300-word Writing Challenge #27 (October 2017) -- VICTORY TO VICTORIA SILVERWOLF!

[DelActivisto]

A Fraction of a Second Closer

The old man tended the gardens outside his estate, just as he did every Sunday. A grand vista of mountains and meadows stretched south. But the view was not why he went outside.

For every Sunday, the old lady’s ghost walked through his garden. None knew but him.

Icy tendrils radiated beneath the ivies and rhododendrons, penetrated the roots and very soul of the plants. The air plummeted in temperature, a cold like death escaping from a long buried tomb. Frost coated everything, shriveled the leaves. He fell to his knees, the old man, for the very will to live left him in these moments. The old lady, so familiar to him, rounded the corner of the house, cloaked, blackness beneath her cowl.

Darkness came with her, such that even this sunny day receded to a mere glimmer of its splendor; light fled in fear to any corner of the garden it could find. Stately roses and towering lilacs closed their flowers, seemed to die. The birds and crickets and flying things, crawling things, stilled — afraid to move, afraid to die, afraid to live.

What seemed his last breath escaped his parted lips as he sought her face. Deep within, he beheld eyes burning with rage, a face contorted by hate. She reached into his chest with a hand colder than death, cold as the depths themselves, and stilled his heart. Each time, he came a fraction of a second closer to death before she let go.

Then she left, and life sprang back all round him. The lilacs opened, the frost melted, the icy tendrils receded, the creeping and crawling things resumed their work. And he went inside and resumed living until the next Sunday.

 

[Starbeast]

In a Bakery, Far, Far, Away​

"Utinni", said the happy Jawas, as she hustled away down a lush green path, with a bag of fresh doughnuts.

Meanwhile, inside the bakery. "There you are, sir."

"Meeso hoongry. Meesa love these long time. Thank you."

"Come again." (slam) "Creep." (ring...ring) "Hello, Dooku Donuts. What. Yes, my field generator is running. What!!" (click)
"Damn prankster."

"Master."

"Yes, Maul."

"The dough mix is tough."

"Kneed it. KNEED IT!!! Good. Now, release your anger. Then add milk and squish it."

"Squish this."

"I heard that. Here's a joke for you. What's red, black and jobless?" (ting ting) "Well, shine-my-dark-side. Hello Luke."

"Hi Sid. I'll take a dozen Corellian Clusters, and coffee. Make it black, cold and bitter. Like my dad."

"Hahahahaaa. Good one, young Skywalker."

"You know, my father and you have something in common with my uncle. You're all extra crispy."

"Hahahahahaaaa. You made my millennium."

"I've got a nice tan when you zapped me years ago. My only regret is, I wasn't holding a frozen two minute pizza. Gotta go. Bye."

"Hahahahaa." (slam)

"Master. Jabba's order's done."

"Good. As I, have foreseen. Make sure you butter his hips, before, he squeezes through the door again."

"Yeah. Butter this."

"What!?"

"Nothing."

(ting ting) "Hi. I'm here for my order. Name's, Solo."

"Yes. The Raspberry Rancor's."

"Warg."

"What he say?"

"Restroom?"

"Over there."

"Warg."

"What?"

"Thanks."

"Oh. How about some, Boba Frits?"

"Boba Frits?! Boba Frits?! Where?"

"Next to the Storm Truffles."

"Gimme a dozen. I love fritters."

"That'll be $17.00."

"Seventeen, huh?"

"WAAAAARRRG!!!"

"What he say?"

"Toilet's clogged. Sorry about the mess." (slam)

"MAUL! Bring your light saber."

"Master! What happened!?"

"Use your saber to snake the porcelain pot again."

"Son-nova-biscuit."

"Wash your hands, when the job is, complete."

"Wash this."

"What?"

"Nothing."

 

[SPoots]

Changeling

The rain had gone, leaving puddles on the pavement and a person in blue. It was a familiar blue, a blue faded, and stained with mud. They were wearing my coat. The one I was wearing. I stood up, leaving my toys on the path, and the person watched me. They had their hood up against the rain, and I could only see the tip of their nose. I tilted my head and they tilted theirs. I raised an arm and they did likewise.

“Why are you copying me?” I asked.

The person in my coat didn’t answer. They stood, as silent as a reflection. Off in the bushes, a bird ventured a shrill chirrup.

“Mary!” my mum called from somewhere in the garden. “Come on Mary, time to go inside.”

I opened my mouth to shout, but the person in front of me raised a hand. They touched my lips with a single finger and I saw a smile beneath their hood. “I’m over here, mum,” they said, in my voice.

The hood fell back and I stared into my eyes, my hair framing my face, a wicked smile upon my lips. My mum stepped out from behind a bush.

“There you are.” She scooped up the other me. “Let’s get you dry.”

She stepped past me. I tried to shout, but the words choked in my throat. Over her shoulder, the other me grinned. And then the two of them were gone, disappearing into the house.

“Do not worry about your mother.”

I turned and saw a woman, dressed in white and shining like the sun. She smiled and took my hand, her grip tight around my coat sleeve. “Come, I have a new home for you. Come and live beneath the hill.”

 

[Joshua Jones]

The Demon of Whitecastle

Sebastian Shaw, MD, took a sip of his tea and shook his head as he read the latest letter from “Jack the Ripper”. “These imposters… I would never speak thus. And Jack the Ripper? Entirely unwarranted.”

The maid cleared the table as he retrieved his satchel and entered his back room. Formaldehyde jars and alchemic devices adorned the tables, and the hospital bed was occupied by his young, jaundiced wife. He produced his latest harvest; a fresh heart from that pretty Irish lass.

She shook her head weakly. “This won't do; anything less than a pure heart will corrupt me into a monster.”

A pure heart? he thought. Where would I find a pure heart in Whitecastle?

~~~

In the foggy twilight, filled with the voice of a Salvation Army preacher, Sebastian sought his next harvest. Prostitutes wouldn't do, so he subtlety stalked a young, pretty mother with her child. Maternal love is pure, so perhaps she would suffice. He followed her into a public garden, out of sight of the street, and produced his knife as she rounded a corner.

Around the bend, the young woman was gone, replaced by a short, plump nun in a blue habit. “Good sir, are you lost?” she asked, adding “Need you a place to stay?” She must have thought him homeless; this was too perfect. He played along and was led to a flat in an abandoned building. The screams went unnoticed.

~~~

Several hours later, there was a knock on the door. Sebastian's butler answered to a nun. “May I inquire of Mrs. Shaw? I am an acquaintance of her husband.” The butler showed her in, not noticing her eyes, which glowed green as she passed.

The sick woman would make an excellent dessert. Perhaps the butler and the maid for breakfast.

 

[mosaix]

Dial 'M' for...

* ring-ring, ring-ring *

“Hello? Hello? Is that you, Peter? ..... It's me. Thank God you picked up! It's here again! The same hooded figure. Just standing there! ..... Don't tell me to calm down! ..... I know. Sorry, sorry. But I'm really scared. It's so isolated out here. Big, rambling house. I should never have bought the place. I feel so helpless and this damn walking frame doesn't help either. ..... You're the only person I can talk to, my only relative, the only person that listens! ….. But this is the third time. It just stands there! ..... Okay, okay. Sorry. You're right. I'll try and remain calm. ..... Yes, deep breathing. ..... No, I don't think it's seen me. I'm peering through a gap in the curtains. ..... No, it's not coming any closer. Just standing there! But it might this time! What can I do? I'm going out of my mind. ..... Sorry, sorry. The police? I rang them first! ..... Just like last time. They won't come. They think it's a joke! Some kid playing a joke! ..... I know. First it was the letters, then that filth on the porch. They wouldn't even take that knife seriously. .....Yes, they're locked. Front and back. My heart's really racing now. I'm feeling faint, Peter. I've got to sit down before I fall. ..... I took some yesterday. Can't find them now. ..... No, I'm not going to turn on the lights - it'll know I'm here. Now I can hear footsteps! And knocking on the door! Now the locks turned and the door's opening! How can it? You're the only other person with a key! Oh God... Peter... how did you know I'm in the dark?”

 

[johnnyjet]

Home From the Warp

Papa came home from the Warp a different man. Mama didn't seem to notice, but the rest of us did.

We were even a little afraid of him. We talked about it in private. We made a pact to watch each other's back, because they say the Warp changes people, and I never heard it was in a good way.

I knew he was different the moment I saw him at the end of the lane when he just showed up one Saturday morning. After all these years, I still recognized him. Yet I knew he wasn't the same.

Bobby, Heather and I ran to him, but he waved us back and said, "Where's your Ma?"

His eyes stared straight ahead.

I pointed back to where we came from. "Kitchen."

He plodded past us, limping slightly, dragging a cold breeze behind him. We shivered.

They say the Warp changes people. Yeah.

Later, when we were all together, Papa sitting in a chair by the fireplace, Bobby went up and asked him, "What's the Warp like?"

Papa's face became white. "You don't need to know."

I asked, "Do you know us?"

Blankly he intoned, "Sarah. Heather. Bobby."

Each word was like a stab in the heart.

Mama smiled. "See. He still knows you. Now leave your Papa alone."

They say the Warp changes people. I needed to know how and why.

Next week I was of age. I went and enlisted for Warp duty. I felt honored to go into the Warp as a citizen guardsman dedicated to keeping the other world invaders at bay. What would happen to our halcyon world if we let them get through? It would be a vastly different world.

 

[Vaz]

The Rogue of Roses and The Goddess

Salvatore Di Aliz, the infamous thief of the Riga Peninsula, was supposed to be bound and chained until the birth of each bright new day.

But that night, with his fingers stained silver by the light of the Goddess he caressed the Swooning Roses of Duke Rossi's beautiful gardens.

The infant plants betrayed their youth with gentle whispers. Some of the mature flowers spoke such amorous tales about Duchess Talia that High Septon Arúz would have traded cloth for flesh had he heard but one breath. Salvatore plucked the boldest rose, hiding it in his cloak. Then he coupled with the shadows as guards bearing scarlet plate marched through the gate on their nightly rounds.

When they had passed, Salvatore disrobed from the darkness, and fled back to the Broken Tower and his dank, dripping cell. His guard Serenna greeted him with lock and key. He pressed the rose into her palm. "Have your lover listen to this. I guarantee she will give you more than a goodnight kiss."

Serenna blushed as she fastened chains to his ankle and waist. She paused before locking Salvatore's cell door. "As much as I would mourn your nightly gifts, when I set you free why do you not flee?"

Salvatore made himself comfortable, sagging against the jagged stone wall. "Because I made a bet, Lady Serenna. And I intend to honour it."

Serenna laughed as the lock snapped shut. "Salvatore Di Aliz, as good a thief as you are, Lord Justice Monchèvo will see your bones decorate those bolts before you steal the Goddess Luna from the night sky."

Salvatore winked. Serenna left him in the darkness, pitch black except for the pure white shards shining in his palm.

 

[Perpetual Man]

Breaking the Wall

The hag stood at the end of the path her withered face marked with grim lines in the moonlight, deepened by the shadows cast by her hood. Her blue eyes twinkled, but there was no humour there, just a hatred and malice for all living things.

Her age-emaciated fingers clutched the wicked blade, and she hummed THAT song as she approached.

On either side of the path the night encrusted plants seemed to loom over me, leaning in as if they too wanted to clutch and tear. A chill went through me like suddenly exposed…

It’s not real.​

I beg your pardon?

It’s not real. It’s a model.​

Eh?

It’s a well-made one, I admit, with plenty of detail. Lot of attention gone into it, but it is a model.​

Well, yes, but does that really matter? Here I am trying to write a short, bone-chilling horror story and you are not only interrupting but undermining the validity of what I am trying to convey by telling me it is not real.

I know you can be a bit - umm - unobservant on occasion Perp, just wanted to make sure you saw the whole picture as it were.​

Well Mister, if you want to be so pedantic, if you were to take a metaphorical step back and look at the entire world in a dispassionate, detached fashion, could you not believe the whole of reality to be a model?

Oh. Okay. I’ll shut up now then.​

Thanks.

The old woman’s clawed hand took hold with a touch like the bite of winter, drawing me down, down into a world in microcosm, so it seemed everything loomed in on me, but I could not move, nothing was real.

But it was too real...

There, suck it.

 

[Teresa Edgerton]

Tidying-Up


“Oh no, it’s your grandmother!” said Ted.

I looked out the window, and sure enough, there she was: a tiny figure wearing her favorite black hoodie, advancing up the path.

To be truthful, there was always something a little odd about Granny’s behavior, but ever since she died—

Like other grandmothers, she always had a thing for cleaning up after us kids, even after we grew up, even after we were married, like I was. But before she’d just put things away where we couldn’t find them for months afterward. I still remember how we used to laugh about it. These days, though, she eats anything she regards as clutter, and that’s not funny.

I really miss the cat.

This time she started as soon as she marched through the door: munching on crumpled newspapers, chewing up sofa cushions, ripping into a faded band tee-shirt someone had dropped on the bathroom floor. Heading for the kitchen, she spread her lips wider . . . wider . . . wider . . . until she seemed to be almost nothing but mouth, then gulped down our battered old refrigerator. I didn’t like to say anything. After all, she’s my grandmother, and there’s such a thing as respect.

But when my younger brother woke up and wandered in from his room at the back, pale and rumpled after a late night carousing with his friends, and she moved straight for him, that was it.

“Right! We’re out of here,” I said, pushing Mark toward the front door, speaking over my shoulder to Ted.

Within three days we’d rented a new place. Moving in was easy: we’d very little furniture left.

We didn’t leave a forwarding address. I hope Granny doesn’t find us.

 

[Shyrka]

Unseen & Unsung

The cloaked creature shambled down the street, the children’s laughter turning to shrieks of disgust as they scattered before it. Their behaviour made it angry, though it couldn’t remember why – the long years had seen to that. It struggled for a moment, trying to corral its shattered thoughts into some semblance of order. Indignation. Bitterness.

---

Erastus groaned. Yosanna fought back a sob – the Celestial was bleeding out despite her best efforts.

“Somebody shut him up,” said Cleg, looking up from the doorway. The old cutthroat’s face was twisted into a scowl. “He’ll give us away.”

“What does it matter?” hissed Harrad, looking up from his pacing. “Without a Celestial to wear the cloak the rebellion is finished!”

Yosanna jumped as a hand touched her cheek.

“Be at peace, child,” Erastus breathed. Even weak, the Celestial’s voice was still melodious.

“Try not to talk,” Yosanna whispered.

He shook his head. “I must. This is not of your doing.”

Tears blurred her vision. “But if I hadn’t-”

“We all choose our fates – I chose this.” A final breath caught in Erastus’ throat. The hand fell away.

We all choose.

Yosanna stood, stepping away from the fading corpse, her heart pounding.

“I will wear it,” she said. Harrad looked up sharply.

Cleg narrowed his eyes, watching her. “Cloak o’ the Heavens ain’t made for a mortal, girl.”

“Yosanna, you can’t!” Harrad began. “It… it’ll destroy you! Only a Celestial-”

She straightened. “What choice do we have?”

---

The hunchbacked creature stumbled, falling into the dirt. The children’s shrieks turned to laughter as it struggled to rise. Anger. Hatred.

A hand touched its cheek. Instantly, its mind cleared, jagged peaks of frustration and betrayal melting away.

Yosanna gasped, squinting up through age-dimmed eyes. A familiar face looked back.

“Be at peace, child,” it whispered.

 

[AlexH]

Collectin' Coins​

Mum's changed jobs and we've moved to a new town. The houses are smaller, but there's a nice walk along the river to school, with weeping willows at each side and swans on the water.

My new school friends said I shouldn't walk that way on Fridays. There's someone who drowned a girl. A cloak covers their face, which is so mutilated you can't tell their gender.

I don't think my friend's would lie. They've been collecting coins for a project, and Amy gave me a big penny to start my collection. It's so old it's got Queen Victoria on, who looks like she would be a very strict teacher.

I was so excited about the coin, I forgot it's Friday today and walked along the river. I was watching grey geese, when the sun cast a long shadow over me. Someone in a dark crimson cloak, hands in pockets. Hood and face down, they shuffled closer like they hadn't seen me, a black shadow between the open cloak. The path was narrow here.

A rubber sleeve clung to my hand. I froze.

"Sorry." A man's voice. He stopped walking by and turned to me, still in shadow.

This didn't seem like a scary person. Not like Queen Victoria on the coin. "Why the cloak?"

"Protection...skin condition."

"My friends said you drowned a girl and went to prison?"

"I tried to save 'er."

"They said you disappeared for years?"

"Months. Took off me cloak and jumped in river. In hospital for sun exposure, then too upset t' walk 'ere."

They sound good reasons, like cartoons where a scary person turned out good. "Do you have any old coins?" I showed the man my old penny.

"Very old. Used to collect 'em too. Come this way next Fri-dee, they're yours."

 

[Talysia]

Suburban Legend

No-one believes in witches any more. Oh, there are the cliques on social media and whatnot, but no-one really believes in malevolent magic-casters and all that.

Least of all in suburban bungalows.

I’d only stopped by to drop off a leaflet. The garden looked a little scruffy, and I wondered if the owner might need a handyman’s services to tidy it up.

I opened the gate and went in. Something cried out nearby, and my eyes immediately went to the trees but there was nothing there. Not even a sparrow. I had to laugh. I was jumping at shadows now.

When I looked down again, there she was. I’ll confess: I jumped.

I ventured a hello and apologised for disturbing her, holding out a flyer and explaining who I was and what I was doing.

It took me a while to get things like this, she said. I could hear her voice right inside my head, and it felt weird. I don’t need your help, sorry.

‘You could pass it on to your neighbours, if they needed anything...’

Oh, they won’t be needing that. Unless you can clean ponds?

‘Your neighbours have a lot of ponds? We can handle that.’

I thought she smiled beneath the hood. No, just one. My neighbours visit it quite regularly.

‘So where is this pond?’ I asked.

She gestured to my left, where a small pool glittered beside the hedge. Around it sat several large frogs, their eyes gazing right at me. As you can see, they’re quite happy.

Witches don’t exist, I told myself. Those are ordinary frogs. Maybe she was just a bit strange. ‘My rates are on here,’ I said, pressing the leaflet into her hands.

The frogs croaked at me as I walked away.

 

[Bashfull]

If offered work experience at Fine and Stone Realtors, any ambitious business undergrad would leap at the chance. Teresa Silvestre, however, was a Fine Art student who owned an Austin Allegro, a decent camera, and had access to the department’s darkroom. Fine and Stone paid for colour photographs in the property section so, day after dreary day, Teresa photographed houses for sale.

The work was tedious but Teresa stayed late into the evenings developing her pictures in the deserted Art building. The remuneration for each supplemented her meagre grant and allowed her to pay rent, buy film, and run her car. Besides, she was a solitary girl. Most other students would be down the pub on a Friday evening.

The quiet in the darkroom was broken only by the occasional drip of fluid into baths of chemicals. Developing colour photographs required complete darkness.

The cottage in Pluckley Village had been frozen in time but Teresa was pleased with the way she had captured the atmosphere. Her compositions had caught the way the weak light had gradually been driven out by the gathering mirk and creeping shadows. Even the shots in the garden had a sense of foreboding: gnarled, dark shrubbery kept at bay by the brutal wielding of spade and secateurs. The gathering gloom made moody patterns in the grey sky.

One image had a blemish, though: a dark mark, like a figure in a hooded cloak. Teresa was redeveloping it when the stillness was broken by the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps that stopped just outside the darkroom door. She called out a greeting. Silence.

The door handle was chill to her touch. The hinges groaned open.

Outside, dark clouds concealed the sickle moon and a mist wrapped the lightless building in a silent shroud.

 

[Dan Jones]

Convalescence?

Jack’s broken leg twitched. Must be on the mend.

“Lights out!” came Nurse Heidi from the corridor. Luckily, he had a private room, which meant lights out at night, and sleep.

~

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He woke and opened his eyes. When he saw it, he let out a little yelp and curled into a ball. At the window, against the yawning night breeze, was the familiar oversized arrowhead hood, hiding the hideous creature haunting him.

“Go away,” he whispered.

When he looked again, it was gone, but something new sounded.

Click.
Schop.

Behind him. And getting louder. Jack’s body, naked and broken, trembled so hard under the sheets he thought he might convulse.

Click. Schop.

He rolled over, sat bolt upright. Despite the pain he slammed himself against the bedstead and drew the sheets about his mouth. Against the glum lunar glow of the hospital corridor, the short figure loomed, dragging its own mangled leg behind it, leaving slick, black blood and muck in its wake.

He shut his eyes and sang to himself, but when he opened them, the thing was beside him. When it peeled back its hood, he screamed.

Dozens of faces – children, demons, bastards – bawled at him, before erupting in a black, bloody column shooting upward, covering the ceiling, the walls, the window, his arms, his face. Smothered, finally his own screams died.

~

Jack woke to a soiled bed. Again. After Nurse Heidi changed the sheets, he asked meekly, “Has the boy I hit recovered yet?”

Heidi sighed. “Jack, I keep telling you. He died on impact.”

“Oh.” A distant pang of understanding, which fluttered before drifting away. “When can I leave hospital? My leg feels better.”

Another sigh. “This isn’t the regular hospital, Jack.”

That’s good, he thought. I must be on the mend.

 

[LittleStar]

Witch House

Amelia waited silently for night to fall. She kept the lights off, best they thought the house was empty, especially tonight.

But they always came.

A tall boy raced to the door, knocked three times and charged back, heaving for breath when he reached the safe side of the gate.

Amelia watched from the highest window, black moth-eaten shawl against the dark room. They all came to see her, but none ever looked. Not really.

At least they came. She clutched the picture frame, long dead friends, or at best forgotten. Now it was new faces each year.

Streetlamps flickered like fire, and the sky was already black with thunderclouds.

“Dare you to go,” the tall boy said.

“Not today,” Amelia whispered. “Not on All-Hallows Eve.” But that was all she had dreamt about every night since she had been imprisoned in that house. The frame dropped from her hands, clattering against the sil.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just the wind. What’s the matter? Chicken?”

“Shut up, Mike. I’ll do it.”

“You’ll be trapped.” Her voice was still a whisper.

The sound of breaking glass, then footsteps crunching on the shards.

“See? I’m in. You coming?” the foolish boy whispered.

Amelia snuck to the stairs, as silent as sleeping breath.

“Screw that. You’re crazy.”

“Jerk!”

Another flash of lightning, and she watched their faces turn to horror.

“Will! Get out! The witch is behind you.”

Will tried to leave, but slammed against nothing, the curse that held Amelia for so long.

“You shouldn’t have come. You cannot leave, Will.” Amelia padded down the stairs.

Mike ran.

“Let me go,” he was crying.

“Only tomorrow. One may leave.”

“I’ll go. Please. You’ll never see me again.”

“I’ve been stuck here for fifty years. It’s your turn now.”

 

[ratsy]

Clementine the Cloaked

“Just say it three times. My cousin knew a girl who did, and she disappeared. Put her picture on milk cartons and everything,” Clark said between sips from his bottle of Coke.

Bianca rolled her eyes, wishing something exciting was going on for Halloween. She should have bought that Ouija Board. Or that bottle of vodka in her mom’s dresser.

“Do you dare me?” she asked.

Clark just nodded excitedly. Monster Mash played softly from his phone as she stood, looking into her make-up mirror.

She said the name three times, pausing for effect just long enough for Clark to nudge her before the third time.

“See. Nothing.” She was done with these childish games. Clementine the Cloaked wasn’t coming for her, or anyone. It was just a stupid urban legend. And not even a good one. An unpopular girl, who was teased and bullied so bad, she snapped, killing a dozen cheerleaders after a football game, then cut her own face up. She forever wore a cloak to hide her ugliness, killing popular girls who said her name three times in the mirror, where she could see their faces, and judge them.

Bianca grabbed one of her pom-poms and threw it at Clark who laughed, pulling her in for a kiss.

At midnight, Clark left, and just when Bianca was falling asleep, she heard rocks plinking against her window.

No one was there.

She tip-toed down the hall and downstairs. It was time. Clark finally was going to take what she wanted to give him.

The moon was high, stars glimmering. The perfect night.

“Clark. I’m here,” she said, her voice flirty.

A green cloaked figure walked slowly toward her.

“Clark, quit screwing around.”

A knife flashed, and the last thing she saw were the scars.

 

[The Judge]

Model Citizens



“Margery!” The call came thundering down. “What have you done to the stationmaster?”

With a sigh, Margery set the travel brochures aside and climbed to the loft where Bertie ruled over three hundred square feet of model railway. He’d promised that when they both retired they’d start travelling – whale watching off Alaska, forest bathing in Japan. Instead, he’d become obsessed with his miniature world, and snappish and irritable whenever he left its confines.

He turned to her as she entered the loft. “This is too much.”

“This” was the headless body of the stationmaster.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Margery, though with a touch of guilt at her hypocrisy – the stationmaster had the face of a bully, and she’d never liked the figure.

Me neither.

She started. The voice wasn’t Bertie’s.

Before her lay a Lilliputian village of thatched cottages. She’d never seen their tiny gardens look so perfect, the hedges so trim. A new figure, a little fat grandmother, stood on a stone path, a basket of roses in her hand. She winked at Margery.

Margery sat down, hurriedly. As Bertie alternately berated her and bemoaned his loss, the grandmother took something from her pocket. A badge.

That stationmaster was a nasty piece of work, she said. Got his grips into your hubby, twisting his mind. Hid his tracks well, though. Wouldn’t have found him if I hadn’t come here on holiday.

“Oh,” said Margery. She could just make out the writing on the badge. Model World Police, Human Relations Branch.

The grandmother figure waved her hand. Bertie dropped the stationmaster to the floor.

“Marge...” He looked shattered. “I think I’ve been a bit of a fool.”

She smiled. “A bit.”

“Show me those brochures, love. We both deserve a holiday.”

“No,” said Margery. “We all deserve one.”

 

[Mad Alice]

Little Men

When the sky grew dim and gloaming before midmorning, and whip-crack fast, frost flowered across thick panes of window glass, running tracks of beaded white spreading across the walls, Glyndwr knew. They were back.
She drew close to the dim light of the banked coals of the hearth. Gwilym would be home soon for his dinner. She could be brave til then.
The room was all long dark Shadows with strange chittering whispers from its corners now the sun hid while They walked. Fychan-gwr.

She heard stone under their foot creaking from something heavy as the weight of the sky laid down upon them growing closer... closer. Her heart skipped, fluttering like a trapped bird in her breast. Gwilym was coming soon.
RAP-A-TAP-TAP.
They were here. Glyndwr shaking held firm to the iron stanchion of the hearth's pot crane.
Gwilym. He would be here. Almost she could hear Gwilym's cheery whistle as he jumped the gate.
The air grew colder.
A single knock at the door. It was Gwilym! Glyndwr raced to the lock and stopped short. A rolling red eye peered at her from a knot hole at her knee.
"You do not greet him. You shall lose him."

Glyndwr wrenched at the lock latched shut with ice. Cold swollen, the door jammed stuck into the frame. She couldn't open it!
The Door groaned, the weight of the mountain laden upon it. A miasma of icy fog rolled under the door, filling the room, coating the back of her tongue with sulphurous stench. The tiny hand of the Fychan-gwr reached beneath the door. A small golden hoop rolled across the room, slowly coming to rest at the hearth.
Gwilym's wedding band.

Flying open, on the doorstep grew a man shaped Rowan bush. Glyndwr heard Their laughter in the mist.

 

[Ursa major]

​

The Wherewithal
​

“Must I?” Rosa pleaded.

“Why ask,” said Mrs Reiter, “when you know the answer?”

“It’s getting dark.”

“And who was late coming home?”

“Sorry, Mum.” Luckily, her mother didn’t know why Rosa was late… or about Billy Holzfäller.

“Your grandmother’s desperate for her groceries.”

As if Granny would starve. “Okay, I'll go.”


Granny lived at the other end of the neighbourhood. It wasn’t that far, but the streetlights were already coming on. Rosa pulled her hood up.

As expected, Billy was waiting in ambush, playing with the huge knife they’d found that afternoon. “What you got?” he asked

“Food.”

“Any booze?”

“None of your business.”

“What if I make it my business?” Billy stumbled over the last word. He wasn’t sharp, but his knife was. And Billy was big.

She pulled her hood further over her face, then opened her bag to reveal a stack of TV dinners. “These’ll soon warm up and spoil. I’ll have to tell Granny why.”

Billy’s face fell. (Granny sometimes had that effect on people.) “Don’t do that.”


Rosa walked on alone, but with Billy following in the shadows.

By the time the moon was up, Rosa was at her granny’s door. She knocked.

“Come in, child. I won’t come to the door.”

“The door’s stuck,” said Rosa, fruitlessly throwing her weight against it.

The sound of padding feet was followed by the creak of the door opening. “Stupid child— Damn it!”

Rosa looked up to see a huge wolf louring over her, its huge eyes, teeth…. She screamed.

“I’ll save you!” Billy ran past her and stabbed wolf with the knife.

The silver blade did its job: Granny, now dead, returned to her human form.

Rosa smiled. This town isn’t big enough for two werewolves.

​

​

 

[TheDustyZebra]

The Quick and the Dead


Though the leaves covering the sidewalk outside were still, the ashes in the urn on the mantel stirred with disquiet energy. Something was coming.

At the end of the street, they gathered.

One had a can of gasoline.

One had a lighter.

All had flashlights, dark hoodies, and nervous determination. This year, they would take it out. This year, it wouldn’t win. They started down the street.

Trick-or-treaters passed by the house, the little ones scurrying quickly while the older ones paused to glance up at the broken panes and dark, encroaching ivy. The very bravest strode boldly up the walk, two steps, three, four, then a hesitation, a questioning look over the shoulder, one more step, until a creak of the house sent them rocketing back to the safety of the street amidst the jeering of their erstwhile friends. Nobody made it to the porch.

The house settled, sanguine.

Still, the ashes seethed restlessly. The air was electric, foreboding.

The hoodies advanced, flashlight beams trembling only slightly. Nearly there.

The trees were still, but an unseen breeze shifted, lifted, and the leaves on the ground began to dance, twisting and twirling into a vortex encompassing the whole of the side yard in a maelstrom of dust and debris. Then, like it had started, it was gone.

In its place, a figure stood. Four feet tall, shrouded, like nothing this side of Hell, it shuffled toward the street.

The hoodies started down the walk, gasoline ready, determined to beat the house this time.

From around the corner shuffled the figure. Leaves tumbled out of its way, and the rot of the grave preceded it.

“What the hell is that?”

“Sh*t!”

Tools of destruction forgotten, they fled, shrieking.

The figure chuckled, then vanished.

The ashes stilled, content.