Home Sweet Home

By Monica Marier

“…And then what happened?” asked Kathy.

Celia’s shoulders hunched as she stifled a full-body shudder. With tears in her eyes and a trembling voice she looked up into the bright lights.

“We… uh… we kept feeling a presence. An evil presence that we knew immediately wanted us out. We… sorry…” Celia broke down and Kathy put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Celia rocked on the snow white couch and fanned her face.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Then things started happening. We heard footsteps downstairs at night, when we checked on them, everyone was still in bed. The radio would randomly switch on and play music— it was always music from the 30’s. We’d feel cold spots. Strange stains would appear in the wallpaper and would be gone the next morning. Then… it started attacking the kids.”

Celia looked away from Kathy as she spoke, her eyes focusing on her husband standing nearby.

 “My youngest would wake up with strange bruises and scratches all over him. My husband would wake up to find me hovering over the bed. Blood dripped down the walls… Finally we tried to leave… but it wouldn’t let us.”

“But you’re here now.”

“Not for long anyway. We’re still prisoners of the house to this day.”

Kathy looked away from Celia finally and said in a cheerful clear voice.

“Celia Lintzer’s book ‘The Ghost in an American Dream’ is on the top best-seller list for the twentieth week, and Warner Brothers has greenlit the movie version. Are you excited?”

Celia bravely dried her tears and nodded, seemingly recovered. “Yes, the studio has just signed Renee Zelwiger to play my part. I think it’s slated to come out fall next year.”

“Chilling stuff,” said Kathy with a botox-numbed mug to the camera. “Well, just for the sake of argument, what’s your reaction to people who insist that this is all an elaborate hoax? That there’s no evidence of your house being built over the graves of drowned witches— that the reported events have no eyewitness other than yourself, and that the priest you said blessed the house and the detective you hired claim to never have met you?”

Celia’s smile froze a little and a mad glint sparked into her eyes, but she took a deep breath and settled into the white chintz again.  “Well, that’s simply not true. I don’t blame the Catholic Church for wanting to cover up what proved to be a botched exorcism rite, and our governor has made it abundantly clear that they don’t want this event to sully the town’s reputation. We are in a housing crisis, after all. I’m sure the price of homes would drop if any potential buyers knew…” Celia dissolved into blubbering sobs again. “…what we went through. And then some might simply be lying out of fear,” she added quietly.

“You’re of course referring to the mysterious accidents that befell the psychic team that investigated the house,” said Kathy.

“Smothered in a fire,” said Celia Lugubriously. “Yes the house took its revenge on them.”

“Yes, but the psychics supposedly found no paranormal activity in the house,” said Kathy pointedly.

“They found…” said Celia, “That the only thing to have survived the fire was a copy of my book.”

“And then there was the man who wrote a book exposing the house’s activity as a hoax; he died before his book was published,” said Kathy.

“And so did the owner executive of the publishing company,” said Celia, wiping away another tear. “They were in the same car, when it burst into flames. And the only thing that wasn’t destroyed in the fire…”

“…Was a copy of your book,” finished Kathy with a showy shudder.

“I still suffer nightmares from the whole experience, and I only pray that the house doesn’t come for me next.” Celia shrank into a ball and Kathy dutifully comforted her. She leant next to Celia and whispered, “You’re running us over, shut up.”

“Well thanks for coming on our show, Celia,” said Kathy in her stage voice. “Cathy’s book is available in all major book retailers. We’ll be right back!”

The camera man made a gesture and Celia got up from the couch with a cold nod to Kathy and met her husband, Bill, near the edge of the sound stage.

“Well that went well,” said Bill in a bored voice. “Now hurry up, we have to pack for our flight for New York.”

“Stupid bitch,” said Celia. “I know exactly what she was trying to do.”

“Maybe the rumors of fire-related deaths were a bit much,” said Bill.

“You told me to say fire,” accused Celia in a low voice. “You said the fire thing tied it altogether so nicely. Besides, no one ever checks that crap.”

“Well Raimi called and said he wanted to make a few artistic changes to the movie.”

“If he turns me into a sobbing doormat, I’m going to shove that script up his ass,” said Celia stabbing at the air with her keys.

 They sat in the Lexus and exchanged a tiny grin.

“Who could ever think you’re a doormat, Cece?” said Bill and they exchanged a sterile kiss.

They walked through the wide door of the blue Dutch Colonial and checked their watches. The kids would be at the nanny’s until she dropped them off again at 7.

“Do you want to have sex?” asked Celia.

“Why?” asked Bill in mild surprise. They hadn’t slept next to each other for over three years now.

“I’m bored,” said Kathy with a shrug.

“Sure,” said Bill, throwing his coat on the floor. He then thought better of it and hung the designer leather jacket up on a hanger before he joined Kathy. When he got upstairs he saw her standing in her underwear staring at the bed. She was white and shaking, her shirt still half-off. Bill looked where she was staring and froze.

The bed was bleeding.

The ground began to tremble as the crucifix on the wall (bought shortly before the psychics showed up, just for the look of things) rotated on its nail until it was head down. They stepped away from the tide of blood as it approached them.

“I don’t understand this,” said Celia in a shaking voice. “It’s not real. None of it’s real.”

“Someone is playing a prank on us,” said Bill in a husky voice.

A voice came out of the heating duct that seemed to vibrate them from inside.

“I am very dissappointed,” it said.

“It can’t be true! I don’t believe it’s true!!” shrieked Celia tearing at her hair as the blood lapped at her toes. “Who’s doing this?”

“THE HOUSE IS DOING IT!” cried Bill and they both knew it was true. “But that’s impossible! It’s not haunted! It’s never been haunted! There’s no such thing!”

The radio switched on and played Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”

A wave of blood washed over Bill and he was gone, there was only his white hand sinking into what seemed a bottomless sea of crimson.

“WHY?!” shouted Celia. “Why are you doing this?” she shouted at the ceiling as the radio rose to a deafening volume.

Celia felt a cold hand on her shoulder and feeling numb, she turned around. She saw closet door as it yawned open and black rotted hands, dripping with ichor dragged her into the darkness. Before she felt her mind slipping away she felt a voice in the dark space behind her eyeballs.

“You shouldn’t have lied,” it said “Houses have feelings too.”

Back to School

Monica IRL

by Monica Marier

There’s nothing quite so jarring to a child as being brutally torn from the warm comforting womb of kindergarten to be dumped in the grey antiseptic hell that is First Grade. I remember walking into the classroom and noting how grey everything was. Of course, things were always grey in 1987 Warsaw , the coal dust clouds in the air turned everything in the city into shades of mud and charcoal, but this room really was grey and I longed for my Kindergarten classroom. The cheerless walls full of rules for spelling and math replaced the happy pictures of teddies and children playing. The cold grey linoleum replaced the soft, if somewhat stained, red carpet. Instead of group tables that I shared with the classmates I loved, there were only grey metal desks of solitude.

I shivered in my Kangaroo high-tops as I entered. There was no love, no mercy, no escape. A thin brisk woman ushered us into the class. Her lips were pinched and pruney, and they did not smile at us. She patted her cropped wiry hair which stood up on her head like a sergeant’s beret.

“Welcome back to school, first graders. I am your teacher. My name is Mrs. Virginia Fünke.”

I’m not kidding. That was her name.

Even as a kid I knew this was an absurd name, and under other circumstances I would have laughed a good hour over it. But there was no titter of giggles, no one even cracked a smile. We were as sober and scared as if she had just said, “I am Satan, Prince of Darkness.”

“And this is our class aide, Mr. Lowe,” she continued gesturing to the back of the room.

The ground shook as suddenly from the dark recesses of the classroom came a cyclopean nightmare. A six foot seven giant of a man made of solid muscle. His beefy face was red, his lips screwed into a frown.  He glared at us through tinted glasses in aviator frames as the fluorescent lights glinted on his sparsely-covered head.

“HULLO,” he barked in a deep Australian accent. “I'M MISTER LOWE.”

Those of us with dry pants gazed up in abject terror. He seemed to sense this for his frown deepened and he said no more. Mrs. Fünke called the role but most of us had forgotten our names by now and had to be asked twice.

“Now look at the worksheet on your desk,” Mrs. Fünke said in her clipped tones.

We looked down at a black and white Xerox. It was supposed to be a jolly picture of a circus train, each train containing happy animals or something. The joy was sucked out, however, by the dingy light filtering through the barred windows.

“Fill in the train cars with the alphabet,” said Mrs. Fünke, and we scrambled for our pencil boxes, frantic to obey her.

“… in pen,” she added.

The world stopped dead.

In pen? Was she serious? Pen was—well it was indelible! Pen was an accident waiting to happen. Most of us, at this point had never even been allowed to wield one let alone do school work with one.

With shaking fingers I pulled out my standard issue ballpoint pen and pulled the cap off. The unfamiliar smell of cheap ink turned my stomach as my chubby fingers gripped the implement. Slowly, with the care of a jeweler cutting a priceless diamond, I dug the pen into the paper. I could feel Mr. Lowe staring at me, and knew instinctively (quite accurately I might add) that he was waiting for an excuse to pounce. After I completed an uppercase and lowercase “Aa” I allowed myself to breathe.

The “Bb” and the “Cc” came easier and by the “Ff” I’d hit my stride. I was beginning to ignore the cold sweat on my neck and the piercing eyes of Mr. Lowe as they glinted behind his dark glasses, watching our every movement. I had just finished the “Zz” when I realized with a horrible shudder that something was wrong. There was an extra box at the end. Feeling feverish I searched the worksheet and discovered to my horror that I had completely skipped the letter “M.” How did I miss “M”? It was the first letter of my name, for God’s sake! But there it was,” Ll…Nn…Oo,” permanently scribed in noxious blue ink. I saw a shadow loom over my desk and I my insides froze. Fearing it was the titanic Mr. Lowe, I hunched up, trying to make myself small and unappetizing.

“How are we getting on?” came Mrs. Fünke’s low voice over my head. I felt only a little relieved. I looked up into her gimlet stare and knew I was dead woman.

“I umsle bumble num,” I stammered in a barely perceptible voice.

“What was that?” she asked coldly.

“I made a mistake, see?” I confessed, showing her the extra box and the missing “M”.

“I see,” said Mrs. Fünke eyeing my childish scrawls critically. “I guess you’ll just have to do it again.”

She then placed a new blank sheet on my desk and I felt her words burn me.

DO. IT. AGAIN.

I felt tears rising in my eyes and knew there was no holding them back. My lip trembled and my nose ran as my face prickled and stung. Then the damn broke. Wet hot tears rolled down my face, contorted with the effort of not making a sound, and splashed onto the virgin paper. Despite my efforts, little whimpers escaped my lips, alerting my classmates to my predicament. Most were probably sympathetic, but all I could hear was the whispers of my hated nickname that I earned last year.

Crybaby. Look crybaby is crying. Teacher made crybaby cry.

I went blind at that point, the tears blurring everything around me as I stared fixedly at my desk. The next thing I could hear was Mr. Lowe looming over me and roaring: “STOP CRYIN’! FOR GOD’S SAKE, GIRL! STOP CRYIN’!”

I remember very little of the rest of that day. I only remember that the rest of the year was just as awful and as was the longing I felt for Kind Miss Szewicki and her Kindergarten classroom.

This entire memory flashed into life again as I took my trembling son to meet his first grade teacher. Granted, it wasn’t so bleak as my old classroom; there were toys and paint pots and pictures of Winnie the Pooh. But there were also grey walls and grey floors and solitary grey desks.

My son whimpered next to me. “I don’t like it. It’s scary here.”

“It will be fine. There’s nothing awful about first grade,” I lied.

Robins in Spring

I kept trying to think of lyrics to a piano piece I wrote this month. Unfortunately the smart-ass in me wanted it's say, thus this Linus episode came into creation. In this section, Linus Weedwhacker (a Half-Ef) is living in quasi-exile among the Halfling town of Burrowsborough.

The wet morning turned into a pleasant afternoon as the Burrowsburrough walking club trekked towards Callain Forest. The three Halflings' voices rang sweet and clear over the rolling hillsides as they tramped merrily over the lush grass. Linus bringing up the rear was not having a good first day of it.

He was growing weary with their singing. So far the walking club had sung songs about walking, about bathing, about eating biscuits, about hay mowing, spinning, dancing, bowling, rowing, fishing and making jam; it was starting to get tiresome.

“Do you lot ever do anything that you don’t sing about?” he asked the Halflings.

“Well, one thing,” said Ludovic with a lusty chuckle.

“Unless there’re no ladies present,” added Malachi.

Even Linus had to laugh at this. In the end, menfolk were menfolk wherever you went.

“You don’t like singing?” asked Ludovic accusatorily. Among Halflings, an aversion to song was almost as suspicious as not drinking.

“No, I just don’t know the words half the time,” admitted Linus.

“I know, we’ll play ‘make a verse’ then,” said Eddie. Ludovic and Malachi heartily agreed to this.

“Is it more singing?” asked Linus.

“Yes, but you make up the verses as you go,” said Malachi

“I’m not good at verses,” grumbled Linus.

“Neither are we. It’s just all in good fun,” said Eddie.

“I’m good at it,” said Ludovic frankly.                             

“Yeah, he is,” conceded Eddie. “But Malachi and I could use the practice.”

 “Fine,” sighed Linus.

“What melody are we singing?” asked Malachi.

Eddie thought about it. “Let’s see. It has to be one that Linus knows.  Let’s use ‘The Whispering Willow.’ You know that one, Linus?”

“Yuh,” admitted Linus. It was the third movement from the Elven Baraloneth et Geheren (wisdom and foolishness) suite and currently a popular dance piece for reels. Linus knew the song, but it wasn’t his favorite, containing a lot of “tra-las” and “hey-nonnys.”  The first verse of the song went thusly:

Ah! De wilo sussuraeg— eernen! (tra-la-la)

Hu tylwa sul seunthsiul  gren (ah-ha!)

E farsad en enhodia ohr

Londias a dianeen indas demas helior

Far Il heded entritan Il wod sil rechor

Il entri e wilo a slen

(He-nonni-koem-lalli)

Ah! Entritan es naepothen!

 It was a rather fluffy song about wishing trees could sing, using tired Elven metaphors. Every verse had the word “green” in it and there was constant adoration of beautiful ladies with nothing interesting happening—the usual cue for Linus to take a nap in his chair. When Linus was forced to sing it at parties, he usually did it in a killing impersonation of a drunken Elven prince. It was a very popular bit among his city friends, but he’d never sung it in earnest before. He liked the tune, however, and was willing to play the game with only the usual grumbling.

“What’s the subject?” asked Ludovic.

“Can’t we make it free-form?” asked Malachi hopefully.

“You’re not singing about fruit trees again. You always sing about fruit trees,” snapped Ludovic.

“I like fruit trees,” mumbled Malachi looking longingly across the farmlands towards his orchards.

“The subject is…” Eddie looked about him and eventually spied a flash of orange hopping along the dirt road. “…Robins.” He said.

“I’ll go last,” said Linus nervously.

“Suit yourself. You’ll all have a tough act to follow though,” boasted Ludo who dove right in with his strong clear voice.

Ludo’s verse:

Ah, if I were a robin in springtime, (tra-la-la)

T’would be quite a marvelous thing, (a-ha)

I’d fly about on the gentle breeze,

And take my tea whenever I please,

With butterflies for my bread and cheese,

And pudding of dragonfly wings,

Hey nonny-come-lally!

I’d feel like a jolly old king!

Ludovic finished to hearty applause from the other three.

“I say, well done! Not one pause!” cried Eddie in approval.

Linus was too impressed to say anything. A smug grin crossed Ludo’s face as he perceived this.

“I knew you’d sing about food, Ludo,” said Malachi with a snort.

“How can a Halfling who likes his pudding as much as you be thin as a rail, I’d like to know?” commented Eddie. “Right. My turn.” Eddie began to sing. His voice wasn’t as fine as Ludo’s and he was going flat by the end of it, but he made a good show.

Eddie’s verse:

A robin’s a regular dandy, (tra-la-la)

The cheekiest birdie he be, (a-ha)

His scarlet waistcoat turning heads,

He looks so beguiling a fellow in red,

With his suit and gold stockings he looks quite well-bred,

In his mansion high up in a tree,

(Hey nonny-come-lally!)

The finest bird, don’t you agree?

There was moderate clapping followed by a pause while the others were considering the merit of Eddie’s rhyme.

“It’s not bad,” said Ludo eventually. “The ‘be he’ part bothered me. And I don’t think birds live in mansions.”

“They don’t eat puddings either,” said Linus, coming to Eddie’s rescue.

“You paused a bit in the middle,” Ludo persisted.

“I was going to say ‘orange’ instead of ‘red’, and stopped meself,” admitted Eddie.

“Dodged an arrow there, no mistake,” laughed Malachi.

“Alright. Who’s next? Linus? Mal?” said Ludovic.

“I’ll go but don’t laugh,” said the usually boisterous Malachi looking abashed. He began softly in his capable voice. It was a good rhyme and was sadly riddled with frequent pauses as Malachi worked out the rhyme or had to remember what he’d just come up with.

Malachi's verse:

O if I were a robin in springtime (tra-la-la)

I’d start every day with a song (a-ha)

Good night Miss Moon, I see the sun!

Now get thee to bed for his turn has begun.

And when I am singing to everyone,

They might join me in singing along.

(Hey-Nonny-come-Lally)

You might feel like singing along

They asked him to sing it again without the pauses so they could hear it properly, and they all agreed that Malachi was a fine competitor. Ludo frowned at being upstaged.

“You used ‘along’ twice and stole my first line,” he said bitterly, but they paid him no mind.

“It’s Linus’s turn now,” said Eddie.

“Er,” stammered Linus.

“Go on, bigg’un.  See if you’re a match for Halfling rhymsters,” said Malachi.

“I doubt it,” said Ludovic with a snort. “Look, he’s sweating.”

It was probably Ludo that did it in the end, for Linus grit his teeth and launched into a sardonic verse on the spot.

Linus’s Verse:

I don’t give a fig about robins, (tra-la-la)

A robin has nothing to boast. (a-ha)

It’s far too early when they sing

And their cheeky attire doesn’t do me a thing

In fact of the things I detest about spring,

I hate songs about robins the most.

(Hey Nonny-come-lally)

I fancy a robin on toast.

The last line made Eddie and Malachi burst out laughing until they sat on the grass to calm down. Even grim Ludovic cracked a smile but he refused to concede victory to Linus since he obviously “hadn’t taken the game seriously.”

“Oh give over, Ludo! He’s as funny as Doctor Frumbold on a good day!” said Eddie when he was able to draw breath.

“Hrmph!” grunted Ludovic, trying to sound bitter but his lips kept twitching into a grin.

Sadly, Linus had set a precedence that day that would haunt him to the end of his days in Burrowsburrough.

Scoundrels

By Monica Marier

One misty moisty morning,
when foggy was the weather,
I met a jolly gentleman,
all wrapped in leather.
With rings on his fingers,
And bells on his toes…

“…No hang on, that’s not right,” mumbled Marion Byrnes, scratching his stubbly chin. “I can’t remember the rest. Something about the fat git falling in a puddle and sinking to his middle.”

“What was the point of that, may I ask?” asked Heinrich Drechsler with a disdainful sniff. “Another one of your Irish wisdoms?”

“No, it’s just a nursery rhyme. The morning reminded me of it, that’s all,” said Marion lightly, looking around. 

The tropical forests of Chowra rose thickly overhead. Their boots squelched in the thick carpet of rotting vegetation, sending beetles skittering every which way.  Tendrils of fog curled from the ground, joining the wall of white mist that obscured everything.

Marion and Heinrich each held a lantern up, trying to cast a ray upon the impenetrable fog, but all they saw were fairy reflections upon the slick forest walls. The cloying scent of wet vines and trees stank in their nostrils.

“We’re lost,” grumbled Heinrich, in a deep rasp that Marion still found incongruous with the man’s slim girlish face and short stature.

“Nonsense. No one’s ever mapped this place, so there’s no directions… ergo, no place that we are supposed to be going to, nor anyplace we’re not. We’re exploring. That means we can’t be off-course, since we never had a course. So we are not lost.”

“Alright, we’re disoriented, then,” snapped the surly German.

“Yeah, there you go, mate,” nodded Marion in sheepish approval.

They continued in grim silence. The only sound above their squelching was the clank of their gear and the tink of glass upon glass.

“Are you sure we’re even going to find any here?” asked Heinrich after a while. “It’s rather remote. I’m sure these Islands are rather cut off from each other.”

Marion coughed in the damp air. “That’s what I’m counting on. I’m sure we could find a really unique specimen here—one that’s singular from the others on the Indian continent.”

“And what then?” asked Heinrich.

“We make sure they stay rare,” said Marion darkly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

“You know, I don’t quite agree with that,” said Heinrich stopping to wipe the beads of moisture that had formed on his wire-rim spectacles.

“It’s part of the business, Heinsy. You knew that when you took the job.”

“I took the job, because the money was good,” sniffed Heinrich. “But so far I’ve yet to see any of it.”

“Look,” said Marion spinning around. “It’s not my fault Mad Hippo got our last shipment out from under us, but we’ve got our legs under us again. MacGilleDhonaghart’s  got The Dachshund docked and waiting for us at Great Nicobar and then we scuttle off for Paris, got it?”

“It’s not the first time Mad Hippo’s gotten the drop on us,” said Heinrich with a frown at Marion.

“It won’t happen. I was very covert this time,” said Marion, tapping his nose.

Heinrich held the lantern up to examine his partner. Marion’s pale face belied nothing beneath his inky black ringlets, dripping with water. At any rate Marion thought he’d been covert, but Heinrich had his doubts. 

Marion was generally as subtle as a fish in a flower vase.

“So how did you hear about Chowra anyways?” asked Heinrich, plodding on in determination.

“A bird merchant told me about it at the market. I got him talking about his Nicobar pigeons. He was the only one selling them— a big chap with a scarred face.”

“And he willingly told you where he got his rare one-of-a-kind birds?” asked Heinrich incredulously.

“Of course not! I got him drunk first!”

“To find out where his birds came from?” asked Heinrich shaking his head.

“No, I asked if he’d tell me some stories of his hunting. Told him I was writing a book.”

“A book?” asked Heinrich.

Marion gave another lopsided grin. “I maaaaay… have led him to believe I was Rudyard Kipling.”

“There is a special Hell devised for people like you,” said Heinrich, mildly impressed.

“Anyway he told me stories about bird hunting, and he eventually let slip what I wanted.”

“What?” asked Heinrich growing eager.

“That while he was stalking a beautiful pigeon, he saw a cluster of bright orange flowers among the tree boles.”

“Orange!” cried Heinrich in excitement. “We haven’t seen any orange ones yet!”

“That’s what I thought! I asked more questions about them, and he let loose the name Chowra. I gave him some money and here we are.”

“Orange. I wish you had said that earlier. I would have known what we were looking for.”

“You didn’t see any, did you?” asked Marion nervously.

“No,” admitted Heinrich. “But then, I couldn’t see a rhinoceros if it were an inch in front of me.”

“Are there rhinoceroses in tropical forests?” asked Marion, uncertain.

“No. They live on the veldt,” said Heinrich.

“Oh,” said Marion.

“Do you hear that?” asked Heinrich.

“Hear what?” asked Marion.

Heinrich screwed his eyes up as he strained his ears, pondering what it could be.

“A crackling sound,” he said. “Sounds like someone cracking nuts.”

“Monkeys, maybe? Do monkeys—?”

“Yes, monkeys live in tropical forests,” interrupted Heinrich. “How do you know so much about birds, but nothing about zoology?”

“I take interest in what I take interest in!” snapped Marion. “Anyway—!”

“Shut-up!” said Heinrich. “It’s getting louder. Is it getting warmer too?”

“Yes, and less drippy. But I still can’t see a thing— the fog’s getting worse.” Marion dissolved into a fit of coughing again.

“That’s not fog, that’s wood smoke!” shouted Heinrich. “The forest is on fire!” Heinrich panicked and dropped the lantern. The glass smashed and the wick guttered and went out— smothered by the spongey undergrowth.

“On fire?” cried Marion. “Don’t be stupid! Everything here is covered with water!”

“Campfire?” suggested Heinrich.

“We’ll see,” coughed Marion, the smoke was burning in his throat and making his eyes water. “Let’s get out of the smoke’s path and see.”

“Pistols?” asked Heinrich, pulling out his colt dragon.

Marion didn’t answer but nodded, while covering his streaming eyes. Heinrich squinted in the smoke while guiding Marion away from the suffocating clouds. As soon as they were out of the way, they noticed that the fog had cleared and the crackle of burning wood was growing louder.

Marion blinked the tears out of his eyes to see a fringe of green leading to an open field. Handing his lantern to Heinrich, he kept his pistol at the ready, and pulled out his machete. Making awkward left-handed swipes at the vines, he managed to cut his way through to the clearing beyond.

Heinrich and Marion stood, mouths agape at the sight beyond. Nearly two acres of forest were reduced to smoldering ash. Marion was right in that the flames seemed reluctant to consume the saturated undergrowth. 

A second odor was now prevalent over the dull sting of smoke.

“Kerosene,” said Heinrich dully.

“Yeah,” sighed Marion, feeling sick to his stomach. “I think we’ve been had again.”

“Actually, I was wondering… ” said Heinrich.

“Yes?”

“You don’t speak a word of Hindustani, do you?” asked Heinrich. Marion had specifically hired him due to his ease in learning languages.

“I told you, I take interest in things that interest me,” shouted Marion, his fuse burnt down. He kicked a clump of dead wood that dissolved into rotten wood pulp.

“So how did you talk to the bird-catcher?” asked Heinrich.

“Because he…” Marion stopped, eyes wide. “Spoke… English.”

There was the sound of deep gravely laughter behind them. Marion and Heinrich spun around in terror. A large silhouette towered over them, topped in a wide-brimmed hat. It cast a shadow over the scarred, lantern jawed face of Hippolyte Jones.

“Mad Hippo,” gasped Marion.

“G’day,” said Hippo. Under his arm was a Wardian case; nestled in the black soil was an orange orchid. In his free hand was a Winchester rifle.

“There was an orange orchid!” cried Marion.

“There were over five hundred of them,” said Hippo. “But I only had ten cases with me, so the rest had to go. Sorry mates. You had a good run, but you’re not gonna get these’un.”

Marion sagged in defeat.

“So you’re going to kill us then?” asked Heinrich. “So why make sure that we came out here?”

“Kill you?” said Hippo with a condescending grin, “Why would I do that… when you lot are making me one of the most famous orchid hunters in the world? With every defeat that you complain about at the pubs and salons, I become more infamous… and my prices go up. Nah. You failures and your drunken boat captain are what’s keeping me in expensive boots and fancy beers. And if you pathetic excuses ever manage to land an orchid to sell, that’ll be a true rarity worth a king’s ransom. See? Help eachother, we do.”

Heinrich was the only one who felt the sting in this. Marion was too happy at being allowed to live to feel any insult.

“So you’re going to let us go?” asked Marion, giddy with relief.

“’Course I am,” said Hippo with another scarred grin. “But, since I don’t want you two buggering up my operation either…” He let the comment hang. Sun mottled arms the size of tree-trunks swung a shovel towards their heads.

The last thing Marion felt before slipping into unconsciousness was a Nicobar pigeon landing on his head and tugging at his hair.

My Neighbour, Mr. Bates

by Monica Marier

Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.

Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”

Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.

Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.

But what if I’m right? He asked himself.

His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.

Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.

Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.

Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.

“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”

At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.

“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.

Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.

“I’ve been watching you!”

“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.

“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”

“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”

“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”

“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”

“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”

“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.

“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”

Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.

“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.

Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”

Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.

“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.

“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”

“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.

“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.

“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”

“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.

“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.

“I need your help,” said Andrew.

Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.

“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”

“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.

“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.

“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”

Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”

“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.

“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”

Add Me.

By Monica Marier

Hannah looked at the screen and moaned.
The jolly icon of “Harry Plotter” had popped up in a Halloween-themed window on her computer.

“You’re doing great! For your last task, there’s safety in numbers! Add three neighbors!”

“Add three neighbors? What the HELL!” she screamed.

Hannah immediately closed the “Wizard University” game application and went to vent her frustration on her home feed. Fortunately her game-buddy, Louisa was on.

“We need 3 neighbor-adds to complete the Halloween task? WTF? XO” she typed into the chat bar.

“I know right? *eye roll*” answered Louisa.

“Well what the crap do I do now??” Hannah asked.

“Go to the ap community and add the people on the page. They got to finish the task too.”

“What the ‘add me and I’ll add you back?’ guys?”

“Yah.”

“But they’re all GOOOOOBERS!!!! >_<” whined Hannah.

“You can unfriend ‘em later if they creep you out.”

Hannah typed ellipses into the chat bar and hit enter.

“Or you could just not give a crap. It’s only a game after all,” said Louisa.

“Oh fine. I was hoping you’d side with me on this. Y’ know. Tell me to storm the castle, etc.”

“Have fun storming the castle! :D” responded Lousia.

Hannah closed the chat log and with a heavy sigh opened the community page for “Wizard University.” Louisa hadn’t been wrong. A LOT of people were trying to finish this “add 3 neighbors” task, especially since the mission expired in 18 hours never to be seen again. Hannah perused the wall, her skin crawling like she was investigating a cockroach nest. The comments on the wall were pitiful at best.

PLZ HALP! NEED 3 NABORS FOR HALOWEEN TASK!!!!!!!!!!

Add me! PLZ!!!

NEED 3 PEALPE KTHNXBY!!!!

<3 <3 <3 <3 Pleez ad me and Il ad u to!!! <3 <3 <3

Hannah’s face twisted up in disgust. Who the crap were these people? How come none of them knew how to spell or type? How come they all felt that by using emoticons, bad grammar, capslock and a million exclamation points they would make a good impression on anyone? Who in hell would look at this feed and say, “Oh yes! This person looks like a kindred spirit! This is someone I want to give access to every thought, link, and photograph I’ve ever posted online,”?

“It’s just a bunch of freaking goobers,” she sniffed. But an hour later, the uncompleted task began to needle at her. The prize for completing the task was a magical wardrobe that fit inside her wizard’s dorm room. It would grant her +8 to all offensive spells and her little wizard (whom she named “Nigel Tautbottom”)could jump into it and retrieve an exclusive wardrobe item! This was a once in a lifetime offer and she didn’t even need to plop down any real money for it!

She knew deep down it was all bullshit. Everything she was placing so much value on was nothing more than a collection of pixels and coding. If she didn’t complete the task the world wouldn’t end, and she’d probably go through this same nonsense during Thanksgiving and Christmas too. She’d clog her news feed with boxes begging people for intangible items in the game. It was all just a big waste of time and productivity.

So why couldn’t she let it go?

She thought hard about how to get around her dilemma. “If I make Pete play, and Louisa can get her husband to do the same, that’s two… I just need to friend one goober and my problems are over… still.”

She booted up her laptop and read the Wizard University wall again.

“Okay,” Hannah said to herself. “The first post I see that uses real words will be my game-whore of choice.”

It took a while to find one. Hannah grimaced at what was obviously the collapse of the English language in progress and wondered if these losers knew how dumb they sounded. But, there, the twenthieth or twenty-first post from the top was a photo of a golden lab and the name ‘Darryl Beamer’. His post simply said, “I’m looking for people who aren’t weird to friend me for this arbitrary Halloween quest.”

Hannah managed a small smile and hesitatingly hovered the mouse over the “add +” button. Gulping she clicked it and exhaled. She then hacked into her husband’s account to set him up on the game. She just had to make sure that she uninstalled the application before Pete got home.
She changed back to her account to check on her wizard’s progress again. A window popped up on the chat bar from her new friend Darryl.

“Hi!”

Hannah’s stomach flipped a little and she debated clicking her online status to “hidden,” but she remembered how well-written Darryl was and decided to give him a chance.

“Hi back atcha! :) ” she said politely.

“At you,” said Darryl.

“Come again?” typed Hannah, wondering what he meant.

“You wrote ‘atcha.’ Atcha is not a word. If you meant ‘at you,’ you should have written it properly.”

Hannah blinked. She knew some grammar-Nazis in her day but this guy took the cake.

“Your disregard for the English language saddens me. I see by your profile that you reside near me in the city of Ashburn. I will be over shortly to kill you. Please wear something appropriate.”

Hannah stared at the screen feeling numb. Was this guy serious? Was he just one of those socially impaired people who confused sarcasm with humor? What was going on?

“What?” she typed.

The chat bar’s text turned to grey as it informed her “Darryl Beamer is no longer online. You may leave him a private message.”
Hannah closed her laptop and unplugged it out of panic
Her eyes darted to the door. Her husband would be home soon. Would Darryl beat him there? Was he really coming after all or was he just pulling her leg? She locked and dead-bolted the door and ran around the house closing the windows. When she returned to the living room there was a heavy knock on the door that made the wood buckle. Was it Pete? Was he having trouble with the deabolt lock?

“Whozat?” she asked in a trembling voice, causing her words to jumble.

“I think you mean ‘who is that?’ Hannah. Clearly you talk as poorly as you type,” said Darryl.

Hannah fell to the floor, sobbing as the lock broke.

Scaredy-Cat

By Monica Marier
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!


“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”

“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.

“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”

“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”

Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”

“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.

He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.

The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.

Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.

He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!

Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.

“It’s just me,” said Alex.

Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” said Isaac petulantly.

“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”

“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.

“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”

“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.

“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.

“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.

“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”

“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”

“Yeah I know.”

“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."

“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”

“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.

“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.

Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”

******

20 years later…

Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.

“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.

He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”

“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”

Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.

(Based on a true story.)

Jeremy Hunted 5: Sanguine

This story is fast becoming a serial! Help! I can't stop it!
Anyway, this is part 5 and the other 4 are here.

http://monicamarier.blogspot.com/2011/07/jeremy-hunted-part-1.html
Part 2: The Lodger
Part 3: Breakfast Invite
Part 4: Deal with the Devil

Andrew awoke at the sound of a loud shout. It sounded more frustrated than angry or upset. It was followed by a loud crash and series of decidedly modern curse words. On a normal day Andrew would have slept through all this, but he had been rather jumpy since yesterday due to Jeremy. Andrew had encountered many hungry vampires before and knew what they were capable of. Jeremy had never caused Andrew any concern because he’d kicked the habit 40 years ago. Now that Jeremy had fallen off the wagon, altruistic motives aside, Andrew had been in a constant state of anxiety. For the past 18 hours, he’d been jumping at shadows and starting at small noises. To top it off, a newly-acquired neck-brace was impairing his ability to keep a proper watch on his surroundings.

So far Jeremy had demonstrated an impressive show of willpower after a patchy start. Granted he had a tendency to snarl if you startled him and he kept watching Andrew like he was a gazelle on the veldt; but he had saved Frank’s life, and had ridden in the ambulance with him and Andrew. After Andrew had been given his neck brace and Jeremy had given the hospital staff Frank’s passport and ID, the vampire had stomped back into the house and holed himself up in the kitchen. Andrew was too nervous to hang about and so had beaten a strategic retreat to his room. For the rest of the afternoon, he’d sat on his bed with his back pressed hard against the wall while he read back issues of The Beano. He could hardly concentrate on the antics of Dennis the Menace as he heard the loud crashes coming from downstairs and his eyes kept flitting between his comic, the door and the loaded gun next to him.

After a few hours the crashes died down and Andrew, gun in hand, decided to brave the unknown. He found a fantastic mess in the dining room. Every mug in the house was piled on the table in a state of ceramic carnage. Mugs were chipped, cracked, missing handles and several sported large gaps where chunks had been bitten out of the rim. The lucky mugs had simply been reduced to brightly-coloured chalk. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The counters and floors were littered with pots and pans. They were warped out of shape especially the handles, which were all sporting deep handprints. The kettle hadn’t survived. Amidst the cookware were dozens of boxes. Andrew hadn’t expected this though. He’d figured that the boxes and pans would be for sausages or tinned ham or something similarly meaty. He hadn’t expected 8 boxes of PG Tips to be torn open and ravaged. Nor had he foreseen the empty wrappers from twenty packages of McVities digestive biscuits.

He heard the noise of the telly in the sitting room and after cautiously poking his head in, saw Jeremy watching Tomorrow’s World. Andrew gasped. If Jeremy was actually watching the device he’d shunned as the “seizure box,” something was seriously wrong. Andrew took it as an evil portent and ran full tilt back to his room. He’d spent a very fitful night in which his few minutes of sleep were haunted by visions of predatory jaws attacking his throat in a red-tinged gloom. The last night he’d spent like that, he’d been ten years old. Jeremy was the one to help him conquer that walking nightmare. Now Jeremy was the nightmare.

As Andrew awoke in the dim grey light, he jumped to the mirror and examined his body for bites. Nope, he was clean. The neck brace was getting in the way, so Andrew ripped it off and chucked it in the corner. His neck wasn’t feeling much better, but he could turn his head now —besides, he’d dealt with much worse before. The filthy language was still coming from Jeremy’s room and Andrew broke into a cold sweat. Mopping his brow, he took the gun out from under his pillow and methodically scooted the dresser away from the door where it was acting as barricade. With utmost caution, Andrew inched through the door and across the carpeted hall to the master bedroom.

“Jer?” he asked in a dry timid voice.
“Yeah, what,” came the snappish answer. Andrew flinched. It still didn’t sound like Jeremy. Jeremy’s voice had always been melodious and soft, like someone who worked with very small children. This new voice was deep and commanding and (it seemed to Andrew) very tetchy.
“Everything alright in there? Can I come in?” Andrew asked.
“You can if you promise not to do anything bone-headed with that gun,” was the short reply.

Andrew took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then he reached for the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Looking more closely at it, Andrew saw that the knob had been squished into a lump of compressed brass. He then noticed the door was ajar and (after putting the Gun down his jeans) he nudged it open with his trainer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you silly man,” grumbled Jeremy.

Andrew breathed again. That sounded more like the real Jeremy. Walking into the room, however, Andrew abruptly changed his mind. Jeremy looked terrifying. He was clad only in his bathrobe, and its seams were in danger of popping. The reason was obvious; Jeremy’s usually frail frame was now covered in taught muscles and sinew. His skin was flushed and sweating, like he’d been jogging. He wasn’t huge like Arnie, or some other body-builder, but he looked athletic, strong… lethal. His snowy hair was still jet black and shiny, his face still focused and predatory. The vampire’s head swiveled towards him with uncanny swiftness. Dark predatory eyes considered the frightened Andrew.

“Still pretty scary, eh?” he asked Andrew, his sharp face softening a little.
Andrew knew that lying was pretty pointless. He only managed a nod.
“Are the eyes better at least?”
Andrew shrugged. “They don’t look quite so… evil,” he admitted. “You just look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I could say the same for you,” said Jeremy. The words were kindly, but in his strong forceful voice, their warmth was lost.
“I…” Andrew began but he abandoned the topic, “…heard swearing and shouting,” he finished, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh,” said Jeremy absently. He pointed to his dresser which was now a pile of splinters. “I keep smashing things,” he grumbled. “Controlling my strength was always difficult in the old days, but after forty years I’m out of practice... That and my clothes don’t fit now.”
Andrew noticed the pile of shredded cloth next to the mutilated dresser.
“You do look a little… bigger,” said Andrew carefully. “Want to borrow some of my clothes for now?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, the way I’m buggering up everything, they’ll probably come back as dust rags.”

Jeremy’s powerful shoulders hunched as he sighed, looking thoroughly embarrassed. It gave Andrew enough courage to approach him. He strode up to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy’s body tensed when the hammy hand touched his body and he dove out of its reach.

“Sorry, just a reflex,” Jeremy said, trying to collect himself.
“No problem.” Andrew had been reaching for his gun, but he played it off like he was only trying to scratch his bum. He didn’t want to hurt Jeremy’s feelings. “How long are you going to be like this?”
“I dunno. A week or two perhaps,” answered Jeremy. “I tried to calm myself down with some tea yesterday. You probably saw how well that went.”
“Did you eventually get a cuppa?” asked Andrew.
“I drank 48 cups,” said Jeremy. “When we ran out of sugar I used golden syrup...and then jam. I also ate all the biscuits, including your secret stash of Penguins. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Andrew with a smile. “Not the worst that could happen, considering. Well, we’ll have to get you some more clothes in the meantime.”
“I suppose it was time to get new clothes anyway,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I’ll say. The fact that you held on to those Victorian togs for so long is astounding.”
“They weren’t Victorian!” said Jeremy defensively.
“Oh c’mon? Where else would you have gotten braces and a frilly shirt?”
“The sixties.”
“’kay . Y’got me there,” said Andrew finally relaxing a little. “I’ll get you some of my old shirts, jeans, socks, underpants...”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy. “Never mind about the knickers though. I’ll manage.”
“Oh grow up— they’re clean!” said Andrew.
“Only because I do your laundry. I’ve seen what you do to them first,” said Jeremy, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll manage without. At least enough to go to Marks & Spencer and get some more… and a new kettle. I get the feeling I’ll be wanting a LOT more tea.”

The Stain

This story was inspired by a brown drippy stain I saw on a museum wall.

The coffee sprayed out of Laura’s mouth and onto the rust-colored wall. It nearly hit a Rodin, and Laura gasped at the damage she’d done to the Museum walls.

“Sorry, didn’t think you’d take it like that,” said Ian.
“What did you say?” asked Laura, wiping her mouth. “You’re a what??”
“I’m an Alien. I’m from the planet Klaxon.”
“But I’ve know you since college! You’re from Herndon! You live with your crazy mom and sell hunting knives at the mall.”
“It was a cover. Um. I think we better move, the curator’s coming.”
Laura and Ian ducked into the impressionists wing.
“So…why are you telling me this?” whispered Laura. Her face turned grey as tears sprang her eyes. “Oh my GOD. You’re breaking up with me.”

Ian stared. “Wait you actually believed me? No one’s ever believed me before!”
“You’re telling me this because you want to scare me off?” moaned Laura. The tears were coming hard and fast now as she tried to stem the tide with her sweater sleeve.
“Uh... no!” said Ian looking in fond amazement at his girlfriend’s blind acceptance. “No! I’ve really loved the years we’ve had together,”
“But now you have to go back to your planet and you’re ditching me!” wailed Laura looking as waterlogged as the Monet painting of water lily’s behind her.
“No, you nut! I’m not ditching you!” said Ian.
“Then why, Ian?”
Ian stammered and a fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he fumbled in his pocket.
“Why?” Laura demanded again.
“I just…I thought you should know the truth… before we got married.”
Ian finally managed to extract a small ring case from his pants pocket and presented it to her.
Laura gazed in wonder at the glittering gem that held more colors than a peacock’s tail. It was like no gem she’d seen on earth. It was as if someone had taken a lava lamp and injected it into a crystal.
“Oh, Ian. It’s so pretty.”
“It belonged to my mother… my real mother. The woman in my house is my bodyguard— she takes it kind of seriously.”
Laura said nothing. She was still staring at the ring.
“So will you marry me, Laura?” Ian asked, getting more anxious as he waited for her response.
“YES!” she shouted jumping on him and kissing his astonished face. He held her and his lips found hers shortly.
Laura pulled away. “Wait. Do I have to go to Klaxon?” she asked.
“Well, the planet is going to want to meet its new princess.”
“Whee!”she screamed and hugged him tighter.

***
Gupta the curator had to steady himself as he saw the livid dark stain on the wall. This would get him fired for sure. Thinking fast he grabbed a blank plaque and in his neat handwriting wrote: “Installation Piece, Anon.” He hung it next to the coffee stain and walked away.

Jeremy Hunted 4: Deal with the Devil

This part directly follows the events of last week.
You can read last week's chapter --> HERE <--

Andrew’s eyes were trained on Jeremy as the vampire kneeled by Frank. Andrew checked to make sure the safety was on and nodded at his friend. Jeremy extended Frank’s bare leg until it was at the level of his head, and with an expression of disgust sank his teeth into Frank’s calf. Frank’s eyes grew wide and he tried to cry out, but he lacked the air to do it. In the next instant he had passed out, from fear or from lack of oxygen. It made no difference to the others, who were glad he wasn’t going to raise a fuss. Jeremy ‘s attention was elsewhere.

In the dead-silent kitchen there Andrew could hear the sucking, slurping noises emanating from the vampire. That would have been funny on an ordinary day, but today it made Andrew break into a cold sweat and filled him with revulsion. Jeremy hadn’t tasted human blood in over 40 years. He’d been totally clean for so long, there was no telling how he would react now that he was exposed to it again.

To his amazement, Andrew noticed a bizarre change in Jeremy. Jeremy normally looked so pale he could have passed for an albino, with white hair and papery skin, he looked like a colour photograph left to bleach in the sun. Now it seemed that colour was suddenly flooding back into him. His skin was becoming rosy and pink again, with a vivid blush on his cheeks. His straw-like hair was changing from bone white to charcoal grey then to raven black. Most noticeable, however, were Jeremy’s eyes.

While his flushed skin and dark hair made him look years younger and much handsomer, his eyes were terrifying to behold. The vampire was becoming so saturated with blood, the capillaries in his eyes were bursting, creating two seas of deep red out of which flashed two cat-like slits for pupils.

Frank was breathing easier now, but his olive skin was growing so pale that he seemed to be turning green.

“Jer, I think you can stop now,” said Andrew in a husky voice.

Jeremy ignored him as he sucked ferociously.

“Jer. Stop, you’re draining him,” said Andrew more forcefully. He tried to lay a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, but the vampire snarled and batted the hand away with a blow that made his bones grind. Andrew cried out, but still managed to jam the barrel of his gun into Jeremy’s neck. The vampire froze and let out a feral growl.

“Drop it, now,” shouted Andrew, feeling sick.

Jeremy dropped Frank’s leg and spun around so fast he was a blur. He snarled at Andrew and crouched low, ready to pounce on his throat. Andrew flicked off the safety catch with an audible “click.”
Just as quickly, Jeremy seemed to recover himself. He straightened up and adjusted his shirt collar. He was still the handsome black-haired stranger with the demon eyes, but underneath it all Andrew could see the real Jeremy guiding it.

“Sorry, Andrew,” said Jeremy in a rich deep voice so different from his usual strained whisper. “I lost control there for a moment. But I think I’ve got…” (he interrupted himself with a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down) “…everything sorted. Is he breathing again?”

Andrew lowered the gun and reset the safety. He then examined Frank with what little expertise he possessed. “Yeah. He looks like he’s breathing comfortably now.”

“I managed to break it up a bit, I think,” said Jeremy. “My saliva acts as blood thinner, so that should help. The doctors can do the rest for him... whenever they bloody get here. We could have walked there by now,” he grumbled irritably.

“You alright?” asked Andrew again.

“I could do with a glass of water,” said Jeremy.

Andrew made to get up but he was halted by a loud, “NO!” from Jeremy. “No, don’t leave me alone with him just now. The impulse is too strong still. Can you put a plaster on him or something?”

Andrew wordlessly drew out the first aid kit from the cabinet in the breakfast nook. It was where they kept the candles, matches, torches, and battery-operated radio for emergencies. Once the blood was mopped up with an antiseptic wipe, it was hardly noticeable on his leg and after Andrew’d put a plaster over the larger marks, it looked like nothing more than a simple scrape. Andrew sighed in relief as he realized that the EMTs wouldn’t be asking about the teeth marks on Frank’s leg in correlation to his copious blood loss.

Jeremy seemed to have calmed down now that Frank was patched up, though his fingers continued to flex and squeeze compulsively while they waited for the anticipated knock at the door. At long last the ambulance arrived and Frank was carted off to the nearest hospital.

“I don’t think Frank’s first day in England is doing so well,” said Jeremy sadly as they watched the flashing red lights drive away.

“Could have been worse,” said Andrew.

“I really don’t see how.”

“He might have eaten the breakfast you were going to make him.”

Jeremy frowned and slapped Andrew lightly on the back of his head. There was a loud crack and Andrew was on the floor yelling in pain.

“My neck! I think you broke my bloody neck!”

Jeremy examined his newer stronger blood-saturated hand, wide-eyed in alarm and chagrin. “Oh, heck! I forgot!” He said to himself as he sped down the pavement trying to flag down the ambulance again.

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2


Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.

He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.

Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.

As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.

The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.

“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.

“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.

“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.

“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”

“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.

“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”

“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.

“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.

“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).

“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”

“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.

“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.

“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.

“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.

Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”

“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.

“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”

“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”

“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”

“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.

“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”

“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”

Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.

“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”

“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.

“It is?” asked Andrew.

“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”

“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.

Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”

“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.

“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.

Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.

“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.

“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.

“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.

Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.

"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.

(continued next week)

The Shooting Party

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.


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