Hello, I’m Alexis Cunningham and this Aldlis Chronicles an author blog for the fictional fantasy series I am writing -The Seraphim Chronicles -based in the fantasy world of Aldlis. I also write horror-fantasy short stories and my first anthology -The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear is available to buy on Amazon
On this blog is a playground where I experiment with ongoing works, post publishing updates, novel extracts and world building material as well short stories.
You heard of the Bleckker Estate? You must’ve done. Everyone knows it. Mind, not many talk about it, but that’s the Bleckker for you. It’s known. There’s a language of silence, see. A knowledge that transmits without words. You know the Bleckker. You know it the way you know when the creak on the stairs isn’t just the house settling or when you walk into an empty room that’s not so empty. Lizard brain stuff this is. Creeps and chills wisdom. You know the Bleckker. Everyone does.
Big ugly concrete tower block it is. Slab-like and ridged with these outer walkway’s that run on each floor like runnels of shadow. There’s this square patch of scrubland in front of it. Was meant to be a play park when there were plans to fling up more towers on the other three sides of the patch. But after Bleckker One went up no one dared build another. They knew, you see, even them hoity-toity architect types. They knew what they’d done and they ran from it.
Bleckker casts a long shadow. Bleeds them it does. The grass grows on the patch, certainly. It grows high enough to whisper in the shadows. Grows high enough to swallow the trollies and fridges tossed in there. It grows green and grey. It grows thistles and blackberries. Nasty, sour little bunches of berries that splat on the concrete siding like dollops of blood. The birds don’t eat them. The magpies and blackbirds fly right on passed. There was on owl once, someone told me. It didn’t last long.
I suppose you could call Bleckker an oasis. Sitting out there all on its own at the arse end of Creekstone Road. Just a tower and its green. Lots of space to spread its shadow. There’s no graffiti on the walls of Bleckker. And what with the grass hiding so much, it could almost be called tidy. Mind, you’d have to be pretty stupid to call Bleckker anything ‘cept evil. But it takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it?
You’re probably thinking, alright that’s all fine and spooky-like, excellent scene-setting and all that, but what’s actually going on there? Why get all het up about some Sixties tower block and an overgrown green, eh? There’s real problems happening in the world, you might say. Give us the tea or shut up already.
That’s fair. That is. No one’s making you listen to me. Evil comes in lots of different shapes and sizes. Some are flashier than others. But predation, see. That’s subtle. The predator needs to lie down with the lamb in this day and age. The parasite needs a certain symbiosis with its host to survive. For a while at least. What does symbiosis mean? Look it up. It’ll improve your mind. Where was I? Yes. I was talking about the subtle predator, nibbling at life’s edges, wasn’t I? Well, there was none better at people-nibbling than Mr. Armand. Him what lived – in a fashion – on the Bleckker’s thirteenth floor. Kept his curtains drawn during the day and only slunk out his door at night. Don’t know him? You will when I’m done. Trust me. The lizard brain knows when the hunter is near. Got a shiver, there? Well, it’s a cold, dark night.
Anyway. I’m not telling you about Mr. Armand, yet. He can wait his turn. They were all like him anyway. Them that lived on the Bleckker Estate. And those that weren’t were damned. You see, Bleckker’s a place for the damned. They don’t know it. The damned never do. That’s sort of the point. Lying down with the lion never works well for the lamb.
Anywhoo. You’re distracting me. I’m trying to explain something important. The thing you’ve got to understand about Bleckker is that there’s no understanding Bleckker. Bleckker’s an instinct. It’s a reaction. The shiver when someone walks over your grave. Bleckker’s the reason you throw a pinch of spilled salt over your shoulder. Bleckker’s the reminder that you don’t own the night.
You’re probably thinking Bleckker don’t sound like a good place to raise a family. You’d be right. But there were some that grew up there. The Bleckker kids. Well. There’s all sorts in a world, aren’t there, and some of them are monsters. Bleckker bred them. With twists in their brains and fey light in their eyes. You’ve probably seen the Bleckker kids ‘round town. They’re the ones you cross the street to avoid while trying to act like you wanted to do that anyway. I know what you’re thinking. You’re very transparent. You’re thinking, big deal, more anti-social yobbos. Whoop-de-do. You get them everywhere. Nothing special about that.
Well, no, there isn’t. But where are you getting the idea evil’s special? Evil’s a disease. It’s boredom gone toxic. It’s rage corkscrewed into despair and spat out as some oik gobbing in your face. But other times, it’s something else. Sometimes it’s the Bleckker kids. They’re all shadows; hollow spaces where hope and promise should be. Silhouette people who breathe entropy. The rot that eats society. Bleckker kids will eat your souls.
Think I’m making this up? Standing under a streetlamp watching the world go by, it’s easy to think you know what’s what. You don’t. You’ve forgotten what the old timers knew. You’ve forgotten who owns the night. It’s a lot, I know. Easy to get lost in it. That’s the point. That’s Bleckker’s thing. The creeping shadow throws you in shade. Blinds you. I’ll give you an example. Have you ever seen Lacy Annie?
She hangs out at the bus stop on the corner of Creekstone around midnight. If you’ve ever driven by, you’ll have seen her. I know you’re not the sort, because you’re still alive, but there are those that stop for her, if you know what I mean? Not a good idea. Lacy Annie? She’s one of the lost ones. Who knows where she was going, once. All I know was that one night, Mr. Armand found her.
She’s missing a shoe, is our Annie. Her tights are laddered and not in an artful, pay-through-the-nose-for-the-distressed-look way. Her head hangs wrong, but her hairs still pretty. Blonde. Glows like phosphor in the dark. Some people think she’s goth because she wears a choker round her neck. She isn’t and that’s not jewellery. Get close enough and you’ll see. Bits of it flake and when she whips her head around to stare at you with her saucer eyes bright as streetlamps. Then you’ll understand why her head flops like that. Of course, then you’ll be dead. So, probably, you should just take my word for it.
Actually, I should have mentioned Lacy Annie when I was talking about people-nibbling at the estate. Sorry about that. Bleckker’s a black hole. A despair sink. Difficult to separate out all the ways it will suck you dry.
So anyway, between Lacy Annie and the Bleckker kids, the estate started to get a reputation. Got bad enough that they sent a special constable over there. You know the sort; they wear a sash but aren’t real police. Or maybe they are? Who can tell these days. It’s not like you see police on the beat anymore. You know they don’t even come out for burglaries? Well, that’s probably because they keep losing all their constables in Bleckker’s long grass.
Figured you’d heard about that one. It made the news. Very flashy. Yeah. Without his head and missing his feet. Stuffed in an old fridge. ‘Course I know what happened. I know everything, don’t I? Be pointless telling you this stuff if I didn’t, wouldn’t? I mean, what kind of storyteller goes to this much trouble to be like “Oi, you know about Bleckker?” all mysterious and then doesn’t know anything himself?
What? No. I’m not going to tell you what happened to the special constable. Why? Because you don’t need to know. Some things gain power in the telling and the knowing will leave a hole in your spirit like a cigarette burn. Eat right through you, it will. Just take it from me, losing a head and a pair of feet was the least of what that poor sod had to fear before he died.
Right. Glad we got that settled. So, after the special constable them that are in charge – or think they are – took note. Things had all got a bit much, yeah? Certain people who like to think they know shadows decided that things needed sorting out. Questions were asked, answers demanded. Decisions made.
They started by rounding up the Bleckker kids. Well, how do you think it went? These are walking pits of soulless hunger. ‘Course it went badly. You hear about that children’s home, Greenacre? They sent two of the estate kids there. Yeah. Exactly. Best not to think too hard about it. I know. Like I said. Thinking about it lets the shadows in.
Lacy Annie. Well, they made a good fist of bringing her in. Still botched it badly, mind. But that weren’t all their fault and they did get her to the Crematorium in the end. Burning’s good. Burning works. They’d learn that in the end. But they made one fatal mistake. Them that decide wanted Bleckker dealt with all quiet and hush-hush.
Silly idea. You don’t fight silence with silence and you don’t fight shadows in the dark. Anyone with common sense knows that. Thing is though, you need uncommon sense to fight a shadow and them that have it, they learn to keep to the silence too. Survival reflex. There are them that will burn a witch to please a demon, after all.
So, what do you think they did then? You’re right. That’s exactly what the plonkers did. Went in mob handed, didn’t they? Stormed Bleckker. ‘Course, by that point there weren’t too many people living – and I use the term lightly –on the Bleckker Estate. There was Mr. Ashborn on the ground floor. You may not believe it, but he was almost normal. Ate a lot of rats, which did him no favours, and you don’t want to know what he painted his walls with, but honestly, he weren’t that bad.
You don’t want to know about Celia on the seventh floor. No, really, you don’t. There was a reason she was the only one living on that floor by the end of it all. I imagine it was hard to cope with all that shrieking and wailing. Still, she didn’t go easy. I heard the officers sent to round her up all went deaf. Ruptured eardrums. They were the lucky ones. She spoke to one poor soul. And she spoke true. Grief claimed that one. Dead by her own hand two days later.
Oh, now look. You made me go and talk about Celia, didn’t you? I said I wouldn’t too. Oh well. Celia wasn’t so bad. I’m definitely not telling you about Dave on floor eleven. He had a neighbour for dinner. Hadn’t quite finished by the time the squad charged in. Yes. Chew on that one. Probably should have mentioned him along with Mr. Armand and dear old Lacy Annie, shouldn’t I?
Floors ten and twelve were just sad. See, you got to have prey to have predators, don’t you? That’s how the ecosystem works. The squad didn’t find much trouble there. Didn’t find nothing left to save either. Poor little lambs.
Why am I jumping all about and not telling you everything floor to floor, you ask? Well, who are you to tell me how to tell my own story, eh? Truth is, I forgot what goings on they had on floor four. I know there was something grim. Oh, I remember! That was Philip’s floor. He didn’t have a flat number. Why? Well, strictly speaking he didn’t live in Bleckker. Ghosts don’t, you see. Still, I heard he hurled a fire extinguisher the length of the corridor and smashed the head of a takeaway deliveryman so, clearly, he was a bit territorial all the same.
Oh, I know. I agree totally. You’d think a fraction of these stories should have raised an eyebrow before now, right? Murder. Cannibalism. Fly-tipping on the patch. Terrible stuff. But that was Bleckker’s magic, see. It kept things neat and contained and anyone drawn into its orbit was damned already. The rest just didn’t care to notice. Why? ‘Cause that’s what you do, isn’t it? In the dark you blind yourself with light. You listen with your ears, but you don’t hear your instincts screaming. Shivering again, mate? Not to worry. I’m sure it’s nothing but night chills.
Floor five had Gary. Gary was a bit much. Messy. Growled a lot. Didn’t like puddles and had awfully hairy hands. Prone to sudden violent outbursts. Especially when he had his teeth embedded in that bloke’s neck. Why didn’t I count Gary among the people-nibblers, you ask? Well, I’d hardly call him a nibbler, would you? More of a gobbler. A render. Tearer. Gnasher, even. Always hungry, our Gary. No surprise there. The squad was lucky with him. I heard they burned Gary right there on the patch. Stuffed him in a fridge and lit the whole thing up. Oh, how Celia screamed. They had a bit of a thing going on, see.
Anyway, that blaze was a precursor, you could say. An omen of things to come if that’s your fancy. But you’re not interested in omens, are you? If you were you’d have asked me about Audrey on the second floor. She liked dolls. Made them herself. You really don’t want to know what she used to stuff them. She could do things with a chicken that ran the gamut from the wondrous to the profane. Thank you, yes. Gamut is a fancy word. I’m cultured as well as all-knowing. I’m just slumming it this evening. Had a bit of bother at home. That’s why I’m here chatting with you.
Now where was I? Yes. Good old Audrey. She didn’t take much effort to take down but they had trouble with her after. Caused a lot of unexpected misfortune, did Audrey. Then she did a bunk when the armoured van taking her who-knows-where crashed into a tree after jumping two lanes of traffic. But that was Audrey in a nutshell. Stuff like that happened a lot when she was around. I suspect it still does. Misery migrates see, and sometimes a lone spark flies free of a fire. Evil’s right hard to catch, but real easy to spread.
But you’re not interested in the nature of evil, are you? You’ve had about enough of my lyrical waxing, I bet. You want me to talk about Mr. Armand, don’t you, now? You’re fiercely interested, am I right? I’ve whetted your appetite with these other tender morsels and now you’re all but salivating for the main course. What’s that? You think I’m going a bit heavy on the metaphors, do you? Well, never you mind. I just believe in being sporting, is all. You could consider this your final warning. Also, I’m getting thirsty. But no matter. We’ve reached the nub of the issue; the deepest darkness at Bleckker’s beating heart.
Mr. Armand’s thirteenth floor.
Now, Mr. Armand, he was one of the very first to move into the Bleckker Estate, back when the developer still had plans to build a happy little concrete community around the patch. If you’ve been paying attention this should tell you all you need to know about Mr. Armand, but as this is my story, I’m going to tell you more anyway.
Mr. Armand could be described as a reclusive gentleman, but still very much a gentlemen. He preferred the nightlife and did not fraternise with the neighbours. He preferred to bring company home with him. Like our Lacy Annie. Or Lovely Amita who lurked in the stairwell between the sixth and seventh floors. Or Pale Luke who was more of a drifter until he fell off the roof. There are some of the opinion that Philip was once a companion of Mr. Armand. For the record, he was not. Mr. Ashborn on the ground floor, however, was. That one was a bit of an embarrassment, honestly. Lacy Annie, Pale Luke and Lovely Amita? They had some class to their bloodless existence right ‘til the end. But there’s no class in eating rats, is there?
Anyway, the squad – what was left of it – all handpicked by those shadow draped decision makers who kept well back from the action – thought they were ready for Mr. Armand. They’d come in daylight. They had silver crucifixes, delicate Stars of David backed with millennia of faith, copies of the Qu’ran in handy dandy fanny packs and canteens of holy water. And of course, ash wood stakes. A lot of them, as it happened. Enough to build a fence. Or kill a vampire a good few times over. They were locked, stocked and ready to rumble, in other words.
They kicked in the door. They ripped down the blood red drapes. They knocked over the Ficus in the corner and found Lacy Annie’s missing shoe under the sofa. They picked the lock on the bedroom door. They trampled native earth into the carpet. They went about looting the wardrobe. One of Mr. Armand’s Italian leather loafers was shot for no discernible reason. Such a waste.
What was that? You detect a distinct shift in my diction, you say? I don’t quite sound myself, you say? Well, how would you know? I’ve yet to introduce myself. Still, well done to you. There’s some sharpness to you after all. It just so happens I’m a long way from my native lands. I’ve picked up a bit of lingo along the way. Helps me fit in. But where was I? Yes. The bedroom.
You need to understand, Mr. Armand’s bedroom was important. Even if it didn’t, in fact, have a bed in it. The room was Mr. Armand’s refuge from the harsh light of day. His inner sanctum. It was where he placed his coffin. I bet you can guess what those jack-booted sods did to that fine bit of craftmanship, can’t you? Too right they smashed it. And they threw the violet pillow out of the window, which, mind you, was no easy feat. Those windows had been nailed shut for years.
Now if you’re clever, you may be thinking so far, so Stoker, but where was Mr. Armand? Was he lurking in the depths of the wardrobe clutching an armadillo? Was he casting a wicked shadow along the walls, while plucking his thumbs? Was he clinging to the ceiling like a giant bat? Or was he forming a body from an assortment of local rodents mind controlled for the purpose so he could fall upon the home invaders in an orgy of bloodshed? Or was he flowing away to safety under the door as a cloud of blood-tinged mist?
The answer to all of that is no. Be sensible. Mr. Armand had done what any sane fellow would do while his neighbours were rounded up and carted away without a warrant and burned to death on the patch below without a by-your-leave. He’d scarpered down the hall as soon as he’d heard boots on the stairs and was hiding in the utility closet.
How do I know all this, you ask, being as I am in fact just an old storyteller standing around in the dark outside a soup kitchen? Well might you ask. See if you can figure out an answer. Give it a good think. Chew on it, as it were, maybe you’ll get a flavour of the truth.
I asked you a question at the beginning of my story. Do you remember? I asked you if you’d heard about the Bleckker. You hadn’t. But what about now? Do you hear that? Sirens. Lots of them. The Bleckker Estate is burning down, you see. That’s what the squad did when they couldn’t find Mr. Armand in his coffin.
Bit anticlimactic, isn’t it? I’m sure you were hoping for a tale of valiant carnage. A battle between good and evil, or at least a good staking. I’m sure those squad members were too. Still, they got over it quickly enough. Especially when they discovered all the fire exits locked and their way out cut off. Ah, you’re saying, but what about those outer walkways, all nicely covered by a concrete portico?
And you’d be right. Our plucky squad of home invaders did make it out of a neighbour’s window onto the walkway. Sadly for them it’s been a murky day. Barely any sun, and the overhang from the roof provides an excellent light block. Still, they might have made it if it wasn’t for the gas explosion in the neighbour’s flat. They really should have cut the gas before storming the place.
Terrible oversight and a great big boom. And of course, what with all the illegal neighbour murdering the squad had got up to on the patch, and it being February – silly-silly – the afternoon had worn into evening by that point. Too bad, such a shame. The flames were pretty though, from a safe distance at the bus stop, mind, and Bleckker One had been a horrible eyesore. Not too many people will be sorry to see it go.
What happened to Mr. Armand, you say? Do you really need to ask? He got away, of course. He always does. I believe I warned you that happens. An errant spark flies free. Disease always spreads. Shadows will run. The night will win. The lambs don’t recognise the lions anymore.
But where are my manners. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Armand. Mr. Armand. But from the look on your face, you already knew that. I knew you’d get it in the end. And it is, of course, the end. But for now, won’t you join me for a drink?
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
This story recently won 2nd Place in the Writer’s Magazine “Tight Situation” short story comp. It is published on the website HERE along with judges comments.
You that breathe the upper air don’t know this but what we have here is what us lads in the trade call a tight situation. Well, gentle sirs and ladies fair, in all honesty, the lads around me are calling it lot of other things, none of which I’d repeat to a minister, if you catch my meaning? And begging your pardon for the vulgarity. But the situation is a mite precarious. You see the Davy Lamp’s a-flickering blue but the blasted trapper’s only gone and jammed the trap, ain’t he? That’s us done for, most likely. Stuck in this shaft when the fire-damp burns us all up. Then its kingdom come and an appointment at the Pearly Gates.
How little you know, walking o’er my head, how we get on below. We are all here, trapped in the dark. The drawers, the cutters, and the blasted mule. Up the shaft a ways, I can hear the trapper bleating. He’d better not waste his breath on complaints or by God, my last act on this Earth shall be walloping the little blighter. One job he’s got. Open the trap for the loads and seal it up again while we work. The lad’s only gone and fouled it up. Samuel’s youngest, the nipper’s all of ten now and should be used to the pit ways.
Sam’s elder boys, Jim and Georgey, took to the life well. Least ways they did ‘til the Pit did for them last year. Explosion took my John, too. God rest his sweet soul. You’ve no mind for what our toil costs us, sirs. Your copper warming pan has my boy’s blood on it. Now Sam’s missus draws for us, though lord knows how long that’ll last with the way Sam clouts her about. She’s slow, he says, and I reckon rightly that he’s speaking truth, but she’ll get no faster after a knock to the noggin.
I can tell you’re wondering about our situation. You’ll be wanting the specifics, I wager. Well, if you hadn’t clocked already, I reckon Sam and his boys and the missus will soon be a family altogether again. I’ll be seeing my John once the mine-damp’s blown through. It’s always hot as hell down here and black as the grave, but the Davy Lamp’s done its job. It warned us of the foul gasses massing, but that’s precious little use if we’re sealed away down here like the already dead.
A blast of air might dissipate the mass, like clearing out the shaft’s humours, if you will, but air we don’t have and the tiniest spark could spring the mine-fire on us.
Do me a favour, good sirs and gentlewomen, and think of our Sam and my John next you take your coffee from that shiny pot or set to asking the servants to polish that there brass candlestick. That shiny stuff came from some deep mine, much like this one. A miner does what he can, you see, to get you stuff for your tea kettle, your pots and your pans. Deep as the sea, the shiny was got by me and mine. Remember that next you take your repast. I dare say you’ll think no more of me elsewise.
I worry about my Molly, I must confess. I forbid her to come down the pit, you see, and glad I am for that bit of foresight, but what’s to come of her and the girls when I’m gone? The pit’s done well for me, I’ll not lie. Twenty years of toil and before it all I had scant two clean shirts to call my own. Now we’ve a roof o’er head and food for the table. That’ll end not long ‘ere I’m gone. Sirs, you’d not countenance to see your pretty girls lining up for soup, but if I don’t work, they don’t eat and if I don’t live, well, let’s just say my prayers in this tight spot, ain’t for me.
Collier lads forevermore. If I had a penny now, I’d make a wish, and it wouldn’t be for another gill. Or perhaps it would. No sense in sobriety in this tight spot, one might say. There’s some lads here, the old heads who’ve breathed in the miasma of the pit a mite too long, who keep to working. Spark what may. Doing what they can, with might and skill, as the song tells it.
What difference does it make to us what we do, good sirs and gracious ladies? We’ll either live to breathe upper air or we’ll know paradise, sure enough. Me, I’d sooner take the rest for my aching back. The preacher’s say I’ll eat pie in the sky when I die, but me? I’d sooner make sure I’ve got some strength in case Heaven demands more of me than I can give.
One of the drawers has scuttled up the shaft to see what can be done. Though how she thinks she’ll get around the cart lodged there, I don’t know. Still, Ellie, she’s a sharp lass. Edward Scanlon’s girl. She took up the girdle when his heart gave out. Someone’s got to put food on the family’s table and her brother only went to war. You’ll forgive me for saying this, but what’s the use of dying to French musket fire if your sister’s left drawing for men like us?
Ellie might have made a good marriage, lived to see her hands go soft and smooth. Now she’s complaining she’s gone bald where her head knocks against the loads. But that’s the price the pit asks. Hauling’s not light work and the toil takes its toll. We’re working close to hell here. And don’t we know it.
Gert Scanlon will be in bind just like my Mol, ‘ere this is all over. No sons to pick up the slack. Gert’s health is not so good. She’ll not long last, I reckon. Begging your pardon for my frankness, but as a man about to die, I find my patience near its end. The newspapers will be all over another fire down here. They had a picture of the last emblazoned across the Gazette’s front page. Sam’s missus weren’t none too impressed when they got her boy’s names wrong. But that’s the way of the world, ain’t it? You that walk above only notice us below when the ground goes boom and shakes to all Heaven. You only care when the bodies come up instead of the shiny you want.
I was working during the last blow out. Down another shaft. Scarpered as soon as one of the trapper’s gave a warning yelp. We sealed up the deuced shaft as quick as we could. Them that were down there were already dead. The air turns to fire, you see. Like drowning in flame, it is. The fire-damp earns its name. Nasty stuff. You can’t smell it as everything stinks down here. We men sweat. We relieve ourselves as we must. Apologies to the ladies, I’m sorry for speaking coarse, but its true. If it weren’t for the Davy Lamp, the flame dancing high, its heart flickering blue, we’d have no warning at all that the air, what little there is, has turned on us.
The devil take young Sam Jnr. I’d grown to hope I might see forty. I had a dream of working my way up to overman one day. We all hate the overman we got, mind, but he gets five and sixpence just for riding up and down all day, and what man who works his muscles to wasting cutting don’t want that? I’ve given the best years of my life to the pit and, yes, gentle sirs and madams, she’s given me back a fair deal, it’s true, but I’ve a family to think of. I’d soon as not give the pit my life as well.
We’ve doused the lamps. We know what’s lurking in the dark with us. There’s no need to feed it. The air we breathe is rancid. If them up the shaft don’t get the trap open, we’ll all smother, fire-damp or no. Ah, but if I’d had another penny last week, I’d have saved it for my girls. Should I live, good sirs, kind ladies, hand on heart, with God my witness, I’ll go Temperance League and no word of a lie. I’ll put my pennies to use paying our way out of this life.
But, sirs, I’ll surely miss the lads. Collier lads forevermore. The dust gets in your veins, it speckles the skin, digging deeper than dirt; it turns a man’s heart to lead, to copper, or coal. The poison may change, but the truth does not. A collier is a collier and you that walk o’er our heads can’t know what it is to brave hard knocks to rend stubborn rocks. Or tempt the fate of a hellish roasting.
The mule is getting antsy. Things will go poorly if the creature bolts. We’re in a tight enough situation here, without the mule bucking. There’s not enough room to swing a cat and us lads are here with the mule, the cart, the chains and our picks, breathing in the air in lusty mouthfuls, as if we can swig it all down and starve the mine-fire out of it.
The Stinson lad is breathing too quick. He’s new to the mine and the dark’s yet to seep into his being. He don’t know our ways. He’ll swoon right out. I can hear the clank and slither of the cart chains, hooking on the ground, like the rattling of old ghosts. Is that you, John? Come home at last.
Somewhere above us is a cart, stuck halfway. The drawers won’t hold it up long. Today’s yield was a good one. The cart is heavy. That’s why we called for the mule to drag up the next one. When it drops, we’ll be crushed. Ah, sirs, an embarrassment of riches has befallen us poor collier lads. It seems death has come to us three ways: fire, suffocation or crushed by the weight of our labours. A very tight situation, you might say.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
(Whiplash Road won 2nd Prize in Writer’s Magazine “Journey” Short Story Comp. Find Entry and Judges Comments HERE)
Your feet are wet. Your body cold. Your neck hurts. The road is dark; rain glitters on the asphalt, studding the blacktop with a million broken stars of light. Night chill pinches your bare arms. You look down the stretch of road in front and behind you, watching for a car. You need a ride and you’ve lost your phone.
You walk along the grass verge, heels clasped in your hand. Stupid, stupid Tessa. You should’ve gone home with Jason. It’s not like the fight was that bad. Now you’re stuck out here alone in the dark. And the wet. And the cold.
You’ve ruined your dress. There’s mud all up your legs. Your hair is a complete mess. You’re cold. Really cold. Did I mention that? And as for your neck? You’ve only gone and wrenched it bad, haven’t you? The back of your scalp’s all tingly, like icy needles are pricking through your skin and spilling melt water down your neck.
It’s been a horrible evening. Which is a crying shame because you were really looking forward to the dance. Retro, it was. A proper old-time bop. You did up your hair in victory rolls and your lips are fire engine red. Your skirt is out to here. Such a good find in the charity shop. You were so chuffed when you found it. Actually, you were feeling really special when the evening started. Then Jason had to ruin it.
Couldn’t stop whining about the footie. Couldn’t get into the swing of things and throw you over his shoulders and through his legs like a supportive boyfriend should when Ella’s playing. Then he went on and on about how everything has to be your way and you never want to do any stuff he likes. Well, obviously. Jason’s boring. All he wants to do is watch sports and play video games. And not with you, neither. Not after that hissy fit about the highest score and a certain someone’s power up bonus.
Look, you tried to share his passions. You really did. Ask anyone. They’d all agree. You were completely committed to gaming nights with him. It’s not your fault you were a better player after three weeks than he was after three years.
It was dumb though, refusing Jason’s offer to drive you home. And the funny thing is you can’t remember much about the argument now. Or how you got out here. Wherever here is. It’s like the middle of nowhere or something. Really creepy. The trees are all pointy and shaggy; firs, you think. An owl is hooting. There should be a full moon. And a witch flying past on a broomstick. Instead, there’s rain sheeting down and you’ve got an awful crick in your neck.
It’s the cold that’s the worst. You are so cold, Tessa. Scary cold. Sleepy too. You feel all loose and weird. Like nothing connects quite right. Floaty, almost. Maybe you’ve got hyperthermia? You should be feeling all sorts of nasty stuff under your feet. Dirt and stone and maybe even broken glass. But all you really feel is the cold and the wet and the dark.
Yeah, the dark. Seems strange, doesn’t it? That darkness should have a texture and a weight, but you can feel it. It sticks to you like tiny burrs, rolling up in your skin and rubbing bits of you away as you walk.
Suddenly there is light. It fills your world. You move like you’re in a dream, stepping out into the road like a nitwit right in front of an approaching car. There’s a moment as the car bears down and the light consumes you, burning through your eye sockets and lighting up the darkness inside your skull that memory tingles.
There was another car, wasn’t there Tessa? It’s engine a roar; its lights so bright. You tried to flag it down. The driver didn’t you see. He couldn’t have seen you. Or he would have stopped, wouldn’t he?
This one stops. Driver’s window slides down with a soft hum. An elbow on the door, a face in the dark. ‘Where are you headed?’
Where are you headed, Tessa? It’s been a long night, walking the road. You’re cold. Can you remember?
Words are a long time coming. You don’t sound like yourself. Your voice is as cold and as lost as you feel. ‘Edenbury Avenue, Little Forthay.’
A smile. ‘I know Little Forthay. It’s on my way home. Get in.’
You get in the back. The upholstery is fuzzy. The car is clean and dry. It should be warm but you’re cold. You look out of the window as the car starts. The darkness clings to the glass, smearing it with slithers of rain.
‘You mind if I listen to the radio?’
You say nothing. You’re sleepy. The seat’s headrest puts pressure on your neck. The back of your skull feels wet and slippery. You watch the world go by.
‘That’s some party frock you’ve got there. Fancy dress, is it? Near scared me to death when I saw you. Thought you were a ghost or something.’
You’re starting to get travel sick. Your skin feels tight over your bones. Your neck throbs and cold stabs your heart. You have a strange feeling, as if a great hook is lodged in your chest and with every mile the car eats up you feel an invisible rope draw taut.
‘What were you doing out on Old Fork Road at this time of night?’ the driver berates you in fatherly tones. ‘It’s not safe. The Council should put in streetlights. There are too many accidents. In fact, there was a nasty hit-and-run only last week. A young girl. Hitchhiker, just like you. You just can’t be too careful these days.’
A sharp wrench. A painful yank. Bright lights flare in front of your eyes. Pressure slams into your chest. You taste copper on your tongue. The driver twists to look into the back seat. The rope hauls you back. Your neck snaps forward.
You’re back on the road. Your feet are wet. Your body cold. Your neck hurts. Your chest feels like an empty cavern. The rain has stopped. The moon is out. No witches, though. You walk along the verge, shoes in your hand. Your dress shines white. You need a ride and you’ve no one to call. The darkness seeps in through your pores. It weighs you down. You can’t feel your feet. You watch the road for lights.
‘Where are you headed?’ the driver asks. Is he the second? The third? You can’t remember, Tessa. Why can’t you remember?
‘Edenbury Avenue. Little Forthay.’
The car is cramped and dirty and the inside smells like oil. There is a blackened banana peel on the back seat and a dirty t-shirt on the floor. You slip in without disturbing the crisp packets underfoot. You can’t tell if it is warm or not. What even is warm? Whatever it is, you’re not it, Tessa. You’re cold as night. Cold as the road. Your chest feels tight already. Your head hurts terribly.
‘That’s a pretty dress,’ the driver leers through the rear-view mirror.
You watch the world go by. Everything is silver gilded and cold. The hook in your chest digs a bit deeper. You can feel the pull of the road. The night. The darkness.
‘Not much of a talker, are you? Here. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I pull over and you come sit up front with me? Warm you up a bit, eh?’
The driver turns. The rope pulls taut. Your neck snaps forward. Bright lights. Pain. Copper on your tongue.
You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. You can’t feel your feet. You walk along the verge. You wait. The darkness fills your chest. You look for bright lights.
‘Where are you headed?’ the woman asks.
‘Edenbury Avenue. Little Forthay.’
The car is clean. A baby seat waits beside you. You wait for the snap, the pull, the agony. The darkness runs alongside you, keeping pace. The lady doesn’t talk much, but she watches, worry reflected in the rear-view mirror.
This time you make it all the way to Little Forthay. The luminous village sign welcomes you and warns you to drive carefully. Buildings rear up on each side of the road, pushing back against the dark. The road gives way to a roundabout. You start to hope.
‘Did you say Edenbury Avenue?’ the woman driver asks. ‘Isn’t that where they built the new crematorium?’
The hook gouges. The rope pulls taut. Your neck snaps forward.
You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. There are flowers by your feet. Bouquets wrapped in cellophane. A sad little teddy bear. Water-logged cards gone pulpy and unreadable.
You walk along the verge. The darkness cocoons you. You need a ride. The road is long. You wait for lights in the darkness.
‘Where are you headed?’
The car is a van. You sit up front. The dashboard is covered in cigarette ash. The inside of the cab smells greasy. The driver puts his hand on your thigh. You don’t feel it. You look out of the window. You don’t see anything. The driver swerves and pulls over. He reaches for you.
The rope pulls. Your neck snaps. You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. The flowers are gone and there is a streetlight standing tall in their place. Its light does not reach you. You walk along the verge and you wait for someone to take you home.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear and Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten Urban Fantasy/Horror short stories. It is available to buy on Amazon here
In a dystopian Britain, Lorraine has a severed hand problem. A trip to the woods turns to tragedy for Bethany and a deal with a love-struck demon goes awry for Chris. This is just a taste of the ten short stories of urban fantasy and horror gathered here. Spotlighting a strange and twisted suburban world, where a P.A’s unrequited love for the new girl in the office attracts a nightclub genie, vampires contract with the local cleaning service for discreet stain removal and everything and nothing is as it seems. Each self-contained story provides humour with a bite and chills with a smile focusing on the lives of normal people in an abnormal world where no one is entirely innocent and everyone has something to fear.
I come hither not to die, nor to live. This journey I take is neither penance nor punishment. The destination no more fitting a place to wile away eternity than any other, but far better than that place that all souls, sinner or saint, fear most. If you have come to meddle in my case, I pray that you judge for the best. There is little point in anything else. This journey will go on, no matter.
We go to Blickling Hall, Norfolk this dusky eve, for it is nineteenth of May and what must be, has come to pass long since. The coachman drives hard, it’s true, but we will make good time, the winds of hell at our back. A good thing too, as my father has need of this same carriage. He and I pass every year on this date. I to return to the place of my birth, even if the brick and mortar are younger than I, and he to leave its shelter to chase the night and outrun the cockcrow dawn. There are many bridges to cross between Aylsham and Wroxham and cross them all he must, though only the good Lord knows why. He and I are long beyond pushing against the tiller of fate.
Do not look out of the window, my dear friend. The night will show you naught but horrors. There are wild hunters out this night, and the dead are always in need of company. I will not share you with the shadows. Do not avert your eyes from me either. It has been too long since I’ve anyone to talk to. Your mind shies from the sight of me as I am, I fear. But I am as death has made of me. No more and no less. What are any of us, I ask of you, if not greater than our constituent parts? My fate was to be sundered; my life chopped short according to the law, and by the law I was judged, my youth made forfeit. My head may no longer ride upon my shoulders, but I assure you I have kept my wits.
You know me, even if my true face has been forgotten, stricken from the record. But let us not stand on ceremony. My name has ridden the centuries to reach your ear. I was fated to marry my cousin and reside as a lady of Ireland, but ambition led me on a merry path to higher and lower places. I set my eye on a duke and fell far short before a crown sat upon my head. I kept that not long. Alas, my little neck could not take the weight. Soon crown and head both toppled. I ask that you not judge me ill that I could keep neither. When the toll of fate is asked, we all must pay up.
Do not fear the jostle of the carriage. We ride the night with the wild things. This is my eve. I return to a place I never lived to walk galleries and linger within libraries that pretend to remember me. I am history’s bride now. On this day I was, and will be, put to death, in an endless parade of once and forevermore. I travel in haste to nowhere for no purpose. I march to history’s tune. I am here and there and nowhere. Is this fate, I ask, or merely what happens to those of us whom fate has used for sport?
HA. HA. You flinch at laughter, do you? Would it surprise you to know I once proudly proclaimed myself the most happy? There were many who derided me. HA. HA. Initials that begged ridicule. In the jeers of the common folk lurked the whispers of my fate. I claimed much, but delivered little and according to the law, and by the law, I was judged to die.
Now I am to be neither judged nor offered reprieve. I ride the night, a passenger on a pointless journey. I wander the halls of Blickling and I wait for the dawn of the day I died as if waiting for life anew. Yet like Tantalus, resurrection dangles before me, just out of reach. My father will cross twelve bridges, racing for absolution that will never come for he or I, but I am resigned to ride toward lost home, my wins and losses all in the past.
You know me, I am Anne. I held the heart of a king and then I lost my head. I hold that now in my lap, but of my fate, I never had control. I once thought that I did. I who charmed rival kings under canopies of gold and danced in yellow to celebrate death. I made enemies, but it was my lover who killed me. I will speak nothing against that. The Frenchmen’s blade has silenced my tongue on that tale. History has never cared for truth, and my fate was not cast in innocence so let those dark deeds be unremarked upon in this place. Our mad journey shall be all the more pleasant for it.
I wonder when I will take my leave of this world. Every May nineteenth should be my last, but never is. This carriage and its headless horseman always find me and carry me forth to Blickling Hall. The horses run heedless through eternal night, taking me to a home that was never mine, to walls that never sheltered my swaddled self, to memories that lay claim to my legacy all the same. Anna Bolena hic 1507. Or was it 1501? It matters not, I have been dead more years than I could ever have hoped to live. The queen is dead, long live the queen, indeed. I have ever been Fortuna’s puppet.
You ride with me to witness fate’s long reach, I suspect. Destiny wants to display her handiwork. This is what happens when memories do not die, when the reach of time stretches too far. When that which is done, is not allowed to be over. O lord have mercy upon me, would that God have pity on my soul. This is a tiresome fate, to exist enshrined in the minds of distant strangers. I was once a pariah queen, now I am ascended to myth and mystery. This carriage, this night, the coachman and his headless steads, we are all prisoners of time out of joint. We are stories undying. Fragments of a greater truth that alludes even me.
I keep my head, regardless. I was taught deportment in the court of Queen Claude. I learned my letters in France, where style ruled even kings. You will note how well I carry my head, neat and tidy, in the crook of my arm. You will note the finery of my carriage – and it is mine, no matter what my father uses it for. The headless horse man always comes for me first.
HA. HA. Initials entwined, a joke that was made in earnest. A union that in these confines cannot be sundered. That which was, remains here. I have become a constant, in the way that all things past are. It could be said that in death I have learned my place. Unlike my father, who runs too late. History remembers him far more poorly than I. His fate is to race from his home as if time might favour him, but all know that he hid as two of his children lost their heads.
My death has been gentler, I must admit. I travel. I am rarely tormented, as once I was in life. Sometimes I go to Marwell Hall, where I preamble upon lawns that once my husband trod with she who would replace me, while in life, I waited to die. Because even in death I am not without a sense of humour. There is some merit in roaming those paths, when his and her footsteps are stilled forever. Ambition failed me, but history has become my friend. It has written me into stories not mine, long after my own was severed.
Hever was my home, where Blickling was not. I reside there at Christmas, where my oak waits for my return. We two relics of history reunite from time to time. History keeps my memories now, and time shares them freely with strange new friends like you.
The tower was my prison and my doom, I prefer to travel far from its chapel and its sombre stone keep. But sometimes, I will linger in the quiet places where my prayers did not ascend. Do not ask me of the green. The scaffold. The coin for the French swordsman. The blindfold. The crowd who watched me lose more than my crown. I took my leave of that moment at least, and while Jesu has yet to receive my soul, I must still give praise for small mercies. Should you look upon the green, you will not find me there.
We are past Aylsham now. Soon we will arrive at Blickling Hall. The grip of time is a strange thing, is it not? How fast it runs and yet, like a dry riverbed, it can also leave no mark upon the land. It clutches tight to me, I confess, but its imprint can be light as the syllables of old place names. Meaningless and trite.
This land is ancient, but its roads are unfamiliar. I was born here, and yet I will always be a stranger abroad. There is no help for it, alas. This coach races its own course. The headless horseman knows his path. The vagaries of a changing world mean nothing to one who is fated to roam. Not that we speak of such things, of course. He has no head for conversation.
I used to like to talk, to laugh, to enjoy good company and fine entertainment. Some may say this was my undoing. They would be wrong. Life runs as it will and death claims all, even if, in my case, I have been forced to take a meandering path toward eternal rest. We are none of us masters of our fate, and the great wheel is always turning. It raises us high and drops us low.
It is a shame you did not join me at Hever, we could have been merry there. It is good you did not meet me in the corridors of Windsor. I am quite the terror there. I have a temper, you see. I quite lose my head at times. O, do laugh. I may be a headless horror but that is no reason to be so dour. This ride will not last forever and one must always laugh while one may. None of us know what tomorrow brings, and some are fated to never see the dawn.
Here we come. Blickling Hall. We shall make quite the entrance, as is only proper. The coachman may not be pleasant to look upon, but he leaves an impression. Here comes my father, running from his sins, racing against the dawn. I require you not to judge him too harshly. It matters not, for he and I, for good or ill, are beyond your prayers or your condemnation.
I leave you now with these words only, if you would meddle in my case, I require you to judge the best, for fate is uncaring, and history relentless. All too quick, can one be lost in fortune’s merciless hands. I heartily desire that you, kind soul, shall never know what it is to rise too high, to blaze too bright, lest you too suffer the fate of the unforgotten.
(All images public domain. Cover image created with Canva free to use images)
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
Chocolat White smiles with all her teeth on show. “Can you tell me why you’re interested in the position of Nebula Experience Host?” she asks, red lips closing over all those teeth.
Don’t say the money. Don’t say the money. Smile. Lie. “The opportunity.”
Chocolat’s smile dims a bit. Wonder how many people give that answer. “Okay, Renly, last question: are you curious?”
What? Chocolat’s rich brown eyes are intense, peering through the screen, her scrutiny obliterating millions, if not billions, of miles and the earth’s magnetic field, as if the question was that darned important. What is the right answer to this stupid question? “Um, I’m a moderate level of curious?” Nice. Excellent non answer. Bravo.
Chocolat’s smile turns fixed, caught in an anti-gravity limbo on the precipice of total collapse. “Could you elaborate?”
Quick, quick. Evasive action. Think of the money. Fix this. “I think that my greatest skill is reliability. I believe in giving my all to the role I’m in and fulfilling all my responsibilities,” you say. “I think that having too much curiosity can detract from that at times.” Don’t sound like you don’t care, Renly! You don’t want Chocolat to think you’re only in this for the money! Remember your buzzwords. Smile! “It’s good to widen horizons and seek opportunities. I already said I like those, didn’t I?” Slow down, now, don’t babble. You don’t want to sound desperate either… “But I’m not one of those people who inserts themselves into business that doesn’t involve me…unless asked, by my, uh, supervisor. Of course.”
That was good. That sounded clever. Just the right level of meaningless that it could mean anything to anyone. Why do job interviews have to be such a production, anyway? No one wants a job for the ‘opportunity’ or the chance to ‘meet interesting new people’. It was all about the money. It is a truth universal that people sell the precious days of their lives for money in exchange for labour. Curiosity? Please. Who does this Chocolat think she is?
Whoever she thinks she is, her expression shifts, something sparking behind her glossily tempered veneer. She blinks her big, doll eyes. Then she smiles. Big and bright. It’s hard to tell – Chocolat is clearly a professional and accomplished smiler – but it seems like she liked your answer. Good job, Renly.
“Oh, I agree. Very much so.” Nod. Nod. Gold earrings jangle. “It’s important to recognise when discretion is needed,” she says seriously, sounding relieved. “Now as our Experience Host,” she adds getting back to business, “it will be your responsibility to greet patrons, collect payments and make sure waivers are signed before each viewing. You’ll also be responsible for filling the concessions stands and directing patrons toward the rest of our product line available for viewing.” Chocolat’s smile turns glassy. “Not that we expect too many sales on that front. Everyone comes for the Red Nebula. Only the Red Nebula.”
Who cares? It’s a concession stand and an interstellar movie of a big red cloud of space gas. Not exactly riveting stuff. It must be space boredom crawling into people’s brains making them watch this stuff. It’s not like there’s much to do for passengers waiting for connecting shuttle flights on the Hub. Oi, look out. Don’t be caught napping or listening to me. Chocolat is waiting for a response. Smile, nod. Use words.
“I understand,” you say, solemnly. Nice touch.
Nod, nod. Jangle, jangle. Chocolat smiles. “Good. Good. I’m glad. Very glad.” Chocolat looks down, breaking eye contact for the first time. She plays with a screen set into her desk and reaches up to tap the discreet ear bud lodged in her ear. There’s a pause, just long enough to be awkward before the smooth and silky Chocolat White zones back into the screen. Smile. “Good news, Renly. We at Interestellar Entertainment believe you’re perfect for our team and would like to offer you the position.”
Boom. Holy wow. Who knew having no curiosity and an ability to cobble together meaningless words into inane sentences could work out so well? Good on you, Renly. You’re going to space to sit on your backside and sell move tickets. But think of the money! This job pays five times above the average rate for a space port employee for a fraction of the hours. You can quit a wealthy woman after a few months. This is going to be great. Now say something insincere and peppy before she changes her mind. And smile. That’s Chocolat’s language, after all. Tooth-to-tooth communication is important in front line sales.
“Thank you so much, I look forward to the opportunity to be part of your team.”
This is it, Renly Field. You’re on the way up and headed beyond the stratosphere. Don’t forget to get all your shots.
Well, okay. It’s been a few days since you got out of quarantine, and I hate to say it but I’m going to anyway – space is boring. Lot of blackness and floating rocks. The moon is a white billiard ball with a bunch of launch towers sticking out of it like needles. The Earth is a blue and green marble everyone’s seen before. The best thing you can say about Space Hub is its very secure, no chance of depressurisation. The great void of space isn’t getting in here, no sir. It’s shiny too. Very few scuff marks. Not a spot of rust. If it wasn’t for the tourists puking after leaving decompression it would be one of the cleanest places you’ve ever seen.
Unfortunately, space is murder on the bile ducts. It’s like anti-gravity of the stomach. Tourists declare what they had for lunch all over the glittering floors with alarming regularity. And don’t get me started on the anti-grav kiddie play area. Whoever came up with that whizz-oh idea needs to be jettisoned out of the nearest airlock. There are flight announcements every thirty seconds, flaring across everyone’s intravision lenses and people still miss their flights. Which goes to prove that the human idiocy has well and truly gone galactic.
Not that you need to worry about that, Renly. You’re not Hub staff. You’re part of Interestellar. You sit behind the concessions stand, refilling the Virtua Crème slots and schilling tickets as the universe spins around you. Really makes you feel part of something bigger, doesn’t it?
“Hi, I’m Amygdala, but you can call me Amy,” says the girl sharing your shift. She’s tiny and bird-boned. Her face is round. Her eyes are round. Her mouth wobbles, lips twitching downward. She looks like she’s waiting for a kick. But what can you expect from a girl named Amygdala, the fear centre of the brain? Poor little bird. Wonder if she has a brother called Pituitary gland?
“Hi, Amy. I’m Renly Field. Have you worked here long?”
“Yes,” Amy hisses, eyes darting from side to side, looking for who-knows-what. She leans in and whispers, “Longer than anyone.”
Okay. Weird. Are you supposed to commend or commiserate? Amy does not seem proud of her tenure. She looks terrified. Like someone stuck in that moment between fight or flight when the panic bites down hardest. “Oh, well. Chocolat told me the company rewards longevity.”
“What would she know?” Amy demands, shifting to aggression. “I’ve been here longer than her. I was here when Phil was here. He was manager after Leyla. She didn’t last long.” Amy’s eyes jump from corner to corner like a cow in an abattoir.
Grand. This is super, Renly. You’re stuck on a six-hour shift with a complete loon. Remember to smile and speak softly. No sudden movements. “Oh. That’s interesting. Did she move on to a new position in the company?”
Amy’s expression is sulky. “No. She died.”
Oh good. Now we’ve jumped straight into the creepy zone. Get away from the weirdo, Renly. Nice and slow. “How terrible. I think I’ll go check on the blueberry crème interface port. I saw some kids messing with it earlier.”
“Is this your first day?” Amy demands, following.
“Second.” Smile, Renly. And pick up that scoop over there. If you have to, gouge out the weirdo’s eye.
“There wasn’t a Red Neb showing yesterday,” Amy says disgustedly.
“No. Chocolat said that was why it was quiet. Have you, uh, seen the show? I’ve heard the live feed from the nebula is popular.”
“Of course, I haven’t,” Amy sneers. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Is that a real question? Is this girl dissociating? “You are indeed.”
“They’ll be here soon,” says Amy. “Then you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
Amy’s lip curls. “The truth.”
Okay. This is going to be a long shift, Renly. Just as well you perfected apathy in your teens. Indifference is your middle name. Well, actually it’s Barbarella. But the point is, Chocolat was very clear about what was expected and it all boils down to ignoring everything weird that happens in this place. You can do that. You’re good at not caring. You’ve worked in retail before.
Still, Chocolat had been very insistent, in an odd, vaguely manic and very smiley way. “The Red Nebula is our most popular interstellar feed,” she’d told you that five times on the first shift. “We have showings every other day. We sell all-day tickets and send in the drones to deliver refreshments. Gene – you’ll meet him soon – he’s in charge of cleaning the viewing room once the patrons leave. You can imagine, after sixteen hours, things get a bit messy.” Chocolat grimaced delicately.
“Sixteen hours? People really stay in there that long? What about bathroom breaks?” Or catching their flights? Aren’t people meant to leave this space port?
Chocolat gave a full body wince. “Like I said. It gets messy. The nebula is said to be absolutely captivating. Once you see it. Well. You can’t pull yourself away. We send in android helpers to deal with medical emergencies.”
What? “Medical emergencies.”
“Yes,” Chocolat sounds a bit too chipper. “I’m told viewing the nebula is a transformative experience! Once in a lifetime! Literally, sometimes. We have a lot of people suffering hypoglycaemic comas. Strokes are common. Seizures are less common, but we get those too.”
That’s nice. Variety in medical emergency is important. “All that from looking at space gas?” you ask.
Chocolat scowled. “The nebula is more than simple space gas. Red Neb is the pillar of creation! It is life!” – it’s actually possible to hear the pop of each exclamation mark as she speaks. That’s impressive – “You have to feed life, to bring it forth, Renly,” Chocolat scolds, intoning seriously, “Life is hunger.”
“Right. Life is hunger. Got it.”
Chocolat smiles. Her eyes dart. “Good. Good. It’s good that you understand. Understanding is important.” Nod. Nod. Nod. Jangle, jangle.
Smile, Renly. Remember to talk with your teeth. “Absolutely. We’re definitely on the same page here.”
“Excellent! Now, it’s important you understand this one thing. Red Neb is not for your eyes. You must never, ever, go into the feed room. The experience is only for paying customers.”
You hear that, Renly? The coma theatre is not for you. However will you survive? Ha. Probably a lot better than the poor suckers who pay to soil themselves and die. Seriously, space brings out the nut in everyone.
Look out. Daydream over. Someone’s coming. Get a look at this guy. He looks so…moist and sweaty. Is he sick? How’d he’d get by security? Sick people aren’t allowed in the Hub. He walks like a zombie. Oh, look at that. His fingernails are all black. Gross. And now he’s gone and got his greasy mitts all over the counter. You just polished that!
“I’m here for Red Neb.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The showing doesn’t start for another hour.”
Do you think this guy has an eye condition? They’re really bloodshot. And sort of crazed. In a glassy, half-dead sort of way. “I’m here for Red Neb.” And now he’s repeating himself. Whizz-oh.
“I understand that, sir, but —”
“Just charge him and let him in,” says Amy. She’s standing in the corner in front of the drinks machine with her arms wrapped around her middle. “He’s a regular,” she adds quietly.
Great. Smile, Renly. “Please extend your arm, sir, and I’ll swipe your barcode.” Oh, look at that. He’s shaking. This isn’t disturbing at all.
And here’s more of them. How old do you think the woman in the middle is? She looks like someone sucked all the moisture out of her. She has sandpaper skin.
“We’re here for Red Neb,” says the woman. Her companions don’t look like they can speak.
“Please, extend your arm for payment. Is this your first time? Have you signed the waiver?”
And now it begins…the horde descends. Look at them. There is something not right about this. These people look half dead.
“We’re here for Red Neb.”
“Have you signed the waiver?”
“What waiver?” asks a patron with short, neon orange hair. They have a glow of health and youth to them. Obviously, they’re a first timer.
“This waiver. The Red Nebula is a once in a lifetime experience,” smile, Renly. “The transcendental stimuli can be…intense, for some.” Well, done. Chocolat will be proud.
“I’m here for Red Neb,” says a woman, shoving Orange Neon out of the way. She has a frantic look in her eye. Almost feral. Her skin is sallow. Cheeks sunken. There is a line forming behind her. Just how many people have come for this stupid feed, anyway? This is a space port. How many regular customers can there be?
Plenty as it happens. You’re getting the hang of this though, Renly. “Please extend your arm for payment. Waivers can be downloaded from this terminal here. We have a two-for-one offer on Virtua ice crème and twenty percent off real ice cream.”
And on it goes.
You meet Gene on day seventeen. He’s tall and grim, with cynical eyes. You like him immediately. “How bad is it in there,” you ask him during lunch break. Red Neb has been viewing already for seven hours.
Gene pauses, finger hovering over his nutri-pod controls. He’s going for tuna fish and mayo flavoured sludge today. “You don’t want to know,” he says. It’s proper ominous. Very impressive.
He’s right. You don’t want to know. You just want to talk to him and its not like there’s much else to talk about. Interestellar’s back catalogue is laughably bad. It’s all space debris and recasts of ancient NASA footage. Honestly, Renly, it’s like they’re not even trying. “Don’t you ever get curious?” you ask.
“No,” he says. “That’s why they hired me.”
I’m sensing a pattern here.
“Oh, me too,” you say eagerly. You and Gene just two, bored, incurious peas in a space pod.
Five people die on day seventeen. Including sweaty zombie guy from day two. On day nineteen a first timer croaks nine hours into a viewing. One of the android’s malfunctions and upturns the hover stretcher. The body is desiccated. Just like packet macaroni. None of the repeat viewers care.
“Seriously, doesn’t anyone in the Hub concerned about what’s happening here?”
“Everyone signs the waiver,” says Amy.
Gene adds, “A lot of the repeaters shuttle out here just to see Red Neb. Business in the hub’s been slow since the XSpace scandal. Red Neb is good for their business too.”
So no, then.
On day thirty-one you decide to try out the Virtua Crème ‘Happy Nostalgia,” flavour to celebrate your first big, juicy pay packet. You can’t remember what simulated taste it evokes in the gustatory cortex of your brain but it did leave you with a dose of the warm fuzzies. Which was nice as day thirty-one was a particularly fatal day. Twelve whole corpses.
On day forty-nine, something unexpected happens. Amy hurries up to you as you start your shift. She looks particularly on edge. Which is saying something. Amy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘relax’. “She’s done it. Cocoa brains had to go and take a look.” Disgust drips from her tone.
“What do you mean? Has something bad happened to Chocolat?” You saw her yesterday, hovering in front of the feed room’s doors. You thought she was checking on the drones. They’ve been glitching a lot recently.
Amy’s eyes are huge and wide, showing too much white. “She went inside,” she whispers.
Cocoa brains indeed. “Why’d she do that?”
Amy scoffs. “Why’d you think? She got curious.” On Amy’s lips the word sounds like a curse. It sort of is.
On day fifty-one, Mocha Leit replaces Chocolat. She’s a smiler like her predecessor. “It’s lovely to meet you all. I’m looking forward to getting stuck in and really learning how everything works around here.”
“I give her a week,” Gene murmurs.
“She won’t last that long,” Amy insists, fists clenched at her sides and arms shaking. “She’s too keen. She’ll look.”
“Four days,” you wager. “Winner gets to knock off early on Friday.”
Kaleesi Amadour, Mocha’s replacement, is not keen. She takes a hands off, remote approach to work. She seldom shows up. This works very well for all concerned. Especially her.
On day seventy something really bad happens. The feed breaks. It might not have been so bad, if anything about the Red Nebula Experience was in any way normal or sane. It might even have been a good thing for the large number of first timers you swiped in and sent on their way to meet Red Neb, but then one of the repeaters came bursting out of the feed room screaming.
He showers Amy in spittle, leaning menacingly over the counter. “You have to get it back. I have to see. Red Neb can’t survive if I don’t look. Creation must be witnessed! Don’t you understand? Red Neb needs me!”
You’re hiding in the supply closet, holding a collection of fresh Virtua Crème cables in your hands like tiny lifelines when the enraged repeater grabs Amy and slams her head into the counter. Repeatedly. You do the bare minimum, Renly, you deserve some credit for that. You hit the alarm for security. But we both know they won’t come. There are too many fatalities in the theatre. Hub Security stopped responding ages ago.
The repeater runs off into the Hub, becoming someone else’s problem. You boot up the androids to cart Amy away and call Kaleesi. She arrives four days later. “It’s a shame, but she had been here a long time,” she says.
“Interestellar rewards longevity,” you say.
Kaleesi agrees. “But everyone should know when its time to cut and run,” she adds. The two of you exchange a knowing look. Think of the money, Renly. Think of the money.
“How long have you worked here,” you ask Gene nervously on day ninety-nine. There’s really only one answer and that’s too long.
“I started after Amy,” he says, sounding a mite defensive. He knows what’s up.
You nod and grip his hand tightly. “Don’t you think it’s time to look for another position? Somewhere far from here?”
“No one else pays as well as Interestellar.”
Money doesn’t spend well when you’re dead. “You have savings though, right?”
Gene gives a shrug. “I’ve got student debts.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope they recruit someone to replace Amy soon,” you say thinking about how you’re the last one on your shift now. You’ve been here a while. When the new recruit starts, you’ll be the one with longevity. Despite everything that worries you. Surviving is a lot harder than dying.
“So, you’ve really never wanted to take a peek?” Enzo asks on his third day on shift.
“Of course, I haven’t,” you say. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Your eyes dart around the foyer. Today is a feeding day. The horde will be upon you soon.
Day one hundred and fifteen you start abusing your Virtua Crème privileges. Sweet Chill and Happy Vibes are your favourites. You keep yourself hooked up to the flavour jacks for most of the shift.
On day one hundred and twenty-three a couple and their young child wander up to the counter. “Hi,” says the woman with corkscrew curls. “This is our first time. We heard the Red Nebula Experience couldn’t be missed. Three tickets, please.”
That kid can’t be more than six. “I’m sorry, ma’am, no minors. Red Nebula is an intense experience. It’s adults only,” you say, heart pounding and smile straining. “You have to sign a waiver to watch.”
“Oh.” The woman shares a frown with her wife over the kid’s head. “That doesn’t sound entirely safe,” she says.
You don’t say? Four months and this is the first time anyone has figured that out. This is a red-letter day. The couple and their child leave. You spend some time curled up in a little human ball in the supply closet after they leave.
Curiosity kills Enzo on day one hundred and forty. “I thought he’d last longer,” Kaleesi sighs. “His mother is sick and he needed the money to pay her bills.” She shakes her head. “That’s curiosity for you. I bet he wanted to see what creation looks like.”
“I think it looks bloody,” you say. Kaleesi toasts you with the dangling cable from her food tube.
On day one hundred and sixty-six you lose patience with Gene. “Seriously, how much money do you owe?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I like to gamble.”
“God.” You thump down on a box of industrial cleaning wipes in the supply closet. “You’ve been here too long, Gene. You know that right? You’re on borrowed time.”
“It’s fine. I know not to look.”
“So did Amy,” you snarl. “It didn’t save her.”
Do you ever wonder what is being birthed in the feeding room, Renly? How many lives, will it take before the pillar supports more life? What if the answer at the heart of creation is nothingness? What if life isn’t the only thing that hungers? What if, between the veils of glowing space dust and burning hydrogen in the nebula there lurks a hunger greater than the weight of the universe? What if Interestellar’s satellite feed has let that hunger seep into existence? What if it spreads? What if its hunger can never be sated?
Not that you worry about that, Renly. Because you’re not the curious type.
By day two hundred Enzo has been replaced by Keiko and Keiko has been replaced by Kofi Beane (yes, really. He agrees. His parents are idiots). Kaleesi makes a rare appearance. “I’m out,” she says. “I’m going back to Earth. It might be on fire but I don’t care. I like my odds down there better than up here.” She gives you a look. “There’s a position at the gift shop on Alpha Sector, you know? I’d apply if I were you.”
She’s right. You’ve been here too long and you’ve outlived too many idiots. Red Neb doesn’t need to see you to kill you. But you’re the queen of apathy, aren’t you, Renly? No one does indifferent like you do. You think about all the money in your account you haven’t spent. You think about Gene.
He says, “I like it here. There’s job security.”
“We are literally feeding people to a soul devouring nebula,” you point out the obvious, resenting that you have to.
“And we’re good at it,” Gene retorts, increasing his stake in the cortical poker game as you argue. “You should apply for Kaleesi’s job. You’ve got the experience,” he says.
Now there’s an idea. You hadn’t thought about promotion. You’ve never been management material before. But Gene is right. You know what’s required for the role and you’re callous enough to do it.
You put in your application on day two hundred and three. The higher ups briefly shut down Red Neb’s satellite feed on day two hundred and fourteen, after thirty-three people die. A riot breaks out in Theta Sector when the feed stops playing. It’s ugly. Red Neb loses several repeaters without getting the chance to finish them off. You and Gene aren’t there. You were smart enough to take leave and scarper. Kofi Beane was not.
On day two hundred and ten, you’re the one interviewing for his replacement on live feed back to Earth. You smile until your face hurts. “Can you tell me why you’re interested in the position of Nebula Experience Host, Roxana?” you ask in your best professional voice. You can’t remember now who you’re mimicking.
Young, empty headed and dull-eyed Roxana stares at you as if you’re the idiot. “The money.”
Smile. Keep smiling. “Okay! One more question: Are you curious?”
“Huh?”
“Curious, Roxana. I asked if you were curious. Do you like to know things and ask questions?”
“…No.”
“Excellent! You’re perfect. You start Monday. I can tell you’ll serve Red Neb very well.”
But not too well, eh, Renly? You and Gene are on to a good thing here. You don’t want the competition. Feeding Red Neb is the best job you’ve ever had. And it turns out, the nebula isn’t the only one hungry for more.
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
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