LUMP

by Claire L. Fishback

  “If it was true love,” I said. “He will know it is you as soon as your eyes meet.” I thought for a moment. “If this is true, will you give me back to the mortal world?”

  She nodded. “You have an hour,” she said.

  I looked frantically at first for any sign of a prince who looked lost and wandering. There were very few beings wandering around. The area was small and surrounded by a murky river; the River Stix. Charon brought a boat load of souls and they wandered single file down the path to be weighed.

  At last I found him. He was sulking under a crooked tree. Every so often he let out a long wail.

  “I know where your princess is,” I said. I had only seven minutes left.

  “How do you know of my princess?” he asked.

  “Follow me, and you will see her,” I said.

  The line of souls was short, so I stood behind the last one and waited.

  “Where is my princess?” the prince asked.

  “Look into her eyes,” I said, pointing up at the demon before us.

  “Does she know where my princess is?”

  “Look into her eyes,” I said again.

  The prince reluctantly turned his gaze upward. I watched his face. As soon as their eyes met, his face lit up.

  “It is her,” he said.

  “Mortal,” the demon said. “You have brought me my prince, and in return I shall send you back to the mortal world.” She snapped her fingers and a boat appear before me. “Do you have two coins to pay for passage?”

  I did not.

  Sounds of Terror

  THE ALBUM COVER READ Sounds of Terror in blood red, dripping letters. It also featured a black and white drawing of a haunted house in the background with barely intelligible figures lurking in the windows. Bruce sat down with a paper cup full of whiskey—he had recently moved and it was all he could find—and popped the CD into the player. He leaned back against the sofa and flipped over the case. The first two tracks were called “Blood and Guts” and “Torture.” He shuddered, wondering what they would sound like.

  Bruce wanted to listen to a sampling of the sounds the CD had to offer for the annual Halloween Haunted House contest that year. He had read about the contest in the local paper and all the folks on his block participated. He figured it was a sign for him to participate when he found the CD in the box that held the paper cups. Bruce felt his haunted house had to be spectacular. He had to prove he could play with the big kids in this department. It was a way to prove he could live in the neighborhood. That he was worthy.

  “Spook-tacular,” Bruce chuckled to himself. He took a sip of whiskey.

  Bruce pushed play on the sound system remote and the CD whirred in the machine, making clicking and gurgling sounds while the eye tried to read it. Barely audible voices hissed through the speakers; it sounded like an old vinyl record crackling under the needle of a phonograph. Bruce turned up the volume. They were merely whispers, snickering, talking about something. He leaned close to one of the speakers, nearly pressing his ear against it, trying to understand what the voices were saying, what they were discussing. He felt uneasy—cold but hot at the same time, like a warm wind kept wafting over his body. He swallowed the dryness out of his throat and held his breath, listening.

  Suddenly, a man’s screams filled the air. Bruce jumped back, hitting his back against the coffee table. He fumbled with the volume control and turned it down, heart hammering. He laughed, then looked at the coffee table and groaned. The cup of whiskey had tipped over. The amber liquid formed a puddle around the cup.

  A familiar voice on the CD yelled, “No! Please!” jerking Bruce’s attention back to the speakers. Heavy footsteps crossed the room, the slither of a knife unsheathed. “Please! Don’t hurt me!” the voice was panicked. Bruce’s heart beat hard in his chest. His ears pricked at each new sound that issued from the speakers. Eyes wide, he stared into the black mesh covering the front of the speaker. Where did he hear that voice before?

  “Don’t worry,” a raspy voice said with a malicious laugh. “It won’t hurt . . . for long.” there was a lengthy pause. The only sound was the victim’s heavy, short bursts of breath, peppered with whimpers. “Bruce.”

  Bruce’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth dried up and he tried to swallow and gasped at the same time, inhaling some spit. He coughed, trying to clear his windpipe. He gripped this throat, eyes locked on the speaker as if he could see what was happening in that room on the CD.

  He couldn’t believe his ears. Did the voice really just say his name? Surely it had to be a different Bruce. He jumped, flinging the remote across the room as the man’s voice burst forth with a loud shriek accompanied by the sloppy sound of liquids and thrashing limbs. It sounded like someone hacked open a pumpkin, ripped out the insides and threw them onto a floor covered with newspaper.

  The cackle of the attacker filled the air as the man’s screams subsided and wet sounds continued, interspersed with raspy grunts. The whispering continued, this time in hushed, stifled laughs. A peanut gallery for the macabre.

  The lights flickered. Bruce looked with wide eyes at the lamp in the corner, his only source of light. It flickered again and finally went out. All was silent and dark. Bruce’s heart beat hard. He hated that first moment when the lights went out. It was always so startling. He fumbled in a box for a flashlight, trying to remember which box he might have put it in.

  Whispering voices cut through the silence. Bruce looked through the darkness toward the CD player, but the power was out. The CD player operated on electricity. It was dead, yet the voices continued to whisper. He swallowed his heart, which had crept into his throat.

  He started as heavy footsteps crossed the hall outside the door. Bruce’s breath quickened, coming in short bursts. The footsteps continued through the door and into the living room. A knife slithered from its sheath.

  “Don’t worry,” a raspy voice said. “It won’t hurt . . . for long.” A malicious cackle ensued.

  Worship of Tools Day—March 11th

  THE GOLD HAMMER SAT upon a plush pillow of deep purple velvet, trimmed with gold frills and tassels. Josh carried it carefully toward the altar where other Worshippers had placed their tools. There was a screwdriver on a green pillow, a pair of pliers on a red pillow. The hammer was the most important tool, as it represented strength and integrity. He was put in charge of placing it upon the altar so the ceremony could begin.

  He walked carefully, painfully slow, down the aisle, careful not to drop or let the hammer slip from the pillow. His palms were sweaty, and he was relieved that the pillow was velvet instead of vinyl. He set the pillow carefully upon the altar, and the Grand Master nodded at him. Josh took his seat in the front row, which was reserved for Those Who Carried the Tools. They didn’t get any special name or anything, but they got to wear a gold rope around their robes. Everyone else had black, so it blended with the robe.

  Josh sat through the meeting staring at the golden hammer on the deep purple pillow. His brow tingled with sweat. What if he dropped it on the way out? What if it touched the floor while he carried it out of the altar room to the display case? He swallowed hard and looked at the Grand Master who was gesturing to the tools before him and reciting the Rites of the Tools. When he got to the hammer Josh saw his eyes shift quickly to his face and then back at the congregation. Did the Grand Master know something?

  Josh looked over his shoulder toward where the Grand Master had glanced after looking at Josh, but everyone was intent on the Grand Master’s words.

  Those Who Carried the Tools had to memorize a bit about the tool they carried. When it was Josh’s turn, he stood up and stumbled. His heel was caught in the hem of his robe. He laughed nervously and steadied himself, cleared his throat, swallowed past the lump in it, and spoke his part.

  “I carried the hammer,” he said in a steady voice. “The strength, the power, the integrity of the Tools.” he almost forgot his next line, but it came to him after a second’s pause. “Should
the hammer touch the ground on the way in, it will result in a bad year for those who use tools. Should it touch the ground on the way out, it will result in death by hammer.”

  Josh never read too much into the recitation because he never thought he would be chosen to carry the hammer. In his two years as a member in the Cult of Tools, he never saw anyone drop it.

  After he recited his part, he sat down and stared at the hammer. What if he dropped it? Someone would die by hammer this year. He didn’t know if it meant someone in the Cult or any random person that might use a hammer.

  Before he knew it, the ceremony was complete, and the all members said the final prayer to the Tools. One by one, the other tools were carried out. Finally, all that was left was the hammer. The Grand Master nodded to Josh, and he thought he saw some sort of glint in the Grand Master’s eye. A knowing glint and something in the half smile that played around the left corner of his mouth.

  Josh approached the altar after tripping on his robe again and cursing himself silently. He carefully picked up the pillow. The golden hammer shifted slightly, and he steadied his hands. A drop of sweat slithered down the side of his face as he looked up at the Grand Master.

  Josh turned carefully and started down the aisle. Half way there, he heard a snicker. He felt something against his leg. Before he could stop it from happening, he fell forward, stumbling, trying to catch himself to no avail. The entire time his eyes were locked on the golden hammer. The gleam it held with the low lights and flickers of the candles around the room. His chin hit the floor. His arms were stretched before him. The hammer lay precariously on the edge of the pillow, and he sighed with relief. The hammer wobbled gently, his eyes widened. It tilted up and down like a see-saw, and then slid off the pillow and onto the floor.

  “Sinner!” The Grand Master shouted with the gasp of the other Worshippers. Josh looked over his shoulder and saw the Grand Master pointing at him. Some of the other members had risen to their feet. They had hammers in their hands.

  “Should the hammer touch the floor on the way out,” the Grand Master recited. Everyone joined in, except Josh who stared at the Grand Master’s dark eyes. “It will result in death by hammer.” They came closer, hitting their hammers against their palms, their faces malicious and intent on Josh.

  He could hardly hear his own cries over the sick thumps of their hammers striking his head and body.

  Teddy Bear’s Feast

  MAMA ALWAYS SANG THAT teddy bear song to me before bed. I imagined my teddy bears coming to life at night and waddling down into the forest to dance and play. I wished I could join them as a kid, but I was too young. No matter how long I tried to stay awake, the teddies never left my room, and when I woke up, they all sat exactly as I had left them.

  She sang that song to me every night until I was thirteen. Then she became ill and couldn’t get out of bed. I ended up singing it to her.

  Mama was sick for five years. I took care of her that whole time. Then one night, when I sang the song, her eyes didn’t open.

  I was nineteen when she died. In her last breaths she warned me never to go into the woods. Her eyes grew soft, and then she was gone. I cried until the sun went down. When I stopped crying, I sat and pressed my face against her hand.

  I fell into a shallow, dreamless sleep, and was awakened by a shuffling sound. I looked up, my cheeks stiff with dried tears, and watched as the teddy bears from my room waddled by. Their movements were quick and jerky as if walking was an abnormal movement.

  I followed them. They marched across the lawn, single file, and into the woods. I paused at the edge of the forest. Clouds covered the moon. The trees rattled in the wind, their branches swayed, beckoning me forward. Despite Mama’s warning, I entered the woods.

  After I had forced my way through the lower bushes, I saw a light ahead. In the delirium of my recent loss, my thoughts reverted to when I was a child. I imagined the bears playing and dancing, feasting on cakes and pies. I licked my lips, anxious to taste those succulent treats.

  I entered the lighted clearing and gasped. The bears weren’t dancing and playing. They stood in a circle lit with candles. When they saw me, they turned and stared. Their eyes glowed red. They leaped forward, attacking. They knocked me down and dragged me into the clearing.

  Tied down with stiff, biting ropes, I could hardly move. They started with my hands and feet, little bites, gnawing up my arms and legs. I chanced a look. My arms were raw. Bone showed in places, my hand was a mess of tattered skin and blood.

  The largest bear sat on my chest. For a moment he looked almost normal, like the bear sitting on the shelf in my room all those years. Suddenly, he leaped forward and bit into my throat. I screamed as little, sharp teeth tore my skin. I tried to struggle, but he was heavy on my chest.

  My screams ceased abruptly as the teddy ripped through my trachea. I gasped for air. The last thing I saw was a sharp claw coming toward my eye.

  Roses Are Red

  THE VASE OF ROSES, decorated with a great, red ribbon, sat in the center of the table for Magritte to find when she came home. Tucked deep inside the stems, a white envelope waited. The card was from Franz, her lover. He sneaked into the house using the key Magritte had given him. Casting furtive glances, he left the vase on the table. He made sure to push the card deep within so her husband, Dr. Grim, would not see it.

  When Magritte woke the next morning, she was delighted to see the roses. She looked for a card, and when she saw the white envelope tucked deep into the stems, she knew it must be from Franz. He always hid the card. She reached inside, not checking to see if the florist had removed the thorns. Franz always bought her roses without thorns, for he believed that by giving a lover a flower with thorns was detrimental to the relationship. Thorns were for enemies. As she pulled her hand out of the stems, however, the thorns gripped her skin. Magritte jerked her hand with a gasp and looked at it. Deep scratches adorned her fair skin. She watched as blood oozed from the wounds. A tiny bud that had not yet bloomed peeled open slowly to full bloom right before her eyes. Magritte, intrigued by the flowers, and in desperate need to see who had sent them, shoved her hand deep into the stems to retrieve the card once more. The stems tightened around her hand, the thorns dug deep into her skin, puncturing it. She stifled her screams by biting her other hand until it bled. The pain became unbearable, and as she bit harder on her hand, she glimpsed her husband. She screamed for him to help her.

  Dr. Grim stood in the doorway, watching. He saw Franz bring the flowers. He knew what his wife was up to. He switched the flowers with those of his own design. As a botanist and a scientist, he was able to create a hybrid of rose and Venus fly trap. A plant with beautiful flowers that needed protein in order to grow and prosper.

  As he watched her futile attempts to extract her hand from the carnivorous flowers, he chuckled and came nearer. He crouched by her and lovingly pushed the hair from her eyes, tucking it gently behind her ear.

  “This is what you get,” he said in a whisper.

  Magritte’s eyes opened wide as the stems tightened even more, the thorns pressing further into her skin. She willed herself to ignore the pain, it wasn’t real. How could beautiful roses be eating her hand?

  All sound became muffled. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Her vision blurred, and finally, blackness overtook her, and she no longer felt anything.

  Dr. Grim dragged her into his basement laboratory where he conducted all his botanical experiments. A place Magritte never went. She didn’t care about his science, his experiments. All she cared about was being beautiful, and having tea with her busybody friends, and secret rendezvous with her lover.

  He dropped her onto the floor. Blood oozed from the tattered remains of her hand.

  “Now my babies will have plenty of food to sustain them,” he rubbed his hands together. “Hello, my pretties.”

  The plants in the incubator pressed their blooms against the glass and rattled their stems, eager for their next meal.<
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  Dr. Grim turned and stepped toward the corner where Franz sat, bound and gagged, a puddle of blood around the chair he sat in, blood that dripped from his ragged shoulder and foot. Dr. Grim stepped closer, pulling something from an instrument tray. A large lily snapped at the doctor as he moved closer to Franz, it shook its spiny leaves when it missed his shoulder. Dr. Grim looked at the lily with scorn and it shrunk away from him. He turned his attention back to Franz, whose scream was muffled against his gag as Dr. Grim picked up a shiny scalpel from a tray.

  “Just an eye,” he said. “That’s all they need. Full of protein, the eye. They will be larger than my last bouquet.”

  Franz struggled against his bindings, his eyes wide. As the scalpel neared, Franz closed his eyes tight.

  With a malicious cackle, Dr. Grim said, “It won’t hurt, for long,” and dug the scalpel in.

  Second Floor Faces

  THE TEN-FOOT TALL MIRROR stood against the wall in the hallway, looming over anyone who passed it. The frame, made of mahogany, had two-inch long, intricate and smiling faces carved into it. Christine hated the mirror.

  The entire house gave her creepy feelings. Her husband, Roy, bought the house on a whim, as it was cheap and everything they ever wanted and more. Christine couldn’t help but think of “The Amityville Horror.”

  “What happened to the previous owners?” Christine asked the real estate agent.

  “What do you mean?” The agent asked with a fake smile.

  “Why did they leave?” Christine asked. She noted the discomfort in the agent’s eyes. “Or were they killed?”

  Roy stepped close and squeezed Christine around the shoulders. “Don’t mind my wife,” he said. “She has an active imagination!” He smiled. Christine crossed her arms and scowled.