaging around in her purse turned up a lot of junk, but little in the way of tissue.

  “I know you.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I know you.”

  Something in that hoarse whisper, something very wrong, caused the hairs on the back of Marge’s neck to go erect. It wasn’t just a statement, it was an accusation. Alarmed, she looked up into Jessica’s face. That’s when it dawned on her that more than dust masked the face of the girl she knew. It took just a mere instant for her to recognize the look of deranged hate in those reddened eyes.

  And only a second later…a second too late…she spotted the butcher knife concealed within the folds of the old dress.

  ***

  They buried Marge beside her brother, Robert, in the Cole County Cemetery. Jessica’s body was sent back to Dallas for burial in her family plot. The coroner was forced to use dental records to identify the charred remains.

  Police never adequately explained the circumstances or motive that led to the two deaths. Based on what little evidence remained, they reasoned Marge may have been the aggressor since she had been observed at the corner store yelling into her phone at the younger woman, before snatching the can of lighter fluid used in the murder/suicide. The fact her body bore the only discernable knife wounds at the scene led some to theorize that Jessica may have killed her in self defense, then set the both of them alight.

  On the face of it, many found the theory to be preposterous. But no other evidence ever surfaced to shed more light on the case.

  An Echo of Blood and Mirrors

  I met Corvin Bradshaw in Conference Room 3 at the Collinsdale Police Dept, on November 18th 2010.

  Corvin is a sixteen year old male who stands about five foot six inches tall and weighs approximately one hundred and thirty five pounds. He has blue eyes, and at the time of our meeting, he had straight, shoulder length blond hair and a large tribal tattoo that he had drawn on his own forearm with a black Sharpie marker.

  He also sported a large bruise on his right cheekbone that all parties agree happened before his arrest.

  The following is a compressed and mildly edited transcript of the statement he gave to me at our meeting. All parties present agree that it is an accurate representation of his statement. All parties also agree he was not under the influence of alcohol or any controlled substance at the time this statement was taken.

  Okay, it was Thursday…yeah, yesterday…and I was out of Mr. Gregor’s history class with a hall pass when Laura Taylor cornered me in the boy’s bathroom.

  Yeah, that’s right. She came in on me. I didn’t drag her in or anything. Look, do you want me to tell this or what?

  *At this point the attorney present on his behalf interjects and I agree to hold all pointed questions till later.

  Right. Anyways, so I’m in the bathroom down at the end of the south hallway, and I’m taking a piss when Laura Taylor busts in on me. I wasn’t in a stall either, but at one of those wall toilets us guys whiz in so I wasn’t exactly glad to see her at first…if you know what I mean.

  “Oh God, Corvin!” she gasps. “You gotta help me!”

  So I’m standing there with my dork in my hand and one of the hottest girls in school is asking for my help. But believe me, she didn’t look like she’s coming on to me. Hell, who am I kidding, she forgot I existed in sixth grade. But right then she was all pale and breathing hard, and I could tell she had been crying. She looked messed up.

  “Holy shit!” I pinch off and zip up like a madman, “Laura? Are you okay?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, but just leaned with her back against the door and breathing heavy. I sort of wondered if she were trying to keep somebody out. Honestl
y, at that moment I thought some jackass must have attacked her and I started to get ready to throw down with somebody.

  Yeah, I know, I ain’t that big. But I ain’t a pansy either. I’ve torn it up before, and I did okay. And when a girl like Laura is in trouble, well I guess wanting to kick a little ass just comes natural. Besides, you never know, she might remember it if you go to the mats for her. I ain’t gonna lie and say that thought didn’t cross my mind. So believe me when I tell you, if the friggin Jolly Green Giant had busted through that door, he was going to be eating knuckles.

  “Laura? What’s wrong?” She’s still breathing heavy and I’m trying not to stare at what that’s making the front of her sweater do. I’m not sure I was doing a very good job of it.

  “Corvin!” she started to get it together, but she still looked hyped as all hell. “I’ve gotta get out of here! I’ve got to get home! Can you help me do that?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I agreed.

  I know, I know, but c’mon…I could go back to history class or walk Laura Taylor home. What the hell did you think I was going to do? She’s a cheerleader for god’s sake! Whatever Mr. Gregor had to teach me would still be true tomorrow. Besides, I really wanted to know what was going on.

  “Okay,” she swallowed, “but we need to be careful. I snuck out of the nurse’s office and they’re going to be looking for me.”

  “The nurse’s office! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I will be. I freaked out in class, and they sent me to the nurse. I’m okay now, but I’ve got to get home before they call my Mom and get her involved in this. I’ve got something I’ve got to do or I’m in bad trouble.”

  “Hey, no problem,” I reassured her. “But they’ve got the parking lot locked so we’ll have to walk.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t live that far away.”

  “Okay,” I reached out and touched her arm to sort of nudge her away from the door. “Then let me check and see if anybody is in the hallway.”

  She got that really scared look again, and right about then is when I started to get the idea there was somebody a lot worse than the school nurse looking for her. I didn’t know what was going on yet, but I figured I would find out on the walk to her place. So I cracked open the door and took a quick peek.