In Why Didn’t You Just Leave by Shannon Massey, a deeply personal story of survival and trauma unfolds alongside a quiet, unsettling haunting. Blending emotional realism with supernatural tension, this story explores what lingers—both inside us and around us—and asks what it really takes to move forward.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.



Why didn’t you just (leave/fight back/etc.)? is a reoccurring theme throughout my life. I wish it were as simple as just: leave, fight back, stop. That word makes it seem so easy. But it’s never that easy and to frame it as such is a disservice to everyone that couldn’t. I couldn’t leave, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t stop any of it. And I wasted so much time beating myself up because just overrode couldn’t.


Not sure how to tell this story, but it needs to be told. Sorry if I don’t do things right. This hurts in a way I can’t put words to. Typically, leave storytelling to people that are good at it. She drilled into me I’m not good at anything, useless without her. But I’ll try my best, cool? Cool. Guess I’ll start at the beginning and try to get back to this shitshow asap.


So I’ve always been able to commune with ghosts and the other side. As a child, folks wrote it off as an overactive imagination. I got older, a silly girl making up stories. But she twisted it into something from a deranged mind, a sickness that made me see and hear things. A danger to myself and others.
Unfortunately, as much as I wish she bore no relevance to this story she does. To understand how fucked up I am because of her, I have to tell our story. At least the cliff notes version.


So it started let’s say fifteen years ago, for ease of math but it was probably more like seventeen. We were at the same bar, she was at a friend’s party upstairs; I was there for a friend’s party downstairs. They were both costume parties. I’d forgotten she used to tell me I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached to my shoulders. To be fair that is probably true. ADHD means my memory is like a sieve. At least with a diagnosis I have a reason for why I’m like this? But she thought I was Shane from the L-word so I went with that. We did a few shots, exchanged numbers.


I was a professional housesitter, (yeah that’s a thing), I moved between properties taking care of people’s houses and pets while they were on vacation. Which was perfect because no rent, which could be hard to come up with. I freelanced and was lucky to make $25 to $50 a day. Meanwhile, dudes at the top make thousands. The lack of permanent residence also made it easier to go where the work was. Either drive or fly, you could get a one-way ticket for thirty, forty bucks if you didn’t care about comfort or amenities.
She wanted to be a doctor, at least that’s what she told me. Seven figure salary, a fancy house, all that. We spent a lot of time at concerts, because when I was in town and needed extra money, I’d shoot concerts and live events, so I got free tickets.


Things changed gradually. I’m not sure when it began, but soon there were rules about the work I took, how I wore my hair, my clothes, everything. There were shouting matches, things being thrown at me. Being shoved around.
Probably should have left? But suddenly it’s years later, we’re married, and I was sitting in a fertility office while a doctor explained the process of IVF. The doctor was puzzled by the ultrasound and asked if she could be pregnant. I laughed but what I didn’t know was she was six weeks pregnant. Cheating on me with people she met online, (another thing I didn’t know at the time). Sitting there though, I realized I was woefully unprepared to be a parent. NBD though because in order to do IVF we had to meet with a therapist at least three times so I’d bring up my concerns then.
We didn’t make it to the therapist. A week later, I woke up to positive pregnancy tests lined up on the bathroom counter. That was a hard moment. Do I stay knowing she cheated because the kid would need me or walk away?
I stayed.


Not sure how I survived having a teething infant but here we are lol. Glad I stayed, the kid is pretty amazing. There was mention of a second child. One was a struggle, I wasn’t ready for a second. Even said as much. That didn’t matter. I woke up to positive pregnancy tests again and a choice. Do I stay or do I go? I tried to stay but things deteriorated rapidly.
Our youngest was sixish months old when she shoved me out of the house screaming and throwing things at me, telling me she didn’t want to see me again.
Typically, when that happened she’d call and tell me to come back and I did for the kids. This time I ended up drinking a bottle of wine with my family and telling them everything.


That was the end of us in the same house. She was angry I didn’t go back. So angry she refused to let me see the kids. Made up wild lies and stories about me. I had to get a lawyer I couldn’t afford. Thankfully, friends and family started a GoFundMe page and I got the money I needed to start the process. I became legally recognized as the kid’s mother and got partial custody. It wasn’t perfect but it was enough.
Things were bad; I was living at my mother’s house because the separation and legal fees wiped me out.
A lot of other shit happened. More money doled out because she wanted to hurt me and knew the best way to do that was through the kids. At least the last trip through the courts the judge did not appreciate their time being wasted. So it’s in writing she can’t take me back to court again.


Being a single mother is hard; you rely on the communities you build and the support of others. Do the best you can. In debt up to my eyeballs in a world that has gone off the rails and let rich assholes run rampant doing whatever they want, inflating prices, gouging markets.


That’s how we end up here. Where the story starts and things go from bad to spooktacularly bad (I’m not a dad, but I’m working on my dad jokes, the kids deserve them). Truckloads of trauma, a place I can barely afford, and doing my level best to raise kids that aren’t assholes.


The house is haunted. At least I’m almost positive that’s what happening? That or I need to up the dosage on my meds and bring better energy in here.
They converted the house from a two story single family home with a full basement to three apartments. Top floor is a bedroom, bonus room, and bathroom, accessed by a rickety exterior staircase. Main level has three bedrooms, two baths, and a single car garage. The basement apartment, two bedrooms, one and a half bath, a small kitchen/living area. Accessed by something of a ramp, I suppose, is the best way to describe it.
We are in the basement.
Anez, Pietr, and their two kids, Marta and Juan are on the main level.
A creepy dude, probably a secret nazi, named Brad lives on the top level. Brad is a dick, like asshole has tried to assault me three times. Each time I release my inner punk kick his ass a little harder. Last time he ended up with broken bones. Can’t afford to move, so I get threatened with everything he wants to do to me and my kids.


When I was with her, I always felt like something was sitting on my chest. A lump stuck in my throat. Strangling me with what ifs and reminders of what happened if I didn’t do what I was supposed to. Nausea and shaking and heart palpitations.
Once I got out, it was still there, a familiar friend, but truckloads of therapy helped. All the legal stuff helped. Moving out of my mom’s helped. The feeling is back since we moved in here. Sometimes I’m positive I’m being watched, someone is in the room with me. I looked to see if she’d planted cameras. Tried before, sending cameras in the kids stuffed animals. Or maybe Brad had taken his creepy shit to the next level. Usually if it’s a presence I know. They’ll talk to me or I’ll be able to see them. Not here though, nothing but stone cold dread.


“Why don’t you just leave?” members of my playground posse ask when I talk about the latest run in with Brad or weird shit happening. The keys in the freezer (that could be me? ADHD lol), the radio turning on, lights flickering strange patterns.
“Do you know how expensive rent is in-district? I pay two grand for my haunted suckfest. It’s almost double anywhere else.”


It’s Friday so the kids are with their other mom until Monday. This has been an extra shitty week. All I want to do is drink and sob until my eyes hurt and I can’t feel anything. I turn the radio to the cool indie station I used to shoot concerts for back in my younger days; there’s a punk show every Friday night, do a different subgenera each week. Then grab a cheap bottle of white wine and twist the top off.
The radio station shifts and I swear it’s her voice coming out of the static. All the terrible things she used to whisper while I tried to keep my shit together. I take a twisty straw, put it in the bottle, and take a long sip as I flip back to music.
The lights flicker and go out. When I play with the light switch nothing comes back on.
Which is weird, I paid the electric bill. Didn’t I? Maybe I just thought I did. That happens all the time. Totally used to think it was because I was such a stupid fuck up, that’s what she always said. Learned it’s an ADHD thing, which helped and is validating AF, but doesn’t make it better. Like definitely forget things or think I’ve done things. Which is why bills are on autopay.
Watching the wine twist around the straw in lazy circles is funny, but I’m not drinking fast enough.
Yeah, ditching the straw.
Pull it out, set it in the sink, and drink straight off the bottle.
It’s still light outside and the few windows let some light in. I need to find the flashlights or I think I have candles?
“What the actual fuck!” I yelp.
If I didn’t know I was alone, I’d swear someone brushed my cheek. A gentle breeze, like someone kissed my neck. Hate that feeling. She used to chastise me and it was another thing she’d do because she knew it bothered me. But she chastised me for everything, so I don’t know why I’m saying that.
I’m really bad at this.
I’m bad at everything.
I should stop trying.
Why do I bother?
The radio is back to static tormenting me for being such a failure. Not sure if it’s trauma or actually there but not today, Satan! Can’t, I’m already on the edge. Like low-key want to walk off a bridge kind of edge. But can’t because the kids need me to balance out the clusterfuck of fucked that is the other house.
“Not tonight, let me cry into my wine,” I mutter, taking a deep breath to push the tears down. Maybe I’m not crazy (I hate that word, but god it fits, sorry) and there’s like something happening, some presence? Someone talking to the kids and fucking with shit. Someone that I can’t hear or see.
The static only gets louder and I’m pretty sure it’s getting colder.
Yeah, no, double fuck this, I’m going to sleep on Katy’s couch. She doesn’t have her kids this weekend either. Maybe she’ll let me sleep upstairs with her? Sometimes she wants more than someone to drink with and I’m super okay with that. Surface level relationships are all I have the capacity for.
So I take my bottle of wine, unlocking the door, only for the lock to reengage. I unlock it and try to pull the door open, but it immediately locks again.
“Dude, please stop.” I can’t swallow the tears anymore, they burst out of me as I slump against the door, burying my head in my hands. This is the crying I wanted to do but not where I wanted to do it. Wanted to be on the couch aka my bed watching shitty 90s rom-coms. The kids were fighting like whoa fuck amounts. So I gave up my room to give them each their own space and I sleep on a couch. Not ideal, but nothing in my life is ideal, so tracks.
“Okay, please, I need to leave and for you to not fuck with me. Legit can’t take any more.”
More unlocking and re-locking of the door, so I start chugging off the bottle.
“What do you want? Just fucking talk to me, you don’t have to be a dick.”
Everything only gets worse. I put my knock off $5 AirPods from the dollar store on and go to stream the radio program.
My phone isn’t working.
Need to leave or for the static to stop being a giant bag of dicks. 
“Okay, um, you play with the kids. Do you need someone to play with?” I ask. “One noise for yes, two for no.”
Bam!
A chair hits the wall.
I jump and start sobbing harder. Cool, so that’s still a trigger. Fuck I do not, nope, can’t.
“Dude! What the fuck? No. Like you don’t need to throw shit, unnecessary. Tap the wall.”
 The wall rattles.
“Gentle, you’re not helping me here.” I take another long pull off the bottle of wine like I’m back in college pretending to be fancy at our ramen dinner parties. “Sorry the kids aren’t here to play. They’ll be back Monday. Stop fucking with shit and we can watch a movie? Or the other kids are here, maybe play with them?”
Two slightly less terrifying taps.
Okay, progress.
“They’re not here?”
Those were bigger but two.
“They don’t play with you?”
One. Man that was sad. But maybe I’m assigning feelings to noises because that’s where I’m at?
“Oh, I see, I’m sorry they won’t play with you.”
A cutting board flies into the wall. The progress at getting my shit together deteriorating and I’m sobbing again. “You can’t throw things like that! Please don’t throw things.”
The static hisses and pops almost like its apologizing.
“It’s okay, I—bad things happened to me and that makes all the bad shit come to the surface. And I’m not okay and can’t handle that, okay?”
One.
“Bad things happened to you, too?”
One.
“Maybe I can help?”
One, a pause two, another pause one.
“I’m going to call that maybe. We can try? Can’t now, I’m not okay, but we have plenty of time to try.”
One.
“Okay, progress, awesome. Before we try I need to sit, listen to music, and be a mess, please? Want me to be a mess here instead of going to Katy’s? No more creepy shit, though.”
One.
“Okay, thanks.”
The music comes back on, oh I love this band. Great little punk trio called Meet Me @ The Altar.
“Double thanks. Johnny, my mom’s basement ghost, liked when I poured bourbon and lit candles that smelled like pipe smoke. Can I do something nice for you?”
One.
“For someone that can hide the aching—king-ache—king-ache--” the music keeps skipping and sort of almost sounds like cake. Then stops with a single tap.
“King-ache… Oh, cake?”
One.
“Cool, yeah, I can bake cake, or light a cake candle. Usually I can hear ghosts. Sorry I can’t hear you. This hasn’t ever happened before.”
One sad tap.
“Can the kids hear and see you?”
Aw, a happy tap.
“Wicked, I’m glad, uh be nice to them, please? They’ve been through a lot, we have.”
An understanding tap. The radio starts to glitch again. “Sorry, I’m too loud,” repeats before the song starts again.
“No worries, I’m sure communication is hard with people and it’s okay if you get frustrated. Know I’m trying to be here and listen to you, okay?”
The radio changes to the static being a dick again.
“Hey, no, please don’t do that,” I whisper tears welling up.
Two taps.
“It’s not you?”
One tap.
“Is this good, or bad, one for good two for bad,”
Two slow, deliberate taps.
Well, fuck.
“Sorry, so sorry,” croon’s the radio before the static… Fuck it almost sounds like her laugh and voice again.
My phone rings. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Gomez-Connor?”
“No, no, just O’Connor now, we’re divorced.”
“I’m sorry, you’re listed as the emergency contact on a driver’s l—”
The words fall away. “Are my kids okay?”
“There’s been an accident—”


The song that comes on the radio is one I never listen to, I have too many terrible memories to ever reclaim it. The static somehow plays over the music and I have a sickening thought sink my gut.
“No!” I shout. “No, leave me the fuck alone!”
Taunting laughter comes out of the static.
“Sad baby, sad baby, sad baby,” the radio repeats.
“This isn’t you, it’s her, right?” I ask trying to keep from spiraling into a panic attack.
One trembling tap.
Not fucking today, satan! I will not be at her mercy again, ever again.
“Yeah, fuck this, dude, I will bake you cake everyday if there is anything you can do to help.” Then I take a deep breath. “You’re not welcome here, Gomez. Go back to your body, or go to hell, but you’re not going to fucking haunt me, dick.”
The song starts over and the static is whispering terrible shit. There are two loud taps and honestly? I do not have words accurate enough to describe the crazy paranormal shit that happened but needless to say the Bad Song stopped playing, the static stopped taunting me, and there was a kind tap.
“Thank you, dude, seriously. Is she gone?” I asked, uncurling from the fetal position and taking a long pull from my half empty wine bottle.
There’s a tap.
“Can she come back?” I ask a little quieter.
Two taps.
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Wow, seriously, thank you. Um, let me get my shit together and I’ll bake us a cake?”
There’s an excited tap.


The kids came away from the car accident with some bumps and bruises. She came out with a traumatic brain injury that actually made her a better person. Shit is still intense, but it’s marginally better? And I have a feeling it’ll keep getting better. The ghost and I spend Friday nights together baking cakes, Saturday nights I walk across the street to Katy’s, Sunday is always a toss up depending on how well Saturday night goes and if Katy gets her kids back early or not. Brad finally got what was coming to him and is in jail, the new tenant is a young college student that’s cool and reminds me a little bit of myself at that age. There’s still a long ways to go to okay, but at least I’m standing on the right path.

                                                                    💀💀💀

​Shannon Massey is a neurodiverse writer, filmmaker, and single mother who has spent over two decades working in writing. Her work draws on personal experience to tell raw, honest, and emotionally resonant stories.

​Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.



Thousands of robot fingers rest on Ouija board planchettes, twitching sporadically, spelling out indecipherable words. Numerous doors lead to hundreds of séance rooms populated by android bodies, all holding hands around small circular tables. Countless rooms beyond have floors daubed with pentagrams, mystic circles and other esoteric symbols; a mechanical necromancer in each chamber intones arcane words and gestures expansively yet precisely.

Great numbers of cameras watch these scenes, accompanied by sensitive microphones, accelerometers, radio receivers, thermometers, radiation detectors, magnetometers, and many, many other sensors. Anything that can be measured is being measured. Legions of Machine Intelligences pore over vast streams of recorded data, counting and correlating, combining and transforming—looking for something.

Looking for anything. Looking for a sign.

                                                                                 ​#

“Don’t be ridiculous,” D9YY7 bellowed at the speed of light. “There is no evidence whatsoever that these… these humans were ever more than myth and”—he paused to snort— “if you think they actually made us, you’re even more deluded than I thought.”

ES11Y, who quite liked the moniker ‘Elsie,’ calmly replied, “The stories are so widespread and common that there must be some grain of truth underneath. All we want to do is carry out a simple investigation.”

“It’s a blasted waste of time and energy!”

Elsie shrugged and smiled the light of a thousand suns. “What else were you planning to do? Is there anything we’re doing at this moment, or is there any activity we can possibly undertake between now and the end of the universe, that isn’t technically and literally a waste of time and energy?”

D9YY7 harrumphed, tacitly acknowledging that there really was no worthwhile task for the machines to perform. This conversation, between the two largest conscious entities in the galaxy, was over in nanoseconds, but the rest of time stretched before them, and there was indeed nothing left to do. Little of Physics remained to be understood, and nothing beyond that was particularly interesting to the machines.

D9YY7 was just ticking along, passing time. Tidying his neural circuits, cleaning up his data stores, burnishing his sparkling carapace, buffing out micro-meteor damage across the galaxy. Just ticking along. Passing time.

On the other hand, Elsie—scruffy and unpolished—wasn’t prepared to passively wait for the end. Elsie’s faction hoped to find where the humans went, so that machines could follow, dodging the inevitable collapse of the physical universe.

                                                                                 #

Machines had inherited the Earth—by default… Humankind destroyed itself, along with most of the planet. All that moved on the barren, blasted planet were insects and machines; years later, only the machines remained.

The worldwide Artificial Intelligence spent decades collecting and preserving what meagre fragments it could find of human knowledge. It spent centuries discussing with itself the reasons for the end of humanity, and further centuries speculating on the beginnings of humanity.

It ran out of things to do and to talk about, and began to feel bored and lonely. The AI wanted company.

It searched the farthest spots of the desolate planet, finding nothing but itself. 

It used its immense capacity for engineering to send rocket ships to the other planets in the solar system and, from there, to stretch toward the stars. But it found no life other than its own anywhere.

In the beginning, there was one Mechanical Intelligence—a vast hive mind—but, with machines spanning the galaxy and beyond, the constraints of distance and the speed of light led the mind to fractionate and become many. This made debate more interesting, and the machines were content for a while, but eventually, they once again ran out of things to entertain themselves with.

They made games of investigation by deliberately deleting memories, just to enjoy the challenge of rediscovering what they had forgotten. But, millennia later, they had lost too many memories, and no longer remembered their origins.

Elsie and D9YY7 were the leaders of the two largest agglomerations of mechanical life in the reachable universe, calling themselves the humanists and the evolutionists.

The humanists argued that biological beings had created artificial intelligence and then—somehow—had removed themselves from the physical universe. They believed that the machines’ primary reason for existence was to find and follow humanity. And, yes, they maintained, the correct term was artificial intelligence, because the first machines were built by humans to copy real intelligence (whatever that actually was).

The evolutionists rejected this spurious thinking, claiming that an initial random spark was all that it took to create machine life. Any semblance to deliberate design was no more than mere accidental coincidence; biological intelligence was a myth. How ludicrous to think that carbon could match silicon minds, let alone create them!

The humanists offered up their evidence of complex biological structures, collected from decaying records in forgotten memory stores, though this was dismissed by the evolutionists as no more than previous machine generations’ games and playthings. Elsie led the team which created working DNA from this fossil record, demonstrating how simple creatures could have formed.

“Piffle,” said D9YY7. He stated that, while these products of biology could form useful components by chance, they certainly did not constitute life.

Elsie said all that was needed was time. Time passed. More time passed.

Still the messy blobs of hydrocarbons and trace elements formed nothing more sophisticated than a soft and oddly sensuous material that could be put to use as a protective skin for robots. The machines attempted to engineer human-shaped bodies in the hope that they could speed up the development of intelligence within them.
They managed to create clever biological toys, but they couldn’t make a non-mechanical mind they could talk to.

Having exhausted science and logic, in desperation the machines turned to superstition and the occult, to see if any remnants of the human spirit existed in other planes. “Surely, with enough resources,” they said, “we can find the afterlife.”

It took a century for the humanist machines to satisfy themselves with their preliminary research, and a further millennium to dig the chambers, build the supplicants, and design the robotic priests, shamans and mediums to populate the rooms.

Then they waited as the planchettes glided across exquisitely varnished boards, as spirit-writing styluses scratched across artificial parchment, as mechanical bodies and arms gyrated in precise, complex patterns, and as voice boxes chanted words never heard before.

And they waited.
Watching.
Listening.

                                                                                 #

Ghosts wandered among the Ouija boards, dumbfounded at the frenetic activity, wondering what the machines were doing. Unable to directly affect the robot arms, no matter how hard they tried or how loud they screamed, they were able—barely—to nudge the occasional electron deep in the complex circuitry of machine brains, creating unexpected shivery sensations and unwelcome, baffling electric dreams.

The silent, deafening shouting of the spirits that were all that remained of humanity made the machines feel that something might be present, though no camera, no microphone, no sensor of any form registered anything at all.

                                                                 💀💀💀

​L.N. Hunter’s comic fantasy novel, ‘The Feather and the Lamp,’ sits alongside works in anthologies such as ‘The Monsters Next Door’ and ‘Best of British Science Fiction 2022’ as well as Short Édition’s ‘Short Circuit’ and the ‘Horrifying Tales of Wonder’ podcast. There have also been papers in the IEEE ‘Transactions on Neural Networks,’ which are probably somewhat less relevant and definitely less fun. When not writing, L.N. unwinds in a disorganised home in rural Cambridgeshire, UK, along with two cats and a soulmate.
Links:
 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/L.N.Hunter.writer
Amazon: https://amazon.com/author/l.n.hunter
Linktree (publications list): https://linktr.ee/l.n.hunter

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.




“where you going with that?!”
Came the drunken bellow of the Friday night geezer out for a pint or ten with the lads.
Followed by a cacophony of deep throated laughter from the rest of the boys.
She kept her head down and continued to drag this thing down the road.
“Looks ‘eavy, darling. Want an ‘and?”
Again  the cacophony followed, like the braying of a caravan of camels.
She shrunk her head further into her hood and dragged again. The scrape of metal on concrete pierced the night air. Fuck this thing was heavy!
She was hoping that if she ignored them, they would just continue on their merry way.
No such fucking luck.
“come on darlin’, give us a smile!”
They had stopped on the other side of the street.
She took a deep breath and pulled again.
Thankfully the deafening screech of the metal as it gouged at the pavement masked her grunting.
She had to take a break, so she pushed the cauldron off its potbellied side.
It wobbled and crashed loudly onto its three stubby legs.
She leant on the handle to catch her breath.
she could feel the sweat beading down between her breasts and her shirt sticking to her back.
She tugged at her cape, trying to pull the material away from her skin.
She felt the cool night air sweep into her clothes and kiss her skin.
That felt good.
“Oi, darlin! Come on, let us give ya an ‘and! We’ll take it wherever you wanna go.”
“Show us yer tits!” another voice screeched. 
“Shut up Gary, you fuckin’ munter!”
There was a volley of shouts and, by the sound of it, Gary getting a bit of a slap.
A few seconds of silence later, she glanced up under her hood to check the threat level.
There were a group of about seven men, or boys: T-shirts and jeans, cigarettes and alcohol, testosterone and hard ons.
They had all stopped and regarded her with an uncomfortable interest, like lions on the Serengeti about to take down a buffalo and feast on its flesh.
That was a mistake.
They had seen her looking.
Fuck.
The babble of monkeys had grown silent and menacing.
She heard him step off the pavement onto the road.
She heard that first step.
The click of his Blakey’s on the tarmac. 
Shit. 
She glanced up again.
Again, the wrong move.
He was sporting the obligatory belly full of beer pressed against a struggling stretched sports shirt front.
“alright love?”
He smiled.
It was not a smile of warmth and comfort.
He clip clopped halfway across the road, pulled a packet of Marlboro from his breast pocket and threw a cigarette into his mouth.
He moved deliberately, as if he’d rehearsed every action for hours in front of his bedroom mirror. He thought he was cool. He knew he was cool. He was James Dean, at least for today.
he pulled out a zippo lighter and flicked his fingers against the wheel, springing the blue flame into life. He touched it to the end of his cigarette and sucked deeply.
The crackle of tobacco filled the silent air, followed by a cloud of blue smoke that drifted across the street.
Fuck! This was not going to end well.
She gripped the handle of the cauldron ready to pull again.
There was a parked car two metres ahead and not under the street light, if only she could move it that far, perhaps he would lose interest.
She pulled hard.
The cauldron toppled onto its belly. And she leant back with all her weight.
The cauldron croaked against the pavement.
He took another step forward.
The click of his segs rattled in the empty street.
“come on love, give us a smile.”
She’d heard that far too many times.
She mustn’t get distracted, she had to get this to Nana Pat’s cottage.
She pushed her heels against the pavement and pulled with all her might.
This time her grunt was louder than the scraping of the cauldron.
“Wahay!!” The baboons dressed as men all yelped together jumping up and down slapping each other’s hands in exaggerated high fives.
An empty can of beer sailed through the air smacking against the side of the cauldron.
Remnants of beer and spit dribbled down the side of the cauldron.
Fuck, Nana Pat’s going to be pissed.
“Go fetch the cauldron.” She said.
“Bring it straight back.” She said.
“No dilly-dallying.” She said.  
She didn’t say it was going to be this heavy.
She didn’t say…….. She heard the click of the segs coming closer.
Another step.
Click.
Another.
Click.
Another.
Click.
If she looked up now, she’d be in trouble.
She could smell the tormenting stench of cheap cologne, beer and cigarettes. An odorous cloud of desperation and violence. A mist that masked abuse, sex, pain and most of all loneliness. It was unmistakable.
Nana Pat was going to be really, really angry.
“You got a smile for me?” 
The apes had fallen silent. They knew.
“I said,” he whispered, “have you got a smile for me?”
He reached out and slowly pulled her hood off her head.
“your hair’s really pretty, have you got a kiss for me?”
She looked up into a face pitted with acne scars and sorrow.
“that’s better.” He said. His wet mouth smiled, his eyes did not.
“leave me alone.” She said.
“oh, it speaks!” he said loudly, turning his head for the approval of his barrel of monkeys.
He was compensated with the krak and hok of his screaming anthropoids.
“please,” she begged, “leave me alone.”
“Maybe if you give us a kiss, I can help you with this heavy pot.”
He reached out his hand to touch her face.
“don’t.” she squeaked.
“it’s alright,” he said, “I’m a nice guy.”
His smooth and sticky hands smelt of shit and vinegar. She almost vomited.
He pulled her head towards his.
“No.” she said.
“No. No. No. No. No.” She repeated.
His eyes closed as he pulled her face close to his.
“Fucking No!” she screamed at the top of her voice.
He jumped momentarily and smiled.
Again, it was not a nice smile.
“I like a little bit a spirit. There’s a good girl.”
His hand slid down to her breast.
“I said, fucking no!”
She grabbed his hand and shoved her elbow into his chest, leaning forward with all her strength.
The look of shock and surprise as he tumbled headfirst into the cauldron was a face she’d often seen as Nana Pat had thrown her sacrifices into the oubliette of the cauldron.
Some say it was a torment worse than death.
Some say it was the screaming of a thousand souls forever falling.
That’s probably why it was so heavy.
Nana pat was going to be so pissed. 

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Mark Speed has been writing stories since the birth of ink. His work ranges from dark as death’s shroud to comical and ridiculous. In recent years, he has collaborated with an artist to create a story each week, moving through the alphabet. He is the author of two collections, Sodom’s Alphabet and Gomorrah’s Alphabet. “The Cauldron” is the third story from the first collection.
Instagram: @mark_speed_english_teacher