Nightmare Fuel 2019, Day the Sixth - Batteries

Still two days behind, but that's better than three days behind. 

Perchance I'll catch up soon.

Other things I love? Witches and bad decisions. Image from the BotanyShitPosts Tumblr

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Batteries

He had that look in his eyes. The look that says he has an idea, a brilliant idea. The look that says he can’t believe that he didn’t think of it before, but he knows exactly why none of the rest of us did.

We are, after all, not nearly as smart as he is.

It wasn’t the look that hooked you; you’ve seen that look lots of times. It was the closet door. The one in the back of his apartment, the one with the steel hasp and the shiny steel padlock. The one you’ve never seen open, the one he’d only smile about if you asked one of those nights you slept over with him.

That door.

Was open.

Not only that, it seemed to be … glowing. That’s impossible. Who puts a light in a closet? Unless he’s growing weed in there, but there’d be no need to keep THAT a secret from you.

“This’ll be great.” You took a seat on the bed as he paced the short length of the bedroom, your eyes constantly drawn to that open door. He was all jangly limbs and frenetic energy and piercing blue eyes, dressed in a threadbare band-logo T-shirt and a pair of hundred-dollar jeans. Yeah, Mike was Mike and this was shaping up to be a classic Mike type of evening.

“Look, most of this happened before I met you and I didn’t know if it was real or it would work, but couple years ago I got a real apprenticeship with a real witch.”

The hinges on your jaw loosen as you try to formulate a response. “A… witch?” That was a response. You feel dumb, the way he always makes you feel dumb. One of these days you’ll be quick enough to keep up with him. Today was not the day.

“Yeah, they’re still around. They mostly only take other women, but, well, you have to know how to talk to them. About balance and harmony and all that. And find the right one who’se old enough and alone enough and fears the things she knows will die with her if she can’t pass them on. It takes some looking, but you know me. I’ve always been good at looking. And good looking.”

You smile weakly. The joke may be wearing thin, but part of you will always remember the awkward confidence with which he made it the first time. There’s an eager little boy in there somewhere, one both proud of himself and eager to please and quick as lightning. You fell in love with that little boy, even if the same old jokes are starting to run thin.

And now, the moment .He steps in to the closet, comes out with several two-liter bottles, with some kind of plant growing in each. Deep emerald-green leaves, rich brown roots. Strange sigils are etched onto each bottlecap in what appears to be black sharpie. “Watch this!” he says, then mutters a few words under his breath. The air in the apartment suddenly feels clearer, healthier. Even a bit brighter. Certainly cooler and less humid. “See? Environmental control. Temperature, humidity, spirit. We’ve been cooling our air with clunky nineteenth century technology for too long, compressing gasses and letting them decompress. IT’s time to move to the future!”

You are genuinely amazed, your head feels clearer. Clear enough that something here seems wrong. “What did your witch say about this plan?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “You know witches. Always playing it safe. Too meddlesome. To big a risk. Too harmful.”

As he talks the bottleplant fades before your eyes, from a lush green to a muted tan. He sees your looking. “They always do that, but it’s fine. We can always recharge them, take a little from the world outside. Even from the ocean. Nobody’ll miss it.”

“Nobody?” You stand up and look him in the eye. “You sure about that?”

He smiles, nods equally. “Nobody. Just take a little energy, release a bit of psychic waste. Maybe into the ocean. What’s a nightmare or two to a fish? And we’ll all get to be happy and comfortable.” He pauses. “I’m gonna need investors.  Capital. We’re going to be rich!”.

You take a deep breath of the cool, dry, spiritually cleansed air. To be rich with him would be good, right? And worth putting up with the same old jokes for a few more years.

Maybe this time he got it right.

In the closet, the remaining plants fade to grey.

Nightmare Fuel Day the Fifth - WIsh

I love wishes. I love deals with genies and the devil and any supernatural being with the ability to give us the very worst thing it possibly could - exactly what we want.

At the very least, we get lovely little puzzle stories of humans trying to outsmart a virtual god. Here's a quick tale of someone who thought he won the wishing game.
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The Third Wish

 “Your wish is my command, and very well-phrased, if I do say.”

I’ll admit that I was pleased with myself. Yes, I know I wasn’t the first to wish for immortality, but I’ve read enough stories to know that wishing was a fool’s game, unless you’re clever and careful. I studied first. I read up on contract law. On fairy tales. On myths.

I was going to get this right, and carefully so. Avoid disease or senescence or an eternity of pain. And this was just one wish, carefully worded. I’d keep the other two in reserve, as an emergency measure.

Image by Andrea Trask

“It’s just… well, nevermind. I’m sure you’ve thought of all of it.”

It doesn’t matter how I found the genie or bound him to do my bidding, but that I did. And this one was clearly impressed, and respectful. I’m not so arrogant as to not listen; after all, I DID still have two wishes left, and haven’t even created myself a fortune.

Yet.

“It’s just that the wish was perfectly worded for all natural or supernatural illnesses, all age related failings physical and mental, all germs, diseases, curses, afflictions.”

I nodded, impatient. “Yes, Genie. I know I what I wished for. It’s very careful and very much ironclad.”

“Only… did you not think of accidents? A fire? A car crash? Lightning?”

“I thought those fell under aflictions?”

“No… you’re not protected from misadventure or disasters.”

“OK.. so for my next wish, I wish to be protected…” I continued very carefuly and quickly, modifying the language from my anti-illness wish to include all natural and man-made disasters, accidents, misadventures, and acts of god. It’s good to be smart, and to have earned the respect of the genie.

Ten years later I’d still not used that last wish. I had a house, a wife, a baby, a car. The secret is to find a way to live comfortably, with the security that you’re taken car of and it’ll all work out. It isn’t hard to win the wishing-game if you aren’t greedy.

The fire alarm didn’t wake me at first, but that’s OK. After all, I was protected, and protected well. The smoke smelled like a campfire, the flames a gentle warmth. I smiled until I heard the screaming from my daughter’s room, then jumped out of bed in a panic, running through the smoke-filled rooms. It didn’t even sting my eyes, but obscured my vision.

You don’t need to hear the rest. I found them, my wife and the baby, in the nursery. Ran them outside, but it was too late, much too late. Cradling my baby’s lifeless body, I looked up at the house. The protection had held, with even the siding around my bedroom window clean and unmarked.

“Oh… I wish it had been me.”

Those are the last words I ever spoke. As the world faded away I heard the baby’s laughter and realized something.

I’d won the wishing game after all.

Nightmare Fuel 2019 Day the Fourth - Grave

I've fallen behind, but might do some two-a-days to catch up.  Image is in the public domain, source unknown.

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Grave

“You gotta see this!”

Calvin would admit, it wasn’t that first thing he’d have expected. They’d only turned off the wooded trail behind the school a few minutes ago, but this space was hidden by thick underbrush and a low rise in the soft earth. Somehow, here in the trackless woods, someone had brought a casket, its finish long faded to a mottled rorshach of mold, but the lid and tapered sides still appearing solid and whole.

 

“It’s… a coffin”. Moments like this never find Cal at his brightest. Neither does time with Bruce, truth be told. He always seems to be thinking a step ahead of everyone. In class. On the track team. Out here noplace. “uh… why?” IT seemed a good question. They might not be quite old enough to drink or even vote, but they were past the age at which the mere sight of a coffin should mean that much.

Not that either had yet seen death.

“I’m gonna take her out here.”

“Take who out here? And… why? Won’t the coffin gross her out? Whoever it is?”

Bruce laughed. “Does it matter who? And it’s perfect.” He tapped the top of the casket with the back of his hand. “Solid. And the way it’s propped up here, it’s the perfect height to bend her over it. And get this..” he paused. “It’s a grave for her virginity.” He gave that cocky grin of his that always made Cal either want to punch him or to be him. Sometimes both.

Bruce coaxed Diana to the spot on the very next day. It felt right to him, her dark hair and affected black-painted nails and dark lipstick the color of old blood. That’s the kind of girl you fuck on the creepy coffin in the middle of the woods. Certainly not platinum-blond Lana from the cheerleading and the debate team. No, this was a place for the pale-skinned wisp with her darklined eyes and bad poetry. She didn’t gasp in shock when she saw it, didn’t even have a catch in her breath. Bruce glanced sideways at her, saw her biting her lip thoughtfully. Maybe this wasn’t right? Maybe Lana or Diana or someone else would be appropriately spooked and give in more eagerly. Maybe he’d gotten too much into the looks of the thing.

No matter. He sat boldly on the macabre bit of woodland furniture, patted the faded hardwood top next to him. “Join me?”

She laughed. Not an unpleasant or cruel laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Do you know,” she said, “that Mary Shelley was said to have lost her virginity on a grave?” She paused. “On her mothers’s grave.”

“That’s.. very interesting.” She’d still not sat down; Bruce wasn’t sure he was doing this right. Wasn’t sure why she was the one standing and him sitting. But.. .she was talking about losing virginity. That’s a good sign, right?

“And you know…” she leaned in close to him, traced his jawline with one of those red-painted nails. Up close he could see that the polish was chipped at one end. That little imperfection drew his eye, “You know… nobody remembers the name of the guy she lost it with. Just hers.”

Her eyes flick down almost imperceptibly to his lap, then back to the head of the casket. “So you need to ask… whose story is this? And whose grave are we about to defile?”

Two weeks later the search was winding down; they’d keep looking, of course, but it was winding down to the rote performance of those who know they’d never find who they were looking for. Cal returned to the clearing for what felt like the hundredth time; off the path into the trackless woods, over the low earthen hill and… to nothing. No coffin, no half-dug grave. Just a gentle depression in the soft earth.

Nothing more.

Nightmare Fuel - Day the Third. Nothing

I'm running behind here; might catch up this week.

This fit the prompt better before some changes; I like this version of the story better, so take the image as metaphorical.

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Between the pounding in your head and the late-night darkness you fumble to get the key into the latch. Why didn’t she leave the light on for you? You fumble once more, and the door pushes open. It hadn’t even been locked.

Wonderful.

You step into the darkness, push the door shut behind you. Making sure it locks. The lock feels strange under your fingers, but the deadbolt slides into place with a reassuring click.

You take two steps into the room, stumble. The chair isn’t where you remembered it, but that’s just your mind playing tricks. She wouldn’t rearrange the furniture. Would she?

You know you’re late again, know that happy hour drinks went a bit too long.

You can imagine the conversation. The same one.  She’s never had a job like yours, never gotten office politics. Doesn’t realize that you need to be seen at happy hour with the crew, like it or not.

You’ll sleep on the couch tonight, wake her in the morning.

Dawn comes, and with it the expected pounding headache. Light streams through the curtains onto the yellow couch.

Yellow?

You shake your head violently. Your couch is blue. You blink twice, disoriented, but the wrong furniture remains. And the wrong wall color.

And the fumbling with your key.

You quietly curse yourself, grab your shoes. You’ll slip out, get to the right house. And then figure out an explanation. Shit, she’ll probably think you were having an affair.

You quietly get to your feet, slip your shoes back on. Undo the deadbolt and push open the door.

The daylight stabs into your eyes like daggers. You close them tightly, then open them cautiously again, turn to look at the mailbox to see where you’ve ended up. It is.. #4.

It’s your house.

Heart pounding you run back inside, but nothing matches.

The wrong furniture.

No wife, no kids.

Just you. In your house.

That wasn’t yours.

Nightmare Fuel 2019 - Day the Second. A Guide to the NYC Subway

Less narrative for day two, I'm not sure what this is. A pose poem? A meditation? Random words on a page?

Regardless, it's atmospheric (I think)

Anubis in Hakone, by Joanna Karowicz

The Adventurer’s Guide to the New York City Subway

Go to City Hall station. When the attendant in the booth is distracted, duck under the yellow caution tape, into the old part of the station. The part that’s not been refurbished. To the old place, with character and memory.

Count the third steel door, the battered beige paint flaking off. You’ll need to push hard to force it open; no matter how many come through it always sticks. That’s just the way.

Hope that nobody heard the scrape of rusty old steel on stone.

Find the old turnstyle, one of the last to still take tokens.

Consider paying with the old-style token you found at the museum shop. The shape of a thing becomes the thing.

Consider paying with the genuine antique token you found at the estate sale last week. A dead man’s coin to enter a dead realm.

Consider jumping the turnstyle. After all, you broke a rule to be here. What’s one more?

Make your choice.

Take a moment to study the mosaics on the wall while you await the train. See that the tiles are arranged shapes of gloves, posed as if worn by invisible people. White opera gloves, dirty grey work gloves, childs’ mittens, their once cheerful colors muted by layers of grime.

Ponder your hands, and wonder what gloves you’d wear.

Now the train is here. An old one, with the genuine leather straps overhead. The car empty save for Anubis, who never remembers his stop, always rides until the end of the line, sometimes back again.

Stand clear of the closing doors.

Don’t sit to close to him; gods of death need their space, as, honestly, do you. You’re past the end of the line anyway, the last stop two streets or two decades or a thousand years behind.

Ride past the glorious old City Hall station, the one you came here to see, the one with the vaulted ceiling and gilt columns and a glorious smell of decay.

Ride until the tracks end and even Anubis has gotten off.

Ride until a stranger boards, having bought or stolen his way onto the train, meets your eye across the old car wondering just what god you are.

Leave something behind when you disembark, checking the station map for a clue as to where you are as the train rattles onward, farther past the end of the line.

Nightmare Fuel 2019, Day the First - At the Loom

Wow, it's been a long time since I've written here.

Greetings, again, I'll try to not neglect this space.

It's October, and for the better part of the past decade that's meant Andrea Trask's annual "Nightmare Fuel" project, in which anyone moved to do so writes little horror stories based on a daily image prompt. I like this as a bit of a daily writing exercise, but sometimes fade out if my pieces start feeling too much alike.

So it begins, for this year. Enjoy, and thanks for listening.

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The day after her death you tore your clothes, as was the custom. The cry of rent fabric echoed your own in a way that dulled the pain, dimmed it if even for a moment. You fell onto the bed where she took her last breath, your hands falling to the heavy woven blanket. Your tore and pulled and unraveled until your hands ached, until the threads cut into soft fingers unused to this violence, as her absence cut into the soft parts of your heart.

You tore and tore and tore.

A month after her death you gathered up the tangled threads, straightened them, unknotted them. Wound them onto spools. Untangling them tangled something deep in your gut as the touch worried against the raw callouses on your fingers.

You wound, wound, and stored.

A month after her death you purchased a loom, you learned to weave. You bought yarns of different colors, different thickness, different feel. Natural, artificial. You watched instructional videos, you learned of warp and weft and counts and other arcane secrets.

You practiced.

A year after her death your hands were calloused, strong, no longer smooth and soft like your heart. You wove blankets and tapestries and throw-rugs. You wove geometric patterns, you wove landscapes, you wove tromp l’oeil effects designed to look like windows. You’d hang them on a bare wall, imagine them real windows. Imagine her standing outside, just out of your view. If the loom were wider you’d be able to see her. You took some pieces to local craft fairs, you opened a little online store. Mostly you wove.

You wove and you dreamed.

Ten years after her death you’d mastered the tromp l’oeil, the window to nowhere. Windows into cloudscapes and pastoral landscapes and heavens and dark underworlds, but no matter how wide you wove she’d always be just out of sight, just unreachable. Your home became full of them, walls hung with dizzying patchworks of faux windows and archways.

You wove, and you searched.

Twenty years after her death, you took those long-forgotten threads from the closet. The ones that had been her blanket. You unspooled the long-faded yarn, slowly, reverently. Died it in blacks and browns, the color of the earth to which she’d returned.

And you wove.

Your final piece, a simple throw-rug. Too narrow, because there was only but so much thread from that old blanket. In the warp and weave a shape formed – a simple wooden staircase, downward.

You wove your way to the underworld, an Orpheus of the loom, descending on the stairs of your art to again meet her.