And she asked me to cut her, diary.
God I didn’t want to…
I would never hurt her.
But
She said I wouldn’t be hurting her. I would be helping her. She asked if I would do anything to help her and I said yes. And she said this was all that would help her. Help us, she said.
It would help us.
She stopped calling me Dakota today. She knows how much I hated my name… how much I hated that whore who gave it to me. She helped me understand.
We’re soul mates. Closer than sisters.
We are each other.
It made me so happy to hear that. It felt so true.
We are each other.
And she says I don’t have to be Dakota anymore.
She gave me her razors.
She gave me her name.
And when I cut her, I felt it.
* * *
February 1st, 1996
We built the box together one Saturday afternoon. I got the idea from my dad. He used to tell me that the Vietcong would force soldiers into tiny boxes for torture and punishment, but the idea of being enclosed was always comforting to me.
I found plans at the library. Simple things… not plans for a torture box, of course, but they could be altered. I’m no Bob Vila, and neither is Dakota, but together we managed.
Plywood and nails. Wood glue and lacquer.
The apartment isn’t far from the hospital. With the insurance money from dad, I have plenty for rent. For as long as it takes.
It has to happen soon. I don’t know how long I can last. Even with thumbtacks glued to the keyboard, the feelings are too much.
It’s all come now… every feeling ever…trying to scream its way inside.
These tiny pricks on my fingers won’t do.
I cannot kill myself. I would never do that to D, and i do not want to go to hell.
i want it to go awway. Want to stop feeling it overandoverandover. i cannot stay anymore not like this
i want th box
* * *
The woman, Beatrix, tidies the apartment and makes preparations to leave. She is due at work in an hour, and must not be late. The administrator has already questioned her about the missing supplies. She hears the rattling of glass–the shattered bureau mirror she and Beatr–SHE had placed inside of the box–and turns to The Thing. Surely it cannot be awake again..? Though lately it had been more demanding than usual. The pain was not enough, not nearly enough, to block out the intangible agony inside.
Bea touches The Thing’s face. She wants more than anything to take that suffering away, but she has neither the skill nor the tools. Besides, she worries about blood loss and infection.
The Thing shudders, rasps like a cold October wind, and ceases.
Nothing dramatic. Simply an end.
No more suffering. No more pain.
The tears in Beatrix’s eyes are only tears; she cannot assign to them a meaning of ‘happiness’ or ‘sadness.’
They simply are.
A force of nature.
Just like her.
* * *
December 23, 1999
Once upon a time, in France, there was a devil that roamed the countryside, consorting with demons, chasing the souls of the wicked all the way to the gates of hell.
This devil was called Harlequin.
Yes, Diary, yes.
The world needs a harlequin, diary. Someone to cut away the rotten meat.
* * *
December 24, 1999
“Tell me, Garrett, does the name Walter J. Freeman mean anything to you? Anything at all?” She said, staring down at the prone man.
He struggled, purple veins and bloodshot eyes bulging, but he was completely immobile. “I’ll give you a hint.” she said, “He was a doctor. A psychiatrist, to be exact. And, when I read about his methods, it made me think about you. Because frankly, Garrett, you’re a bully. I know, I know…you’ve had a rough life. Bills, stress, all that stuff.
“We are all so broken. But that’s why I think Dr. Freeman’s work will appeal to you. In just a few minutes, your worries will be a thing of the past. Isn’t that exciting?”
She smiled, nodding.
“Now, I’m not a doctor, of course, so I don’t know if this procedure will help you with your penchant for naughtiness, but we’ll see won’t we?”
Something long and gleaming flashed as she pulled it from behind her back, but Garrett didn’t know what it was until it pierced the skin just above his right eye. Something thin, something sharp.
He convulsed–fear taking control of his mind and bladder–and tried to scream, but the tape over his mouth and body removed any form of protest.
“Now you may feel a little pinch…” she said, raising a rubber mallet. She smiled sweetly just before slamming the mallet down hard on the butt of the icepick.
The man’s body shuddered, and a thick bubble of yellow snot inflated from a nostril.
“…And a wiggle to the left, and a wiggle to the right…” she said, pulling the icepick from side to side. The man’s eyes had already begun to blacken and swell shut.
“…and we’re done! Voila!” The pick slid free, and she dropped it to the floor.
She leaned down and stared into his dull, idiot eyes. He groaned and blew more snot from his nose. Taking a tissue from a box on the nightstand, she wiped his nose gently. With a lipstick, she drew an exaggerated smile and shining, clown-like eyes. The red and black of his face comforted her.
“I’m only giving you back the innocence you stole from me. Remember that, if you can. Goodbye Garrett.”
She turned and left the room, leaving her foster father to cry himself to sleep in the dark.
* * *
September 22, 1990
The girls lie on their stomachs on Beatrix’s floor, propped up on their elbows. It is late, but a flashlight casts a dim beam of light onto the ceiling. It is enough.
They can see vague images of each other there, in the darkness. Dakota reaches across the void and takes Beatrix’s hand. Bea’s got her Walkman playing low, and the Beach Boys are on.
Whispering, they sing along to “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and, as the flashlight battery begins to die, their shadows lose autonomy. The edges are fuzzy; the lines begin to blur.
“You’re my best friend ever,” she says, squeezing.
Bea squeezes back and says, “Only friends? Why not sisters? Friends come and go, y’know, but sisters…that’s forever.”
A gasp. “Yeah! Forever!”
“Forever.”
Charles Colyott is the author of the Randall Lee Mysteries, Black, and Unknown Pleasures. He lives on a farm in the middle of nowhere (Illinois) with his wife, two daughters, cats, and a herd of llamas and alpacas. He is surrounded by so much cuteness it’s very difficult for him to develop any street cred as a dark and gritty writer. Nevertheless, he has appeared in Read by Dawn II, Dark Recesses Press, Withersin Magazine, Horror Library Volumes III & IV, Terrible Beauty, Fearful Symmetry, and Zippered Flesh 1 & 2, among other places. He also teaches a beginner level Tai Chi Ch’uan class in which no one has died (yet) of the death touch.
You can get in touch with him on Facebook, or email him at [email protected].
Unlike his llamas, he does not spit.
-The Local Haunt
by Janine-Langley Wood
Silver-trimmed china just seemed so silly, so, well, over the top. To be honest, I’d been a little taken aback when my visitor accepted my humble offering of refreshments to begin with. It just seemed rather odd that he was prepared to hang around. I’d always assumed, when the day came, that we’d be up and off on the first bus. Or however one travels in such instances.
“More tea, young man?”
I can’t now put a finger on why I took him to be so young. He was certainly lean in that way youngsters are–wiry like buck-hares. And then there were the mannerisms: for instance, his low, slow nod–slowness being indica
tive of youth, of course, and symbolic of what this whole process was turning out to be, actually–a bit of a long slog. Which should really have felt like a relief. Only it didn’t.
“And the cheesecake, that alright for you?”
The nodding this time dipped to bow-like extremes. So, a little enthusiasm at least.
“Another good old dollop, then?”
The affirmative, you might guess, from him.
I obliged, commenting, “These jellified strawberries are a bit tart for my taste. What I tend to do with bare ones is sugar them up a touch. Even then I’m not that…” I tailed off about there, considering my comments to be redundant. But as he ate the second piece, in his painfully sluggish, and in my opinion, picky way, I found myself adding, “It’s for Hilary I get this sort of thing in, anyway.”
Hilary was always the fruity type. Fruity and veggie. Didn’t seem to see the point of cake without something wholesome attached. Bizarre. One thing we clashed on, Hilary and I, the food. Always seemed a fiddle to me, buying in and preparing two sets of meals when one should surely do. Hilary didn’t mind of course, seeing to all that side of things, and I suppose the expense was nothing to me. One just slots into a routine with one’s day-to-day people, bickering about this or that, like any part of a routine; that’s just the way things are. As with Oscar, for instance. Can’t say I even remember now what it was with him–the little niggles, the bugbears. Which goes to show really, when all is weighed in the great scales of time, what a waste all the falling out is, in the end; when one looks at the final picture with an enlightened eye. Here was I at fifty-eight, sitting in my burnt orange colonial, winged armchair with Chippendale features, opposite Mr. Dark (we’ll call him that for now, for ID purposes), and at that moment my whole life seemed but a snapshot, and not even an interesting one at that; more the kind that would be left in the flap pack, to be thrown into a drawer or boot box with numerous other flap packs containing the dozen or so shots that for some reason seemed colourful or interesting when the shutter went down, but developed, viewed at length, can be seen, ultimately, to be a waste of time.
“Raining,” I said, turning my head to the sash window, which was dressed with the traditional white half-net from the centre bar. “Again. What a wash out, eh? Trust it to rain today.”
That met with the same bugger-all response that I was coming to expect from Mr. Dark. But I still felt compelled to talk, if only to hear the sound of my own voice. One gets so used to chatting. Far more preferable to the sound of rain. One thing I have always detested, that: the sound the raindrops make smattering against my glass, like small sirens going off, warnings of streaks to come. This particular morning each spat seemed so weighty as to beat an echo around the room. And a shock, as I looked out at the greying sky, it jolted me to see just how badly that window net was crying out for a wash. One more thing that Hilary claimed to have covered in the spring-clean. Well we were barely out of May, and yes, young lady, that net looked the dark side of yellow to me, even greasy toward the hem, as if some intruder had been chain-smoking over there by the window. And as though that weren’t enough to justify my actions, my attention then settled on the glass above the net; even in the poor light of the coming storm I could hardly fail to notice the swirling cloud formations that had been carelessly scrawled with the Windolene. She was slacking. She’d stopped caring. I’d said as much.
“Shall I take anything along?” I said. “Or rather, is it permitted?”
No response. Very annoying this time. That wasn’t simply passing the time of day. It was a valid question. And yet my ill-mannered guest just kept on eating, eating, eating. Normally I would feel my cheeks heat up in the face of such rudeness, but I actually felt quite cold. Calmly, and without request, I carved out a further, huge slice of the strawberry cheesecake, depositing it squarely onto his plate. As I did so I noted–not without tinges of amusement and mild satisfaction–a speck of mould in the cream. This by rights should have horrified me; it should not have been there, having been thawed from frozen that morning. But nevertheless, I found myself smiling silently as he sunk his fork into the very spot.
“What I mean to say is, will I need to pack?” I said simply. “Because, if so…”
Mr. Dark’s head swayed at the customary pace, but this time from side to side. What a vocabulary. I trusted I could safely take that as a “No.” Pity. My things. I began to notice at that point that he smacked his lips. Another thing that would normally incense me. But I would not lose my presence of mind here. What would be the point of that? Soon we would leave; I would be taken to…wherever. Deposited. And his job would be done. End of story as they say.
It may seem trivial now, but to have taken the odd trinket along would have felt like a huge consolation. Oscar and I bought the house in 1969. At that time it was almost a century old. Neglected by some filthy old man. Quite a steal, actually. We’d kept all the original features: open fireplaces, sash windows, cornices, etcetera. Decorated and furnished accordingly. All of our friends adored the place. Partly why I came to be the “The Local Haunt,” as the Camberford ladies put it; the regular meeting place. Quite an honour in the village. A place where anybody could drop in at short notice, even no notice, as with our Mr. Dark. The other part of the reason for such favouritism, I suspect, was Oscar dying so young. They all felt sorry for me, you see. Silly them. I never liked him.
Now Hilary I liked, and got along famously with, most of the time. She’d not been in the UK for long when we joined forces–was on her way to an employer in London apparently, who’d promised her a work permit and so on, only she went and got herself on the wrong bus, then fell asleep, silly girl; landed out here in the sticks. I found her looking mystified by the duck pond. “What a catch,” everybody said, but I was the one who took her in, did the groundwork. I got tired of all the “loaning out,” especially when a few husbands, whose names I won’t mention, tried loaning her for, shall we say, non-household duties. I mean, really. This is a Christian community. And more to the point, she was mine. Yes, we got along just fine, Hilary and I, discounting the odd spat over food and whatnot, for more than two years. Absolutely fine. Then she started to say that she was sending for her son. She wasn’t even asking, simply stating the fact.
“I send for my son now. He grow big.”
“Is growing big,” I corrected sharply. I mean to say, I never had children. I don’t like children. All the hullabaloo, careless smells. One might as well get a dog. I said no. Outright. That’s probably when she started slacking.
“I do miss her,” I said absently, picturing that sweet face. Of course, Hilary wasn’t her real name, but I was buggered if I was going to try to pronounce her Thai name, or shout it down the hall when the Vicar called for tea. And anyway, she looked like a Hilary, like my nanny-Hilary: short, dark, petite and blessed with a modest beauty.
I was picturing Hilary in our heyday, standing by the window–her lovely smile, her absolute willingness to please–when my train of thought was snapped apart by the sight of a luminous bug, far too many legs about it, scurrying full circle around the tray on my table, and leaving in its wake a horribly frilly little trail. So much dust, you see.
On top of that small horror, the lip smacking from Mr. Dark’s direction had become noticeably louder, each “clack” more sustained, as if the cream were clogging in his greedy mouth.
“I won’t offer you more…” I began curtly, but left it there.
Had the day been hot I might have put the acceleration of the mould down to that. But no, the room was cold. And dark. I glanced from the cake on my filthy table, to the plate in his hand–an old, twisted hand now, of course–and saw that yes indeed, the piece he gladly fed himself was as rancid as a week old turd in the grass. One could smell its presence. But realistically, by then, the mould would have been spilling out of the walls. Dripping.
Yes, I concluded, this day I was meant to suffer, as I had made others suffer. That was only fair. Having said t
hat, the Hilary episode had been a mistake. Had I realised I was still holding the bottle in my hand, then I would never have hit her so hard. It wasn’t as if I hit her on a regular basis. But one thing that truly incensed me about dear little Hilary was the way she would just carry on after one of our rows, as if nothing had happened. Just chewing away at her silly veggie food, and smacking her silly fucking lips. Who on this blessed earth wouldn’t lose it occasionally? I ask you?
“Just come out and say what the Dickens is bothering you, Hilary.” I eventually challenged her.
“I not Hilary!” She practically spat it in my face. “I not Home Counties. I from Thailand. I tell you my name many time. You bad lady, never bother to remember.”
I stepped over her body for two days. Pretended it wasn’t there. Then I realised, if nobody else was going to deal with this bloody mess then I’d have to do it.
Funny how the mind can resist an image it cannot bear, shut it out, but only for so long. As it had been with my dear departed Hilary, so it was with each detail of my house on the day of Mr. Dark’s arrival. Of course I’d cleaned that morning, thoroughly. I’d happily slipped back into the swing of things after the above-mentioned incident. But, oh, the dust, the grease. And the…let’s not call it a cheesecake anymore, which had seemingly not reduced in size one iota, no matter how much I’d cut away. And yet I hadn’t noticed, at least not until the bugs set about it and still it did not diminish. And my guest–methodically passing forkfuls of the spore-carpeted slime through the black tunnel of his hood, to a hidden, probably toothless mouth–of course was old; a shrivelled, ignorant shitty-smelling old man. Because I detest the old, possibly more than I do children.
Horror Library, Volume 5 Page 38