She has cramps. It’s her time of the month.
No wonder she was so moody yesterday. She’s driving awfully damn fast…
And then it happens. Again. Like it always does. The Truck.
She’s impatient. Traffic is too slow for her. She always drives faster when she’s mad at me.
We are on a blue highway. Single lane in both directions. She’s tailgating a mother with an SUV full of kids. The yellow line is solid as we go around the bend. She honks and tries to pass. The Triumph handles well, she’s confident. There is a truck ahead! A lumber truck? What is a lumber truck doing in Florida? She tries to merge back in right, but there are two cars ahead of the SUV. The truck jams on its brakes. Something’s coming at us, a wooden pole, not large, but stout. Like a javelin, arcing through the air, coming down straight at me. Just before she cuts sharply into the space between the two cars, the shaft pierces my chest…
And suddenly I am at her house, in New Hampshire. The Triumph is on the back of a truck. She’s had it trucked all the way up here.
Why didn’t she drive it herself? Because she couldn’t, that’s why. She couldn’t because Mark’s in school. No, that’s not the reason. He is in school, but it’s a boarding school. She couldn’t drive it because it would hurt her too much. But she couldn’t get rid of the Triumph either. She knows I loved that car. It is the last place she ever saw me.
She pays the man, the truck leaves. She’s alone, with her memories. Alone with me.
The pain is excruciating! Is it her pain? Is it my pain? I don’t want to be here!
The phone in the house rings. It’s not Mark, he’d call her cell. It breaks her reverie, she goes in to answer it.
#
black
off in the distance…
a light?
no, just a color
shapeless
and noise
twittering
coming closer
#
She’s handing Kiddo my old stethoscope. “Here it is. You tell your girlfriend to take good care of this.”
“Thanks, Mom. She will. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
They are standing in Mark’s room. Faded posters—Iron Man, Batman—and a Sox pennant adorn the walls. My old desk is in the corner. They must have saved it from the big house. There is some sort of electrical apparatus on it, a circuit board, wires, a lantern battery. Weird science from the five & dime. No, those don’t exist anymore. Dollar store?
A miniature football field painted on a green sheet of Formica is also on the desk, next to the gizmo. A small steel ball rests on the fifty-yard line.
“So, explain this thing to me.” Her tone of voice is a mixture of awe and pride.
“Okay. It’s not that big a deal. You know that a current only flows in a complete circuit, right? You have to close the switch or the current won’t flow, the light bulb will be dark. But make the connection and the light bulb lights up.”
His mom nods her head. She got good grades in school, until she had to drop out. But that must be fifteen years ago now.
“When the current flows it makes a magnetic field in those two iron rods in each goal at the ends of the gridiron. The ball is attracted to whichever electromagnet is stronger.” He points to the circuit board. “The sensors on our fingers measure galvanic skin response and feed the data to the microcontroller, which adjusts the strength of the electromagnets based on the relative GSRs. It’s similar to a lie detector. Instead of recording the response on paper, it moves the ball, but it’s really the same thing. The more relaxed you are, the stronger your magnet is, and the brighter your light is. The player that moves the ball into their goal wins.”
“So how I feel is what moves the ball?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of. Living things generate electromagnetic fields. They can be seen with Kirilian photography. Your emotional response changes the colors of your E-M field.”
Colors?
“Oh, yeah. I know what you mean. Like auras, right? I had a friend when I was about your age that was into that stuff. She said she could see people’s auras. She could tell if good things or bad were going to happen to a person. Negative energy brings bad luck, she said.”
“Yeah mom, but this is real science…”
“Well it’s really impressive. I am sure you will win the science fair. I hope your friend-who’s-a-girl gets a ribbon too. I wish your Grampa was still here, he would have let her round with him at the hospital.”
“Yeah. You miss him a lot still, don’t you?” She nods.
Yeah. She does. Whenever she does, here I am. It’s excruciating. I don’t belong here.
“Anyway, I don’t think I will win. Billy Cronin’s display is about quantum entanglement. ‘Spooky action at a distance.’ My only hope is that his project is all on poster board. Too bad for him, they don’t make quantum mechanics science kits for kids.”
“OK, I confess. I’m an idiot. What is “spooky action at distance?”
“Oh, that’s what Einstein called entanglement. Sub-atomic particles that have become entangled together still influence each other, even if separated by great distances of space. Or space-time, I think. Don’t worry about it. I don’t totally get it myself. Billy’s wicked smart, but I don’t think he really gets it either. Quantum physicists are still puzzling it out.”
He grins.
“Actually, I might win the blue ribbon after all. I’ve heard Billy’s presentation, and it’s good, but a physicist from the U is one of the judges. If she asks a pointed question, Billy will have to bullshit his way through it. I understand my project completely.”
Kiddo has a good grin.
The doorbell rings. “Hey, I bet that’s Tom. You better go now, Mom. Have fun!”
I fade away.
#
Mark is a man now. He’s wearing a cap and gown. He’s standing with his mom. She feels so proud. She should, she’s done all right. She brushes the hair from Mark’s face, a wedding ring on her hand. My angel!
“You are so handsome. You look just like your granddad.”
Mark smiles.
She’s right, I see the resemblance. He’s got my smile.
“You wish he was here now, don’t you, Mom?”
“Yeah, kiddo, I do. But I think he is. I still think of him, but not so often anymore.”
She beams at a guy—her husband— holding a toddler by the hand. She squeezes his other hand. Somehow that softens my pain. It still hurts to be here, but not as much as before.
“Family picture?” the guy says.
I know this face. He was her boyfriend. Not the asshole, the nice one. He’s got a beard now.
“Honey, how is your headache? Is it rough today?” he whispers to her alone
“I’m fine, Tom. Let’s not worry about that. This is Mark’s special day. We’ll tell him tomorrow. Just take the picture.”
“Selfie!” says Mark to his girlfriend. They cuddle together, Mark’s arm stretched out in front of him with his phone in his hand.
Where is that asshole anyway? Too drunk to see your kid graduate?
“Now a proper one with the whole family,” Tom says.
“Beth, would you ask your dad to take a picture of us?” He hands Mark’s girlfriend a camera.
Angel picks up her baby girl. The five of them stand next to each other. Mark and his girl are holding hands. She, too, is wearing a ring.
“Cheese!”
#
black
but not quiet
i hear something
birds? pipes?
always getting louder
something in the nothing
here with me
moving…
#
The kids have come home for Christmas. They have a baby of their own. Angel’s teenager grabs the baby from Mark’s hands.
“Gimme! Come to Auntie! Who’s Auntie’s little angel? You are!”
My angel is on the couch, drinking a Gin & Tonic. W
hy does she drink G&T’s in the winter?
Oh.
My picture is not on the mantel. It’s in a new frame, hanging up next to other family pictures on the wall. From the couch, she can see it clearly. She raises her glass to it, the hint of a smile dotting her face.
My pain is soft. Like cotton.
And suddenly I feel younger. I have a full head of hair. That smell… I am in the big house. My angel is only three. I am picking her up so she can hang her stocking. She’s so excited!
And then suddenly I feel old and tired again. Back at her house.
“Tom! The kids are here! Bring down the presents!”
#
i am not alone
it is attracted to me
or am i moving towards it?
no point of reference
cacophony
colors
i am not nothing anymore
i am fear
#
I am with her once more. The pain of existence feels better than fear.
Mark is sitting behind the wheel of the Triumph. It needs a wash. There is a big orange sticker on the rear fender; black block letters: ICV. A New Hampshire state seal, a number, and a date are printed on the sticker.
Mark’s hair has thinned out.
Just like mine did when I was his age.
His mother is scolding him. She’s got a touch of gray. She’s wearing glasses. She won’t admit it to the boy, but she’s feeling worse. The treatments.
“I ought to have my head examined, letting you take that car from me.”
“Geez, Mom. You hardly drive it anymore. But it’s still in pretty good shape. Once I get it retro-fitted for electric, it’ll be back on the road every day again. We’ve been over this. You said it was time to let it go.”
“Yeah, I know. You are right. And it’s better than just scrapping it. But it won’t be the same. EVs don’t purr the way an ICV does. It’s like cutting the balls off a tomcat.”
“Well, do you want me to take it over to the shop now or not? We had a deal. You can renege on me if you want, but the ICV sticker expires at midnight. It will cost you an arm and a leg for a new one. And there aren’t even many places to buy gasoline anymore. Seems like a lot of bother to take a joy ride every fourth Sunday.”
She sighs.
“Okay, son. You’ve out argued me. Your granddad would say, ‘What goes around, comes around.’ Just take it.”
She’s let go of me.
The pain is gone.
I feel nothing at all.
After all these years, my Angel has finally found what I could never give her.
Peace.
I slip back into oblivion.
I don’t want to go…
3.
colors
acrid smell
a roaring whisper
madness
oblivion gone sour
i don’t want to be here anymore…
#
“I’m sorry Angela. The scan doesn’t look good. I’m afraid it’s inoperable.”
#
the other
i can sense its need
it’s very close now
it’s almost here
it’s hungry
i must get away from it
i need to escape!
angel! think of me! for the love of christ, please think about your daddy again…
!
4.
Dad?
I wake up. Smell of antiseptic. Bright. Sunny. Flowers. Tom. My hospital room.
A good day. I’ll see Mom and Dad soon.
Pain.
Where is my Mark?
My son stands in the doorway, my angel of death…
#
all is dark
?
cigar…
where’s my dad? i think he was just here. i can smell him.
another smell… acrid…
there was something else here with him… something… wrong.
dad!
daddy?
Ghost on a Swing by Judi Calhoun
The Road to Gallway
Rob Smales
“Excuse me?”
Isabel looked up from the book in her lap. She’d been vaguely aware they’d stopped for gas, even momentarily registering the old-fashioned ding of the alarm bell hose alerting the attendant he had a customer, but she’d been far too deep in the world of Magnus Bane to take real notice of anything other than that the car had stopped. Now Dad stood at the pump, and from the tone of the Excuse me? Isabel worried that she’d not heard Mom the first time . . . but no, Mom was looking through her open window toward the next pump island.
There was a huge old car over there, a real blue boat. On the far side of it stood the station attendant, all gray coveralls and graying hair, and tall—tall enough that he was able to lean over the big car and squeegee the full expanse of the wide windshield with a single sweep of his long arm.
“I said,” he replied laconically, wiping the squeegee’s edge with a rag before leaning over to give the glass another swipe, “I’d mind the speed limit in the stretch between here and Gallway, if I were you.”
“Okay, uh . . . thanks.” Mom said, but Isabel could tell she didn’t know what to make of this warning.
Dad stood too close to the car for Isabel to see his face, but she clearly heard his voice through Mom’s open window. “What’s between here and Gallway? There a speed trap or something?”
For a time there was nothing but the whir of Dad’s pump, the numbers—not digital numbers, Isabel saw, or a screen, but actual, physical digits mounted on scrolling wheels, something she thought looked old, but kind of cool in a steampunky way—rolled up and up, slowly filling the Camry’s tank. Isabel looked down at The Bane Chronicles again. She’d begun “The Midnight Heir,” and Magnus was just facing a boy with a gun . . . but a speed trap? Seriously?
The attendant finished with the windshield, then bent low to give a brief finger wave to the white-haired woman behind the wheel. “You drive safe now, Doris.” He plunked the squeegee in and out of its bucket of cleaner as the big car coughed to life and lumbered away from the pump, then strode over and offered Mom a smile as he slapped the sponge side of the squeegee on the Camry’s windshield and began washing road dust off the glass in long, slow strokes. The left breast of his shirt, Isabel saw when he leaned over the car, was embroidered with his name: Paul.
“Speed trap? No, sir, not so far as I know—though I might not put it past some of our local boys in blue to sit out there watching cars go by from time to time. But between here and there’s a few turny bits and a whole lot of straightaway, and just the kind of road where people like to open her up some.” He flipped the squeegee blade-side-down and began slicking the dirty water away. “That, and you have Massachusetts plates.”
“What,” said Mom, “that whole Masshole thing?”
“Oh, no ma’am. That’s not what I was saying at all.”
Finished with the windshield, Paul moved to the back of the vehicle, ducking his head to throw a wink and a “Good evening, miss,” in to Isabel before starting the sponge across the rear window.
“Folks from around your way do have a bit of a reputation behind the wheel,” he said to Mom. “But this road’s a place where us locals tend to step a little heavy on the gas, too. No, I just wouldn’t want you runnin’ afoul of Old Charlie, and he seems to have a special place in his heart for cars with out-of-state plates.”
Mom and Dad exchanged a glance through the windshield, questioning whether they should even ask, but Isabel had no doubts. She stuck a bookmark between the pages as she scooted to that side of the backseat and buzzed the window open. “Who’s Old Charlie?”
Paul took a step back so he could see her without bending, wiping the squeegee’s blade again. “Well, now, Charlie’s kind of a local legend we have, but there’s plenty who’ve claimed to’ve seen him. Mostly out-of-state folks, like yourselves. Charlie’s a ghost, you see. There wa
s some drag racing going on for a while, and Charlie, well . . . well, a little lady like you don’t need to know all the nasty details. Let’s just say Charlie died, and now he haunts the stretch between here and Gallway, and he don’t take kindly to speeders on his turf. Takes it as a kind of challenge, if I had to guess. People tell stories—mostly out-of-staters, like I said—of seeing a big set of headlights coming up behind ’em—it’s hard to miss them big Crown Vic lights, lots of people mistake him for a state trooper on patrol at first—and the next thing they know, there’s Old Charlie, trying to get ’em off the road.”
The pump stopped and Dad racked the fill nozzle. “Well, thanks for the warning,” said Mom, “but we’re on our way to Hilton Head to visit friends, and we’ve already been on the road for almost ten hours. It’s been a long day, and all we really want to do is find somewhere we can get some food and sleep, so we can get back on the road in the morning.”
“You have a good night,” said Dad, opening the car door. As he slipped behind the wheel, Paul stooped and offered them a finger wave, just as he had Doris. “Y’all drive safe now—you’re about a half hour from Gallway, if you stick to the posted. And little lady? You might pass the time keeping an eye out for Old Charlie.” He offered her another wink as Dad started the car, and then they were rolling out from beneath the station’s bright lights and onto the dark road, following the Camry’s headlights toward dinner and a bed, thirty minutes away.
* * *
“Can you believe that guy?” said Mom.
“It’s just a story,” Dad said. “I don’t think he meant anything by it.”
“But he was telling it to Isa, like he was trying to scare her or something. And ‘keep an eye out for Old Charlie’?”
“Oh, I think the old guy was just playing it up. You know, being local color.” Dad’s eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. “What do you think, Isabel?”
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 22