Nightmare Fuel 2021 - Day the Third

Three days of this! Here's a vignette about what you do when you reach an edge of the world. 

The world's topology is complicated - it has many, many edges.

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"Come here. You've got to see what I found!"

It's Maddy, of course. She's always the reckless one, the mad one. The one sneaking through neighbor's yards, who found the tree you could climb to hop over to the roof of the school. 

You're all out together, in the kind of early fall day you when you can still pretend it's summer. The kind our parents still call "Indian Summer" no matter how many times we tell them not to, then awkwardly joke that it's "Native American Summer" or some other such silliness. 

It's Maddy who always gets you all into trouble.

Mike looks skeptical, like he always does. "What is it this time? Are we gonna get in trouble again?" Mike was the last one down from the school roof. The principal caught him and made him spend an hour carrying books to  different classrooms. He didn't turn the rest of us in, but he still never forgave Maddy.

"Nothing like that. Look, this'll be great. You've just got to see it. But you have to hurry. It doesn't stay there for long."

You follow, not open for long being a magic phrase. After all, we don't want to miss out on something that isn't there for long, do we?

This adventure leads you on bikes down the busy street and to the sculpture garden behind the tiny art museum our parents drag us to sometimes. Past the lake, to the wide grassy hills nobody ever wanders past. Not because there's anything to stop us, but because there's nothing there. Just well-manicured grass and perfectly straight hedges.

Before long we get there, to a perfectly straight row of hedges with a perfectly round hole through the middle. The sunlight, from straight overhead, leaves the hole perfectly dark. This must be the "it doesn't stay for long" Maddy was talking about. Her eyes are bright. 

"It's a gateway. To another world."

"Another world?" Mike looks at the hole. The gateway. He doesn't step closer, doesn't shy away. "What's this other world like?"

"It looks like this one, but EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT." Her eyes are wide, bright. Mike shakes his head. "Except for when you guys talk me into trouble, I LIKE this world. It's where I keep all my stuff."

Maddy shakes her head. "Well, I want to explore." 

You find yourself between Mike and Maddy, as he edges back towards the hole and she steps forward.

Maddy walks through the hole and vanishes.

You follow. Darkness washes over you, as the world vanishes for just a moment. Then step out into the light, on the other side of the hedge. Maddy smiles at you. "I knew you'd come. We can't go back through, or we'd end up back in the same world." The back of the hedgerow is less even, less finely cared for. You smell damp earth, something a bit wild. You walk along the hedge together for a bit, her hand in yours. Then you find a thin spot between hedges and slip through, branches tearing at your skin. You walk back along the hedges until you find this world's version of Mike, with this world's version of the bicycles another you and another Maddy had left behind when they went exploring, off to a different world.

Or you don't follow. Maddy gives the two of you a look of disappointment, disappearing into the darkness as she steps through the hole. You and Mike share a look of resignation. Minutes later another world's Maddy appears from a gap in the hedges a ways down. Not a portal, not a tunnel, just a gap. Neither of you stop her from taking your Maddy's bike to ride home in silence, her disappointment hanging in the air between you.

You glance back once, knowing that your choice matters. That now everything is the different.

Or everything is the same. 

Nightmare Fuel 2021 - Day the Second

 

The Long Way Home

You take the long way home from school, along the backroads. You always told your mother that it was because the noise of the busier street bothers you, and she always pretends to believe you.

The truth is that you don't know who will be home today. Which monster.

The first time was weeks ago. You remember standing out in the yard, kicking a soccer ball against the house. The tall grass of the lawn worn to dirt patches where you stood, twelve yards from the side of the house. You'd paced it, to be sure. Your mother's voice through the kitchen window "You've lost your goddam mind". 

You stopped kicking. He'd lost his mind? Was your father a zombie, a shambling undead creature with no thoughts, feeding on brains? You stayed out until darkness had fallen, until you could barely see the ball. 

When you finally came in to dinner at the kitchen table (the dining room was only for Sundays or holidays) his mind was indeed gone - he ate with an absent-minded, glassy-eyed stare. Didn't say anything. Spent the last part of the meal scaping a line of crumbs out of the table's central joint with the tiny pocket screwdriver he always carried. He didn't say good night when you excused yourself to bed.

Then there was the time he'd lost his senses. That was worse. His eyes were glassy, he barely picked at his dinner. He must have lost his sense of taste as well. 

"Are you going to eat your food or just stare at it?" You almost reflexively answer "I'm eating", but she wasn't looking at you. There was not a word the rest of the meal, but that's what it's like when you someone loses their senses.

So today, you take the long way home. You don't want to see the mind-numbed zombie or the deaf-mute senseless drone. 

Your mother is standing outside the front steps as you approach, "You'd better hurry in. Your father's going to lose his head if you make me keep dinner waiting any longer."

Lose ... his head? A real monster this time, all shoulders and body and appetite and anger? Arms even longer, able to reach you from even farther? What was the head but the wobbly bit on the top? The place he kept his mind and senses? Without his head, it's just the monster.

You hear heavy steps down the stairs. You see his feet, the long arms, the mouth. It's hard to know without a face, but he looks angry.

Resigned to your fate, you step inside. 

If you get another chance, you'll never take the long way again.

Nightmare Fuel 2021 , Day the First

 Good morning friends, if anyone is still here.

These pages have remained empty for a long time, and I skipped this whole exercise last year as pandemic brain kind of melted me. The game is the same - one piece of flash fiction per day, written one day late in the early morning. Just little sketches here to get the brain moving and put us in the October mood.

Project is courtesy of Andrea Trask, sometimes known as Bliss Morgan. If you want to play along, prompts are here on the Tumblr. She also has a Patreon for those who wish to patreonise her. 

Now, on with it.

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There are whispers of a place, isolated but not too isolated, where the anonymous acolyte of worth holds a book. If you find him - and it isn't as hard as one would think - you'll be shown a single page.

On it is be written the greatest day of your life. The only price is that you need to look, and you'll always  carry that knowledge that on one shining day - perhaps in the future, perhaps lost in your past - you had your best moment. And none before or since would measure up.

Nobody ever asks what "greatest" means. Not that the acolytes would ever tell.

I arrive on a chill October day, accompanied by a youth. They laugh nervously as we travel the tree-lined ghost-walk to the weathered stone temple of worth. "You're almost fifty. Whatever your time is, it's in the past. Why bother?"

I smile. "Maybe I just need a reminder. But we're here for you."

We step in. The acolyte is where we'd been told, covered in heavy robes. Impossible to tell who it was, male or female. They were holding a black-leatherbound book, as worn with the ravages of time as the building around us. They look first at the youth, beckon with one crooked finger. He steps forward, the book is held up to him and opened. 

"October 31, 2036. You tell the truth to yourself." That's how it was written - always in the present tense, as if it is always unfolding. Right now.

 2036. Fifteen years from now. 

The youth steps back. "but.. I never lie for myself. It'll take fifteen years? For just that?"

The figure is silent. It always was. 

I stepped forward to complete the ritual, but I already know.

"November 27, 2001. You go where you need to be."

The youth laughs, again nervously. "That's it? You went where you need to go twenty years ago? Some life, eh? You must be disappointed. What's left to live for?"

I barely hear. Because it's the date I knew. I remember the shoes I was wearing, the brown rockports with the frayed lace on one side, because I was tying them when I got the phone call. She was scared. She didn't think the doctors were paying her enough attention. She knew it was time for work, but she needed me.

I remembered she was wearing her glasses because I was left clutching them as a nurse ushered me away from the others who'd answered my calls for help.

The same nurse - or maybe a different one - asks me if she was wearing a watch. I say I don't know, and then she hands it to me. Stupidly, absurdly, I'll always wonder why she asked that.

Then I'm standing in a tiny, anonymous office built for painful conversations, staring at that watch, not even seeing what time it showed, as I'm handed a phone. "Do you need to call her family? Anyone?" I hold the receiver in my hand for a long time before I realize that I don't know what I'd even say to them. I set it down and say something. I don't remember what.

The rest is a blur from of fear, anger, frustration. The fear fades slowly over the next days, weeks, months. The sense of "not out of the woods" and "could happen again" that lingered like the scent of something long departed until, without fanfare, it is gone. Almost. There will be reminders later, over the years. Nothing is ever over.

I smile at the youth. "What I have to live for is the same reason I skipped work that day. It could have been the worst day of my life. It WAS one of the worst days. But also the greatest. I know if given the choice, you'd do the same"

We leave that place, having learned nothing. 

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.