Flagpole's Scary Stories
Part 2
NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR
By John Nelson
The Ritters are the nicest neighbors I’ve ever had. They let me play with their dog Russ whenever I want, and they even took me around to get candy last Halloween when my dad said I couldn’t go.
“Not this again,” he said, “you’re too old.”
I cried and cried and then ran to Mrs. Ritter. She said they’d take me if I calmed down. That night was great; I was so scary with my mask. When I got home, the Ritters talked to my dad for a long time about how I scared all the parents and kids.
“They were frightened,” Mrs. Ritter said, so quiet.
I was listening from the top of the stairs. She wanted it to be a secret from me, but I heard her say it. I don’t know why she was whispering.
Sometimes, after Mr. Ritter gets home from teaching college, he takes Russ for a walk down to Memorial Park through the trees at the back of our street. One time I followed behind him in secret. He didn’t know I was following him.
I loved going to the park to see the black bears. When I got home, I was laughing, thinking about how Mr. Ritter never saw me. I was laughing about it so loud that my dad wrestled me to make me stop laughing.
Football games on Saturdays were the best with the Ritters. Mr. Ritter said he had free tickets, because he taught at the school. I had so much fun at the games. I loved watching football with them.
Sometimes I wish the Ritters were my mom and dad, but I don’t want to make my dad sad by thinking that.
This morning, I asked Mr. Ritter if I could go to the football game with him, but he said he was taking someone else. No I told him, I want to go. He patted me on the back and walked me home. I asked Mr. Ritter if I could go with him to the next game, but he said he was giving his tickets to his teacher friend.
I had a good idea after I stopped being sad. I would change his mind while he and Mrs. Ritter slept, so that they’d take me with his free tickets. They’d remember while they dreamed about all the fun we had at the games.
I’m big, but I fit through the Ritter’s dog door no problem. I had to be quiet so that the Ritters would stay asleep. I gave some food to Russ so that he wouldn’t play with me and make noise.
I tiptoed up the stairs to their bedroom and waited a while before I went in. I wanted to be really quiet, because it was supposed to be a secret that I was there.
I opened the door really slow and crawled in like I was Russ. I went to Mrs. Ritter’s side of the bed and whispered, “Please take me.”
Then I crawled to Mr. Ritter’s side and whispered, “Please take me.”
Then I squeezed underneath the bed to wait so that I could whisper some more later. I heard them whisper back, but they weren’t talking to me. I think they were whispering on the phone with someone else.
A couple minutes later some people kicked open the Ritter’s front door and then ran up the steps. Then some man and woman cops rushed into the Ritter’s bedroom and started yelling. I saw the Ritters run out of the bedroom door before some cops took them outside. The other cops grabbed my legs and pulled me out from under the bed. With all the yelling and them grabbing me so hard I started crying. The cops took me outside and put me in a cop car. I saw Mr. Ritter holding Russ and Mrs. Ritter crying and talking to the police. They wouldn’t look at me. I guess the Ritters were mad at me. Then my dad showed up and was answering questions from the cops.
“How old is your son?” the cop asked.
“She’s my daughter, and she’s 35,” my dad told him.
I’m really scared, but I know that the Ritters won’t be mad at me for long. Once my dad takes me home from the cops, I’ll go back to the Ritter’s house. Maybe, if I have my mask on, they’ll remember that fun Halloween night and be happy with me again. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll wear my mask.
DOWNHILL
By Keith Maxwell
Jordan walked along Lumpkin Street, head down against the chill of the wind. He shivered against the cold as he continued along, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.
It was after 3 a.m., and Jordan had the street to himself. In the gloom, the darkened storefronts watched him like eyeless sockets as he walked. He’d experienced a momentary fugue moments before in which he couldn’t actually remember driving downtown. Furthermore, he had no idea why he’d come here or where he was heading.
The last thing he remembered was waking up from an afternoon nap, disoriented and confused. When he’d gotten up off of the couch, it had already been dark outside, and for a moment he’d had no idea what day it was.
Now, here he was, walking into the wind as the town slumbered. The fact that the streets were deserted was more than a little odd. Despite the late hour and the closed bars, normally there would have been quite a few fellow souls wandering around. But for now the night was his alone.
There had been a time in Jordan’s life when he’d spent much time here; when he’d been well known on the downtown scene. Though those days were long gone, at times he still yearned for them. But he was too old for such things. In fact, before tonight he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out so late.
As Jordan passed the Georgia Theatre, he couldn’t help but glance longingly in its direction. The place was deserted, its marquee unusually blank and dark. So many good times there, years before the fire that had gutted the famous venue not long ago.
As Jordan approached the intersection of Lumpkin and Washington streets, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Yet when he turned his head in that direction, he saw only the barren front of Nowhere Bar. He stared intently at the front window, sure that he’d seen something. Only darkness returned his gaze.
When he reached the intersection Jordan paused, unsure of which way to go. He stood on the corner looking up at the stars, which seemed more vital than he’d ever seen them. Finally, he pulled his jacket tighter about him and turned onto Washington Street. He’d only walked a short distance when he had the distinct feeling he was being watched.
He looked to his left, where the Morton Theatre rose out of the gloom. Nothing there but the double doors and the striped awning. He turned in the other direction, yet saw nothing but an empty parking lot. He stared into the darkness for a long moment, but still no movement. He was about to head on down the street when he glanced to his left again.
A lone figure lurked beneath the awning.
Jordan’s heart gave a great leap. The man (if it was a man) was leaning against the wall and watching him. Jordan stared in disbelief as the man raised one hand and beckoned to him.
Jordan looked away and walked quickly past. Time to get out of here! But he couldn’t remember where he’d left his car, or even if he had a car. Surely he’d gotten downtown somehow, but at the moment his mind was blank.
As he crossed over Hull Street, Jordan became aware that he was no longer alone. He glanced to his left and saw a pale, hollow face in the window of Trappeze. He looked away but was immediately confronted by a group of people on Player’s Corner, watching him and smiling. Some of them looked familiar.
Nearing panic, Jordan hurried on down the hill. Now he had even more companions, and he was beginning to recognize them. In the window of Max he saw his old friend Graham, who’d frequently accompanied him on late-night excursions. On the bench in front of Pain and Wonder, his dead friend Douglas waved to him.
And here was the 40 Watt, with a long line of his departed friends waiting to get in. They all turned in his direction and reached out to him. Jordan looked away from the ghostly line and stared into the darkness. When someone called his name, he began to run.
He was nearly to Pulaski Street when the first cold hand touched the back of his neck.
PLANTASMAGORIA
By Martin Hogan
I've seen many unusual things in my 31 years as an employee of the Athens-Clarke County Department of Plant Control. Once, I helped the UGA horticulture club protect their garden from a kudzu infestation. Those poor arugula plants! But I had never seen anything like this.
It was Halloween, and all day there had been an eerie feeling growing on me. That afternoon, I stopped by one of the new beer breweries that seem to be springing up all over town.
“Welcome to LoveCraft Brewery,” said the slouching, bearded clerk, “Be sure to try one of the great cold ones.”
A strange scent hung about the tattooed fellow, not quite unlike that of my faithful terrier, Gardenia, when he was wet. I suspect it is fashionable among the youth of today to forego showering, but there was something different about this odor. It was otherworldly, in a way, and left me ill at ease.
For a second our eyes met, but I averted my gaze quickly. There was an emptiness in his eyes, something that went beyond the ordinary bleakness of a person working for minimum wage whose band had just split up. For a moment, I glimpsed a cavernous doom in those eyes. I knew not what it was, but I suddenly felt a creeping fear of something that was always just out of the corner of my eye.
I hurried out after only one artisanal beer, which was undoubtedly refreshing but also chilling, with an aftertaste of dread.
That night, I went into the office to get through some garden audit paperwork. It was dark outside when I finished, and I was about to leave when the green telephone rang.
Of course, at that hour, it was an emergency call. A rather distressed woman begged me to come to South Finley Street and investigate some unusual arboreal activity.
Under normal circumstances, I would tell her it had to wait until tomorrow. But I felt sympathy for the panicked soul, and, besides, maybe it was just nerves, but I felt like something serious was afoot. I told her I would be right over and then loaded some gardening tools into my car.
When I parked on South Finley and rolled down the window, the feeling of dread surged back, much stronger than before. The neighborhood was empty and silent, and there was a horrible miasma of fear hanging in the air. I looked around and shivered. There was no sign of the caller, but I knew immediately which tree she was worried about. A white oak loomed menacingly over the others. Well, it wasn't taller than the others, but it loomed, nonetheless. Something sinister emanated from that tree, and I instinctively reached for my chainsaw.
Resolutely, I stepped out of the car and began walking toward the unsettling oak to investigate. As I came closer, a horrible stench hit me. It was worse than a Bradford pear, with a truly unholy edge. I slowed down and looked up at its branches, which almost seemed to grasp ominously at the night sky. Then, all of a sudden, they did! I swear, the branches began to move, slowly at first, then wriggling like the fingers of some nightmarish beast.
I stopped walking, staring in horror at the white oak before me. The creeping dread squirmed up my stomach and into my heart. I stood, unable to move, when a terrible groaning sound met my ears. The bark of the tree cracked apart, and a hideous face burst forth, with wicked, piercing eyes and a twisted grin. A horrible wheezing sound emerged from the tree, and then I heard that awful rasping voice that still haunts my dreams.
“No human is my master,” it growled, “I am The Tree That Owns Itself, and soon I will be The Tree That Owns All.”
Then came more cracking and groaning, and the whole tree rose up into the air, as its roots slithered out of the ground and began to creep toward me like tentacles. I stood rooted to the spot, shaking.
“Step aside, woman.” spoke the despicable tree-demon as it crept closer. I stepped back, pulling the chainsaw's ripcord. For a moment, I hesitated. Charged with maintaining plants owned by the municipal government, I did not have the authority to prune a tree that did legally own itself.
But my city needed me. “Go to Hell!” I yelled, and plunged the roaring chainsaw into its trunk.
DREAMSCAPE
By Nicholas O. Splendorr
I had a dream as I was waking and might not have been dreaming that I could communicate with the denizens of various underworlds. Demons rampant on a field, obscured by barbed-wire wallpaper, whose obvious screams I could not hear or see.
However, it wasn't as easy as it seems. First of all, I had to maintain a state of not-quite-sleeping, not-quite-dreaming, which as you know is tough to do in our tight-schedule, exploitation economy. I'm either waking up frantic, afraid I'm already late, or I'm waking up glacially, as deep in sleep as possible for as long as I can manage. There's a certain slothful diligence required to keep balanced on the skeletal edge of neither here nor aware.
Further, there are secretaries. This is the worst part, and I apologize for introducing this into your imagination. But you asked, and I'm nothing if not polite. The secretaries of these accessible painscapes are enormous, spread-out, ink-blotch spiders. Spiders wearing ties you can't see because they're black, too. Blotch bodies with arms in literally every possible direction, in every blood-burning dimension that open eyes can never see. Arms warping with speed as they clack away at typewriters, so many typewriters, a real hades of bureaucracy, every spidery arm ending with a fractal of arachnid fingers, processing paperwork on endless reams of who-knows-what kind of paper, probably pale blue resumé paper with an unidentifiable watermark. Shudder.
These are the gatekeepers, the liaisons, the ones who can get messages to and from the dark powers beyond. And they do not have time for your nonsense.
But then I woke up. In Athens. No messages delivered or received, as far as I could tell.
I haven't been back.
BLOOD MOON
By Philip Weinrich
Jonas downed the last of his beer, paid his tab and waved goodbye to nobody in particular as he left Charlie’s Place. The brisk night air sobered him up momentarily, and he thought about driving but left his car in its usual place and walked to his house on Nowhere Road. “It’ll still be there come morning,” he thought.
The walk was easier, thanks to the full moon. The Banner-Herald had called it a “blood moon,” because it looked red during the full eclipse, the second in a series of four. The crazy-eyed preacher he passed while bar-hopping downtown bellowed that it was a sign of the “end times,” that “destruction was nigh,” and that “drunkards should re-PENT!” A finger in his face was Jonas’ only response.
He didn’t bother to turn on any light, because the eclipse hadn’t started, and there was just enough light so he didn’t trip on anything. He collapsed on the bed, with images of blood and apocalypse still filling his mind. He managed to get his boots off before passing out into a fitful sleep.
The moonlight forced its way past his broken shutters and pulled Jonas out of his delirium. The eclipse had already begun and, although it was bright enough to waken him, it wasn’t enough to illuminate anything in his bedroom. He looked around, trying to bring his eyes and head into focus.
Something in the corner caught his attention and nearly stopped his heart. A pair of cold, glowing eyes stared at him from just beyond his bed. They hung motionless in the darkness, a pale yellow portent of some unknown evil. The alcohol that clouded his vision also sent his thoughts flying, trying to guess what it was. The words of doom the preacher had yelled at him rang in his ears, fueling the fear that the prophecy was coming true.
A soft whimper from whatever it was turned his fright to anger. “Duke!” he shouted. “Get out of here, stupid dog. You freaked me out!” The eyes remained unwavering. “GIT!” he screamed and kicked his covers at them. Suddenly, they blinked out of existence, and he heard the padding of paws down the hallway. Jonas fell back on the bed, his heart pounding. Relief and alcohol overcame him, and he passed out again.
A low growl awakened him this time, and he looked to find the glowing eyes staring at him from the same spot as before. They weren’t as bright, since the eclipse had blocked some of the moonlight. This gave them a more spectral glow, as if they belonged to a pet he had lost long ago. Unblinking, they burrowed into his soul. He sat there, mesmerized.
he growling seemed incessant, like it came from something that didn’t need to breathe. It wasn’t fierce, as though an animal were defending its territory; it was more the sound of a cornered animal that didn’t know how else to defend itself.
“Shut up, Duke. I’m trying to sleep,” Jonas said, to no avail. The growling continued in a monotone, and the eyes remained fixed on him, although they dimmed in the waning moonlight. “I said stop it!” he added forcefully and kicked the covers at him again. The eyes stared relentlessly.
Jonas reached over the side for his slipper and threw it. He heard a yelp, and the eyes disappeared once more. He tried to relax, but wild thoughts still swirled in his head. Why was Duke acting like that? Can he sense something I can’t? He looked out the window and watched as the eclipse took more of the moon and wondered if it really was “the end of the world.” Eventually, exhaustion took over, and he was out once more.
A thump shook Jonas awake. He checked; the eyes still stared at him, although now they glowed a faint red. The growl had changed to a snarl, became guttural. I’ve had it! he thought. He threw the other slipper and hit his mark. This time, the snarl grew more menacing and the eyes glowed brighter.
“Cut it out, Duke!” he yelled. As he groped for his boot, his hand touched fur that was wet and sticky instead. He pulled it toward the window, and what little light was left showed his blood-soaked hand.
He turned back in terror. The crazy-looking eyes crept toward him, and the snarl slowly changed to laughter as the earth covered the last of the moon in blood.
SCARECROW
By Philip Weinrich
It had seemed like a good idea back at the bar. Jesse had overheard a loud group of frat boys talking about going to the Athens Corn Maze after-hours. He thought this was the perfect opportunity to try out his new scarecrow costume, and on some “college boys” at that!
Everything had started out great. Jesse drove home, changed into the costume, drove to the woods behind the maze, and made his way through the trees to the cornfield, all in plenty of time. The full moon guided him into the entrance and helped him find a spot to conceal himself. He opened a beer and sat down, chuckling to himself as he awaited his prey.
After midnight, however, things started to change. The lunar eclipse was slowly stealing the moonlight, making it harder to see. A bitter wind began blowing through the stalks, leaving Jesse little protection in his hiding place. His legs were cramped from crouching so long. As time dragged on, he realized his intended victims weren’t going to show.
After half an hour, Jesse decided he’d had enough. He stood up and looked at the path but couldn’t remember which way he’d come in.
“It can’t be that hard,” he thought. He turned left and started walking. Right turn, then two lefts. Another right. He tried to see where he was but couldn’t jump high enough to see over the stalks. Thinking he might be near the exit, he turned a sharp corner and found—his beer can. “Back where I started,” he thought and mumbled a few curse words.
He’d heard that keeping your hand on one wall would eventually lead you out, so Jesse tried that. After 20 minutes, he was no closer to getting out than when he’d started. He was about ready to just push through the cornstalks when he saw someone else in the maze.
“Could I have missed seeing them drive up?” he thought. “Well, better late than never.” He circled around to get behind his unsuspecting victim.
Jesse couldn’t wait to see the guy’s face when he jumped out of the corn. As he heard the footsteps nearing, he leapt into the path. He would have let out a dramatic yell to scare the poor soul, but was too shocked when he realized he was face to face with… a scarecrow! The two of them just stood there, staring at each other. Jesse wondered if maybe a prank was being played on him instead of the other way around.
Suddenly, the scarecrow grabbed Jesse by the throat. “I’ve waited so long… ” it said in a dry, raspy growl. Jesse struggled to breathe, but couldn’t pry the fingers loose.
“It was just a joke,” he squeaked as the grip tightened. In desperation, Jesse clasped his hands and brought them down hard on the scarecrow’s arm and got free. Jesse fell to his knees and gasped for air.
He looked up just in time to see the scarecrow swing a sickle at him. Jesse no longer thought about being careful. He simply ran, stalks slapping him in the face as he burst through. Every time he thought he was close to escaping the maze, the scarecrow appeared in front of him. Each time he got away but couldn’t get out.
After several minutes without hearing his pursuer, Jesse saw a straight shot to the exit. He ripped up a cornstalk, threw it sideways and sprinted to freedom, hoping the sound would fool the scarecrow.
“Just a few more yards,” he thought, when an arm appeared out of nowhere, clotheslining him. He landed on his back, the scarecrow standing over him.
“The farmer who owned this field died from a prank I pulled, so I was cursed to spend my days watching over it. The only time the curse can be ended is during a lunar eclipse. The only way is to pass it to someone else while they’re in the cornfield. You’re even dressed for the part.” He removed his burlap hood. “The crows like the ears, but love the eyes!” Jesse looked at the gaunt face with the eyeless sockets, screamed and passed out.
When he came to, Jesse saw people below him, inspecting the damage to the maze. He tried calling to them, but he couldn’t move. Looking around, he realized he was still dressed like a scarecrow and was hanging on a pole in the cornfield. A crow landed on his shoulder. Jesse screamed, but nothing came out.
PLAYER
By Rebecca Norton
She walked through the doorway without so much as a knock or a gracious throat clearing. Even though the opaque glass says “Private,’” I always leave my door open, hoping some young dame will saunter in just like this one, drop her things on the couch and land dexterously in one sweeping movement in the chair across from my desk.
"We don't get many kids around here."
She looked like she probably attended the university in town; she had a studious, serious brow, though her hair showed faded highlights of green. The nails on her right hand were painted green, too. Purple on the left.
"You must be one of those derby girls."
She arched an eyebrow and sucked in her cheeks. I could tell she didn't want to play.
"Well, what can I do you for, Doll?"
Her eyes narrowed, and I figured I better ease up with the sweet talk before she gave me a lecture or a left hook.
"What, are we, in the '40s? The name's Samantha."
"All right, Angel. Now tell me something useful."
"I said Sa-man-tha, buddy. If you insist on calling me something else, my friends call me Mantis, not that I'd consider you much of a friend."
Funny girl. I like it when they try to play along.
"No need to consider me a friend, Grasshopper. I'm only here for business. Now let's stop dancing and get down to it. What do you want, the scoop? Revenge? Maybe you're sweet on a guy and looking for his lady to take a convenient hike, is that it? Look, Tootse, if you want me to knock somebody off… “
She scoffed and shifted in her seat, finally losing some of the cool air she came in with. The neckline of her shirt dropped an inch, and I could see the top of a tattoo, a five-pointed crown.
"Say, nice ink, Kitten. You work around here? Make a lotta tips?"
"Look here, Soldier, I don't need you to get smart, I just want some information."
"The name's Richard, actually, and I've never been in the military."
She sucked in her cheeks again; I was beginning to like it.
"So go ahead, Cricket. Shoot."
All she seemed to be able to do was touch her neck. I couldn't tell if she was just trying to frustrate me or genuinely attract my attention. Both were happening; I couldn't complain.
"Fine, all right, so here's the thing, and maybe it's silly, but I just, well— I was at the Caledonia Lounge, like I always am, every Thursday night, and, well, there's this guy and… “
"'This guy?' Look, sweetheart, I'm not your matchmaker. You want love advice? Here's some: go write to Rhonda. I'm too busy to help you play patty-cake."
The first embers of light flickered behind her eyes as soon as I shot her down. Everything tightened, and I could see her face become flushed with fury, her knuckles white from her grip on the arms of the chair. It looked as though she might snap them right off the base. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and as she pushed her chin forward in a show of dominance I felt myself shift slightly off my own chair to get closer to her, to get a better look at her anger. I couldn't stop myself; the right corner of my mouth curled upward and showed how much I was enjoying her sudden shift out of composure. Her eyes darted to my lips and saw my pleasure piqued. At this, she loosened her grip, letting the color flow back into her hands, and stood up from the chair.
"You enjoy games, don't you?”
She walked around the side of my desk and leaned over me, her face even with mine, her hands now gripping the arms of my chair.
"I like them, too."
Things were looking up, and I could tell our interaction was finally about to accelerate. She swung her hips slightly and bumped against my desk, knocking a letter opener to my feet. She bent down to pick up the steel tool and slid the point lightly up the front of my shirt.
"Yeah, Dollface, I love a good game. Let's play."
As she moved her face to the side of mine, I could see a most mischievous smile move out from my periphery. Her whispered breath felt warm against my ear,
"Dollface," she cooed at me as her soft hands moved around my shoulder and neck, "do you know what praying mantises do to their mates?"
IT'S HERE
By Rhys Linquist
There's something off about this city. I should've noticed it earlier. I should have noticed it when that bare-bones feeling of autumn began to permeate the city, when I walked down that one block downtown that always smells like alcohol, and it instead smelled of something primal, some animal scent of fear and anxiety. I should have noticed when that man looked at me, and it was like I couldn't figure out what his face looked like, even though I was staring right at him—when I looked at his eyes, his mouth changed; when I looked at his mouth, his eyes changed.
Three days ago, I stood microwaving dinner in my kitchen. It was beginning to get late, and I was beginning to get bleary-eyed. As the microwave hummed, a thought injected itself into my consciousness, almost as if it wasn't my own. For a split second I thought to myself, "it's here.”
And then again, repeating itself over and over like a heartbeat—it's here, it's here, it's here, it's here.
"What's here?" I thought in response, assuming I was in the stages between sleep and wakefulness. The ring of the microwave shattered my thoughts before I responded to my own question, and the moment was forgotten. I ate hastily, so I could get myself to bed, and I tried to dismiss it.
The next day, mid-afternoon, I found myself pushing a grocery cart. I glanced at the shelves, trying to distinguish Kroger brand from name-brand, figuring what cost more or less, my brain behaving like a machine in a loop calculating necessities. I passed a woman with a child perched on the fold-down kiddie seat in a cart, and I happened to look her way. She was staring me in the face, her mouth shaping two words soundlessly: “It’s here.” Unmistakable, yet I tried to pass it off as something whispered to her child, though I knew I couldn't deny it. After her came a man stocking the shelves, taking things out of boxes and arranging them in place. He looked at me, almost demanding my attention, and mouthed the same two words—“It's here—to me, again with no sound. I mouthed back, “What's here?" hoping he would look at me in confusion, indicating that I had just misheard him, but he turned to face me fully, and in a soft whisper he said, “Death".
I disregarded appearances. I left my cart in the aisle with the man, I turned around, and I drove home shivering. I forgot about dinner, I forgot about needing to buy food at all, and I spent the rest of the day looking out the window at the parking lot of my apartment building. Death was not anywhere to be found, or at least nowhere around me, not for now.
Today, I woke from a few hours of sleep, and the first thing on my mind was yesterday. Unsure what to do, I chose what I now know was a horrible option—to live life, to go pay a bill at Georgia Power that I knew was coming up on late. I watched the streets for people whispering things at me, and I looked at the faces in the cars next to me at stoplights, making sure they were all intact and recognizable. For the moment, everything seemed normal, but when I stepped inside the building, I knew I was wrong.
Every person there turned to face me. The room was full of shifting eyes and blurred faces, some grinning, some grimacing, some seeming to do both at the same time. Two of them spoke to each other, in actuality speaking to me, and I knew what they said: “It’s here.” “What's here?” “Death.” “Where?”
Another stared at me, chanting, “Turn around.” “Turn around.” I gripped my keys in between my knuckles, pretending it protected me, and I turned around as I was commanded to, looking through the glass windows of the building. My view was at first obstructed by a thick fog. I stepped closer, and I realized that the "fog" was really a curtain of grey handprints, coating the entire window and blocking me from seeing outside. I turned back to face the people—the things that looked like people—and they seemed to be grinning wider, grimacing tighter.
"Please," I yelled, "what's here?"
"Death,” one said. "Us,” said another. The ones sitting stood up. The ones already standing advanced towards me.
TOO MANY COOKS
By Tracy Adkins
Weeks ago when the Realtor had shown Drew the Cobbham Victorian, the house had drawn her in. It had a perfect garden spot, wide window sills for long catnaps in the sun, and, best of all, a big baker’s kitchen. Making cookies for a party this weekend, her mind wandered while spooning the cookie dough and working it into small circles. Through the window over the sink, she watched as a hummingbird approached the feeder. It was a cozy moment with the buzzing hummer, the warm oven waiting for cookies and the late-summer sun just starting to set behind the sweetgums and poplars. All of which made the slight chill that she suddenly felt so noticeably odd.
It wasn't like a breeze, more like an icy butterfly had lighted on her wrist. She looked but didn’t see anything but the usual freckles. Then, just as quickly, the cold faded away.
Drew popped the first pan full of cookies in the oven and set the timer. The cookies began to sweat under the burner. She sat back down and saw six or seven hummingbirds at the feeder now.
Just as she finished preparing the second pan-full, the cool spot returned to her wrist. She jerked her arm up to examine it more closely, but still saw nothing. She stared. This time, instead of fading, the spot became colder and grew to an icy ring that circled her entire wrist, while the slightest pressure pulled the hand. It was a sensation you might expect if Jack Frost were leading you somewhere. After a few seconds, her wrist turned slightly red, and the cold again dissipated.
Drew noticed the hummingbirds all abruptly leave the feeder. One brushed up against the glass and gave a panicked chirp before it zoomed away. Perhaps the neighbor cat was cruising the yard below? No, something wasn't right, as she looked through the window at the now-empty feeder. A thin fog crept up from the corner of each the six aged panes. Crept up on the inside.
Puzzled, she leaned in closer as the mist thickened until it covered the bottom half of each pane. Then, with a “plink!” the fogged-up window froze before her eyes. The mist was now a delicate, icy web that arced across each pane and shone in the setting sun.
She was shocked and unable to logically process what she was seeing. Drew turned toward the stove where the cookies puffed in the heat and browned slightly but kept their silence. There was no one else in the house to offer an opinion on the matter.
The ice in the window glimmered with the reds and golds cast by the sunset outside.
The smell of fresh cookies came thick from the oven and was impossible to ignore. Drew wished she was curled up in her armchair with a warm cookie and cup of coffee instead of standing here creeped out by freezing touches and a wintery window. She turned just as the bowl of cookie dough jerked violently on the table.
For a moment, the bowl sat innocently still, the handle of the spoon peeking out from the rim as if to see what happened. Then, she watched as the bowl slid of its own accord lengthwise down the table and then dove upside-down onto the floor. The bowl gave a last feeble jerk smearing dough across the tile.
She stared in stunned silence at the metal bowl, casting fruitlessly for a rational explanation until a loud buzz startled the wits out of her. The oven timer was announcing that the cookies were done.
Drew pulled the cookie pan out and banged it down on the stove top. As she turned off the timer, she noticed that the ice had vanished.
The window was perfectly clear with no hint of fog or ice or anything unusual. The sun continued to set outside in silence.
The bowl of dough, however, remained overturned on the floor, but seemed more like an ordinary mess than evidence of a strange occurrence.
“Dammit!” she said, as pulled paper towels off the roll. As she bent down to pick up the bowl and spoon, she noticed the pantry door give a sudden shiver and heard a slow, gritty dragging sound from behind it.
LAST YEAR’S MAN
By Waylon Newell
I took my time selecting a pint of Kentucky Rose wine from the cooler of a Golden Pantry off North Avenue. I was, as the French say, down on my luck.
“That it?” the clerk begrudgingly offered, as I approached the register. I smiled and nodded, averting my eyes from hers. In doing so, my gaze fell on an Auto Trader magazine. A dumpy Mustang convertible was printed on the cover in low-grade yellow ink. I suddenly felt desperate for a car—something I could sleep in, somewhere to lock up my stuff, a place to pass out and wake up without being disoriented and hurried.
I walked out into the parking lot. A Volvo wagon pulled up and parked in an unusual spot by the edge of the building. The driver got out gingerly; he was just some college kid or knock-about, a waiter, maybe. He pocketed his keys without locking the driver-side door. I passed by the car and noticed a mound of clothing and debris in the backseat. I recalled a little pile of steel rebar behind the gas station. A plan coalesced in my head with haunting rapidity. I would hide on the backseat floorboard. When he got to were he was going, just as he was turning off the car, I would crack him in the head with the rebar and be halfway to Florida before he came to. If he came to.
I retrieved a short piece of the rebar, sneaked into the car and piled a veneer of his personal effects over my body. A few minutes later, he re-entered, holding two paper cups with plastic lids. He had a straw in one cup and was drinking from it.
After he cranked the engine, the car's stereo came alive. He had apparently stopped the car in the middle of a crescendo of some raucous, folksy jingle. But the next song started quietly, with a muted tinkling of acoustic guitar. Then the singer began; his voice was untrained, even a little frail. I can remember snatches here and there.
The rain falls down
On last year's man.
That's a Jew's harp on the table,
That's a crayon in his hand . . .
The song lulled into a kind-of choral humming. Suddenly, the driver gave a loud, long cackle that felt almost perverse in its shrillness and amplitude. He then went back into a seemingly embarrassed silence.
He rolled down his window and chunked out the soft drink. When he had raised the window, he began to speak in a calm, administrative tone,
“You are nothing to me. You're like bacon to me, raw bacon, a flaccid, oily piece of raw bacon.”
He hadn't turned, and he gave no acknowledgment of my presence. I could see the right side of his face, and there was no earpiece in that ear. He had a beard, which I found strange in that I hadn't noticed it when he first got in. In any case, I doubted this was a phone conversation, since there was no additional dialogue on his part, and I didn't think he would be listening to something else with the stereo so loud.
He took the second cup he had brought into the car and, somewhat comically, spiked it against the passenger-side seat. A noxious odor immediately permeated the car. It was gasoline; the thrown cup had been filled with it. I began to worry that all might not be right with this young man.
I felt the car gaining speed. We hit what seemed to be a ramp in the middle of the highway, and, for a moment, there was a blessed stillness in which the car revolved, swirling—the spare, evocative lyrics on the stereo within the growing pungency of the interior.
And the skylight is like skin
For a drum I'll never mend
And all the rain falls down, amen,
On the works
Of last year's man.
The car splattered off the road onto grass and kept moving. Tall weeds slapped the sideboards and tickled the car's underbelly. When we came to a halt, he sat for a moment, enjoying the remains of the song. In the dying chords, he lit a Zippo lighter and tossed it, still lit, onto the gas-imbibed seat.
Change of plans, I thought, and reached up for the door latch. In doing so I heard him say with sardonic mock suprise, “Oh! This little roach dutton wanna die!”
At this I turned and looked directly at him. Though the cabin was filling with smoke, I swear his beard had grown even more, nearly consuming his face. Though the whites of his eyes were white, his irises were golden and orange.
I jerked the car handle and lunged out the door, gasping. Having forgotten my rebar club, I ran into the tall woods bordering the highway. The understory was cluttered with privet and thorny smilax, but I kept moving. I heard him breathing heavily behind me, bounding over downed pines, and slogging through dirty creeks and drainages. I came to a railroad and heard a piercing whistle. I leapt across the track as the light and sound bore down on me like God's furious grace.
I ran and ran; I ran for weeks, for months. I ran until I found a straight job helping a stonemason in Dawsonville. I'm writing a little in my spare time. But he's still chasing me; I'll hear him crashing through the brush or shuffling between shadows cast by a low moon. I'll hear him whisper, “Where's my little roach?”
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