Expiration Date

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  “Welcome to my party,” she said in a low, sultry voice. Nicole stared at her, speechless despite the thousand of questions she needed to ask.

  Lizzie hurried her towards an immense walk-in closet full of dresses and shoes. “Quickly, choose something fun and naughty.”

  Dancing and spinning, snatches of faces in the blurs, being passed from man to man, the scratchy record repeating over and over. Nicole laughed as she danced, sweat dripping from her face as the old-fashioned black and grey dress pinched her unbearably, the old shoes slipping on the wooden floor, her ankles aching, her toes cramped.

  Lizzie laughed and took her hand, pulling her from the dance floor.

  “You’re fitting right in,” Lizzie smiled. Nicole swallowed and nodded; thirsty, exhilarated, thrilled to finally meet Lizzie but exhausted from the oppressive heat.

  “It’s time to meet my distinguished guests,” Lizzie boasted as she led Nicole to a receiving line of characters that looked like they had been lifted from the pages of different eras in a history book.

  Nicole gasped as she shook hands with Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Elizabeth Bathory, Vlad Tepes, and so many others who had performed despicable deeds in their lives. She briefly experienced a sense of déjà vu, a moment taken from The Rocky Horror Picture Show and “the master’s parties.”

  No sooner had Nicole shaken hands with the last of the special guests, she was stricken to the ground, her head hacked again and again with an axe by Lizzie Borden herself. Nicole’s blood splashed Lizzie’s dress, the stains barely noticeable as they were absorbed the instant they hit the fabric. Nicole screamed and reached up to stop the blows, but it was pointless. The party guests, the hoards, descended on Nicole, slurping up her fresh blood, squabbling and shoving each other as they tore at her body for the meat. Distinguished guests reduced to ravenous animals with gnashing teeth and clawing hands.

  Nicole ran down the winding stone streets of Fall River. She returned to the bed and breakfast. Relieved she saw the three ghost hunter trucks still in the driveway. She hurried inside the house and found Kim lying on the murder couch.

  “You’ll never guess…” Nicole said, panting as she tried to catch her breath. She shook her friend who was lying in the Andrew Borden pose. Then she saw the blood pool on the floor, leaking brains, tufts of hair all around.

  Nicole stood up and screamed. She realized she still held the axe and threw it at the rocking chair that rocked rapidly.

  “Help!” she screamed. Her voice echoed eerie. Then, the house was weirdly quiet. Wasn’t it time for breakfast? But the table wasn’t set, there were no cooks, no voices from the other guests. But the trucks and cars were in the driveway. They hadn’t hit the road yet.

  What time was it anyway?

  The clock was still tick-tocking its staccato beat, whirring and humming. The gears grinding, how old was that clock? Was it the original clock?

  Nicole wiped sweat and blood from her forehead.

  The clock chimed at her.

  The rocking chair rocked.

  The body on the couch was still dead.

  “Nicole,” a voice said from behind her. Nicole turned to see Lizzie standing before her. A frumpy Lizzie as in the famous portraits. Hair pulled back, eyes glazed and unhappy, her mouth set in frown. She wore a shapeless dress and an apron spattered with blood. In her hand, she held the bloody axe.

  “What’s going on?” Nicole asked; she was cornered and could only move forwards towards the dining room.

  “That’s right,” Lizzie said as she led Nicole into the dining room. “Come sit down and have your breakfast.”

  Nicole reached to pull out the chair nearest to her, nodding at her ghost hunter pals already seated around the table. She screamed.

  Her friends, the other six ghost hunters, were propped in their chairs, their faces dripping with blood from their bashed in skulls.

  Lizzie placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of Nicole.

  “Stop your screaming,” she said sternly. Nicole stared at Lizzie, her screams turning to burbling sobs. She gulped and sniffed as Lizzie sat down in front of her own bowl of stew.

  “Eat your mutton,” Lizzie commanded, and lowered her head to slurp at her own raised spoonful. “Do you want to be part of the family or not?”

  Nicole stopped sobbing and lowered her gaze to her stew. The odor of rotten meat mixed with the musky smell of New England in the summer heat made her stomach roll.

  “Eat it,” Lizzie said again.

  Nicole’s lips quivered. Lizzie stood up, her hand reaching for the nearby axe. Nicole quickly reached for her spoon and scooped it into stew. Lizzie sat back down and continued to eat and stare at Nicole. Nicole took a tentative taste, barely licking the stringy meat and nearly vomited from the putrid smell and taste.

  “Eat your mutton,” a strong male voice boomed. Nicole looked over to see Andrew Borden now sitting at the head of the table, Abby by his side. Both still suffered the bloody wounds of their deaths. Bridgette, Emma, John Morse and Michael the handyman sat around the table too. The ghost hunters were gone.

  “Eat your mutton,” Lizzie coaxed. “And I will share with you the secrets about Lizzie Borden.”

  Nicole stared at Andrew Borden. He now looked like the portrait that hung in the bedroom. A stern, glowering man who stared at her with the intensity of a shark’s black eyes.

  Nicole glanced at Abby, a mirror of the glum woman she’d seen in the portraits. What a miserable family they were. And what were the real secrets?

  She wondered what Emma knew?

  What would Lizzie tell her? What would Lizzie do?

  Nicole ate the mutton.

  * * *

  Sèphera Girón is about halfway to her expiration date and still has loads to say. The author of a dozen published books, she’s also penned hundreds of short stories, blogs, articles and horoscopes.

  Ashes to Ashes

  by Amy Grech

  Jack had been dead for less than a year when his widow spotted something gray in a corner of the cellar that resembled a heap of dust but throbbed like the heart of a dying man.

  A sudden heart attack had claimed Jack nine short months ago…

  She’d had his body cremated.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Sara passed the heap of dust whenever she brought her dirty clothes over to the washing machine. She couldn’t avoid it. The first time the heap moved, Sara bit her lip and shrugged it off, along with a sudden chill that crept through the open cellar door.

  Hastily, she dumped her dirty dresses into the washer — all of them were black — and closed the lid. She passed the heap again on her way upstairs, and shuddered. She didn’t stop shaking until she bolted the cellar door. In a half-hour she would have to go back down to put her dresses in the dryer. She dreaded the thought.

  Sara wore her wedding dress, which she had dyed black for Jack’s funeral.

  Until death do us part.

  His final resting place, a black urn with JACK etched in gold letters, sat on the mantle, right next to their wedding photo. Two feet taller than she was, he resembled a gentle giant. His enormous arms held Sara tightly. Gingerly, she lifted the cold, gold frame and remembered the splendor of their wedding day two decades ago, immaculately preserved for all the days of her life.

  As she cradled the photo against her chest, Sara closed her eyes and pictured herself hugging Jack. She held her new husband. He held her as tightly in his strong arms as he did on their wedding day, and whispered words she would never forget: “I will always love you. I will never leave you. I want to make love to you forever.”

  She inhaled and smiled, seizing the moment, yearning for his tender touch. In her mind, Jack still smelled as fragrant as an orchard full of oranges. His eyes were as light as the sky, his hair as bright as the sun, and his ashes gray as the
heap of dust in the cellar. Sara’s eyes snapped open as the fond memory faded to black.

  Jack’s ashes and this photo were the only tangible mementos she had left to cherish. She set the picture down. Carefully, she lifted the lid of the urn and peered inside, seeking that familiar, fine powder that always greeted her; black emptiness greeted her where grayness should have been. She winced, remembering the heap of dust in a corner of the cellar.

  How did his ashes end up in the cellar?

  The lid slipped through her trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.

  Sara shuffled over to the couch and collapsed. She had never thought that keeping Jack’s ashes in the house would be such a burden.

  * * *

  Did I meet him when we were college sophomores or juniors?

  Jack and Sara strolled across campus somewhere… she tried to remember where but couldn’t. It didn’t matter though, because he wore a University of Michigan sweatshirt. They paused in front of a sign that read: Psychology Laboratories. He practically lived in that building junior year.

  Jack waved. Sara waved back.

  * * *

  Did he ask me out on our first date, or did I ask him?

  They sat on a bed in a small but neat apartment. Jack’s place had always been a mess, so Sara knew right away that it had been her apartment, her bed.

  “I’m glad you came over.” She smiled and moved closer.

  He took his leather jacket off and tossed it in a corner. “I never mind spending quality time with pretty girls.”

  Sara blushed. “Do you spend a lot of your time with pretty girls?”

  “None of them are as pretty as you.” Jack took her hand in his and squeezed it hard enough to let her know he cared.

  She brushed black locks away from her face. “I don’t believe you.”

  He kissed her for a long time to prove his point.

  The image lingered deep within her mind, like their first kiss, but it didn’t last nearly as long.

  * * *

  Did we make love the first time in his apartment or mine?

  They were at her place again. The lights were off. Candles bathed the room in an effervescent glow. Jack kissed her deeply. She held him tight. Their shirts, jeans, and underwear were scattered throughout the room.

  Jack loomed, trembling above her. “I love you.”

  “Then show me.” She pulled him on top of her and guided him in.

  Their movements were awkward and unsteady at first, but neither of them minded much; desire bound them together. Sara wrapped her legs around his. Jack wrapped his arms around hers and squeezed tight.

  * * *

  Sara started to cry.

  Did Jack get down on one knee when he proposed?

  They stood in front of a blue, two-story house, his arm draped over shoulders; her arm wrapped around his waist. Sara’s mother looked on from the front stoop while her father snapped pictures of the happy couple. They smiled for the camera and tried not to blink.

  Jack and Sara walked to the restaurant holding hands. He always squeezed harder than she did.

  Joe’s Bistro was right down the street. Their usual table, in a secluded, dark corner, made the candle between them romantic because it was the only source of light. Jack ordered a bottle of the finest red wine and a plate of spaghetti with meatballs for them to share.

  After dinner he got down on one knee, opened a small, black box, slipped a diamond ring on her finger and said: “Marry me, Sara.”

  She admired the ring. “Oh, Jack, I thought you’d never ask!”

  Suddenly, the moment was snuffed out in her mind as if it were the candle wick that had burned so brightly between them dying.

  * * *

  She headed for the cellar again. The stairs looked forbidding, even though the cellar light was on. She grabbed the sides of her dress and held them up so she wouldn’t fall and end up sprawled out on the floor next to the — harmless? — heap of dust, Jack’s last hurrah.

  When she neared it on her way back to the washer, Sara clenched her fists and stared at the dust. As she passed, the heap began to beat faster and faster.

  Sara lifted the washer’s lid and then tossed her wet, black dresses into the dryer. Her hasty attempt to make it upstairs without looking back was hindered by the sudden aroma of oranges.

  Sara looked behind her.

  The dust had vanished!

  She went over to the spot where it had been and touched the cold concrete; not a speck remained. She ran upstairs, without looking back, and bolted the cellar door.

  She found herself hovering over the topless urn on the mantle, glancing inside once more. Grayness prevailed where black emptiness used to be; Jack was back.

  Sara held the urn in her sweaty, trembling hands and shut her eyes. Jack danced with her again, but he kept stepping on her toes. That didn’t happen on their wedding day. Sara was sure of it!

  Cautiously, she opened her eyes, startled to see her husband standing next to her. She placed her hand on his shoulder. This time it rested there, instead of passing through thin air.

  She cringed at the gentle touch of a warm hand that smelled like oranges touching her hand; she screamed. Suddenly, the hand squeezed hers hard— so hard her hand began to ache until the pain led to numbness.

  Jack let go of Sara’s hand long enough to hug her harder than he had ever hugged her before. He whispered words in her ear as he had done before, over and over, but the words were different now: “I have always loved you; I will always love you. I have never left you; I will never leave you. I want to make love to you forever; I will make love to you forever.”

  He squeezed so hard that Sara’s whole body throbbed so fast that her heart could hardly keep pace.

  And the harmless heap of grey dust in the corner was the only thing, the last thing she remembered.

  * * *

  Amy Grech has sold over one hundred stories and three poems to various anthologies and magazines including: Dead Harvest, and Shrieks and Shivers from the Horror Zine. Amy is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association.

  The Greyness

  by Kathryn Ptacek

  Angela gazed down at her husband’s body in the hospital bed and wondered what it was like to be dead.

  This isn’t what I should be thinking, she told herself, and yet it was. She reached out and placed her fingertips on his arm. Warm. Her fingers trembled as she watched his chest, waiting for him to draw in that next breath, waiting to hear the exhalation, waiting, waiting, waiting.

  They were all waiting out in the hall for her, too… Waiting ever so politely before they bustled in, before they intruded upon her last time with her husband.

  They told me to take as long as I wanted. She put her other hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle. As long as I wanted— an hour, a day, a week? How long was too long? Too short? What if she swept out of the room right now? Would they think less of her? Think she wasn’t a very good wife?

  She rubbed her fingers across his skin. It still felt like him. She bent down and kissed him and closed her eyes and remembered all the times they had embraced and explored each other with their lips and tongues.

  * * *

  Her husband hadn’t been old, hadn’t been young, hadn’t been sick. Apparently something was going on inside Ben, something that she hadn’t noticed, something no one realized. Had he known? she wondered. If so, he hadn’t said anything, but then he wouldn’t have. He would not have wanted to worry her, to make her wonder what was going to happen.

  She inhaled deeply. All she smelled was the antiseptic tang of the hospital room, but beneath it lay a faint odor. Death? She opened her eyes, but didn’t see the grim reaper or anything remotely like it lurking in the corner. Again, she almost laughed. Why would she see that now when her husband died an hour before? His spirit or s
oul or anima or whatever was gone— it had slipped away into the night, and left his shell, had left her behind.

  She traced the curling hair on his forearm, smoothed a rough patch of skin — hadn’t she suggested he have his doctor check it out? — intertwined her fingers with his…

  Beneath her palm resting on the top of his hand she felt a brief warmness, and for a wild moment she thought he was alive, that he was moving. But she opened her eyes and all the joy that had surged through her in that instant drained, and there lay his body. Dead. Dead is dead.

  Only then did she laugh, loud and long, not even stopping when the two nurses and administrator with all the pesky paperwork stepped into the room and gaped at her. She laughed even harder— papers to fill out when her love was dead. She laughed until the tears washed down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Days blurred by… all the little things, all the big things she had to do. All the things she and Ben hadn’t thought about, because, surely, death was a long way away.

  That’s what he always said, but every so often she saw something in those yellow-brown eyes — those wolf eyes — that said otherwise. But she had thought he was just fearful, as she was, and so they never talked about what had to be done. More papers to fill out; the meetings with the lawyer; arrangements, arrangements, arrangements. She was self-employed, so there was no boss to call to say she wouldn’t be returning to work for a while.

  In the old days, she thought as she stared into the closet to pick out clothes for him to wear in the casket, he would have died at home, and his sister and I and maybe another woman would have washed the body carefully, with respect, and we would have dressed him in his finest suit, and he would have laid in the coffin in our parlor.

  Except we don’t have a parlor, she thought, her lips twisting into a bit of a smile as she thought of the two-bedroom apartment. No, far from it. A chuckle threatened to escape, and she wondered why she thought it was funny. Nothing was funny now; yet everything was funny.