Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  "I've killed people. With those songs, I killed the people I love."

  The way she looked at me I could tell she was dead serious. The way I looked at her, I must have looked five steps from death. "Don't worry. I don't mean like serial killer killed. But they're gone. The people I loved, they're all gone."

  She went back to drinking, and the silence was so long I thought she was done explaining. But then she went to the jukebox and traced over it with a trembling finger. "Right here. Autumn Blues.' That's the song that killed my husband. The first time I killed someone with a song. Maybe the first time. It was the first time I knew about."

  That trembling finger circled on the glass. A smile graced Peggy's lips for a half second, then was gone.

  * * *

  I used to be a singer. A long time ago. I was no Rosemary Clooney, but I held my own and made a nice living. My husband played horn in the band. He always sat to my right. A few times we had to rearrange a smaller stage, but he was always to my right.

  I killed him on our twelfth anniversary. Benny. I never stopped missing him.

  Not on purpose. But that night, we had a small break in our schedule. It was a lovely evening, the last week of summer, warm and mellow. We decided to celebrate with a little Chinese takeout on the patio. Might not seem the most romantic, but after months on the road surrounded by the band and crew, quiet time with the love of my life was paradise. My sweet, funny Benny.

  There we were under the sunset, bellies full, bodies relaxed from a bottle of wine, and it occurred to me I'd never sung him Our Song. "Autumn Blues." We danced to it at our wedding, played it at almost every show, but I never sang it just for him. So I cupped his face in my hands, looked him in those lovely green eyes, and sang for him. Just for him. It was supposed to be a present.

  About halfway through the song, something changed in those eyes. That spark of mischief that made me give him a second glance, it was gone. They were cold. When I finished singing, he didn't say a word to me. Just went to bed. I blamed the wine. I was feeling it myself, and Benny was never good with booze. I followed him in, and in the few minutes between his climbing under the blankets and mine, he was sound asleep.

  The next day, it was like we were on two different planets, even in the same house. I blamed it on a hangover, brought him aspirin and water. He never thanked me, barely noticed me. God, that hurt. But I waited. Except nothing changed by the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that. Any time I tried asking him what was wrong, it was the same answer. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

  He didn't contest the divorce. It was nice and simple. No alimony. We didn't argue over who took what. I guess that's one of the benefits of spending a lot of life on the road: you don't have much stuff. No, the hardest part was finding a new horn player. When I replaced him onstage, that's when it really hit me he was gone.

  I never saw him again. But, even if he's alive today, he died that night. Only, I didn't get it then.

  After we got divorced, I did what all divorcees did in that time: I went to live with my mother. It wasn't as bad as it sounds. We got along fine, and with all that time on the road, we hadn't seen much of each other for years. My father had died two summers before, so she was lonely and glad for the company. I was glad to have a place to figure out what went wrong.

  Things were great for a few months. I still look back on those few weeks as one of my life's fondest memories. Then it was my father's birthday.

  I told you that my father was dead, didn't I? It was two years he'd been gone. Mom'd held up pretty well, but she was hurting. Thought I'd do something nice for her, because even though she didn't say anything, I remembered Dad's birthday, too. That night I'd cooked Dad's favorite meal of meatloaf and had a bottle of his favorite whiskey waiting. We needed it after that dinner. If there's any silver lining to his being gone, it's that he never had to eat my miserable excuse for meatloaf.

  The bottle was half gone when I gave her the final gift. Final. Oh, boy. We were sitting in the living room, the photo albums spread out. I sang my Dad's favorite song, "London Lullaby." I'm pretty sure that was the first song I sang as a child. I held my mother's hands, kissed them, looked in her eyes and sang.

  Yes, I was drinking that night and yes, I was more than a little tipsy. But I swear I sobered up the minute it happened. I remember the exact line. "Don't you worry, don't you cry. I'm gonna sing you a London Lullaby." That's when it happened. The color left her cheeks. Life left her eyes. Her heart was still beating, but that was the same look I saw on Benny. The very same. She went to bed right after. And, sure enough, the next morning she was cold, didn't care if I was there or not. I had an idea. It was a crazy idea, but I asked her if she wanted me to sing "London Lullaby" again. My mother didn't react or blink. She just gave me a tiny shrug and kept on washing the dishes. She used to get the biggest smile on her face just seeing the title on a record. That morning, nothing.

  That's when I knew, when I sang to my mother, I took away her soul. Don't look at me like that!

  * * *

  Peggy turned her head away and faced the wall. I don't know what kind of look I gave her, but I imagine it was akin to disbelief. I didn't believe it. But looking at her, listening to her, the thing that meant the most was that she believed it. How can you reason with that? Even though I really didn't know Peggy outside the bar, I wanted to take her pain away. I can't see how anyone wouldn't. Not if they saw what I did

  She hadn't turned around yet when she started talking again. "I know it sounds crazy. I thought it was crazy, even after I figured it was the truth, There was no reason how, or why, or even when it started. Crazy or not, it was the only thing that made sense.

  "I didn't wait to move out of my mother's house. Found a cheap motel room until I could get my head on straight.

  "I had to try. I think I was hoping to prove myself wrong. But as long as I live, I'll never forgive myself. I played three open mike nights at some hole-in-the-wall coffee shops. Three gigs under three different names. I looked three people in the eyes as I sang. Sure enough, midway through each song, something in them just turned off and their eyes went dead. I took their souls and ruined three more lives.

  "If I was taking away their souls, could I bring them back? Could I stop it? That's not something you can look up in the library. I had no idea where to start, so I didn’t. There's no hero here. I didn't try to save anyone. I didn't bring them back. But I quit singing, so at least there's that. Nobody else was lost. I just up and quit. Lived off savings and a few odd jobs. Most importantly, I never sang. No singing along with the radio anywhere, in case. I never stopped to hear street musicians. I didn't want any temptation, so I avoided music as best I could. Only, there are times when I can't hold it in anymore. Those are the times I end up drunk at your jukebox. If I weren't drunk, there's no way I'd let myself sing."

  The rain was still pouring. Even though Peggy'd finished crying, I got the sense the world was shedding tears for her. I tried to imagine how it felt, carrying that weight for so many years. It hurt to think about.

  "Peggy, I have a proposition. Now, hear me out: sing to me. Sing to me once, and if it happens, try singing to me again. Or sing the song backwards. We can try a few different things, find out if you can reverse this."

  She looked at me horrified. "Are you insane? Haven't you been listening? You don't believe me."

  "It's not that. Really. But we're both stuck here. The rain isn't letting up. We have the time. Tell you what, I have an idea. Try singing 'London Lullaby' for me. The song you sang to your mother. What if it reverses the effect on her? You'd like to have her back, wouldn't you?"

  "Then you'd be gone. And I'll have more death on my hands."

  "Look, I don't have any family to miss me. Your mother does. Besides, if it does work, then you can find some real ass and sing to him for my return. In the meantime, you'll have your mother back. Come on, let's give it a try." And I poured two shots.

  We stood there for a long, long
while. She drank hers. Then mine.

  "Hand me some coins for the jukebox."

  This was the first time I actually sat and listened to her sing. Her voice wasn't polished. It had a rough, gravelly undertone. A couple times the notes barely hit their mark. Whether it was age or nerves, I don't know. But there were occasional flashes of a fabulous singer. Her eyes were beautiful. They were blue. I never noticed that before. I stared into those lovely eyes and listened to the sad, sad blues. And then--

  And then what? And then here we are, with Peggy singing the blues in my bar. People are drinking, I'm behind the bar serving drinks. And she was right--my eyes are dead and empty. I'm at the bar serving drinks, and I'm not. I can see everything going on. People talking, people drinking, me serving, and Peggy singing. It's the first time I've seen anything since Peggy sang to me. I saw her eyes looking at me, sad and hopeful. Then came the blank.

  It would be wrong to say things went black. If you see black, you're still seeing something. Instead, it was empty. I wasn't hearing the music, but I felt it. I felt the warm and complete. I felt calm. What I didn't feel was my body. You know, it's amazing what you don't know you're feeling until it's gone. The light friction of clothes against my skin. The tension in my shoulders I didn't even realize was there. The tickle of hair growing on my scalp. It was all gone. In its place was a sense of peace. Of love. No regret, no confusion, no thoughts whatsoever. It sounds like emptiness but, really, it was the opposite. You know that feeling you have the second before you fall into a good night's sleep? That's what it feels like. It was beautiful. That's all my existence was until Peggy started singing at the jukebox.

  From the moment the first word came from her mouth, I could see the bar. Maybe see is the wrong word. I knew it was there, the way you know you have fingers at the end of your hands, even if you're not looking. I saw everything while I was looking at nothing. And I heard it without sounds hitting my eardrums. Each and every conversation in that bar, every word of that song she sang.

  The lyrics were over, but the last few notes of music were still playing. This time she didn't leave with the dignity and grace I'd come to know, but ran out sobbing. As the music faded, so did my clarity. I did hear (if hear is the right word) a woman in the back telling her companion to stop her.

  "Don't you know who that is? That's Peggy McAlister. She was huge, like, forty years ago. All of a sudden she disappeared and nobody knew what happened. A lot of people think she died. Go on out there and stop her!"

  Joe piped up from the bar. "Don't worry. She's no one famous. Besides, she'll be back. She always is."

  This time, no. I don't think she will be.

  And as the music fades, so does my connection to the world. I can feel that peace coming over me. But, while I'm here, I'm feeling a different emotion: hope. I hope someone out there is catching this the way I'm catching a glimpse into the world. And if you're catching this story, please do me one last favor and find Peggy. Tell her. I know she thinks she killed us with her music, and she's probably living with a lot of pain and guilt. Find Peggy and tell her. Tell her she didn't kill me. She set me free.

  Good night, Peggy. Thank you.

  Santa’s Little Spy

  By Mark Allan Gunnells

  Mark Allan Gunnells loves to tell stories. He has since he was a kid, penning one-page tales that were Twilight Zone knockoffs. He likes to think he has gotten a little better since then. He has been lucky enough to work with some wonderful publishers such as Apex Publishing, Bad Moon Books, Journalstone, Evil Jester Press, Etopia, Sideshow Press, and Gallows Press. He loves reader feedback, and above all he loves telling stories. He lives in Greer, SC, with his fiancé Craig A. Metcalf.

  “Goodness, look at the time,” Carol said. “I should probably be getting home.”

  Fran took another sip of wine then glanced over at the clock. “Oh, I had no idea it was so late. I know a certain little girl who is up past her bedtime.”

  Fran’s six year old daughter, Beth, was on the floor by the Christmas tree, playing some game on the iPad that Fran herself found incomprehensible. She looked up at her mother’s words, defiance already in her eyes. She resembled her father so much in moments of belligerence. “Mom, can’t I stay up a little longer? It’s not a school night or nothing.”

  “Or anything. And you don’t want to argue with me, do you? Remember, Santa has his little spy watching you.”

  Beth gasped, her eyes immediately shooting to the mantel. “Okay, Mommy, I’m going to bed right now.”

  “Get into your pjs and brush your teeth, and I’ll be up to say goodnight in just a few minutes.”

  Beth climbed up on the sofa, first gave Fran a peck on the cheek and then Carol. Then she bounded back to the floor and started toward the stairs. Halfway there she paused and scurried back to the fireplace, staring up at the elf perched on the far right edge of the mantel. “Goodnight, Paul. I’ll come find you in the morning.”

  Then the girl was out of the room and up the stairs in a blur.

  “Well, that was easy,” Carol said.

  Fran sank back into the cushions and pointed up to the mantel. “Whoever invented the Elf on the Shelf is a genius. Beth thinks it watches her every move and reports back to Santa, which means at least for one month of the year she’s very compliant. When Paul bought the thing last year, I thought he was crazy, but I have to admit it really works.”

  “Yeah, sounds great.” Carol swirled her wine around in the glass, staring at the little whirlpool it made.

  Fran scrutinized the other woman for a moment in silence then said, “What’s up, Carol?”

  “Nothing, it’s just late and I’m tired.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. We’ve been best friends since the tenth grade, and I know when something’s on your mind. Spill it.”

  “It’s just…well, don’t you find it the least bit creepy that Beth named her elf after her dead father?”

  Fran considered the question then shrugged with one shoulder. “At first, but I guess it makes sense in a strange way. I mean, Paul passed only a couple of months ago. Beth is still trying to process it. Hell, I’m still trying to process it myself.”

  Carol reached out, took one of Fran’s hands and squeezed it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

  “It’s okay. I’m coping, really. With the help of good friends and massive amounts of wine.” With that, Fran drained her glass.

  Carol laughed softly and followed suit. “I really do need to go. I’m exhausted.”

  “And you’ve had three glasses of wine. Maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to be driving all the way across town.”

  “You offering to put me up for the night?”

  “You know what they say about mi casa.”

  “You’re too kind. I really should be embarrassed; this is the third time in the last month I’ve overindulged and had to crash here. It’s like I’m turning into an old lush.”

  “Well,” Fran said with a pointed stare, “to an outside observer, it might seem you were doing it on purpose just to keep a grieving widow company.”

  Carol laughed but didn’t answer. Instead she gathered up the two wine glasses as well as the empty bottle.

  “Leave the cleanup for the morning,” Fran said with a flip of her hand. “I can barely keep my eyes open. Let’s head on up, I’ll tuck Beth in, then we can crash.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  They had just started up the stairs when Carol suddenly stopped. “What about the elf?”

  “What?” Fran said, turning back to her friend.

  “The elf…aren’t you supposed to move it around every night so Beth finds it in a different location each morning?”

  Fran groaned and walked back across the living room. She picked up the elf and moved it from the right side of the mantel to the left.

  “Well, that was certainly creative,” Carol said when her friend rejoined her on the stairs.

  “It’s too
late to be creative. I’ll just tell her little Paul was too tired to do any extensive traveling.”

  * * *

  Fran was awakened the next morning by a continuous prodding in her shoulder and a high-pitched voice repeating, “Mommy, get up,” over and over. She tried to ignore it, but when it became apparent Beth would not be dissuaded, Fran finally pried her eyes open. She had pulled the curtains the night before, but white-hot sunlight leaked in around the edges, stinging her eyes.

  “Beth, please stop poking me,” she croaked. “It’s too early for this.”

  But was it? The sunlight suggested not. Raising herself on a forearm, she squinted at the clock on the bedside table. 10:25. Damn, much later than she thought. Not that it mattered, Beth was out of school for Christmas vacation.

  “Carol?” Fran said, but when she turned she found the other side of the bed vacated. Of course, Carol had a job and Fran vaguely remembered hearing the alarm on the other woman’s phone going off early this morning.

  “Mommy, you gonna get up? I’ve been up forever.”

  Fran yawned and arched her back. “You need me to fix you some breakfast?”

  “I already made some cereal.”

  Fran groaned. If Beth had made her own breakfast that meant the kitchen was going to be a disaster area.

  “Mommy, please get up. I need you to help me find Paul.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t find Paul and I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Another groan. “Honey, you can’t have looked everywhere.”

  “But I did. I even looked in your room.”

  This brought Fran instantly to full wakefulness, and she sat up in bed, scanning her room. All the drawers of her dresser were opened, and clothes were scattered across the floor. “Beth, I’ve told you never to go through Mommy’s things. Santa is not going to be happy about this.”