by D. L. Scott
“Maybe he didn’t,” Norman spoke up, “you said your father died when you were eleven. Any number of people may have been here since then.” Norman’s voice echoed with the doubt he was feeling. “You’re what now, twenty, twenty one?”
Edward looked over at the other two collaborators and gave a dry crooked smile.
“We are here for the atmosphere, remember? The villagers wouldn’t come to this place, it is haunted by either my mother or my father, depending on who you talk to.”
“You don’t really believe that do you?” Maddy spoke up, “I mean, I know I have been spooked, but an actual ghost?” Just as Maddy spoke there was another shriek that seemed to physically hurtle from the stones outside and reverberate through the house. The door to the basement rattled and the collaborators, all three, took a frightened step back.
“This is ridiculous!” Norman said, a little too loudly. “It was the wind. It had to have been the wind.” He shook his head in disbelief, “We cannot be considering the outrageous idea that we might be experiencing the manifestation of a ghost.”
“Can’t we?” Edward replied. He was not looking at Norman, but at the basement door.
“Look, it has to be close to three in the morning.” Maddy spoke quietly and reassuringly. “We are all tired and worked up. Maybe we should just give up for tonight, get some sleep and get back to work in the morning?”
Edward tore his eyes from the basement door and looked at Madeline. “Do you want to be alone in your room? Now? After all of this?” Edward’s voice while low and quiet was incredulous.
Maddy thought about it for a moment before she answered. “Well, no… not really…”
Edward looked back at the basement door. He seemed to be forcibly pulled toward the door as he took a step forward.
Madeline screamed, “There, look there!” The men’s’ gaze followed to where she was pointing, but there was nothing, nothing at all.
“What did you see?” Norman asked, fear coloring his voice and made him speak louder than he intended.
“It was a man, or at least I think it was – a white mist in the shape of man.” Madeline’s hand was shaking as she continued to point at the place she had seen the apparition.
“I know you’re here Dad,” Edward said to the ceiling.
“Stop Edward, just stop. We are not being haunted. We are writers, our imaginations have gotten away with us,” Norman said holding his hands out palms forward in an effort to calm his friend.
“You’re wrong, he IS here.” Edward replied softly, “I always knew Dad wanted me dead, the same as mum and now he is here, because I am here.”
“Do you even hear yourself!” Norman said,
“You sound nuts. It was the wind and bad lighting and a horribly loud bird. It was not and is not your father!”
“Norman’s right, Edward.” Maddy added her support to Norman’s deduction. “Come on, let’s go back in with the fireplace, I am getting cold.” She turned and headed back to the front room where they had been collaborating on the gothic tale, Norman was right behind her.
It seemed at first that Edward was going to follow when suddenly he turned and took a running start at the basement door. The door groaned and then snapped open.
The suddenness of the door’s collapse left Edward unbalanced and before either Madeline or Norman could move, he fell. The stairs to the basement floor were steep and Edward tumbled, his limbs twisted at odd angles as he plunged down to the dirt floor.
Madeline screamed and continued to scream frozen in place, as Norman ran to grab a lit candle from the front room and then rushed down the basement stairs. He stopped and knelt next to Edward but he didn’t need to check for a pulse to see the young man was dead his neck clearly broken.
“Maddy, Maddy stop!” Norman shouted up the stairs “Stop, damn it!” The anger in Norman’s voice penetrated Madeline’s shock enough to stop her screams.
“Oh god, is he dead, please tell me he isn’t dead!” Maddy said, tears and panic still filling her voice.
“He is.” Norman said flatly.
“Oh my god, no!” Madeline sobbed.
Norman lifted the candle and looked around the basement. It was mostly empty, just a few dresses hung on what had once been a clothesline. Norman supposed they must have been Edward’s mother’s clothes.
Maddy pulled herself together and carefully, slowly walked down the steep basement stairs. She knelt next to Norman and looked at Edwards’ body, shock setting in so that her blood felt frozen in her veins.
“Edward’s father…he killed him, didn’t he?” Maddy sobbed quietly as she looked around the nearly empty room.
“Don’t be an idiot, Maddy,” Norman snapped, "Edward thought there was something down here, something that made him afraid. Something he thought his father was hiding.” Norman’s voice lost a bit of its conviction, “I don’t believe in ghosts really. Surely there are no such things as ghosts? Right?”
Norman and Madeline looked at the crumpled body of their friend. Then Madeline finally spoke, “There are no answers you know, none, it is all about fear.”
About the Author
Krista Redmayne is a fiction and nonfiction writer. She founded the writers group AV Pen 2 Paper that currently includes award-winning members. Krista has a BA in English from California State University Bakersfield and an MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Krista enjoys the desert sunsets in her hometown of Lancaster CA and the company of her children who inspire her every day.
Each Uisage
By Kerry E. B. Black
“Walking out into the night with a water fey was all kinds of stupid. Heck, Kelpies eat people. They may not play with their food as creatively as the Each Uisge, but dead is dead.”
― E.J. Stevens, Shadow Sight
Big Times Bar shook gently as the freight train rushed by with its load of industrial supplies. The bar was a little place in a parking lot shared with automotive businesses along the railroad tracks. Few patrons sought the comfort of Big Times’ booths or perched on the semi-circle of tall stools facing a mirrored display of liquor.
The younger crowd visited the bigger karaoke or pool-table-featuring bars nearby. Cheswick had more than its share of places to drink.
But Big Times Bar had its own appeal, with deep wood paneling and furniture waxed to a warm glow, and small, tinted glass windows that perpetually lent the feel of twilight to the interior. It was difficult to set a trap when watched by hundreds of eyes, even if most of those were alcohol-addled, so the relative quiet of the locale had a draw.
Aughi sat in a shadowed corner with a clear view of the entrance, his back to the wall. He had delicate Irish features and fine, ebony-colored hair that glistened in the low light. His suit was tailored and his leather shoes squeaked when he walked like they were wet, though there had not been rain in several days. A close observation revealed damp pant hems.
Sybil entered Big Times Bar with an assurance built on custom. Every Sunday evening, she came here and enjoyed a drink, usually a snifter of brandy, while sitting at the corner of the bar closest to the restrooms. Joe, the bar tender, smiled when he saw her. Sybil could be relied upon to provide a decent tip and a bit of quiet conversation.
Sybil was a professional woman in her early thirties, dressed well even on the weekends in designer clothing and heeled shoes. Her hair was down today, falling in shiny brown waves to her shoulders. Wire-armed glasses rested on a little nose, failing to obscure inquisitive hazel eyes adorned by a very little makeup.
She carried a satchel that more closely resembled a briefcase than a purse, its long leather strap across her body. She did not remove the satchel when she took her seat and ordered her drink, but instead rested her hand on the sack.
Aughi finished his whisky in a gulp, and then set the glass upside down on the table. He walked to the bar, standing near Sybil, and waited for the bar tender. Sybil admired his graceful movements and collected demeano
r. When Joe set her amber-colored drink on a square paper napkin, Sybil took the bowl of the stemware in her hand and inhaled the spicy aroma of the drink.
When she opened her eyes to take her first sip, she noticed that both men were smiling at her. She smiled back, lifted the snifter and nodded to them, and then sipped. The drink warmed as it made its way down her throat.
Joe asked if he could get anything else for Aughi, and in a rich, accented voice, he ordered another whisky. Aughi was tall. Even sitting on the elevated bar stool only afforded Sybil an eye level view.
She pulled her wrap about her shoulders, staving off a shaking chill. Aughi noticed. “Lass, would ye like ta sit at my table, out of the breeze of the openin’ door?” He asked. She was enchanted by his accent, but this was her spot, the place that her father sat in when he came to this bar when he was alive.
“Why don’t you stay here beside me, instead?” Sybil invited. With a satisfied smile, he slid on the stool which made him tower over her. She felt an inappropriate urge to nestle against his chest, as though he would protect her from the evils of the world.
They conversed while they drank, losing track of the time. He talked of his home across the sea, of wild coastlines and hills of emerald green. He was in the States on business. She asked how long the plane flight, but he explained that he arrived by sea. She then happily recounted the benefits of cruising, and he indulgently listened. He missed his home, describing the play of the lights on the water wistfully. She noticed a weed caught in his hair, but she did not remove it. Somehow, that seemed too intimate a gesture.
Sybil recalled her childhood love of walking along the Allegheny River, watching the moon’s reflection captured in the water. Her father used to take her fishing. They caught small catfish mostly, but sometimes they were lucky and brought home dinner. She suggested they take a stroll to the marina along the river so that she could share with him some of the scenery of her childhood.
He happily accepted her invitation and offered his arm in an old fashioned show of gentility. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling like a lady in one of the romance novels she secretly read in her spare time. Again, she fought the urge to snuggle up to him, remembering their short acquaintanceship.
She showed him the way to a passage over the railroad tracks which seemed to make him uncomfortable. “The train is not due for another couple of hours,” she reassured. They hopped over the rails, laughing like teenagers.
A breeze brought the scent of fish and rotting plants from the waters as they approached. The moon was ripe in a velvety sky, accompanied by constellations whose names Sybil long ago forgot. She looked up at the groupings of the stars and remembered all of the wishes she made once upon a childhood.
She took a lungful of cool air, sharing happy recollections with her silent, smiling companion.
His grin broadened. He pointed to the sky, to a group of stars about to be overtaken with fast-moving clouds. “There be the fish,” he traced, “and the hero,” he smiled down at her. “I don’t know those constellations,” she said.
Continuing, “That is the tower from which spills the wine,” he indicated. She wrinkled her forehead, struggling unsuccessfully to remember any of these names as they strolled closer to the water. In his alluring voice, he said, “And there is the Handmaid waiting on the Sea Serpent.” They stopped to admire the sight, the waters of the river lapping at their feet as though beckoning.
He then leaned toward her, and she at last gave in to her desire to embrace him. He lifted her gently as though she were a child, cuddling her close to him as he walked. The lasses in his homeland would have recognized the precarious situation by now, might have fussed or raised an alarm, but here, naive Americans did not know of his people, the people of the waves, the Each Uisge.
The cold water surprised her. “Hey, wait! We are IN the water!” He smiled down at her, his eyes shadowed. “Yes, finally!” He pressed his face to hers. She closed her eyes, anticipating the kiss.
What came next was a betrayal and a surprise. His touch was indelicate, then tearing. She felt warm, then cold with shock. The water turned dark around them, the moon mournfully illuminating the gristly scene. He brought a bloody hand to his mouth, closing his eyes in enjoyment as he sucked on his fingers. How had she missed the overly sharp fingernails, she wondered.
Speaking with effort, an unaccustomed gurgle bubbling in her throat, she asked, “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” Aughi smiled, showing his blood-covered teeth. “Because, lass, I am hungry, and you taste sweet.” When he finished his meal, her cleaned bones sunk to the bottom of the river to mingle with those of his earlier victims while her liver was eaten by the catfish.
About the Author
Kerry E. B. Black lives an over-crowded dolls' house in a magical suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A dark time kept words from flowing, but Kerry is glad to be back, as writing is a passion and lifeline. [email protected]
A Testament to Finer Things
By Laura K. Cowan
“There was a magic about the sea. People were drawn to it. People wanted to love by it, swim in it, play in it, look at it. It was a living thing that was as unpredictable as a great stage actor: it could be calm and welcoming, opening its arms to embrace it's audience one moment, but then could explode with its stormy tempers, flinging people around, wanting them out, attacking coastlines, breaking down islands.”
– Cecelia Ahern, The Gift (1981- )
Alice stood looking at the statue far longer than he should have. The winds were blowing in from the Atlantic, so hard that it knocked him back a few steps from the railing. His sister tugged at his hand. The rags protecting him from the cold unwound.
“Come on!” Raina said. “The storm is getting worse.”
The arm of the statue was broken at the wrist. It was sunken up to the waist in the bay. Already ice was forming on its chest. The city looked like a maze of anthills compared to the wall of clouds heading in from the sea, which threaded between every building like a thousand straight rivers running here, then there, turning a sharp left to head uptown, where the sidewalks were raised above sea level on giant cement blocks.
Alice tried to imagine what it had been like when the city was all on one level. Things had changed so drastically, so quickly, that a lot of that knowledge had been lost. Maybe if the waterway alleys were all pavement, a city flat and smooth. That was how it must have been, at one time, with taller buildings.
“Alice!” Raina called. She had gone ahead and was coming back for him.
Finally he turned away and followed. They fled down a narrow catwalk between two buildings, away from the elevated pier. Alice rewound his mittens as they went. Around them, the echo of their boots on the catwalk clashed against the howl of the wind. The water below swirled against the brick walls. The reinforcements of the underwater windows groaned.
They made it home before the storm hit, but only just.
“Leave on your things,” their mother said when they began to pull off their outer clothes. “We don’t know if this one will push us inland. We need to be ready to leave.”
Alice and Raina sat down in front of the picture window. They turned their heads with the angle of the rain, first diagonal, then sideways. Soon they each held on to the side of a window pane, their legs dragging to the west. They flew with the rain, Alice felt himself falling as if down a river of water droplets, away from this cold city.
“Oh come on,” their mom said. “It isn’t a game. Do you have your knapsacks packed?”
They dropped to the floor and nodded to her.
“Mom?” Raina said. “Will Aunt Linz take us if we need to leave the city?”
“Yes, they’re ready and waiting for us,” her mother said. She wiped some sweat off her forehead and leaned against the wall by the kitchen door. “I don’t know why your father insists we keep risking these storms anyway. His job is hard to replace inland, I know. But all the same. Don’t let
Mrs. Ralburn hear me say it, but this city is finished, at least unless it moves. The next time we go, bring whatever you can carry that is important to you, because we may not be coming back.”
Alice felt his stomach drop.
“Is Dad coming?” he asked. He turned his face away from his mother’s, to look at the rain again. It was mixing with ice. The wind was howling around the edges of the balcony. The broken iron rungs clanged against one another in the storm.
“That’s whom we’re waiting for,” his mother said. She moved back into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and began packing some food into bags.
Alice tugged at his warmers on his legs. They were wet, making his skin chap. He probably had time to take them off, but these escape preparations never became routine. Each new hurricane was as different as the last, blasting at the foundations of the old buildings, which had never been built to withstand the seas.
He thought he had detected a slight sway to their building in the last storm, but then it had settled again into the silt below.
He swallowed hard, and put his head between his knees.
The statue had also been built in sunnier times, higher times by the look of it. The feet of the statue had to be buried two dozen feet beneath the chilled waves, buffeted by every tide and coastal storm.
“Raina,” he said quietly. “Do you know what came before?”
“Before what?” she said, not taking her eyes off the rain, which was freezing in its sideways slant across the window panes.
“Before the seas swamped the coast,” Alice said. “The city was here before the changes. Did you ever learn about the city, before?”
Raina frowned. “In History they said our great-grandparents made the changes,” she said. “I think they were a mistake.”
“Well yeah,” Alice said, gesturing at the harbor beyond their city block.