Harry Foster laid down the book and removed his glasses. “There’s just one thing to add,” he said. “Gifford says that when the photographs were developed he found that they showed only the figure of Tosti. There was no sign of a shadow or of any sort of companion. He burnt the prints and had the plates ground to a powder.” Harry looked from one to the other of us with a sardonic smile, as if to say, “What do you make of that, my friends?”
Hesitantly, I said, “Have you made any inquiries about the story—in the parish records, for example? And what about this Tosti ...?”
Harry lit a cigar and drew upon it before answering. “I haven’t been back to Welford St Paul,” he said, “and I don’t intend to do so. Perhaps because I’m afraid that the story is true, perhaps because I’m afraid that it is not. All I can tell you is this—a few weeks ago I acquired a copy of Crockford’s clerical directory for the year 1910, and I found that one Stephen Gifford had actually been the vicar of Welford St Paul since February 1907.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
I glanced at George Cobbett, whose eyes were fixed upon the table in front of him. His brow was furrowed and his lips pursed. I could see that he was thinking, as I was, “Shall we?”
KEEPSAKE by Vincent McHardy
Born April 26, 1955, Canadian writer Vincent McHardy currently resides in Agincourt, Ontario. After a three-year term in anthropology at York University, McHardy drifted for a while, then recently decided to write. Teenage enthusiasm for fantastic literature (he read 35 Dark Shadows and 76 Doc Savage books over a four-year period, and he claims to have reread Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes over fifteen times since the sixth grade) directed his writing efforts toward fantasy and horror. His short fiction has appeared in various small press publications: Reader’s Choice, The Horror Show, Moonscape, Damnations, and others. “Keepsake,” first published in the Canadian little magazine, Quarry, was also sold for broadcast on Canadian radio. McHardy is now in hot pursuit of a publisher for a collection of his horror stories. If he has many more as disturbing as “Keepsake,” he should find some takers.
Miss Brock sharply pulled open her top desk drawer. Its darkened reaches held the collected treasures of class 402. Bubble gum lay unchewed. Water guns sat dry. Comics remained closed. Watchfulness is teaching 32 students, Miss Brock thought. Hardly a day passed without someone’s toy falling victim to the treasure drawer’s appetite.
“William, bring that up here now.”
Will snapped up straight in his chair. Gut-hook caught he sat still and hoped she hadn’t seen what he knew she had.
“William, I said now.”
Why now? he thought as he walked up to her desk. Of all the times, why now?
“Come on, open your hand. Let’s see what it is.”
Holding back tears Will let his hand fall open. Biffle the maze clown stared out with blind hollow eyes. His open mouth tried to find the BB’s rattling back and forth at the bottom of the case.
“A maze game. You get in trouble over a cheap trinket like this,” Miss Brock said. “It hardly seems worth punishing you for. But I can’t make an exception, not even for a favorite. You’re in until four. Take your seat.”
As he walked back Will heard Biffle’s rattling cry from within Miss Brock’s desk. He lay covered by Tommy Huspens’ “monsters from filmland” cards. He doesn’t stand a chance, Will thought. There, alone in the dark, they’ll ...
“William, stop sniffling,” Miss Brock demanded. “You know the rules. You’re not here to play with toys. You’re here to learn. All toys go in the desk.”
“Now class, take out your geography books.”
Will missed what she said. He was preoccupied with the snakes moving towards his desk. They appeared the moment she shut in Biffle. They swarmed in through the window, following his fear scent. Alone, cut off from Biffle he had to act quickly.
Trembling, Will pulled from his back pocket four pigeon feathers and four starling feathers. Keeping one eye on Miss Brock he slipped his hand down to the floor, placing the feathers around the chair. Safe from below he sat up. The snakes circled his desk. Blocked for the moment they looked tor an opening.
Miss Brock remained facing the chalk board, giving Will a chance to cast a final spell. Out of his shirt pocket he removed a piece of discarded snake skin. Crumpling it to a fine powder he sprinkled his desk top. Wetting his finger he wrote “GO” eight times. He rubbed the grey residue into a gooey ball. The snakes stopped moving and watched, their tongues hanging limply. Will turned to the window and flicked the ball out. Moving as one the snakes turned and followed.
He was safe, but for how long? Without Biffle to protect him? He must come back. There could be no other. Biffle had proven his magic the first time he came into Will’s life. Four years old, he was downtown with his older brother John shopping for Christmas presents. The light turned yellow and John yelled “Come on. Run. We can make it.” Then Will saw Biffle sitting on a snow bank. He stopped and Biffle smiled. John ran on and was run down. Biffle called Will to life and sent his brother to death.
A high price was paid for friendship. Born in blood it would end in blood.
Why did he let her see Biffle? Carelessness was all he could think of. She’d always been good to him, never scolding, not one bit like his parents. He felt secure here and let his guard down.
Years and years of collecting made her greedy. She wasn’t satisfied with collecting the other children’s charms. She smelled out the last great dessert. Swallowed and digested, Biffle rotted in the dark. She wouldn’t give him back and Will was powerless to force her. He might work a deal if only he had an offering suitable for exchange. But what? He had nothing. It took all his resourcefulness to push away the snakes, snakes that wouldn’t have dared show their heads if Biffle were with him. Alone he was weak, a dry husk shaking with the slightest breeze.
From his lonely outpost he watched Miss Brock work her magic. Her power as a witch was incomprehensible. She never once used charms, markings or hand movements. She knew what everyone was doing at all times. With her back turned she picked out truants and punished them with a cold determination. No one questioned her authority.
Will watched a bead of sweat gather at her chin, swell and slide down her neck into deep folds of dress.
Recess bell cut the children free from the mysteries of geography. Like a broken bead curtain they spilled out over the hot tar yard. Hopscotch and catch the fox broke out. Children grouped, continuing debates started the day before. Motion touched everyone except Will. Watching and waiting he sat in shadow, up against the cold brick wall of the caretaker’s building.
It could come from any direction at any time. He was ready. Without Biffle he dared not chance playing as the other children did. This method of defense was clumsy, a last resort. He sat inside a chalk circle drawn half on the ground, half on the wall. At the four corners of the compass he marked the letters B-I-F-F. Between his splayed legs he drew Biffle. He colored in his sad empty eyes and shut his fear-opened mouth. North, South, East and West around the sketch he placed four clear marbles. For the moment it was the best he could do.
A cloud drifted across the sun, dropping the temperature. Trickles of grey seeped in from the field mixing with the tar. Will noticed the shift and closed his legs. Henry Kenner and his gang turned the corner and saw him. Will knew Henry, the self-proclaimed yard cop, would make the most of this opportunity.
“Well, well, look what we have here,” Henry said as he pushed in close. “If it isn’t the teacher’s pet. What’s the matter? You look sick. Maybe you should see a vet.”
“Ha, that’s a good one,” said Fred Bollo, Henry’s head toady. “Why don’t you show him the picture? It might cheer him up.”
“You just read my mind, Fred. Here pet, take a look at your keeper.” Henry pulled from his jacket pocket a crumpled photo. With an arrogance born of cruelty he thrust it open in front of Will.
Will
wanted to keep his eyes shut but couldn’t. The moment he did he knew the circle was violated. Mocking evil overran his best defence. Henry’s damp hand held a picture of Miss Brock: nude, opened like a gutted fish. The picture was a crude fake; the head from a PTA pamphlet, the body from a men’s magazine; but the effect on Will was real.
“How dare you, you outsider. How dare you try to take her soul? Give me that.” Will tried to grab the picture as he stood up. Anticipating such a move Henry pushed him back up against the wall. His toadies quickly rushed in and secured Will’s arms.
“Hey now. Don’t take it so hard. I’m doing you a favor. You’re here for an education. Right? Well they won’t teach you about this in there. I’m showing you what they don’t want you to know. Right? So you owe me.”
Henry snapped the worn photo straight and flashed it around the gang. “I told you the pet would get up at his master’s call.” Laughs passed among the congregation.
Fred was the first to stop laughing and notice where Will had sat. “Will you look at that? Somebody lost their marbles,” he said.
“Yeh,” Henry grunted. “It’s a shame how some people take care of their belongings. Just leave them lying around ready to get lost. Well, they’ll have to learn the hard way.” With a short sharp kick he sent the marbles rocketing out of their marked orbits. “Finders keepers,” he yelled, breaking away. His gang followed, hesitating long enough to give Will a final push.
Released, Will slumped down and started to cry. Through burning eyes he saw Biffle’s scuffed face. Fumbling with the button on his pocket Will succeeded in finding two silver dimes. He placed them under his tongue and concentrated on his tears. Blinking, he caused two drops to fall. They hit the chalk face and Biffle could see. Will looked and smiled. Touching a finger to his eye he transferred a tear and gave Biffle his voice. “We’re safe for now. Wait and see. We’ve got some time,” he said.
Afternoon classes turned into one long nightmare. Will hoped Henry would be caught, his voodoo image crushed, his threat ended. But Miss Brock missed her chance. Henry’s power had killed her inner vision. The class came to order, the lesson started. It soon became clear that Miss Brock was in danger.
The first assault came early. Ten minutes into the class the chalk she’d been using broke. The pieces were too small to write with comfortably. When she went to a side closet to pick up another piece she slipped, breaking her shoe heel and twisting her back. The rest of the day was spent in constant pain.
From his position two rows away Will saw Henry looking at her photo. Miss Brock was helpless. Confused, she blundered from one disaster to another. She could take precautions, set up a defence, cast a spell, or use the desk treasures. She failed to try. She sat and took the punches Henry’s sympathetic magic threw.
The final attack came at two-fifty. Miss Brock hobbled back to the art room to pick out some bristol board. A few moments passed and then she screamed. All eyes turned to see her emerge covered with paint. Blue, red and yellow ran down the left side of her head and flushed across her front. The shelf supporting the paint had slipped its hinges when she pulled at the paper.
Henry had her in the palm of his hand, Will thought. He could make a fist and squeeze any time. He chose to hold back and play awhile. Death would be slow and painful; he’d see to that.
There was nothing else to do. Miss Brock dismissed the class early and told Will to come in for a morning detention. She’d never done this before. Her sense of order had crumbled. She was lost and alone.
Will remembered a chipmunk he once shot. It sat as three lead pellets ripped in. Blood spouted. Death was close. Faced with the prospect of dying under Will’s self-satisfied gaze the chipmunk rallied in its last moments and crawled under a rock. There it died, pressed to the cold earth, alone.
Miss Brock was going home to die. The beauty and grace of her teaching days were gone. The scene of past glory, the classroom, was too cruel a tomb for her remains. Death was a private communion. It would come to-night, at home, in sleep.
“Alright you creeps. Football.” Henry yelled, bursting through the school doors. Most of the boys followed his lead out to the field. Will was the last to leave. He watched the game start up.
“Good. He’ll be busy with the game. He’s given me enough time.”
Will walked across the hydro field thinking of his favorite story. In Sunday school he always asked to read David and Goliath. He loved how David stood up to the giant. Against all the odds he tried the impossible and won. Will would try, too.
The field ended, sloping down into a ravine bordering some backyards. Will picked up a hand-sized rock and settled in the ravine to wait for Henry. Henry never missed taking his short cut home. Presently it started to rain. Will shifted. The game would be breaking up. Over the hill crest Henry came running. Half skidding, half falling he landed at the bottom. Starting to scale the fence, he reached half way up when Will jumped from his hiding place the threw the rock. Henry fell back. His eyes rolled back, glassy.
“Your armies run from you Goliath. They have abandoned you. I’m going to make sure they’ll never rise again.”
Will opened his scout knife and started in to work.
Miss Brock thought of phoning in sick the next morning because of the cold she’d picked up the night before. That damned car window jammed open, forcing her to drive thirty miles home through a cold rain. Honestly, yesterday was the worst day of her teaching career. She’d been ready to throw in the towel. But dedication and optimism led her back. If the horse throws you, get right back on, or you’ll be afraid the rest of your life, she always said. Today will be better.
Walking into class at 7:45 she was pleased to see Will sitting at his desk, waiting to serve his detention.
“Why William. You’re fifteen minutes early.”
Turning around in his chair Will smiled. “I know Miss Brock. I’ve been here longer than that.”
“You have, have you? Now what on earth for? Most children hate to come and can’t wait to leave. What makes you special?”
“I want to make up for what happened yesterday, all the terrible things.”
Miss Brock grinned as she walked up the aisle to her desk. Yes, this is why she didn’t phone in sick.
“Oh, come now William. Was I so hard on you? I didn’t mean to be. It was the first time you slipped up. We all make mistakes, and we all pay for them sooner or later. I didn’t want to give you this detention. I had to set an example for the other children. If I let you go those others would bring in God knows what.”
“I ... What was that?”
“What was what, Miss Brock?”
“I heard a rattle. Just like ... William what’s that?”
Will looked down at Biffle and shook him some more. “Oh, it’s just a friend. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Flushing crimson, she snatching up Biffle. Will remained seated.
“Why it’s like yesterday’s miserable toy. Of all the cheek to bring another one here to your detention.”
Miss Brock hit her stride. Betrayal made her footsteps crackle as she returned to her desk.
“Well William, I’m going to give you a chance to show me how many more clowns you’ve hidden away. You’ve got yourself two weeks of detentions.”
Will stood up. “You’re wrong Miss Brock. I’ve only one Biffle. There are no others.”
“Biffle? Who’s this Biffle? I’m talking about this maze. I ...”
In mid phrase she noticed her broken desk drawer. The lock had been forced and chunks of wood had splintered off.
“You little vandal. You broke it. Stole from my desk.”
Balling her fist she threw Biffle. The clown caromed off Will’s desk, hit his gut and landed on the floor. The rattling stopped. The BB’s held tight in their holes.
“Dirty thief. What else did you take?”
Ramming open the drawer she looked in. Five objects lay inside. The nude was dead center. Around it’s sides were placed two eyes,
a tongue and a right hand.
Will looked concerned and tried to speak over Miss Brock’s screams. “I could see he was beating you. I had to try. I wouldn’t have you die. I’m glad I got him in time.”
“I was lucky he missed me. He was too strong. Didn’t notice a little guy like me until it was too late.”
“Don’t back away. You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. I’ve given him to you, his eyes he looked at you with, his tongue he spoke badly of you with, and the hand he touched you with. You’re at the center. I’ve put you back in control.”
“Miss Brock, get up. Don’t worry. Biffle says you’re ok. He’s not jealous. You can stay with us. He likes you.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll protect you.”
ECHOES by Lawrence C. Connolly
To write a complete story in 2000 words or less is one of the most difficult feats for a writer to achieve. This is really a special subgenre of fiction, known variously as the vignette or the short-short story, and due to its extreme brevity it usually succeeds only as a prose poem or an extended joke. Bearing in mind that a writer is usually paid by the word, only the most dedicated writer will go to the additional effort to compress a complete story into 1500 words or so, when the same concept might as easily sell for more at a greater length. With “Echoes” Lawrence C. Connolly shows us the power that can be communicated in a thousand words.
Connolly, who lives in Pittsburgh, has worked as a newspaper reporter, print shop manager, folk singer, and studio musician. He appeared in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: Series XI with the chilling story, “Mrs Halfbooger’s Basement.” He is also a poet, and his novel, Circle of Friends, “really will be finished soon.”
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