Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  And then there was the sign.

  Affixed to the far wall was a white metal signboard, oddly unremarkable amidst the lavish décor, which provided a familiar warning in Italian:

  NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.

  It was a notice he’d seen in many languages and at many a pool throughout the world, but here for some strange reason it struck an ominous chord.

  But Mr. Worthington was here to swim, and he wasn’t about to let some silly sense of unease put a stop to his plans. It was likely to pass once he found himself in the water, anyway.

  The soles of his bare feet padding against the ornate tile, he approached the edge of the pool. Even with his nose guard in place, the smell of chlorinated water hung heavy in the air. It filled his mind with fond memories of a childhood spent swimming in the pool at his grandfather’s estate in Portola Valley, and did much to assuage his unquiet nerves.

  He dangled one foot over the edge and plunged his toes into the water to test its warmth. Olympic racing pools were generally heated at anywhere from 77 to 82 degrees Fahrenheit, and it seemed the Palazzo’s pool certainly fell somewhere within this ballpark. It would make for an undoubtedly pleasant swim.

  Taking care – though still strong of upper body, his knees weren’t what they used to be – Mr. Worthington lowered himself into a sitting position with his legs submerged before sliding his buttocks across the tile to come to a full stand upon the bottom of the pool’s shallow end.

  He stood there for a moment enjoying the heat of the water against the paunch of his belly, his palms fanning to and fro across its surface. The far end of the pool looked truly far away and he was deciding whether it was best to swim his laps by employing the less exhausting breaststroke or by sticking with his usual forward crawl when he heard a child’s voice addressing him from somewhere nearby.

  “You going for a swim, mister?”

  Startled, he spun in the direction of the sound, the water churning up around him like a boat’s wake. There, he was surprised to find a young girl, no older than 8 or 9, seated demurely upon the edge of a waterproof chaise lounge staring down at him from poolside. Where had she come from? he wondered. Had he simply missed her when he’d first come in, or had she been hiding until now as part of some frolicsome child’s game?

  “Uh…hello,” Mr. Worthington said.

  “Hello,” the girl replied. Her eyes were wide and prepossessing but somehow quite sad.

  “You’re American?”

  “Yes,” she said. “From Philadelphia.”

  “Myself as well,” he told her, smiling as warmly as he could. He’d never been too comfortable around children. “From the Bay Area. In California.”

  “Oh, I always wanted to go to California, but we never did.”

  “Well, you’re young, still plenty of time for that, I’d wager. Besides, you’re in Rome, that must be very exciting,” he said, trying his best to sound encouraging.

  When the girl declined to reply, Mr. Worthington felt his uneasiness begin to grow once more. It was more than just the usual awkwardness he felt in the presence of the very young; there was something most peculiar about this particular little girl.

  For one thing, her skin was unusually pale. In fact, it appeared almost translucent in places, the light blue veins in her forehead visible beneath the flesh. He wondered somewhat morosely if the poor thing might actually suffer from anemia. His former company had once manufactured a ferrous gluconate supplement to help combat the disease, and he’d become familiar with its symptoms.

  A head of jet-black hair pulled tightly back from her face by an elastic tie or some similar device offset her milk-white skin, and the one-piece bathing suit she wore was a similar shade of ebony. Mr. Worthington thought her swimming attire appeared to be well made but – his snobbery getting the better of him – horribly out of fashion. Quite possibly she hailed from one of those formerly affluent families whose wealth was now in a state of gradual decline.

  “Are you here with your parents?” he asked, uncomfortable with the silence.

  “I came here with my grandmother, only I don’t know where she is right now.”

  How wholly irresponsible, he thought, to leave a child so young completely unattended in a foreign country. And by a pool, no less. Of course, he could recall plenty of unsupervised swims at his grandfather’s pool when he wasn’t much older than this one.

  “I’m sure she’ll be along shortly. What’s your name, child?”

  “Elise.”

  “Why, that’s a lovely name, isn’t it? Well, Elise, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Chester.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Chester.”

  Such proper manners, he thought, perhaps there was indeed still hope for the youth of today. It seemed a shame that such a polite little girl ought to appear so lonesome and dejected. But that was hardly his concern.

  “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Elise, but I really must get my daily regimen of exercise now. At my age, this isn’t getting any smaller,” he said, patting his gut beneath the water.

  “If you’re going for a swim, Chester, you should stay away from the deep end.”

  “Is that what your grandmother told you? I do suppose that’s rather sound advice for little girls, Elise. But you see, I’m a grown up, and grown ups are allowed to swim in the deep end.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You just shouldn’t go down there.”

  “And why is that, sweetheart?”

  “Because that’s where the bad man lives.”

  Children and their fanciful imaginations, he thought. Still, he couldn’t blame her for making up some sort of game to pass the time while she waited for her grandmother to return. Chances were the old woman was sitting half-soused on gin martinis or Campari sanguineas in the hotel lounge.

  “That’s funny because I don’t see anyone down there now, Elise,” he said, electing to play along.

  “He hides,” she whispered.

  “Well, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for him,” Mr. Worthington said with a chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood.

  But the girl only stared at him with her sorrowful eyes.

  Having had his fill of this conversation and wishing to begin his swim, he bid her a pleasant day and turned to face the length of the pool. But as he prepared to shove off from the wall, a thought occurred to him. Perhaps he should help the poor child in locating her neglectful grandmother, maybe giving the old woman a piece of his mind in the bargain. He was certain that the friendly, if overly talkative, front desk attendant could aid him easily in this endeavor. He’d have to change back into his clothing, of course – it certainly wouldn’t do to have him go traipsing around the Palazzo in his swim wear especially with a strange little girl in tow. But despite the minor inconvenience, it seemed the proper thing to do.

  “Elise?” he said, turning back around to offer his proposal.

  To his astonishment, the girl was gone.

  He’d had his back to her for but a moment, he thought; not nearly long enough for her to make an exit. Besides, he was quite sure he would have heard the pitter-patter of her tiny feet against the tile. Even within the heated water, a chill fluttered up his spine like a wriggling tadpole.

  He scanned the room and its contents, searching for any sign of her behind the pleather upholstered furniture and fancy potted palms. But she was nowhere to be found.

  There had to be some rational explanation, Mr. Worthington decided. Maybe he’d simply been lost in thought for far longer than he’d surmised and the girl’s grandmother had appeared at the pool’s entrance to collect her. His wife had so often accused him of failing to ‘be present’ whenever he set to wandering too long inside his head. And really, that had to be it, he reasoned, as no other scenario made the least amount of sense.

  A bit shaken but sat
isfied that everything had worked itself out somehow, he shrugged off this somewhat unusual encounter and returned his focus to the task at hand.

  Deciding upon the breaststroke, he immersed himself completely before pushing off from the wall and letting his body glide beneath the water for the first several meters. As his head broke the surface he began the frog-like stroke that would carry him to the pool’s opposite end.

  With each successive stroke Mr. Worthington came up for air at the start of the motion and then plunged his head below the water as he propelled himself forward during the stroke’s second half. It wasn’t long before he began to relax, fully engulfed by the near hypnotic movements of his own body.

  Each time he rose for a breath, he was afforded a view of the room’s far end. It was somewhere around the mid-way point of his 50 meter long course that he thought he saw something moving down there.

  It was subtle and gone in an instant, the way an errant sunbeam might render a well-placed spider’s web briefly visible, no more than a swirl within the shadows. But he was almost certain of what he’d seen. His brow furrowed beneath his swimming cap as his head went under.

  When he came up again there was nothing there.

  Probably just some trick of the light, he thought, nothing to get himself all worked up about. Or maybe it was the girl, Elise, far more proficient at hiding than he’d assumed, and waiting to play a prank upon an unsuspecting old man. He’d definitely be having a discussion with her grandmother if that were the case.

  He continued on, soon becoming lost once again in the rhythmic movements of his own limbs as he crossed into the deeper end of the pool. So much so that he failed to notice when the chandeliers began to flicker high above.

  At just ten meters from the far wall, he came up for air and saw something again. This time it was no flash of movement but a clearly discernible form: the black silhouette of a man standing bathed in the shadows of the room’s far corner. The sight was so jarring it caused him to gasp as the forward momentum of his stroke brought him face down into the pool.

  He resurfaced sputtering, expelling the sharp tang of chlorinated water from his mouth and throat. He looked once more at where the figure had been and saw nothing. Even still, Elise’s words seemed to echo instantly through his mind.

  Because that’s where the bad man lives.

  Treading water, Mr. Worthington tried to wrap his brain around what he’d just witnessed. The rational part of him was already blaming it all on jet lag or his aging vision, but even these simple explanations didn’t seem to sit well. Whatever it was that was happening here, he was giving serious thought to cutting short his swim. This place was really starting to get to him.

  He nearly turned himself around and swam all the way back to the shallow end, but he was so close to the deep end wall that it seemed foolish not to finish his meager half a lap before calling it quits. Somewhat reluctantly, he resumed his stroke. And with each rise for oxygen, he watched the wall grow closer. When, at last, his hands made contact, something terrible occurred.

  The water all around him turned to icy cold. So sudden, in fact, he felt his chest seize up. But as his mind roiled with the panicked thoughts of a possible heart attack, Mr. Worthington looked up to find something far more terrifying standing there above him.

  Towering over him was the figure of a man, dark and diaphanous as if fashioned from smoke or from the very shadows themselves. It glared down at him with a pair of coal black eyes that seemed to swim with unspeakable madness. It was hard to make out its other features but it seemed to have a mouth as well, the lips peeled back in a snarl of rage.

  Mr. Worthington screamed, his cries echoing back at him from the marble walls.

  The figured lunged at him, its arm reaching out, the hand landing upon the top of his swimming cap. And with one powerful motion, it thrust his head below the water.

  Arms thrashing, he struggled against it, bubbles of precious oxygen erupting from his mouth. He tried to lock onto the shadow’s arm but his frenzied grasping found no purchase. It was as if there was nothing there but the water and the air above it. And yet he could still feel the weight of its hand upon him, its fingers pressed hard into the sides of his skull.

  As his eyes bulged beneath the turquoise depths, he watched in horror as the water turned as red as blood around him. Was it his? Was he the one who was bleeding? he scarcely had time to wonder before the shadow pressed him deeper and deeper below the surface, its arm seeming to grow to an impossible length.

  He kicked and fought to escape its grip in the crimson liquid now surrounding him but could not break its hold. The shadow’s hand had pushed him nearly to the bottom and he could do nothing to stop it. This was the end he could never have imagined.

  Soon, his struggles grew faint. His kicking feet slowed to a lazy treading. His limbs went slack. He watched as the last of his oxygen became a flurry of blood red bubbles rising quickly to the surface. Then his lungs began to fill with pool water and the darkness settled in.

  * * *

  Mrs. Worthington awoke several hours later annoyed to find her husband had yet to return. She leaned over and grabbed her bag from the side of the bed, produced her Cartier and checked the time. It was only 45 minutes until their reservation! Chester hadn’t come back to wake her and now it would be a small slice of hell to get dressed, do her make-up, catch a cab and make it halfway across town before their table was given away to a more dedicated pair of diners. One simply did not show up late at Il Paradiso.

  Somewhat vexed, she rose and went to her luggage. With some expediency and a little luck, she thought she might just be able to pull off an ensemble and a full face in time to get downstairs and have the bellboys hail them a cabbie who wouldn’t get them there late. But all that was contingent upon her husband whose whereabouts were currently unknown. Probably still lollygagging about the pool like some silly little boy, she thought.

  By the time she had finished dressing, Chester still had not returned. With a slow simmering anger, Mrs. Worthington snatched up her bag and room key, left the suite loudly and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

  Behind the enormous marble check-in desk, she found the same attendant who had checked them in was still on duty. A well-pressed young man with a thin mustache whom she had deemed more than a little chatty upon their first encounter.

  “Signora Worthington! Come posso aiutarti?” he greeted her.

  “English, please,” Mrs. Worthington said, rolling her eyes.

  “But, yes, of course, Signora Worthington. How may I help you?”

  “I need you to point me in the direction of your pool. My husband went for a swim, and now we are running late for our reservation.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your husband would have found that quite impossible, Signora.”

  “Impossible?” Mrs. Worthington said, one eyebrow arching up at him. It was not a word she was used to hearing.

  “Oh yes, Signora, our pool here at the Palazzo has not been open for many years. Perhaps Signore Worthington is in the lounge. Or perhaps the spa?”

  “Not likely,” she said, fixing him with an icy glare. “My husband does not drink before dinner nor waste time in spas. And what do you mean the pool has not been open for years?”

  “I mean exactly that, Signora. The pool has been drained and locked up for many, many years now.”

  “And for what reason does a hotel of this supposed caliber not maintain its pool?”

  “Well…there were troubles. Troubles with the pool.”

  “What do you mean troubles?”

  The young attendant leaned in closer, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “I maybe shouldn’t tell this, Signora, but you see…there was a big story, on the front page even of Il Messaggero, back in the ‘70s. It made quite a big deal out of what happened at the pool. After that, the owners, they decide it’s better just to close the p
ool.”

  “You’ve told me absolutely nothing. What happened at the pool?”

  The clerk took a quick look over one shoulder, then leaned in closer still. “There was a murder, Signora.”

  “How ghastly,” Mrs. Worthington said, taken aback.

  “Yes, and that’s not the worst part, Signora.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It was a little girl, Signora. An American girl. The one who was murdered.”

  “That is positively dreadful. I certainly pray they caught the killer.”

  “Well, it was bad for the hotel, Signora.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It was especially bad because the man who did it, Signora, he worked here at the hotel at the time. He was…how do you say, sick in the head? Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “He drowned the girl, and then cut his own throat,” the clerk said, dragging his index finger across the front of his neck to illustrate. “They found both of them floating in the pool.”

  “Well, that’s certainly an awful story. Probably one I’d refrain from telling future guests.”

  “Perhaps, Signora, but some of them actually come for the ghosts.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Some people say…the hotel, she is haunted, Signora.”

  “Hogwash!” Mrs. Worthington said.

  And with that, she turned sharply upon her Manolo heels and went to search the grand hotel for her ridiculous husband.

  Edward Randolph’s Portrait

  Nathaniel Hawthorne

  THE OLD legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrance from mid-summer till January. One idle evening, last winter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, I resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact of history. The night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of wind, which whistled along Washington street, causing the gas-lights to flare and flicker within the lamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was busy with a comparison between the present aspect of the street, and that which it probably wore when the British Governors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices in those times were few, till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the wooden dwellings and ware-houses from the most populous quarters of the town. The buildings stood insulated and independent, not, as now, merging their separate existences into connected ranges, with a front of tiresome identity, – but each possessing features of its own, as if the owner’s individual taste had shaped it, – and the whole presenting a picturesque irregularity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by tile ray of here and there a tallow candle, glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre contrast to the street, as I beheld it, with the gas-lights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops, and throwing a noon-day brightness through the huge plates of glass.