Fright Mare-Women Write Horror

by Неизвестный

  That’s when it happened; that’s when the voices came home with them. Kami remembered every moment like it was yesterday. Jill spied a pair of window panels in a discount bin at a thrift store. The curtains were covered in ballerinas with frothy, iced tutus stitched into a frozen fifth position. The ballerinas' tiny bodies danced across the fabric in a row of precision uniformity. Whoever designed the pattern had colored their faces to the point that the rosy cheeks and powder, blue eyeshadow looked nearly clownish. Kami’s stomach dropped. There was something cold and steely in the ballerinas' tiny glances. When Jill pressed them closer, Kami felt her body pull away. Instinct tucked her head into her shoulder. She pinched her eyes closed.

  The man behind the counter had said that they were originally taupe, but had since faded out into a cream or eggshell hue. The old man smiled at the girls and their mother. He reminded them that taupe matched any color. Accenting with natural tones was a way to make the subtlety of colors pop. The sales pitch was pointless. Jill loved them. She adored the ballerinas and their little swirling tutus the instant she saw them. Mom was already giving in when he offered to lower the price even further. Kami sighed. Even the man in the shop was against her.

  Jill squealed all the way home. She stroked the aged fabric on her lap. The ballerina pattern was realistic. The figures” proportions were spot on. It was something about the abstractions-- the watercolor glances on their faces-- that bled into something more sinister. Kami tried to explain it to Mom. The woman shook her head without listening. I never ask for much, Kami thought. She should give me this one thing. A lifetime of not asking negated the girl’s opinion. Obviously, she wouldn’t mind if they disregarded her feelings entirely. After all, that’s what they always did. Mom thought they were cute. Jill awed at their delicate poses. No one could be afraid of ballerinas.

  They put them up on a slightly bowed iron rod that came with the house. Even Father agreed they suited the girls and the room. There was just one problem. At night, the ballerinas whispered Kami’s name. A vent underneath the window shot warm air into the room. The wind outside was turning colder and the leaves were already falling. At night, without the sun to sustain bearable warmth, the furnace ran constantly. Wisps of heated air rose up from the vent. The motion flittered the curtains and made the women on the curtain sway back and forth.

  Jill didn’t believe the curtains whispered. Once the twins had stayed up all night listening for them. Kami tried to explain it didn’t work that way. When the lights were on, or there were other people around, the curtains seemed like normal fixtures. Jill couldn’t understand it. That sounded “awfully convenient.”In her mind, it was more likely that Kami was making it up for attention than she was earnestly afraid. Jill couldn’t relate to things she hadn’t experienced.

  Once in a while she was still sympathetic in spite of herself, but it was more likely that she would be grumpy. For a moment, Kami considered trying to sneak quietly into Jill’s bed without waking her. That would only delay an annoyed conversation. It wasn’t a long term solution. Mom would scold her foolishness when Jill tattled. Kami scooted her body farther into the bed so that her back pressed against the wall. At least nothing could sneak up behind her.

  The ballerinas' limbs twisted about themselves. The folds of the fabric broke their slender arms and scattered the pale blur of their skin. Jill always saw smiles on their faces. Time had bled out the original colors so much that they looked more like wailing screams. Kami abandoned her memories. It didn’t matter how it happened. The only thing that mattered was that she was trapped with them now. Kami focused on the ballerinas. There they stood, pinned to the fabric on the opposite end of the room, where they always were. She stared as if her gaze would keep them from attacking. There is nothing to be afraid of, she lied.

  “Kami,” their voices spoke in unison.

  Their features were small enough that she couldn’t discern if their mouths actually moved. Kami listened, all the while pretending that she couldn’t hear them. It only looked like they were dancing. It was her mind playing tricks on her.

  Mom is right; I shouldn’t be afraid of ballerinas. Kami rolled onto her back. The edge of her shoulder pressed against the wall. She stared at the mattress above and willed Jill to wake up thirsty or with a full bladder. If she could break the tension, even for a few moments, then she might be able to fall asleep. As soon as the sun came up the curtains would turn back into a normal household item. Kami would be able to walk past them – touch them even. In the daylight, her terror subsided.

  “Why don’t you aaaansssswer, Kami?” A single voice rose above the rest.

  Kami’s gaze jerked towards the curtain again. This voice was firmer than the ones before. It echoed more than she was accustomed to. She studied the even spacing on the panels. Even through the folds, the piece was uniform. Her eyes drifted along the fabric until she came to an empty place. The canvas was clean, bare eggshell. An even row of feet floated above the void. Each pair met and crossed at the ankle. Below the space, she could see uniform arms reaching high in matching ovals until their wrists crossed above their heads. If they weren’t wearing ballerina tutus, then it would have looked like they were bound with rope and strung up to be eviscerated like a hunters carcass.

  Motion caught Kami’s attention near the bottom of the panel. Immediately beneath the empty space, all of the Ballerina’s craned their necks to one side. Kami’s eyes burned from refusing to blink. They were never posed that way; they all stood straight and tall. If they moved, then that would prove it. Mom and Jill would have to believe. The cord behind the girl’s eyes stretched as she tried to focus the stare more accurately. Near the bottom of the curtain, a single ballerina used her companions as a ladder to climb down the pattern. The tips of her slender toes made a foothold of their shoulders as she climbed towards the floor. Her image slid down on the fabric, hooking around companions' looped arms, and the outcropping of their toes.

  “I’m dreaming,” Kami said. The words fell away just outside her mouth. There wasn’t enough oxygen in her lungs to sustain them. She sucked in a few shallow breaths. The weight in her chest shifted.

  “So,” the lone ballerina said. When she turned, Kami noted that her head was paper thin. The look on her face had changed; she was definitely smiling now.

  “You finally answered,” she added.

  The ballerina fluttered to the floor. Her body slithered across the carpet like a snake. Kami told her body to move, but her mouth wouldn’t open wide enough to scream. The room froze, and she froze with it. Even the gentle murmur of Jill’s breath above faded into the background. Kami struggled inside herself while the ballerina tried to stand at the foot of their bed. The comforters Jill picked were long enough to drape almost to the floor. When the ballerina tried to stand, she sagged in on herself. Her movements were choppy and spastic. She couldn’t move as freely in the air as she could within strands of fabric. A short, wafting sigh escaped her mouth when she flopped her deadweight arms towards the spread.

  Part of Kami still hoped that she had fallen asleep. The ballerina’s limp body wafted lazily over her feet while her mind raged against its cage. Outwardly, Kami was a rag doll. The ballerina glided up her slender body to her face. She tried to blink, but even that was beyond her. The ballerina’s face hovered in front of Kami’s eye, close enough that she might have poked it out. When she turned to a profile, the girl couldn’t see the sliver of her body at all.

  “I have chosen you,” the scrap of cloth whispered towards her eye. The creature watched Kami’s pupil tighten. Moisture pooled at the bottom of the lid until it spilled out across the girl’s cheek. Terror robbed her of rational thought. At this proximity, even her breathing was stunted. Kami’s lungs began to beg for air, but her chest wouldn’t move.

  “It’s ok to let your mind wander. It’s easier if you do. Your body is held in place with fear sutures, woven over time. The longer you were afraid, the deeper the stitches pierced. I’ve been thr
ough this before with my sisters.” The ballerina gestured towards the curtain. “The more you struggle to stay conscious, the more frightened you’ll become, and the tighter the stitches will pull. It’s your choice, but just know you’ll suffer more if you fight it.”

  Tears trickled down Kami’s cheeks. The room was starting to look fuzzy around the edges. The outline of the cloth woman was harder to make out. Hopelessness enveloped her. Kami felt her mouth slide open. The slit was too slight to breathe or talk through. The woman rolled herself forwards on to her lip. Kami felt her wiggling her way across the center of her tongue. She begged her teeth to clench.

  “If it makes you feel any better, they won’t be sad. They won’t even realize you’re dead. We’ll bide our time here for a while longer, and then we can donate the others to a shop, or maybe sell them at a garage sale so we can be sure to find someone who will appreciate us,” the ballerina’s voice bounced around Kami’s mouth. Her body to the shoulders was already inside. Her plush body soaked up the saliva on Kami’s tongue. She was soft and smooth. The cloth woman plumped with moisture, which made sliding into the back of Kami’s throat easier. However, she still got stuck half way down. Until the girl’s body went completely limp, she wouldn’t be able to squeeze through the passage into her chest.

  The epicenter of the threads of fear were wrapped around the heart. From that seat, the ballerina would have complete control over the functions of Kami’s body. The girl’s eyes, only halfway focused, wandered over the curtains. The ballerinas swayed in their places. For the first time, she noticed larger gaps in the pattern. Their little bodies were shifting to close the hole the lone ballerina had left, and make the pattern uniform again. Kami’s vision faded. She was floating on a vast expanse of nothingness. Feeling in her body drifted farther and farther away. The last thing she felt was the knot in the back of her mouth loosen up, and slide down her throat.

  Sarah Doebereiner is a short story author, novelist, and poet. She graduated from Wright State University in 2010 with her BA in English. Sarah lives in central Ohio with her husband and two small children. Macabre themes fascinate her because of their tendency to stay with readers long after the book has been closed, but the joy in short fiction is the opportunity to try out all kinds of genres.

  Website: sarahadoebereiner.com

  Twitter: @SarahDoeberiner

  ONE HOUR BEFORE THE DARK

  by

  MARY ANN PEDEN COVIELLO

  The world ended on a sunny Thursday afternoon while I washed the lunch dishes and the kids watched a rerun of "Blue's Clues" on television. Mrs. Summers from next door burst into the kitchen, grey hair disheveled, dress awry, her right shoulder a welter of blood. I thought perhaps she'd fallen or suffered a stroke. Her face twisted into an almost unrecognizable mask, and her lips wriggled like hooked worms. She lunged toward me.

  I reached out to her. "Are you all right? Can I help?"

  And then my neighbor of ten years, the sweetest lady I'd ever known, snarled at me, drool dripping from her lower lip. She grabbed my left arm, and she bit me.

  Bit me.

  She ripped a chunk out of my forearm and swallowed. I was too stunned to scream, but I pushed her away from me.

  A furious growl rumbled from under the kitchen table, followed by Max, named for my husband, Maxwell, lost to an IED in Afghanistan. Max surged up, eighty-five pounds of German Shepherd protective rage.

  Before I could stop him, Max landed jaws-first on Mrs. Summers' chest. Furious dog and elderly woman hit the floor with a window-rattling thud. The fight lasted moments, but seemed to continue for an hour. Max snarled, yowled, and growled. Mrs. Summers clawed and snapped at Max's throat. I was sure I'd never forget her screams and gibbers. Not if I lived to be a hundred.

  The two rolled on the kitchen floor with Mrs. Summers' arms clutching my dog while he tore out her throat. Her fingers dug into him. Cindy and Sammy had abandoned the television and stood in the doorway, wailing.

  When the fight was over, Max whimpered and crawled across the floor to me. Blood smeared the floor behind him. I hugged my dog. He'd saved my life.

  "Good boy. Good boy, Max." The blood from the ragged bite on my arm mingled with Max's blood, and Mrs. Summers'.

  I reached for the phone. I'd have to call the police. What on earth would I tell them?

  Mrs. Summers stood up.

  Cindy screamed. Sammy grabbed my waist and buried his face in my apron. Max lurched to his feet and faced the wreckage of my neighbor. Her throat was completely open, the windpipe severed. She wasn't breathing. Her eyes were grey, filmy. Totally silent, she opened her mouth, bared her teeth, and stumbled toward us.

  This time, Max and I moved together. He launched himself once more at the bloodied thing that used to be my neighbor. I pushed the children away, grabbed an antique stoneware crock from the counter, and slammed it against Mrs. Summers' head. Her skull cracked under my onslaught. She flopped onto her back, limp and unmoving.

  I fell onto my hands and knees and threw up.

  Max snarled and dragged what was left of Mrs. Summers under the table. This time she didn't get back up.

  The pain in my arm, the bile in my throat, and the sobs of my children brought me back to myself. Max and I had killed my next-door neighbor. How could that have happened? I couldn't think. My brain had simply shut down.

  My arm was on fire. Yes, and it was on fire because my neighbor had bitten me. Impossible. My dog was underneath the kitchen table, savaging the dead body of that same neighbor—the neighbor who'd broken into my kitchen and bitten a chunk out of my arm and eaten it. Also impossible. Nothing about this nightmare made sense.

  I pulled myself to my feet and leaned on the counter beside the sink. Water. I needed water to rinse my mouth and wash my bitten arm. I glanced out the window over the kitchen sink. Two men and a woman staggered down the middle of the street. They shuffled and lurched, legs stiff, heads tilted. Bright blood stained their mouths and clothes.

  My survival instinct kicked in. I scurried across the kitchen and silently closed and locked the door Mrs. Summers had crashed through. I skirted the kitchen table, gathered Cindy and Sammy, and hurried into the living room.

  Had I locked the front door when I came back from checking the mail? I couldn't remember. I crossed the living room in three long strides and tested the door. Yes, locked. I sagged against the heavy door. The curtains. Two quick tugs closed them against the shuffling horrors outside.

  The television squawked the ear-piercing alarm that signaled an emergency broadcast. Instead of an emergency pattern, though, the face of our recently-elected Governor filled the screen.

  "Attention, all residents of Winston-Salem. Be advised of an emergency evacuation being undertaken at this time. An infected patient has escaped from a quarantine unit at NorthPath hospital, and the contagion has begun to spread. Do not attempt to confront afflicted victims. Do not allow them to touch you. These unfortunate persons will display these symptoms: mania, staggering gait, and an irresistible urge to bite. The contagion is spread by the bite. I regret to inform you there is, at this time, no cure. We are putting all state resources into the search for a treatment. The Federal authorities are also involved. However, I repeat that there is no effective treatment as I speak to you now. Death will occur within an hour or two of infection. Do not attempt to treat a bitten person. The city is being evacuated. All uninfected residents should assemble at the nearest pickup point to be airlifted to safety. At this time, seven pickup locations have been established across the city. The pickup locations are . . ."

  I heard only the first two, the National Guard Armory and Smith-Reynolds Airport. The airport wasn't far from our home. I'd take Cindy and Sammy to the pickup. I barely even noticed the blood trickling down my arm and off my fingers.

  "Kids, go pack your backpacks for a trip to Gramma's and Grampa's. Don't forget your toothbrushes. And hurry. We don't have much time."

  Two little tear-stained faces tur
ned up to me. Cindy, seven-going-on-twenty-seven, eyed me with suspicion. "Your arm is bleeding, Mommy. I saw Mrs. Summers bite you, even if Sammy didn't. Why did she do that?"

  Lying crossed my mind, but I looked into the faces of my children. Cindy, quiet and thoughtful, and Sammy, the exact opposite, as outgoing as a caffeinated clown. I heard myself say, "She was sick, honey, and couldn't help herself. A lot of people have gotten sick, and we have to take you and Sammy to the airport for a ride to see Gramma and Grampa."

  I breathed a little easier when the kids decided to cooperate and trotted off toward their rooms. I went to my own bedroom, and grabbed the .45 Colt semi-auto from my night table. I'd never fired it except at a firing range, but I figured I might need it. I might need it right now in my own kitchen, depending on what condition Max was in.

  Back at the kitchen doorway, I called, "Max? Come here, Maxie."

  Max crawled out from under the table. He slunk across the floor toward me, head down, tail between his legs. I guess he felt guilty for eating Mrs. Summers. I looked into his eyes. Max was still in there. For now. I stroked his head and ears.

  "Good boy, Max. Always my good boy." His tail thumped once. He gave me his paw to shake, and I shook it.

  With Max at my heels, I returned to my bedroom. The kids would need their Social Security cards and birth certificates. I also grabbed a couple of photos of their father and me. I scrawled a hasty note to Maxwell's parents. I told them I loved them and asked them to take care of Cindy and Sammy. I sealed these papers in a Manila envelope, and addressed it. For a moment, I was sorry my own parents were long dead. Maxwell's parents had loved me as if I'd been their own daughter, though, and I'd adored them. They'd raise our kids to remember us. I put the envelope into Cindy's backpack. She was more responsible than Sammy.