Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #6

by Robert Reed

  And groceries, of course. She quickly selects the items she needs without lingering over them. A pound of salt goes into her cart. A box of English tea. Some carrots and potatoes and beets—Jenny loves the solidity of roots, would make her whole meal of them if Gran would let her. A bottle of cider vinegar and two of cooking oil. Lastly, a bar of chocolate for herself and a small package of crystallized ginger for Gran. She doesn't usually purchase treats, but today she feels indulgent. She has probably purchased too much—her bags will be heavy on her long walk. But she doesn't mind. Her arms are strong.

  Jenny brings her items to the register, where the boy she used to kiss silently takes her money. She hands the bills to him with her left hand, the one missing two knuckles of the ring finger and one of the pinky, but he doesn't seem to notice, doesn't indulge her with recoil or gasp, even though she holds her hand out longer than necessary, willing his eyes to leave hers and find instead her bitten hand. He opens his mouth and almost says her name, but then doesn't, and Jenny is glad. She has nothing to say to him. She cannot be his friend anymore. It crosses her mind to go to his house, to steal his bike. To make it hers. She won't do that of course. It's only a hatchling of a thought, and she crushes it down even as it's just emerging. She leaves the store without looking back to see if the boy is watching her go. She won't allow herself to know.

  She carries her packages all the way back home again without once stopping to rest.

  When Jenny arrives, Gran is out in the garden, tending the tomatoes, turning soil, pulling weeds. Jenny slips quietly into the house. The turtle meat has been moved to the icebox to keep until Gran is ready to cook it. A pot of water sits on the stovetop, waiting to be turned into soup. Jenny puts away the groceries, refills the saltbox, stashes the sweets in the pantry to save for after dinner. Then she heads back up to her bedroom with the gifts she's brought for the inhabitants of her dollhouse.

  The room is quieter now, the music boxes having wound down, the dancing ghost now hiding in Jenny's closet, sitting on the floor, trying on all of Jenny's shoes, one after the other. He pays no attention to proper pairing; on his left foot he is wearing a scuffed Mary Jane that hasn't fit Jenny in years. He is in the process of removing a brown leather sandal from his right, in favor of a paisley rain boot. He grins, pleased with his selection.

  The ghost of a young woman lies on the bed, asleep, Jenny's old stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. She turns over abruptly, disturbed by Jenny's entrance, and her hair falls down over her face, eliciting a loud sniff. She buries her face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut out the waning sunlight.

  The other three ghosts sit in the corner, muttering to each other. When Jenny enters, they briefly fall silent, look at her suspiciously, then resume their hushed conversation, voices now even lower. They are plotting against her, she knows. She suspects they were powerful men in life, which is why they resent her more than the others. Owing their freedom to a child galls them. But their plots are always frivolous-they have plotted to hide Jenny's bar of soap. To spread strawberry jam on the insoles of her slippers.

  Jenny ignores them, turning her attentions to the dollhouse, already beginning to remove her new accessories from the bag as she glances from room to room, seeking out her diminutive tenants. She finds them in the master bedroom. The two little ghosts are having sex. Making love. There is no shyness in them. They lie atop the covers, fully exposed, oblivious to the missing front wall of their home. Jenny is mesmerized, can't help but watch them. The woman lies on her back, knees raised, eyes closed. There is a brief flurry of motion, and suddenly the woman is atop the man, arching her back, grinning and shaking. The grin is infectious, Jenny can't help smiling with the woman, smiling down on her and her partner, but the pair is slowing now, relaxing into each other, collapsing onto the sheets, no longer grinning, just content and quiet. They are soon asleep. Jenny alone is left smiling, though she isn't sure why. She isn't sure why she suddenly wants to cry either, as all the warmth of a moment ago leaves her, and she's left grinning at nothing, foolish and alone.

  She quickly distributes the gifts she has brought. She doesn't linger over the task, just slips them into the house quietly, so as not to disturb the now sleeping couple. The tub goes into the upstairs bathroom. The recliner goes into the living room, near the television and the bookcases. The artwork she leaves on the kitchen table. She will let the ghosts decide for themselves where to hang the paintings.

  When she turns away from the dollhouse, she finds the sleeping young woman is no longer sleeping. She is sitting up, looking directly at Jenny.

  "You're here again," the ghost says.

  "I'm always here," says Jenny. "I live here."

  "You should knock before you come in," the ghost says. "Don't you know about manners?"

  "No," says Jenny. "I don't."

  She leaves the ghost in her bed, leaves her bedroom, and returns downstairs to the kitchen.

  Gran is washing her hands at the sink, done with her gardening. She has brought some onions from the garden to add to the soup she's making for dinner. She slices the tops and bottoms from the onions, then cuts them in half before removing the bitter skins which she will toss into the compost bin later. As she is about to turn back to her cutting board, she is delighted to spy Jenny by the pantry, watching her cook.

  "Oh, Jenny, there you are," she calls. "Have you seen your mother? I need her to go to the store for salt."

  "I've just been, Gran. We're all stocked up and I refilled the box."

  Gran lifts the lid of the saltbox to peer inside. "Oh, so you did! Such a good girl."

  And Jenny is a good girl. She spends the whole rest of the evening helping her grandmother in the kitchen. Chopping onions. Slicing carrots. Stirring the soup. They're both quiet as they work. Jenny doesn't need to talk. But it's better to be near a ghost who remembers her. A ghost who knows her name.

  Over dinner, Jenny tells of her trip into town. About stopping in the doll shop, about the clever toys she has seen. She tells Gran about the little working radio, and how she plans to save up to buy it. That is a lie, but it's a lie that pleases her grandmother. She loves to hear about the odd little things the world has to offer, even if she'll never see them herself. The soup is delicious, but Gran never raises her spoon to her lips, just stirs it around and around. She's had her fill of turtle already, before the meat ever went into the pot. That's fine too. They can pretend together. When they have finished, Jenny puts the soup from Gran's bowl into the fridge with the rest of the leftovers.

  "I brought you a present, Gran," Jenny says after the dishes have all been washed and put away. She goes to the cabinet and takes out the ginger candy she purchased at the grocery.

  "You didn't!" Gran says, so pleased to be thought of.

  "It's just some candy, but I thought you'd like it."

  Gran takes the package with a great smile. "Oh, ginger!" she says. "That's my favorite! How did you know?"

  "I've always known, Gran. I just haven't seen any in a long time."

  Gran opens the package carefully, prying the cellophane ring from the container's rim. The lid pops off easily, and she removes a small piece and places it on her tongue. She closes her eyes, savors the sharp, sweet bite.

  "It's been years," she says softly. "The last time I had ginger… when was it?"

  "I think it was your birthday, Gran," Jenny says, thinking back.

  "No, it wasn't then. It was licorice on my birthday. And brittle toffee the birthday before that."

  "I guess I can't remember. I don't see it very often."

  "It wasn't so long ago, though, I'm certain. It was another day, not my birthday. I was out walking. Oh, it was a beautiful day! I was out back, walking, and I went down to the turtle pond. We both did, we took a walk. There was a lovely breeze, and the air smelled so fresh, so we didn't want to be inside. It was so cool down by the pond. And I lay down in the grass…"

  Jenny has erred. She sees that now.

 
"Jenny? Why would I do that? Why would I lie down in the grass?"

  "It was a nice day, Gran. You just wanted to have a nap outside. That's all."

  "No, that can't be right. It can't be right. I'm an old woman. I can't lie down on the ground. I wouldn't be able to get up again."

  "But you did, Gran. See, you must have. Here you are!"

  "No. I didn't, did I?" Gran's mind has never been so clear. "I died."

  Jenny is silent. The package of ginger falls to the table-not from her grandmother's hand, but through it. It passes palm and fingers as if nothing were there at all, spilling the golden candy across the table.

  "Jenny, you were there. Tell me. Did I die that day?"

  "Yes, Gran."

  "Where's your mother?"

  "She's out. She's not home."

  "Oh, Jenny. I remember… I remember a man. A thief." The bite Gran has already swallowed tumbles out from inside her. It strikes the chair beneath her and bounces to the floor.

  "I know, Gran."

  "He killed them."

  "I know."

  "Oh, my poor Anna!"

  "I know!"

  "And he tried to hurt me, before he realized I was already dead. But he didn't hurt you. Thank god, you stayed asleep…"

  "I wasn't asleep."

  "You never came out of your room…"

  "I wasn't in my room."

  "Thank God you're okay."

  "I wasn't home. I was out. I snuck out after dinner. I went into town, to a movie."

  "But Anna… oh, my Anna…"

  "I snuck out to see a boy."

  "My poor little baby girl…"

  "I should have been here to see them die. Should have been here to catch the turtles that took them. But instead I was out kissing a boy. "

  "Turtles?"

  "They were gone by the time I got back."

  "I don't remember turtles…"

  "I never saw them, and now I can't find them. I don't know where they went." And now Jenny is crying, as she hasn't done in months.

  "Jenny, I don't remember any turtles. They were inside. They died in the house. There couldn't have been any turtles."

  "There must have been! There must have been turtles. Or else where are they? Where else would they have gone? Why would they leave me here?"

  "Sometimes they do, Jenny," Gran says. "Sometimes they just do. Not everyone can stay."

  "They wouldn't just go," says Jenny, but Gran isn't listening now, just crying, they're both crying. It is Gran who stops crying first, not because she has cried herself out, but because she has cried herself to sleep, right there at the table, sitting upright in her chair. Jenny lets her sleep a few moments, long enough to dry her own tears, long enough to settle herself back into the present. Then she sweeps the ginger from the table back into its tub. She cleans the chewed bit from the floor, returns it to the tub as well, then stashes all of it back in the cabinet. She lightly touches her grandmother's shoulder, rousing her. Gran opens her eyes and she smiles at her granddaughter.

  "Oh, I dozed off at the table again, didn't I? Such a foolish old woman."

  "Why don't you to go bed, Gran?"

  "Is your mother home yet?"

  Jenny doesn't want to answer. But, of course, she must.

  "Not yet, Gran. She'll be home late."

  "I suppose I can't wait up the way I used to. She's a grown woman, after all. I shouldn't worry so."

  "She understands. She knows you love her. But you should sleep."

  "Well, would you ask her to wake me when she gets in? Only so I'll know she's here. I'll sleep better if I know she's home."

  "I'll ask her, Gran. I promise."

  "Such a good girl. Have a good night then. Don't stay up too late."

  "I won't."

  Jenny watches her grandmother slowly head off toward bed, waits for her to pass out of sight. Then she removes the package of candy from the cabinet and slips out the back door. Down past the garden, across the grass, all the way to the turtle pond. She tosses the candy into the water, all of it, every little piece. She won't buy any more, won't bring any more into the house.

  She won't make that mistake again.

  © 2015 by Alexander Danner

  * * *

  Alexander Danner's speculative fiction has appeared in the anthologies Machine of Death and The Girl at the End of the World as well as in the audio magazine Bound Off. His comics writing has appeared most recently in the anthology Colonial Comics: New England, 1620-1750. He is co-author of the textbook Comics: A Global History, 1968 to the Present. He also currently serves as president of The Writers' Room of Boston, a non-profit organization providing secure, affordable workspace to Boston-area writers. His comics can be found online at TwentySevenLetters.com.

  The House of Ninety-Nine Secrets

  Kurt Hunt

  "The nurse says I can stay long enough for a story," I say, gripping the edge of the chair next to your bed.

  The air-conditioning—too cold in these places, it's ridiculous—keeps blowing a loose strand of hair into your eyelashes. You blink and lift a small hand, so slowly, I can't believe how slowly, but I grab your fingers and smile.

  "I'll take care of it, you just relax."

  As I tuck the wayward curl beneath the elastic band holding the mask to your face—too tight, I think, but the nurses swear it's on right—I can feel your fever creep into my fingertips, feel the sweat beading there. And I can see by your expression that my face changed in that moment, that you glimpsed the deep whirl of rage and fear and sadness I hide from you. All I can do is smile again and tell the story and hope you're too young to have learned how to worry as much as your parents. I find no comfort in that thought.

  The way people tell it, it was Gus's idea to build the House That Woke, even though he'd never built anything more complicated than a bookshelf.

  "I'm so bored, Evie," he said, just a few days after retiring. "I want to wake up knowing that I'm going to do something that matters, that I'm not just going to sit around this place all day."

  "But our little house is so nice," said Evie. She enjoyed the garden and the way the sun cut the perfect angle across the breakfast nook when they had coffee together in the morning. But Gus was restless and she loved him so she kissed him and relented.

  It took them almost five years, from foundation and frame to pipes and wires to walls and windows and, finally, the finishing touches: oiled wood floors and a sign on the door that read "Gus'n'Evie." It was a bit crude, maybe even ugly, but it was theirs and they grew to love it.

  But they didn't understand it. Not at first.

  One night, months after they moved in and Gus proclaimed himself to be more content than he'd ever been in his whole life, Evie sat up straight in bed, her heart pounding.

  "Gus." She looked around, frantic. There was nothing but moonlight in the room. "Gus, wake up."

  "Mmm?"

  "Gus, is that you making that noise?"

  "Mmm? Gdasleep Evie…"

  So Gus slept and Evie stayed up and listened to the rhythm of the air gliding in and out and in and out and into the room as if it were an enormous lung.

  The next night, Evie stretched on the bed and shook her head and smiled at Gus, who was already snoring. But as the soft fingers of sleep began to caress her—

  ba-DUM

  Evie leapt up and flipped the light switch. Gus reared from the bed like an animal, eyes clenched against the sudden brightness.

  ba-DUM

  They froze.

  They waited.

  ba-DUM

  "Must be the house settling?" said Gus, but even as he spoke he grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed and crept out to the hall.

  It was empty. But the sound—

  ba-DUM

  —continued. Gus gripped hard on the bat and jumped into the living room, prepared for burglars or a deer rampaging through the kitchen or something. But there was nothing. Nothing but—

  ba-DUM

  —the
sound.

  "Hello?" called Gus.

  "HELLO?" a voice responded. A booming voice, crashing like waves against a cliffside shore, sweeping on him and around him and over him.

  Gus dropped the bat.

  "Wh—" he said. "Who's there? Where are you?"

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Evie huddled against the wall, wide-eyed and unmoving. The thump echoed hollow again through the House and they both flinched.

  "Hello?" said Gus again.

  "HELLO," the voice boomed. "I AM SORRY. HAVE I DISTURBED YOU? I SHALL ASPIRE TO BE QUIET."

  The echoes of the voice faded. The ba-DUM could no longer be heard except as a faint tapping.

  "Who are you?" said Evie, sprinting tiptoe across the living room to stand by her husband.

  "I seem to be your house," replied the voice, steady now and smooth.

  "But how are…" Gus pushed his hands against the sides of his head. "How?"

  "I don't know. I just woke like this."

  In truth, although neither Gus nor Evie nor even the House knew it, everyone who tells the story agrees—Gus had built his restlessness into the House. Into every nail, and into every piece of wood. And as Gus and Evie settled into their new home, the House became unsettled.

  "So…" said the House.

  There was an awkward silence.

  So that was how Gus and Evie met the House That Woke.

  A machine next to you, one of many, clicks on and begins whirring and cranking like a tiny factory. Fluid drips again through loops of plastic tubing and I trace it with my eyes, this medicinal roller coaster, down and up and around, behind the mattress and then curling up to the IV, secured by a piece of tape that wraps all the way around your tiny elbow. Your eyelids flutter—the doctors warned us this part would always hurt—but still you smile for me and it makes my heartbeat call out through the entire world, shaking the walls and the floors like the sound in the story.