Terror Scribes Read online

  There was the gentlest of thuds under the covers and a faint flutter of movement. Desperate to see her child, Diina, the disembodied Diina, thrust her face through the sheet. Her little boy had somehow managed to get himself born and he was lying in a pool of her blood that covered most of his tiny body, looking about him with calm, dark blue eyes. The umbilical cord coiled around him and inside her. A moment later, a couple of contractions and the placenta was there, bigger than the child and no longer providing him with what he needed. He had to breathe on his own, but his lungs had not yet developed and there was no help. Only blood.

  Instinctively, Diina reached in and lifted him clear of the scarlet pool, holding him close to her, hampered by a fine silver cord that stretched between him and an infant that struggled for breath beneath the sheet. As the battle was lost, so the cord thinned to nothing. Meanwhile, the flow of blood from Diina’s body had slowed. Her complexion was grey and though the machinery kept her breathing, her own silver cord was also disappearing. She stood next to the body and that of her son, cradling that other body, the living spirit of her little boy. All the scars that had covered her had faded and her skin, in spirit at least, was perfectly smooth.

  The infant gazed into her eyes and Diina felt a surge of love more powerful than anything she had experienced in life. “If we’d both lived,” she said, still transfixed by those dark blue eyes. “I’d have named you Robert. How would you have liked that? For what it’s worth, you are Robert to me.”

  How long she stood there cuddling him she did not know, but gradually she became aware that darkness was falling and that the bloodstains had dulled to brownish-red. A pale glow had begun to develop in the corner of the room closest to the door and as she watched it became more intense. The baby seemed to be straining towards it, though he made no attempt to wriggle from her arms. Diina had heard tales of the white light. Weren’t ghosts encouraged to move towards it by people who wanted to be rid of them? And now she was seeing it for herself, but this light, it wasn’t just white. There was something alluring about it, the brilliance reached out, filled her vision and yet it was what she glimpsed beyond it that she desired even more than that whiteness. What was it? The baby’s spirit seemed to know, to be urging her on. Diina knew that if she did, there could be no return. This was a one way door and so she had to be sure. But what was it? Beyond the light: what was it? She had to know and began moving a little closer. Not near enough for danger, but just enough to try and catch a glimpse. Closer still, she could almost work out what it was - her infant’s soul safe in her arms, willing her forward.

  All at once they were there, inside the light looking out. She could see it more clearly now, a sea of light atoms moving swiftly, faster than time itself - and such a colour. Palest blue mingled with lightest gold into a shade more beautiful than anything she had seen before. Above anything else she wanted to dive into that spinning, speeding blue-gold and as the urge took hold, so she joined with it, no longer Diina, all memories dropped away so that she was not even aware that her baby’s soul had travelled into the melee with her.

  Diina never saw Jen and Esme arrive to the shocking sight of her body and her dead baby lying in a drying pool of stale blood. Did not hear the scream of horror that escaped Esme’s lips nor see Jen dial emergency services even though she knew there was little that could be done. She did not see Freddy return, summoned by the force’s welfare service, to attend his wife and child’s funeral nor see the look of thwarted frustration that quickly changed to grief when he thought someone might be watching. No she did not see any of that, nor grieve for her baby, for now they were both atoms of blue-gold light, moving faster than time and aware of nothing but the sheer joy of purest, untainted love.

  Sue Phillips is an award-winning writer. Black comedy and fantasy fiction rub along happily with books on healing and spirituality. Her more serious work has been seen in large circulation magazines such as Prediction and It’s Fate, as well as in books from Capall Bann Publishing and Spiralthreads Books. Her articles and reviews have appeared in numerous magazines, including Whispers of Wickedness, where she ran Sue Phillips’ Posh Parlour: a darkly dangerous place inspired by the work of Mr Sweeny Todd. Sadly the website closed in May 2009. The contents of the message board may resurface in some apocryphal tome in the not-so-distant future. In the meantime, it is possible to discover some of the secrets of Posh Parlour on Facebook (with, of course, the right map and the magic words). Her dark fantasy collection/novel, The Waldorf Street Paradox, was published by Rainfall Books. It contains ten diverse stories that come together like a jigsaw between the prologue and epilogue to make a larger tale, subtly inspired by magic, the occult and a satirical sense of humour. Two of the stories, ‘Images of Angels’ and ‘The Dark Mirror’ have already won awards and Sue Phillips is the reigning International Supreme Terror Scribe.

  At the Water’s Edge

  by Sharon Kae Reamer

  Robert D. Rowntree

  My wife’s body felt lumpy against my right shoulder; pressure points struggling beneath her dead weight. Fat bitch. Firmer criticism of her eating habits may have helped, but the point was moot now.

  Dropping her down onto the grassy bank, her body wheezed, expelling a last remnant breath. She’d liked it here between the sparse pine and the shore, something about the drowned buildings, the school’s boiler chimney, the church spire and the old ruined house still visible above the waves. Romantic she’d called it.

  Bloody gloomy; the low overcast made everything grey, and wet: a dampener for my Valium buzz.

  Before Mary’s accident—no that’s not right, before I’d ended Mary’s life, before I’d killed her; this place always gave me the shivers. The drowned villages and loss of history were oppressive and depressive in equal measure. Mary’s enjoyment of the place bred resentment, a mounting pressure-cooker waiting for release. And oh it had come, erupting in glorious violence.

  Had I really enjoyed it that much? The memory felt vague, distant.

  That’s not why I killed her, not her love of gloomy shit-holes. At least . . .

  Retrieving the shovel I’d left earlier, I began to dig; Harry the grave-digger always said, a good seven by three, and six down, but the bitch didn’t deserve that, no sir, no she’d get a shallow grave and no marker.

  The sodden ground came away in big squelching slabs. Worms writhed. Drizzle fell.

  Tie-dye blood seeped through the Laura Ashley sheets I’d wrapped her in—an improvement.

  My shovel hit rock, and for a moment, with the metal ring of the spade fading I heard a young boy’s giggle escape the nearby pines. Distracted, shovel in hand, I moved nearer the tree line. Nobody there, yet something played around the edges of my mind like an annoying fly. No matter; what’s gone is gone and who gives a shit. Put the body in the hole and get out of here.

  Stumbling back to the grave, guilt attacked. She’d needed to die, she really had. Snippets of conversation danced; ‘You can’t keep a secret like that. It’s not right.’ Before my reply left my throat, she’d added ‘I thought I knew you, loved you. But this, you’re a monster . . . ‘ Yes, I’m pretty sure she’d needed to die.

  Halting near the hole, fear stabbed and I dropped the shovel. I knew I’d put her body down, saw the depression where it had rested. Racing forward, I reached down and touched the compacted soiled, felt its wet granular texture. Shit, shit, bodies don’t get up, don’t vanish.

  Sweat stuck my damp shirt to my back as damp air traced fingers across my cheek, and a child laughed.

  Panicked, I hurled dirt into the hole and tramped it down. Coming rain would ease the boot prints.

  Running back to the pickup I tossed the spade far out into the lake. The church spire jutted free of the water like an accusing giant’s bony finger. I fumbled with my keys. Not right, not right at all.

  Confusion dug holes in my mind. Rain splattered the windscreen, and as I reversed out of the parking space my gaze rested upon a faint smudge in the
tree line. A small boy, grey as the day, pointed a scrawny arm out towards the lake.

  What secret had she been talking about? Rain fell harder and the image was gone. What secrets?

  The only thing I could think of, besides panic, was to start looking for Mary. The dead didn’t just get up and walk away, did they? Straightening the pickup after a wet bend, I reached in the glove compartment and fished out the bottle; a few Valium couldn’t hurt, not at the moment. After the panic eased and my heart stopped its drum solo, I tried to imagine which of my family or former neighbours might have interfered . . . scratch that. All of them. So, which one first?

  The new-town sprung from the hollow promises of politicians gave a home to the few dozens of souls who had nowhere else to go. A faint haze of red-tinged smoke fought the early morning gloom. I parallel-parked in front of my father in-law’s bungalow that, despite being less than a year old, managed to look run-down and seedy. The motor grumbled into silence. He’d have heard that if he was up. Of course, he’s up. He’s always up.

  I gave the door a light rap. This was not a place I wanted to be. After waiting a respectable minute, I turned to go, relief making my shoulders slump. Old bastard. He’s haunting me, and he’s not even dead yet.

  The door clicked open. “Jake?”

  I turned back. “Morning, Connor.”

  “What are you doing up at this hour? Pulling an all-nighter again with that riffraff?”

  The insult stung. “No, just looking at the old place again.” A tremor shook my right hand.

  “No sense pining after what’s gone. Move on, like the rest of us. And Jake, you should take it easy with the pills.” He nodded towards my hand. “With all the shit you took in the past, and now happy tabs; body and mind can’t take it son.”

  “Sure.” I turned to go. “Thanks for the words of wisdom.”

  “Tell Mary to come by this afternoon. Need her to clip my toenails again. Maybe I’ll just call her myself.”

  “I’ll tell her. No need to disturb her beauty sleep.” I waved my good hand as I headed out to the truck again. Bastard. Always pointing out the obvious. At least it wasn’t him. He couldn’t have stolen her body himself . . . but he could have had help.

  An odd thought struck me as I sat behind the wheel. Had I killed Mary? Did Connor have a point? Placing my still shaking hand on the wheel I gingerly eased the pick-up into first and drove off.

  I sat for what seemed like a century in front of Gerald’s place; a cosy cottage with a tidy postage stamp garden. What a knob. That Gerald had been Connor’s first choice to marry his precious daughter Mary still rankled. Why shouldn’t it? They’d been sweethearts way back when. Maybe she still kept it up even after we’d married. But I knew they hadn’t. Gerald didn’t have it in him, and I’d reminded him of that every chance I got. Never hurts to rub it in. Although maybe if he had, things might have gone differently . . .

  As I got out of the car, something nagged, itched at the back of my neck. Why had she called me a monster? It made no sense. I hadn’t done anything to make her think that, had I? Damned if I couldn’t remember.

  “Hey, Gerry.” I knew he hated that, but didn’t see any reason to stop calling him that now. Might look suspicious. Gerald didn’t have to wipe the sleep from his eyes either. Early riser, he’d run the town’s newspaper for well on twenty years. Knew everything. If it wasn’t him, he might let something slip.

  Gerald opened the door wider. I went in and leaned back against the countertop, crossing my arms.

  “Coffee smells good.”

  “Help yourself,” he said and took down two cups.

  We stared at each other across the oval oak table that had been squished into the tiny kitchen-diner along with the other furniture he couldn’t part with from his former two-story town home.

  “How’s Mary?”

  “Could be better, but she doesn’t complain. At least not much.”

  “You know, I’ve never wanted to interfere, but you should—”

  “She’s got everything she needs right now. That enough for you?”

  I took a sip of coffee. It tasted off. Everything seemed off.

  “Of course, Jake. She loves you. You love her. That’s what counts, right?” He grimaced as he said it.

  “She’s thinking of traveling, give us some breathing room. This whole move hasn’t been easy on her.”

  Gerald shifted in his chair. “Might not be a bad idea. You two were great back then, when you still had the band, with her at your side. She’s still the same girl inside; even if she’s gotten a little . . . want me to talk to her?”

  I rose to go. “Nah. I’ll tell her to drop you a postcard.”

  My home, my prefabricated dump looked much as it had before I’d left at five. A box, a nest of vile recrimination.

  Before the mess, before Mary’s inconvenient interference, I’d always felt a twinge of apprehension entering and now that feeling grew. Hadn’t I only left the back porch light on earlier? Kitchen light blazed behind the roller blind; shadows moved within.

  A grey fugue settled, clouding my mind in diesel-soaked cotton wool. It would only take a small spark to set it off. Just a tiny flash of anger.

  Mary’s greeting forced me to lean against the wall. “You could have at least let me know you were leaving early. I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  A small boy giggled.

  No, I killed her. She’s dead.

  “What?” Her question punched reality in. “Cat got your tongue?” It was her favourite expression, one she used relentlessly to provoke me.

  “Sorry love. It’s a bit cold today and I didn’t want to disturb you.” What could I say. “Needed more Valium. Boot’s all-night chemist, repeat prescription.”

  “You should make an honest effort to wean yourself off those. Being dependant is no good for anyone.”

  Did she really say that? Her? Images of her desperate neediness—hanging around the stage door, smiling from the stage wings—accompanied more pleasant memories. The parties, the hotel bedrooms, the soft brush of her skin, her lips—her lips—she’d done everything I’d wanted back then, and I didn’t even need to ask. Memories long gone, drowned with the village and time. Fuck her. I’m not taking advice from a dead woman. But Mary lived and so I couldn’t have—

  “I told you, I—”

  “Jake,” sympathy softened her words. “you don’t have to lie. It’s okay to go back, to remember.”

  Remember . . .

  Busking, a hat full of coppers. A small boy, five small boys, nine or ten at a guess. “Hey mister, you played in that band . . . yeah, what sort of music was that? Oh yeah, Rock-a-Billy bullshit.” They laughed and giggled, waved their iPhones and downloads.

  “There’s room for all kinds of music.” My voice sounded tense, angry.

  “You fucking deadbeat,” a nine year-old kid. “The Time Machine. What a shite name. Who’d you think you was, fucking time lords?” The other kids roared with composite derision. “My dad said you were rubbish then and that only twelve people turned up for your reunion gig.” The talking boy dived in and snatched my hat. Coppers flew across the street.

  “Hey. Give me that back.”

  I put my guitar down as the boys crowded, pushed and shoved, shoute. “Loser, loser.” Round and round, pushing, picking, poking, closer and closer.

  A simple reflex, a lashing out of pent up regret.

  A boy went down, then another. Their taunts changed tone, became more aggressive. Nine and ten year-olds. “Fucking bastard. We’ll stab you for that. Come when your back’s turned and stick you like a pig.” A kick came my way.

  With the increasing violence, the street emptied. My truck parked a few feet away. I had size on my side and rage fuelled my actions.

  Electric guitars can be lethal, both metaphorically and in reality.

  But they weren’t dead. Not that they didn’t deserve it.

  The school shut now due to the impending submersion would ser
ve as a good place to lock the little bastards up. Just for a short while. The basement, a locker room, a boiler room, it didn’t matter, just a lesson. Once fear cleared their evil little minds I’d release them . . .

  Remembering? No. “Really, Mary. I just popped to the chemist. Take a look.” He raised his shaking hand. “Needed some advice on this.”

  Mary looked and tutted, her eyes blazing. Recrimination lurked, barely congealed magma.

  She slammed the passenger door as she slid heavily to the pavement. I gunned the motor. Mary whirled. “Where are you going?”

  “Shopping. You gave me the list. Wouldn’t want Connor to be deprived of anything.”

  “Aren’t you coming in first?”

  “And let Connor vent all of his frustration on me while you say nothing? Thanks. I had enough abuse this morning. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  The Co-op was crowded with Mums shopping for dinner and early shifters getting rid of a bit of their wages for a quick snack. Christ, even the supermarkets in Great Britain were imported. Don’t we do anything ourselves anymore? Yes, we drown people’s existence.

  I shivered at the thought. Drowning. What would it be like? A boy giggled, small bodies, floating, fighting for air, fighting to escape—

  “You’re Jake, Mary’s husband, right?”

  The woman standing in front of me in the canned goods aisle looked familiar. She smiled at me and opened her mouth to speak. Was she one of Mary’s friends? I tried to bluff my way past her. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . . ”

  “Sally Robinson. My husband picketed with you in the weeks before . . . before the . . . ” Her voice caught. She coughed and put a hand to her cheek. Her eyes blazed for an instant in pain and, I thought, anger. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Mary mentioned that you’d seen David that day.”