But sometimes Julie wasn’t as much fun; she was downright moody. Sayra’s mom had said it was because she had “problems,” and Sayra took that to mean that Julie was upset because of the boy who’d broken-up with her.
Mrs. Johnson let Sayra into the building.
Further down the corridor, Julie’s neighbor was cursing a man wearing a gray uniform. The name on his chest was long, Spanish, and sown in block letters above a little patch of a cartoon cockroach on its back. He nodded at the words being tossed his direction but didn’t speak. Sayra didn’t think he knew English.
The spare key was in her hand, heavy, brassy. It smelled like old pennies. Sayra had never noticed before, but her senses told her to go back down the hallway, ask Mrs. Johnson if she could get a different key. Instead, Sayra stopped in front of room eight and slid the key into the lock.
A different smell greeted her, and it was nothing like old pennies. Sayra called Julie’s name. She wanted to stay out in the hall with the cursing neighbor and the Latino man. But her feet took her inside, closer to the smell. Closer, still.
Sayra shook her head, taking in a deep, gasping breath. The kitchen didn’t smell, Mrs. Laude’s kitchen didn’t smell like anything but bleach water and flower spray. The old woman was muttering something, her fingers dancing over the edge of the tablecloth.
When had sleep taken over?
Sayra sat straighter in her chair, dazed. She didn’t wipe the sweat sliding down her neck. “Mrs. Laude, what did you just say?”
Mrs. Laude blinked. “You look tired, sweetheart,” she said, in her gummy voice. She chuckled, wiping a tear from her eye. It seemed out of place. “Oh, Say, honey,” she sighed, “I was askin’ if you’d found yourself a young man yet. Just an old lady making small talk. You don’t have to answer.”
Sayra forced a smile. The confession, surely that hadn’t been part of her dream. But Floy Laude’s grin was so carefree, the anger wiped from her wrinkled expression. This wasn’t a woman with murder on her consciousness.
“Nope, still single.” Sayra coughed out a laugh. “Sorry, Mrs. Laude, I think I must have fallen asleep while we were talking.”
“What’d you dream about?”
The young woman chewed her lip. “Getting asked to a middle school dance.”
Floy didn’t need to know the rest.
Mrs. Laude chuckled and pushed herself to her feet, testing the bandage on her heel. She winced but the tape held. “Sounds like you were listening, after all.”
Sayra nodded. She’d clean up the glass in the morning, maybe sooner if the noises woke her again.
○
The sky was open to an orange sun. Sayra stared through her bangs. Her hair looked like it was aflame in the light; it distracted her from actually seeing out the window.
Mrs. Laude was out there somewhere, on her morning walk. Sometimes, the older woman would check her garden while she was up and about. Sayra would join her, on occasion. Not this morning.
Sayra dipped her hands back into the scalding dishwater, pulled up a saucer and scrubbed, though the dish didn’t need the attention. Leslie’s Hobby Shop, Sayra’s day job, was closed for a funeral, which meant she would be stuck in this house if she didn’t think of something to do.
She could visit her mother, mention the mice. Her mother would insist she quit sitting with Mrs. Laude at night. Her mother knew. Her mother would understand.
Sayra bit her lip. “Stick it out,” she said.
Traps, she’d go to the store and buy traps. That would keep her busy, too. Two birds, one stone.
Sayra hadn’t heard the other woman come through the side door. She didn’t look at her straight on; an awkwardness that hadn’t been present a day earlier slid across her shoulders.
Mrs. Laude came closer. Her foot wasn’t giving her problems anymore. Her walk was a heavy stride. She looked over Sayra’s bare arms, down into the soapy water. There was liquor hanging in the air. Sayra thought it came from Mrs. Laude’s lips.
Sayra turned to face her. Mrs. Laude’s eyes were dead, glassy, and intense.
“I mentioned Thomas last night,” the old woman said.
Sayra opened and closed her mouth. “Thomas?”
“Indian,” Mrs. Laude spat. “I mentioned him.”
“Did you?”
Sayra hated the heat from the water. It was ruining the cool morning.
Mrs. Laude dipped her fingers into the water, drawing up a small paring knife. She wiped it on the washrag, one side, then the other. It glistened in the morning light.
“He’s back,” Mrs. Laude said, her voice low. She sat it on the bar, her fingers hesitating before she let go. “He’s come back for me.”
Sayra stepped away from the woman, reaching for a dry towel, her feet taking her across the room instead. Bubbles dripped off her thumb and onto the floor.
“You been drinking, Mrs. Laude?” Sayra asked.
Mrs. Laude jerked like a dying fish, but the motion stopped before it could be repeated. “What do you take me for?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t angry, wasn’t confused. She smiled, a strange, mocking smirk. “You’ll see,” she said, after a moment. “You’ll see. He’s back.”
She turned back towards the front door, her age catching up with her in the bend of her back, the slight pull of her leg. “He came for me,” she said, stepping out, gingerly, onto the porch, “but he’s got an eye on you, girl.”
Sayra left the kitchen, her hands still wet, the dishes in the sink.
○
Her fingers were tucked under the pillow. If they were under the pillow, they couldn’t hang off the side of the bed; they couldn’t be nibbled at while she slept.
Her hair was still damp from the shower and was pressed against her cheek. A red curl shook when she released an anxious breath against the bed. Waiting left her aware of all the little things: the way her body ached, the way the shadows twitched and grew when the moon moved across the sky. She waited for a snap. Maybe a squeak, too.
The traps had been laid. They would yield results any minute now. Any minute.
She’d been there for hours, in that very position. Her hands were numb beneath the weight of her head. At the store, she’d bought ear plugs as well, something to block the sound, but she’d backed out of wearing them. She wanted to hear the results of her planning, the final noise.
She wanted to hear it die.
It was a sick need, one she couldn’t control.
Sayra closed her eyes against the room, resting them thirty seconds before reopening. Sleep couldn’t take her tonight. She felt herself beginning to drift when the sound rang out.
Her body shot up. It took her a moment for her to realize that it had not been a snap, but a crash. And that it hadn’t come from this room.
Sayra stared at the door. A part of her knew she should stay put. She told herself it was her job to get up, to check on her charge, but the pit in her stomach grew with every movement.
She remembered her body telling her to stay put in the past. It had been a Wednesday. She’d been in seventh grade.
Sayra felt a tremble run down her spine. Her feet wouldn’t let her stay in bed. They were bare and found the floor hot and slightly damp from the humidity. She left the room. The kitchen light was on, a beacon down the hall. Sayra paused in its gleam, waiting for another sound.
It came, but it was no crash.
A voice spilled out from beyond the walls. Mrs. Laude’s bedroom door was closed this night. No blood littered the floor outside it. Sayra put her head against the wood.
“Woman,” a voice growled.
It was a man’s voice. The word it spoke could have been any swear, any oath, and it wouldn’t have sounded as hateful as that single word coming from that hateful mouth.
Sayra stiffened her arms to stop the limbs from shaking the door. Logic told her to go for the phone in the kitchen, make the call. The police would be here in minutes.
“Thomas.” Mrs. Laude’s voice didn’t quake. It matched the man’s force. “You can’t be here. You can’t. It’s not right.”
“My house,” the man spit, “bought with my money. I can show up whenever the hell I want.”
Porcelain shattered. Sayra jumped away. Shards shot out beneath the doorway, white and fragile. One slid past her skin. Sayra could feel it there, stuck beneath the thick sole.
She didn’t think, refused to think. Ghosts didn’t exist. The dead didn’t rise to haunt the living.
Sayra threw open the door and stared, wild-eyed, into the room.
○
She’d opened a door when she was in seventh grade, too. Sayra had known better, she’d felt the warning in her gut. The smell had tried to force her back, but human curiosity pushed her forward.
She saw the mouse before anything else, which didn’t make sense at all. Years later, Sayra told herself that her mind had not let her register the rest of the scene. It had been trying to protect her, and she had denied its aid. She stared on.
The mouse pulled away from its nibbling. It look startled, frozen in place. But it didn’t move, wouldn’t, not even when Sayra screamed.
Julie’s eyes were closed. Sayra thanked God for this every day. Her aunt’s mouth was open though, her lip cut, but not bleeding, the wound made after her bloodless death.
The body had been on the floor. Onlookers, others living in the complex, had assumed over-dose, but it had been a brain aneurism, an unpredictable defect in a wild-eyed beauty with one too many bills to pay. Julie had been there for days.
The smell.
The apartment had pest issues. The smell had probably called the rodents out. It was their animal instinct. They’d meant no wrong.
Sayra vomited in front of the apartment building. She missed the dance that weekend.
○
“God,” Sayra said. She didn’t scream it, didn’t call it. She said the name like she could summon Him.
Mrs. Laude was alone. If the lamp hadn’t been on, Sayra probably would have uttered an apology instead of taking the Lord’s name. She probably would have backed out, offering to clean up the mess. She would have thought the voices had been her imagination.
But the lamp had been on, the light bright, and Mrs. Laude’s face in full display. It was twisted, her false teeth in and bore like a rabid dog’s. She growled at the young woman, tight fists held at her sides.
“Was I talkin’ to you?” the old woman hissed. But the voice wasn’t hers. It was too low in the throat, too full of contempt.
Sayra stepped back. “Thomas?” she asked, hoping it would stop the woman from moving forward.
It didn’t. Mrs. Laude lunged forward, her bare feet sweeping up porcelain shards. Boney, sharp as claws, her fingers dug into Sayra’s arm, forcing her away from the doorway.
“You’re just beggin’,” Mrs. Laude spat, “for that belt.” Her eyes glistened in the kitchen glow. Whiskey stung Sayra’s eyes. “You want it, don’t you?”
Sayra slid along the wall, her hands gripping the old woman’s wrist. It was thin. Sayra thought she might be able to snap the hand back in one move.
She didn’t anticipate the old woman’s other hand rising at her side. Sayra jumped back, hitting her back against the wallpaper when the bottle’s neck bit her arm.
Sayra shoved Mrs. Laude back and grasped her forearm. “Mrs. Laude, stop him,” she said, pleading. “Stop him.”
The old woman raised an arm, as if to launch the piece of glass at Sayra, but she paused midway. Hesitation in her eyes.
Sayra took the moment to slam her door. The baseball bat was waiting for her. She bore it like a primitive swinging a club and watched the doorknob for movement.
“Sayra,” Mrs. Laude called.
Her voice was low, bashful even. Sayra listened to it, knew it, but she didn’t move forward. Somewhere in the room, a trap snapped closed. The strangled cry was low, and it ended before it could truly begin.
She should have felt the pain in her foot, but the adrenaline in her body was pumping too quickly, taking away her body’s most basic warnings. Two seconds longer, two seconds and she would have at least felt the dampness beneath her heel, the small puddle of blood gathering. The sound caught her before she could feel, and she turned; her ankle popped slightly at the fast motion.
The limb gave, she tried to catch herself. The blood played its role. Her foot squealed against the slick floor as she slipped.
Sayra could see the shag rug. It was a few feet away. The moment was long, and she told herself then that she would hit the soft cloth. Her temple struck the corner of the dresser, sending black sparks over her vision.
She landed. Couldn’t feel. The lack of pain told her she was fine. She’d be fine.
Her vision was blurred, but she could see something twitching in the barely-there light of the room. It was at the foot of her bed, convulsing as blood she couldn’t see spilled out of its orifices. The mouse in the trap, body jerking in death throws.
The sound alerted her. A door opening.
The smell made her numb limbs tremble. She tried to reach out, grasp the nothing beneath her, find a way to her feet. The baseball bat was slowly pulled from her sight. The smell was liquor, spilled somewhere, stuck to clothes, to glass, to floor. And lips.
Sayra twitched, jerked. The mouse grew still.
A.D. Spencer is a graduate of The University of North Alabama but credits her true education to a teenage love affair with the supernatural. Her speculative short stories can be found in various anthologies and emags. To learn more, visit her blog at busyprocrastinator.blogspot.com.
Nocturnal Visions
by Mark Leslie
When Carl was six years old he watched the Sandman strangle the Tooth Fairy.
It wasn’t the first bizarre nocturnal sight he’d witnessed, and it definitely wasn’t to be the last; but it did alter him permanently from that day forward.
He’d been tossing and turning in his bed unable to get to sleep because he was anxious about the visit from the Tooth Fairy. His parents had told him about her as yet another one of those nocturnal beings who slipped in and out of a person’s house in the middle of the night while everybody was sleeping.
And while he’d been lying there, worried he wouldn’t fall asleep and that the front incisor wrapped carefully in a wad of tissue would not be replaced with a bright shiny coin, he heard a muted shuffling outside his door.
Thinking it was his mother coming in to check on him and to tuck his covers before turning in herself; he glanced over at the door as it opened.
Silhouetted in the doorway was a tall female figure who definitely wasn’t his mother. The shiny sequins of her outfit twinkled softly in the beam from his Tigger night light, revealing the ruffles and poufy fabric of a dress like something a princess might wear. And in the dark he could make out the tips of what looked like wings protruding from her shoulders on either side of her head.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a deep male voice hissed from immediately beside Carl.
Carl froze, his eyes taking in another shape in the room he hadn’t seen before, this one standing at the head of his bed and wearing dark billowing robes.
The female in his doorway stammered out a startled reply. “I’m j-just here f-for the t-too—”
“I know why you’re here!” the male voice interrupted, his voice rough like the crunching of boots on gravel. “But you’re too early.” The darkly robed shape moved down the length of Carl’s bed toward the door, seeming to flow rather than walk. “The boy is still awake. I haven’t completed my task.”
“Oh my,” she whispered and begin to turn away. But the male’s sleeved arm snaked out quickly and a large hand grasped her by the throat.
Carl still couldn’t move anything other than his eyes, not realizing he was caught in a state between wakefulness and sleep in which his body was already mostly pa
ralyzed but his mind was still awake and aware.
He watched, horrified, as the male lifted the female completely off her feet and shook her violently back and forth. As Carl’s eyes further adjusted to the darkness he could see a thin film of fine dust-like particles emanating from the man.
“Let this be an example,” the man said in a gravelly voice over his shoulder while the woman struggled helplessly. “Say anything about this to anyone and I’ll take them all down.”
Several seconds later, Carl fell completely asleep.
But the memory of what had happened in the middle of the night came back to him in the morning when he found the tissue-wrapped tooth still under his pillow.
That’s when he realized what he had witnessed.
The woman had been the Tooth Fairy, coming to do her swap. But she had arrived too early. The male must have been the Sandman, whose task was interrupted by her entrance.
And, given that the tooth hadn’t been replaced, that could only have meant one thing.
The Tooth Fairy had been killed.
Carl didn’t mention any of it to his parents or friends. How could he? Not when the Sandman said he’d take them all down.
That morning, his mother had slept in, waking up complaining of a headache and constantly having to run to the bathroom to throw up. Carl knew enough, even at that young age, not to bother her with his fantastical tale while she was in one of those moods. Watching her clean up the three empty wine bottles from the kitchen counter while he made his own toast, he simply didn’t say anything and made a point of staying out of her way.
A couple of weeks later, his Kindergarten chum Gabriel, who had also lost a front tooth, talked about the money the Tooth Fairy had left him. So Carl was hopeful that perhaps the Tooth Fairy hadn’t been killed that night. That maybe it had all been a dream.
But, another month later, when he went through the ritual of wrapping yet another tooth that had fallen out and tucking it under his pillow, he was disappointed to find the tooth hadn’t been replaced.
Fear of the Dark: An Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 20