The story I’m sharing tonight is one I submitted to an NYC Midnight Contest. I don’t remember the prompts or the word count length. I revised it and then submitted it to a contest on the Vocal website. It didn’t win anything there either.
I removed it from the Vocal website when I cancelled my membership there and held onto the piece, thinking I’d include it in another book of short stories one day. Since then I’ve started working on a novel and the short stories have been put on hold.
Writing a novel is a long slog compared to churning out short fiction. The reward, I think, comes when you finally finish the thing and can put “THE END” to the last page. Completing a short story, the reward comes much faster. I did, however, received a boost in motivation last month when I entered the Novel Beginnings contest held by the ProWritingAid software app. My first 5,000 words was selected for the long list of 183 writers out of over 14,000 entries. I didn’t make the next round, the short list, but I’ll rest on that first win as it has inspired me to keep going and keep writing until I reach that last page of my novel. For now, I hope you enjoy this short story, but be warned – it’s horror and a bit dark.
All the Beautiful Girls
The first girl disappeared on a cold fall evening. Wet, gray leaves cloaked the ground, robbed of their color by the low-lying fog. Claire Avery knew the missing woman, not by sight, but by reputation. The sort of blonde, fizzy girl whose smiling photo had graced the pages of her high school yearbook. Claire would never be that girl. Her jaw was too sharp, her teeth too crooked, her nose too large—no one ever sought her out. The university put up notices, warnings to the students—do not walk alone at night, do not let anyone follow you into the dorms.
The school, a small midwestern college, had only recently begun admitting male students. After the second missing girl, those few young men scurried across campus with downcast eyes, as though the fact of their gender showed their guilt.
Claire’s roommate, a timid student majoring in music history, fled from the school and returned to her hometown. She left behind a wooden cross nailed to the wall. Left to herself, Claire filled the room with empty food containers, discarded notebook papers, and stacks of textbooks. She pushed her dirty laundry under the empty bed, where it filled the space with the stink of acetone and alcohol from her chemistry labs.
The morning after the second disappearance, Claire was showering in the communal bathroom when she heard one of the resident advisors call out, “Man on the floor!” Claire snatched her robe and towel and twisted the handle to cut off the water. The pipes clanged a protest as she hurried into the hall.
One of the maintenance workers, a tall man with long arms that reached almost to his knees, passed by her. Jerry. He had helped Claire carry supplies to and from the chemistry lab. They’d chatted about movies and a mutual interest in old black and white films. More conversation than she had ever had with her fellow students. He strolled past, his flat gray eyes focused down the hall, not seeing her. He held a heavy wrench in one fist. The tool bag around his waist clinked with each step.
A week passed with no sign of the missing women. Were they resting in some weed-filled field, discarded like litter? Campus security tacked up flyers with photos of the girls. At first glance, they appeared to be the same person, so alike they could be twins. People left flowers, candles, toys under each poster—offerings at an altar. More gifts than Claire had ever been given. She stole a tiny purple unicorn from the pile. The dead did not need presents.
November blew in with frost and the hint of snow. While most of her dorm mates left for home and Thanksgiving food, Claire opted to stay at the university. She and a graduate student, a woman whose eyes were always red and swollen with allergies, would be the only people in the dorm. The grad student warned her, “They’re going to do some plumbing repairs this week. We’ll have to shut off the water.”
“No problem,” Claire assured her. Lately, she hadn’t the energy to bathe. Her hair hung in greasy strands. She dressed in layers to hide the stink of her unwashed body.
Monday of Thanksgiving week, Claire woke to a rhythmic, pounding thud. It came from the basement, as though the building had gained a heartbeat. The door to the cellar stairs, usually locked and bolted, stood open. She clung to the rail and made her way down the steps.
Dust, carried on the moist heat from the boilers, wafted up to greet her. The flickering fluorescent light revealed a shirtless man in the center of the basement floor. Sweat streaked his back. He raised a massive sledge hammer and slammed it down on the concrete. The blow echoed in the space. Claire felt it travel up the soles of her feet, shuddering across her legs and thighs.
As though he felt her watching, the man turned. Safety glasses covered his eyes, making his face resemble some alien creature. It was Jerry. Claire lifted her hand, about to wave. “What are you doing here? Get out!” He waved a gloved hand, shooing her away.
“I’m sorry.” Claire backed away, stung that he hadn’t recognized her. She swiped at her eyes and rushed back up the stairs to her room.
“Slab leak,” the grad student explained later. “He’ll fix it, then pour new cement. Water should be off about an hour tonight.”
That night, Claire wandered the dim hallway. Barefoot, she descended the stairs to the basement and shone a flashlight across the broken floor. Dirt and broken concrete lay piled in one corner. A hole in the center revealed a crisscross of copper pipes. The gap in the earth below them was as deep as a grave.
Back in her room, Claire watched from the window as Jerry hauled bundles wrapped in black plastic across the lawn and through the side entrance. She imagined him bent under the burden as he descended the basement stairs. Bags of concrete, or something else?
Hours later, when Claire figured the job was done, she went downstairs. He’d left the basement door padlocked, but when Claire tugged at the rusty lock, it sprang open. She lit her way into the basement with the light from her phone, then clicked on the dim fluorescent fixtures.
The overhead lights revealed the slick wet surface of new concrete, a sheen of water shining on top. Claire knelt next to the dark gray square. She breathed in the sweet, musty odor of the cement. Another smell lurked underneath, rotten and foul. Leaning forward, Claire pressed her hand into the soft mass. She put her weight full on her palm, leaving a deep imprint on the cement.
A shadow fell across the stairway. Claire’s breath caught in her throat. Steps thumped across the wood. She scrambled back until the cold cinderblock wall pressed against her. The shadow crept forward until finally, he stood revealed. Jerry. He must have seen the glow from the basement lights. A glint of silver flashed at his side. A knife.
Claire held out her arms, smiling against her fear as he lifted the blade. Did he see her at last? She hoped it would be quick, she hoped they would put her picture beside theirs—all the beautiful girls.
Some of my first short stories were ones I wrote for the Medium website. One of the publications there was called The Weekly Knob. The editors posted a writing prompt, usually an object, that had to be included in the story. You had a week to come up with something. There was no word limit or specific genre, so this was perfect inspiration for me. In 2020 I compiled many of those stories into a book and published it on Amazon.
I continued writing short stories and submitting them to different publications on Medium. The Weekly Knob changed their name to Hinged. Sometime in 2022 I stopped writing unique stories for Medium and I just reposted from my website over there.
My most prolific writing years were the ones I spent writing for The Weekly Knob. I loved getting the prompts every week and I interacted with so many lovely writers who were also posting on Medium. The practice and encouragement I got on Medium helped me to become the writer I am today.
Change comes to us all. Websites come and go, publications fold and so do publishers. I will be sharing here some of the stories I posted on Medium, just to make sure they have a permanent home. I had thought about gathering them for a another book of short stories, but I tell myself I have enough work to do just finishing the novel I’m working on. And the overall goal is to share the tales, so here’s the first one, originally published in August, 2021. I think the prompt was “hinge.”
(If you are one of the people who read this story back when it was first published, I apologize, but perhaps you’ll enjoy it a second time.)
The Cry at Cliff’s Edge
On the first anniversary of her daughter’s death, Ginny Stroud drove to the sea. In her late thirties, Ginny had dark brown hair that she kept clipped close to her scalp, like a young boy’s. A thick scar, twisted and rose-pink, traced from her scalp down the side of her face. Another scar, hidden beneath her jeans, traveled from her hip to just above her knee. Beside her, on the passenger seat of the car, lay a stack of paperback books, her leather purse, and a silver handled cane.
Her little red car, so nimble and reliable when navigating crowded parking lots and slick city streets, chugged up the winding road that led to the Inn at Cliff’s Edge. She had found the hotel on a blog devoted to quiet, less-traveled vacation spots. The place didn’t even have a website. Ginny looked forward to the isolation of being surrounded by people who did not know the tragedy that had shattered her family the year before.
The road, a narrow, one lane asphalt drive, appeared chiseled from the cliff face. A low guardrail stood between her car and the drop to the white-capped grey ocean below. With one hand on the gearshift, Ginny pressed as close as she dared to the towering rock on the passenger side of the car. A large white bird swooped across the road at a curve, and Ginny, distracted, allowed the car to drift onto the loose gravel at the edge.
“Oh!” The involuntary cry escaped her as she steered back into her lane. Her heart drummed in her ears and she shook her head at the near accident. Would it have been so bad after all, if she’d broken through the guardrail and plunged into the cold water below?
At the hotel, she tossed her clothes into the antique dresser in her room and kicked off her shoes. Her room, on the second story of the inn, faced the ocean. Opening the French doors that led outside to the iron railed balcony, Ginny leaned out to breathe in the cold, salt scented air. Below, an overgrown trail led to a wooden gate with peeling paint and rusted hardware. Vines twirled through the arch at the top of the gate, and scrubby pine trees obscured the view, but Ginny supposed the path must continue on the other side.
Tired from the drive, she stretched out on top of the quilt covering the bed. She thought to text her sister to tell her she’d arrived safe and sound, but a check of her phone revealed no service. She would use the hotel phone and call that evening, after dinner.
Hours later, she woke to odd shadows cast by moonlight filtering in through the open balcony doors. Disoriented, she sat up, dizzy with the shock of waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. Memory filled in her day — the long drive from her home to the coast, checking into the hotel, and at last — collapsing on the bed. Ginny had swung her feet off the side of the bed when she heard the cry.
It sounded like an animal cry, but the noise fluttered up the scale, then dropped to an unmistakable human sob. Ginny sprung from the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in her hip. She fumbled with the cane propped beside the bed and, grasping it in one hand, limped barefoot to the French doors.
“Hello?” Ginny leaned over the balcony’s rail, peering into the night below. A scant yellow light illuminated the shrubs at the hotel’s foundation, but did little to light the pathway to the gate. The cry echoed again, fading as though the owner were striding away, down the trail on the other side of the gate. It could be a child, Ginny thought, lost out there in the dark. She reached for the inn’s phone beside her bed, then changed her mind and slipped on her shoes.
“Are you sure?” At the hotel’s desk, Ginny questioned the clerk. “It sounded like a child.”
The night clerk, an older woman with gray streaked black hair, shook her head. Deep lines bracketed the woman’s mouth. “There are no children with our guests. You probably heard the hinge on the gate. It’s old and when the wind blows…”
“I suppose that could have been it,” Ginny allowed. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. “I don’t suppose the kitchen is still open?”
“No.” The clerk shook her head. “But I could open the pantry, make you a sandwich if you’re not too particular.”
“A cold sandwich sounds wonderful.” Ginny read the woman’s name from the white plastic badge pinned to her shirt. “Thank you, Marie. I’m in room 215.”
The clerk smiled, the expression softening her face. “You go on back upstairs and I’ll have someone bring it up.”
Back in her room, Ginny phoned her sister. “I’m here. Safe and sound.”
“That’s good, at least. I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now. Have you talked to Dennis?”
Ginny shook her head as she answered. “No.” She’d read somewhere that many marriages didn’t survive the death of a child. Her husband, Dennis, had moved out two months ago. She didn’t expect they would reconcile. She didn’t have the energy to even try.
“Please tell me you won’t hole up in that place alone all weekend. I don’t like to think of you all by yourself tomorrow. Go outside. Is it pretty there at least?”
“It’s lovely, Stef.” Ginny described the inn — the ivy-covered stone walls, the lofty view of the ocean below. She didn’t mention the old wooden gate. “There’s a farmer’s market tomorrow in the town. I saw the sign when I passed through this afternoon. I’ll drive down and check it out.”
“That sounds like a good plan.” Her sister paused. The sound of her breathing filled the phone receiver. “No one ever blamed you, Ginny.”
True, no one had ever assigned fault to her, at least not where she could hear them. Maybe Dennis had doubts, in the nights he had paced sleepless through their home, over whether Ginny could have done anything differently that day. The burden of the accident lay like a slab of stone on Ginny’s heart.
Ginny clutched the phone so tightly her knuckles grew white. She was about to answer her sister when a knock sounded. Her sandwich. “I’ve got to go, my dinner’s here.”
“All right. Remember — we love you.”
“Love you too,” Ginny whispered into the silent phone.
She fetched a couple of dollars and some change from her purse for a tip for whoever had delivered her food. When she opened the door, Ginny spied a tray on the hallway floor, with her sandwich wrapped in paper and resting on a white napkin on its center. A noise at the end of the hall, near the stairs, drew her attention and she glanced that way in time to see a young boy grasp the handrail. He turned toward her before he started down the stairs. Ginny glimpsed dark brown eyes and a shock of black hair that fell across his brow before he fled down the stairs.
“Hey!” Ginny called after him. She waved the money grasped in her fist, but his steps echoed as he disappeared from view.
The next day, at the farmer’s market, Ginny studied the people weaving amongst the booths set up on the town square. The clerk, Marie, had said there were no children staying at the inn, so maybe the boy was local, lived in the town. He looked too young to be working at the inn, but maybe the rules were more relaxed there.
At one booth, Ginny bought a loaf of bread and a jar of local honey. The vendor’s daughter sat on a quilt on the ground playing with dolls. Tears blurred Ginny’s vision — the girl looked so much like Lottie. Sometimes she went weeks glimpsing no one who reminded her of the child she’d lost. And some days she couldn’t even venture out to the grocery store, afraid she might one day lose herself and chase after some stranger’s daughter.
Back at the inn, Ginny felt she needed a distraction. She explored the grounds. In particular, she wanted a closer look at the gate. Brushing aside sticks and tangled weeds with her cane, she ventured along the path. Exercise, her doctor had declared, would do her good.
The gate at close view looked more mundane than mysterious. It might have once been painted white, but now only patches of color remained on the grey wood. There was only one hinge, a large ornate piece of metal with curled emblems stamped on the surface. A shiny brass padlock hung from the hasp on the gate, unusual for its newness. Had someone unlocked the gate the night before? If the padlock had been in place, the wind couldn’t have swung the gate and made the noise that Ginny heard.
The screws holding the hinge in place felt loose when she pushed against them. She ran her fingers across the surface of the hinge and then wiped her hand across the hem of her shirt. Rust, red as blood, stained her clothes.
“You shouldn’t do that.”
Ginny spun to see the source of the warning. The dark-haired boy from the other night stood behind her on the path. As he strolled up to join her at the gate, Ginny saw he was older than she’d first thought, closer to thirteen than the nine years she’d assumed.
“This is not a good place,” the boy said.
“The inn?”
“No.” The boy waved a hand at the gate. “This. The path, the gate. It’s too close to the edge. You should walk on the other side.”
“But there’s no ocean view over there.”
The boy frowned, considering her. “All right, but don’t go past the gate. That’s why it’s locked, you know.” He stepped beside her and placed a hand on the gate, pushing. The hinge creaked, shifting against the wood, but the lock held. Satisfied, the boy stepped aside and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Ginny called after him. “Do you live here? What’s your name? I’m Ginny.”
Walking backward, the boy answered. “Anthony. I live with my grandmother. She works here.”
Something about the boy’s solemn face and dark hair reminded her of the night clerk, Marie. This must be her grandson.
“Marie?” When the boy nodded, Ginny asked, “Where is your mother?”
Anthony stopped and stared past her. “She’s gone,” he said, and then he spun and jogged away.
That evening, Ginny had an early dinner in the inn’s cozy dining room. The place filled with customers, even before sundown. She didn’t think the Inn at Cliff’s Edge had rooms for that many people. It must be the closest restaurant for many of the locals. The clatter of plates and the drone of conversation filled the air. Marie had smiled and waved at her as she walked past the desk to the dining room, and Ginny wondered if Anthony was around.
She lingered over coffee and a slice of apple pie after her meal. The sun dropped low and cast an orange glow on the horizon when she paid her check and limped outside. Her hip ached from too much activity that day, but she felt restless and she wasn’t ready to turn in for the night, wasn’t ready to be alone with her memories of this night the year before.
In the fading light, the gravel path seemed to glow and Ginny picked her way along, tapping at the ground with her cane to make sure she didn’t encounter any unexpected obstacles. When she reached the gate, she noticed the hinge had come loose from the screws holding it in place on the post beside the gate. The padlock still hung from the hasp, but without the hinge, the gate leaned open, revealing the white rocks of the path beyond. Ginny stepped through the opening.
Brush and vines crowded against her, but the trail itself was oddly clear and level, as though someone had swept away the sticks and larger rocks. Pine and salt spray scented the air, and Ginny heard the faint sound of waves breaking against the cliff face below. She couldn’t see the end of the path, and she wondered if it led down to the shore or if it broke off at the edge of the cliff. The further she walked, the darker it grew and just as she felt she should turn back, she heard the cry from the night before. This time it ended, not with a sob, but with a tiny voice calling, “Momma!”
Ginny shook her head to clear it. How many times over the past year had she spun at that cry? Knowing it couldn’t be her daughter, but unable to resist the call of a child.
“Hello?” Not Lottie, Ginny scolded herself, but some other child in need. “Where are you? I’m coming.” She pushed along the trail, toward the voice.
Turning a corner, the path emerged into a clearing. A small figure stood at the center of the space with her arms held out toward Ginny. A girl child. And if the girl’s face wavered, the bones shifting and reassembling, Ginny didn’t care.
“Lottie?”
The child motioned her closer. Behind her, the trail disappeared at a drop-off. Ginny hobbled forward. Tears blurred her vision, but she kept going, toward the girl, toward the end of the path.
“No!” Small hands clutched at Ginny’s back. She whirled around to see Anthony. He grabbed hold of her cane. “Come back. She’s not real!”
“I don’t care.” Ginny shook her head. But before she could turn back around, an angry growl sounded.
“Run!” Anthony pulled her along.
Ginny stumbled after him. She dared a glance over her shoulder at the thing pursuing them. It grew and shrank, warping from the blond daughter Ginny had lost to the stocky figure of an older man, then to a slim, black-haired woman. The thing’s skin melted and stretched, like putty over a frame of wire and bone. Its mouth dripped a thick, tar-like substance over shark-sharp teeth. The transformations slowed its progress to a shuffling crawl, but Ginny feared they wouldn’t reach the gate before the creature caught them.
“Go on!” She pushed Anthony away, and he ran up to the gate, prying it open further so Ginny could stagger through.
“Help me.” He pulled the gate closed and held it while Ginny fumbled with the screws on the hinge.
“They’re too loose!” The hinge wobbled. The drilled holes were too worn for the screws to hold.
“Just close it. As long as the hinge is on the gate it can’t get through.”
Ginny slammed the last screw into place. Something large and heavy brushed against the wood on the other side. It snuffled and scraped at the gate, but the portal held. At last, it fell silent.
“It looked like my daughter.” Ginny’s legs trembled, and she sank to the ground.
Anthony nodded. “It’s different for everyone.”
“Who do you see?”
“My mother.”
“What is it?”
Anthony shrugged. “I don’t know. It lives there, on the edge.”
There were so many questions Ginny wanted to ask. Why did the hinge keep it from coming through the gate? And why hadn’t anyone tried to get close to the portal? They could at least hide the gate and keep curious people from trying to go through.
But she didn’t ask any of these questions. Not because she felt Anthony couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, but because the answer came to her as they walked away from the gate.
The next day, as she packed her things into her car to leave the Inn at Cliff’s Edge, Anthony waved goodbye to her from the front porch of the inn. Ginny remembered the wistful look on his face the evening before, when she asked him who he saw when the creature appeared. She knew that feeling, that desire to glimpse a beloved face just one more time. The answer to why the gate still stood was the trade-off. She’d go to the edge again herself, if she could, to give life to an evil that fed from one’s grief, in order to pretend the lost walked the earth again.
This is one I wrote for an NYC Midnight story and it’s different from my usual horror style. The original version didn’t advance in that contest. I had included an odd bit about Holly’s ex that didn’t fit with the story. I was trying too hard to include a dark moment and it didn’t fit. In revision I dropped the boyfriend and concentrated on the relationship between Holly and her father. Sometimes less works best. I hope you enjoy it.
The Auctioneer’s Song
They made good time getting to the auction house, despite Holly not driving fast enough to suit her dad, Loyd. Mindful of the cargo in the trailer behind them, she had putted along in the slow lane, taking her time braking and turning.
“Sales gonna start before we pull into the lot,” Loyd muttered. One side of his mouth drooped in a scowl—a remnant from the stroke he’d suffered six months ago. His right hand curled inward, the fingers gnarled and twisted like branches on a mesquite tree.
“Won’t do us any good to be early if we don’t have a live, uninjured animal.” Holly pulled up to the auction barn and left Loyd to supervise the unloading while she carried the paperwork to the office. They had sold off the cows last summer, but kept the bull for the stud fees. Now, the sale of Midnight Max, their Grand Champion Black Angus, would mark the end of their cattle days.
After dropping off their papers, Holly wandered through the sale barn. The scent of hay and manure, the noise of slamming gates, lowing cattle, and whinnying horses—brought back memories. As a young girl, she’d march beside her dad, inspecting the animals for sale, and occasionally voicing her childish opinion. Loyd had always listened, as though her eight or ten years of experience back then matched his.
Outside, her father chatted with a group of men standing under an oak tree. Their faces were all similar—tan, weathered, and wrinkled. Dressed in the same uniform of starched Wranglers and denim shirts, half the group wore baseball caps with feed store logos. The other half, including her dad, sported wide-brimmed Western hats. Loyd stood in the middle of the group, his good hand gripping the hickory staff he carried as a cane. He kept his damaged hand tucked in the pocket of his jeans.
As she joined them, Jim Cole, the auctioneer, reached to shake her hand, then dropped his when he spotted the metal hook at the end of her sleeve. Instead, he touched the brim of his Stetson and dipped his head to her. “Glad to see you here. It’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” Holly agreed. Jim had been running the auction for as long as Holly’s memory allowed. “I know you’ll get us a good price on our bull.”
She recognized their neighbors, Grady Burton and his wife, Sue. Stepping forward to hug Holly, Sue said, “Thank you for your service. It’s good to have you home again. I know Loyd appreciates having you around to help.”
Beside her, Loyd cleared his throat. “I might be old, but I can still haul my own water. As for my girl, I hope she’s seen enough of the world to realize this is the best place for her.”
This was a discussion Holly had put off. Injured in active duty, her disability payment had been automatically approved by the VA, so money didn’t have to figure in her decision. If she stayed with the ranch, she’d have to find something to keep her busy enough she and Loyd wouldn’t knock heads like a couple of angry bulls. Or, with the right type of prosthesis, she could continue her military service.
Jim Cole spoke up, saving Holly from answering. “I’d better get going. Auction can’t start without me.”
On their way inside, Holly and Loyd passed a large open corral holding dozens of horses. They milled about, snorting and switching their tails. Several of them, including mares with their colts, lay on the ground, unable to dodge the trampling hooves. Three men had cornered a bay gelding against the near rail of the corral. He reared and kicked as a red-faced, blond cowboy cursed and shook a rope halter.
“Hey!” Holly gripped the gate.
The bay lowered his head, bony sides heaving. Holly could count his ribs, and his hip bones stood out. Foamy white sweat covered his coat.
“Lady, you don’t want this one.” The blond cowboy tossed the halter on the ground. “He’s got a mean streak. Probably be sent to slaughter.”
Loyd touched her shoulder. “Whoever owned him didn’t treat him right. He’s got spur marks and tack sores. Starved, too.”
“Those horses will go to the slaughterhouse, won’t they?”
“Can’t save them all, sweetheart.”
The sound of the auctioneer greeting buyers reached them, and reluctantly Holly followed her father to the sale arena. They found seats in the gallery as the ring handlers herded in the first lot, six Hereford cows. The animals circled, lowing. Jim Cole began his call, the words a ringing cadence flowing smoothly as a hymn. When she was a child, Holly had tried to decipher the words in between the bids. “They don’t matter,” Loyd would say, “Listen for the dollars. Everything else is flavor for the flow.”
She learned to pick out the phrases that repeated between the numbers. “I have, would you give me, I am here.” The lyrics to the auctioneer’s song, the siren call that would help determine the animal’s worth.
Midnight Max sold before noon. “I’m sorry to see him go,” Holly said. “I hope…” Her voice trailed off. She knew better than to get attached to the cattle.
“Don’t fret. He’s got good years left.”
Holly expected Loyd to rise, but he waved a hand. “We’ll pick up the check later. Let’s stay and watch the rest.”
Toward the sale’s end, the handlers brought out the bay gelding. The horse limped, its head down.
“I can’t watch, Dad.”
“Hold up. We can’t save them all, but we could save this one.”
Around them, the bidding continued. Holly leaned to whisper to her father. “I suppose if we bought this horse I’d have to stay and help with him?”
“Damn shame if you didn’t.”
At the next call of would you give me? Holly raised her hand to cast the winning bid.
Jonas had settled before the fire, tamping tobacco into his pipe, when a blow sounded against the door. His wife, Ruth, flinched and rose from her chair.
“Fetch the rifle,” Jonas said. He gripped the iron poker from the hearth.
He would not have known the visitor if not for Ruth’s gasp of recognition. White frost clung to his beard and dusted his coat. His sunken eyes stared under the shelf of his brow. In the night behind him, snowflakes as large as doves fluttered.
“Samuel!” Ruth lowered the rifle.
Jonas pulled the man, their neighbor, into the house. What terrible mission had brought him four miles to their home?
Trembling, Samuel set down his lantern. “We’ve lost Aaron.” Samuel turned to Jonas. “I need your help to bury him.”
“The ground’s too hard. Wait until the sun warms the soil…”
“It’s been two nights already. I waited, hoping the snow would stop.”
Ruth grasped Jonas’s arm. “He must be buried before the third day.”
The last coffin Jonas had carried had been his mother’s. She passed in the spring, when his shovel turned the ground as easy as planting a field. They buried her right after her last breath. Sometimes, he heard her voice call his name.
“We’ve hours until dawn, but we’ll need a fire to warm the ground.” Jonas shrugged into his coat.
“Wait!” Ruth scurried off and came back carrying two bundles. “Take this.” She thrust the packages at Samuel. “Salt pork and hardtack. Sorry I don’t have more to send.” Color rose in her face. “Tell Mary I’ll be around when the roads clear.”
Samuel tucked the food into his pockets. “I’m grateful. Truth is, we’ve run short of supplies.”
Jonas paused in the doorway when Ruth called again. She rushed to him and wound her wool shawl around his neck. “Stay safe, Jonas.”
The wind ceased when the men were halfway to Samuel’s home. Clouds scattered, revealing the moon, like a white pearl in the indigo sky. No sound but the crunch of their boots across the snow-covered fields. Their breath hung like smoke overhead.
At Samuel’s home, they found Mary’s mother seated in a rocker at the hearth with the younger child, a girl, playing on a rug at her feet. Samuel handed the old woman the food. “From Ruth.”
The grandmother rose. “She’s with him still.” She gestured to the closed door across the room. Her wrinkled face knotted in anger. “The devil takes us if we’ve come to this. No bread to fill our sorrow, no drink to wash our pain.” She motioned to Samuel. “Go fetch Mary.”
“I’ll go,” Jonas said.
The boy lay on his parent’s bed in the cold room. They had dressed him in black pants that stopped short of his ankles and a white shirt that matched the pallor of his face. His mother slumped from her chair and rested her cheek on the mattress. She clutched one of the child’s hands.
Mary jumped when Jonas touched her shoulder. “Please, not yet. Would it be bad to have him back?”
Jonas thought of all the ones he had lost. Would it comfort this family, to be haunted by their child? “You shouldn’t tie him to this earth.”
“I’d do anything to keep him longer.”
Jonas eased her to her feet. “The dead are never gone. We carry them with us always.”
Samuel hitched a horse to their sleigh while Jonas carried the boy outside. He wrapped the body in Ruth’s shawl. Bundles of firewood rested in the back of the sleigh. Rather than put the boy there, his father held him in his lap while Jonas drove the sleigh.
At last, they reached the graveyard behind the church. The moon cast the snow in blue light. Bare-branched trees cast long shadows on their work as they stacked wood on the grave’s soil. The fire lit, the men warmed their hands in its heat. A howl sounded from the woods on the other side. Jonas glanced at the horse tethered on the cemetery’s fence. “We shouldn’t leave them there, with hungry wolves near.”
While Jonas tended to the horse, Samuel laid his son beside the fire, as though to warm him. He brushed aside the shawl and cupped the boy’s cheek. “If he died in the spring, we’d live with his ghost.” Samuel drew the cloth back over the boy. “But I couldn’t bear the guilt of it, to face him now. He’d been sick. When he died, I felt relief that there would be one less mouth to feed.”
“Hunger makes wolves of us. You can grieve the dead and worry for the living.” Jonas rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
When the fire had died to coals, Jonas swept them from the grave and sunk his shovel into the ground. Samuel staggered to his feet, but Jonas waved him away. He dug, mindful of the passing hours and disregarding the blisters that burned on his hands.
Jonas finished digging as a line of burnt orange stretched across the horizon. A blanket of soft gray fog rolled in. Together, Jonas and Samuel eased the boy into his resting place. The sun rose, scattering the mist and warming the earth. The ice melted from the tree branches and clear droplets of water fell over the grave.
I don’t remember why I wrote this story. Possibly it’s one I entered in a contest on the Vocal website. Like Medium, Vocal is a site where writers can publish stories and collect a few pennies when people read them. I wasn’t successful there and finally closed my account once I reached the $20 minimum to cash out. I won’t mention how long it took to earn that money.
And that, dear readers, is one example of why I don’t recommend trying to make a living writing short stories.
This one’s a ghost story, but it’s not too scary.
The Orchard
Mae Emery returned, as she had each year since childhood, to her Aunt Judy’s orchard. The sultry dog days of summer gripped Pennsylvania, but Mae couldn’t get warm. She wrapped her body in bulky sweaters and stiff jeans, clad her feet in heavy boots. Workman’s clothes.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Your mother would want you to be with family.” Aunt Judy pulled her close as soon as Mae stepped from her car. The last of the season’s blossoms swirled around their feet like snow.
“It’s good to be back.” Mae studied the older woman, searching for some sign of the breast cancer her aunt had survived years ago. They didn’t talk about things like that back then, Mae’s mother had told her, as she herself lay dying from that same disease.
That summer and into the fall, Mae worked in the gift shop alongside her aunt. The orchard had been in their family for generations, passed down at last to Mae’s mother’s older sister, Judy. Less than a hundred miles from Gettysburg, the farm attracted tourists and local families both. As the pears ripened, the orchard filled with workers. The bell above the gift shop’s door chimed as customers flooded in, searching for trinkets and t-shirts. Mae forced a smile upon her lips while her hands dished out pies, jars of pear butter, and doughnuts warm from the fryer.
Evenings, Mae retired to her tidy room above the store, scented with cinnamon and the sweet smell of candles in the gift shop below. Snuggled underneath a faded quilt, she slept beside a view of the trees from her window. Aunt Judy had offered Mae her mother’s old room in the main house, but Mae could not imagine resting there. At night, the house settled with creaks and pops like footsteps on the wooden floors.
Below her window, at the edge of the orchard, the orange flames from the pickers’ campfires glowed. If the wind blew from the right direction, it would carry their soft conversation. Mae could pretend their words were those of the ghosts rumored to haunt the orchard.
One night, when the full moon cast its glow, Mae dressed and strolled barefoot among the trees. The leaves rustled like restless spirits. The grass on the ground as familiar as the rug beside her bed. This was the one place she thought might melt the cold center of dread and sorrow she carried.
She found the canteen, propped against a trunk, as though someone had dropped it there. Worn wool cloth covered the rusted tin container. She tipped it over the grass and a stream of dry soil spilled from the spout. A flash of white drew her gaze. Mae froze. Something drifted out from the trees at the end of the row. Mae drew in a breath. A boy’s pale face appeared in the moonlight. He wore a jacket, long trousers, and a flat-brimmed hat, the colors muted by the dark.
“Hello?” Mae stepped toward him.
His eyes were blank as pennies. He stared past her, alert, as though watching for someone else to come through the trees. A snap, a heavy step on a twig, sounded behind her. A brush of cold flicked against her neck. Mae spun. The row was empty. When she turned back, the boy had disappeared.
Clutching the flask to her chest, Mae jogged back to the gift shop. When she reached her room, she slammed and locked the door then collapsed against it, panting and shaking.
The next morning, before the shop opened, Mae brought the canteen to her aunt. “I found this last night in the orchard.”
Judy turned the flask over, her fingers tracing the circles stamped into the tin. “This is very old,” she said. “Things turn up now and then. Civil War stuff, mostly bullets. Metal lasts longer.” Judy handed the canteen back to Mae. “What else did you see?” she asked.
“There was someone there, a boy.”
“Dressed strangely?” Judy asked. When Mae nodded, Judy said, “A spirit. I haven’t seen him in years.” She brushed the hair back from Mae’s face. “Sorrow calls to sorrow,” she said.
That night, Mae studied the canteen. How had it come to be there, in the orchard? Who had left there it, for her to find? Soft notes of guitar music drifted in through the open window from the pickers’ cabins. Mae carried the canteen outside.
An older man, face creased and lined by days spent in the sun, sat next to a dying campfire. He nodded hello as she strolled by. Mae had known many of the regulars, the pickers who returned season after season. She’d taken turns working the trees, her back aching at the end of the long day, bent from the weight of pears.
Most times, her mother stood at the bottom of the ladder, steadying it and pointing out the ripe fruit. High in the green of the branches, Mae couldn’t see every side of the fruit, but together, they saw all the pears. This was the first year she hadn’t worked among the trees.
With the canteen tucked under her arm, Mae crept through the orchard. The guitar music faded, and not even a whisper of wind moved the leaves. This was her world—the pears, the trees, everything around her constant and comforting. If she belonged here, then so did the boy.
“It’s okay,” she said. She lifted the canteen, an offering.
Then, all around, spectral figures wafted through the trees. They passed by Mae, the stream of ghostly men parting as they flowed around her. Soldiers. Ghosts, filled with fear and sadness, but with courage as well. They marched forward, unseeing. In the distance, a drum beat a tap, tap to their steps. Mae waited as wave after wave of blue-coated foot soldiers appeared.
She spotted him. He marched, beating the drum strung at his waist. Mae held out the canteen. The boy’s icy fingers brushed hers as he gripped the container and it faded to transparency. Canteen slung over his shoulder, the boy took up the drumbeat and joined his company. The soldiers passed—mounted men silent except for the creak of their saddles, foot soldiers gripping their rifles, cannons mounted on caissons whose wheels did not disturb the grass. Mae lifted a hand in a half-salute and stood watch until they faded and broke up like mist over the ground.
This story is one I wrote last year for the NYC Midnight Scary Story contest. The judges liked it enough that I advanced to the second round in that contest. One of the prompts that had to be included was a character that was a nomad. I don’t remember the other prompts. The story also had to be 500 words or less, a real challenge when you have to include specific things.
I’m not entering any NYC Midnight contests this year. They have been a good incentive to stretch my creativity, but I’ve put off writing a novel for too long and now is the time to concentrate on that. For now, I hope you enjoy this little tale. It’s a ghost story of sorts, but not too scary.
The Homecoming
Every October, Evangeline was drawn back to the place she had known as home. No matter how far she traveled, like a bird she returned, drawn to dark mysteries in the East Texas house.
She parked the RV in the weed-filled drive and waited as the witch came outside. The old woman’s name refused to rise in her recollection, but her face was one Evangeline could imagine as her own reflection, twenty years forward.
“You’re here,” the witch said. “Come inside.”
Evangeline left the motor home, with its collage of bumper stickers from places pinned on a map. Never settling, lest she mistake familiarity for forgiveness.
The porch creaked with her steps, the wood gone soft and gray. Beside the house, laundry hung on a line—cotton dresses and sheets that snapped like sails in the wind.
She followed the old woman down a hallway with portraits on the walls. A young man in a soldier’s uniform, a bride in an oval frame, a family of stern-faced folk. Last, a photograph, colors faded to blue-green, of a mother and child. Broken glass hung in the frame. Someone had carved out their faces, taken a sharp edge to the paper. Evangeline trailed her fingers across the clinging shards of glass. A carmine drop of blood bloomed on her thumb.
Inside the bathroom, water dripped into a claw-footed tub. The scent of mold and rain-damp leaves, of things left to rot, drifted out. Evangeline covered her face to hide from the room.
“Sit.” The old woman pointed at the kitchen table. Scattered across the surface were dried herbs, a hen’s egg, a black candle, and a clump of clay molded into the shape of an infant.
After lighting the candle, the woman grabbed Evangeline’s hand and squeezed a drop of blood into the flame. A clock chimed three times.
“Hurry.” The witch pushed a wicker basket at Evangeline.
Outside, dark clouds threatened. She raced to save the wash. When she tried to return the basket, the witch blocked her. “You must face this.”
Evangeline shivered. The bathroom door creaked closed, hiding what waited inside. No giggling play, no splashing. Only drip, drip, drip.
“The spell didn’t work. I don’t remember,” Evangeline lied.
“It was an accident. Forgive yourself.”
Before she climbed into the RV, Evangeline kissed the old woman’s cheek. “I’ll see you next year,” she said. “Goodbye, Mother.”
“March is the month of expectation, the things we do not know.” — Emily Dickinson
Photo by Terrye Turpin
March was a good month for reading. I began with The Dog Stars by Peter Heller. I’d read this one before but this time it was for a book club pick and I enjoyed discussing it with other readers. Every time I pick up a book I try to focus on the skill behind the story, but it’s also nice to just read for enjoyment.
The Dog Stars is written in first person. Hig, the point of view character, is a pilot who owns a 1956 Cessna that he flies on reconnaissance missions with his dog Jasper as copilot. The author captures the sensation of flying with such details you feel as though you are in the plane with them.
Peter Heller’s writing style is unique and fits with the type of books he writes. The sentences are mostly short and fit perfectly with Hig’s character. Like Cormac McCarthy, Heller doesn’t use dialogue tags or different punctuation for dialogue. I thought at first this would be jarring, but instead it made me feel like I was inside the character’s head and feeling the things he felt.
Woven within this post-apocalyptic story are vivid descriptions of nature, making the loss of some species heartbreaking in this dystopian world. The overall theme, however, is hopeful as Hig searches for community and fellowship despite the struggle to survive.
One of the hardest things I find about writing is coming up with titles. I’m always interested in the meanings behind them, and I learned that Sirius, the dog star, is the brightest star in the sky, and has been used for navigation by ancient societies. Fitting then to use that as the title for a book about searching for home.
The next five books I read last month were chosen because they are similar in theme and plot to the contemporary fantasy novel that I am writing. I’ve heard it many times and it’s great advice – write the book that you want to read, and read the books that are in the genre you want to write.
I picked up Gallant by V.E. Schwab, Broken Ghosts by J.D. Oswald, The Astonishing Color of After, by Emily X.R. Pan, The Hazel Wood by Melissa Albert, and The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman.
All the above had excellent examples of a well-developed magic system. I also tried to find books where the main character was dealing with loss, grief, and family secrets.
I had read The Hazel Wood years ago when it first came out, so this time around I outlined the plot structure as I read, noting the turning points in the story and where they fell in the book. This is a useful exercise. I’m used to writing short stories, and it’s taken me some adjustment to the longer form of a novel. I tried outlining my story, but that felt too much like homework. Instead, I’ve adopted an approach halfway between discovery writing and strict outlining. I know where the major plot points have to fall, and I’m writing to those as I go. Reading with a focus on how other authors have structured their books is a pleasant way to learn plotting.
One note about the Neil Gaiman book. I know he is a problematic author considering the revelations of his sexual assault accusations. Although it looks like there won’t be any charges brought against him, I don’t feel right supporting his work by buying any new work he produces. The same thing with other authors who turn out to be horrible people despite their storytelling talent – J.K. Rowling for example.
Can we appreciate the work separate from those who produced it? For me the answer is it depends. The books I have on my shelf were bought and paid for before the truth came out on these authors. Throwing out those books won’t make any difference in the world. I’ll keep them and enjoy the stories for their own merits, but I won’t spend any more money supporting those authors. There are plenty of other books to buy, plenty of deserving writers to support.
I always listen to at least one audiobook each month, and in March it was How to Sell a Haunted House. I love Grady Hendrix’s blend of humor and horror. This book had themes of grief, personal loss, family drama, and haunted puppets.
My just-for-fun book this month was book four in the Dungeon Crawler Carl series – The Gate of the Feral Gods by Matt Dinniman. I’m hooked on these books and I also bought the audiobook versions so I can enjoy the wonderful narration. My husband has started reading them, so now I have to wait for him to catch up before we can talk about them. He’s on book two, so I will probably have to read the first three again while I’m waiting for him to get to book four. It’s a struggle but I’m prepared for the sacrifice. (wink)
The story below is one I wrote last year for the NYC Midnight 500 word contest. I’ve held onto it, thinking maybe I would expand it and put it into a book of short stories, but the longer I put that off, the less interest I have in editing. There are folders on my computer filled with half-finished stories. At least this one is complete, although it could have used a few more words. But it’s enough for now and it gives me something to post on the weekly blog.
One of these days I’ll pull those other stories together into a book. I don’t feel too guilty letting them sit. I’ve started work on a novel, and I’ll use that as an excuse for now.
This one is a horror story and it’s a bit dark, so be warned.
Counting Dead Flowers
On my fourth trip to the cellar, the rotten step collapsed. Luckily, most of my weight had shifted, my foot planted on the next tread. Cursing, I gripped the handrail, glancing over my shoulder at the gap where the middle board had been. Much of the stairs lay in shadows due to the burned-out bulb at the top.
I could imagine my sister Ivy chiding me for not replacing it. She’d be angry enough that I was here alone. “Don’t go without me. I’ll be there by Thursday at the latest,” she’d said.
Three days had passed since our father’s death. Eager to begin the search, I had sorted through the mounds of newspapers, broken dishes, empty takeout containers, and discarded electronics that filled the home like barnacles on a ship.
I’d arranged our father’s cremation. There was no point in a funeral—the man had no one other than Ivy and me. He had lived alone in this house for twenty years.
At the bottom of the stairs, I weaved through the cardboard boxes I’d moved to clear a path to the back. The place stank of mildew and the damp earth of the cellar’s dirt floor. My shadow, cast by the pale light of the bare bulb on the ceiling, hovered over the old chest that I had uncovered. Made of cheap particleboard, one end had rotted out, spilling the contents. A child’s jump rope lay coiled on top of the chest. Lifting the rope, I recalled the rhyming song we had chanted.
I know a secret. Can you guess?
which little flower he likes best?
Setting aside the rope, I scooped out folded sheets of paper, yellowed and dotted with black and green mold. Childish handwriting covered the pages that could still be read. I shivered, remembering the scratch of pencil against paper as I created a list of names.
Daisy, Rosy, Violet, Belle,
hide in the cellar, and don’t you tell.
Upstairs, the front door creaked open, followed by my sister’s voice. “Lily?”
Frantic, I tried to stuff the papers back into the chest, but they slid out, along with a stack of Polaroid photos.
Sister doesn’t care, sister doesn’t mind.
How many petals will you find?
Her heels tapped along the wood floors. I turned over the first photo. A pale face stared at me. One of the missing girls we’d planted in the cellar dirt. How many were there? I kept getting the number confused with the count at the end of our jump rope rhyme. One, two, three, four—we stopped when he had the first stroke, when I was twelve, Ivy fourteen.
“Where are you?” Ivy’s steps halted.
“Down here.”
She wanted to confess, to set the past right. Would a jury forgive our acting as lures for the innocent? No. We clipped them, gardeners deadheading blooms.
Counting the steps as Ivy descended, I picked up the rope. If the broken tread didn’t do the job, I would finish it.
Photo by the author – (Squirrel baby does reside in our home)
I’ve been listening to the audiobook for Grady Hendrix’s novel How to Sell a Haunted House. I have a signed copy of this book somewhere on my bookcase, but I hadn’t gotten around to reading the physical copy. In order to reduce my To Be Read list, I’ve resorted to audiobooks.
The story is about a brother and sister – Louise and Mark – who have to clear out their parent’s home after their death. “Gee Terrye, that sounds like a depressing read.” Yes, it could be, but the parents were sort of hoarders and the mom left behind a huge collection of dolls and puppets. And the puppets and dolls are haunted.
Somehow Louise and Mark must reconcile their past and clear out the house in order to sell it.
Reading the story I can’t help but picture the hundreds of books and movies my husband and I have accumulated. Add in the puzzles, board games, closets full of clothing, and two china cabinets full of pottery and it will make for a hell of an estate sale when we kick off. I also have dolls, but none of them are haunted. Yet.
Photo by the author
I don’t own the doll above, or any of these pictured below, although there are a couple that I do regret not buying. Can you guess which ones?
I do love encountering these creepy dolls in the stores we visit. Taking their picture is almost as satisfying as buying them and bringing them home.
Photo by the author
Not just one potentially possessed toy, but a whole suitcase. Who could resist? Me, that’s who.
Photo by the author
Even Saint Nick has an evil side. Maybe he just needs some love, or someone to murder. Don’t leave out cookies for this guy.
Photo by the author
This fellow looks like he’s climbing over that pile so he can jump right in your arms. He also looks like he’s been to one to many raves.
Photo by the author
No. Just no. I can’t even look at this photo for longer than a minute.
Photo by the author
Here’s a story waiting to be written – revenge of the abandoned bride (doll).
Photo by the author
Not a doll but pretty cool. Goodnight Irene.
Photo by the author
It’s difficult but not impossible to be frightened by Captain Kangaroo.
Photo by the author
This one is life-sized. Bwa ha ha ha ha.
Photo by the author
What is going on here? This child-size wheelchair is spooky enough, it reminds me of the 1980 movie The Changeling. Add in this life-sized toddler and her baby brother/sister and there’s a plot twist.
Photo by the author
Why did the antique shop pose this guy with the Chemistry Lab? And what is he wearing? Why is his hand so tiny? His expression says he has been disappointed by everything in life.
Photo by the author
Whoever invented those doll eyes and that open and close, please know you have inspired so many nightmares.
Photo by the author
Another monkey. This one has shoes and a shirt but no pants. His half-naked state makes that grin so ominous. Also, why is half-dressed so much weirder than being completely unclothed? Is he naked if he’s covered in fur?
Photo by the author
Here’s some friends just hanging out.
Photo by the author
She looks like she’s rather be anywhere but here, with that screaming baby next to her.
I wonder about the people who owned these things. Did they have a special place in their home? How did they end up in dusty antique stores, next to framed portraits of someone’s grandmother? Were they there at the end, when the people who loved them were no longer around?
Imagine the horror inspired when the relatives gather round the patriarchs and matriarchs and hear them say, “Someday all this will be yours.”
The hum of bees is the voice of the garden.” -Elizabeth Lawrence
Photo by the author
Despite my husband’s collection of movies with homicidal insects, we do love bees. Spring and summer days there is nothing so meditative as working in the garden alongside our happy pollinators.
Photo by the author
The early blooming landscape in the front of our home brings a crowd every year. I’m happy to provide a source of pollen, even as I start my yearly round of allergy meds.
Photo by the author
The first days of warmer weather this year brought an unexpected crowd. A bee swarm arrived overnight, clustered around their queen like fans seeking autographs at a Taylor Swift concert.
They took up residence in an unlikely spot beneath the platform bird feeder. The birds were not happy sharing their space, but like us they left the bees alone. Online research assured me the swarm would leave on its own, once the scout bees found a suitable place for the new hive.
Three days passed – the expected timeline for departure, and the swarm still clung to the bird feeder. Then the forecast predicted rain.
“Should we try and move them?” I wondered to Andrew. “There’s no protection from the weather.”
He considered buying a wooden beehive box. I pictured him swathed head to toe in a white beekeeper suit, one of those hooded hats with a veil topping his head.
We decided to let the bees work it out on their own.
Photo by the author
That evening a storm blew through. We woke the next morning and found the platform empty. We had a moment of rejoicing, then I noticed the clump of sodden bees on the ground. Closer inspection showed movement. They fanned their wings, attempting to dry out enough to fly.
“They need energy!” Andrew found a bottle of hummingbird nectar and poured some on a plate. We weren’t sure if the bees would find it appetizing, but as they gradually regained their flight they gathered around the plate like frat boys at a free beer happy hour.
Photo by the author
We expected the bees to find a new home after they filled up on nectar.
They did.
These bees were the type of guests that did not want to turn down free room and board. Ignoring the platform where they had tried to shelter during the rain storm, they migrated to the post holding the platform. At least they were mostly huddled under the metal cone that protected the feeders from curious squirrels.
Photo by the author
They stayed on the post for another two days. The scout bees buzzed in tight circles, darting off now and then but always returning to the swarm. Finally, by some bee consensus we weren’t privy to, they decided to leave. I hope they found a good place to set up a new hive. One close enough they can visit and pollinate my vegetables this spring and summer, but far enough away they won’t be tempted for a longer stay.
Let's Get Out of Here 