It Takes a Plagairist

Okay, from the prompt this week someone suggested I should write something about Mr. Edward. For those who have not read Old Odd Ends, he is the villain in a story with no heroes. The events in this story take place about fifty years before that.




Small town, USA – Summer – 1965

Edward Edwards, Edward to nobody and Mr. Edward to everyone he met, looked up from his desk. At his age he slept about three hours a night. So he sat in the back of The Edge of the Page when he suddenly knew something was wrong. He smelled… mud and cannabis where only the scents of well loved parchment and long faded ink should be. Rising to investigate his weathered hand reached for the nearest weapon, a crudely bound grouping of pages.

He slid like a specter into the tomb silent front of his shop. Eyes still sharp as a hawk's scanned for the invader. There she was, in a small section reserved for local authors, well… author. As he suspected she was a hippie but pretty in her own way. If you did not mind dry, brittle hair and breasts hanging free because of a burned bra. Mr. Edward did not. He did not mind the long flowing peasant skirt that ran to her ankles either. He did mind her bare feet tracking mud through his business. He found her unlaundered clothes and free love scent offensive. He also minded that she was stealing from him. Mr. Edward cleared his throat.

The hippie jerked, spinning to face him. She managed to keep hold of the five books in her arms though. That impressed Mr. Edward, she understood the value of literature. She offered a coquettish smile meant to disarm him. It might have worked if he had use for sex as anything but a tool of control. He stepped forward, speaking in a voice like old paper sliding against itself.

“I see you are a fan of my protégé, Alex Tomlin. You know if you got a job you could pay for those.”

She blinked, tears forming in her eyes but not falling. “I can’t, but I just want to be friends with him.”

Mr. Edward nodded, bringing the manuscript in front of him. “I see you have his latest there, The Word Thief. Have you read it?”

“N… no.” She cast her drug-dulled eyes about for an escape. He could tell she was stupid but like many of her ilk she had an animal cunning about her. She sensed danger.

“Too many people have for it to be valuable. The value in a rare book is how few have read it. Now this first draft? Much changed between it and the end product. Enough that the story is almost completely different. Let me read you the salient points.” He flipped to the section where the monster first appeared, because there was always a monster.

As Mr. Edward read about the bone like hands gripping at upper arms the girl felt them on her own. At the description of the human sized mosquito beak sliding through the spine and piercing the heart her heart was also pierced. He continued to read and the unseen creature sucked words, the very essence of life, from her body.

First she lost love and learned to hate the man she most wanted to adore her. Then feeling went, which was good because pain stopped locking a scream in her chest. Away went each word until last the thief stole life and the girl dropped to the ground.

Setting the valuable manuscript aside, Mr. Edward dismissed the Word Thief, back to the nether. He needed to step up Alex’s program. With so many hippies in love with him the boy was dangerous to have around. But first, he dragged the body back towards his office. Nothing went to waste in his shop.

#novel #shortstory #shamelessselfpromotion #author #horror #monster #writer #writing

Mandy's Mission

This is very different for me. I'm not entirely happy with it but the children's story jumped into my head. Wish I was a little better at the younger voice.





Mandy squinted at the face on the phone, lifting the handset to stop the annoying ringing. She squeaked out her annoyance at anyone calling at the terrible hour of eight thirty.

“Sleepun’!”

The smiling face on the phone was fun during the day but it upset her in the middle of the night. The phone made its rickety warble as it rolled towards her on plastic wheels. The voice that came through was distorted but she knew who it was. Only Tommy would call so late.

“Car’s waiting outside. Get in it. Don’t ignore me.”

Mandy rolled over, looking into the warm, loving, glass eyes staring back at her.

“Everythin’s fine, Teddy. Don’t hog the blankets. Be back soon.”

Mandy saw Tommy’s “car” outside. He was nine, spoke in proper sentences and had the plastic toy jeep. He was a dreamboat, as her mama would say. Mandy didn’t like that he made her help Flinstone it from place to place but livery was dead, as her mama also said.

“Mission?” Mandy mumbled as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“A money man. He needs help. Pops says the monster is riding him.”

Mandy didn’t need any more explanation. The monsters lived in closets. Kids saw them for what they were. When kids became grownups they usually stopped believing and left the monsters behind. Sometimes though, if the adult was very sad and lonely, the monster jumped out of the closet and into their body. When that happened…

“It’s po…ssess…ive him.” She sounded out the word, proud of herself for using a big’un in front of Tommy. Mandy knew bankers and lawyers were easiest for the monsters to get into. When the monster rode a person they hurt other people.

“Yep.”

“Wassa plan?”

It was the normal plan. It was Mandy’s first time carrying the weapon though. Tommy boosted her up through the money man’s window. She was very quiet as she reached out to receive the box. She heard the quiet shushing of the weapon’s workings sliding against each other. This would work.

She tiptoed to the edge of the bed. Small fingers pried open the box. Holding it high she whispered loudly.

“Wake up!”

Back in the car, mission completed, Tommy asked her how it went. Mandy smiled bashfully. Her voice soft but at least she wasn’t sleepy anymore. She looked at Tommy. He was no Teddy, but she might think about dating him when he grew up. Mama said most boys did that when they turned forty.

“No callin’ so late no more. You might wake mama and papa. They’ud worry if they knew our job.” Mandy scolded him, ignoring the question.

“Kay, but tell me. It worked?”

“Success. I released the weapon.”

“What happened?”

“Same as usual. He laughed the monster out of him.”

“I knew it! Grats on you first solo mission.”

“No monster can stand up to a box of puppies!”

#shortstory #author #experimentation #monster #socialcommentary #writer #writing

On Call Maybe

Dr. M and I crept through the condemned building with only his penlight illuminating our path. Shadows leapt around us. The incessant drip of water inside the walls begged me to let madness in. My nose was assaulted by a perfume of decay, mold, and human feces. The doctor was armed tools of the ghost hunting trade. I had only a knife. I began to question my decision making process.

Extended unemployment ran out two weeks after I got on it. For a couple of months I toughed it out; checking on updates to renewals between job searches. Eventually I gave up. Everyone said I’d find a job soon. A year to a year and a half was standard they said. Assholes.

Our footsteps echoed off broken walls, interrupted by the occasional cough. After it was abandoned this place became the refuge of the forgotten. Ranks I was destined to join when mom’s compassion ran out. Every time I attempted to ask a question Dr. M shushed me. It seemed ghosts were like fish.

Last ditch effort every day was nontraditional jobs on nonstandard internet boards. I came across a fulltime job for someone not afraid of ghosts. I made the call. Thinking anything is better than selling plasma is a trap.

We made our way into the central room. The girl’s body lay cold and still on a concrete slab in the center of the room. She was beautiful, with no apparent breath raising her chest. It was time to do the job.

They scheduled an in person right then. I got hired on the spot. I went a little wild during the interview, assuming this was a casting call for a reality show.  Dr. M took me on my first mission. My informal training on the ride amounted to basically nothing.

Dr. M raised his spectral disrupter, which looked suspiciously like a fireplace poker, over the corpse’s chest. Stabbing the body with pure iron was one of the few ways to kill a ghost. The poker drove down… The girl screamed and jerked upright. Blood poured from her mouth as she clawed futilely at the metal ending her life. Her eyes met mine, tears sliding from both sets. Her soul asked me why? Why had we killed her? What had she done to deserve this? So clean, newly homeless she had taken up the only residence she could find. A paranoid schizophrenic had ended her life by calling in a ghost sighting.

The doctor looked shaken but not horrified. The girl fell back. Retrieving his tool he wiped the blood on her clothing. When he walked toward the exit I stood in front of him.

“What the hell was that? That girl was alive, just breathing shallow.”

“That was a completed mission.” He spoke placidly, meeting my gaze. “It was a learning experience. Sometimes we get false information. Our good calls keep the world safe, our bad ones are why hunting monsters is no longer a publicized occupation.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #monster #ghoststory #writer #author

Dark Wicked Night

I never saw the man behind me. Sudden looseness around my wrists and ankles told me I had been untied. Rustling thundered in my ears. Rough burlap clawed at my face. The hood was removed. Stale air replaced stagnant, dim light after total darkness blinded me. There was a click as whoever did the deed exited.

Blinking fiercely I took in my surroundings. Small room, light grey walls, filled with the soft but constant sound of dripping water. It had the purgatory smell hospital rooms. Between me and them was a square table. Upon it were a Birmingham Screwdriver and simple but ancient wooden cup filled with water.

They sat across the table. A sharp dressed man focusing his malevolent gaze over my left shoulder. He danced a silver coin as old as the cup across his knuckles. Sitting on his lap was a garden gnome holding up a sign. It read, ‘Make your choice. Prove you are ready.’

I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. I did not understand the objects or the test. I answered on instinct, opening my eyes.

“Both.”

The sign now read, ‘He did it again. All yours.’ I swear it smiled before vanishing. Then the man look at me. I really wish whatever was over my shoulder had stayed interesting.

“Typical,” He seethed.

“Just a minute…”

“Shut up.” He never raised his voice. “All your life you claimed to be a democrat. But you ran for congress as a liberal republican. It worked but it is the same choice you always make. You straddle the line and deny who you are.”

“Just let me go. I can make it worth your while.” I was whining, but that was okay.

“You are a cliché, so let me speak your language. My give a damn is broken, and I am all out of fucks to give. The only price you can pay is remembering to pick a side. Safely in the middle is not a place of sanctuary.”

He picked up the golden hammer and went to work like a mafia dentist. My jaw shattered, then my ribs. Pain bloomed through me. The jerk began to whistle a catchy tune. I listened to the drumbeat of my pulse racing in my ears, counterpointed by pounding crack of my thigh bones, then my hands, then my feet. When he finally went to work on my skull I was sure I was dead. Reality began to fade into oblivion. I heard him speak.

“Both.”

A drop of water from the cup and I was whole again. Pain still echoed through my body. It was a phantom but my nerves did not get the memo. Then he turned the hammer around.

Using the claw he flayed my flesh. I was witness to every wet, ripping sound. Fire coursed along exposed muscles. My ears were treated to the soft sound of rain on the roof, my blood pattering onto the floor. The scent of iron filled my nose.

My vocal chords ruptured before my voice gave out. Then, like a priest giving a benediction he sprinkled me with the water and began again.

He was a creative man. I was missing for three days that felt like my elected term. When he was done he took both cup and hammer. Still whistling he departed without a word.

I remembered every promise I ever made. To the people that voted me in, to my friends, even to my mother. I do not sit in the middle anymore. I have kept them all. I also can’t hang my own pictures.

#shortstory #dark #author #horror #magic #monster #socialcommentary #writer

Night Temors

It is always the same after one of my long slumbers.

I stride down the hall unsure of how I arrived there. In the darkness I see a diminutive shape. I hear the shuffling of feet. Unsurprising as the shape is not lifting them. The half steps gain speed as the shape approaches the light from my taper. I take look around. Yes, it is exactly the same.

My home is charming. Silver chandeliers hang in every room; holding candles not gaudy light bulbs. Normally the fixtures and corners are adorned with cobwebs, but not now. Every time I hibernate there comes a knock I cannot answer. When I wake my old, dusty friends are gone. There is always a girl.

“Daddy?”

This one appears to be three or four. She stops inside the light and casts a wary gaze upon me. I am not the paternal figure she was expecting. She utters a sharp cry. I know from experience other souls will soon haunt my waking. Still I make the attempt, putting on my best and brightest smile.

“I am not your father, little one, think of me as an uncle.  Would you like a cookie?”

Previously uncertain eyes gleam to accompany her cherubic smile. That tiny head nods as one thumb creeps into her mouth. It is a testament to her grin that it can still be seen around that fist. I have her attention and I must keep it. What comes next is never easy.

“What is your name child?”

“Issbeff!” She plops her thumb from her mouth to speak her name. While she does she points at her chest with all the pride she can muster. She has the mush in her mouth most children her age do, but it is tolerable. I understand her.

“Well, Elizabeth, I need you to look at me. No matter what you hear keep looking at your uncle.”

She does not listen. They never do. Drawn by her earlier cry the mother and father charge into the hall. Upon seeing me they scream, and Elizabeth cries out with them. My presence has a different affect on adults, one to which children seem to be immune.

It takes only moments until the parents weep all the moisture from their bodies, leaving the child and I alone with two desiccated corpses. It takes much longer for me to soothe her. I finally do by making another offer of the cookie, and perhaps some tea to go with it. Taking her hand I lead the child into the kitchen. It will be days before the authorities arrive to claim her. I have to keep her alive until then. As we walk I ask her the all important question.

“Would you like to own this house one day?”

They always say yes but they never come back. I believe an adult who met me as a child would survive my murderous aura. Perhaps one day I will know for sure. Perhaps in fifteen years.

#shortstory #ghoststory #monster #author #writer #writing

Echoes of Legend

The world used to belong to us, but then monsters entered the night. One of the in particular is the thing you use to scare unruly children. He brings death with no conscience or regret. It is he that so often haunts my nightmares.

I look up to see him crouched on the sill just outside the window. Murder resides in those cold eyes but the most horrifying thing is the smile that graces his alien lips. He enjoys this. He loves the terror he brings to those like me. There is glass between us but that would not stop the likes of him. Thankfully there are bars between the two of us as well.

He is known as the Brother of the Book and he believes he is righteous. In the dream he leers down at me with the implements of death hanging from the ends of his hands. The bigot truly believes we should die because we are different. My skin is different than his. I eat different foods. I see the world in shades of grey that his black and white mind cannot tolerate.

When will people learn not to judge on things like that? Why does he wish to harm us because we are different than him? Do we not deserve the chance to live and thrive as much as anyone? If I were to ask him he would scream, No, no, no! Then he would end my life.

The dream comes at least three times a week. In the end he is always tapping at the glass and I wake with a scream in my throat.

Tick, tick, tick. The sound of metal on solid glass causes my eyes to pop open. My stomach turns to water as I see the monster of my nightmares in his customary place outside my window. This time he has set tools of homicide aside and used a torch to cut through my protective bars however. With that done he is hammering at the thin layer of glass that will not keep me safe for long.

I have a moment to lament and grow philosophical. It is a short moment as the glass shatters, spraying inward to litter the room. He will not waste words, he never does. Shooting through the opening he follows the shards down to land near my bed.

I think of how it used to be. When we ruled the night, when we were legends. Those were better times but then men like him came. They determined my kind must be exterminated for the good of others. If only he could see, if they all could. Those things the condemn us for are what they have become.

Those are my thoughts as his cheap cologne fills my nose, the crunch of broken glass reaching my ears. Then he is nailing me back into my coffin with silver. Hunters will never change.

Note: The man referenced is the main character of one of my current projects.

#ghoststory #horror #shortstory #monster