by Shock Totem
Glenda is very much her own person, of course. Opposites attract, as they say. And we’re the perfect example of that old cliché. She likes her chick flicks, her Lifetime television, and her Oprah Book Club selections. She doesn’t wear horror shirts all the time like I do (although she does have one she wears to the conventions—“YOU CAN'T SCARE ME I’M A NURSE,” it boasts—and she’ll occasionally wear one of my tamer ones, which I always find incredibly sexy). She doesn’t want to see every horror film I want to see—she doesn’t care for the really gory stuff, but then I’m no huge fan of that, either, without a good story to go along with it. I’m sure I’ve dragged her to the theater more times than she can count to see some movie that she didn’t really have much of a desire to see. But she did it for me. And that, my friends, is love.
I suppose I’m getting soft in my old age, ‘cause this Valentine’s Day I plan to return the favor. This isn’t unheard of, but I have to admit it’s not something I do very often. Our plans for the evening: A nice steak dinner, followed by a movie she’s been looking forward to. It’s something called Labor Day, and it stars Josh Brolin (Hollow Man, Nightwatch, Oldboy) and Kate Winslet (sorry, but I’m struggling to think of a single genre film she’s been in; Glenda would undoubtedly nudge me in the side right now and say, “Go ahead, tell ‘em you loved Titanic,” at which point I would shush her, nervously looking around to make sure no one heard).
Not sure if I mentioned the fact that this Labor Day is one of those aforementioned “chick flicks.” It might or might not be based on a Nicholas Sparks book.
Yeah.
The scariest thing of all, though?
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I will anyway...
I'm looking forward to it.
OMEN
by Amanda C. Davis
Back when I sold insurance, laying up money to get engaged, I used to tell people, “Death never calls to let you know it’s stopping by.” If I was feeling jocular, or if they looked like they could appreciate a little gallows humor, I’d go on. Little routine of mine. “You think you see it winking at you sometimes, but death’s an awful flirt. Come down with cancer and die of a stroke. Catch bronchitis and go down in a plane crash. Why, I insured a fellow who liked to go hunting. His hunting partner had bad aim and a neverending thirst, if you catch my drift. This fellow had a policy—two million dollars to his widow in case his hunting partner got boozy and decided this guy resembled a ten-point buck. So one day the two of them are hunting, and my fellow tracks a wounded deer through the brush—and right off a cliff.”
They usually asked then if the widow got the two million, and I explained it was a special policy, but she got a million under the standard accident coverage—which most people allow isn’t bad.
What I’m saying is no death’s your own until it’s your own, just like no lady’s your wife until you marry her. Me, I figured I’d go to the morgue with a toe tag reading “HEART ATTACK.” That’s what got my father, his father, and half a family plot full of uncles. Heart attack. And then one day I’m walking with my girl and up screams a nutjob in a big car, and—bam! Toe tag. I never even had a chance to propose.
Now, running an omen isn’t so different from working an actuarial table—we can’t any of us see the future, dead or alive—so I naturally fell into the business after my, ahem, departure. For a while I did a breeze on the same corner where my cold head first hit the pavement. Just whistle gently, tousle a newspaper once in a while. Quiet gig. Got my feet wet.
They moved me to the aviary division before long. Busier. Friendly, though. I had a lot of company in the old aviary.
There was a retired general—he said—and he liked to run us like an infantry squad—and we did it, too, when we were in a particular mood.
“Beaks up, sparrows!” he’d bark. “We got a little girl on Fourth and Jefferson needs to catch a glimpse of her own mortality. Single file on the telephone lines. Sharpish! And not a peep out of any of you!”
Then we’d all perch silently on the wire, staring at whatever little girl got picked for a dose of memento mori, until she ran away. (Or threw rocks at us. Kids!) That’s if we were in a particular mood. Other days a screeching flock in a dead tree was just what we needed—and it got the job done besides.
I told the general my routine about death once, right after a rain, when the ground was squirming with earthworms and we were all clean and full and cheerful.
“You can’t even read your ticket until it’s been punched,” I said, woozy from rainwater and half my weight in worms. “That’s the sticker. That’s what makes dupes of us all. All these deaths out there, and they all belong to somebody else, right up until one of ‘em picks you out and takes you home.”
“That’s pretty astute, soldier,” he said. “Pretty astute. I’m going to recommend they promote you to crow.”
Nothing came of it, of course; nobody’s clout survives the grave. But it was a generous thought.
The aviary division was right up my alley. But winter came, and the flock flew south—the real flock, our temporary homes, the feathers that bore our little bellwethers of doom. Some of us stayed within the aviary, moving into barn owls, ravens, even (I hear) an albatross. Others scattered across the divisions like blown leaves. Mirrors. Spiders. Raindrops.
They gave me a shadow.
Shadows have rules. It’s tricky work. I had to hitch rides under feet and in the undercarriages of cars and, when things were really dim, hunker between bricks, thinking sad jokes to myself about places the sun don’t shine. Thing about shadows, though, is you can go anywhere you want—if you can get there—and I found myself slinking across the city, onto routes I’d known when I was living. Some I’d even forgotten. I slid from wall to shoe to tree and back again, winding through the city.
And there I was.
My corner.
Only it wasn’t empty.
She was a breeze, flicking dried dandelion leaves between the cracks of the sidewalk. I huddled under them. She picked up a little, so that people held on to their hats.
“Ben,” she said. “I should have guessed if I saw you again, it’d be here.”
I couldn’t say much. She was all around me, filling the air like her perfume used to do. Only she didn’t need perfume to do it now.
“Remember how you used to say, ‘death never calls to say it’s coming?’” She’d bungled the line, but I held my tongue. “I think about that a lot. How I never expected it. Hit by a car! It’s not as romantic as it sounds.” She sighed, soft and low. “You were right about yours, though.”
Whatever your family history, sometimes all it takes to trigger a heart attack is watching your true love smashed between a Buick and a building.
I said, “A breeze and a shadow. Pretty powerful omen. We oughta go into business together.”
“Are you proposing?” she said, like she was smiling, like she still had something to smile with.
“Let’s really own this death business,” I said. “Make our own way. Together.”
Turns out, it’s never too late to really start living. But what do I know? I’m just an omen.
Amanda C. Davis is a combustion engineer who loves baking, gardening, and low-budget horror films. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Goblin Fruit, InterGalactic Medicine Show, and Cemetery Dance, among others. Her collection, Wolves and Witches: A Fairy Tale Collection, co-authored with Megan Engelhardt, is available through World Weaver Press. She tweets enthusiastically as @davisac1. You can find out more about her and read more of her work at www.amandacdavis.com.
HOLIDAY RECOLLECTION
THE SCARIEST HOLIDAY
by C.W. LaSart
Ah, Valentine’s Day! The time of love and flowers, chocolates and cherubs shooting tiny arrows of lust into the rumps of unsuspecting lovers, and monstrous murderers hacking up young virgins! Wait. What? What do you mean there are no monsters on Valentine’s Day?
I’m often bewildered by how little attenti
on Valentine’s Day gets amongst horror fans. I mean, sure, we have our token efforts like My Bloody Valentine and—shit! I can’t think of any others, can you? Even Christmas has more horror movies dedicated to it than Valentine’s Day. Forget about Halloween, that’s too easy. So why is Valentine’s Day so snubbed when it comes to horror? It is a proven fact that men who want to get action on that much anticipated third date often choose horror movies in lieu of romantic comedy. It’s a no-brainer. Scare her and she’ll snuggle right up to you. Get the adrenaline flowing and all kinds of good things can happen.
So why don’t we think of horror when someone mentions February 14th? Think about it, what’s more horrifying than love? Sex and horror are age-old friends. There are few things scarier than the physical act of love. The vulnerability, both emotional and physical (you are naked after all). The complete trust in someone else who you may barely know (in fact, may have just met earlier at the bar after a night of crappy karaoke and too much tequila). The potential for humiliation is staggering. And how about later? You may actually sleep next to this person. What if they’re a whacko? What if you wake up in the middle of the night and open your eyes only to find their face a few inches from your own? Their teeth shining in the moonlight, drool dripping out of the corner of their smiling mouth to land on your pillow? What if you accidentally fart in your sleep? Spooky!
As horror fans, I propose we make a conscious effort to claim Valentine’s Day as our own. Do something creepy each February. Wear a hockey mask to work, or decorate your desk with the bones of small animals. As a divorced woman, my favorite Valentine’s Day gift came the first year my Beloved and I knew each other. He went the traditional route of chocolates and roses, but he included one small token of appreciation that spoke directly of our twisted love for one another. After much searching on the Internet, he gifted me with an anatomically correct (and surprisingly life-sized), cherry-flavored gummy human heart. It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me. I knew then that he was a keeper, and seven years later, I know that I was right.
So I challenge you guys and gals, go that extra mile each year and make it a horror-themed Valentine’s Day. Find your Beloved a realistic gummy heart, and if you can’t, a real one will do in a pinch. Not nearly as tasty, but it’s the thought that counts. Sure, they may think you’re a freak, and then you’ll have to go through that whole restraining-order business again, but you may just find that you are in love with a kindred spirit. Besides, if the person you love is the uptight, judgmental sort, isn’t it really better to find out early? Before Halloween rolls around and they find out what you’re really like?
BROKEN BENEATH THE PAPERWEIGHT OF YOUR GHOSTS
by Damien Angelica Walters
Jacob sat alone with his brown paper heart in his hands.
He flexed his fingers, and the paper crinkled in response, a well-worn crinkle both familiar and frightening. The edges were tattered, the resemblance to old lace uncanny, and the names written on its surface gave it weight, substance. So many names. So many loves. All holding heartbreak within the lines and curves. He’d been careless for a long time.
He thought he’d been careful with Alexa. He thought he’d done everything right this time, yet she was gone now, too.
He hadn’t moved since she closed the door behind her. Not a slam, but a quiet little click and, somehow, that made it far worse. He’d expected a slam. There’d been no parting kiss. No shouting. Nothing more than a sad half-smile and the words I wish.
“I wish...” he’d whispered, after the door closed.
But wishing was for children and fountains, for dreamers, for the dying in need of a miracle.
He traced Alexa’s name with his fingertip. The graphite smeared across the paper and left a trace of grey on his skin. Like a ghost of what they could’ve been.
• • •
He woke in the middle of the night, his hand reaching out and touching empty air where a hip should be, where Alexa’s hip should be. His chest tightened; the rustle of paper was the only sound.
One long strand of auburn hair lay coiled on Alexa’s pillow. He wrapped it around his wrist, laced his fingers together behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. When tears stung his eyes, he blinked them away, rolled on his side, and breathed in the smell of her still clinging to the sheets.
• • •
Viv wrote her name in orange crayon. She had eyes filled with laughter and lips dancing with ideas.
“Let’s go to Europe,” she said one night.
“On vacation?”
“No, let’s pack all our things and move.”
“Just leave?”
“Yes. We could buy tickets tonight.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t just leave my job, my family.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why not? You could get a new job and you can always come back to visit your family.”
In the end, the lure of Europe was stronger than her affection. He found out when he called to ask if she wanted red or white wine with dinner. She laughed and said she was at the airport and she’d send him a postcard.
But she never did.
Some of the wax crayon had fallen off in tiny flakes, but the outline of her name was clear.
• • •
Three months after he and Alexa started dating, he showed her his heart. She said nothing. Cocked one eyebrow. Pursed her lips. He handed her a ball point pen but she simply twirled it in her fingers before she shook her head.
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to be another name.”
“Okay, I understand,” he said as he put away the pen, but he lied. He didn’t understand at all.
• • •
Alexa moved into his apartment a year later and they celebrated with champagne and strawberries. He pulled out a fountain pen with a heavy, ornately carved barrel, the reservoir filled with ink of the deepest indigo, a shade that complemented the blue of her eyes.
“Please,” he said.
“Jacob, I thought you said what we have is different.”
“It is. It’s real, it’s perfect.”
“Then I don’t need to do that,” she said, nodding toward the pen.
He twisted his hands together. The words but I need it lingered on his tongue, but he swallowed them down.
• • •
Karen scrawled her name with a waterproof marker. “So you won’t ever forget me.”
She liked to bite his lower lip when they kissed, sometimes hard enough to draw blood. She left scratches on his back when they fucked. She didn’t believe in making love.
When they fought, which was often, she threw pillows, books, and once, a vase that split open the skin above his eyebrow, but when she whispered “I love you” and held his gaze, he felt himself drowning in the dark depths of her eyes.
He found out he wasn’t the only one on a rainy Sunday afternoon when he visited her apartment to surprise her with sushi.
“Why?” he asked.
She shrugged and shut the door in his face.
Her signature was as sharp and clear as the day she wrote it.
• • •
He tried leaving his heart out on the kitchen table or the coffee table, always with a pen nearby. Alexa never said anything, but she didn’t write her name, either. Then one morning, she came into the bedroom, holding his heart in the palm of one hand. He’d left it on the edge of the bathroom sink; she hadn’t even moved it to wash her face and water droplets darkened one edge.
“You have to stop this, Jacob.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t—”
“I’m not like them.”
“I know you’re not.”
“Then you have to let this go. You have to let them go.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re all still with you, all the time. It isn’t healthy. Let it all go. For me, for us, but mostly, for you.”
; • • •
He found a scarf in the closet, tucked in the back, and a tube of lipstick in the medicine cabinet—Alexa’s favorite shade of dusky pink. He called her cell phone but when her voicemail message began, her voice sent his heart skittering through the air and he hung up. An hour later, he dialed her number again and left a message.
“It’s me. I found some of your things. I thought maybe we could meet for coffee and I could give them to you. Maybe we could talk, too.”
While he spoke, he held one hand over his heart to keep it still.
• • •
Lila used red lipstick. She laughed all the while, her L’s large and looping, and after, she kissed him until both their mouths were rose red and swollen.
They held hands even when they went out together to check the mail; they slept with their feet tangled up beneath the covers; they finished each other’s sentences.
Until the day she stopped answering his phone calls. Even now, he didn’t know what went wrong.
• • •
He finally wrote Alexa’s name himself one night while she slept. It was impulsive, but it felt right. Comfortable. When she saw it, her eyes widened and one hand fluttered to her chest like a butterfly’s wing.
“What did you do? Why? I told you I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t want to be one of them. I’m not one of them.”
“No, you’re not like them at all. I’m sorry, I’ll erase it if you want. I used a pencil.” He smiled.