Wicked Women

by Gaie Sebold

  Through the window she observed that the street outside remained the same. After some hours the night slowly drew in and eventually Arabella climbed into bed and slept.

  Her dreams were haunted by statues. A squid-like monster reached out its tentacle arm and stroked her face, while a ghost-like blur dissolved into a foggy mass of poisonous gas. She choked on the fumes as the creature passed through and around her. Then there was the wolf, rearing and twitching as it contorted and turned. The creature ended up as a despicable half human, half animal and it sniffed around her until she crawled away, hiding behind crooked tombstones.

  In the morning Arabella felt the darkness gathering around her eyes. If she closed one eye she could see her home rapidly turning into the decayed and rotted shell of the crypt in her dream. If she closed the other eye then all seemed well. With both eyes open she felt the coldness of one world fighting against the warmth of the other. It was a battle that raged whether she was awake or asleep.

  She refused to join her parents for breakfast or lunch, accepting the tray of food which was sent up for her, and by afternoon she had demolished a full cooked breakfast, a ham and cheese platter with pickles and bread and she was settling down to afternoon tea of cucumber sandwiches, spotted dick, jam and clotted cream when a messenger arrived with an urgent note from Joseph.

  Miss Arabella,

  I urgently write to tell you the statue is gone!

  Yours

  Joseph

  ‘Tell him I’ll be over as soon as I can be. I haven’t been feeling myself today,’ Arabella explained.

  When the messenger had gone, Arabella dressed carefully, ensuring that all her weapons were in place. She had a feeling she might need them. Part of her didn’t want to go out, but she knew she must.

  Maybe I have lost my nerve? she thought. The idea seemed absurd yet entirely possible.

  ‘Arabella, you are not to go out today,’ her mother said when she saw her in the hallway with the wicker basket. ‘You’ve done quite enough for the poor this week. What if you’ve caught some dreadful disease?’

  ‘I’m fine mother. There are many starving children relying on me.’

  It took some time but she finally persuaded her mother to let her leave and outside Arabella told the coach driver to take her straight to The Sailor’s Rest. The man said nothing, and she couldn’t tell if he was curious because he was bundled up in his heavy coat, a huge scarf wrapped around his neck and face and his hat was pulled down over his eyes.

  Joseph was down in the basement when she arrived. Arabella felt nervous as she crawled through the secret passageway into the storage room. Though her hallucinations had stopped after her third meal she still felt strange. She did not want to feel that cold wind, or see the beams of the building cave in around her. The crawl space filled her with unnameable dread but still she forced herself onwards.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked as she reached the storage room.

  ‘One minute the thing was there, then it was gone. I’ve had the men search every inch of the cellars and sewers but they found nothing. I don’t know how the thief got in so quietly and took the statue,’ Joseph explained.

  ‘This is very odd indeed. When did you notice it gone?’

  ‘This morning. But it could have been taken at anytime after yesterday afternoon.’

  Arabella climbed back into her waiting carriage, giving instruction to return home. Then she opened the wicker basket. Her weapons were there, but so too was the book. Arabella didn’t recall placing it inside the basket. She rubbed her eyes and sat back while the carriage drove through the streets.

  She felt ill again. It was as though someone had placed a curse on her. She thought back to her lucid and terrible dreams, and how these had all occurred after they had acquired the statue, and, more tellingly, the book. Even since it had come into her possession, Arabella had felt wrong.

  The carriage came to an abrupt halt. Arabella looked out and discovered that they had stopped at the docklands.

  ‘Driver! What are we doing here? I said you were to take me home.’

  When she got no response, Arabella opened the door and looked out. The driver’s seat was empty, but for the coachman’s scarf and hat. She looked around. The dock was unusually quiet. Several cargo ships were tied up along the massive harbour, but no sign of life.

  She retrieved her crossbow and patted her leg to reassure herself that the gun was still attached to her thigh. Then she prepped the crossbow. It was small and easy to fire, with a trigger mechanism. She draped the basket, still containing the book, over her free arm and walked down the dock to look for her driver. He would be reprimanded for this.

  She saw the ship that had brought the crate, with none of the activity she might have expected on board. There was no one on the deck at all. The ship appeared to be as deserted as the rest of the port.

  This is like the dream I had in the mission. Only, Arabella was sure now that it had been no dream.

  At the warehouse Arabella placed the crossbow down and removed the book from the basket. She unwrapped it and held the leather skin against her chest. Things had gone wrong since she had opened and read from it but how could she reverse that? She left the basket on the floor, retrieving her crossbow as she clutched the book against her chest with the other arm.

  The warehouse was cold and deserted and smelt of fish. There was no group of sailors enjoying their game. There was no Captain screaming of theft. Only a circle of crates stood in the middle of the otherwise empty space. Arabella noted a coffin at the centre. She walked around it, looking suspiciously at the peculiar markings on its surface and at the daunting and varied shapes of the others that surrounded it.

  Then she noted the obvious gap; a space in the circle of the same shape and size as the crate she and Joseph had taken.

  ‘You have the book,’ said a voice behind her.

  Arabella turned, bringing the crossbow up on instinct while she firmly clasped the book against her chest.

  It was a woman she had not seen before, wearing the heavy coat of her driver. She removed the coat and threw it aside to reveal a red velvet dress. She shook her hair free of the driver’s hat and it fell long, silver over her shoulders. She was striking to look at but not young. Perhaps in her fifties but was full of all of the vitality of the young.

  ‘Who are you?’ Arabella asked.

  ‘A guardian,’ she said. ‘I keep the Ancient Ones safely in their own realm.’

  ‘You talk in riddles ….’

  ‘You opened the book and now one of them is free,’ said the woman.

  Arabella shook her head. ‘No. I couldn’t open it.’

  The woman smiled. ‘My dear Lady Arabella the book opened for you, and you read from it, and it brought you to me.’

  Arabella felt fear then. A real terror that what the woman said was true. She recalled the sarcophagus and glanced at the central crate.

  ‘It’s just a book,’ she denied shaking her head. ‘I had a dream, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s a grimoire and it holds the secrets to a universe that you couldn’t possibly imagine. You didn’t dream it. The Fenrir is free and he terrorises your city even as we speak.’

  ‘If that is true… then what can be done?’

  The woman’s smile widened. ‘The only solution is sacrifice. The Ancient One will not return until he can take a soul back with him.’

  The woman entered the circle and Arabella stepped back.

  ‘Sacrifice? Look— who are you?’

  ‘My name is Constance Stirling. I am the keeper of the book. I didn’t realise that the ship I travelled on was also carrying a certain crate. In a way I should have seen the signs. I was suffering from disturbed sleep, I foolishly allowed the Captain to examine the exterior of the book. It was as though I had lost my judgement.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. But this book… I suppose it is valuable?’ Arabella said.

  ‘What price can be put on the
life of humanity?’ Stirling replied.

  Outside, a cold wind picked up. Arabella felt its icy tendrils slipping along her spine. She was afraid, but unwilling to give the book to Stirling. Even though she now really believed it had brought her bad luck.

  Stirling had been slowly edging forward and was now at the other end of the centre crate.

  ‘Tell me something?’ Arabella said. ‘Is this—a sarcophagus?’

  Stirling smiled. ‘You dreamed of a temple, the statues positioned around you, this shape in the centre?’

  Arabella nodded but her mouth was so dry she suddenly couldn’t answer. How could Stirling know this if she didn’t speak the truth?

  ‘And the buildings around you decayed, did they not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped.

  ‘People disintegrated into vile puddles?’

  It was as though Stirling could read her thoughts.

  ‘This will happen if the Wolf is not returned to his cage. The Ancient Ones will rule the Earth and the people will die to satisfy their sick lusts.’

  Stirling’s eyes gleamed and Arabella saw again the dead and empty streets. She felt the world turning to mud and filth around her and she knew that Stirling told the truth.

  ‘Already they convene,’ Stirling said. ‘Look around you. You have brought the others here.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Arabella protested. Never before had she been so out of her depth. She believed Stirling but still had to deny her part in the madness. ‘I didn’t take the book. It was sent to me. How was I to know what it was?’

  Stirling smiled again and it was not a kind expression. ‘My dear, do you know how many souls there are in Hell who cry out their innocence? Crimes against humanity, be they by accident or by intent, still bear the same punishment. The only way to salvage this is to sacrifice yourself for the good of all.’

  It slowly began to dawn on Arabella that Stirling was suggesting that she die for her mistake.

  ‘You’re insane,’ she said, raising the crossbow to point at Stirling. ‘I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me. I’m not above using this on you. You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve killed.’

  Arabella backed away from Stirling and circled the sarcophagus as she made her way back to the warehouse door.

  She turned around only when she thought Stirling wasn’t following her, but found herself not in the warehouse at all, but back in the temple of her dream.

  ‘Set us free,’ a voice hissed. ‘Open the book and read.’

  She turned back to the room. The crates were gone; in their place she saw the monsters. They surrounded her, touching, tasting and stroking her skin and hair with their vile appendages.

  ‘I can’t…’ Arabella said backing away until she was pressed against the hard wall.

  ‘You freed our brother,’ murmured another of the creatures, this one, a huge and monstrous snake with a female head and pendulous breasts. It reminded her of the mythological Medusa except that her hair wasn’t composed of snakes but glistening tentacles and they reached for her like loving arms. Another creature, the most monstrous of all, had the sex organs of both man and woman. The penis writhed and twisted as though alive, and the vagina opened and closed like some horrendous greedy mouth. Another of the creatures was mist, formless and yet suggestive of the most terrifying nightmares, while one was nothing more than a vile ichor, dripping greenish black all over the marble slabs of the tomb, and then pooling and collecting, driven by some hellish intelligence.

  Arabella was suddenly pulled back. The temple fell away as her crossbow was yanked from her fingers and she found herself lying Stirling’s feet. She was back in the warehouse; the crates had moved and were closer now to the one standing in the centre. She shuddered as the vision hung in the air between them.

  ‘They are drawing you into their realm,’ Stirling explained. ‘It is only a matter of time before they persuade you to set them free.’

  ‘They are horrible. Vile. I could never let them into this world.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? They have a direct pathway to you now and they will torture you until you give in. Arabella, these things know our deepest and darkest fears. They will use that against you. You won’t be able to resist. No one can.’ Stirling said.

  ‘But you…?’

  ‘I have never opened the book,’ she explained. ‘And I never would.’

  Stirling’s steady gaze met hers. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘This.’

  Stirling lifted the crossbow but Arabella dived out of its path just seconds before the arrow fired. She was on her feet, grabbing for the weapon with her right hand; the fingers of her free hand clawed at Stirling. She scratched at the other woman’s face, leaving bloody furrows on her cheek below the eye. Her desperate fight was useless. As the second bolt loaded automatically Stirling pulled the trigger and the arrow fired between them straight into the book still clasped against Arabella’s heart.

  The arrow pierced the cover, penetrated the sheets beneath and buried itself deep into Arabella’s chest. She sank to the floor, a look of astonishment on her face.

  Her blood and bone began to dissolve into the book. She shuddered as her body twisted, her skin merging with the dried leather cover. Stirling watched as the markings faded from the book and then return as Arabella’s twisted body warped, becoming part of the book, as so many sacrifices had before her.

  Arabella tried to scream, but her breath was taken from her, and with the sound of snapping bone and tearing sinew, she ceased to exist, being absorbed totally into the grimoire.

  Stirling looked at the book on the floor. It seemed so innocuous, so harmless. She then retrieved a pair of leather gloves from her pocket. Her hair was no longer silver, but had become a deep chestnut. Her face no longer had the aspect of a mature woman, but appeared to be no older than mid-twenties. The youthful spring was well and truly back into her step. She turned and looked at the crates.

  The Wolf God was back in its place and Stirling smiled sadly.

  Behind the central crate, Stirling picked up the carpet bag that Arabella had left behind on her previous visit. She placed the book inside then turned and walked out of the building.

  Now that she had the grimoire, Stirling knew that she had to travel once more, far away from the crates and their monstrous contents. They would follow her; perhaps once again, one of them would catch her in a moment of weakness. Stirling was only human after all and the Captain of the ship had been most attractive and persuasive. But then, at least there could always be more sacrifices to undo the lapse. And to give her back her youth whenever she needed it.

  In an ancient tomb in an unknown place Lady Arabella Hutchinson lay at the feet of the Wolf. His claw-like hand stroked her hair as the tentacled arm of another monstrosity burned furrows into the pale skin of her legs. She screamed. It was the deep terror-filled cry of someone who had finally lost her soul and her mind.

  HOW TO BE THE PERFECT HOUSEWIFE

  Chloë Yates

  Being a good wife is not easy. Being a perfect wife is nearly impossible, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Every husband has dreams of a good wife; by following our helpful tips, you can make his come true.

  The tangled aroma of roasting vegetables twisted through the air in a welcoming rush. Kitty let the oven door slam back into place, smiling at the satisfying clunk it made. Kitty was a good wife. Prided herself on it. She certainly tried hard enough to please her husband, had done ever since she’d met him. They were happy. She had made sure of it. He never needed to lift a finger at home; she took care of everything except the Man tasks, but they didn’t count. He couldn’t fail to be happy with life when he stepped through the door after a long day at work, whether or not he happened to be three hours late, whether or not he’d been drinking whiskey or chasing trollops…

  Silly goose. She was standing there wool gathering while she had goodness-knows-what on her hands from emptying the bin. H
onestly, what was she thinking? This was no time to be away with the fairies. With a shake of her head, she crossed the kitchen to the sink and dipped her hands into the warm soapy water.

  The bubbles were red. Staring down into the sink Kitty wondered at that. It was troublingly hard to think. She felt more tired than she had ever felt in her life. It was like a weight in her soul. It seemed like she’d been on the go non-stop since forever ago and now she was paying the price. She ignored the empty strip of anti-psychotics on the counter beside her. She didn’t need them and they weren’t for thinking about now.

  Shaking the bubbles, red or otherwise, from her hands and the inertia from her shoulders, Kitty grabbed a dishcloth. It was warm from where she’d taken the roasting vegetables out of the oven a few moments before. The hiss and spit from the frying pan reminded her that the steaks were probably well and truly sealed and, after wiping her wet fingers with the warm fabric, she deftly flipped the sizzling meat into the roasting tray.

  Always have dinner ready. Plan ahead because having a meal on the table when your husband comes home from a hard day at the office is an essential part of welcoming him home.

  Once the tray was back in the oven, Kitty turned her attention to the stock bubbling merrily on the stove. She always liked to have plenty to hand and this batch was going to be a doozy. She poked at the bones with a wooden spoon and did her best to give the thickening gloop a hearty stir, all the time smiling happily. She loved cooking, loved preparing meals for her husband. The way to a man’s heart was, as everyone knew, through his stomach. Maybe she should have made haggis from that bitch’s… Kitty took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose her focus now. She’d come such a long way already.

  Keep noise to a minimum. Time it so that the washing machine has finished its cycle, the dishwasher is not rumbling and never allow the vacuum cleaner to be anywhere but in a cupboard when the man of the house is home.