by Hunter, Kiran; Gregory, Elin; La Roche, Tristram; Hartsock, Dianne; George, Reneé
“No,” Paul said firmly. “In all the horror flicks, they split up and something bad happens. You’re not leaving my sight.”
Bennie flashed him a grin, still looking frightened but his confidence returning. “Deal.”
They threw things into the suitcases, leaving whatever didn’t fit. Paul snatched his keys and wallet from the top of the dresser. “Let’s leave the food and get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m with you,” Bennie agreed, and kept a hand on Paul’s shoulder as they hurried through the house and out the front door. Paul locked the ornate door, then looked up against his will. The door to nowhere was there at the top of the house. He wondered fleetingly about the bricks he couldn’t see from this side.
“Paul?”
“We’re out of here,” Paul said, putting a hand under his elbow and leading him to their sedan at the side of the driveway. They climbed in, but Paul paused a second before turning the ignition. The cars in the horror movies never started, but theirs purred to life, and he shifted into gear and turned carefully onto the road toward civilization.
He yawned, realizing that all he wanted to do was to get back to the city and their noisy, crowded apartment complex and fall asleep with Bennie wrapped safely in his arms.
Bennie glanced out the back window then quickly faced forward. “Should we tell my mom what happened?”
“I think we have to. Maybe in a couple of days, when I make sense of it all. God, Bennie, I was really scared there for a bit.”
“Me too. I love you, Paul.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Paul thought of the dark shadow he’d seen and controlled a shudder.
If Bennie’s mom took his advice, she’d have the house burned to the ground.
Eden
Kiran Hunter
Eden Curiosities was a ramshackle building jammed with polished antiques and domestic relics, treasures and tat, a brightly colored bazaar full of riches and rubbish. I confess my first day of working for Sebastian Hargrave had filled me with dread—instead of having me help out in the store, he’d led me to a dingy storage area where he kept new acquisitions, a mixture of house clearance bric-a-brac and auction bargains. The thought of being shut away shifting heavy furniture and polishing tarnished silver among the dust and cobwebs made me shudder. But I needed to pay the rent. I only hoped this was simply a stopgap until something better came along. God forbid I end up like old Hargrave, as creased and forlorn as the antique table linen I shook the dust from.
During the weeks that followed, I discovered Hargrave was a quiet man, some days passing with no words spoken other than, “Good morning, Jack,” and, “Goodnight.” So the invitation to a Halloween party came as a surprise.
I was even more surprised when the taxi dropped me off at his home. I found myself at an Elizabethan manor house with floodlit gardens at the end of a gated drive. Perhaps at some time in the past Hargrave had found real treasure among the jumble.
As I’d expected, Hargrave’s party was hardly a Bacchanalian feast—a staid affair, like the man himself, with barely even a nod to the spooky date. But the food was good, as was the wine, and it sure as hell beat staying at home to appease rampant trick-or-treaters with candy.
Late in the evening I took a wrong turn in the hallway—I’d never been good with directions—and found myself in what seemed to be a disused drawing room instead of the cloakroom. Sheets covered the furniture and dust tickled my nose, disturbed by the draft as the door opened. From somewhere within, I could hear the faint sound of a grandfather clock ticking beneath its cover. Obviously Hargrave still came in here, even if just to wind the clock.
As I was about to back out again and close the door, a massive mirror caught my eye, the silver moonlight shining through the window picking out its intricately carved frame. I had to take a closer look. I tried the light switch—nothing. A shimmer of light seemed to ripple across the surface of the mirror: probably just a cloud scudding across the moon.
But there it was again.
I walked over to tall frame. The mirror really was beautiful. I’d never seen anything like it before. The glass had been smashed, a spider’s web of cracks spreading from the center—surely more than seven years bad luck for whoever had broken it, given its size. I wondered if somehow the glass had remained in place or if a superstitious soul had pieced the mirror together again in an attempt to reverse the curse. Something I read many years ago came to mind as I stepped back and looked at my reflection: gazing into a mirror on Halloween night would reveal the face of a future lover…or some such nonsense. But wasn’t there something else? If you were destined to die before marriage, you would see a skull instead? I shivered. I was doing a bloody good job of creeping myself out.
I jumped when someone coughed behind me. Hargrave stood in the doorway, swaying a little, swirling a glass of brandy.
“So, you’ve found the magic mirror, lad.” Hargrave slurred slightly.
I laughed. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s—”
“Hush. It’s no joking matter.”
I cleared my throat, taken aback by his abrupt tone.
“Once seen he’s never forgotten.” Hargrave looked sad as he took a sip from his glass.
“He?”
Hargrave’s rheumy eyes shone in the moonlight as he looked up and stared off into the distance. “I saw him just the once. Once and never again. Night after night I was drawn back to look. But what I saw was never to be repeated. I purchased that mirror many, many years ago at an auction. Something about it made me have to have it. I had to touch it—the carvings are beautiful, the work of a true artist. Seemed I wasn’t the only one to feel that way. The bids went higher and higher, me against one other. I won. My bidding rival was furious, smashing the glass as he left—such a furor—but the glass held, and I brought the piece home despite the damage. And then on a moonlit night much like this, I stood looking deep into the reflection…”
“What? What did you see?”
The old man smiled despite the sadness in his eyes. “Beauty like you’ve never come across in this life. Only for a moment, then he was gone.” He stared at me, his expression stern again, then he burst into laughter. “You look so serious, lad. It’s Halloween! A night for ghost stories. Magic mirrors? As if! Now, out you come.” Hargrave chuckled as he held the door open for me.
But even after I rejoined the party, Hargrave’s story nagged away at me. The faraway look in his eyes had seemed genuine.
I had to go back and take another look.
The door clicked shut. I stared into the mirror at my pale, fractured reflection. A specter stared back at me, skin ice-white in the moonlight, grey eyes almost black as they tried to focus in the gloom. The image wavered, pieces of me scattering in the shattered glass. Too much wine.
I ran my fingers over the frame. Rosewood grapevines and wisteria stems grew from the base, wrapping around each other, twisting and clambering upwards until they joined at the top, cascades of flowers and fruit tumbling down onto the mirror itself. I traced the edges of the leaves and stroked the smooth curve of plump grapes with my fingertips.
A sharp pain sliced through my finger and I snatched my hand away. Just a scratch. A fragment of splintered glass, perhaps. I sucked the seeping blood from my skin and looked at the rosewood carving more closely, imagining the strong hands that could create something so perfect. Brambles with vicious thorns crept among the broad vine leaves and serpentine branches, so delicately carved it seemed a living plant grew around the frame, nature entwined with the work of a master craftsman.
Definitely too much wine.
Muffled music and chatter drifted from further along the hall, reminding me of where I was. It was just a beautiful mirror, nothing more. Lights shone through the window and swept around the room. A car pulling up the drive. Latecomers. My heart crashed to a halt as the already distorted reflection of the room shifted. Shadows slid across the floor and around the walls. Furniture, covered by dustshee
ts, loomed then dissolved into the dark again. In that moment, the room felt threatening. The clock ticked louder, as if counting down to the end of time. Ghosts surely lurked in the corners, demons behind the heavy curtains.
I closed my eyes, fearful of catching a glimpse of the undead moving around the room, or a malevolent face peering back at me from the mirror, some evil entity peeking over my shoulder or even the skull of All Hallows’ Eve myth. I laughed nervously. Too much wine, an old house, Halloween night, Hargrave’s spooky tale—the perfect recipe for scaring myself to death.
I took a deep breath, turning away from the mirror lest I actually see the nightmare visions conjured by my mind. The room was as it was when I’d entered. Nothing had moved out of place and the shadows were still again. “You bloody idiot!” I’d fallen foul of my own overactive imagination and Sebastian Hargrave’s teasing. I turned to check my appearance before leaving.
What the—?
I stared at my ghostly image, which looked back at me with puzzled eyes before I focused on the scene reflected in the glass. Behind me, where cloth covered cabinets had been standing, there were time-ravaged trees. Where the fireplace should be I saw a flight of stone steps, bathed in moonlight and mottled with dark patches.
I spun to look behind me. All was as it should be in the room, shrouded furniture intact. I turned back to the mirror. In its cracked glass I clearly saw the reflection of a midnight garden: charcoal branches reaching up into the night, silhouetted against a moonstruck sky scattered with clouds and stars.
Was this what Sebastian had seen?
For a moment I thought I could hear the rustle of wind through dry leaves and the creaking of ancient boughs. I reached out toward the mirror, wondering if instead of feeling cold glass I’d feel the touch of my own warm skin as my fingers met their reflection. I touched nothing. Instead, I felt a gentle breeze wrap around my hand and spiral up my bare arm like a phantom serpent. With a startled blink my likeness vanished from the broken landscape completely, the jagged outlines of the mirror shards fading and disappearing in front of my eyes. I looked through an open door into a secret, twilight world.
I stepped over the bottom of the frame and into the mirror. Into the garden. I found myself on a path leading to the steps. Dark cushions of moss burst from the cracks between the uneven stones and ivy scrabbled across the ground from beneath the twisted, tortured trees. I looked to the top of the steps.
Where did they lead?
I should go back through the mirror—go back to the party. But I was drawn onward. I made my way toward the precarious stairway, wary of the spiky brambles being whipped by the wind. Despite my caution, my shirt caught on the thorns and I stopped to ease myself free.
I heard a rustle in the undergrowth. On any other night, in any other place, I would know it was just a mouse or a hedgehog, but right there and then all my senses were on alert and my heart beat loud enough to be heard by whatever may be lurking.
The sense of some danger hiding within the darkness grew.
I hurried on up the steps to a paved terrace, dotted with windfall apples and scattered with leaves. At the far end stood a crumbling building overtaken by creepers as thick as rope. A gust of wind picked up the leaves, swirling them around my legs and sending dust devils spinning across the stones. The last vestiges of cloud scudded away from the moon, its glow bright enough to create highlights and shadows among the trees.
It was then I noticed the carvings. Engraved snakes twisted around the trunks of the surrounding trees, their sinuous bodies writhing up into the branches, some polished smooth, others with individual scales etched into the surface. Had I wandered into some nocturnal Garden of Eden? Just as with the mirror frame, the wood begged to be touched, to be caressed.
I traced the sides of a rough-skinned python that seemed to undulate beneath my hand, then I slid my palm across the shiny back of another, up toward its head. I leaned in for a closer look, taking in the perfect details—the tiny carved eyes, the forked tongue that slipped from the creature’s mouth to quiver against my finger and taste the night air. I withdrew my hand. I’d imagined it, as surely as I imagined the rasp of reptilian skin moving across rough bark. As surely as I imagined the soft breath kissing the nape of my neck.
I turned around. Nothing. Maybe it was the flutter of a moth’s wings or a ripple in the air from a swooping bat. Once again I put out a hand and touched the tree beside me. The all-pervading ivy clambered up its trunk consuming the serpents beneath.
At the edge of my vision I saw a flash of movement through the doorway of the derelict building. I left the musty embrace of the trees and made my way over to the stone shelter, hesitating outside as I heard a gentle tap-tap-tap coming from the shadows. I peered through the narrow slit that served as a window. What little moonlight penetrated the gloom revealed a muscular back and dark, unruly hair curling over the white nape of a man’s neck.
“Would you come inside? Or are you just spying upon my flesh?”
What the hell? “Um…” I muttered, my heart skipping a beat before hammering as fast as the tapping.
The man responded with a throaty laugh. “Come, or leave by the way you came.”
I walked to the door and ducked inside. The tapping ceased and the man looked up at me. He smiled, his eyes iridescent green even in the dim light. “Welcome. Most falter at the first step.”
“The mirror?” I asked.
“The Gateway…” He looked puzzled for a moment.
I glanced down. The man straddled a stone seat, his hands resting between his legs, holding a chisel and hammer. At his feet lay wood shavings and a roughly made willow basket holding tiny carved effigies.
“May I?” I asked. The man nodded and I moved closer, stooping to look inside the basket. I picked out an acorn, almost as small as the real thing, from among carved leaves, whittled snakes, and delicate flowers.
“It’s perfect.” I said.
The man put down his tools and reached out, curling my fingers over the wood trinket. “It is yours to keep.” His hand was warm, and he held mine in his strong grip. His skin felt rough, calloused from working with carpenters’ tools. He released my hand and I slipped the acorn into my pocket.
“Treasure it,” he said.
“Of course.”
The man laughed. “Of course.” His echo of my words was tinged with scorn and his face clouded with doubt. He rose to his feet—a formidable sight—a large, strong man, taller than me, stripped to the waist, his legs clad in some rough, woven cloth tied at the waist with a cord, his feet bare. That he had the delicacy of touch needed to create such fine objects was a mystery, but when he reached out to caress my face his touch was so gentle I caught my breath and understood in a moment. “You’re beautiful,” he said, running the pad of his thumb across my lips. “I should like to carve you. Your name?”
“Jack.”
His emerald eyes widened, and he threw back his head and laughed. “You will be my Jack in the Green.”
I had no clue what he meant. My heart beat faster and my cock stirred as he stopped laughing and stroked my cheek, his hand slipping round to cradle my head, his fingers pushing through my hair. I wanted to reach out and do the same.
Christ! Had Hargrave slipped something into the wine? I’d never been with another man before, but he was too tempting to resist. When the woodcutter leaned in to kiss me, I couldn’t care less what had conjured this dream. All I cared about was the feel of his determined, hungry lips on mine and the way he tasted as his tongue probed deep into my mouth. I pulled him closer, running my hands over solid shoulders, breaking the kiss to breathe in his scent. He smelled of fresh sweat and damp earth, autumn leaves and maleness. But he wasn’t going to let me go for more than a moment, and he pulled my head back toward him again and reclaimed my mouth with his own.
I kept my eyes wide open, not wanting to miss one second, so that when I should wake this dream would remain imprinted on my mind. The moon had risen to it
s zenith and shone through a high window slit. A shaft of light fell on to the crudely hewn stone bench, glinting off the sharpened chisel and calling to mind a sacrificial altar. The man pushed me away and swept his large hand across the stone, tools and wood scattering on the floor among sawdust and shavings. He turned to me and tugged at my shirt, his fingers clumsy as he figured out how to undo the buttons. He smiled as he pulled my shirt open, running his hands over my chest, lingering on my hardening nipples, moving lower to trace the fine line of hair running down from my navel. He dropped to his knees, his tongue replacing his fingers, warm and wet on my skin. I groaned, my cock straining against my pants, eager for release.
The woodcutter stood again and half-pulled, half-pushed me to sit down on the bench. He straddled the stone, the outline of his erect, thick shaft clear to see though his leggings, illuminated by the moonlight. I wanted to taste that part of him too. I turned and reached out to feel his hardness through the rough cloth. He pushed me away, swung me around, and pushed me down on my back as if I weighed nothing, spreading my legs to either side of the stone and sitting between them. He fumbled with my belt buckle as if he’d never encountered one before, rough in his eagerness, and eased down the zipper.
My dick sprung out and before I even felt the chill night air, a hot mouth and lithe tongue were working their way down the shaft, a large hand easing its way beneath me, cupping my balls and probing further beneath. His ardor was clumsy and hurried, encumbered by my clothing. I wanted to do everything all at once. I wanted to suck him, feel his cock thrusting into my mouth, taste his hot salty cum. I groaned, close to coming myself, and gasped as he suddenly released me.
I raised my head to see him grinning at me, his eyes sparkling, one hand still slowly working my cock, teasing me, the pad of his thumb wet with my precum, brushing the sensitive tip. His other hand deftly untied the cord around his waist and pulled it away. His leggings slipped down, revealing a huge prick, which he wrapped his fingers around.