SNM Horror Magazine

                                                       THEME:

Ghost Hauntings, Supernatural Events, Halloween stories.

Current Issue 1

The Lonesome Soul - Lisa Strong

The Black House - Hayley Bernard

The Healing House - Jack Burton

                                       See Issue Below

Apartment 306

A.J. Brown

It's a dirty old place where we live. The walls might have been white once, but now they’re a dingy gray. Just down the hall before the elbow that leads to the elevators, there's a bloody handprint that has turned brown. It's been there quite a long time—since before Jake or me was ever thought of—Dad always says. You'd think someone would have washed it off by now but not here, not in this rat hole in the middle of Crack Alley.

Crack Alley? Now there's a welcoming name to give your neighborhood. I guess it fits. You can go to any street corner around here and get a nice supply of drugs fairly inexpensive. The pushers sell it cheaper here just so they can make a buck—we're all too damn poor to buy any of the good stuff, the stuff that makes your head swoon in ecstasy and your body tingle all over as if you just had the best orgasm of your life. Nope, we get the dollar dosage around here and that ain't much for some of these folks. Hell, I even saw Mrs. Harris down in apartment 311 offer up her nine-year-old daughter to one of the dealers—a skinny dark guy by the name of Trey—for a hit of some of the good stuff. Little Jenny ain't been the same since.

The plumbing only works in our apartment about half the time. Dad says there’s a clog somewhere in the system. We try to hold it in and go to the bathroom a little later than normal so we don't have to pump the toilet with the plunger. I hate the plunger and I hate having to clean the floor when the toilet backs up and overflows. I'm sure the folks in 204 below us don't care much for it either.

The heat works when it wants to and there ain't no central air units like in some of those fancy apartments. The window AC unit we have barely works and it doesn't really matter if it runs great, it's in Dad's room and we aren't allowed in there. I guess it's better than the bums down on the streets with cardboard houses and newspaper blankets. At least in this apartment we can be safe from the thugs outside. Unless they bring guns to the party then it's a crapshoot on who lives and who dies.

We moved here years ago, back when I was two and Jake was still an infant, barely out of Momma's coochy and into the world. Dad says we didn’t have much choice. He lost his job and Momma was a stay-at-home kind of gal. She had to look out for us. But that was a different time and Momma was still alive. She’s been gone a while now—think I was five when she died and Jake was almost three.

I take care of Jake now since Dad is always at work or stoned or drunk. Sometimes he's a little bit of all of those. Jake follows me everywhere—being eight and having no friends will lead you to sticking around with the only person you know. I don't mind much, though. I don’t have any friends around here either. Jake and me are the only two boys under fifteen years old in the apartment complex so a lot of the older kids won’t have nothing to do with us. That's okay—it's hard enough keeping Jake away from all the drugs and alcohol with Dad always around, but hanging with some of the older kids could make things worse.

Oh, and Jake, he's dumb, but not like stupid or something like that. He just doesn't talk. All he ever says is Momma. I guess that's the only word he actually knows, or cares to know. At eight, you'd think he could talk more than that, but he doesn't say anything except Momma and he only says that every so often. I feel sorry for him when he calls out for her—I wonder how much he actually remembers of her.

Sometimes we sit on top of the building and watch the world playing out before us. We lean over the edge and we can see the drug deals going on, the cops on the take, the hookers with their skirts around their stomachs and bent over in alleyways, taking it hard from some stranger or knobbing their tool—it's all the same for them: a fuck or a suck for their rent or crack money. Sometimes those shows are better than the ones on the old black and white T.V. with the jumpy screen, especially when the men try to cheat the women of their fuck money.

That's what we did today. Just hung out on top of the roof, watching the children play in rat infested ruins and the adults doing adult things. There was a shooting this morning—one of the cops didn't seem to like the deal he got from one of the small time pushers. Put a bullet in his head. People just stepped around the body until someone came and scooped it off the ground. That was the most excitement we've had in weeks. I think Jake was more fascinated by it than I was—he barely even moved as the whole thing went down. 

The show is over now and after sitting for a while longer, I think we should be heading back to the apartment. Dad doesn't like it when we aren't home when he gets there.

"Come on, Jake," I say and he follows me to the stairs.

We make our way down the winding steps until we reach the third floor. I open the stairwell door and look around. The lights in the hall are dim and the smell is rank, like always. We go down the hall and round the elbow then pass the elevators. After we round the second corner  I can see the handprint—the prints are long as if the fingers had been dragged along the wall. Jake looks at the handprint; mouth open, eyes wide. I wonder what’s going through his mind but I know I'll never find out. No one will.

We walk past room 311 and Jenny is sitting there, her legs all open with a vacant look on her face. I can see her dirty yellow panties with red stains in the crotch. I push her legs together and pull her skirt down to cover her thighs.

Before we reach our rat hole of an apartment, the door to room 306 opens and out walks the crazy lady. She never seems to know if she is coming or going, but I think she's a little of both. She also never seems to notice us, but Jake always notices her. Crazy lady stumbles by, her brown hair a mess of tangles, her skin dirty and bruised, her dark dress or skirt or whatever it is, is wet around her chest. I take a second look at her but I can't figure out what is on her clothes. 

Jake lets go of my hand and takes a few steps toward her. He stops when he reaches Jenny, her legs are unfolded again. She has taken off her panties in the short time it took to get from her apartment over to the crazy lady's. The woman disappears around the corner and Jake drops his head. He pushes Jenny's legs back together, pulls her dress over her thighs and turns back to me. I see tears in his eyes.

"Momma," he says.

"No, Jake, that's not Momma. Momma's dead."

I open the door and Dad is sitting on the couch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and cigarette in the other. This is not good—Dad is never home early.

"Where ya'll been?" he asks but doesn't look at us.

"Just walking around. We got bored."

"You ain't supposed to leave the apartment."

He takes a big swallow of whiskey and looks at me. His eyes are red and I can see he is stoned out of his mind.

"What have I told you about leaving the apartment?" he scolds.

"Not to, that there’s too many bad people out there."

"Damn right there are, now get to your room, you sack of shit. I'll come deal with you later."

I wait for him, but I think he left for a while. When the door opens, I hear him, but he ain't alone. There is a small voice with him, begging him not to do 'it.' I recognize the voice as little Jenny from down the hall. A moment passes then another and I hear the first of her cries. I don't know how much Dad gave Mrs. Harris, but anger boils up in me. I think of Jake and wonder if Dad ever did anything to him.

The cries become moans and I am wide awake through the entire thing.

"Now get on out of here, you little bitch," Dad says.

I peek out the bedroom door to see Jenny stagger down the hall, blood dripping onto the floor from between her legs. She tries to open the door but her hand slips. Then she gets it open and is gone. In the second or two she was there, a puddle formed on the carpet. She stepped in it, leaving a footprint behind. I close my door and hope he is too tired to deal with me. When I lay down, I hug my pillow and wish Momma was still alive. Some time later I wake up and I hear Dad snoring. Tiptoeing out of the apartment will probably get me a beating but I need to get away for a minute. Jake is sitting on the couch, his hair all mussed up from sleeping. He smiles when he sees me and my heart almost lifts.

"I’m going out. You wanna come?"

He nods. We grab his shoes and slip out the door. We don't get very far before we see Jenny. But something is wrong with her. She's not sitting by the door to her mother's apartment. She is lying in front of it. A fly lands on her small nose and I can see that her skin has changed from the lily white it used to be to an almost grayish color. Beneath her lies a sticky, not-quite-dry puddle of blood. Her bloody footprints lead from our door to where she lies.

"Jenny?" I'm hoping she hears me, but deep down inside, I know better. "Jenny, you okay?"

There is no answer or movement.

The woman in 306 opens her door and steps out into the hall. Like always, she is wearing the same clothes. She walks by Jenny as if she weren't there and rounds the corner just down the hall. I see her put her hand on the wall and a chill runs through my body.

"Momma?" Jake calls and goes to run after the crazy lady.

"No, Jake. That's not Momma. Momma's de—" The words get caught in my throat and I look back at Jenny. I walk over to her and bend down. Her skin is cold and her eyes are open. I put a hand to her mouth and she is not breathing.

I back away, grab Jake's hand and push him back inside.

"Momma," Jake says, tears in his eyes.

"Jake, that's not Momma. She's dead."

We huddle in my room and wait. Sometime during the day, Dad leaves and we step out of the apartment for a moment. Jenny still lays on her side, her eyes open but not seeing anything, her privates torn open from where Dad had relieved himself -- the very thought of it tears at me and I want to hurt him, make him pay for what he did to her. Who am I kidding? I'm eleven and still just a boy. Dad is old and mean.

Jake and I stay inside. We check every once in a while to see if someone has found Jenny, but no one has. She still lies there in a puddle of her own blood, still dead. It's hard to take in, knowing that Dad is the reason that Jenny is lying there dead. But there’s not much I can do except call the police, but I am really hoping someone else does it. I go to head back inside and I see the crazy lady from 306 leaving the room again. She steps over Jenny, not seeing her, I guess, and continues down the hall. She brushes her hand against the wall then she’s gone around the corner.

As night settles in, Dad is home and drunk again. I can smell the reefer he has been smoking. I close the door to my room. Jake is inside with me.

The begging wakes me. It is a little girl's voice and I swear I hear a scream before her crying sets in. The moments pass slowly and I wait, my blanket pulled up to my face even though it is hot in the room. After the moaning and crying stops, I stand and walk over to my door. I see Jake is still asleep and I open the door.

I blink several times, not sure what I am seeing. Jenny walks passed me and to the front door. She pauses, opens the door and goes out. I run to the door and open it. She sits down where her body is and I feel my heart stop. She doesn’t see me as she hugs herself with thin arms.

A moment later the apparition tilts onto her side and blends in with her lifeless body. As I stand there, I watch as the woman from room 306 exits her apartment and walks away. She doesn't look at Jenny and her hand touches the wall right where the bloody handprint is.

"Momma."

I spin around to see Jake standing there. He is holding an old teddy bear—one that Momma had given him when he was born. His eyes are full of tears and his bottom lip shakes.

"Momma?"

"Do you really think the crazy lady is Momma?"

He nods ‘yes.’

I walk down to room 306. I want to try the doorknob but my hand refuses to move.  Fear dances on my tongue and tastes like salty sweat. I feel time slipping away as if my life is going with it. With a quick jab, my hand finds the doorknob and touches the cold metal. It sends shivers through my body. I turn the knob, the door clicks open and I stand there, stunned. 

“Should I go in?” I ask Jake.

He nods and holds his teddy bear closer to his chest.

The door pushes open and a rush of heat spills out from the room. A stench comes with it and smells like something really old like the room hasn’t been cleaned since it was rented. 

So I look inside. My eyes focus on the intense darkness of the apartment. I can make out shapes. The place still has furniture. There is a couch and a table in front of it, a chair off to the side and another one on the floor. One of its legs is broken. I tip-toe in and the dust stirs around my feet. 

“Stay here, Jake,” I say. 

He nods. It’s what he does.

I step further into the darkness; my eyes adjusting a little more and the black becomes shades of grays; shapes take form and I can see that there is not much furniture in there other than what I first saw while peeking in. 

I make my way down the dark hall and my heartbeat picks up. I feel sweat on my body and my skin is gooseflesh. Something tells me to turn around and I stop just shy of a closed door to my right. I think it is a bedroom but I am not sure. The knob turns and the door creaks open. Dust stirs around me but I walk into the room. There is nothing in there, not even an old bed.

The door to my left is closed and I open it. It’s the bathroom. I know right away something is wrong in here. The sink basin that should be attached to the wall is lying on the floor. The toilet seat is torn off and the bathtub looks a little grimy—even in the darkness. There is something in it. I bend down. Not that I want to but I just can’t help myself. My hand touches the cold porcelain and I push my fingers forward. But they stop on something smooth and trace their way up until I am touching what feels like a hard, stiff cloth. I jerk my hand away and back toward the door, running my hand along the wall until I find the light switch. Though I don’t believe the light will turn on, I flip the grungy, cake-dusted switch and look at where I am certain the light bulb is. There is a hum then the light flickers. It casts a gray light and I can see the bulb covered in dust. I look to the bathtub and a scream freezes in my throat.

“Momma.”

I spin around to see Jake standing behind me. His eyes are focused on the skeleton. Long matted hair hangs from a skull that has long since lost all of its flesh and is now nothing but smooth bone. There is a black shirt and skirt on the body—it is the same as the crazy lady. 

I step over to the tub and look down. There is a knife sticking out from the woman’s chest. My mind reels for a second and I think I am going to vomit. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. My spinning world slows and my vision restores itself to normal. 

I force myself to look back at the body. Dried blood cakes the once white porcelain. There are several bloody handprints on the tub and I realize she is the woman who made the handprint on the wall down the hall. 

“We gotta get out of here, Jake.” I say and turn to leave. 

“Momma.”

I say nothing and try to turn Jake around. I stop when I see the woman walking down the hall. She goes to the door and acts like she is opening it, even though we never closed it. She stumbles from the room and into the hall. I hurry after her and watch as she touches the wall right where the handprint is. 

The angry yell that comes from behind me makes me duck and I land on the nasty floor. I cough and try to stand. I barely get to my knees when I hear the voice again.

“Stupid bitch. Get the hell back here.” 

There is a rush of hot air that blows by me with a stench like shit, blood and sweat mixed together. I lean out the door and I see the woman backing up, one hand is on the back of her head gripping at her hair. The other one is on her chest. Blood is pouring down her arm. She screams and looks as if she is being pulled back into the apartment. 

She brushes by me and I feel the chill of her spirit spill over me. My eyes follow her into the bathroom. She screams again and I can hear a horrible sound. I know she has been stabbed. Her body falls into the tub where it melds with the bones already there.

“Fucking whore,” the angry voice says and slams the bathroom door.

For a few seconds there is silence. Then I hear the crying and turn to Jake. He hasn’t moved. The crying isn’t coming from him. I follow it down the hall and to one of the bedroom doors. I open it and look inside. The crying is coming from this room and it grows louder as I stand there. It’s as if the crying is coming from…

“Momma?” I say and turn. 

I am the one crying as the memories flood my soul, making me dizzy again. I feel vomit in my throat and I lean over to throw up. Nothing comes out.

I stand up straight and push myself along the wall. I stumble on past the bathroom and I am thankful the door is closed. 

“Come on, Jake,” I say and grab him. He barely moves and I have to tug on his arm again. Now he is coming and I lead us out into the hall.

“Momma?” he asks.

“Yeah, Jake. That was Momma.”

I walk him to the stairwell and tell him to stay there. He sits down, clutches his teddy bear tight and nods. I see more tears in his eyes and anger rises in my body. I want to hold him but there is little time.

“I’ll be right back...”

I have to turn away and I can feel Jake’s eyes on me. I feel horrible for him, but I feel worse for me -- for what I had seen when I was smaller and had somehow forgotten. Shame filters in as well. I could have helped Momma, I think. Maybe not. Maybe Dad would have killed me, too. I don’t know, but I recall it all now. Momma and Dad arguing, the sound of him hitting her, the flash of the knife as I peek out my door and see him stab my mother in the chest. Her screams. She attempts to leave and he attacks her outside the apartment. Her death—at Dad's hands, him stabbing her and driving the blade through her chest.

“What the Hell are you looking at, boy?” he had asked and slammed the bathroom door in my face. 

I find myself alone in the dirty bathroom. The light is on and Momma’s skeleton is lying there in the tub. Her bones aren’t as white as I thought they were. They are more of a grayish color, but that is not what holds my attention. The handle of the knife juts out of her body. I’m guessing it is held in place by her chest. I bend down, put my hand around it and pull. Her shirt tears and her body moves. A sound like someone letting out a deep breath comes from the body and I step back. The blade is crusted with dried blood. More tears fill my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” I say and it is time for me to leave her be. 

She is standing in front of me. Her eyes are sad but she smiles at me. I feel something I haven’t felt since her death—loved. 

“I gotta go. I have to take care of something.”

Momma steps aside and I hurry past her. Out in the hall I see Jenny’s dead body still lying on the floor. I can’t believe no one has noticed her yet. My anger grows.

Two doors down, I stand in front of my apartment. I open the door and step inside. It is dark and Dad is nowhere to be seen. I know where he is, but I stand here, knife in hand and hate burning inside me. I flip the light on and the darkness runs away. There is trash on the floor—stuff I guess I’m going to have to clean up soon. The television is tipped over and I wonder if Dad had come out when I left the room. A spear of fear spikes me and a chilled finger traces along my body. 

Jenny comes out of Dad’s room, the blood trickling down her leg. I watch the ghost as it exits the apartment. Tears sting my eyes and I am moving across the room and down the hall. I stop in front of Dad’s room and take several deep breaths. Putting an ear to the door, I listen. He is snoring and I know this is my only chance.  I have to do this -- if not for Momma or Jenny then for me and Jake.

The door opens easily and I look inside. It is dark but I can see Dad lying on his bed. I can also see the clear bag of white powder sitting on the end table. If he were awake he would be stoned out of his mind or drunk. Or both. But I don’t care anymore. I just want him dead and I want to get out of here, out of Crack Alley, away from this Hellhole we have lived in our entire lives. I want to find Jake help and teach him how to talk. I want it so much but I’ll never have it if we stay here.

I try to be quiet as I cross the floor. Dad rolls over with his back to me. I reach his bed and I want to stab him in the back, but I have heard that is the coward’s way to do things. I shrug. Most of the people around here are cowards. That’s why they shoot each other—they’re afraid if they don’t kill then they will get killed. I’m not afraid of that—but I am afraid of Dad, even if he’s still asleep.

He rolls back over and I worry that his restless sleep will do me in. If he wakes before I can kill him, he will kill me and probably Jake too. He seems to have fallen back asleep -- now starting to snore. 

“For Jake,” I whisper.

Dad’s eyes open. I am startled, but I bring the blade down, and drive it into his stomach. He lets out a scream and his eyes get as wide as anyone’s I have ever seen. I pull the knife out and my skin crawls with the feel of his skin tearing again. 

I raise the knife and bring it down again, this time in his chest. “You killed Momma!” I pull it out and drive it back down, slicing the arm he is trying to protect himself with. Another stab and one of his fingers falls away as he tries to grab the blade. I feel my anger with each thrust and I know I am killing him.

But I don’t care. 

Blood spills from his mouth and I stab him one last time—in his nuts. Dad doesn’t move as blood soaks into his mattress. His hands fall to his side and I let go of the knife. “That was for Jenny.”

I turn to leave and stop in the hallway. Momma is standing there with Jenny beside her. They are both smiling. 

“I’m sorry, Momma. I had to do it.”

She says nothing and I feel like I am staring at Jake. As I watch, they both fade away, their bodies going from solid to nothing at all. This time I can’t hold back the tears. I have to cry, I have to let it all out. I’ll compose myself and go get Jake, but for now, I just need to scream.

I don’t know how long I’ll cry but I stand and hope Jake is still in the hall waiting for me. I walk out the door and see Jenny still lying on the floor in front of her mom’s apartment. I knock on the door hard and listen for the footfalls. When I hear them, I run. I round the corner as the door opens and Mrs. Harris begins to scream. I make my way to the stairs.

“Come on, Jake,” I say and we are heading up the stairwell. My face is dry now and I no longer feel anger at anyone. I have to take care of him. I know that is what Momma would have wanted. We reach the roof and walk into the dark night. The stars and moon are out. We find our favorite spot overlooking Crack Alley and sit down. 

In the distance there are loud sirens but that’s nothing unusual around here. I wonder if they are coming to see about Jenny’s death. 

Jake scoots a little closer to me and I put my arms around him. He looks up at me with his innocent eyes, not knowing much except maybe some pain and suffering.

“Momma’s okay,” he says and my heart leaps. 

“Yes, Momma’s okay, Jake. And we will be too.”

Not so far in the distance now, the sirens are getting closer…

*

The Lonesome Soul

Lisa Strong

Rufus was a loser, I saw that now. Twelve years ago, when we had first started dating, my mother had told me that he was a loser but I didn’t believe her. Now I see it as plain as day. He might as well have a big red L tattooed on his forehead.

I inhaled the last drag from my cigarette and ground the butt into the floor with all my might. I had spent over two hours shivering in this sinking alley; a small puddle of something yellow and unclean ruining my new shoes, but now I had proof. Rufus was still fooling around with that little blond chick from the office; the one half his age and probably half my IQ.

I had watched them exit her apartment; his hands mauling her like a sixteen-year old with a hard on, and narrowed my eyes as they stumbled drunkenly into a black cab. Rufus never took me in black cabs anymore, we always took the subway. I could almost envision his little rat voice working his tatty mustache up and down with excuses of why not. It was always cost in the end; he was a real cheapskate.

A cardboard box rustled down the alley drawing my attention. A rat? I wondered but from under sheets of newspaper a shock of musty black fur appeared. I got ready to run; it wasn’t a good thing for a woman to be in an alley on her own.

Then a face appeared, a face belonging to a 14 year-old boy at the most. It was a beautiful face, straight out of one of those tacky cherub paintings but he was dirty and disheveled and spoke in a small trembling voice to me holding out his hand. “Please miss, can you help me.”

I walked towards him, compelled by his tender age and soft voice but stopped a few feet away, still conscious of my safety. His eyes were huge and haunted.

His lip trembled and he continued, “I’ve been here for a long time now. I can’t find my body. I know everything would be okay if I could just get back inside my body.”

My confusion cleared and I regarded him with pity, clearly he was crazy. I reached into my pocket to see if I had any change. It seemed so sad, a pretty, young boy like that.

He licked his lips, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth like a snake and suddenly his eyes became dark and wicked, “You must know, I’m waiting to kill my daddy. Who are you waiting to kill?”

I simply stared in shock as his angelic face became a twisted mask of hate. I turned and walked away as fast as I could. I felt his eyes burning into my back all the way down the street.

I didn’t go home that night until I was certain Rufus was sound asleep. I hopped over our low back fence without opening the gate, scuffing my tights on the wood and stalked up the unlit garden anger still flowing through my veins. I cursed as my shoe sank into a soft mound of dirt. I didn’t remember him turning the ground here for a new vegetable patch.

It had been raining and I was pleased to see that my feet left small muddy puddles across his clean kitchen floor. I crept up to our bedroom and silently pushed open the door. He lay there, a huge and snoring mountain, in the middle of the bed. His shirt and pants were strewn across the floor in twisted lumps. He knew I hated that.

Then I saw it peaking out of the corner, a red bra left stranded under the bed. So he had brought her here, son-of-a…I looked down; my long red nails were embedded so deeply into my palm that a thin trickle of blood leaked down my wrist.

I glared at him sleeping so peacefully with her stink still all over him and made the decision. It was over. I would like to think I looked graceful taking off my wedding band and leaving it on the bedside table. However, I can also remember swearing and sweating; my breath coming in great shaky heaves as I threw down the gold ring.

I numbly went down the stairs feeling as though I was walking on air. It hadn’t sunk in yet. I was leaving him. I was finally doing it. I wanted none of my clothes; they had the scent of him all over them. This old, run down house with its cut-price hardboard furniture; none of it felt like it was mine. I would simply take my dog and leave it all behind.

I went out the back door and round to the wooden shed where, Sidney, my poodle slept at night: another stipulation by Rufus. Small dogs were nothing more than overgrown rats with fur. He hated Sidney and Sidney in return would sink her teeth into Rufus whenever she got the chance. Quietly, I unbolted and heaved open the heavy door.

The moonlight shone in from the small window illuminating the racks of gardening tools and the long work bench. I expected yelping in the dark and the feel of soft cotton candy fur brushing my skin but all remained as still and quiet as the grave.

“Sidney?” I called, getting on my knees and looking underneath the work bench.

Her bed was gone. Her bowls were gone. I looked around very puzzled. Sidney hadn’t been in the kitchen where I insisted she slept when there was a thunderstorm and Rufus certainly wouldn’t let her into any other part of the house.

Then I saw the shovel in the corner caked with dirt and behind it a ragged tartan blanket; Sidney’s blanket. I hurried over and scooped it up. My fingers came away sticky with blood.

I pulled back in horror I groped along the edge of the wooden counter and my fingers brushed an axe. It clanged to the floor with a great metallic thump making me shriek. It was a small, regular axe. Rufus sometimes used it to hack branches off overhanging trees that intruded into our yard. The axe was slick with blood and small white lumps of fluff clung to it. No, it couldn’t be.

A sob caught in my throat as I thought of the new churned earth. He couldn’t have been so cruel. He couldn’t have.     

I ran into the garden and fell on the wet mud; ripping holes in the knees of my tights but not caring. Digging the ground broke my long painted fingernails and I flinched in pain but I still continued until I had the muddy, soft, fluffy thing in my arms. As always, Sidney’s hair felt like cotton wool but she was cold and still; limp in my hands. Her tiny head had been smashed open; a long ragged trench running from above her left eye, up between her floppy little ears and ending at the back of her neck, just above the collar.

It was then I decided to kill my husband before I even knew how. I was going to kill him and bury him like a dog in the back garden. It was then I saw them. Three white tips poking up out of the soft, dark earth; tips with long red nails.

It took me a long time to dig up my body. Sometimes I thought I had gone crazy. Sometimes I thought the night would never end. I’m sure I was laughing and crying all the while like some crazy, neurotic person.

When I was done I sat there looking at myself in the moonlight. My clothes were tattered and torn. There were finger marks bruised into my neck. The skin around them was purple and swollen. My lips were blue and thin. My hair was filthy with dirty and plastered onto my forehead. I didn’t look too bad though, considering. My skin was pale and marble like in the moonlight; not too decayed yet. I could see the 10 pounds of weight I had lost this last year. It made my torn tights look almost sexy clinging there on my narrow hips. I giggled at the rising insanity of it all. I was actually critiquing how I looked dead.

Anger swept through me then. At 43 I was hardly a spring lamb but I was still in the prime of my life; all those years stolen; stolen by him. Yes, it had been bad between us the last few years, I would have been the first to admit to that but if you’re having problems, you get couples counseling and you work through things, or you get a divorce for Christ sake. What you most certainly don’t do is murder your wife and bury her at the bottom of the garden next to her dog.

I couldn’t remember much about it, how it happened, I mean. That was the shock probably, but it’s not clear what happened even now. Flashes of that night come back to me now and then. I remember the whole argument: the shouting, smashing glass then the tight, chocking band of steel around my neck, the scream coming from my lungs for a breath, me slowly slipping into blackness.

Mostly, though, the clarity to try to remember; maybe to place the blame, that all came later. Now all I could think about was the blinding rage of discovering that I was dead. I contemplated what I could do about it, about him -- that slimy little weasel who was still twitching his little mustache and sleeping with his cheap little office slut in our bed while I lay here cold and stiff in the ground next to my dog.

The words came back to me, echoing through the darkness: “If I could just get back into my body.”

It wasn’t as hard as you would think. I don’t know how I did it exactly. All I remember is a dull clacking as my dry eyes tried to roll around in their sockets, coughing in dull heaves, not to breathe air but to get the dirt and some small squirming things I would rather not think about out of my mouth and throat. I remember walking being difficult at first like a new born foul; all legs and no grace. I also remember having to grip the axe with my thumb because my fingers did not want to work. They were the first slow, ungainly steps befitting any ghoul or zombie which led me to my back door.

Rufus raced down the stairs, his hair all in disarray, clutching my wedding ring and looking as though he had seen a ghost. Well, I suppose he had.

Slowly I moved forward the axe, softly brushing against my knees as I walked toward him. He just stood and stared. He didn’t try to run or even move backwards. It was as though he was glued to the spot; his trim little mustache working stupidly up and down as spluttering noises escaped from his gaping mouth. I was close enough to him to feel his breath on my cheek; close enough to have embraced him or even kissed him. The thought did cross my mind. Maybe we could just kiss and everything could go back to the way it was before?

Then I remembered the other girl. If I couldn’t have him no one would. I swung the axe. It was surprisingly heavy and it made a dull swishing sound in the air that I didn’t expect. Then with a wet squelch -- the kind that boots make when you lift them out of a puddle of mud -- the axe bit deeply into his shoulder. A small splattering of blood fell like fine mist on my face. I reached up a surprised hand to touch it.

Finally, the pain sliced through him in stunned disbelief, he screamed and raced away from me, clutching his wounded shoulder. I followed the thin trail of blood into the bedroom where he was crouched on the floor in a protective ball.

“No, please don’t.” His words tumbled frantically over one another until he was babbling incoherently.

I thought of Sidney, if she could speak would she have said that to him? Did I when he strangled me? I reached forward and grasped the axe handle. It took several huge heaves to wrench it from his shoulder, though his madly flailing hands and piercing screams did not make the job an easy one. I felt the scraping of bones as they grated against the blade and the softer paper like rip of tearing flesh as I moved the axe from side to side trying to pry it free. It finally came away leaving a dark red furrow that looked like a hacking mark made in chopping down a tree. Thick crimson blood bubbled from the hole and ran down his shoulder. A puddle of it began to crust brown on the bedroom floor underneath him. I think he was dead at that point. He wasn’t moving and the screaming had stopped. I was aware of the silence and stillness around me. Slowly I dragged his body toward the kitchen, switched on the light then set to work.

Sidney is fine now. Sidney and I are happy living here, mostly. She had come back to me after a few days, a small white blur that just showed up scratching at the door. I had kept her body in the fridge as any conscious owner would. She had a bit of trouble figuring out what to do but she’s a clever dog and, with a bit of encouragement, she will find her way. It was like watching a shadow getting sucked into your body by a bright overhead light.

As for me, I don’t go out during daylight hours anymore. Parts of me sometimes drop off, which can get a bit embarrassing to say the least. It’s not a perfect body anymore but it’s all I have. But Sidney and I are happy living here; mostly. You learn to compromise, I suppose. You find a way to adapt.

Last week I went back to try and find the boy in the alley but he wasn’t there. I searched all night. I wasn’t sure what I could do anyway. After all I still don’t know where his body was. I suppose I could have found his father and dealt with him myself but my stomach turned at the thought. I’d had enough of that already. It’s not clean like it looks in the movies. It’s slow and messy, revealing the inside you don’t want to see. I hope the boy found his body like I did. Sometimes I hope he went on to wherever it is I did not go. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a place like that at all or if all that’s left is wandering sprits hiding in alleys, watching loved ones betray them. Maybe that’s better than this; being the living dead. I have lost most of the skin on my fingers, although oddly enough the red nails are still there, sharp and strong as ever.

The mound in the garden is old now but I still watch over it sometimes just to make sure. Before I buried him I chopped off his hands and his feet with the axe in the shed and tied up his arms and his legs. I wouldn’t want him to get away now, would I? Even if he somehow manages to get back inside his body. That ought to keep him from sleeping with his secretary.

*

Lisa Strong makes her debut publication here at SNM Mag. This is the first story Lisa has ever submitted to any magazine, although she has spent years locked away frantically typing and sometimes scaring herself by letting her imagination run away with her. Sometimes she has to check under the bed. She lives in Gravesend (she secretly likes that it has graves in the title!) in England with her new husband, working as a primary school teacher. She devours anything horror related and always tries to see the skull beneath the skin. You may contact her by email.

strong260@live.co.uk

THE BLACK HOUSE

NOTES: DR. VINCENT SPELLMAN

          I was leaving the office for the night when the telephone rang. It was late and I was ready to go home. I rolled my eyes, grabbed my briefcase and made for the door. Whatever the caller wanted could wait until tomorrow. I paused for a moment in the doorway with my hand on the doorknob. The ringing continued. Inexplicably, my chest had tightened and I felt the sudden compulsion to turn round and retrieve the call. Feeling bewildered, I returned to my desk and slowly lifted the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

         And so began my first encounter with the Deloraine family. It wasn’t the last.

         “Please, Dr. Spellman,” the voice on the other line pleaded as the call neared its end. “Do this for my family, please. We’re unraveling here. I fear not only for my daughter’s sanity now, but for my wife’s as well.”

          I leaned back in my office chair. It was a comfortable recliner that my secretary had picked up at the IKEA in August, as an early birthday present. Sometimes I think she had it bad for me, but it was difficult to say. Being a psychiatrist, I was often too preoccupied with my patients’ tribulations to deal with affairs of the heart.

          A crackle on the line. “Dr. Spellman?”

          “Yes, Andre, I’m here. Why don’t you bring your daughter to the office tomorrow morning at nine? I’ll talk to her and review her case.”

          “Kia can’t leave the house.”

          I had been reaching for the mug of coffee on my desk and my hand paused halfway there. “What?”

          “She can’t leave,” he repeated.

         “Oh,” I said after a moment’s pause. I stared at the grinning moose on my coffee mug and grimaced. It was another present from Jane. Luckily, her taste in furniture had far surpassed her predilection for dishware. “You never told me that she was agoraphobic.”

          “No, she isn’t afraid to go out. She just can’t.”

          I held the warm cup of coffee between my hands and blew into it, watching the steam rise as I considered what to say. I detected impatience in Andre’s tone, and a vague note of anger. I was beginning to wonder if the man was in need of some therapy himself.

          “Dr. Spellman!”

          Now, the anger was unmistakable. “Alright, Andre. I will be there tomorrow morning, around ten.”

          “Bring an overnight bag.”

          I almost laughed, but held it back, clearly knowing that it would be a bad idea to do so. “Mr. Deloraine, I will only be there to speak with your daughter briefly. My first session with Kia will only last one hour.”

          There was silence on the other line. Then: “We’ll see about that.”

          I hung up the telephone and leaned back in my chair. “I need a vacation,” I told the gathering dusk outside my office window. I sipped the coffee, made a face, and spit it back into the mug. Although it had been hot only a few moments ago, it was now ice cold.

         I drove up the long driveway that led to the Deloraine residence, which was set back deep in the woods. As I slowed to a stop, I peered out the windshield to survey the old Victorian. Thick vines grew up the twin white pillars in front of the house and most of the paint was peeling from the clapboard siding. The oak tree in the center of the yard was covered with moss and the lawn was overgrown with tall grass and dense weeds. Heavy raindrops pounded my windshield and I turned off the idling engine.

         “Fuck,” I muttered and, grabbing my briefcase, I dashed out into the rain and sprinted up the steps of the porch. I rang the doorbell, shooed away a cluster of mosquitoes that gathered in front of my face, and squinted through the torrents of rain at the other cars parked in the driveway. My black Audi was at the end and I hoped no one else was going to park behind me. I didn’t want to be trapped.  

          I glanced up at the huge brass lion knocker on the door. Half of the lion’s face had a smudged, greenish hue to it and was faded from constant use. One cold brass eye stared out at me and the lion’s mouth was open in a silent roar. The image was disconcerting and I wished someone would hurry up and open the damn door.

         Heavy footsteps were coming down the hallway. I rubbed my fist against the pane, trying to clear the fog that gathered on the window to see inside the house. A dark alcove was behind the window and, beyond, a grand staircase. I was still unable to see the owner of the footsteps.

        Suddenly, my skin went cold and the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I had the sensation that someone was behind me. In my mind’s eye, a shroud-like thing emerged from the fog that covered the sidewalk and drifted up to the porch where I stood. I spun around and saw nothing but the gray, empty yard. My heart skipped a beat when the front door suddenly swung open then I almost laughed out loud with relief. An old, plump woman with twinkling blue eyes stood in the doorway and she gasped. I was equally as flabbergasted not to see Mr. Deloraine himself as I thought he was urgently anticpating my arrival.

         “Oh!” she fluttered, hurrying me inside. “Oh, you poor dear! I came to the door as quickly as I could, but I’m afraid that these old legs aren’t quite what they used to be. But, the Good Lord gave me arthritic knees for a reason and so, by His Glory, I’m going to bear them. I will get you some towels and perhaps some hot tea? I won’t have you catching your death by the cold.”

          I watched her as she hobbled away and disappeared into the small bathroom at the end of the short hallway that led to the kitchen. Where the house itself appeared as forbidding and ominous, the grandmotherly woman I had just met shone like a beacon of light. She was an old backcountry woman. Perhaps a little well-lighted cottage in the woods would’ve suited her a lot better than this Addams family monstrosity.

          The house was cold, but cold didn’t bother me. I’ve seen thirty-nine New England winters and it doesn’t get much colder than that. The weird feeling that I had before entering the house was completely gone and I wondered where it had come from in the first place. I wasn’t the kind of person who was easily spooked. The sight of the housekeeper assuaged any fears I might have had, however. I half-expected her to emerge from the kitchen holding a warm plate of chocolate chip cookies. But, as promised, she returned a couple minutes later, holding a pristine white bath towel and a steaming cup of tea with lemon.

          “Here you are, dear,” she said congenially, transferring the warm mug into my hand.

          “Thank you,” I said. I brought the steaming cup to my lips and sipped it. It tasted like Earl Grey, which was my favorite, but it also had a subtle hint of something else that made the tea taste even richer.

         A sparse, flickering candlelight shone from behind the housekeeper, coming from the kitchen and a yellowish light flooded a portion of hallway from the little bathroom at the end of the hall. It was into this pool of light that a small, dark shadow quickly passed and the cup nearly tumbled from my hands.

          The housekeeper’s gaze flicked upwards to capture mine. “The cat,” she said quietly, taking the mug from my hands. The vague look left her eyes and her plump cheeks grew rosy. “You must be Dr. Spellman?”

          “Vincent,” I told her, holding out my hand. “How do you do?”

          The housekeeper blushed as she shyly took my hand. She was about eighty and I was half her age, but the flirty schoolgirl had clearly never left her. “You are a handsome young man, Mr. Vincent.”

          I smiled and winked at her. I hadn’t been called a young man for quite some time now. “Thank you, madam. You are quite charming yourself. Mrs….”        

        “Sylvia Webster. Ms. Sylvia Webster,” she emphasized, taking hold of my elbow.

          As we walked up the stairs toward the mezzanine, I gazed up through the large window that was above the landing ahead. The sky was dark and leaden. The grayish sunlight shone into the house and threw stark shadows across the red carpeted stairs. Two gargoyles watched from either side of the staircase; their vaguely malevolent expressions forever frozen in stone. Inexplicably, I felt a sudden jolt in my head, as though the world had suddenly gone wrong. My surroundings bended and twisted and, for an instant, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. A strong hand steadied me when I almost fell backwards down the flight. I turned to the side, sweat streaming down my face, half-expecting to see Mr. Deloraine, but it was the homely housekeeper that held me upright. “Steady now, that’s a good lad,” she said, her voice a faraway echo. Her facial features were jumbled and distorted with her nose in place of her mouth. Even her large green eyes appeared to be upside down.

        “What?” I slurred. I was only faintly aware of a line of drool escaping the side of my mouth and I was slightly embarrassed by it. I reached a shaking hand to my face to remove it and discovered that it was blood. Then, with a jolt, I snapped back to reality. The dizziness was gone, and so was the disconcerting sensation that the world had suddenly just gone insane. The housekeeper looked normal and she was smiling at the tall, skinny man with bad posture that stood in front of us. We had reached the second floor, although I couldn’t recall ascending the last flight of stairs.

          “Welcome, Dr. Spellman,” Andre Deloraine greeted with a tired smile. “Let me take your bags for you.”

          I straightened up and managed to catch my breath. “That won’t be necessary, it’s only my brief-” I trailed off, realizing that I was mistaken. I was holding my briefcase with my right hand, but there was sensation of weight on my left shoulder.

         The master of the house removed the large dufflebag from my arm and walked my overnight bag down the hallway. I watched him go and blinked hard, trying desperately to clear my vision. Somehow the shadows behind him were all wrong.

        “Here,” Sylvia said, regarding me with a worried expression. She returned the cup of tea to my trembling hands. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

       Not knowing what else to do, I brought the mug to my lips and drained the contents from the cup.

       Promptly, darkness overtook me and I fell to the hardwood floor with a loud, hollow thud.         

       When I awoke sometime later, I realized that I was sitting in a dimly lit dining room at a long mahogany table with a crystal chandelier above it and I wasn’t alone. Andre sat across from me, appearing as gaunt and pale as he did when I encountered him earlier on the stairs. Beside him was a frail woman with large eyes that I took to be his wife, Yvette. Although thin and haggard, she was quite lovely. “Hello, I’m Vincent,” I greeted automatically, holding my hand out to her.

          Her cold fingers met with mine, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Her face was absent of color, but her nose and eyes were red, as though she’d been crying. “How do you do?” she whispered.

          I shook her hand then stared at the nearly empty glass of red wine in front of me. My memory was usually pretty sharp, but I was having a hard time trying to recall the day’s events.

         You met Sylvia, the housekeeper. Now you just met Andre’s wife. You’re enjoying dinner together and you’ve drunk too much wine, that’s all. Calm the hell down. You’re the doctor here. Show some control. You are being paid for this house call!

         I stabbed the steak on my plate with my fork without realizing it. It was only when I put the meat into my mouth that I realized it was cooked rare. I preferred steak medium-well, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Besides, it appeared that I’d already eaten half the steak without realizing it. Where had I been the past few hours?

         I chewed and causally glanced around the dark room, trying to locate a clock without being too obvious about it. I found one, a large ticking Grandfather above the fireplace. It was 6 o’clock in the evening. I tried very hard to remember what time I arrived at the house but a sudden, sharp pounding in my temples warned me that recollection would be a very bad idea. “Kia?” I inquired suddenly. The name escaped my lips before I realized I was going to speak.

         Andre wiped his mouth on his cloth napkin and rose from the table, empty plate in hand. “Kia’s resting in her room,” said Deloraine. “You will meet her tomorrow.”

        As soon as her husband had disappeared into the kitchen, Yvette reached across the table and seized my hand. My fork dropped to the floor and I gasped with surprise. Her grip was strong and my fingertips had already turned purple. The orange firelights of the chandelier shone down on her, accentuating her high cheekbones and the lovely curve of her jaw. Now that her eyes were directly upon me, she appeared more beautiful than I’d given her credit for earlier. “She’s a demon,” she hissed and her fingernails dug into the palm of my hand. “You need to get out, now, before it’s too late-”

      “Yvette!” screamed Andre, who’d returned to the dining room. It was way too dark to see his features clearly, but the scarecrow appeared ticked off. He stormed over to the table and laid his hands on his wife’s shoulders. Yvette’s ample bosom rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath. “You aren’t speaking ill of our daughter, are you, dear?”

       Yvette regained her composure, lifting her chin in defiance. “That thing is not my daughter,” she retorted.

        “Get out,” Andre growled.

        Yvette dropped her gaze and rose obediently from the table.

       Mr. Deloraine sighed, watching his wife exit the room.“I just don’t know what to do anymore. That’s why we need you, Doctor. I fear my wife and daughter are afflicted with the same condition. They always speak of demons and ghosts and other things that we rational men know do not exist. Can you help them?”

          I felt a little out of my realm at the moment, but I nodded. “I will speak to both of them. It seems I’m going to be here for a while anyway, aren’t I?”

         Andre just smiled.

        My mind was troubled when I retired to the guestroom. I was unable to fall asleep and I stared at the ceiling for an indiscernible amount of time. I was accustomed to being in control of my life, but suddenly I felt as though I were a pawn in some twisted chess game. I sighed and rolled over to face the wall, hoping I would be more comfortable if I adjusted my position in the bed, but my heart continued to pound in my chest.

        “I am Dr. Vincent Spellman,” I reminded myself. “I am a psychiatrist and I’m here on a job. My job is to make Kia Deloraine, a nineteen year-old girl, normal again.”

       Sometimes just the sound of your own voice in a dark and unfamiliar room can be comforting and other times not. This time, it was the former.

       Can you help them?

       “I'll certainly try, Andre,” I mumbled on the brink of sleep.

          When I finally released from the dream the bed sheets were soaked with sweat and I was shaking uncontrollably. I managed to open my eyes and, at first, it appeared as though the nightmare had followed me into the waking world. The walls of the bedroom were melting and the shadows cast from the furniture were dancing around the room like demented dancers stepping out of a Salvador Dalí painting. Realizing that I was about to be sick, I rushed to the bathroom that was located in the large guestroom and promptly threw up into the toilet bowl. The strength left my legs and I fell to the floor, gasping for air that seemed non-existent. I clutched the brim of the toilet seat the way a drowning man would clutch a life preserver.

          Get a grip on yourself, Spellman.

          “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I whispered and was horrified to realize I was on the verge of sobbing. I was a rational man and rational men don’t let something like a nightmare turn them into a sniveling, pukey mess on the bathroom floor. I couldn’t even remember what the dream had been about. What I could do with was a nice cup of Ms. Webster’s tea, but it was far too early to wake her.

          Once I regained myself, I stepped onto the back porch and took deep breaths of forest air into my lungs. The Deloraine house was surrounded by woods on all sides, except for the backyard. Behind the house was a vast prairie that stretched for miles and a cemetery lay to the west. I tilted my head and regarded the graveyard curiously, wondering how I hadn’t noticed it before.

          Before I realized that I had wanted to step off the porch, I was halfway across the yard. The fog was ankle-deep and it rolled to the side when I stepped through it. Despite all the forbidding surroundings, a brisk morning walk proved to be just what I needed to steady my frayed nerves. The strange vertigo I’d experienced earlier was completely gone and it felt good to be out of the house.

         When I reached the cemetery gate, I stared out at the thousands of tombstones beyond. At each gravesite stood a person that had white lights shining from their eye sockets in place of eyes. I tilted my head and regarded the corpse that was the closest to the gate with mild curiosity and it returned my gaze. The eyes of the entity were amazingly bright. Slowly, my hand rose to the gate to open it, but withdrew when an inhuman shriek of warning suddenly erupted inside my head.

         When I returned to the house Mrs. Deloraine was smoking a cigarette on the back porch. Her back straightened when she saw me approach the steps. I glanced up at her and continued to watch the progress of my feet. Andre’s wife had a nasty bruise that stretched down from her temple to her jaw. She stood causally against the pillar and spoke when I passed her. “Dr. Spellman?”

          I halted in my tracks, but didn’t turn around.

         Yvette cleared her throat. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It’s just-” she trailed off and sighed.

        “You’re a caring mother who’s concerned for her daughter,” I filled in and faced her with a gentle smile.

         Yvette returned my smile, fleetingly, but then she surveyed my face more closely. “Your eyes are bleeding.”

         I opened my mouth to retort, but my attention diverted to the thick forest that was the backyard. The prairie with the cemetery was gone, as though they had never existed at all. I shuddered as a horrible thought arose, unbidden to my mind: Maybe they hadn’t. I also had the distinct impression that I had walked down to that elusive graveyard, although I couldn’t remember if I had done so now or during my lucid nightmare last night.

        I lowered my gaze and absentmindedly rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. I had never considered it before, but now I wondered if it was possible to pass an affliction from patient to doctor.

          That’s impossible, you haven’t even met the little girl yet.

          Perhaps, though, from being in the same house with her….

          Psychoses are not “contagious,” Spellman.

          How do you know?

          “Vincent?” Yvette’s voice cut in, disrupting the argument between the two quarreling voices inside my head. Her hand was on my arm and her lovely face was etched with worry lines. “Are you alright?”

          “Sure,” I lied, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. At this rate, I was going to be the one in need of a psychiatrist before the end. “I’d like to speak with Kia soon, though, if I may?”

         The blood drained from Mrs. Deloraine’s face and her trembling hand fell from my arm. She turned to open the screen door and her beautiful eyes threatened tears. “This way.”

        Kia Deloriane was sitting Indian-style on the bed and writing in a black notebook that she held in her lap when I entered her room. At first glance, she appeared to be a normal, nineteen-year-old girl who was fixed on her diary. Causally, she glanced up at me and my breath caught in my throat. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, despite the fact that she had a serious vitamin D deficiency from rarely being out in the sunlight. Her skin was pale porcelain; her hair almost white and her light-gray eyes shone silver when the light from her bedside lamp fell upon them.

        “Dr. Spellman, I presume,” she said in a voice as smooth as crystal.

       For a second, I just stood there like a tongue-tied teenager on his first date. I’d never had sexual thoughts about a patient before and I hadn’t thought about a teenage girl in the manner that I was currently thinking about Kia Deloraine since I was in my early twenties. Okay, that wasn’t necessarily true but-

       Kia tilted her head and regarded me with a small smile on her full lips. “Doctor?”

      Get it the fuck together. You’re thirty-nine years old. This kid could be your daughter.

       I cleared my throat and blinked from my reverie.

       “So what are you writing there?”

      Kia held the notebook against her chest, as though she didn’t want me to see its contents. “Memories,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes.

       I grabbed the desk chair and rolled it over to the bed. The décor of her room was very dark. The walls were painted black and there were a great number of disturbing decorations on her shelves -- mostly of demons and gargoyles.

      The angel sitting on the bed didn’t quite seem to fit in such morose surroundings. If she had come into my office it might have taken me weeks to determine her current state of mind; but one look around her room told volumes. I sat down and observed my new patient whose gaze was still far off in the distance. Now closer, I could clearly see small scratches that marred her face, neck, chest and arms. In the background, I could hear a familiar artist, The Killers, singing softly from her CD player from across the room.

         He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus

         but he talks like a gentleman

         like you imagined when you were young…

         “Good song,” I told her, appreciatively.

         Kia returned to reality and gave me a huge smile. “They’re the best, aren’t they?”

        “They are pretty awesome,” I agreed. “I saw them in concert last year, at the Civic center. They put on a great show.”

          The smile faded from her face.

          Immediately, I started cursing myself.

          Brilliant start, Doctor. Tell a teenage girl who can’t go outside how awesome her favorite band is live. What do you plan on discussing next? The great summer you spent at the beach?     

          “They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” Kia whispered and I sensed that our conversation had shifted from The Killers to something else. Her wide eyes were focused on a spot above her bedroom door and I followed her gaze, but I didn’t see what she did.

          Silently, I took notes: I don’t believe in ghosts or demons, but I do believe in the power of suggestion. Kia Deloraine’s fall from reality might have resulted from her mother advocating the existence of ghosts and demons to her from a young and vulnerable age. Yvette clearly believes that her daughter is the victim of demonic possession or, in her words, is a demon herself. The question is:

          “Kia, do you believe in ghosts?”

           Kia’s large eyes met mine and, for a second, there was unmistakable anger there. “I’m not a ghost.”

          “That wasn’t what I was implying. I was just wondering if you believe in ghosts.”

          My patient shrugged and folded up her notebook and tossed it to the floor. To my amazement, there were several dozen cluttered there. “I don’t not believe in them, I suppose.”

          “Then can you explain why your father wants me to speak to you?”

          “He’s a prick.”

          I guffawed and Kia regarded me with open astonishment. I was bordering on hysterics, but I just couldn’t help it because it was the most normal thing I had heard since I arrived here. It certainly didn’t help that I shared the girl’s opinion. A giggle escaped Kia’s lips and her silver eyes squinted happily. “I like you, Doctor. Better than the others.”

         My laughter died down and I wiped tears from the corner of my eyes. I was beginning to suspect that Kia was the sanest person in the house.  

        “Others? How many other doctors have you had?”

      “Tons,” she answered with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “I told them all what they wanted to hear. I worship the Devil, sacrifice goats in my spare time, run naked through the cornfields summoning spirits…you know, the usual.”

       Something about her tone scared me, as did the look on her face.

      “But you don’t really believe in any of that, do you?”

      Kia’s attention returned to the spot above the bedroom door.

      “I let them out, from time to time.”

     My arms prickled with gooseflesh and all the good humor was gone. “Who? Who do you let out?”

    “That’s the noises you hear around the house,” she confessed then looked directly at me. “The weird things you see, it’s them. Not me. I don’t do anything wrong.”

      A profound sense of dread overcame me. I was really hoping that she wasn’t insane she was just another misunderstood and rebellious teenager who had hated her parents. Now I could clearly see that wasn’t the case.

     “No, no you didn’t do anything wrong,” I assured her quietly.

     Kia’s bright eyes filled with tears and quickly flowed down her cheeks.

     “I wanted to be a dancer,” she said so quietly that I barely heard her.

     “Of course you do, I understand.”

      I continued to listen to her for hours unknown,

     After everyone had retired for the night, I crept downstairs to the hallway where I’d first met Ms. Sylvia Webster and the housekeeper’s words echoed in my ears: The cat.

    My brow furrowed with confusion as I squinted down the hallway. I couldn’t remember how long ago that conversation had been. It could’ve been days, or even weeks. It seemed as though I’d lost all track of time since I had arrived here. What I didsigns of a cat, like toys or a food dish. I also knew for certain that I hadn’t felt more confused in my life.

     My previous existence was becoming increasingly difficult to recall with each day that passed. I glanced down and noticed my clothes were getting baggier on my frail frame. Tentatively, I pinched the loose skin of my forearm and laughed. If I didn’t watch it, I’d turn into a scarecrow just like Andre. I vowed that, when I ever left this place, I would go straight to a greasy fast food joint for a nice, juicy cheeseburger. I sighed. The outside world was just a dim memory now and I’d have to deal with that. I know for sure was that I hadn’t seen any goddamn cat in the house; nor had I seen any.

          I belonged to the house now.

          That thought hit me like a slap in the face and I woke up. I was still standing in the hallway, staring at the closed basement door with the black marble knob, but I felt more alert than I had in a very long time.

          It’s not too late, Vincent.

          “I can’t leave her.”

          You could still get out and save yourself.

          “I won’t do that,” I told the dark hallway.

          I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn’t at first see the Thing that stood at the end of the hallway, although I was staring right at it. The creature was tall, white, and fleshy. There was no face where a face should have been and it seemed to have its baggy arms upraised. At first, it stood perfectly still. Then its movements became erratic and it looked as though it were dancing on invisible strings wielded by an elusive puppet master. Then a blaring shriek filled the hallway. Another wail answered it and I realized that there were two of them and that their flesh was indeed melded together. When it started to advance in my direction, I found myself unable to move. The waving arms and legs frantically went in and out of the fleshy mass, swiftly propelling it down the hall. I think it was the rancid smell of the agglutinated creature that finally brought me to my feet and caused me to dart through the door that led to the basement. I stood on the other side of the cellar door and pressed my ear against it, listening to the horrible, wet sounds that indicated that the creature had just passed. I fought to catch my breath and attempted to rationalize my situation.

          The easiest explanation is usually the right one, Doctor.

          “I’ve lost it,” I rationalized to the dark. “I have finally gone mad!” I trailed off when I turned to descend the flight. The cellar stairs stretched before my eyes and continued to spiral down, down in a wave of fierce orange lights into infinite darkness.

          The Stairway to Hell! The Stairway to Hell! Oh! Ring out the Bell of Old William Tell! It’s the Stairway to Hell!

Eventually, I opened my eyes. The stairwell had retracted back to its original state. I was clutching the rail with both hands and sweat steadily streamed down my face. Most of the dizziness was gone, but I still felt quite nauseous. I think that the gleeful singing voice had affected me more than anything. On a more subconscious level, I knew that if I ever heard that voice again, I would lose whatever remained of my precarious sanity.

         A flickering yellow light shone from somewhere within the cellar below and I addressed it:

        “You better be a fucking candle.”

        I descended the flight slowly by taking baby steps as my legs were shaking beneath me. A low moan echoed throughout the house and my feet and ankles were suddenly soaked as a river of blood that flooded the stairs. I maintained my tight grip on the rail and carefully descended the last few stairs without falling. I think I was cursing, but I can’t really remember.

       A low hum resounded from deep within the walls, similar to the reverberation of a running generator. The air in the cellar smelled like burnt wire and seemed charged. I winced as a burst of red lights pierced my vision and flooded the cellar. It wasn’t a comfortable light to look at. It was too bright and the color continually stabbed into my eyes.

      Hundreds of file cabinets filled the cavernous room. Each was aligned in rows that stretched further than my eyes could ever see in the severe lighting. I staggered over to the nearest cabinet and pulled open a drawer. A red flash exploded up from the drawer, accompanied by a cacophony of cries. “Jesus,” I winced, closing my eyes. The shrieking receded, as though the screamers were being dragged down a long corridor. There were roughly a dozen notebooks. I reached a shaking hand into the drawer and pulled out the first notebook to skim through it:

        Notes: Dr. Torrance Strine,

       I met my new patient today, Kia Deloraine. She’s a bright girl, but she does seem a bit disturbed. Her father isn’t being very helpful...

       I can’t understand this house. I’m hearing sounds in the night, but Ms. Webster keeps telling me it’s the cat. I have never seen a cat…

      I can’t trust my own eyes anymore. I’m seeing things that aren’t right. Maybe I’m the one who’s insane. I’ll have to speak with my husband when I return home. Oh…Jesus, I can’t  even remember his name...

     There’s blood in the walls there’s blood in the walls there’s blood in the walls…Living in my memories is better than living in the dark.

     The entire house shook. I lost my footing and fell to the cellar floor and a jarring pain exploded up my side. Seconds later, the heavy file cabinet came crashing down, missing me by iches. A notebook spilled out of the ejected drawer and to the floor. My throat seized when I read the title scrawled across the cover in silver marker.

      Memories: Mr. Andre Deloraine (“Daddy”)

    “What the Hell?” I breathed, taking it in my hands. It was written in the same handwriting as Dr. Strine’s notebook. My eyes frantically surveyed the other fallen diaries. They were all written in the same script. Something that Kia had said earlier suddenly flashed through my consciousness and the blood drained from my face: I let them out, from time to time…

      A lashing sound, similar to the cracking of a leather whip, resounded throughout the cellar. A hot gust of wind flew past and tore the notebook from my grasp. I rose to my feet as the pages were violently ripped out by invisible hands and instantly incinerated in mid-air. Quickly, I reached into the electrical maelstrom and seized a charred piece of paper. I had only retrieved one paragraph from Mr. Deloraine’s notebook, but it was enough:

      I think she let Yvette go, I haven’t seen her around the house lately. I think she intends to keep me here. She always wants me to bring more. The little bitch is so fucking demanding. There are already too many of us here in the dark. It’s getting overcrowded.

     The notebook pages floated down into piles of smoldering ash at my feet. I suddenly realized that I was not alone in the cellar. Cold, visible air escaped my parted lips, but I was no longer afraid. I was way beyond fear by this point. “I w-want to help you,” I said.

      My young patient stood silently, staring at the cold floor with a vacant expression. She was very still and pale in her white nightgown, but the cement walls around her began to turn green with mold. Maggots and worms writhed from the cracks by the hundreds and spilled nosily to the floor. “You are helping,” she whispered.

     The silver eyes flicked upwards to capture mine. In that  brief instant, a vision of the cemetery behind the house flashed through my mind and I knew exactly where my body was going to be buried.  

    Kia sat very still at her vanity table, staring into the mirror but seeing nothing. On her lap was a closed black notebook. Behind her, Ms. Webster gently ran a brush through the young girl’s whitish-blonde hair.

   “Welcome home, Dr. Spellman,” the housekeeper whispered.

*

Hayley Bernard achieved her goal of being published by 30! Making her return to SNM with her third ever published story, she delivers one again. She 'hails' from Philedelphia by way of middle Connecticut and has a Bachelor's degree in Elementary Education. She works in a special education classroom with children who are medically fragile. She has completed 2 novels and has over 5o written stories. SNM darkly embraces her and welcomes her back for more!!! Readers can contact Hayley via Myspace with story comments or leave guestbook comments. 

          www.myspace.com/hayleybernard

                                       Hayley Bernard

The Healing House

Jack Burton

          "Well?" his mother could barely contain her excitement. "What do you think?"

          "I don't think I can take it," Mike sighed looking over the apartment's family room which, he couldn't argue, appeared to be perfect.

          "Michael," she gasped as her face fell. She did nothing to disguise the disappointment that crept into her voice. "This kind of rent is unheard of in the city and it's completely furnished." Looking over the surroundings she added, "perhaps it's not as hip as how a 24 year old would decorate. But I guess it works."

          Mike shook his head knowing that there was more to his reluctance than the 70's decor, but his mother continued, "I'm not asking you to sell the place in Buffalo, but all your doctors are here in the city. And if you need anything, your father and I are twenty minutes away." She didn't know how to make him realize that this really was best for him. "Just for a while. So we know that you're adjusting to the new medicine."

          He had experienced bad reactions to several medications, but there was another issue lying beneath her concerns for his medical safety: she wanted him out of the country, or 'farm land' as she called it. She had never understood why he moved there after high school especially since he did not seem to be any happier there than when he lived on the island. And she desperately wanted to see him happy again; wanted to see him going out and meeting people.

           "I don't mind living closer to you guys, but this is a nursing home."

          "No it isn't," she retorted, defending her choice of places. "Nursing homes are run by doctors and the state. They pass out pills and aide individuals who are no longer able to care for themselves. This is a lovely brownstone that has a reputation as being an adult community, meaning you need to be at least 55 to live here."

          "Relax," Mike said smiling, trying to ease the tension. She obviously really wanted him to stay here. "I used the wrong term. Adult community. Either way, I don't fit the profile."

          "But I got you in. The owner, Ms. Amherst, is a wonderful lady. Her husband even knew your grandfather. So when she’d heard about your circumstances, well, she insisted you to stay with her."

          Mike sighed, knowing the room was a steal, and finally conceded. He was just glad that she hadn't brought up her usual complaint: that back in Buffalo there was no one who could take care of him. Meaning he had no close friends or, more importantly, girlfriends.”

          "Okay. But just until we see about the medicine."

          His mother beamed, "Welcome home!"

***

          Mike put down his book at the sound of gentle tapping at his door. He cautiously made his way to the foyer and steadied himself against the door before opening it. His new neuropathy pills were making him extremely shaky today. With no peep hole, he blindly pulled back the door, hoping it was not his mother making a surprise visit. Instead, it was a smiling, elderly woman in a flowery blue dress.

          "Good afternoon," he said.

          "Michael, it’s so good to meet you. I'm Cynthia Amherst." Her smile revealed nice white teeth that looked way too young to belong to a woman her age.

          "Ms. Amherst. It's a pleasure to meet you," he extended his hand and she shook it with a firm grip. He felt guilty for not having spoken to her sooner. His mother had made the final arrangements while Mike rested in the car because he felt extremely nauseous after seeing the apartment. "I've been meaning to come by. But the move exhausted me and yesterday I had a doctor's appointment."

          "No need to apologize," she shook her head of short white hair. "If you're feeling up to it, I'm having two friends over for tea and we've been dying to meet you. Won't you join us in a cup?"

          "Of course," surprised that he so easily agreed. On the other hand, it wasn't as if people were lining up outside his door with better invitations and in just the four days he'd been here, he found himself feeling a little lonely. "Give me a few minutes to change."

          "Oh, how delightful!" she clasped her hands together. "I'm just across the hall," she gestured over her shoulder. The tiny woman seemed to have more energy than anyone else Mike had seen at that age, which he placed around 75.     

          Fifteen minutes later Mike found himself inside her cozy apartment, sipping tea with three old ladies. The other two were introduced as Agnes Forsyth and Marge Brownman, who also lived inside the building.

          The two were as equally old as Amherst and yet equally as energetic and amiable. After his second cup, Michael found himself truly enjoying their company and outrageous stories. Apparently these women were unaware of their age, because they still joked and laughed liked giddy schoolgirls. Their range of topics knew no bounds and some comments made Mike blush. He felt as if he'd stumbled into a teen slumber party and been mistaken for just another one of the girls, but in a strange way it was comforting to know he had been accepted into the group.

          "I have to say, I've never been a tea drinker, but this is delicious," he set the empty cup down.

          All the ladies glowed as if they had all personally been responsible for the brew. "It's an old recipe," Amherst replied.

          "We all try to make it, but Cynthia really is the best," Marge conceded.

          "It's all we drink," Agnes added, throwing all three of them into a fit of laughter. Michael couldn’t help himself and joined in with them.

          "But we've bored you long enough," Marge Brownman began. "Tell us about you. Mother we've met, but perhaps is there another special lady in your life?" the ladies crooned with laughter.

         Definitely school girls, he thought before answering. "Well, no one as of now," he felt embarrassed sharing the fact that at 24 he had no girlfriend. It wasn't just a girlfriend. He had barely any friends to speak of. The few people he knew in Buffalo were all from his job and he regarded them as acquaintances rather than true friends.

          "Not to worry, a handsome devil like you will have no trouble."

          "I guess. When the time is right." He had been using that phrase for years but this time he actually believed it. Almost as if the old women's vigor had rubbed off on him in just the short time spent with them. "Still, I can't complain. I'm with three of the most incredible women in New York!"

          "Oh, you!" The laughter roared. "He's quite a lively one Cynthia," the laughter continued and Mike could not wipe the ridiculous grin off his face. He was actually enjoying himself and, contrary to popular belief among his male co-workers back home, he could be funny in front of the opposite sex.

          Amherst wiped tears of glee from her eyes and poured another round of tea for him. "Now Michael, I must shift the conversation briefly and I do pray you don't find us rude."

          Mike knew it was coming and he didn't blame her for bringing it up.

          "Indulge us this once and please share what brings you to this house." They repeatedly called it a house even though it was clearly a brownstone apartment. "Know that we only mean to help you."

          Her words were calming and genuine. The three little ladies seemed to be the only ones aside from his parents who were truly concerned about his well being. "Not really much to tell," he shared. "I was diagnosed with Sarcoidosis two years back. It's a rare lung disease, but it affects my other organs as well."

          "My word child, you're too young for such things."

          "Not sure how I got it," he shrugged, "who really knows why these things happen. But it's diminished my breathing capacity and is starting to infect my muscles and nerves which leads to…other problems."

          The ladies' only response was to nod and let him continue. To let him purge himself of the fears that lay deep within him. Because for whatever reason these three ladies whom he barely knew made him feel at ease. They filled him with strength and courage. At that minute he felt he could share anything with them.

          "There is no cure yet, but doctors can treat the symptoms it causes. Now that it's in three different body systems, I'm on a slew of meds to help slow the process. And so here I am," he tried to brighten his tone. It was hard to talk about an incurable disease without tones of doom and gloom filling your voice. But he was feeling strong today and his diagnosis could have been worse. Things can always be worse.

          "Do you find the pills help?" Agnes inquired.

          "Yes and no. Each prescription brings its own set of side effects, some less desirable. And of course the one that treats lung issues lowers your immune system further and the neurology meds clash with something else. And on and on ‘til I can't keep track."

          "Oh yes, we understand," Amherst felt his frustration. "We've all had our fair share of pills and doctors in the past." The ladies nodded in solemn agreement. "But enough. Thank you for sharing. We do appreciate and will do all we can to make your stay enjoyable."

          With the matter behind them, the discussion moved back into joyful and silly tales and Mike found himself envying their positive outlook with each smile that they flashed. Even when talking about their husbands, long since dead, they remained happy. It gave him hope and he could not think of a better place to heal.

          "Remember," Amherst said as he departed. "Don't feel any pressure, but know that you are always welcomed to join our daily parties. We’ll be right here."

***

         The tea party had left his spirit high but his body exhausted and it was not long before Mike slipped into a deep sleep. He woke once during the night from an unusual dream that he could not quite remember; his eyes struggling to adjust to the dark bedroom. The dream was so clear and yet so fuzzy, hiding just beyond the reach of his memory. The darkness shifted around him and through it he heard his name. As if whispered on the wind, the sound floated gently to his ear from someplace far away.

          "Michael," the darkness softly beckoned.

          "Is someone there?" he demanded firmly. He struggled to see his surroundings, but the blackness was all encompassing as if it had been painted over his eyes. His question remained unanswered by the still room and after a while he had to assume that he had been hearing things. Despite the disturbing hallucination, it did not take long for sleep to once again claim his body and bring with it another round of vivid dreams; dreams that, upon waking, left no memory of their occurrence other than the hazy images that still remained just beyond the scope of his conscious thought.

          "Dammit," he eyed a large crack running up through the plaster above the medicine cabinet. He placed his toothbrush in the holder and then examined the fissure that had seemingly appeared over night. The frustration did not end there. After breakfast, Mike noticed that the kitchen sink had a slow drip. "My God, what luck."

          "I bet I could fix this though and plaster that crack. I could even buy the supplies today," he spoke the words out loud, which was a trend he had practiced more and more now that he was living in the brownstone.

         As he closed his door, planning on heading to the hardware store, he saw Amherst just entering her apartment. "Good morning," he called.

          "Good morning," she turned to face him. "What sends you out?"

          He did not want to tell her about the problems unless he was unable to repair them himself so instead, "A walk. I feel good enough to take in some fresh air." It wasn't quite a fib. He did feel healthy enough to take a stroll without pain. Even if just to the hardware store.

          "Good for you," her smile still genuine. "Come for a cup of tea when you get back?"

          "Why wait? I'll come in right now if it's not inconvenient."

          "How delightful, "she exclaimed, which Mike was coming to believe was her favorite saying.

          He entered the apartment shocked at his eagerness to spend more time with the old woman. He even found himself wishing that Agnes and Marge would show up. By the time the kettle whistled, he was no longer surprised by his actions -- he knew why he was there.

          All three women felt like friends and it was natural to want to spend time with friends who understood you. These women were satisfied with life, despite their age and ailments they may have had. They didn't waste time dwelling on hardships that were out of their control. Which was more than he could say about the people his age.

          In all the bars and clubs, jobs and schools, he encountered angry men and women. Constantly annoyed with the current state of things, unable to enjoy the here and now and always fretting over tomorrow. And the day after. But here, in the most unlikely places, Mike had found companionship and someone to talk to. Friends came in all shapes and sizes and in the case of Michael Freemont, ages too.  Many would no doubt regard his choice as odd, but for Mike, the unlikely camaraderie did not bother him in the least. He needed friends, perhaps now more than ever.

          As if summoned by the aroma of the boiling pot, Agnes and Marge arrived just as the table was being set. Michael was glad to see them and shared how good he felt today. He was actually going to get some exercise this afternoon. "I don't mind saying that I believe your positive vibes have something to do with it."

          He only stayed for one cup but it was enough. Once again he left in high spirits; however, while making his goodbyes, he couldn't help but notice that Amherst's room looked slightly… different. The walls, which only yesterday had been a bright yellow, seemed to have dropped a shade or two in brilliance. It  was as if the yellow paint had merely been slathered over a much darker color, the underneath coat was beginning to bleed through. It's just the lighting, he thought, making his way downstairs and out into the crisp October air.

          Mike had no idea how long he had walked or where, the trip was as blurred as last night's dreams and before he knew it, he was home relaxing on the sofa. The strange euphoria that seeped into his body during tea was still with him and he welcomed the feeling. He wasn't bothered by the fact that he obviously had not stopped at the hardware store. All he knew was that he felt great. He wasn't even worried about the cracked plaster which had spidered further up the wall, extending all the way to the ceiling.

***

          "Hey Mom!" he answered the phone. Pause…"No, it was great. I did fine." He moved through the kitchen as he spoke. "I've been walking every day." Ran his finger along the wall as his mother continued, checking to see if it was the dust that seemed to be hiding the luster of the once pure white walls. "Doctor said that I have a 70% lung capacity back. Isn't that just incredible?"

          He hung up the phone glad that he had good news to report to his mother. He chose not tell her about the leaking faucet, numerous new cracks, or dirty walls that seemed to appear overnight waiting for him to discover the next morning.

          "It's out of my hands now," he spoke to the empty room again as if he expected someone to answer. He hadn't wanted to bother Amherst with any of the repairs, but this was no longer something that he could fix. He made up his mind to speak with her tomorrow and got ready for bed.

          As he entered that realm of drowsiness that comes just before sleep, a cry ripped him back from his soothing embrace. He sat up in bed, ears perked, unable to determine whether the odd shriek had been a laugh or a cry. He continued to listen and could now hear far off voices. The words were unintelligible, nor could he identify the speaker, but someone was talking loudly. At one in the morning he doubted that any residents would be awake and responsible for such a noise, so he decided to check it out. He feared one of the ladies was in trouble.

          Mike slowly made his way into the hall, lit by a very dim overhead light. The walkway was deserted now and across the landing Amherst's door was shut. A creaking noise had escaped from somewhere to his right. He turned to pinpoint its location. There was a second room on his side of the hallway and the noise seemed to come from its door which through the dim light he thought was slightly ajar.

          He then stepped cautiously across the carpet. A high-pitch cackle floated through the doorway causing Mike to freeze in his tracks. This noise was definitely a laugh, but the hideous pitch was unlike any laugh he had heard before. The creaking sound continued along with the perpetual voices that were still not registering as words in his head. He didn't know what he'd find when he looked into the room but he'd come too far to give up now.

          Reaching the entrance, he ever so slowly craned his neck around the open door and peered into the dark room. He stifled the cry that was rising in his throat as his mind gradually identified the shapes inside the room. In the flickering candle light, which was the only source of light, sat four rocking chairs creaking as they shifted back and forth. However, only one chair was occupied and it was Agnes Forsyth. The other three chairs rocked on their own. While he stood there gripped with fear, another high pitch squeal rose up from the room and Mike knew the voice had come from one of the empty chairs.

          Mike wanted to turn and run but he couldn't pull himself away from the horrifying scene. He watched Agnes rock back and forth, sipping tea and talking to no one. But that wasn't completely true, was it?

         Because something was there. Mike heard their gruesome, yet oddly enchanting voices but saw no one there. The creeping insanity came when tea cups began to rise above the vacant rockers and empty out into thin air.

          He bolted back to his room as quietly as he could with the terrifying sounds of the invisible tea party chasing him back to his bed. He locked his door and turned on all the lights. Trembling, he stared at the ceiling trying to rid his mind of the images he witnessed. Sleep finally came but it brought him no reprieve to his shattered nerves. Invisible creatures crawled through his dream. Even though he couldn't see the specters, he could feel them. They did nothing blatantly malicious but their very presence was terrifying enough. Not to mention the things they showed him and words they spoke made no real sense.

           Despite how realistic the dream, or more appropriately, nightmare, Mike woke refreshed and had to believe that the visions had all been in his head. The only remnant of the late night hallucination was the euphoric haze engulfing his body again. He experienced the relaxing sensation more often but could not pinpoint its cause. It came and went and was more effective than any drug he'd ever been prescribed.

           He basked in the soothing numbness for another hour while he ate breakfast then walked across the way and knocked on Amherst's door. It was the first time he dreaded having to see her, but he needed to alert her to the state of his apartment which was getting worse every day. He only hoped she didn't think he was responsible for destroying it. As he knocked on the door, he found himself wishing that Agnes would not be visiting. Dream or not, he would be unsettled by the sight of her.

          Amherst opened the door, delighted as always and very much without the company of her two friends."What brings you by? Another spot of tea perhaps?" she winked devilishly.

          "Not today, unfortunately," he answered, taking a seat in his usual armchair. "I wanted to talk with you because..." he paused, noticing that the kitchen doorway seemed warped and there were cracks in the molding that threatened to separate it from the wall. "Uh, because, there have been some problems in the apartment. Just wear and tear I guess. Things like cracks and leaky faucets." She simply nodded. He was unsure of what to say next.  “I can probably patch up the cracks, but we'll need a plumber..."

          "Michael," she cut him off realizing he was nervous and beginning to ramble. "Do not worry about this house. It's one of the oldest in the city. It was here long before me and sure to be here long after I'm gone. This is a very special home indeed. Tell me Michael, have you not felt better since arriving at our doorstep?"

          Mike nodded, "I have made drastic improvements."

          "As your lungs clear, the walls of this house shall darken. And with each wound healing on your body, a new seam of this place will split open."

          Mike could not believe what he was hearing, but he listened without interrupting.

          "We have done much, but unfortunately we can no longer act on your behalf. If you choose to be further healed then you must ask for help and submit to the house's will."

          Mike struggled to extract meaning from the cryptic words, "I don't get it. Your saying that this house is ..."

          "Is something more than a house," she chose the words to finish his sentence. "Possessed by ancient entities, pulsating, breathing. Quite alive," Amherst's eyes flashed with a fiery excitement he had never seen before. "Count yourself blessed. Not just anyone can reap the rewards of its power. The house has deemed you worthy and chosen you, Michael Freemont."

          "I'm…confused right now. Does my mother know about this place?"

          "No. It is a secret that we do not share with the outside world. It protects us and we protect it."

          "And you're saying it heals people?"

          "Have you not heard the creatures speaking out to you? Showing you their visions and infusing you with new found strength."

          Of course he had and there was the pleasing haze and chunks of time that he could not account for, like when he went for his daily walks. Not to mention Agnes and her haunted tea party.      

          "The tea prepares you. Opens your mind to the house and those who dwell in it."

          He saw the ornate kettle still sitting on the table. "Can it hurt me?"

        "Not at all." She stopped as if she was remembering a happy memory from the past. "I love sitting and drinking with friends, but more often I drink on my own. Late at night, when I've finished all of my tasks and assignments." Mike wondered what assignments a woman her age was working on but decided not to ask. "That's when they come to visit me. We talk and they share their stories from long ago. It's amazing." Her face held the expression of one who was remembering their first kiss; nostalgic and content.

          "Who are They?"

          "The ones who possess this house and give it power. I don't know for sure what they are. Only that they are here and have made us happy and healthy. I won't bore you with the details now, there’s plenty of time to talk. "If you decide to make a union with the house, it really comes down to one question. Do you want to be sick or not?"

          That wasn't a tough question. Did anyone really want to be sick? But how could he know that the house really healed? Wasn't it possible that his medicine was finally taking effect? And it was definitely possible that this was simply the delusion of the old woman succumbing to senility? But the house is falling apart. Yet that didn't necessarily make her story true.

          A more disturbing thought had suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps he had reacted badly to the neuropathy drugs and none of this was real. The reality was that he had passed out in a drug coma and all this was a dream inside his head while his body was actually being kept alive in some hospital room. He prayed that wasn't the case, but he wanted to believe something other than what Amherst was telling him.

          Because if he believed her story about the house, it meant that he had found the answer to his prayers: a cure that would succeed where doctors had failed. And he would put all his faith into this supernatural cure. It would become his one light in an otherwise bleak world and, if it turned out to be a lie of some crazy old woman, he would be devastated and doubted he would have the strength to go on living.

         "If it's true, and I stay and heal, won't the house fall apart?"

         "Life is a circle and so too are the powers of this place. As you take from it, you must, in turn, give back. Nothing is without a price."

         What kind of a price does this house require, he wondered.

         As if reading his thoughts, she raised her left hand to reveal a few small scars. "You will learn how to make the special tea. Then you must add a few drops of blood as an offering. The entities will come and drink with you. They give your blood the power to heal then you replenish their force by feeding them the bloody tea. As I said…a circle."

          A burning sensation rose inside his esophagus. Trying not to think about the fact that he had drank bloody tea, Mike stood and paced about the room.  He couldn't ignore the progress he had made since moving in, not only physically, but emotionally as well. "Will you teach me?" He asked reaching a decision. The price was worth it; otherwise he was doomed to slowly wither away. Not in five years, maybe not even in ten, but eventually. And each day would find him more fragile than the one that preceded it.

***

          His mother was ecstatic when she heard that Mike had decided to stay. He frequently visited his parents now, but kept the promise to never divulge the secrets of the ancient house or reveal how he managed to defy all medical odds. In the years that followed, his life turned around, and health constantly improved. He sold his place in Buffalo, took a part time job in the city and even had his eye on a few lovely ladies.

***

          This particular day was a special occasion and marked Mike's fourth year in the house. He would be returning from work shortly and looked forward to celebrating the anniversary with the ladies and, of course, a tea party. Once he started brewing his own tea, the house quickly mended its cracks and strengthened its grip on Michael. Over the years the voices had grown clearer and he welcomed the nightly dreams they had showed him, which he could now remember upon waking.

          The only thing Amherst failed to warn him about was how steep the House's price could rise. Over time the nightly brews, while still necessary, were no longer enough and the house began asking for further offerings beyond that of Michael's own blood. They asked horrifying things of him, deeds that chilled him with fear. Yet despite his initial apprehension, he would always concede, reminding himself how wonderful life had become and that the requests, no matter how dastardly, were worth the pleasure he was rewarded with. However, now in his fourth year, Mike no longer feared any task set before him by the demonic inhabitants of the house and found, much to his own shock, that he actually had come to enjoy carrying out its bidding. Before his union with the house, he had no inclination that such evil lurked in his heart.

          The clock chimed ten and they shifted anxiously within the bowels of the evil brownstone. He would be home anytime now and they cackled back and forth amongst themselves about how wonderful tonight's feast would be and how lucky they were to have secured such a worthy tenant. Of course they still loved the ladies, but they all agreed Michael made the best cup of tea.

***

Marc Ciccarone returns undercover as Jack Burton. Making his first return appearance since his May featured SOTM with "The Gambler," he must now take on a new identity for professional reasons.  Marc also has a passion for teaching, heavy metal, and writing. Despite being a lifelong fan of all things evil, he is a newcomer to the writing scene. In addition to SNM, his stories are featured in the anthologies "The Middle of Nowhere" and "Dead Worlds 4." Both are available soon on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. He also has acceptances to "Elements of Horror," Creature Features and several other publications that are due out sometime between December and mid-next year. A website is in the works, For now, he can be contacted through his new email or readers can leave him guestbook comments.

jackb213@hotmail.com

Jack Burton