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OVER AND OVER by Tim Law Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. I feel the music, so loud it shakes my soul. You need to shout to be heard, and even then you’re lucky if the bar staff understand you. I come away with two plastic cups of something frozen. One is for me, and one for my girlfriend. The sweetness disguises the hint of alcohol while the icy particles give the illusion that it is not hotter inside compared to outside, the heat meddles with your brain. Then I see him again. The stranger who just does not belong. The sweat that drizzles down his brow has nothing to do with heat. He is nervous. He is purpose. He is going to destroy my world. “What are you looking at?” my girlfriend asks, her voice too loud as the song changes and there is a brief moment where her shout fills the void. I indicate the stranger, and she turns to look. That is when the world implodes. Flame, and dust, and chaos erupts as the stranger vanishes in a red mist. My girlfriend who stood between me and the man falls to the floor, skin bubbling. I can feel the warm wind; as if in slow-motion it drifts past me and around me. In an instant, I cop the same amount of sun as a day at the beach. And then the breeze becomes warmer and warmer, and then uncomfortably hot. My skin feels cool, and then excruciating as it peels away. I can see my bones. I feel exposed as my clothing and my skin are burned from me. My heart speeds up as the next song plays, and then the world becomes a blur, and people run through me. I wake up. The sound is familiar. That song again, the volume too loud. “Let’s go!” I beg my girlfriend. She shakes her head and smiles. “I don’t want to go... not yet!” she shouts back. “One more drink?” Reluctantly, I head to the bar, order two margaritas, and hand over what looks like the correct money, plus a tip. The two plastic cups chill my hands. I bring one to my lips and sample the contents. I taste nothing. “We need to go!” I urge. That’s when I see the stranger again. I know what is coming, but I cannot turn away. I cannot leave without my girlfriend. “What’s wrong?” she asks. The song stops. Chaos erupts. I lose her again. The song is so familiar. “I love this place!” my girlfriend shouts, barely audible above the boom of the base. “I love you!” I shout back. She smiles and then begins to sway. I am hypnotized by her beauty, I love this woman, completely and in all ways; body, mind, and soul. For a moment I am distracted, so I do not see the stranger enter with his brow knotted, equal parts nervousness and determination. The song stops though, and instinctively my girlfriend turns away from me to see what it is that has caught my attention. We should have left, but we didn’t. Thanks to that one last drink. I feel the music, then the blast, and finally, I feel the pain as the wind whips around me. Flesh dribbles from bones like a faucet without a washer. I seek the chill of the ice in the cups, but even that hurts, naked nerves take every sensation to the worst extreme. I no longer notice my girlfriend, her fate seems inevitable, just as mine is. All that I can do is seek relief from this agony. I search high and I search low, rummaging through dust and ash, and broken dreams. This was supposed to be a holiday, a way to celebrate. Why we chose to come and why we chose not to leave is anyone’s guess now. There are no answers, only echoes of thoughts from those who once existed here. That sound… That irritable, awkward sound… Is it my heart? Is it the voice of the one I used to love? Is it me? Am I screaming at the fury and frustration of it all? No… Of course, it is the song I am hearing… That fucking song that haunts me as I possess it… I possess this moment, this place, this day and time… This experience seems destined to loop around me, through me, about my being. Two souls entwined, never had I considered a place to have enough spirit to be sentient, and yet I can feel it now. And then I realize the truth… It is not the place that has a soul of which I am so joined with… It is the man. He smiles at me now as he steps into the club. We lock eyes. He knows me as I know him. Nothing else exists, just as, in mere moments nothing here will exist. Not as it once was, it will of course still be, just as I still will be. A mere shell of what we once were. Red mist, charred remains, broken, bent, soiled, and stained. Still, we are. Ashes to ashes… I step into the club and look about me. The place is full, full of statements, full of that which will… What? Support my cause? Win the war? No… There will be no winning here, not today, maybe not ever again. Still, I am compelled to do that which I have come to do. I take one cautious step, and then another. I count in my head as I explore the most potent place in the room… I am jostled, bumped, ignored… I will not be ignored forever though. In a moment I will be the centre of the world’s attention. In that single moment, we will all be one. I lock eyes with myself, and I can see the memory playing over and over… Nothing can change what I am about to do… Nothing can destroy my resolve… I feel the music, so loud it shakes my soul. I wait for the moment when the story ends. There in that silence, I find my courage. In that heartbeat of time, I make my choice. Nothing can destroy the spirit. Together forever, our fates are sealed. I hear the song… It is so familiar… It plays over and over in my mind… Until it, like us, finally fades away… 💀💀💀 Tim Law has loved to write from a very young age, but has only recently discovered the joy of being published. He is happily married to a wonderful girl, a proud father of three humans, and a reluctant father figure to four cats. He writes fantasy, science fiction, general, detective, humour, and a lot of weird stuff that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. He encourages everyone to give writing a go. Some of his stranger stories can be found here on the Kaidankai, but if you want to read more try his blog at https://somecallmetimmy.blogspot.com/?m=1
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Rise Up by C.S. Fuqua Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. Wynne shouted Bobby’s name. The guitar case in the backseat bounced against the ceiling, then back down. Undergrowth tore at the car, and a tree slammed into the passenger side. Airbags exploded. Time suspended. Bobby lifted his head off the steering wheel, groggy, confused, his right eye crusted shut. The deflated airbag slid slowly down the wheel. He raised a trembling, heavy hand and touched above his eye, damp and sticky. His head lolled back against the headrest as he tried to get his bearings. He swallowed hard and forced the crust to give way, his eye to open. His head throbbed, but he remembered the deer. He’d yanked the wheel, and everything slowed—the car shooting into the woods, limbs and brush slapping the sides, Wynne shouting his name. Wynne. He groaned and reached for her in the dash lights’ emerald glow. His fingers found her hair, then her shoulders, and he grasped and pulled her as close as he could, her head flopping hard against him. “Wynne...” He tried to brace her up, but he didn’t have the strength, and her body slumped to the side. He felt her neck for a pulse that wasn’t there. Bobby pushed open the door and struggled into the darkness, nearly fainting as he stumbled through the brush to the passenger side to find it curved inward against a massive oak. He clambered back around, falling twice in the thick growth. He crouched into the driver’s seat, reaching over to Wynne to shift her body so he could grip her under the arms to ease her out through the driver’s side. He braced, pulled, and collapsed. Darkness pressed in for several terrifying seconds before he regained full awareness. He held Wynne as close as possible, mumbling, “Don’t die, not now...” Bobby buried his face in her hair, the essence of Wynne’s muted fragrance engulfing him the same as it had that first day he’d met her at Sharps & Flats, the dilapidated music shop near the docks. She was new there, a point of pride for the old woman who ran the place, a strangely fascinating coot rumored to talk to her instruments. What was it the old woman had told him that day? Music’s a conduit, son. Some even believe it has power over life and death. Bobby checked again for a pulse. Nothing. With his strength gone, he prayed the old woman hadn’t played him for a fool. Breathlessly, he began to sing. **** Bobby spotted Sharps & Flats the first time the band played the derelict downtown performance center two blocks away. The band’s performance was the center’s last before being razed with neighboring bars and strip joints in the city’s effort to revitalize the area with upscale shops, nightclubs, and restaurants. The plan’s one exception had been the old music shop. Despite the building’s tired appearance, with boxes stacked before the small front window, each filled with sheet music dating back ten decades or more, the window always sporting the same beat-up Gibson rumored to have been played by Robert Johnson—despite all of that, or perhaps because of it, city bigwigs left the shop alone. It possessed a certain quaintness politicians hoped would attract other offbeat businesses to create a genuine bohemian section that could prove a boon to city coffers. Bobby soon became a regular at the shop, trying out instruments he could never hope to own. Two years after the performance center’s demolition and the band began playing the new upscale clubs downtown, Bobby met Wynne. She’d been with Sharps & Flats about a week. He’d needed a set of strings, but when he spotted her through the window behind the counter, he decided to try out a few of the mandolins as an excuse to stay longer. The old lady who owned the place had perched herself as usual in a chair on the sidewalk next to the old boxes of sheet music. No matter how much of that music sold, the boxes never emptied. She grinned as he approached, bracing herself with hands on her knees, dress dipping between her legs as she sat forward with one eye squinting up at him. “Heard y’all playing last night,” she said as Bobby came up. He shrugged. “Nice club, but I miss the old joints.” “They’ll be back,” she snorted. “People like what they like, and it all goes in cycles.” “So what’d you think?” The woman nodded appreciatively and leaned toward him, a probing seriousness playing in her eyes. “Just keep your head when the time comes.” Odd thing to say, Bobby thought, and he glanced away. “That newspaper reviewer sure did like you,” she said. Bobby laughed. “I saw that. ‘The band,’” he quoted in an affected tone of superiority, “’approaches the performance and history of bluegrass music with creative sensitivity not evident since the New Grass Revival.’” He chuckled again. “I especially like how he said we blend genres into something ‘ancient, spiritual, and new.’ How it can be ancient and new at the same time beats me, but at least he liked us.” “And that’s what counts.” The old lady straightened somewhat, her gaze going to something in the distance. “Where I come from, music’s got a lot of power. Folks—well, they don’t talk about it much, but some possess a special quality that sets them above others. Like you.” Bobby shook his head. “We’re just lucky.” “I ain’t talking about the band, and I ain’t talking about just musical ability.” The lines on her face deepened as her gaze came back to him. “Power’s power, son. I come from the Appalachians. Back home, folks recognize what’s special, and we’ve used it ever since our ancestors came from Scotland and Ireland and married in with the Tslagi Indians.” Bobby smiled, but the old woman fixed him with her glare. “Don’t pretend, boy. You’ve felt what I’m talking about. Music can lift up, drag down, inspire, destroy.” She swept her hand around. “Spirit runs through everything. You learn to channel that spirit, you can do wonders. Music’s a conduit, son. Some say it’s even got power over life and death.” Bobby shifted and smiled uncomfortably. The old woman gave a mildly admonishing shake of her head. “You’ll understand soon enough.” Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. Then she grinned, and the mood lightened. She nodded toward the door. “You ain’t here for an old woman’s talk. I got a new helper inside. She can take care of you.” She sat heavily back, fanning herself in the growing humidity and heat with the bottom of her long, billowy blouse. “Well, then...” Bobby took a step up but misconnected on the stair’s edge and stumbled in, setting the old woman to chuckling as his face flushed embarrassment. Beneath the damp, musty pungency of age, Bobby detected the subtle aroma of something comforting and eternal—perhaps the odor of wood instruments, the smell of perfection. Mandolins, banjos, and guitars lined the walls, interspersed with more exotic instruments such as ouds, shamisens, a saz, and even a lyre guitar. A couple of Taylors, Martins, Gibsons, and Gallaghers were there, but other instruments, as impeccably crafted or better than the best of the big names, bore no brand at all. Bobby started toward the back, circling around the huge middle rack that crowded most of the narrow room’s space. A young woman straightened behind a small counter between him and the back wall that bore the most immaculate stringed instruments he’d ever seen. Their wood looked almost alive—he knew no other way to describe it—and Bobby sensed the wall resonating just beyond hearing range. The young woman placed her hands on top of the case, her left hand clutching a dust cloth. “May I help you?” She was no beauty queen, but dimples punctuated a compassionate smile while downy chestnut hair framed dark, mysterious eyes that beckoned Bobby into a place where he knew he could lose himself. She stood about as tall as Bobby, a sturdy frame that exuded a certain calm strength. He wanted strings, but he muttered something about looking for a new mandolin. “In a band?” “Pensacola,” he said, and he noted the spark of recognition in her eyes. “I thought you looked familiar. I saw you a few months back,” she said. “You guys are good.” “We do okay, I guess. You play an instrument?” he asked, but, before she could answer, other questions tumbled out even to his surprise. “You sing? What’s your name? Perform? Want to have dinner sometime?” He stopped suddenly, his face warming as she grinned. “Name’s Wynne, and yes.” Bobby’s brow narrowed. “’Yes’ to...?” “The first, third, and last questions.” She chuckled. “I sing and sort of play guitar, but mostly sing. I haven’t been in a band yet. And I’d love to have dinner.” Two weeks later, Wynne Seaver assumed management of Bobby’s band and started singing backup. The following week, she worked her last day at Sharps & Flats and moved in with Bobby. **** Bobby stopped in at Sharps & Flats on Wynne’s final day, and the old woman waddled back to the counter where he was looking over the instruments on the wall. “Beautiful, ain’t they?” Bobby nodded. “What brand?” Pride softened the age lines that wrinkled the woman’s face. “Brand don’t matter.” She selected the same teardrop mandolin he’d played the day he met Wynne. The headstock had a small blemish, perhaps a burn from some careless player’s cigarette pinched between the wood and strings, but Bobby was struck by the lightness and feel of the instrument. He strummed a few times, and then began to pick his own tune, “Mandostophales,” notes ringing with such sustain and clarity that he held his breath. Abruptly, he stopped and handed the instrument back to the old woman, shaking his head. “I can’t afford this, so I’d best stop.” He glanced around, catching a glimpse from Wynne who was helping another customer with a guitar. The old lady placed the mandolin carefully back on its hanger. “Ain’t it funny?” she said, huffing slightly from the effort. She turned back to him and braced herself on the counter. “Happy tunes like that one you just played can lift people out of the deepest holes. Sad ones can send them crashing to the bottom.” She leaned toward him, nodding slightly. “Like I told you, music’s got power. The right words, melody, sincerity...” She nodded again and waddled off to the other end of the counter. “Let me know if you want to try another one.” Bobby sensed Wynne’s closeness before her hand touched his shoulder. Her eyes, deep and resonant, flashed between Bobby and the old woman. “You gonna buy it?” “It’s a fine mandolin,” he admitted, “but cash is definitely a problem.” He stepped away from the counter, calling “thanks” to the old woman. He kissed Wynne on the cheek. “I’ll pick you up later,” he said and started out, a vague uneasiness gnawing. **** Wynne and Bobby endured good-natured jibing from the other band members as their dependence on and attraction to one another grew, cultivating a deep, enduring understanding, an ability to anticipate and act without words. Under Wynne’s management, the band’s reputation grew as one of the hardest working groups on the circuit, delivering a unique sound bound for national recognition. Even Bobby began to believe the band would break out. By the time Pensacola played Baton Rouge, a loyal fan base had begun promoting them as much as they promoted themselves. Wynne had invited a Sugar Hill Records producer to attend, and Bobby hoped the crowd’s boisterous cheering would help secure a record deal. Bobby lost himself in the music that night, and he began to feel the power the Sharps & Flats woman had talked about. The final set ended after the crowd called the band back for two encores. Nearly two hundred of the band’s self-produced CDs sold that night—not bad for a bar venue where music usually competed with patrons shouting their intentions to their dates. As applause died and the crowd turned to canned music and negotiations for evening company, the band’s members gathered expectantly around Wynne. She shrugged. “He couldn’t make it.” “So why are you smiling?” Kyle, the guitarist, his voice thick with disappointment, dug in his pocket for a cigarette lighter. “He couldn’t make it, but he called,” Wynne said, tapping her cell phone with her forefinger. “He’s flying in early tomorrow to meet with us, which means we have to load up and drive back tonight.” Kyle groaned. “Long drive.” “For a record contract, it’s worth a little lost sleep. Bobby and I can drive back tonight. We should get home around two or three in the morning. We can meet with him first thing tomorrow to go over business aspects, and, if you guys would rather drive back in the morning, we can play for him tomorrow night.” “Sounds good to me,” Kyle said. “It’ll take a couple of hours to pack up anyway.” Frank and Richard agreed, and they told Wynne and Bobby to head out, that they’d take care of the equipment. Shortly after ten, city lights faded behind them as Bobby eased down on the gas once on the interstate. Wynne placed her can of root beer in the cup holder next to the gearshift between the seats and slipped off the seatbelt. She drew her feet into the seat, curled her legs under her, and nuzzled close to Bobby. He put his arm around her and didn’t take it away until shortly after one a.m. when he directed the car down the exit toward town and home. Still well north of the city, a mesmerizing tangle of limbs and leaves flashed past in the edge of the headlights’ beam. His eyes began to close. He nodded, startling himself, and jerked the wheel slightly. He drew a deep breath and shook his head violently to fight the drowsiness. Wynne sighed and cuddled against the door, head resting on the glass. Bobby shifted in the seat, and his knee knocked the open drink. He grabbed for the can as it fell, his foot going down hard on the pedal as a deer bounded into the road. Bobby yanked the wheel hard to the right and hit the brakes. The car careened, and the tires hit the soft shoulder, fishtailing into the woods and slamming sideways into a tree. **** “Don’t die...” Bobby checked Wynne’s neck for a pulse and then rummaged frantically through the car, finally locating his cell phone in the floorboard, crushed. He struggled again to get her out, but fell back as blackness rushed in, threatening unconsciousness. His throat swelled with emotion. He buried his face in her hair as the Sharps & Flats woman began to murmur softly in memory. Voices argued in his mind, one deriding the notion, the other insisting he had nothing to lose. What did it matter? If it didn’t work, he’d lose nothing more, but if it did work... Softly at first, words emerged in a shaky tenor. “Rise up,” his voice quavered. “Rise up, my lovely darling. “The powers must hear this cannot be.” With each word, his voice and the tune gained strength, settling into a compelling pattern and positive melody. “Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling. “Give her back, restore her soul to me. “Life is short even when it’s long. “I cannot accept this wrong. “Deals I’ll make and spells I’ll chant to bring her soul back home. “Love is the music, the music in our hearts. “Rise up, rise up, my darling’s soul. “Love is the key, the key in our hearts. “Hear me, powers, let her go. Let her go. “Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling. “The powers must hear this cannot be. “Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling. “Give her back, restore her soul to me.” His voice faded in the snap and pop of metal cooling and the chant of forest insects. He wept into her hair, grasping at her, trying to draw her even closer, only to stop in an abrupt gasp. Wynne shivered and moaned softly. She raised her head, eyes cloudy. “It’s okay...” Bobby’s chest pounded. “We had an accident.” The old woman... He shook his head in denial of the thought. I missed the pulse. That’s all. His fingers traced Wynne’s cheek, bruised and pallid in the dim light, and for the first time, he noticed blood on his hand from a long, shallow cut that ran from elbow to wrist. “We need to get to a hospital.” “No.” She shook her head slowly and sighed, “Home.” “Wynne...” “Home.” Bobby turned the ignition key, and the engine kicked over once, twice, caught. He shifted into reverse, and the metal on the passenger’s side protested as it pulled away from the tree. The car made it home, and he parked in the backyard where it would be out of sight and question, at least for now. Bobby’s head throbbed as he forced Wynne’s door open and helped her out. He slammed the door shut as Wynne leaned against him for support he could barely give. They walked stiffly, as though each step had to be planned. Inside the house, he helped Wynne remove her jeans and blood-streaked blouse due to a cut on her neck that had crusted over. Her skin shone milky in the cold bathroom light, and faint bruises dotted her arms and back, but what worried Bobby were her lower legs and feet. They appeared pale purple and swollen. “We need to see a doctor.” “Tomorrow,” Wynne said in her raspy voice. She stepped into the shower, and steam boiled up around her as she clutched her arms tightly across her breasts, shoulders rounded, bloody water cascading off her body, swirling down the drain. Her lips had turned a deep shade of blue in a gray face by the time she stepped from the shower into the towel that Bobby wrapped around her. He dried her carefully, worried about the depth of the gash on her neck, although stumped as to why it wasn’t bleeding. He helped her to bed. “Wynne,” he began. “Just let me rest.” She closed her eyes and rolled away, drawing the covers up. Bobby returned to the bathroom and stripped, leaving his bloody clothes in a pile. He braced himself against the sink and stared into the mirror. His skin glowed like fresh strawberries compared to Wynne’s. He showered quickly and dried, feeling somewhat revived by the steamy bath. The vertigo had lightened, but he was convinced that they both should see a doctor. He glanced at the clock near the medicine cabinet. Already three a.m. He remembered the producer, but the record company would simply have to wait. He and Wynne needed medical attention. Resolved, Bobby pulled on clean briefs and came out of the bathroom to find Wynne sitting against the headboard, covers clutched around her. Bobby settled on the bed, and Wynne moved into his embrace. The covers cascaded to the mattress. His hand appeared blazingly pink against the pale violet of her skin. Wherever he touched her, he left marks, as though he’d pressed the blood into other areas. “My fingers are stiff.” Wynne’s words slurred slightly. “The cuts don’t bleed. There’s no pain. Bobby,” she whispered, “I’m scared.” Bobby moved around for a better look and found Wynne’s eyes half-open, her face clenching. “When we went off the road,” she said, “things went black. And then I was floating...” She closed her eyes and her head tilted slightly back. “Something’s wrong, Bobby. Something terrible.” Bobby held her for several long moments and then eased her down in bed. He drew the blanket up around her and rose to dress, but Wynne caught his hand, and he grimaced as pain shot through the cut on his arm. “Look at me.” Bobby met her pleading eyes, and he saw the milky fog of death seeping in. “I’ll get you to a hospital.” “It’s too late,” Wynne murmured. She looked up, her face drawn and wan. “Look at my body, the cuts, my skin. I’m...” She struggled for the specific word, but what she tried to say would not come. “What happened? What have you done, Bobby--what?” He settled back on the bedside, his head hanging. His voice quavered. “You weren’t breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse, couldn’t get you out.” He avoided her eyes, but that didn’t allow him to avoid the truth. What could—what should he tell her? That the Sharps & Flats woman’s mountain magic had pulled Wynne’s soul back into a dead body? “I shouldn’t be here,” Wynne whispered. “Why did you...?” The words slurred unintelligibly, and her arms drew awkwardly inward. “Bobby...” Bobby rose and dressed quickly. Wynne stretched her neck back and struggled to extend her arms. She gazed up through fogged eyes. “Dead...and alive.” Bobby detected sad amusement in her voice. She rolled her head around, stretching the neck muscles, then lay still to stare at the ceiling. Deep sorrow and guilt threatened to suffocate Bobby for what he’d done to Wynne. “I’m going to the old woman.” Wynne reached toward him, the effort showing in her face. “Take me with you.” Bobby trembled with possibility. How could the witch refuse him with Wynne at his side? With his strength returning by degree, he lifted Wynne into his aching arms with a grunt and carried her to the car to lay her in the backseat, her body gradually contracting in on itself. Winded, Bobby slid in behind the wheel and started the engine, his mind centered on the Sharps & Flats woman. **** With a final shake, the engine went silent. Music wafted through the streets from the upscale bottle clubs. These places afforded the band occasional work, but the jukes they’d replaced had provided steady gigs without the wannabe pretenders to whom the new clubs catered. What irritated Bobby most were the ones who believed that mere conversation about music with a musician qualified them as artists. Wynne moaned, and Bobby twisted around in the seat. Her eyes had become increasingly glazed, the pupils milky and cold. “Where...?” she managed. “Lie still. I’ll be right back.” Bobby opened the door and crossed the sidewalk, raising a fist to bang on the Sharps & Flats door, but the knob turned before the first knock, and the ancient door opened on rusty hinges. The squat old woman stepped into the dark doorway, a soft whisper of music emanating from within the store. “I need help,” Bobby said breathlessly. The old woman’s mouth puckered in consideration, and she nodded toward the car. “You believe what I told you now.” She sighed heavily. “Make her right,” Bobby pleaded. The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t undo what I didn’t do.” Bobby’s shoulders sank under the weight of desperation. “Then tell me how I can.” The old woman stepped down from the doorway and, with a gentle hand, turned him back toward his car. He felt a vague tingle where her fingers touched, a cold fire igniting the molecules. “You called only her soul back...” Bobby’s thoughts reeled, and he realized the song never mentioned the restoration of life to Wynne’s body. “I’ll do it now. I’ll sing for—” “What’s done’s done,” the old woman said. “Her body’s dead.” Bobby trembled before the woman, his head shaking in denial of the obvious. “I didn’t know...” “Ignorance don’t make it right, son,” the old woman said. “Give it thought this time, and the words will come. Do what you have to do for her.” The old woman turned and, with a soft grunt, stepped back into the store. She closed the door, giving it a good shove to lock it in place. The light inside winked out, leaving Bobby drenched in the amber glow of streetlamps. A car lurched out of its parking space down the street and revved past a few seconds later, the driver leering out the window at him, all eyes and teeth, gleaming in a wretched grin. As the car accelerated away, Bobby glanced skyward, wishing for an alternative he knew did not exist. The paleness of the eastern sky hinted the coming new day. Bobby opened the backdoor and lay down in the seat with Wynne, molding himself to her. “Where are we?” Her words were barely audible, strained and raspy. Bobby’s caress tightened, his eyes clouding. He held her for several long moments, delaying what he knew he had to do, the coldness of her skin emphasizing the inevitable. Finally, he drew a breath against the tightening in his throat, and began to sing, his voice fractured and trembling, the tune mournful and filled with regret. “I could not take the sudden loss “and called you back home. “The powers that guide sent back your soul “but failed to make you whole. “Someday my time must come to an end “when our story’s told. “Perhaps we’ll both understand “and then join souls. “When the body is only a hollow shell “and time here should be gone, “we can’t trust dreams or wishing wells. “Our love’s soul must go on, go on. “Lie down, lie down. Rest your soul. “Lie down, lie down, my love. Be whole. “Be whole.” As he sang, Wynne’s milky eyes closed, and she whispered something, but he could not make it out. He tried to convince himself that she whispered her love for him, but she could have been damning him for all he knew. As the words passed her lips, the Sharps & Flats interior ignited in a single, brilliant pulse of light, then went dark once again. Bobby’s voice fell to silence as Wynne lay dead in his arms for the second time that night. As he held her with his face buried in her hair, several cars passed, their drivers leaving the bottle clubs that were closing despite the night’s hopeless struggle to survive the coming dawn. Bobby drew a deep, steadying breath and slipped his arm out from under Wynne’s body. He got out of the car and straightened slowly, his eyes still on Wynne, now a bizarre illusion of calm even as her muscles continued to tighten and contract. Abruptly, he circled around the car and pried open the passenger door. He came back around, lifted Wynne’s body out, and returned to the passenger side to place her in the seat. He slammed the battered door closed twice before it locked. He got in behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove slowly away. City lights vanished vanished in the rearview mirror. Bobby settled back, arms aching, hands clutching the wheel as his foot pressed the accelerator down until it rested against the floor. Sign markers and trees flickered past in the headlights’ margin. A sign warned of a sharp curve ahead. In Bobby’s mind, a drink spilled and the terrified eyes of a deer appeared in the road. He yanked the wheel, and woods rushed in. **** Bobby’s chest rose, fell, rose, fell. With each forced breath, each beat of his heart, wretched, dull pain bled into Bobby’s consciousness—his arms, then his shoulders and head, chest, legs. He tried to swallow, but realized something was in his mouth and down his throat. Air rushed in, flowed out. Sadness saturated his mind with realization he was still alive. His eyes fluttered, and the lids pulled apart. At first, he saw nothing but vague shapes in a mist of bright light. “Hey, buddy.” One of the shapes moved closer. Kyle. “Not sure if you’re with us yet, but, if you can understand, you had a wreck. You’re gonna be okay.” The anxious words broke off. The image shifted. “Someone’s here to see you, bud, so I’ll talk to you later.” A shuffling of feet blended with the medical equipment’s rhythmic cacophony, and a new image entered Bobby’s vague field of view. Round and dark, the image began to sharpen as it drew close—the face of the Sharps & Flats woman. She nodded appreciatively, her mouth neither smile nor frown. “Come by the store when you’re better,” the old woman said. “Do you understand? Come by the store.” Bobby blinked. Then came a sudden bustle of activity around him, and the old woman drew away as medical technicians probed and examined. Within moments, they’d removed the tube from his throat and replaced it with a plastic cannula blowing cold oxygen into his nostrils, and he once again breathed on his own. The last nurse in the room raised the head of his bed to a thirty-degree angle and smiled. “Glad you’re back.” Bobby closed his eyes. *** Insurance restrictions on hospitalization sent Bobby home as soon as he could lift himself from bed, even though his doctor argued that Bobby was in no condition to be discharged. Bobby wobbled out under his own power, refusing a wheelchair, instead using two canes for support. Kyle had come to drive him home, but Bobby told him he wanted to visit Wynne’s grave, that he would go alone by taxi to the cemetery. “You got a phone?” Kyle asked him. Bobby shook his head no, remembering that it had been destroyed in the first crash. Kyle slipped his phone into Bobby’s front pocket. “Call me at home if you need anything.” Twenty minutes later, Bobby stood beside the lane where the cab dropped him, his gaze locating a mound of fresh earth about forty yards in. His arms throbbed as he started for the grave, each step a struggle. His strength ebbed as he reached the settling mound, and he lowered himself to the ground, laying the canes aside, his jeans soaking in the ground’s dampness. Memories of the last few months cascaded in at once, only to end with him staring blankly at the simple headstone that bore Wynne’s name. Bobby didn’t know how long he’d been there when he finally used the canes to lift himself back to his feet, the effort tearing at the stitches in his arm. With Kyle’s phone, he called for a cab that arrived a few minutes after he emerged in the lane from the rows of graves. The taxi drove him to the Sharps & Flats music store where Bobby asked the driver to wait. He got out and hobbled up the three stairs with difficulty, arriving in the doorway to find the old woman waiting behind the side counter. He stood there for several long moments, saying nothing, simply returning her gaze. Finally, the old woman nodded. “You’re right.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “It’s unusual for men, but it happens. Bobby Hayes, you’re special. Back where I come from, people’d seek you out. And in time...” She drew a deep breath. “In time, you’d accept. But, for now, you have to be careful.” “Of what...?” He made no attempt to mask his anger and resentment. “Putting souls into dead bodies?” “Music’s got power,” the old woman said. “You didn’t now how tto use it with the first song, but you learned. I think you understand now. And Wynne’ll never be far from you as long as you have those songs.” The old woman bent low behind the counter and fussed with something. Faint music resonated through the room, as though ghostly fingers had breached the barriers to pluck the strings of those special instruments lining the store’s back wall. The old woman straightened and set a small case on the countertop. She popped the clasps and opened it to reveal the beautiful teardrop mandolin that Bobby had played the day he met Wynne. It wasn’t ornately decorated or inlayed, but the impeccable craftsmanship was irrefutable. “Wynne was paying on this for you.” The woman withdrew the instrument from its case, and Bobby’s arms threatened to collapse. He swayed on the canes. “Sit down,” she said. Bobby negotiated his way to a stool near the doorway and lowered himself as she came around the counter with the mandolin. He lay the canes aside and took the instrument as gently as he would a newborn. The wood felt inexplicably different from the first time he’d played the mandolin, something he couldn’t quite describe, a sensation akin to touching flesh--a trick of the mind. His fingers began to work, coaxing from the strings the melody of the song that sent Wynne’s soul onward. His eyes closed, and the image of Wynne rose in his mind. The air around him softened, and her scent wafted over him. He stopped, and the illusion vanished. Bobby handed the instrument back to the old woman. He struggled up, bracing with his canes, as the woman placed the mandolin back into its case. They did not speak again as she followed him out of the store and set the case beside him on the taxi seat. The old woman closed the door and backed a step onto the sidewalk. Bobby opened the mandolin case and took the instrument into his hands. The cab pulled slowly away. Bobby closed his eyes and played, summoning Wynne’s presence, consuming and eternal. 💀💀💀 C.S. Fuqua’s books include Fatherhood ~ Poems of Parenthood, Walking After Midnight ~ Collected Stories, Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, Native American Flute ~ A Comprehensive Guide, and White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems. His work has appeared in publications such as Year's Best Horror Stories XIX, XX and XXI, Pudding, The Horror Show, Pearl, Chiron Review, Christian Science Monitor, The Old Farmer's Almanac, The Writer, and Honolulu Magazine. BY TONY DEL DEGAN Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.
“Daddy?” A cart was pushed across the linoleum. “Daddy, we all love you okay? Me and Liza and mum–and you’re gonna see her really soon.” There was another woman beside her. Pajamas under a black peacoat. Her hair was disheveled and her mascara had run and ran again. A ball of wet tissues spun amidst her restless fingers. “I love you, Dad,” she added. The nurse approached the bedside. In his hand was a needle. “Hold on, please.” He stopped–adjusted his latex gloves. “When you’re ready. Tell me. No rush.” The two women looked back at the lying husk–the face half-hidden behind a plastic mask. A tube carried air. They could hear it in the quiet. And beeping. Car horns outside, and sirens. Footsteps in the hall. Fluorescents cast light through the doorway. They were watching too. One of the women–Liza, in the pajamas–reached out to touch the wrinkled forehead, right above the ventilator mask. “Daddy.” Someone in the corridor walked past the door, shouting. The nurse left the man's bedside, walked to the door and grabbed the metal knob. He pushed gently–cut off some of the light, and a lot of the noise. Dust flew into his eye; he rubbed at it and blinked. The motion squeezed the plunger some. Morphine ran down his glove. “Shit.” “Thank you for being there. For us, and my kids. Your grandkids. They love you too.” The woman brushed hair off the man’s forehead. “They couldn’t be here… they were scared. I… I didn’t want them to see you like this. But I want you to know that they care. Mike, too. He’s watching them at home, but he was cry-” “-Lily!” The woman in pajamas–her stare was empty. “He knows, okay? Why would he think… He doesn’t.” “I’m just saying, alright! … It’s important to me that it’s clear.” Reebok sneakers squeaked. The nurse went back to his rolling tray. He looked down at the needle’s glass body–the metal spear. Thinner than a hair in the half-light. He tapped the plunger. Dew formed on the tip. “You won’t be in any more pain, alright, Daddy?” She wept. “I know you’re tired. You can sleep, okay? Just go to sleep.” “Go to sleep, Dad. I love you.” She dabbed her eyes with the wet mess of tissue. He sat down on a stool, rolled over. “You’re ready?” The women nodded–wouldn’t look at him. “You’re sure?” Silence. His latex fingers pulled the skin taught. The needle broke through, slid into flesh. He depressed the plunger with his thumb. He could almost feel the morphine shooting out the buried tip, flowing into the vein, mixing with the blood. “Alright, Mister Tennon. Time to rest.” Snap! Red plastic. A faded label: ON/OFF. The ventilator went quiet. No more air in the tube. He reached down to pull the mask off, kept his forearm hovering above the patient’s open mouth. Nothing. The nose. Nothing. “He must’ve gone minutes ago. I can still feel some warmth.” He touched his arm to flesh. “No breath.” The women were quiet, sobbing shadows. He looked at the older one–Lily. “It’s done now.” “He passed when we told him it was time,” she said. “When I told him to sleep.” “Yes, I think so. It’s possible.” He set the empty needle down. “I’m sure he heard everything you said.” He glanced at the man’s eyes. Empty. Nothing. # “Andy!” The nurse stopped, turned around. “Doctor?” His white coat was flapping–leather heels snapped against the floor. The doctor slowed, came to a stop. He spoke through heavy breath. “Room three-o’-seven. Got another one for you.” Andy, the nurse, said: “Uh.. my shift’s over. Can Melissa?” “No, your shift is not over, and no, Melissa is busy.” “It’s… six-thirty.” “It’s six-twenty.” Silence. A smack on his shoulder. “Come on, bud. Earn that paycheque. People are crying and people are dying. Not gonna leave ‘em like that.” He fished a pen out of his white coat. “I’ve got an achilles in twenty minutes. Gonna shit and grab a coffee so I don’t fall asleep.” He left. Andy turned, forced open the swinging bathroom door. It reeked of urinal cake and sewage. He went over to the sink. Water dribbled out of the faucet. Calcium had grown from out of the spout–in the ridges of the metal drain cover. He turned the knob. The dribble stopped. One of the janitors had decapitated the soap dispenser. Its clear plastic head lay below on the ledge of the sink. Congealed, pink gunk was splattered down the wall; the nozzle was encrusted with it. Humming. From one of the stalls. The nurse looked in the mirror, saw the closed door. “I keep drinking malted milk, tryna’ drive my blues away.” Something in the voice made his chest seize. He turned the knob. Water squeezed out onto the porcelain. It swirled around, and around, then filtered into the drain. “Malted milk, malted milk, keeps rushin' to my head.” He shut it off. “You’ve got a nice voice. Who’s in there?” “And I have a funny, funny feeling, and I'm talkin' all out of my- …Well thank you, son. I’m not a singer.” The nurse talked into the mirror–to the reflection of the stall. “I’d say you are.” “Mighty kind. I’m just here to do my business.” A pause. “Is that Leroy in there?” “No, no. This ain’t Leroy. I’m not from here, you see?” “Where, then?” “Oh, that’s alright. What are you doing in the shitter, son? Tell me. Standing at the sink like that.” The nurse shifted his gaze. He faced down his reflection. “I, uh… I guess I’m just freshening up.” “For what?” “I’ve gotta pull the plug on someone.” A sound from the stall, reverberated on the tiles: a groan. “That’s your job here?” “I’m a nurse, but we have to do it when we’re called on.” Silence. “Baby, fix me one more drink, and hug your daddy one more time.” The nurse frowned. “You, uh… Visiting someone?” “Yessir, I am.” “Who?” “A very sick man.” Silence. “Keep on stirring my malted milk mama, until I change my mind.” The metal of the knob was cold. He turned it. Stream of water. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded tissue. A pill rolled out into his palm, shaped like a baseplate from a pitch. A large “A” was molded on one side. He opened his mouth, felt the hard pill on his tongue. The water filled his cupped hands, then washed the little thing down. “My door knob keeps on turning, must be spooks around my bed.” He lifted his hand, looked at its reflection. It shook. “What’s the time, son?” The voice crept out from the melody. “Oh, uh… I guess it’s…” He checked his watch, his reflected eye stared back above the clicking hands. “Six-forty-five.” A sigh. He shut off the water. “I’ve gotta get this over with if I wanna go home. Nice talking to you.” “I have a warm, old feeling, and the hair rising on my head.” A pause… that turned into dead silence. Andy had his hand on the door. He took it off, crouched down. Slowly. He saw clear through under every stall–saw every trunk of every toilet planted in the tile. But no shoes. No legs. The door swung open and he slipped out, letting it go behind him. # He shook the outstretched hand. “Andy Kemper.” “Pleasure. Sit down.” The chair was thinly cushioned. He straightened his jacket. “I’m Doctor Ellis. Gary Ellis, alright? You came highly recommended. Went to UVA, School of Nursing… I know some of the professors there.” “Oh, fantastic. Do you know Harry?” “Yeah, Harry Santiago. I know him. Know Karen Singh… Osian Molina did some talks there, I know him too.” Andy’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow. Okay.” “Yeah. I could get you a job at his place up in Roanoke someday.” His eyes lifted. “If you do well here.” Silence. “Tell me about yourself.” Andy reached for his tie knot. It was straight, but he fiddled anyway. “I was born in Richmond, moved up to Charlottesville for school… I’ve always wanted to get into medicine and nursing. Helping people is… my mother always instilled that in me. A desire to protect life. I really love my mother, you know… A lot. She’s my rock.” “What is she? What does she do?” “Oh, she’s a cardiologist.” A pen started scribbling. “Oh, okay.” A pause. “Your father?” “He left when I was ten.” Scribbling. “Sorry.” “No, it’s okay. He was a deadbeat.” A frown. “How were your grades?” “Uh, very good. Yeah, very good. Top of the class.” “A’s, B’s?” “Mostly A’s.” He looked around the room. Three degrees were hung behind the desk, above the doctor’s head. Traffic shuffled along below behind aluminum blinds. The room smelled of antiseptic and printer ink. “So HR brought you on here, I’m just going over their notes to me.” His blue eyes walked the printed type. “What do you hope you can learn here? What do you… what’s your plan for the future?” Andy fiddled with a button on his jacket. His foot was tapping the floor. “Just… absorb everything I possibly can, I guess… Um.” –the doctor’s eyes snapped up– “Make new professional connections, work in the field… just start somewhere. That’s what mum told me.” The HR paper returned to the desk. “At your age, that’s really all you can do, isn’t it?” Andy blinked. “We deal with a lot of brutality here. I’m sure you expected that?” “Of course.” “As we speak, someone is now dead.” He paused. “And now. And now. Three families are crying somewhere in this building. Three nurses are standing in three rooms, each with a corpse and maybe an inconsolable child–a son, or daughter. A wife or a husband. School can teach you about which tube goes where and what artery plugs into what organ, but you can’t teach a kid how to keep his soul from slowly crumbling away. We’re like soldiers, alright? A nurse can get attached to their patients. Some become friends. One day you walk into that room and your friend might have gone in the night. What then?” “I…” “The body is taken away, the sheets are replaced, and the next patient gets tucked in. Now you’re giving apple juice and pudding to a completely different guy.” The pen started again. Then stopped. “Sometimes you pull the plug yourself. Doctor gives the order, and the nurse executes. In some cases, the family might not want you to do it. Sometimes they do. When they don’t, it makes everything worse for everyone involved, alright?” “I understand.” “No you don’t. Not yet, you don’t.” He shuffled papers around on his desk. “I just need to know if you’re ready to learn. Fast, and unpleasantly.” Andy rubbed his hands together. His palms were sweating. “I… Yes, Doctor.” “Ha! You’ve got that bit right already.” # The door was half open. He pushed. The lights were on inside, illuminating three people who turned in unison to face him. There was nothing friendly in their eyes. “Hi.” He pulled the door half-closed. “I’m Andy Kemper.” Silence. The man went first. “Bill.” He spoke his own name like he was cursing. “Angela. Lorraine.” His eyes tracked the nurse as he gathered his equipment. “You’re the one who’s gonna take our baby away.” The nurse looked over his shoulder. A web of clear tubes had been stuck into the infant like it was a pincushion. It looked malnourished–frail. One of the women clutched its tiny hand, and it must have been the mother. “Doctor Ellis did his examination, I was told. He do-” “-He left half an hour ago. We’ve had to sit here with our baby breathing through a straw for half a fucking hour before you showed up.” “I’m sorry.” A scoff. “Fucking sorry, he says.” They all went quiet. Andy pulled a clean syringe and found the morphine. The needle sucked at it–thirsty. A flick. He tested the plunger. Liquid glass trickled down his glove. Now he gathered everything, set it all on the rolling tray–brought it over to the bed. “Don’t you fucking touch my boy.” “Lorraine!” “He’s gonna kill him, Bill!” “Shut up, woman! Shut up! He’s gone, alright!” She started to cry. The other woman embraced her. “I… I’ll wait until you’re ready.” The man looked up. He was heavyset, with a baseball cap. Buccaneers. “What? Really? How can we be ready?” “I…” “Do you have kids, boy?” “No, sir.” “What are you, nineteen?” “Twenty-seven.” “Well, one day you’ll grow up and understand.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index. “You don’t give a shit what you’re doing, huh? You fucking robots come in here every couple hours and poke buttons and change tubes, then when someone needs to die, you pump ‘em full and pull the plug. Take the body out and put another one in.” “That’s not fair, sir.” “You know what’s not fair?” He didn’t finish. “I’m sorry.” “I’ll take a sorry from God. I don’t care what you feel like.” The second woman was glaring. When he met her gaze, she seemed to snarl. “What do they pay you? Huh?” “I… not a lot, ma’am.” “Well that’s already too much.” Silence. It seemed like hours. He looked at the clock. Seven-thirty-five. “I need to do this.” They didn’t answer. He took a step. “NO!” “LORRAINE! SHUT IT!” The woman started to rock back and forth. “Not my baby. Not my baby. Not my baby.” Andy looked down at the child. There was nothing in its expression. The eyes were closed–its breathing was hoarse. He took hold of the arm, pulled the skin taught. The woman wailed and fell out of her chair. The needle broke the skin, slid into the muscle. He could feel the liquid pulsing as it left the tip, finding its way into the bloodstream. They’d put a ventilator on the kid, too. He gently pried the mask off. When he felt for breath with his forearm, he sensed it on his arm hair. It was fading. The eyes… empty already. Nothing. He stood, put the needle in its disposal bin, and turned to the man. He’d hoped he would turn and face him, but he didn’t. “He’ll be gone soon. Someone will come check on you, or you can let the receptionist know when you leave.” Silence. He left to the sound of sobbing. # “It’s been theorized that the human mind is conscious for a time after death. Something about neurons firing still, or some kind of activity appearing in scans once a person has passed…” “Yes, well that’s not been proven yet. Some colleagues of mine a few years ago were toying around with… I think it was a rat’s brain. At risk of sounding graphic, they decapitated the poor thing, and had all sorts of sensors attached to its head. Supposedly, and I emphasize that strongly, they picked up activity for–I believe it was three minutes. Nothing remotely relating to conscious thought, and in any case, it was indeed a rat and not a man.” “I also heard of something involving a dog head, or a cat head, or-” “-Oh, God. That’s… The Russians in the forties managed to decapitate a dog, and then simulate a circulatory and respiratory system that seemed to bring life back to the head in some capacity. Yes, I saw the film.” “And that would mean that the brain functions still if you reintroduce… well, a body with its systems intact.” “And you believe the film is real?” “Do you, Doctor?” “I do not. Damage would have been done to the brain once the blood was drained from the body, and putting any trust in a film shot in the forties–and by Russians–is a dubious thing. They claimed the dog lived for years–there is no proof of that. In the film, it seems to live for maybe a minute or two.” “But then that would prove my point.” “Would it?” “The brain is conscious for a few minutes after death.” “Hmm, well, I guess I’ll have to do some experiments myself. But definitely not on dogs.” “Yes, that’s right. That’s all the time we have. Please thank my special guest, Doctor Osian Molina from Cardinal Medicine, right here in the state of Virgin-” # He shut the radio off. Rain crackled against the windshield. Vague shapes of cars rushed past left and right, images muddied by the rivulets running down the windows. The vibrations of the tires tried to lull him asleep. He checked the clock on the dash. Eight-thirty. A red light. He reached up to run his hand across his face. A glance out the window. The silhouette of another driver was only just visible. He couldn’t see any features–just shadow. There might have been smoke from a dark cigarette. It created a swirling void. Something shifted in the back seat. Green light. He couldn’t turn around. He ignored the sound as he stepped on the gas. Hot breath on his neck. “Hello?” A quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing. He checked the rear-view mirror. “Early this mornin' when you knocked upon my door.” He almost veered into the oncoming lane. A head and shoulders were visible against the backdrop of the rear windshield. Shadow. No face. It was sitting right behind him. “And I said ‘hello Satan,’ I believe it's time to go.” He caught his breath. “What the fuck? How did you get in here?” “Oh, son. You gotta keep them eyes on the road, don’t ya?” Something like a snicker. “Always gotta keep them eyes forward. There’s spooks out at night.” “Excuse me?” “How was your last job, son?” “Get the fuck out of my car.” Silence. “It was a child.” “Me and the Devil was walkin' side by side.” The car smelled of rotten meat. It wasn’t coming from the air vents. The shadow said, “Your doctor told you things when you first met him. Did you learn, son?” A moment passed. “I feel empty.” “Then I guess he was right about you. Wasn’t prepared for what was comin’. Broken too easy.” “When… I unplug someone…” He paused. “The ones that die immediately, or the ones that were already dead… Their eyes change. They turn into… wax dolls–or husks. My… my mind doesn’t see them as a person anymore. They’re not. They’re a thing.” “And I'm going to beat my woman until I get satisfied.” “I don’t see… people as…” He trailed off. Some lifted truck sped past over the limit. Water splashed up onto the windshield. “I don’t have friends, really. Maybe I’m sociopathic.” “You’ve got me, son. I’ll be here whenever you need me. Don’t you worry.” Andy didn’t smile. “Have you pulled the plug on someone and regretted it?” “I regret every one.” “Well that’s a shit way of looking at it. You’re ending a man’s suffering.” He spun the wheel–did a ‘U’ turn. “But what if that man wants to fight? Maybe he’s in pain, but he wants to try and get through somehow; we can’t tell ‘cause he’s in a coma, and then we cut it short.” “You may bury my body down by the highway side-... But the doc made his call. Are you doubting his education?” “I don’t know. I think people can be wrong.” “O-o-o-oh, now look here. So my old evil spirit can get a Greyhound bus and ride.” More hot breath on his neck. It was almost scalding, like kettle steam. Then… nothing. He checked the mirror again; the shadow was gone. The back wiper flipped back and forth, peeling droplets away from the glass. Ahead, a car was stopped on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. Metal was wrinkled like paper. Webs ran through glass. Blood had mixed with the rain atop the asphalt. Droplets pelted the disemboweled corpse of a doe. The car had torn its stomach and spilled its life across the highway. Red and blue lights flashed in the water trailing down the nurse’s windshield. He turned away and kept driving. # “I heard about your mother.” Andy’s eyes flicked up. Wide. “Oh.” “I’m sorry.” “...Thank you.” The pen went to scribbling. “Are you planning anything?” “Um….” The pen stopped. “Are you alright?” Silence. “It’s hard to plan celebrations alone, I know. An eightieth birthday is a big one. It’s shit your dad’s not in the picture to help out. You have any aunts… uncles?” A pause. “No.” “Damn. Well… Shouldn’t waste the occasion. I hope you can spend some quality time with her.” Silence. The pen stopped. Doctor Ellis fit it into a cramped pen holder. “How are things going here? Are you learning lots? Making those connections?” “Yeah… yeah, I am.” “Good. I like to hear that. The patients seem to like you, you’re efficient, you’re effective. A lot of the other nurses really get shaken up when they get asked to pull someone. You don’t. Maybe we should do a check up on you.” A laugh. “It’s a necessary thing, though–I’m sure you get that by now. Can’t keep patients here forever… getting pumped with drugs and getting cut up for months on end. Even if the families don’t get that, alright? We’re all fragile. Humans are like glass. You can harden it and make it stronger, but it’s still gonna break if you drop it.” “Yes, Doctor.” The nurse’s attention drifted. There was a framed poem on the wall above the degrees. He’d read it tens of times over by now–while sitting in this chair. # Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. # It was a small clipping from Clare Harner. Sunlight had faded the printed letters. “That’s my favorite.” Andy looked down at the doctor. “Oh… sorry.” “They read the full thing at my mother’s funeral.” Ellis spun in his chair to look up at the frame. “I like to think that when a person dies, something leaves them that becomes a part of nature. Like a soul, maybe. I know it’s not true, of course, but it helps to comfort the mind.” He spun back, shuffled some papers around. “What do you think?” “When we die, we’re gone. The body shuts down–the brain dies.” “Spoken like a man of science.” He tilted his head, looked hard at the nurse. “Does that make it easier?” “Sorry?” “When you’re working.” The nurse fiddled with the bottom lining of his scrub top. “No… No, I guess it makes it harder.” # The receptionist was gone. Nurses and doctors mulled about the halls, some sprinting with clipboards, others talking. Andy leaned against the counter. A plastic brochure holder sat off to the side. The text on the topmost one was bolded: Have you checked your eyes? A smiling woman was peering over the lower stack of brochures. He reached over to straighten the holder. The phone started to ring–a little light blinked. “Shit.” The receptionist rushed around the counter, just returning from the bathroom. She wrenched on the rolling chair, sat, and snatched the phone. “Santiago Molina Center. This is the ICU front desk–Linda speaking.” She tapped a pen against her notepad as she listened. “Andy!” The nurse looked over. “Doctor?” “Taking a breather?” Ellis came over, leaned on the counter next to him. “You’ve been doing great lately, alright? Honestly.” Snap! The pen struck the counter between them. Linda frowned and motioned to the phone at her ear. Ellis took the nurse by the shoulder and they left the receptionist to her call. “We had a guy come in yesterday. Accident on the highway, apparently. Had a fractured ribcage and some broken bones in his arms. Fucking ugly shit.” “Sounds like it.” “Surgeries are tough. One wrong cut and the guy–or gal–starts bleeding where they shouldn’t be. Brain stuff is worse, obviously. I’m glad I’m just watching sometimes and not holding the knife.” He straightened his jacket. “But listen, alright? I’ve got another job for you. An old girl with Alzheimers. She had a stroke, and she’s deteriorating rapidly. Won’t eat, won’t sleep, the whole thing, alright? Her heart’s slowing down every day–poor girl. She’s getting violent, too, so hopefully she’s asleep when you get in. If not, you can give her some Temazepam and Morphine. If you end up needing help, you can call for someone.” “So… Is her family in there?” “No. Her husband died a while back, apparently. She lived alone for years–no kids, no nothing. A neighbor called to report loud sounds and things being thrown around in the house. They brought her here. It’s a shit case.” The nurse felt his heartbeat in his skull. “So take out the I.V., shut off the monitor, all that. Give her something to help her sleep. You know the drill. She might be getting moved to hospice at that point if she holds on.” He smiled. “All clear?” “Yes, Doctor.” A smack on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear.” # He knocked. No answer. The hinges needed oiling. Or maybe they were screaming. Inside, the lights were shut off, but morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. The whole room smelled of rot. Someone had plugged a Febreze into the wall socket, beside the plug for the television. She was sitting up in bed. The sun kept him from discerning much detail from her face, apart from the obvious smile. “Come in.” He felt his heart thumping. Gray strands of hair hung down over a wrinkled face–unwashed. Her eyelids has nearly shrunken up into the sockets. He stayed by the door. “I’m Andy Kemper.” Silence. “Is there no one here with you?” “No. Th-th-th-th-the-e-e-e-the.” Sound flowed unformed from between crackling lips. Someone had left a pile of bloody rags on the counter opposite the bed. Unsanitary. Above it, a wad of flies had collected on the ceiling. They flew between the rags, the ceiling, and the woman in the bed. Where they went when they got to her, he couldn’t see. The nurse entered gradually, retrieved what he needed from around the room: gloves, the rolling tray, the needle, the morphine. He felt snaps and pops under his sneakers. Buzzing. “You should lie down.” She didn’t. Wherever he went, he felt her eyes. “Th-th-th-th-th-th-th. Y o u r m o t h e r Th-th-th-th.” He stopped. The smell was almost overpowering standing so close. It was like fried meat. He was sure her skin was only a suit–that it wasn’t connected to muscle anymore. “What did you say?” Something came from deep inside her chest. A sound he’d never heard, and one he never wanted to hear again. Like every organ had ruptured and turned to liquid–and started to boil. She tried to grab at him, but he easily stepped aside. “Ma’am. Will you stop?” He filled the syringe. “Y O U R M O T H E R.” The woman’s thin hair was whipping violently as she thrashed forward and back. It was a violent motion–he thought she was trying to snap her own spine. Pink discharge ran down the sides of her mouth, then it came from her eyes. The bed rocked. Maggots shook loose from between the mattress and bedsheets; they fell to the ground and writhed. The motion wrung urine out of the bed–letting it drip and pool beneath. The nurse watched. He didn’t move. “My door knob keeps on turnin', it must be spooks around my bed.” It came from the bathroom. He turned, saw a face floating in the shadowy doorframe. He recognized that face. “Kill the bitch.” She continued to wail. “Kill the bitch, son. Kill the bitch and she’ll shut the fuck up. This is it, Andy boy. This is the one.” The woman rocked forward hard and lost her balance. She went over the foot of the bed and landed head-first. There was no more wailing after that. Andy looked back at the bathroom. The face was gone. He set the needle down, backed away from the bed. Her body was mangled and twisted. Flies crawled out from the openings in the rotting, blue hospital gown. The eyes were staring at him, and he knew then that she could still see him. The thing that always left was still there. # The lock jangled, then snapped. He opened the door and went in. Streetlamp overshine painted strange shapes across his apartment furniture. Eagerly, he flicked the light switch, took off his coat, and pulled a brown paper bag from its inner pocket. It was wet, but thankfully hadn’t broken through. Off came his shoes, then he slid them into their place neatly. He set the bag on the counter and opened the fridge. Tomorrow, he would have to go shopping. There was just enough applesauce. He pried one free from the cardboard and found a spoon. The kitchen radio fizzled stubbornly–came to life. “Eyes are the window to the soul.” “Do you believe in a soul?” “I do. As a… as an empath I deal with the soul everyday… right? Why is it that I can see spirits and communicate with the beyond? Well the soul leaves us when we die and goes somewhere else. I was gifted, fortunately, with the ability to… tap into that other side and talk with peoples’ souls.” “When you look into someone’s eyes, can… I mean, can you see anything there? That’s special?” “Well… you know, I’d say what I just said: the eyes are the window. I don’t know if I can read your mind, really, or communicate with your soul when it’s in your body–when it’s in your body, then… like, just talking to you is communicating with your soul.” “Right.” “I think… something special… That’s hard. I see auras around people.” “Like white light and that sort of thing?” “Essentially. If someone has bad intentions, or if their soul is corrupted, then I can see that darkness, and vice versa.” “You believe in God?” “I do. God gave me this gift. I don’t know why, but he did. I thank him every day for it.” # Her room was shut, but the flies still slipped under the door. When he opened it, he felt her warmth. The smell. It used to smell like fried meat, but now it just smelled like her. How she used to smell. “Hi, Mom.” He set the paper bag down on the rolling tray. There were tools there–bloody, but they were her tools. Beside the bed was a heart rate monitor. The sound was shut off, but the screen displayed a constant line. “Work wasn’t great, but I got something for you.” Silence. “It’ll help us communicate better, I think.” He picked up the bag and opened it. With a gentle shake, two eyeballs rolled out onto the tray. He picked one up, looked into the pupil. It was still there. It hadn’t left. “These are the ones, Mom. Okay? I… I finally found them.” Silence. “We can pluck those old ones out and put these new ones in. But after your dinner, alright? You have to eat this time. Don’t just keep it in your mouth.” He peeled open the apple sauce and dug the spoon inside. “I love you.” Silence, just like always. 💀💀💀 Tony Del Degan is an author and screenwriter from Calgary, Canada. When he was a young boy, he was introduced to the world of fiction through films like Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, and was immediately captured by the desire to create imaginative worlds and stories of his own. Since elementary school, when he started creating books for the class library out of folded printer paper, his dream has never dimmed. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tonydeldegan/ Twitter: https://x.com/tonydeldegan TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@tonydeldegan_author The Blonde of Kennedy by Samantha Williamson Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
This week in Spectral City we explore the story of the Blonde of Kennedy, a Chilean urban myth that hunts taxi drivers and helpless citizens at night. We are your hosts, Ben, a firm believer of the supernatural, and my complete opposite, Dale. Together, we are on a quest to answer the question: are ghosts real? For those at home listening, take into consideration that Dale right now is shaking his head in disappointment once more, but I promise, dear Spectres at home, tonight is the night we could finally meet a visitor from the other side. Since this episode takes place in a Hispanic country, our friend and editor, Milly Acosta, will make sure to translate the dialogue into English when necessary. How are you feeling? A little nervous? Just the usual knot in my stomach and regret in my mind. I’ve seen this case in many shows before and always thought, “I’m never doing that”. And here we are. For those listeners who don’t know, we are currently driving around Santiago, specifically back and forth between Las Condes and Vitacura. Did I say it right? To see if we can find this nice lady and give her a lift. Or find a nice restaurant to dine at, I would like to try a Terremoto. Meanwhile, let’s break down the story for Mr. Skeptic over here, shall we? Since the 1970s, rumors have circulated about a spectral woman appearing along a major roadway known as Avenida Kennedy. Often called in Spanish “La Rubia de Kennedy”, she’s often described as a young, enchanting woman with long, fair hair, wearing either a big white coat or dress, who emerges mysteriously by the side of the road. Late-night drivers recount that they felt a compulsion to stop for her and offer her a ride. You told me before this often happened to taxi drivers? Correct. Isn’t that their job? Moving on! As the story goes, this woman will enter the vehicle on the back seat, giving vague directions or simply indicating where to go with a nod. Her presence, they say, “is mesmerizing, yet carries a deep melancholy that lingers in the air”. At a certain point in the journey, she whispers warnings such as “drive safely” or “slow down”, usually feeling despair when the car moves too fast. Carlos Benavides, a local Uber driver, claims that she told him, after being near the speed limit on a random street, that he “needed to stop”, for this was the place where she di—. Tick-tick-tick. Ben, look! There's someone outside. Are-are you for … are you serious right now? Hi! Yes, enter, enter. Thunk. Whoosh. Click. Dale, don’t, what are… what are you doing? I mean, we did borrow a cab; we might as well earn some money for our next episode. Spain is getting expensive, and I have a list of places we should go. Good night! Where? Americo Vespucio 6325, please. Yes sir! Where is that? Oh, thank you, Benny boy. We are good to go, so please continue with your ghost story, though I’m missing the campfire and marshmallows. As I was saying, over the years, different versions of her backstory have emerged, each with its own blend of misery and mystery. With that in mind, let’s get into the theories. The first theory is that the spirit belongs to Marta Infante, a woman who used to work at a wood company named CORMA. She matches various witnesses’ descriptions with her blonde hair and pure white outfit. Around August 1978, after dining with her boyfriend, she died in a car crash while trying to return home. The accident occurred between Avenida Kennedy and a street called Ge-Geronimo de Al-de-re-te. That’s a tough name. Many believe-- Here is good. Thank you. You’re welcome! Have a good night. Click. Thunk. Whoosh. Bye-bye. Many believe that Marta is now an “ánima”, a restless wandering soul. A dead person can become an "ánima" if they aren't worthy of the afterlife. However, in most cases, they can't rest because they have unfinished business here on Earth. Like a vendetta? Godfather, kind of thing? Not necessarily. Perhaps she just wants to find her family or her boyfriend, or maybe she has a dream that she wasn’t able to accomplish while being alive. Like being a ballerina, or a movie actress. Sure, and actually funny you say that, because in 1995 they made a film about her along with other characters from Chilean mythology. Although the synopsis sounds promising, the movie was absolutely destroyed by the critics and flopped at the box office. In a cruel coincidence, or what many theorists see as a punishment from beyond the grave, Carolina Fadic, the actress that gave life to this phantom, died from a stroke. I don’t see how this connects. She was twenty-eight. Oh, wow! I still don’t see how this connects, but sure. Carolina’s striking death, as well as part of the movie’s plot, leads us to a second theory that has become increasingly more popular on the Internet, which is that the Blonde of Kennedy is actually a —Tick-tick.—What was that? Relax, it's just a lady. Hello! Yes. Yes. Finally, my Spanish lessons helped with something. Get in. Thunk. Whoosh. Click. Where to? San Gregorio. Yes. Ben, help me out here, where is that? Okay, hold on, let me check the map. Alright, alright. So, now we are near Américo Vespucio and Gerónimo de Alde-rete. Hm, just keep going straight, and I’ll tell you when to turn. Super, you can continue with your little story now. Our second theory states that the spirit belongs to an unknown German woman who arrived in Chile with her family in the midst of the nineteenth century, probably after the Selective Immigration Law of 1845. Instead of staying in Osorno with her parents and siblings, this lady eloped with a young man to Santiago. Nonetheless, once there, her fiancé cheated on her. What a jerk, she deserves better. Indeed. A week later, he was found dead on the road, likely on his way home after going to a bar. According to reports, and I quote, “(...) his body was rigid, unbending, and unyielding; his back arched in a sadistic angle, as if being twisted by a higher force. His lips and feet were as blue as a bruise, and multiple injuries were found across his body. Nonetheless, no evidence of external violence was found, and witnesses at the premises confirm that no conflict had taken place. No evidence was found that would allow the establishment of a clear and concise cause of death. Therefore, it is ruled undetermined”. Afterwards, I found another document of the local press that states that the autopsy was done deficiently because the medical professionals were disturbed by the “corpse’s wooden smile” and therefore finished the procedure early. Some theorists claim that the man was poisoned, while others assure that she put a death curse on him with the help of the Devil himself. These theorists connect this event with Fadic’s early demise too, stating that her performance sealed her demise. Slow down. Yeah, let’s take it down a notch. I mean, first of all, we don’t even know these people’s names, let alone whether they ever existed. The guy’s probably dead from alcohol poisoning, or maybe—maybe—he was poisoned with, I don’t know, strycheight, strychnine, or whatever you mentioned in that episode from last year, the True Crime special. The one about William Palmer? Exactly. Also, how do we go from “vanishing gal” to “demoniacal servant”? All I'm saying is that local people don’t know her intentions. Some link her to causing car crashes, others to preventing them. There’s so little known about her, even as a figure of pop culture, that we don’t even know is she’s a good spirit or a bad one-- And that’s the thing! Angels, demons, spirits or ghouls—it doesn’t make any sense. People aren’t just good or evil; we are all different shades of gray. And if this applies in life, why wouldn’t it apply in death? Folks grow, mature and get old, becoming so many different versions of themselves as they develop. All of the sudden they give their final breath, and we reduced them into devils and saints. Not only it isn’t realistic, it isn’t fair. You know what I think, Ben? I think the lady was thrown into this world and then out of it. Dale, I-- And look I don’t want to be rude, and I would love to believe in something like you, Ben—being swept up in this. Actually trust that after we die we go somewhere special, or become something special that isn’t just compost. But I don’t. My mind just doesn’t seem to embrace any of this. I’m so sorry. Dale, I wanted to tell you that you don’t have to be sorry about everything. You don’t have to embrace the idea of the afterlife, or even understand it, but I do appreciate you trying to be more open-minded. Don’t scorn your endless logic, I have valued it for a long time. When I started planning this podcast, and doing the first episodes, I realized I couldn’t do this alone. You know me, I’m all gullible and full of fear, I’d end up talking about these things while shacking and muttering. It would take me days to finish one topic. And nights were awful, I could barely sleep in the locations and kept thinking there were apparitions in the corner of my eyes. Really? I swear it. I wrote to you then. I was surprised that you accepted at first, someone so skeptic and inquiring as you are. And you know what? Moments like these make me admire your questioning, your doubts, your humor; things that, in some strange way, balance my naivety. It feels as though, together, we have found something special: a space between pondering the destination and enjoying the ride. I was once a boy that feared death so much that I forgot that I was still alive. Thank you for being there for me. Beautiful words, Benny boy. Thank you for making me become a more receptive person, and for always remind me to revere the unknown. This has become quite an emotional episode, hasn’t it? Maybe we should wrap it up and grab something to eat. Milly said we should the empanadas and humitas before we leave. Sounds like a plan. Either way, whether you believe in this myth or not, “La Rubia de Kennedy” remains both an eerie story and a sobering reminder of the dangers of reckless driving, of always staying vigilant on the highways. Yes, once again, we have neither confirmed nor denied the existence of ghosts. But, if she does exist, we can only hope she lived a full, happy life in the company of her loved ones, and found peace in death. If she is listening, we wish her a tranquil rest and a good night. I like the sound of that. Thank you, dear Spectres, for listening. Could you give me the directions to the restaurant? Sure, no problem. Great, great… Hey, did you hear the car lock when she got out? 💀💀💀 Sam Williamson is an aspiring writer and a medical student from Santiago, Chile. Her story "Light," earned third place in the Miroptics Contest. Her pieces have appeared in magazines such as Amazine, with forthcoming work in ionosphere. When not writing, she immerses herself in learning about various poisons, urban myths, and true crime cases. |
AboutLinda Gould hosts the Kaidankai, a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |
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