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.

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.

Joe Milgrave and the Devil

I always loved those little Faustian Exchange stories and wanted to take a crack at one. I read the name Joe Milgrave in one of my books and the title jumped into my head. I liked the meter.

“Wow. You went through a lot of trouble for this,” said the Devil, straightening up. Joe couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim candlelight. It was the body of a trim muscular (if a little short) man of indeterminate age. Joe watched the man’s head turn from side to side, taking in the slaughtered pig, the pentagram drawn in swine blood, the smelly candles that gave off a choking smoke, and the crowning glory; the ram’s skull.

“Geez, son,” said the figure stepping idly across the circle that was supposed to be keeping him prisoner. “Most people just shout out, ‘hey Devil!’ They don’t turn their barn into a movie set from ‘Carrie’.”

Joe didn’t answer, however, as the Devil’s appearance suddenly rang a bell.
“BURT REYNOLDS?” he gasped.
The Devil only shrugged and looked quizzical, his handsome mustache twitching to one side as his thick brows arched. “You must be the millionth person to say that,” he said. “This Burt Reynolds fellah must be a handsome devil… get it?” he joked. He threw his head back for a high-pitched mirthful laugh that sure as HELL sounded like Burt Reynolds. Joe, being a “Cannonball Run” fan was that much more in awe of him now.

“Okey-dokey, Joe. So what did you drag me here for? Didja want proof I existed? Didja want to do the soul-for-favor exchange, or should we chalk this up to ‘dicking around with shit we don’t understand?” The Devil regarded Joe’s trembling knees, and the fervent look in his eyes. “I’d say it was all three, right Joe?”

“I need you to do something for me,” said Joe nodding.

“And what’s that, son?” said the Devil amiably.

“I want you to make my wife agree with me.”

Joe had never met the Devil or Burt Reynolds before, but got the distinct impression that this imposing man was seldom non-plussed. Yet, here it was, the drooping mustache, the eyes wide open and round as golf-balls.

“Mind running that by me again, Joe?”

“I’ve been married to Lida for twenty-six years,” said Joe in a low even voice, “…and she has never EVER agreed with me.”

“Chee whiz, son. I must admit that’s a first. Just agree with you? Why not have me make her obedient? It’s kinda the same thing?”

“No thanks, that’s not a problem.”

“Please elaborate, Joe. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You know the passage from Corinthians: ‘Wives Be submissive to your husband?’”

“I think it was from Colossians, but go on.”

“Well, Lida always took that passage very seriously. But while she always gave into me, whether I wanted her to or not, she’s never agreed with me. She’d always call me an idiot, or a fool, or she’d just nod and say, ‘well I leave it to your conscience, Joe’.”

The Devil flinched. “Damn, son. You really won the lottery with that one.”

“Even if it’s just for a day, I just want to hear her say, “yes, Joe,” or “you’re right, Joe.”

“And you want that in exchange for your immortal soul??” asked the Devil incredulously. “A day? Son, you’re no poker player. Never go all-in on the first round.”

“How long’d you give me?”

“A little thing like that? How bout until the end of your natural life?”

“You’d do that??” asked Joe agape.

“Well not so fast now. This is kind of like getting a loan. There’s an approval process. Let me just pull out the Milton Index and see how you figure.”

“Milton Index?”

“It tells where you are soul-wise and how likely you are to go to heaven or hell. The way we figured it, there’s no point in giving out freebies for people who are going to end up in Hell anyway,” The Devil finished with a charming grin. Joe blanched a little.

The Devil pulled an oblong box from his pocket and consulted it. To Joe, it looked like an elaborate stud-finder. The Devil waved it at Joe and then shook the device and banged on the side in frustration.

“Well, shoot, Joe! You barely register on this thing.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Joe.

“What it means is that apart from our little meeting here, you are a pious man. And I don’t mean pious in that sense that makes you want to puke. You are a lawful, considerate, caring, God-fearing man!”

“I am?”

“The only real blot on your soul is your desire to get back at your wife. But you suffer quietly and are a good husband to her. What gives, Joe? You’re not a papist; divorce her! Live a good life and go to heaven like the goody-two-shoes you are.”

“But I love her,” said Joe sadly.

“You’re a piece of work, and no mistake, Joe. Alright. You got it. For the rest of your life (or hers, whichever comes first) your wife will agree with everything you say.”

There was a cloud of acrid smoke and the Devil was gone. Shaking and sweating, Joe cleaned up the barn as best he could, so he could be composed when he rejoined Lida in the kitchen.

“And where have you been?” asked Lida acidly. “And why do you stink like dead meat?”
“I’m going to lie down, Lida. I don’t feel so good,” said Joe.
To his amazement, Lida said, “You’re right, Joe. You look terrible.”
Did Lida actually agree with him? No snide comments? No trying to one-up him with an account of her problems? Joe smiled, but it was short-lived. He was now dimly aware of a numbness in his left arm that was rolling over his body and a painful throbbing in his chest.

“Lida…I do believe I’m having a heart-attack,” he mumbled through rubbery lips.

“Joe I think you’re right!” said Lida, agreeing with him again. She ran for the phone. “I’ll call 911.”

Joe was dead before the EMTs arrived, but as they rolled out the zippered bag to the ambulance, no one noticed the shadowy figure in the barn looking out and smoking a cigarette. The figure stomped out the smoldering butt and kicked the ground moodily.

“Shit. I hadn’t done it yet!” spat the Devil.