SNM Horror Magazine

Classic Wordsmith Prose in the Tradition Poe & Lovecraft.

Letter From Arthur Fisk -- Brett Graham / 4th Place

Opium Fingers -- Paula Ray/ 2nd Place

To Unsee A Thing -- Richard Marsden

The Innkeeper's Daughter -- Nathaniel Johnson

                                   SEE ISSUE BELOW

LETTER TO ARTHUR FISK

Brett Matthew Graham

Dearest Arthur,

I hope this letter finds you safe and in good health.

Judging by your most recent correspondence, I gather that Colombia is both a beautiful and dangerous place. The manner in which you described the vast and arid plains of La Guajira was absolutely breathtaking, if not a little terrifying. Madeline remarked that you could easily be mistaken for a poet before anyone recognized you as a man of science. She would very much like to meet you one day. 

It is not uncommon knowledge that a full three months has passed since I’ve last written you, and while I am truly sorry for any perceived neglect, I’m afraid it could not be helped. These past few months have been absolutely harrowing, and therefore, writing has been difficult.

Thusly and with great awareness of my tactless behavior, I am writing you now to ask a favor. It is understandable if you find my cold immediacy an affront to our longtime friendship, but please, you must show sympathy for a desperate man.

Moreover, I am at a loss for an adequate explanation. The regrettable lapse of communication gives you no perspective, no ground to stand on, and no reason to be empathetic. This lack of information will only amplify the abhorrent nature of my request. I have no doubt that, if I were to come right out with it, you would think me mad.

The only real course of action that seems applicable is to explain my rather unusual predicament, if only to justify what I will ask of you.

Please, my old friend. Grant me your understanding in the beginning and, God willing, your mercy in the end…

* 

My crippling fear of enclosed spaces is a detested secret that I’ve only shared with a few of my closest acquaintances. It seems oddly appropriate that you were the first person in my life to ever know. Do you remember, old friend?

We were no more than ten years old, playing in the small forest behind your father‘s home in Providence. We came upon a small, hollowed out log. And you, being the lover of nature that you always were, couldn’t resist the urge to climb through it. You emerged from the other end, coated in dirt and moss, smiling as you always did when you battled the wild.      

I was always infinitely amused by your unbridled passion for life. Your courage created an infectious air, one that often led to pleasant forms of trouble. But this was different…

As I crawled through the log, I felt a subtle uncertainty. It began as the smallest thought, a mere sliver of light finding purchase in the wall of a darkened room. I calmly asked myself “can I turn around and go back?” And somehow, realizing that the answer was a definite NO, I simply couldn’t breathe.

I tried to scream, but it only escaped my terrified lips in the form of a whimper. I felt the log closing in, tightening on my ribcage, suffocating everything I thought I knew about the physical world.

I was in the darkest place of my life, completely hopeless in the face of impending death. But when I looked up, I saw you there, hand extended, urging me to take it. You saved my life that day, Arthur Fisk. I am forever grateful.

As you know, this affliction has affected many aspects of my life. I dare not venture there without a clear understanding of the architectural layout and the estimated number of people, and the potential of being trapped. I won’t so much as enter an establishment if the front door isn’t propped open with some sort of object.

How ironic that all of these little factors played a part in miraculously curing my horrid debilitation…and then replacing it with another.

* 

Coincidentally, it started three months ago, shortly after I had sent you my last letter, which detailed my marriage to the beautiful Madeline Fitzgerald of the Boston Fitzgeralds; a very prominent industrial family with ties to the bustling literary world. I only mention the latter because we were celebrating Madeline’s recent poetry publication the night my life took a turn for the worst.

Madeline and I, along with a few casual friends, had come from a dinner honoring my esteemed wife’s accomplishments in the vast world of poetry. We had much to drink and were laughing our way down Carver Street when Madeline noticed a quaint little theatre that had just opened. The small marquee outside read: Tamer Lane, the Amazing Hypnotist.

It was by all accounts Madeline’s night, so at her insistence, we entered.

The theater was a rather discouraging establishment for a man of my affliction. It sat roughly a hundred, but by all rights, it should have only seated half that amount. The ceiling was so low I felt as if I could reach up and graze it with my fingertips, if such an act wouldn’t cause a crippling bout of anxiety.

Madeline had known of my condition for quite some time and, displaying her usual sensitivity, suggested that we sit in the back row near the exit. It wasn’t long before the theater was filled to the brim, so much in fact that people were abandoned to the aisles, standing together shoulder to shoulder, crowding one another.

Crowding me.

I became short of breath. Madeline took my hand in hers, giving a gentle squeeze to assure me of my safety but, in my panicked state, it was only one more thing closing in. I stared at our intertwined fingers; this gesture of love filled me with a suffocating terror. The theater was getting darker. I thought I would soon lose consciousness, but as it happens, the house lights were dimming. The show was about to start.

*

Tamer Lane was the first hypnotist I’d ever seen. I’m not sure what I expected, but I assure you, the man would have fit no such description. He suddenly appeared there in the bright spotlight and stood in silence, smiling at the audience with a dreamy expression on his bearded face. This prompted nervous laughter from a few who most likely assumed, as did I, that a drunken transient had just accidentally wandered onto the stage.

“Amusing, am I?” Tamer Lane asked, tilting his head in a curious manner. “How is this for amusing?”

Mr. Lane inhaled deeply and extended both arms, slowly sweeping them across the audience.

“Everyone…in the front row…is…a…chicken!”

Suddenly, the entire front row began clucking madly, flapping their crooked arms and jutting their heads forward, pecking. Understandably, this brought about uproarious laughter from the rest of the audience, including myself.

Mr. Lane inhaled once more, and once more swept his arms across the clucking theater patrons. They stopped their nonsense in perfect unison.  

“Now that is amusing,” Mr. Lane smiled.

Everyone in the theater applauded, save for the entire front row who turned in their seats to watch us, confused.

“But that was a mere parlor trick,” Mr. Lane said in a very serious tone. He began pacing on the stage, scanning the audience with ambiguous intent.

“I have tamed lions in Africa. I have coerced confessions from the tightest lips of murderers. I have convinced Godless whores to become completely chaste. And how have I done all of this?”

Mr. Lane with raised  arms and a bellowing voice, shouted, “with the incredible and mysterious power of hypnosis!”

A man in the front row stood and put on his overcoat, shaking his head in disbelief. Mr. Lane crouched at the edge of the stage as if he were a lion himself.

“You doubt my power, chicken man?”

“It’s all rubbish,” the man said dismissively. “I’ve seen your kind before. It’s all a carnival sideshow.”

Mr. Lane gestured to the stage.

“Then please. Accompany me in a small demonstration.”

After a moment, the man hesitantly obliged.

I must admit that the enigmatic Mr. Lane momentarily distracted me from the creeping fear stiffening my spine, but alas, it was for but a moment. I began focusing on the outer rim of the house spotlight, noticing its proximity to the man who had just walked onto the stage. He was a rotund man, filling the spotlight so there was little room for the talented hypnotist. It wasn’t too long before my relaxed breathing became slack and shallow. I began to shake and sweat, clenching my teeth, overflowing with the urge to flee that horrid tomb.

The audience was suddenly clapping and cheering. I had missed the entire demonstration, but that was not a priority. Escape was my only desire and, with the perfect distraction of applause, I mustered every ounce of will power to pry myself from my seat and lunge for the exit.  But the door was locked.

I became bathed in white light, cringing at the words “Oh no you don’t. No one leaves while the great Tamer Lane is performing!”

I slowly turned to see the entire audience staring at me over their shoulders. Beyond their amused gaze, I saw Mr. Lane gesturing for me to approach the stage.

*

At a closer proximity, Mr. Lane appeared much younger than his demeanor first suggested. His hair was long and black, cascading over his shoulders and shimmering in the spotlight. His brow was pale and smooth; free of both wrinkles and beads of sweat. His beard was trimmed with a barber’s precision, hanging from his chin in a sharp spike.

Arthur, my dearest friend, I want to describe the great Tamer Lane’s eyes for you, but I am at a loss. Of all the minute details I can distinctly recall, his eyes are not among them.

The same can be said for my entire experience on stage with Tamer Lane. I can only remember him asking my name and then I was inexplicably walking off stage to the sound of applause. Madeline was waiting at the end of the aisle, smiling with open arms. I am ashamed to admit that hugging my wife was always proceeded by a subtle fear of constriction, but I found an unfamiliar solace in our embrace. In fact, she couldn’t have held me tightly enough. In that moment, I knew without a doubt I was a new man. I felt completely cured, that is, until we left the theater.

When those doors flew open it was like I fell off of the Earth and was hopelessly drifting into cold, airless, suffocating space. I desperately clutched at my wife’s dress before altogether losing consciousness.    

*

I awoke in my chambers with Madeline at my bedside with a single candle gently illuminating her wonderful face. She shrugged off my profuse apologies, kissing me on the forehead and laying upon my chest a folded piece of paper.

Out of respect for my wife’s endearing sentimentality, I will not transcribe her gift verbatim, but I can assure you, her penchant for verse is beautifully displayed. In her latest work, Madeline described fresh, open air, vast landscapes, and pure freedom of an infinite world.

No doubt this piece was meant to comfort me in my times of distress. It can only be described as the cruelest of ironies that I cannot bear to read the entire poem, for it makes me physically ill.

I spent the following day purposely entangled in my bed sheets, rolling in them until my legs became numb. When I finally left my spacious chambers, I felt a surge of terrible panic, accompanied by the urge to lock myself in our small kitchen pantry. And so I did. I was crouching in the corner, hugging myself tight and holding my breath until I felt adequately suppressed. They found me some two days later, moderately dehydrated and aghast that the door was opened and that my beautiful tomb was trespassed.

I no longer find comfort in the absence of obstruction. Instead, I fear it. Whatever hypnosis the great Tamer Lane bestowed upon me, it was devastating.

* 

After great deliberation I had finally forced myself to go outside; more specifically to Carver Street. To my dismay, the small theater had already closed and any inquiry I made about the hypnotist was met with frightful disdain.

It was at this point that I had trouble controlling my impulses. I found myself in a local boutique, insisting that my shirt and trouser size be lessened. Walking down the street, I had to repeatedly stop and clutch at my own body, holding my breath, trying desperately to feel the new thrill of constriction I now craved.

It soon became obvious to me that my mind was willing to endure more than my physical prowess could allow. Pain was not an object. It wasn’t enough to be held. It wasn’t enough to be trapped. I wanted to be crushed. And so, upon returning to my home, I calmly assured my wife that I was fine, kissed her on the forehead, walked upstairs, and pulled one of our solid oak bookcases onto myself.

*

I am slightly calmer, for now. My lower extremities are encased in plaster of Paris; a very pleasant feeling. Madeline is absolutely distraught over my latest debilitation. She spends hours by my bedside, crying and holding me. I always insist that she hold me tighter, and when she tries, it is simply not enough. Her visits always end with me screaming that she is useless, that nothing she can ever offer will be sufficient.

Like a good wife, Madeline remains by my side, despite my frustrated outbursts. She still believes I will come to my senses.

I have frequently sent friends and family into town. Their mission was to find any information on the great Tamer Lane and his supposed whereabouts. I recently found out that Tamer Lane was charged with murder. During one of his shows he cured a man of his fear of heights. Two days later, the man leapt from a building. Tamer Lane was subsequently hung by the neck. It is my understanding that it required a blindfold, for the first hangman looked directly into his eyes and then ended up hanging himself. Such is the misunderstood wonder of the former Tamer Lane.

* 

My dearest Arthur, I only hope that one day you receive the praise you truly deserve. You have been a great friend and a brilliant scientist; a pristine example of what the human being is capable of under the right circumstance. I, unfortunately, have not shared that circumstance.

The reason I am writing you now pertains to your most recent correspondence. Your time in Colombia, fervently searching the vast plains of La Guajira brought you much distinction in your field and has made you a very respected man of science. Kudos to you, Arthur Fisk, for rediscovering the previously thought-to-be-extinct Titanoboa cerrejonensis; an ancient snake that thrived in the Paleocene-epoch.

What an impressive creature, known to have measured fifty feet in length and weigh up to twenty five hundred pounds. But, of course, you know all of this.

My dear Arthur, my friend, I must confess: My first intention upon writing this letter was to trick you -- to tell you that everything is alright with me and that the snake would actually be a gift for my adoring wife. I was going to construct an unforgivable lie, giving no thought to the people who would suffer my aftermath.

What a detrimental character it takes for a man to use his wife as an excuse for his own shortcomings. For this, I am forever ashamed.

But even in this distressed and manic state, I know I cannot lie to you. After all, you saved my life all those years ago.

Please, my old friend. Do it once more. Send me one single egg. Just one, and I promise I will never ask for anything again.

Sincerely,

                                                              *

Brett Matthew Graham writes prose poetry and music. This is his third published story following the July SOTM classic "Dr. Spindle's House," which will be featured in Bonded By Blood II. These are the first 3 stories he's ever published! "Ring Finger Blues" followed in the September issue and here he offers a very Poesque offering with "Letter To Arthur Fisk." Brett currently resides in Shadyside, Ohio with his lovely wife and enjoys playing out in a local band with his friends. Samples of his published poetry can be read at poetry.com. Readers can contact him by email or leave guestbook comments. Believe us when we say you will be seeing his books in the stores!   

                   Huntersmonkey@localnet.com

                                             Brett Graham

Opium Fingers

 Paula Ray

Words formed at the back of his teeth, desperate to escape. Liam clamped his mouth shut and tilted his head. He hoped an imprisoned verse would roll down his arm and into his hand. Nothing happened, not even a smudge appeared on the paper before him. The ink on the tip of his quill dried. He dipped the vane back into the inkwell and stirred it. Maybe something flavorful is stuck to the bottom. He scraped the plume against the glass base and removed the saturated tip. He adored the way a black, glossy droplet of ink, thick as blood, clung to the tip. He shook his hand and smiled as the droplet of ink leapt from the quill and plopped it onto the paper. It splattered—suicidal. Alarmed by a wretched noise that rang through his house, he spun in his chair and glared at the door.

His damnable niece, Elise, was at it again. Liam raked his writing utensils from the desk with one angry sweep of his arm. Ink stained the silk curtains and pooled on the cushion of his favorite upholstered chair.

In the parlor, Elise practiced the piano. Repeated phrases by clumsy hands, forgetful and careless, maneuvered over keys and bumped into a dissonant bass with little or no regard for melodic dictation. Her incessant, insufferable hammering of pedals and tones misaligned with the constant ticking of a metronome, invaded Liam’s study. The irritant music pricked Liam's ears with each failed attempts at accuracy. Elise’s fingers clunkily struck wrong notes as often as they found their rightful place.

A polite child compared to his nephew, Hamish, Elise sat day after day, fastidiously seated, transfixed on the piano bench and rehearsed masterpieces never intended for developing hands while Liam locked himself away in his study. He loathed the presence of his family, even when the house was quiet. This hideous racket abusing his senses on a daily basis infuriated him. When Elise fumbled over a simple major scale, Liam was ripped from his writing. He analyzed every misread accidental or delayed articulation.

He was convinced that Elise’s fingers were worms, maggots eating the decomposed compositions of Beethoven himself. Liam envied Beethoven’s corpse and deaf spirit, unaware of how Elise massacred his genius.

A brief moment of silence. She paused to turn the page like an executioner with sharpened axe at the ready for beheading a criminal. The torture resumed.

Three weeks later, hostage in his own home, as his sister, Annabelle, and her two grotesque offspring pranced about the house, rearranging furniture, washing windows, and filling the air with aromas of stew and bread. They'd come to repair household damage done by the long winter and nurse Liam’s disintegrating health, which had deteriorated from pneumonia and fevers over the months.

He lacked the strength to send them away. A sequestered desire to banish his niece, nephew and sister out into the cold forest pressed heavily on his psyche. He analyzed his emotional distaste for his family and tried to find an admirable reason such thoughts devoured his brain, but sinister validation was all he unveiled. Guilt wrenched his insides.  

What kind of man am I to dream of harm befalling my own flesh and blood?

He covered his ears and dove nose-first into the blank page before him. Mucous and drool created their own disgusting art. He waited for a musical intermission.

Finally! She is finished for the day.

During the slight musical reprieve, Liam withdrew from his study. On tiptoes, he crept down the hall to his bedroom and ducked inside before he was spotted by his guests. An opium pipe waited for him. He could feel it beckoning from its hiding place. It was wrapped in a velvet remnant and nestled in the bottom dresser drawer beneath his nightshirts. He retrieved the pipe and cradled it in his palm. He fished around in a wooden box on the bookcase, collected his matches and his drug-pouch and then opened his bedroom window, and braced against the icy air. He filled his pipe then lit it. With the sweet smoke drawn into his lungs and exhaled, he no longer cared that his work had been interrupted by Elise’s practice, nor did he notice his skin stiffening as it became colder.

He heard a tap on his door. “Uncle, time for dinner.” Elise’s frail, soft voice trickled through the keyhole. “Venison stew. Please come eat with us. Mama is worried because you haven’t been eating enough. Please join us this evening.”

Liam stood still and silent until he heard Elise’s footsteps dissipate down the hall.

He closed the window and hid his pipe away then slipped on a dark green dinner jacket. He looked at himself in the mirror, buttoned the silver buttons of his coat from waist to Adam’s apple, leaving only the slightest hint of ruffled shirt cuff and collar. He wore the same black knee-length pants, white socks, and black shoes he had worn since the arrival of his visitors. With long, slender fingers he combed through his greasy brown hair and slicked it back into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face needed shaving, but he didn’t have the time or desire to address his stubble. He shuffled into the dining room. The ripe fragrances of baked bread and seasoned meat should have made his stomach growl, but his appetite had vanished with his poetic muse. He took a seat at the head of the table and avoided eye contact with Annabelle.

Elise peered at him over her bowl. Her large and inquisitive blue eyes studied his countenance. Liam cleared his throat and grimaced. A sudden daydream annihilated his tranquility….

He and Elise sat damp and smiling after making love on the floor of the wine cellar. She opened her pretty pout and feasted on small wedges of cheese he fed her with care. They sipped a delicious, sweet Riesling straight from the bottle. Blue eyes sparkling with adoration, she tilted her face toward him and invited a kiss.  

Out of my head, you beguiling whore! You are a child!

“Liam, you’ve decided to join us,” Annabelle cooed with a warm, cheerful sincerity dripping from each uttered syllable.

Liam coughed up phlegm into his napkin and stared down at his plate.

The family dined in pretense, dancing around the obvious disgust that his fragility impressed upon the female virtue of Annabelle. Alas, his nephew, Hamish, wasn’t even interested in Liam. He scarcely glanced in Liam’s direction, let alone spoke to him.

Elise stared continuously. She was twelve years of age, not yet a woman, but her feline curl of lip and blush of cheek grew more lethal with each passing evening. Liam daydreamed of her naked body floating above his bed on more nights than he cared to recall.     

Hamish was quite the simpleton who mindlessly blathered on about his hunting excursions and bragged about his kills. Annabelle, with her hands folded neatly atop an embroidered napkin, smiled. The dreary upturned gesture leered across the table, night after torturous night, goading Liam. This is what I’m to be grateful for? These lumps in fine clothes seated around my dining table, uninvited? I hasten to think what opinions these urchins have formed of me.

After forcing a few spoonfuls of food down his esophagus, Liam excused himself and retired to his study where he read his favorite Shakespearian sonnets aloud and envisioned someone admiring his work as he revered the works of the world's finest poets filling anthologies piled high on his side table. He spat out the lines of the great masters with a songlike baritone voice displaying inflection and enunciation an actor would envy.

In the deepest crease of night, he unfolded his work at a lamp-lit desk. Oil fumes blistered his watering eyes -- straining to see. Alas, soaked quill in hand, he began to write.

The ghostly vigil of Elise crawled out of the knot holes in the pine floor and seized his thoughts. He shuddered, unable to scribe a singular sentence worthy of review. The affection of his family, a curse bestowed upon him, a plague of compassion, would surely be his demise.

That night, Elise, on the brink of womanhood, came to him in dreams once more. Her eyes looked through him, beyond his face, into the corner where he huddled with hands folded over ears as he rocked out of time. She knew her music had taunted him. He could tell by the way she swayed her girlish frame with encouragement. Pale moonlight bled through her gauze gown, magnified her curves, teasing the silhouette of her blooming body. She sat on the edge of his desk and slowly lifted up her hemline. Her supple thighs were exposed. He outstretched his hungry fingers and woke clawing at the air in embarrassment.

Liam ignored Elise when she swept past him in the hall during daylight hours. He resisted her melodious voice that called his name when he was fully awake, but when he dreamt, he wore no armor suitable for fending off such treacherous wiles. She haunted him at his weakest and his hatred for her grew. It swelled like a boil engorged with infection.

He lowered his head onto his pillow. Elise wiggled into his slumbering mind. He unfastened her corset and let her dress puddle onto the floor. Nude, she sat at the piano and performed the song Liam despised during his wakefulness. He crawled beneath the belly of the baby grand and admired Elise’s tender feet, narrow ankles, and gorgeous, bare legs. He strained to see more, but again woke in a cold sweat.

Witch! Why must you tease me each time my eyes close?

The following morning, Liam crossed paths with Hamish in the kitchen. Hamish, who was grinding deer meat at the table, observed little more than the heads, antlers and claws he had collected. Annabelle entered the room and he ceased his task, grabbing a set of antlers and parading them around.

She applauded with a morbid infatuation of death visible in her eyes. She and Liam were alike in this manner. He could see a glint of family resemblance when she gloated about Hamish’s killing skills. Liam did not reprimand or even hint such a tango with death would thicken Hamish’s rind and make him less desirable by those who viewed brutality as a sign of ignorance. Hamish was becoming who he was intended to be and that was more than anyone could say for Elise.

Elise glided into the room shortly after the antler charade. She had forced herself into a white corseted gown that dusted the floor with lace petticoats. Liam noted how she was never tethered to an apron or sprinkled with flour. Annabelle was molding Elise to be a lady; a crown jewel to catch the eye of a gentleman, but Elise was not suitable material for a lady. Her bosom overflowed with each gasped breath. She inhaled deeply in Liam’s presence to test her talons, sharpening them by demurely looking away whenever he chased her glances with a raised eyebrow and heavy male libido reaction in undulating tidal waves of enthralled passion.

Coy games of a lady? I think not.

Safe in his bedroom, fevers melted Liam’s thoughts into hot puddles of wax. Day and night now fused together in a molten moment. Delirium was not unfamiliar to him. He recognized the loud, piercing headaches that preceded nightmares as fantasy murdered reality. The two were one and he was both captive and slave. The faint smell of gardenia wafted through the air and he sensed Elise was staring through the keyhole into his bed chamber. He knew she adored his transformation from man to infant. An unmerciful senility wrung his spine until he could no longer stand against the powerful urges pain, fear and desire had injected.

Distant notes clawed through his mattress and thumped his eardrum then beat him with their fists. Elise’s music churned his heart with amateur interpretation. There was nothing he could do but allow it to enter him. It poisoned his palette with mediocrity. He resigned himself to the fate of a displeased audience; victim of an auditory crime.

Elise's petite hands flew past him like bird’s wings, flitting shadows before the moon, bats, or scrawny feathered sparrows. They multiplied and flew into walls, hundreds, thousands, singing songs out of tune. He saw them, white digits curled -- pouncing on ivory and ebony, tap-dancing across an uneven stage that gave way beneath their weight.

This vixen-child will unhinge my sanity!

His ghostly dream-feet walked down the hall and toward the parlor. He carried a rope. Elise’s fingers hopped and skipped across the keys. Liam snuck up behind her and bound her arms behind her back. She looked into his eyes and didn’t scream. He plucked her fingers from her hands like petals from daisies. She smiled and nuzzled his palm as he caressed her face. He placed her amputated index finger in his mouth and lit the bloody knuckle as he suckled the tip like a Cuban cigar.

He awoke smoking his opium pipe by the window. The sound of crickets serenaded him in the moonlight. He stared at the letter opener on the desk and contemplated piercing his eardrums, but the music of the night was a pleasure he did not wish to deny himself. He continued to smoke and fantasize…

Liam at last visited Elise’s bed chamber. He found her door unlocked. He entered the candlelit room. She was sprawled across the bed. Her small hands hid the sprouting young tuft between her thighs. He kissed her. She opened her mouth to speak. The sound of the haunting piano replaced her voice. He stormed off to the parlor and locked the piano lid. He returned to Elise’s room. She had already gotten dressed and was sitting at her vanity—combing her long sun blond hair. He whispered, “Disrobe again, sweetness.”

Elise turned to face him. Her blue eyes twitched in their sockets and her mouth was stitched shut with a needle and thread. An empty spool and pincushion rested on the edge of her dressing table.

“Child, what have you done?”

She lifted her hands and fanned her fingers in the air. The piano began to play. He snipped her fingers off with a pair of scissors and unstitched her mouth. “Better, love?”

Elise did not answer. Her eyes ceased their erratic movement and she held his gaze.

The opium pipe shattered on the floor and startled him from his fantasy. Sunlight streamed in his window. Elise pounded the piano downstairs. He climbed through his window, sat in the snow, and leaned up against the stone foundation of his house. He could feel the vibrations resonating from the sound board of the baby grand. Breath-fog clouded his view of the forest on the horizon. Hamish walked from the woods dragging a deer carcass behind him. He spotted Liam and abandoned his kill as he ran toward him.

“Uncle, have you lost your mind? Come inside.” Hamish escorted Liam inside to a chair in the parlor by the fire. Liam scowled at Elise who was perched burlesque-like on the piano bench with evil hands resting on the ebony and ivory keys. She looked away then left the room. Liam continued to glare at the piano.

Elise soon returned with a blanket. She wrapped it around Liam’s shoulders and whispered, “There. This ought to warm you up. Would you like a cup of hot tea?” She placed her palms on his cheeks. “You’re freezing.” He closed his eyes and absorbed the sensation of her touch and smell.

Annabelle marched into the room and urged Liam to go back to bed. He staggered down the hall toward his bed chamber. He heard whispering behind him, but he didn’t care to know what was being said. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed the letter opener and slid it beneath his pillow.

This music will not get the best of me. I’ll render myself deaf before I let that happen.

Liam climbed into bed and pulled the covers to his chin. He hummed Elise’s song and drifted to sleep. Elise was waiting for him in their dream chamber. A rope and knife were on the bed. She stood naked before a full length mirror.

Liam admired her from front and back simultaneously. He was so overwhelmed that he fell to his knees. She walked toward him and grabbed his hand. Elise gently guided him to the bed. She stood at his side and put her arms behind her back. She nodded toward the rope and gave him a seductive grin over her left shoulder. He wrapped the rope around her wrists and kissed her lower back.

The piano interrupted their escapade.

With a knife in hand, he stomped to the parlor and stabbed the beast in the heart. Liquid music oozed from the wound, but no audible sound could be heard.

He returned to Elise. She was on the edge of the bed with arms bound. He lit up his opium pipe and held the tip in her mouth. She inhaled and closed her eyes. He stepped back and admired her supple curves as smoke snaked from her nostrils. With an evil grin, she tickled the air with her fingers.

Incessant piano music ripped through his skull, whether imagined or not. The tangled rhythms and coarse tones became more distorted, unending, looping in demonic circles like vultures overhead. He could no longer bear this wailing cacophony.

He sliced her fingers off with the knife.

The sight of blood soaked sheets and tears in Elise’s eyes jarred him from the dream. He retrieved the letter opener and slowly gouged his eardrums to punish himself for such impure thoughts and free himself at the same time. Realizing this was not part of the dream, he passed out immediately.

Liam awoke to deaf silence and blood on his pillow. Hamish entered his room and stood over him with a bloody knife and stammered words that Liam could not comprehend. Annabelle moved to Liam’s side. Blood soaked her dinner dress. She was crying as she reached for a cigar box on his bedside table. She opened it and revealed ten dainty little fingers lined up neatly in rows. Liam looked up into Annabelle's face. Her oval mouth was agape and her hands were trembling. He strained to hear her soundless scream…and his own.

                                                 *

Paula Ray is a wicked saxophonist from North Carolina. She rescues broken musical instruments from pawn shops and yard sales, makes repairs, and stores the refurbished instruments in her garage. For years, she has handled her poetry and fiction in a similar manner by putting her writing in a rusty filing cabinet. After much encouragement from family and friends, she began submitting her work last October. Since then, her work has appeared in several publications including Word Riot, elimae, Wigleaf, Everyday Weirdness, decomP and more. This is her SNM debut and not her last. Already she has placed in 2nd! Leave her story comments in the guestbook and visit her blog:

                          http://musicalpencil.blogspot.com

 

Paula Ray

 

To Unsee a Thing

Richard Marsden

The difference between a sane and insane decision is one that I find a matter of perspective rather than an unequivocal truth. Truth and sanity are subjective matters and so when Thomas Pembroke sewed his eyes shut the community called it an act of “spontaneous madness,” while I called his actions rational and deliberate.

I had met Thomas at the Sun West University Library while perusing sections of literature that were deemed by the academic members of the school as “unsavory” in the extreme. There are, as some open- minded individuals will tell you, histories and religions that are so ancient, they are barely be mentioned in modern works. Seven thousand years before Christianity was introduced in Europe, there were still religions whose rituals, practices and beliefs were still unknown by today’s mainstream scholars. Today, one could find references of these tremendously ancient practices in unsavory books whose authors have been callously discounted as outright liars or raving lunatics.

The books of these supposed madmen do exist and Sun West had the good fortune of having what I would consider to be an extensive library dedicated to the ancient and hidden mysteries of pre-history Europe. They had three books. I had read Lord Halwith’s  The Lie of Reality: History of Lost Germania and I had made as much sense of Jean-Baptiste E’lay’s poetic Cultes de Temp but I had yet to delve into the final ‘unsavory’ book whose title I shall not repeat.

When I sought out this particular nefarious tome, my surprise was  profound when I found a wispy man in firm possession of the book. Like a cat watching a mouse, I gazed at his lanky frame from afar as he sat huddled on a foot-stool, shrouded by the darkened aisles of the library. The ancient book was firmly in his hands clutching at with what I believed to be desperation. He looked like a patient in a mental asylum with walls on all sides but one as he rocked back and forth mumbling at times, voicing aloud whatever esoteric incantations he was currently struggling over.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have left the library and come back another day to read over the final book in the “unsavory” collection. The librarians, in their blissful covetous ignorance incidentally did mankind a big favor by not allowing such old works to be checked out. They could be viewed freely, but could not leave the fortress of literary knowledge. The book was going nowhere, yet I was still compelled to watch this stranger for some time. Few delved into the ancient histories. I was naturally curious if the thin figure huddled in a corner was a kindred spirit. The numbers of students of ridiculously old events are a small one, filled with true scholars, pseudo-magicians, occultists, and a healthy dose of paranoia mixed with a longing for others to share the secrets with, until the feeling of paranoia returns of course.

My watching was ignored and it was I who decided to introduce myself.

I gave my name and was pleasant as possible, not wishing to startle him. Contrary to my suspicions Thomas was amiable, offering his name to me in return before regarding me with a questioning look. His almost cheerful greeting had me curious. It was not typical for those delving into unknown histories.

“Did you read the other two?” I asked. If Thomas was as well versed as I, then he would know the reference to which I was implying.

“Yes, she told me of them. I’m afraid I found Halwith’s work somewhat lacking. Or rather…” he trailed off and tilted his head.

Thomas was playing the same verbal game. We determined one another’s interest in occult lore. I smiled smoothly.

“Rather polluted with Nazi ideology? There is a reason the British government hanged him. However, there are snippets of truth amongst his trash. His section on the blood-rites of the Earth God are very plausible and noteworthy.”

“She said as much,” Thomas replied and stood up from the stool, tucking the book under his arm. Pale fingers drummed against its blackened cover. “Perhaps we can go to one of the tables. I don’t mind sharing. Follow me, please.”      

Like dogs sniffing at one another, we determined we were of like kind and could form a friendship, or at least an academic understanding for a time. I had my reasons for prying into Sun West’s ancient lore; I did not know what Thomas’ were yet. The first question I had for him as we walked over to a lonely table tucked in the corner of the library was, “Who is this she?”

Thomas turned from milky white to a light shade of red. “My girlfriend. She’s really into this kind of work. She needs help with her research. I don’t mind in the least. It’s very interesting. I thought I  wouldn’t like it, but it’s good. Besides, she needs me.”

I was intrigued. “Needs you?”

He nodded as he sat down and put the black book upon the table. “She’s blind. An accident she had as a child, so she has memories of sight, but she’s blind now. They don’t make these,” he tapped the book, “in Brail.”

I was still perplexed. “How did she even begin to study this stuff then? It’s all very old and indeed they don’t make these in brail.”

“Her mother,” Thomas replied, “she’s dead now, but she was really into this kind of study and would read to Helspeth.”

I just smirked. “Helspeth?” The name was decidedly unusual, reminding me of a moniker, and not a good one at that. Was she one of the pseudo-images who feigned at learning sorcery through ancient study and gave themselves a dramatic title?

Thomas grinned. “Yeah, Helspeth. She hates it. She likes to be called Beth. Her mother was really into this, I told you. She must have thought a name like Helspeth was fitting.”

I for one would not pluck a name from the occult literature I studied and give it to my child, but then again I was unmarried and in fact had never encountered a woman who had shown an interest in bizarre historical research. As far as I knew, the field of study was dominated by two classes of people. The young adventurous men (be they scholarly or not) much like myself and Thomas and the old miserly men who had massive libraries and shared it with virtually no one. I very much longed to be like one of those old men one day, sitting spider-like in my web of ancient literature.

“Beth, is it? She doesn’t come here to research with you?”

Thomas leaned in and gave me a conspiratorial glance to the nearby empty aisles. “She’s not…welcome here. It isn’t Beth’s fault, mind you. It’s her mother’s. She was kinda weird and made a scene before. She was banned from the campus and Beth thinks they’d do the same to her if they ever found out they were related.”

I, too, had been banned  from three universities and one public library  so I was entirely sympathetic. “I understand.” I offered a small smile. “Let’s research then. Maybe I can meet Beth later?”

Thomas agreed, but yet I saw him frown ever-so slightly at my mentioning of me meeting Beth. He was new to the study of ancient things, but already the paranoia was setting in. Good for him. However, I sensed he was jealous over female flesh rather than moldy parchments. He’d learn eventually. 

*

Our studies proved to be incredibly fruitful. Thomas was a self- admitted amateur in the field, knowing only what he'd gleaned from the other two works and from his basic tutelage under Beth. We all have to start somewhere, so I was patient and forgiving when I had to explain various references again or point out the importance of certain esoteric imagery.  

The library officially closed at 5:00 p.m. We managed to stay till six, being forcibly escorted out by security.  I admit to a small guilty pleasure every time it happens.

We stood outside the darkened library, the sun had set and only a few lights from the parking lot gave any illumination. The sun was down, but even by night Arizona summers are dreadfully hot. I sweated and pulled my coat over myself.

I caught Thomas staring at me, but he didn’t ask the question I thought he would. This suited me, I didn’t want to have to lie.

“I’ll take all the notes you gave me back to Beth. Thank you. Tomorrow I’ll be back here at noon. Do you have the time?” He blinked. “I mean, are you a student here? Will classes get in the way?”

I shook my head no. “I do not attend Sun West and I am free tomorrow. Noon it is. I think a few more days of study and we’ll get what we can out of this place.” I was in fact a student without a college, had been kicked out of a prestigious Ivy League institution which had a tremendous love of liberal arts but no appreciation for the seekers of truth. Especially when in a fit of anger one of their shining stars threatened to burn down the school if they didn’t open up their literary vaults. That was four years ago. Now I have a calmer disposition without the redundant toil of traditional academia. I shook Thomas’s hand and left to continue some nocturnal research.

I was late for our appointment, but quite on purpose. Being on time makes one think you are reliable, and I am not. At a moment’s notice I may have had to flee Phoenix for a perhaps cooler city -- and possibly one in another state, or even out of country. My nocturnal activities on occasion involved breaking and entering, and I had desecrated more than one grave in search of precious information buried with old men who, even in their death, were still jealously guarding a scroll they had unearthed. Until, that is, I unearthed them.

It would be better if Thomas did not grow to rely on me. Or know too much about me either.  

Thomas stood, nervously pacing in front of the library, which was a hideous concrete monstrosity with tall, gothic windows blended without too much thought into a very modern form of architecture painted a boring shade of tan. I much preferred it by night when I couldn’t make it out.

Upon seeing me, Thomas’s eyes lit up and he approached. “You’re late.”

“I am.” I had no intention of apologizing. “Shall we-“

“Beth wants to meet you,” he blurted. Thomas’ features tensed, his eyes narrowed and he sniffed. “She was excited to find out there was someone else who knew as much as she did.” He reached a hand out and gripped my arm. “I really like her.”

I laughed lightly. “I know you do. Relax, I have no interest in stealing your girlfriend.” Perhaps anything she knew, but not her. “Besides,” I said, “I don’t much like girls.” I gave my best rendition of a shy smile.

Thomas released me and stepped back. “Oh, I see.”

Actually, he didn’t. I didn’t much like boys either.

Living in Phoenix meant that any form of public transportation was out of the question, unless one wanted to wait for hours, going from one mall to the next. I had a car and so did Thomas. We decided that I should follow him to Beth’s house, which was located outside the city in a rural town.

Traffic was dreadful. The roads were under construction and festooned with orange banners and barriers, the traffic lights didn’t change often enough and the highway leading out of the crowded city had two lanes when it needed six.

Eventually the sprawling blight of the city with its vast white buildings and Spanish-tiled roofs gave way to a bleak scrubland and very distant, gray mountains that looked bare and lifeless. The temperature was well past one hundred degrees and I passed more than one pile of cattle bones. There was also a fair share of roadside shrines built by the local Catholic community which marked the deaths of loved-ones by means of little white crosses and flowers

A dirt exit road spiraled past a set of shrines and meandered off into the desert-scrub. As I followed Thomas’ car I could see the small trailers scattered about. The place was very secluded; the trailers were run-down and weather beaten, while there were no signs of any stores -- or even a gas station. The idea of a fellow scholar living in such squalor wasn’t at all surprising, I had myself had been forced to live in embarrassingly small hovels, but I was mildly curious how Beth ever met Thomas in the first place.

Thomas’ pulled up to a ramshackle trailer whose idea of a yard was a pile of dirt and an overgrown, spindly, bush.

I parked my car and took stock of the town. From Beth’s trailer yard I could not see any of the other homes. Palavered trees with their wild, thin green branches and dead scrub shrouded everything in obscurity.

“Pretty rundown I know. She has to get by on her disability pay,” Tomas said, “I’d like her to move in with me, but she says it’s too soon.”

“How did you meet her?” I asked.

“The internet!” Thomas grinned. “It’s the best way  to date.”

Funny, I thought it was the best place to find misinformation.  “Ah,” I said.

The screen-door opened and onto what constituted a porch. A slim woman wrapped in white emerged. She had a thin face, blond frosty hair, and her eyes were firmly shut. She had no cane, but her hand journeyed to find the frame of the door, fumbling slightly thereby giving a further clue to her sightless state.

Thomas beamed. She was pretty. Such fleeting moments didn’t interest me.

“Thomas, did you bring him?” she asked.

“I’m here,” I replied.

She turned her head to face me -- and it was as if she could somehow regard me through the lids of her eyes. “Thanks for coming. Please, come inside.”

Thomas jerked his head. “Come on i-“

“Thomas, would you mind waiting by the car. I need to speak to him alone.”

His face fell and his eyes fixed on mine. I quickly pulled my coat tightly over myself. The heat was stifling, but it was necessary. “Don’t get mad at me,” I snapped.

Thomas blinked. “Well, I’m not it’s just-“

The screen door shut.

“I won’t be long. Don’t worry.” I nodded to Thomas. “It’s a scholarly thing, that’s it.” Before Thomas could protest, I jogged up to the door and pulled it open. The scent of incense struck me, but also the tell-tale signs of a person steeped in ancient lore. I could smell the books. The very old ones had a particular odor and the tomes I was most fascinated with had a little tinge of decay to their smell, as if their covers were crafted from crumbling bones and their pages from withered flesh.

Inside the trailer were piles of papers and somewhere under it I think I saw a table. A couch, half-covered in books was at one end of the trailer, a bed with sheets, awry at the other. Incense smoldered from golden vessels placed haphazardly around the room. There was one other door, which I assumed led to a kitchen or bathroom, or maybe both.

Beth slithered through the debris on the floor with easy steps, while her hand swayed in front of her in a practiced motion. She spoke as she made her way to the bed.

“Thomas read me your notes. You know quite a bit.” She sat upon the bed and her fingers drummed upon it. “Sit here.” Her pink lips formed a smile and her shut eyes squinted.  

I looked around for the source of the smell that had piqued my interest. Alas, I saw no bookshelf and none of the volumes on the couch were of interest to me. At Beth’s suggestion I said, “Thomas might not like that.” Regardless of my own warning, I made my way over to her and sat down.

Her hand reached out in search for mine. “He’s very dutiful, but no expert. A novice in the extreme.”

She leaned in and I could smell perfume which blocked out the much more pleasant scent of forbidden knowledge. I stiffened.

She took it the wrong way.

Her hand slipped to rest on my leg. “You read that book and you make so much more sense of it than Thomas ever could, as smitten as he is.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I think that we could help each other.” Her hand glided up my leg, along my coat then rested on my chin, gripping lightly with soft fingers. She turned my head to face her.

My kind are paranoid for a reason. I saw Beth’s eyelids lift and I felt portions of myself shift under the coat. “Don’t,” I warned.

She ignored me; perhaps she was used to weak-minded men like Thomas. Her eyelids fluttered open and I in turn leaned back and opened up my coat. She showed me hers, I showed her mine.

The moment was quick and she soon realized that her studies had not equipped her to combat someone like myself. So she screamed.

I felt portions of myself extend from my body. Slithering coils leapt towards her, fleshy hands sought to grasp, and several mouths (which I hadn’t noticed yesterday) yawned open and projected frog-like tongues that softly sizzled as they attached themselves to her face.

Beth’s screams intensified until some seething, roiling flesh flowing from my body engulfed her head. Tongues, tendrils and claws competed to wrap around the rest of her. I kept my coat open and watched casually as I devoured a good portion of Beth.

The screen door slammed open and Thomas charged into the room. “Beth!” he exclaimed and whirled to face us.

Just as I knew Thomas feared, his lover was in the embrace of another man. I gave him small frown. I liked Thomas and truly wished his girlfriend had chosen her opponent more wisely. I could only shrug as the inhuman part of me tore through Beth’s body, swallowing one half, while the other fell back atop the bed, smoking and popping from the unnatural enzymes and acids that had digested her.

The scream that left Thomas’ throat was in many ways more fearful, mortal, and miserable than Beth’s had been. He ran out of the trailer, wailing and wide-eyed, fearing for his own life. It was the last I saw but not heard of Thomas Pembroke.

*

My travels and studies had irrevocably connected me with the unknown alien entities from humanity’s earliest days. While modern men worshiped mystical, non-existent ideal images of themselves, I chose the wiser course and gave my allegiance to much more secular but in no way are they ideological or benign Superior Beings.

So had Beth, but she had not been as dedicated a disciple as myself. A few hypnotic, squirming appendages in place of eyes did not make one a high-priestess, or herald of the End of Days. She was little more than just a pseudo-witch…and was now very much dead.

I searched her quarters, unwilling to kill without a reward and was pleasantly surprised to discover what must have been her mother’s collection: two books in all. I would lovingly add the precious findings to my meager library in my quest to know all that men were not meant to…or women for that matter.

As for Thomas Pembroke, I read about him in the newspaper a few days later. They called his ramblings mad, his use of needle and thread insane, but I knew better. His only mistake is he should have just used a spoon. It would have been quicker and ultimately less painful and more importantly, more permanent. I feel for Thomas, for as I seek to see, he will forever seek to forget. And just as I can’t unlearn or unmake a pact, Thomas can’t unsee a thing.

*

Richard Marsden makes his long awaited debut at SNM. He was born in Canada and currently is a resident of Arizona. He has been fencing with the rapier for fifteen years and dabbles in economics. he has a Master's Degree in Land Warfare courtesy of AMU. He's been published in Absent Willow Review, Dark Recesses and Pseudopod. After valiant efforts, he finally graces the pages in one of the toughest issues to be published herein. You can visit his website or leave guestbook comments for him. Judging by his picture, you can see he is a man of mystery. Employed as a literary teacher, he must protect his anonymity. Some would wholly agree that Richard needs a little head. 

                                 Richard Marsden 

The Innkeeper’s Daughter

Nathaniel Johnson

Sarah Little took charge of the White Cliffs Inn the year that her mother, Patsy, finally died at the Southern Maine Medical Center in Kennebunk.  Granted a temporary reprieve by the latest technological advances in pulmonary resuscitation, Patsy hung on for eleven months beyond her expected death date because she was strong – and so goddamn stubborn.

Short, stout and lively, Patsy Little was one tough creampuff, insisting that things always be done right and accepting no excuses. After all, running a great inn properly was difficult and Patsy knew right well that her witless daughter was hardly qualified to take over after her passing. Therefore, when the hooded man carrying a large scythe first arrived looking for Patsy she told him to bugger off; she had an inn to run.

To their visitors, Patsy and Steve Little were the personification of old world graciousness and charm; guests were treated like family which was the reason so many looked forward to their return each summer. White Cliffs was about long afternoons soaking up those bodice-ripping novels, teary reunions, Maine lobsters, croquet and parasols on the great lawn, picnics on the verandah, trekking along the deep cliffs at daybreak with the expectation of a fiery sunset during martinis and margaritas, accompanied by the ever-present deep breathing of the sea.

Patsy’s late husband Steve, a true gentleman, didn’t agree with his wife’s harsh approach to inn-keeping but chose to let her steer the ship anyway so that he could spend his time trading stories and mingling with his martini-sipping visitors. Stephen loved his daughter Sarah and wanted her to carry on the family tradition. Upon his death, it came as no surprise to Sarah that he had left half the property to his wife and half to her.

“Soft as a grape,” Patsy moaned. “Should have had his head examined before he wrote that will.”

“Dad always said I’d be a great innkeeper,” argued Sarah during one of their frequent battles.

“Harrgh,” replied Patsy, smothering a heaving cigarette cough into a handkerchief.  “You never showed any interest in White Cliffs before Dad died.  You spent all your time with your brats and that moron you married.”

“Mother – Dan is a bright guy.”

“Then how come he lost your savings in that half-baked land deal?”

“That was his advisor’s-”

“Never trust advisors – all they want is that fee, trust me. Fire all of them!”

Eventually, Sarah got the lot – twelve bedrooms in the Manor House plus three small cottages, all with superb views of the Atlantic and everything in tip-top condition, despite the annual brutality of Maine’s coastal weather. Each spring, Patsy walked the grounds with Stan – now in his seventies and more a family heirloom than a caretaker – and together they planned the annual maintenance.

That is how Patsy did business and that’s why for nearly forty years, White Cliffs had attracted so many happy campers who returned faithfully every summer like the nesting swans across the bay. Some married at White Cliffs and some had their ashes scattered on the shore. Others sat quietly on the verandah reading all day and a few just stayed drunk. It wasn’t posh but it was home away from wherever they came from, and that suited just about everyone.

Following her mother’s exit, Sarah vowed to enforce a new, more efficient management at White Cliffs minus the pointless indulgences paid for by her extravagant mother. The economy wasn’t that steady now so those lazy employees would be worked harder with a lower annual wage hike and in the future there would be absolutely no smoking by staff on the premises.  Sarah detested cigarette smoke and cigarette butts and she warned her staff to make sure there were no butts on the lawns or the steps, or anywhere at White Cliffs. Her mother died from smoking, and that was reason enough for a total ban on tobacco – period.

In their wills, Patsy and Steven directed their ashes be scattered among the winds around White Cliffs, a ritual Sarah thought bizarre; she didn’t feel comfortable having any remnants of her deceased parents floating about postmortem. After the terms of the will were accomplished as stipulated, old Rosy Sullivan, the receptionist, cried – she always did when someone she knew and loved was sprinkled over the cliffs.

Jimmy “Skinny” St. George, the headchef for five years, enjoyed wide latitude on the menus after establishing the legendary St. George breakfasts at White Cliffs. Canadian bacon, sausages, ham and eggs, hot and cold cereals, fresh fruits, home fries and hash browns along with a tempting array of light and dark toast, jams and jellies - none of that continental cuisine crap.

One morning, after the dining room guests had emptied, Sarah stopped Jimmy with one of her let’s-have-a-chat looks that her employees loathed. “Hey Jimmy, how much breakfast you reckon we waste every day?” asked Sarah.

Skinny Jimmy, thin as spaghetti, had never been asked that question and was unaware of the consequences his careless answer would bring. “Oh, sometimes we chuck the scrambled eggs and leftover toast; the staff gets whatever’s not eaten in the bacon and sausage department.  Why?”

“Food’s expensive and I’d hate to raise our rates simply because we can’t control costs. Let me know where we can start, Okay?” Sarah figured her classes in home economics were beginning to pay off – she had a new MacBook and calculated that she’d have the Inn sorted out straight away.  Dad would be so proud; Mom could ‘go stuff it’.

By June they began to drift in for their seasonal stays, arriving in every conveyance from a decrepit Packard touring car to the latest luxury model Lexus: the old-timers and returnees or “the family,” as Rosy called them. Their arrival pleased Sarah, not because she knew or even liked any of these old cronies, but because long-term guests generally complained less and would bug Rosy with their problems. Sarah was running things now, determined to manage White Cliffs as a profitable business, not a half-baked, dreamy summer retirement home.

“How nice the daughter’s carrying on,” remarked the Alison Arnold who’d been coming up with her husband, Horace, from Pennsylvania for many years. “We do miss Patsy and Stephen, though. What’s the girl’s name?”

“Food’s gone downhill,” grumbled Horace after their first day.  “Guess she’s trying to skimp on breakfast.”

Two family retainers remained in residence each summer at White Cliffs – Stan, the gardener and repair person and Rosy Sullivan, the front-desk receptionist and general coordinator, a title that meant tending to all small needs of staff and guests. Both were indispensable and highly priced.

Sarah didn’t look anything like an innkeeper and she certainly didn’t resemble her late mother who was poised, nicely-dressed and well-groomed at all times. Sarah’s casual style – close haircut, short shorts and flimsy frayed sandals – confused the guests who had sometimes mistook her for staff. It really irritated Sarah whenever someone buttonholed her for towels, fresh bedding, or more toilet paper.

“Well, nobody knows you yet,” said Rosy one morning after suffering Sarah’s latest tirade about No respect. “Why not greet your guests at mealtime and get better acquainted.” For five consecutive mornings, Sarah dragged herself out of bed for the early breakfast and stood with spoon in hand helping to serve scrambled eggs onto outstretched plates, saying good-morning and lovely day and trying like hell to be bright and pleasant. Some thought that she must be Jimmy’s new assistant and wished her good luck at her job in the kitchen, thereby accelerating a demoralizing finale to Sarah’s unsuccessful stint in the dining room.

An elegant, rambling structure overlooking the Atlantic, White Cliffs in its prime was quite a commanding model of New England hotel architecture with traditional Nantucket-gray shingles and lobster-red trim. Built in the late forties, and subject to fierce coastal weather, White Cliffs, like her guests, was getting on in years and in dire need of a makeover. Sarah postponed putting a rubber roof over the dining room because she knew that the water-side shingles would have to be replaced along with the plumbing currently threatening the upstairs bathrooms. She couldn’t afford all that maintenance for at least another year.

On the night of July 4, the first major calamity struck. Sarah was out of town watching the fireworks with her husband and two small children and had forgotten to bring her cell phone. No one could have foreseen that this would be a mortal end. The dining room was packed that evening as many of the guests took advantage of Jimmy’s July Fourth Super Seafood Festival featuring steamers, lobster bisque or oysters, graduating to the State-o-Maine baked stuffed lobster, Chilean sea bass or bay scallops. Suddenly everyone inside the room suddenly stopped talking. As the room fell silent, all the guests sat in upright astonishment as driblets of dirty water began spotting white linen table cloths, landing in their water glasses and onto their heads.  The ceiling appeared to be weeping now; the offending driblets growing larger and more frequent as heads swiveled around and craned upwards. Everyone seemed to be talking and jumping up and brushing their clothes, their foreheads and their hair.

As cracks spread like rushing road maps through the ceiling, a small chunk of soggy plaster fell to the floor releasing a torrent of brown water and hurrying the evacuation of the entire room. Jimmy and his helpers soon abandoned their seafood prepping extravaganza and dashed upstairs to discover an overflowing toilet clogged with a tampon -- despite signs in every bathroom plainly designating an alternate method of disposal.

When Sarah returned home to find her dining room ruined, she posted an unpleasant memo to the staff and residents at White Cliffs about toilet etiquette, admonishing transgressors and warning that in the future a repeat incident would result in swift legal action. The next morning two of the regulars packed their bags, called a taxi, and informed Sarah that they would never be back. In return, Sarah charged them for the full length of their booking and promised that their absence would not be noticed.

The national economy had made a gradual downturn, the price of gas soared and the Inn’s once-certain annual bookings were off. Sarah began to cut worker's hours and eliminate overtime altogether, upsetting the part-time staff and creating dissension among the regulars. It stirred up hard feelings all throughout the Inn. Rosy did her best to smooth things over but chose not to confront Sarah.

Complicating an already unstable and unpleasant atmosphere, the Inn now faced an uncommonly dry summer as lawns sprouted crabgrass and burned brown while the flower gardens bowed to a lack of water and weeding. Sarah announced that water bills at White Cliffs were too high and she would not waste money on a situation nobody could control. No outside watering, came the terse command.

Rosy felt sorry for Sarah who was running the Inn in crisis mode seven days a week and wearing a worry mask every hour of the day. Sarah wouldn’t even use make-up to enhance an otherwise wan and characterless face. Her husband, Dan, never supported Sarah’s candidacy as innkeeper because he thought it was a thankless job under the best of circumstances. 

One evening early in August, after Sarah and her family drove down to Boston for the day, some of the staff met with Rosy at the front desk to discuss the Inn’s deteriorating condition. Guests were complaining, laundry and cleaning supplies were in short supply and there was not enough staff to cover the weekends.

Sarah’s refusal to pay overtime and her demand for extra hours from everyone created acrimony and rebellion, so when Rosy told Sarah that some of the staff were ready to quit, Sarah reluctantly reinstated overtime and promised a free barbeque to help restore morale.

Her ploy didn’t fly – everyone was still expected to be flexible and fill in to cover the summer vacation period, which meant the kitchen staff would, when required, work a double-duty, cleaning toilets or making beds and the housekeepers were expected to wash dishes in the kitchen. Rosy tried to cheer them up, but Sarah had gone too far.

The first to leave her was Stan who had labored for the Littles longer than anyone could remember -- at least for twenty-two seasons. Stan told Rosy he was tired of the missus ordering him about and forcing him to pick-up every friggin’ little cigarette butt – even when out on the tractor mower or up on a ladder painting trim.

“Maybe things will get better once Sarah gets the hang of it,” pleaded Rosy.

“She’ll ruin everything,” said Stan, “and I ain’t staying around to see her go down – can’t even water my gardens, for crissakes!”

Sarah wasn’t the least unhappy to see Stan go; she could hire two younger workers – school boys – for half the salary she’d paid Stan and they’d work harder and get things done a lot quicker – with no backtalk. “It’s simply about good economics,” she lectured Rosy on the day Stan walked out with his last paycheck, minus unemployment benefits and a bonus. Rosy wasn’t about to leave: she put in for unemployment each fall and went south for three months during the winter. Staying put and staying quiet.

During the summer, Sarah spent evenings with her family in their cottage adjoining the grounds; it was far enough away to maintain some privacy, allowing only emergency intrusions from guests. In her time, Patsy always sat with folks on the verandah or strolled about each evening asking if everyone was comfortable. Sarah figured that the front-desk people could handle those duties from now on; what else did they have to do at night?

By late-summer, morale was below sea-level. Further raising tensions and pushing tempers, Sarah issued curt orders by memorandum and rarely helped out or spoke respectfully to her staff. Half of the housekeeping staff nearly walked out on the morning that Sarah berated Carmen, one of the younger women working in the laundry room was suffering severe cramps and unable to finish the day.

“I can’t pay you a full day’s wages unless you work the entire shift, do you understand?” asked Sarah to the panic-stricken woman who did not dare go home with only partial pay.

“Okay then, I’ll stay – no problem!” cried Carmen, bent over, gripping her abdomen and weeping.

“You’re no good to me in that condition,” said Sarah. “Here’s your check – it’s for a full day. Don’t come back.”

“No, please!” screamed Carmen. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

Sarah pushed the check into the young woman’s hand, turned and left the laundry room.

*

By late August, White Cliffs Inn began to undergo a very strange transformation.  Guests in the Manor House woke to sudden noises in the corridors – groaning and shouting – or people running up and down the stairs. The disturbances continued for several nights. When residents complained, Sarah told them they were imagining things, but the late-night interruptions continued.  Sarah told the new part-time maintenance man to check every room and examine the plumbing, but he could find nothing out of order.

“Miss Little!” shouted old Mrs. Tisbury one morning in the living room after breakfast, “We have asked you repeatedly to look into the situation. I will not be disturbed like this every night – it is outrageous! Your mother and father would have never allowed it.”

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Tisbury, but we can’t find anything wrong. Maybe it was a nightmare.”

“Now look here, young woman,” said Horace Arnold. “I heard it as well – so it isn’t our imagination.”

“We’re fed up. I’m prepared to call the police – or have an inspector come up to look things over,” said Mrs. Tisbury, shaking her finger in Sarah’s face. “Now do something – and quickly.”

The last thing Sarah needed was a visit from the authorities; the Inn could be cited for numerous health and safety violations. She knew that neither the wiring nor the plumbing were quite up to code. An unhappy sheriff might close them down for the season, so Sarah agreed to stay at the Inn and sleep in her parents’ former quarters. Perhaps she could discover for herself what was going on in the Manor House after hours.

Her absence infuriated Sarah’s husband, who demanded she return to their cottage. Dan detested staying by himself with two small children and having to cook and clean every day without help; besides, he was hopeless with domestic duties. The last time Sarah left Dan threatened to call his mother – a situation that Sarah could not tolerate. Dan won that round.

After sleeping at the Inn for one week and satisfied things had settled down, Sarah went back to her cottage to pacify Dan needs and the children. The following day, life at White Cliffs turned chaotic. Searching for her chef at breakfast, Sarah learned that Skinny Jimmy was in jail after being busted for marijuana and caught having relations with an underage girl in town. That left only Michael, the chef, who barely knew how to grill hamburger.  That afternoon, the head housekeeper had also quit. She claimed employee abuse and underpayment by her employer, and threatened to call OSHA over unsafe and unsanitary working conditions in the laundry room.

Eventually, Sarah got Jimmy out of jail and helped to pay the lawyer, a family friend, who worked out a probation deal that required Jimmy to report each week to a parole officer, and a promise never again to touch drugs or any under-age girls. When the staff heard that Sarah had helped Jimmy with her own money, there was applause and a general softening of the animosity all around. Even though she was fond of Jimmy, Rosy knew that Sarah’s parents would have winced at the money paid to spring him: Patsy and Stephen would have had a serious problem with that kind of deal.

Weird disturbances returned to White Cliffs later that summer and into autumn; they were louder, with increased ferocity and greater frequency.  Guests reported seeing bursts of blue gas flames in the windows after midnight, wondering if there might be propane leaks in the kitchen stoves or living room gas-fires. One woman claimed seeing two ghosts on the rooftops and Emily Brooks swore that Patsy Little actually appeared at her bedside around two a.m.

The next morning, a group of irate guests lined up at the front desk and demanded something be done. When Rosy, who hadn’t slept well in a week broke down in tears and threatened to leave, Sarah had no choice but to resume her residency at the Inn in an attempt to correct an ever-increasing list of guest grievances. Losing patience with the escalating complaints from the more senior visitors, Sarah told Rosy that she planned to kick out those old buzzards after September and advertise the following spring for new clientele. Rosy did not think that was a very good idea at all but chose to say nothing; her own situation looked more dubious every day.

Things settled down a bit after Rosy’s scene with Sarah. The staff tried to keep everything moving smoothly, although the guests were still griping about the breakfasts and the general condition of the Inn which had begun to look shabby and smell unclean. Sarah slept at the Inn during the week, returning to her cottage and unhappy family on weekends. With no further late-night disturbances, Sarah moved back home to stay with her family.

The night Sarah returned home, banging noises erupted like hammer blows throughout the Inn. There were more blue flashes and several grayish apparitions floating about the Inn that some guests swore looked like Patsy and Stephen. One man swore he saw wraiths drifting in and out of his bathroom all night. Sarah, awakened by a guest pounding on her cottage door at two in the morning, totally lost her temper.

“Now listen up, everyone,” Sarah chided her distraught guests the next morning after breakfast.  “The noises you heard were probably plumbing – that’s all. The plumbing is old, the Inn is old” and all of you are awfully goddam old as well, she thought to herself. “These lights you think you see are imagined, as are those so-called ghosts.”

Many of the guests began to mumble and shake their heads in disgust. Emily Brooks had been coming to the Inn for over twenty years. “We never had this problem before you took over, Miss Little. Seems to us that you can’t cope with running this operation by yourself.”

“Anyone who wants to leave now may do so - I’ll release you from your booking,” said Sarah without remorse. “Just don’t plan on coming back next year.”

“What?” shouted Alison Arnold, slamming her handbag down on the front hall table. “How dare you speak to us this in this manner?”

“I run this Inn, Alison,” said Sarah, “and I won’t have any fools running around at night causing mayhem or spreading stupid stories. I won’t have it – plain and simple – so either everyone behaves or you’re out the door.”

“Your mother and father would have been mortified,” said Horace Arnold, his frail hands clenched and trembling.

“You leave my parents out of this,” screamed Sarah, waggling her finger.  “I’m running things around here – so mind your own Goddamn business, or get out!”

Rosy was shaken, devastated. She couldn’t imagine that anyone in the Little family would treat their guests so badly and she grieved that her tenure at White Cliffs was nearly about over; unemployment benefits or not, this would be her last season. Rosy knew there really were spirits residing in White Cliffs – unfriendly ones, who were possibly coming to do harm; Rosy herself had seen them, although she had not told anyone. No question about it those apparitions resembled Patsy and Steven Little and those ashen faces at the windows looked angry.

One night, Sarah Little wandered into the Inn’s lobby, wavering slightly as she walked. As Jenny the night desk receptionist remembered it, Sarah was drunker than Jenny had ever seen anyone at the Inn – worse than the old sots swilling martinis until sunset.

“The point is,” Sarah said, “the point is that this is a business, not some Goddamn rest home. Jenny – I’ve – I've tried my best.

“We know you have,” said Jenny, trying to be sympathetic. “We do know.”

“My husband doesn’t care and my mother never gave me a chance. What the Hell else am I to do?”

Jenny just shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe in time-”

“The point is…the point is that unless we control costs…” Sarah sat down, nearly falling down onto the lobby sofa. “The point is, that our guests are all antiques. When they go, we have no more regulars, then what?”

“Advertise – tell new folks about the Inn,” said Jenny, trying to be helpful.

“Forget about it, Jenny.” Sarah started to giggle, stood up, thought better of it and sat back down again. “Fact is, kiddo, we’re up that creek in a stone canoe without a paddle.”

Jenny laughed. “Oh, Sarah, it’s not really that…”

“Oh yes it is, my dear. Oh yes it certainly is! Only a matter of time now… only a matter of time.

A mysterious fire had started in the basement that night where dozens of  half-empty cans of paint, paint-thinner and varnish had been moldering for years. After the fire inspector left, Sarah realized that someone on staff had turned her in. She would damn well find out who it was.

The fire spread without a flicker of hesitation and when Sarah heard shouts and saw the flames from her cottage, she rushed over with Dan to make certain all the guests got out. Everyone was accounted for, except for Rosy. In a move that surprised everyone, Sarah raced inside the blazing lobby calling for Rosy.  Two of the guests shouted after her, trying to explain that Rosy had gone next door to phone the fire department, but Sarah – convinced she had seen Rosy go inside – would not listen.

Sarah disappeared into the smoke-filled hallway as several of the guests, too frightened to go in after her, began shouting for help. Just as two of the men prepared to go inside, a roaring fireball had erupted from underneath the building engulfing White Cliffs in flames and black smoke, mortally intensified by the chemical inferno raging in the basement.

Rosy returned to the burning Manor House only to be told that Sarah had gone in after her. The crowd of guests stood frozen – terrified by what might come next. Rosy ran toward the main entrance. “Sarah, I’m here!” She screamed repeatedly as one of the guests grabbed her, trying to keep Rosy from running into the doomed building. Within moments, the first floor collapsed feeding the fire, inviting total consumption by the greedy fury devouring the upper floors of White Cliffs Mrs. Tisbury sank to the ground, hysterical, and crying that that Satan himself had summoned this inferno, not fully comprehending that Sarah, only moments ago, had virtually committed self- immolation.

When the first fire truck from Gull Cove arrived, Rosy turned strangely calm. She walked amongst the guests as if in a trance trying to reassure them, asking everyone if there was anything she could do – a glass of water, fresh linen, a cup of tea?

The three cottages survived unscathed; all that remained of the Manor House were a few fallen beams, the scorched remains of the roof, and a lone, blackened brick chimney rising like a mad skeleton out of the rubble. In an unscripted coda to her career, Sarah joined her parents and everyone else in the ceremonial scattering of ashes at White Cliffs. Nobody really knew much about Sarah’s husband, so it did not come as a surprise that eventually, Dan nipped out with the insurance money after unloading the cottages, and the land, at a huge loss. He wanted out so that he could relocate back home in Pennsylvania, park the kids with his folks and find a job. Had she survived, Sarah would have struggled to rebuild the Inn and prove that she could be a success. Dan always hated White Cliffs – it was a fitting finale as far as he was concerned.

*

Two years had passed with no interest in rebuilding the Manor House. Grass and shrubbery grew around the foundation and, although there were constant rumors around the town about erecting a new building, no contracts came under agreement. The cottages declined and eventually, when back taxes fell into arrears, the town took over the property. In the meantime, Dan and the children had disappeared.

For years, the sound of crying was heard every night at sunset and the gruesome tales about the old inn and its unfortunate owners were retold many times. When kids from town visited the site on Halloween, they often got more than they expected; some had nightmares for years.

Over time, the screaming had ceased, the apparitions went into retirement and only haunting memories remained. Now and again, nearby residents – and an occasional guest from the old days – would visit the ruin on a pleasant summer’s evening, just before sunset. They would sit there and wait – wait to hear the distant murmur of agreeable conversation, the gentle tinkling of ice in cocktail glasses and the muffled clicks of croquet– all blending in with the ceaseless breathing of the sea.

*

Nathaniel Johnson makes a memorable debut appearance at SNM. He lives and writes in Rockport, Ma and is an active member of local writers groups. He is online at Francis Coppola’s Zoetrope Virtual Studio. Nat's most recent works have published in AlienSkin and Boston Literary Mag. In December, his most recent work, “Early Checkout” will appear in Absent Willow Review. He is on FaceBook and Myspace and also has his own website.

www.natjohnson.com

              Nathaniel Johnson

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
   I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
   Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me:
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
   And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we--
   Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
   Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea--
   In her tomb by the side of the sea.