The Ghost In The IKEA Store by Ken Foxe ![]() Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. I’ll never know how the unfortunate man died. Did he walk off the designated route only to find himself hopelessly lost as the blue arrows on the floor disappeared? Was he crushed by a piece of large flatpack furniture while pushing a trolley filled with candles, knick-knacks, and bargain glassware? Or did he simply sit down somewhere, feet aching, and expire from weary legs and a fatal ennui? All that I do know, for sure, is that the IKEA store was haunted and needed exorcising. It started innocuously when a colleague arrived one morning to find two dozen boxes of mini Daim chocolate bars torn open. The plastic wrappers were discarded on the ground creating a trail, like breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel, leading directly toward the bedroom department. The next day, the disturbance was greater still with four packs of hot dogs torn open in the dining area, three of them left burnt to cinders beneath a grill. The first incident was written off as some sort of cleaning accident, or perhaps a prank. The second. Well, fool me once and all that jazz. “You reckon it’s some kid or homeless person after sneaking in,” I asked Marty, my fellow security man, in the control room. “Is there anything showing up on the CCTV?” “That’s the weirdest fooking thing, Dermo,” he said. “They show static.” “Every one of them?” I asked. “More like this person is knocking them off as they move around the store … maybe with a jamming device or something.” We scratched our respective beards, both in an advancing stage of grey. It all seemed a little too sophisticated just to pilfer some rock-hard chocolate, cheap hot dogs, and mulled wine. “And there’s nothing else showing up as stolen,” I said to him rhetorically. He nodded in confusion, as if he’d been given the honours Maths paper by mistake while sitting his Leaving Cert. “Bit of a fooking mystery all right.” “Who’s on the night shift tonight?” I said. “McGinty,” he replied, easing back into his chair in front of the bank of closed-camera TV screens. “That’s no good,” I said, “he’ll snore the place down.” “Well I’m not coming in anyways,” said Marty, and I could nearly hear the rusty engine of his brain spluttering into life trying to conceive of a plausible excuse. It wasn’t his characteristic laziness though. Truth was behind that bushy beard and the thick glasses, a zygote of fear was beginning to rumba. I dashed off a quick email to my boss in headquarters, said we had a ‘teeny little problem’. Nothing to get unduly worried about but might be no harm to have a second torch shining in the store that night. He responded quickly, said he would pay me double time for my trouble. “Do a full recce while you’re at,” he said, “see if you can see how they’re getting in.” It was going be a long night so I drove home to Finglas, snatched a couple of hours sack time. On the way back to work, I was yawning, still trying to break out of the uncomfortable embrace that came from unscheduled snoozing. So I bought a couple of cans of Red Bull at the local service station, downed one of them quickly and burped. When I arrived, McGinty was there already. He seemed sober, smelt noxiously of Lynx deodorant; he’d probably been warned by one of his compadres that he would have company that night. “You sure you used enough spray,” I said to him. “Nearly choking me here.” The IKEA store is a peculiar place at night. Once the doors close to the public, activity continues with shelves getting tidied up and restocked, while the warehouse is resupplied with Billy bookcases and Malm beds. But then the midnight lull comes and the vast furniture cathedral falls into a deep silence. Without customers or staff, the showrooms feel artificial, like a film set. I’d never felt nervous before, walking down the canyon-like aisles of the warehouse, my footsteps clomping. But that night, knowing something was lurking, I felt profoundly uneasy. It was a little before 1am when the static of the walkie-talkie brought me to attention. “Canya hear me Dermo,” McGinty said over the radio. “Roger,” I said because that’s what you seemed duty-bound to say in such circumstances. “Something funny happening with the CCTV in the living room department.” “All right, give me a few minutes,” I replied. The oddest thing was how the temperature seemed to drop as I walked from the cavernous warehouse into the showrooms, precisely the opposite of what would normally be expected. And it wasn’t just a little cold, it was biting, like I was outdoors bare-armed in the frosty early November night. There was an uncanny scent gushing through the air too, like a strange amalgam of smoked fish and vinegar. “Living room CCTV active again,” said McGinty, “cameras down in workspaces and kitchens now.” I followed the floor path footprints, a snaking route I must have taken a thousand times before. It continued to get colder so that my arms bloomed with goosebumps, and my teeth began to gently chatter. As I approached the dining area, I could see a hulking figure seated at a kitchen table. He had his broad back to me, seemed oblivious to my approach. There was a large bottle of sparkling pear drink in his hand from which he appeared to be drinking directly. “Are you OK there Sir?” I said with a frail bravado. His head began to move left and right, upwards then, surveying the ceiling as if he’d never heard a human voice before. “Sir,” I said, louder this time, my voice now shrill. He began to turn although that is not the proper word. His body pivoted centimetre by centimetre, like a stop-motion clay model. One moment, he would seem entire, the next a blur. Formation, deformation, reformation – in what seemed to my disbelieving eyes like slow-mo. Each transition seemed like torture to him so that as the sharp features of his wounded face came into view, he would grimace, crack, then be restored. “Can I help you?” I said. “Lost,” he said and his despair seemed to burrow directly into my skin and gravitate towards my heart. “I am lost,” he repeated. “What can I do?” He stood up. And that fear when I thought he was going to come towards me – even now when I recollect it, I cannot help but shiver. “Lost. Way,” said the ghost, and I could see what looked like slush running from his eyes. I can’t be sure what happened then but it seemed as if I fell into some kind of delirious trance. “Cameras working again,” said McGinty through the walkie-talkie, his voice like an alarm clock. My eyes opened slowly, my consciousness slowly recalibrating. My uniform shirt was damp with sweat. The ghost was gone. All that was left was a broken bottle on the floor. I tried to speak but no words would come through teeth that were so tightly clenched, it seemed as if the enamel might begin to crack. “You there Dermo?” Ten seconds passed, maybe twenty. “Can you hear me?” said McGinty. “Roger,” I said. “Just knocked a bottle over here. Need to clean it up. All clear otherwise.” The broken glass at least gave me time to compose myself so that when I got back to the control room, I felt a little steadier. “You all right?” said McGinty, “you look like … like you’re coming down with something.” “Yeah, think I must’ve a cold coming on.” “Why don’t you head off home? I’ll ring you if I need you.” I nodded and packed up my things. On the journey home, every traffic light and turn was taken with only muscle memory. The late hour at least meant there were no pedestrians around and I drove so slowly that a couple of cranky taxi drivers overtook me on the straight stretches of road, parping loudly as they passed by. Thank god for me old ma Betty because in the fortnight that followed, I was sick like I’d never been before. My temperature topped out at 103 degrees, and only for the fear I have of doctors, my mother would certainly have called one to the house. I drank Lemsip by the bucketful but it hardly touched the aches that ran up, down, and bone-deep in my arms, legs, fingers and toes. The most curious thing, though, was how my sense of taste and smell would come and go. Sometimes, my nose and tongue would be blocked, other times, they’d be filled with an overpowering sour taste or smell of pickled fish or meatballs. The nights were even worse when I would have feverish dreams of the IKEA ghost, the unfathomable misery and suffering in his face, movements, and words. “Lost. Way.” Those two words repeated, over and again. I contacted work as my malady began to ease. They were considerate and told me not to rush back. I had an unblemished absence record so there were no questions asked of whether I was malingering. The disturbances in the store continued: moving furniture, beds apparently slept in, food packages torn asunder, cooked, half-eaten, then tossed aside. But as to who was responsible – that remained a mystery to all but me. The gardaí were eventually called for, only asking if anything valuable had been stolen. They said to keep them posted. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of serious police work to be done in and about Ballymun. All the while, this feeling grew like I had to do something. And as my strength slithered back slug-like, I began to search for a solution. The internet was never my thing, but my old ma had a tattered Yellow Pages downstairs from some time in the 1990s. Sitting up in bed, I began to leaf through it, but when I searched ‘E’ for exorcism, there was no entry. I racked my brain for alternatives – clairvoyants, fortune tellers, soothsayers, and spiritualists. At last, I found something called ‘The Bureau of Divination’, operating out of a premises on Capel Street. I dialled the number. “The Ex-Father Crowley speaking,” said a gravelly voice. I had rehearsed how I was going to give my account but I was left stuttering and stammering as I tried to squeeze the words out. “I have a ghost problem,” I finally settled on saying. “Shush now,” he said. “We do not speak of such things on the telephone.” “Well, how am I supposed to explain it?” “2.30pm, my office, tomorrow. X Capel Street – top floor.” Before I even had a chance to confirm my attendance, the mysterious ex-Father had hung up the call. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect as I approached the given address the following afternoon. The office was above a furniture store that sold cheap house fittings intended for bedsits and cramped flats. I scanned the intercom, where I found scrawled in pen ‘The Bureau of Divination’ on the third floor of the run-down red-brick building. I was buzzed in and ascended the stairs, passing a watch repair shop and a Chinese food importation business. The door of an accountancy firm was open, and a supernumerary rushed to slam it shut when he saw me passing, returning I suppose to some deeply creative book-keeping. On the uppermost floor, a sign hung skew-wise with the word ‘Divination’ on it. There was a hole in the bottom part of the door as if somebody had given it an almighty kick. I was about to knock but before I did, I heard a voice ushering me inside. “Dermot, I’m sure,” he said as I entered the cramped office. “That’s me,” I said. The Ex-Father Crowley was eating a tinfoil tray of duck noodles and some of the chow mein sauce had taken up residence in a bushy moustache and white beard that seemed more like fur than hair. “Are you a man who enjoys an afternoon drink?” he said. “I like my customers to be at their ease.” In actual fact, I didn’t much feel like one what with the residue of my arcane flu but it seemed rude to decline. He rooted around in a locker to see what he could find, at last emerging with a bottle of Kilbeggan and two dainty tea-cups. Pouring out two generous measures, he said: “Tell me of your troubles son.” I told him of the ghost, of the various disturbances, of the heartbreaking movements and demeanour of the phantom, how he seemed trapped in some sort of flat-pack purgatory. “Very sad,” he would say. “Awful sad.” “What can we do?” I said. “We just need to help him find his way out,” said the Ex-Father. It was a few nights later when I pulled up outside the diviner’s bungalow on Blackhorse Avenue. There was nothing too remarkable about the house except that the Christmas tree was up and it wasn’t yet December. “Bit early for the tree,” I said to him as he sat into my Fiat Punto, a black and yellow Stanley toolbox on his lap. “I keep it up all year,” he replied. “It lifts my mood.” We were headed in the direction of the North Circular Road, a late night talk show on the radio. “How do you listen to that drivel?” he said to me. “It’s just in the background,” I replied. “You can change it if you want.” The next second, Raidió na Gaeltacht was playing instead, a céilí session from some village hall in the Galway Gaeltacht. Nothing terribly abnormal with that except the Ex-Father had never moved his hands to switch the station. I tried to make small talk with him, as his left foot tapped rhythmically to each jig and reel. But it was obvious he wasn’t in the humour for chit-chat as if he was psyching himself up before a county final. McGinty was on duty that night, which was ideal because he wasn’t one for asking questions lest people started asking him some back. “This is a private investigator friend of mine,” I said, the ex-Father standing beside me. “A new set of eyes might be no harm for our little problem.” McGinty nodded, sat down in his office chair, and instantaneously fell asleep, snoring deeply. “Where to?” said the Ex-Father. We tramped off towards the warehouse, the diviner occasionally sniffing the air, like a dog trying to locate the scent of sausages frying on a pan. “Hmmm,” he’d mumble. “Not here.” As we entered the showrooms, the temperature began to drop. I looked at the Ex-Father, his striking light blue eyes began to twinkle. “Through this way,” he said, knowing his quarry was nearby. The ghost was seated at a dining table, another bottle of sparkling pear drink in his hand, a plate of food in front of him. The diviner approached unhurriedly and took a seat, the phantom once again all but oblivious to our arrival. “Do you mind if I join you?” I saw that same stop-motion as the ghost’s head turned, heard some words being mumbled, and then the Ex-Father put his arm over the apparition’s shoulder. Something happened then; the ghost took on a semi-permanence, like he was neither here nor there, no longer changing form. They stood up from the table, the ghost enormous – at least eight feet tall- the squat diviner, no more than a couple of inches above five foot, right beside him. It looked like some outsized dad walking his son to school. But it was the ex-Father who led his companion in the direction of the fire exit. He pushed open the door. The fire alarm briefly sounded but only for half a second before it was silenced by some unearthly power. The diviner re-entered the building, his toolbox in his left hand though whether he had cause to use it, I cannot say. “All done,” he said. “He’ll have peace now.” We walked back to the control room, the ex-Father humming a lively tune that he had heard on the radio. McGinty was still fast asleep in his chair. “How much do I owe you,” I said as we approached the exit. “I don’t bother myself with money.” “Can I at least drop you home?” I asked. “I’ll jump on the bus.” And sure enough, outside the door, a blue and yellow double-decker was waiting, not a single other passenger on board. The Ex-Father stepped on, flashed some type of card, and took a seat right down the back above the engine. I looked at my watch. It was 1.37am. I could have sworn the last bus on the schedule departed before midnight. 💀💀💀 Ken Foxe is a writer and transparency activist in Ireland. He is the author of two non-fiction books based on his journalism and likes to write short stories of horror, SF, and speculative fiction. Previous Stories: www.kenfoxe.com/short-stories/ Twitter: www.twitter.com/kenfoxe Instagram: www.instagram.com/kenfoxe
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The Darkness Beyond the Farm Back Gate by Tim Law ![]() Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. My favorite place to visit in the whole wide world has always been the farm owned by my Grandpa Opa. I loved hunting with my cousins for the ripest of apples in the orchard, chasing the sheep with Suzy the sheepdog, all of those times that we got to spend racing on the motorbikes, those delicious apple pies made by Granny Oma. The best thing of all about the farm though was the stone wall with the simple gate made of iron that was located at the bottom of the back paddock. Grandpa Opa always warned us kids to never open that gate, to never go beyond the wall, and we didn’t need to be told twice. Beyond that paddock there was nothing, nothing but an ocean of darkness. But, Grandpa Opa showed us, with the right call, a correctly noted whistle, out from that darkness could come the most wonderful creatures. I was six when I first heard Grandpa Opa give his shrill whistle while he and I were visiting that back paddock, and over the stone fence came a camel the size of an elephant, its face was that of a kindly old woman, and it laughed like a child who’d had too many sweets. Such a beast gave me and my cousin Will rides on its back for what felt like hours. When it was our bedtime though, Grandpa Opa just whistled again. The beast bowed low toward him and then us and with a great final chuckle it went back through the gate again. All we had after that were our memories, and a story that none of our friends would believe. “Don’t try to follow them,” Grandpa Opa warned both Will and me that day. “We always must let them come to us, never the other way.” I nodded to show that I understood, but my cousin Will, being younger than I was by at least a year, well he just asked his question. “Grandpa Opa, who are they?” “They are the ones who came before, they are the ones who will come again,” Grandpa Opa told us. “This land belongs to them, and we are the lucky ones allowed to take care of it for them.” Once, around Christmas time one year, Grandpa Opa gave that shrill whistle of his again and three cats came sliding through the gaps in the gate. One had fur the color of flame, and eyes the same as my father has. The other two were black as soot with blank eyes and a howl which shook us all to the core. The orange cat curled up in my lap, but the other two were more scared of us than we were of them. “Can I keep it?” I asked Grandpa Opa, I must have been not quite a teen then. He shook his head, sadly. “I wish that they could stay,” he told me. “But, alas, they cannot, as they do not belong here anymore.” And then he whistled again to send them home. When I was thirteen my mom and dad moved away, and I moved on with them. I didn’t visit Grandpa Opa or Granny Oma for about three years. The reason we went back was a sad one, but I was so happy to see the farm again that I couldn’t help but smile. We buried Granny Oma in that back paddock, close enough to the stone wall. When Grandpa Opa whistled that evening it was a great dark cloud with arms as big as tree trunks and legs twice as thick that jumped over the gate. Following after this came five others, all clouds, all differing sizes and shades of grey. They danced for us, a silent dance which floated and flowed. Amongst them, Granny Oma twirled along to the tune we could not hear. When Grandpa Opa whistled again I could see tears in his eyes. We soon discovered why. When the clouds floated back over that stone fence, Granny Oma went with them. After that I tried to visit the farm, and especially the back paddock, at least once a year, but a part time job, University, and then boyfriends made it difficult. “She misses you, you know,” Grandpa Opa would say when I called him up on the phone instead. “Who misses me, Granny, Suzy?” I asked. “Of course they do,” he would laugh. “And I do too.” “I miss them too, just as I miss you,” I would always reply. “But that is not who you are talking about, is it.” There was a click at the other end of the call to show that Grandpa Opa had nothing more to say. Whoever it was or whatever it was that missed me, could not be named, at least not over the phone it seemed. When I did see Grandpa Opa next, he looked so frail that I did not have the heart to ask him something that seemed likely to cause him pain. I promised myself that I would save my question for another time. I was patient, I could wait. For my twenty-first birthday I told my mom and dad that I wanted a party at the farm. Six of my best friends and my younger cousin joined me there. We had a big bonfire in that back paddock, flames that rose up higher than houses. I should have told Grandpa Opa that we were coming, of what I had planned to do, but I was young and foolish and I did not want to trouble him. The flames burned bright, the fire roared loudly, and I and my friends were having a wonderful time. That was until my cousin Will decided to play on the fence. In all my life not one of us had tried such a silly stunt. Grandpa Opa told us all to respect the stone wall, that it was not a toy. “Get down, Will!” I called. “Get off the fence…” But Will only laughed at me and my concerns. “Like this?” he called back, and as he did he jumped into the darkness. Grandpa Opa came running across that paddock as fast as I had ever seen him go. His shrill whistle pierced the silence of shock. Out of the darkness came the giant camel again, but this time its old lady face was not smiling. Behind it I could see the shade of Granny Oma, standing at the wall, but not willing or able to pass beyond the veil. I saw too that Grandpa Opa could see the love of his life waiting there, but he knew that his focus was needed elsewhere. With tears in his eyes he bowed to the creature. On this occasion it did not bow in return, instead it opened its mouth, opened it up until its lips curled past its chin and its eyes. From that strange opening, as dark as the dark beyond the stone fence, my cousin Will stumbled out. “Quickly,” said Grandpa Opa. “Get him close to the fire, he needs to warm up.” As I hurried to Will’s side I grabbed him by his shoulders to steer him closer to the flames. I felt his body, it was colder than ice. He did not shiver though, he just stood there, numb. All of my friends started talking at once, but I could not hear them. All I could hear was Grandpa Opa’s warning from long ago and the absence of laughter as the strange giant camel creature just stood there, watching us. Grandpa Opa died a few days after that party. My cousin Will passed away from complications a few days after that. When we buried them both in that back paddock I could sense that Granny Oma was there, waiting by the stone fence, not yet able to step over. I could sense too that others were waiting, needing to hear that shrill whistle so they could join us in our mourning, aunties, uncles, brothers, and sisters from long ago. Sadly, the man who knew how to coax those wonders out from the dark was gone. I tried and tried to mimic him, his smile, his joy, his magical whistle. But the sadness stopped me, the loneliness made it impossible. All we had left was our memories, both good and bad. After that day I never visited the farm again. Too afraid was I of the ghosts that now dwelled on both sides of that wall. 💀💀💀 Tim lives with his family in Southern Australia in a little town called Murray Bridge. He is pretty sure that the Library where he works is haunted, although it is quite new so he is still trying to figure out why. Tim is starting to discover the joy of telling horror and ghost stories, exploring the darkness that he did not know was there. A True Friend was an opportunity to challenge himself to write in the dark and the light simultaneously. Not all ghosts are evil and not all monsters are under the bed... Flesh and Blood By Manaly Talukdar This story first appeared in the online journal Cotton Xenomorph on March 31, 2024 ![]() Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. My soldiers never came back. It’s been three weeks since they made their way to this cave castle--this abyss for sinners. Now it was my turn to enter. The smothering darkness blinded me, the fleck of light from the roofless dome miles above was no different than a star (lightyears afar) stitched in the night sky, cast only the faintest tint of an illumination. My arms, outstretched, palm-slapped the clay textured pillars. Water dripped on the flooded floor like the ticking of a clock. The hems of my dhoti drenched in mud water festered with chunks of human feces. With the back of my hand, I swatted the flies that bathed in the offensive, vile atmosphere and buzzed around me with zest. The word Hygiene was foreign to Kroja, a barbaric animal who limped within the walls of his den and was unbothered to discard the putrefied junk. My face scrunched up in disgust as I curtained my nose with a sateen handkerchief. The ale I chugged on to soothe my jittery nerves couldn’t shake the feeling that a pair of eyes surveilled my every movement. “Kroja! Where are they?” My voice echoed back. I descended a steep slippery stairwell encrusted with algae. The stench of rotten meat stained the atmosphere. Had his taste changed? Forgotten how to barbecue his meals? My steps halted midway when a guttural cry bounced and sizzled, before a blood curdling scream pierced my ears. “Norkov! Jade! Cezar!” I called out. I was served with dead silence, then a giggle that danced to the beat of flapping wings. “Who’s there?” I cried out as I punched the air, engineered to rely on my fight reflex. No response. I was sure he would use my men as a bargaining chip, their lives for his freedom, so he could claim an equal right to live amongst the mortals. They must have been chained, castrated in a windowless room, tortured for hours. He would recognize Jade and Cezar, the two soldiers I ordered to shackle and drag him through the streets while civilians had pelted bricks and stones at the bad omen. Their wisdom ripened after my incessant warnings, warnings that infused them with a sense of doom if they ever dared to orbit near the Darkness. They were terrorized of Kroja’s curse, infested with his unsympathetic wrath if his corrosive stare befell them. My pace quickened. Fire torches clung to the tunnel's brick-red walls and warmed the corridor which grew narrower as I progressed, my claustrophobia heightened. A rusty iron door marked a dead end. I tried twisting the handle, shook the door by its frame but it was sealed shut, I nicked my fingers in the process. As I turned to trace my way back, a copper glazed metal barrier blocked my way. I was a rat caught in a mouse trap. The air thinned in my lungs. The idea of dying in a confined space seeped in. “What the hell is this!? Kroja! Open this goddamn door!” I balled my fists and banged on the ironclad door, a cascade of thuds boomed. The door finally clicked open with a cackling squeak. A candle-lit chandelier hovered mid-air (the sole source of light), the marble floor covered in patches of shapeless apricot beige linoleum was littered with lumps of flesh. The rustle of chains, chants of gibberish mumbles, muffled cries of despair played like rhythms in an orchestra which harmonized a song of pain— a chamber of jailed compartments that housed an endless series of elevated floors that skyscraper-ed to the beyond. He preyed upon the souls trapped within these cellblocks, red-circled their sins, scribbled out a crude verdict for their upcoming rebirth either as an unloved human who would have no roof over their head or food on their plate, or a feral cat chased and assaulted for sadistic pleasure. How many had he imprisoned? My neck prickled at the thought of my soldiers being imprisoned amongst them. “The Prince of Light finally graces us with his presence!” He greeted me with a chirp of mockery, blanketed behind the shadows, leaning on the third floor’s balcony railing ornate with wind-chimes of bones. “Release them!” I demanded. Kroja slithered down a monolithic onyx column to bring us face-to-face. Scaled skin of midnight, emerald viper eyes, skeletal, wrists bejeweled in copper bangles, cheeks clean shaven. His matted hair ran from his scalp to his waistline like a high current waterfall. Kroja. My shadow self, a mirror which ruthlessly contorted my features. “Chopping my leg off wasn’t enough for you,” he said as he flaunted the tip of his coiled anaconda tail, “and apparently, neither was locking me up in this abyss for an eternity … so you put a price on my head.” My jaws tightened. “They came here to avenge their fallen comrades. I couldn’t keep sacrificing my men for your pet’s unusual diet!” I growled. “The world could do without you and Tara’s cruelty.” “Getting rid of your own flesh and blood for world peace. How heroic, Jorah!” He chuckled which exploded into a ripple of chortles, “The weight of that golden crown has indeed smitten your better judgement.” My fingers twitched at his insult. “Here, have my head. At least, I’ll be free from this hellhole.” He slid out a machete hidden inside the forest of his matted hair and tossed it at my feet, provoking me to quench my age-old pursuit, “and once I’m free, someone has to take my place.” He hissed out his forked tongue to stroke my chin and bared his stalactite fangs. “Your pristine light will begin to fade. You’ll avoid mirrors, reek like raw fish but you’ll get used to it.” He winked. My heart sank in my stomach, goosebumps sprouted on my pale skin, a cold shiver ran down my spine, ears pulsated. “The ones I save for my so-called cruelty are right here.” He swung his hand, gesturing at the entire prison chamber. “These souls have either defiled the innocent, slaughtered for pride and vanity or have corrupted impressionable minds. Some of your men belong here too, the ones who still have minutes on their clock but need to be stopped. So I let Tara have them for dinner.” He gleamed. “Have you forgotten what I’m all about, brother?” He arched an eyebrow. Silence had grabbed me by the throat. “I’ll make you a deal.” Kroja continued. A hyena-like cackle ping-ponged around the prison chamber, a man whimpered in pain. The grills of a cage rattled open, the insides faintly lit by the chandelier's candles. A vulture, as dark as obsidian, stood over my soldier Norkov, its claws deep in his back as he lay on his stomach. Puddles of blood oozed across his body, an eye was missing from its socket, and blood sprayed from his mouth as he belched an inaudible cough. The most formidable knight of my army, who could burn a village to the ground at my command, defeated and on the verge of being devoured. “Either you save him or save yourself from becoming me. Only one of you is getting out of here alive,” he announced. I collapsed to my knees, my crown the weight of a boulder. “Choose, brother.” I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine myself living in this murky abyss, wearing the shoes of my shadow self for an eternity. I didn’t want to lose Norkov, whose fierce loyalty I had treasured since the beginning of time. The Darkness had finally caught the Light by its leash. “Kro, I shouldn’t have locked you up like an animal. You shouldn’t have been amputated nor feared.” I began to plead, fumbling through my confession of unfairness done to him. “I was rather treated with disgust than fear.” His words a bare whisper. “I couldn’t possibly ask for your forgiveness, but if you give me a chance to earn it …” He bore a numbed expression as I continued making my promises “I could give you land and fortune, you wouldn’t have to live in this sewer anymore.” I paused, nails buried in my palms, “I will make a public apology, redeem your reputation. Make people bow their heads to you! But please, have mercy on us.” My plea for forgiveness masked as a bargain. My promises: a product of barter. “Isn’t that mat smooth?” Kroja eyed the carpet my knees were on, “it’s new!” Was he trying to change the subject? “Sure, but will you let us …” I froze when my fingers traced the surface of his new flooring muddled with discarded brownish-red organs. It was oddly smooth, like skin. I stared at the linoleum wide-eyed, my mouth fell open, tongue dried. Human skin! “I used Cezar and Jade’s meat-suits. Never thought they’d make a nice piece of decor.” He smirked, claiming a slice of victory. The helpless cries from the doomed souls tuned out as my vision blurred, my heart throbbed in my throat, I was kneeling in the pool of my deceased soldier’s remains. My mind reeled at my imagined scenario of Kroja sinking his poisonous fangs deep in their necks, taking his sweet time tearing off their skin, their flesh slushed upon this very floor. “They tried to tear off Tara’s wings.” He served his reason for slaughtering my seasoned warriors. Did they scream? They had a profound tolerance for pain. “Oh, yes. They screamed … for days.” The scavenger read my mind, “Your dead soldiers raped, maimed and killed thousands … if not tens of thousands. Mere blunders you call it, don’t you? They died in agony, I made sure of that.” “I’m not getting out of here alive.” I muttered to myself, unaware until now that I wielded a staunch blind faith over my appointed army. “You’re still the Light, if I snuff you out, the sun will never rise again” he said, “I’m good at revenge, but I’m not that good at revenge!” “But after what I did to you ….” My voice trailed off. “I have learned to live in the underworld. Turns out, I’m stronger here than up there in the mortal realm.” I failed to meet his gaze, my head bowed, fingers clutched my hair as his hand rested on my shoulder, “But if you really want to make an effort, you can begin by holding your men accountable for their crimes,” Kroja suggested. “Don’t make me come after them before their time runs out.” The rusted iron door flung open. I left as Tara pecked and chomped on Norkov’s flesh, sipped his blood till the light left his eyes. 💀💀💀 Manaly Talukdar was chosen as a finalist for her short fiction "Where is Grandpa?" in "The League of POETS" Weekly Contest (Week 1). She has been featured in Wilderness House Literary Review, Across The Margin, BlazeVOX Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Coalition For Digital Narratives, Masque & Spectacle, Corvus Review and The Broken Spine. "Flesh and Blood" will soon be featured on Kaidankai: Ghost and Supernatural Stories! You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @manalytalukdar and read her stuff on: https://linktr.ee/manalytalukdar Empty Night by Rick McQuiston ![]() Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. Paul crept up to the window. Strands of oily hair fell across his face, and try as he might he couldn't keep them away. I should've got a haircut,” he thought out loud. “I'd be able to deal with this crap better if I didn't have problems with my hair.” Louis looked over from his vantage point by a neighboring window. “Yeah, right. If your freaking hair was shorter everything would be okay.” “Shut up,” Mandy interjected. She was huddled in a swath of threadbare blankets. They were the only thing she could find in the house. “Those things out there will hear you.” Louis looked over, pale moonlight reflecting on his weary face. “Seriously? Of course they can hear us. Ghosts can hear everything. They're ghosts for crying out loud.” A chilled breeze swept past the house, bringing with it an unmistakable sense of hopelessness, an aura of lost faith and forgotten dreams. It seeped in through the cracks in the brittle weatherstripping framing the windows, seeking any opening it could. Paul brushed aside the hair that was in his face and carefully parted the tattered curtains over the window. A sheet of night filled the opening, a black rectangle that seemed to swallow all who looked at it like a hungry maw intent on a feeding. “Do you see anything?” Louis asked as he scanned the similar view from his window. He could only hope that Paul saw something he didn't, something that might help them. “No, nothing, nothing at all,” Paul replied in a deadpan tone. “Nothing but an empty night out there.” Mandy felt pain in her stomach. She didn't have any painkillers left and knew she wouldn't be able to find any more. All she could do was try to block the discomfort with her mind as she huddled into the blankets. Twice before she had seen the ghosts. The first time was when she was on her morning run and an elderly man stepped out in front of her. She couldn't stop in time and braced for a collision, but none came. Instead she just kept moving as if nothing had happened, although she did feel an uncomfortable chill sweep through her, and the man's face was like a void with eyes: empty and heartless. Just when she began to think the encounter was her imagination she was attacked the following morning as she was walking to her car in her driveway. Her assailant was a young man who came up behind her and got her in a headlock before she knew what was happening. “We outnumber you,” he whispered in her ear with breath that had no odor whatsoever. And then he threw her to the ground and landed a swift kick to her side. She gasped in pain and rolled over to get a better look at him for the police. But he had vanished. She looked in every direction and finally caught a glimpse of a vague, shadowy figure slinking off into the brush, and as she watched in disbelief, it dissipated into nothingness. It was then that she realized what she had seen and knew that she would never look at the world the same way again. Mandy pulled the mangy blankets up to her chin, trying desperately to wrap herself up as much a she could. The house had seemed like salvation at first, but now felt like nothing more than a trap. She wondered if the ghosts wanted them here. Had they planned this all along? She supposed it didn't matter though. She was trapped here with two guys she didn't know and whatever was outside the crumbling walls of the house would surely find a way in eventually. So she sat there, cocooned in her false sanctuary, clinging to the belief that somehow she would survive. A sharp pain interrupted her thoughts. It sliced into her abdomen like a surgeon's knife, peeling away protective tissue as it went. She doubled over, clutching her stomach and gritting her teeth. Paul and Louis looked over. Neither felt compassion for Mandy but couldn't let her suffer. They both scooted across the floor to where she was. Ignoring their thin concern she brushed aside the two strangers. “I'm fine,” she said quietly. “It's just a stomach ache.” She hated to lie but didn't want to make the situation any worse than it already was. Paul sat back against a wall. “So what do we do now?” he asked. “Do we just sit here and wait to die?” Louis crawled back to his window. “I'm not going to die,” he said with an air of contempt in his voice. “Not here, anyway.” The three of them grew silent then. A coating of stillness was draped over the room, magnifying the delicate rustling outside the house. “He said that they outnumber us,” Mandy suddenly whispered through a blanket. “The one who attacked me at my house. He said they outnumber us.” “Of course they do,” Louis added. “Do you know how many people have died over the centuries? If you go back through history and add up every single person who ever lived, whether it was for a minute or hundred years, do you realize how many there would be?” “I know, I know,” Mandy replied quietly. “Billions. Too many to count.” Louis snickered, reveling in the fact, despite their situation, that his point was well taken. “Bingo, and compare that with how many are walking around right now...” His voice trailed off as he thought about the implications. Paul spun around when something tapped against a window. The noise sounded like a jackhammer in church. He crawled over to the window and parted the drapes. Slowly, he lifted his head up until he could see through the glass... and into the glaring visage of a young girl. He fell back on his haunches. The girl pressed her face to the glass, but there was no condensation, nor did she blink her eyes. “She's one of them!” Paul cried out as he backed away from the window.” It's one of those ghosts!” The girl did not move. Her eyes, clouded-over orbs set deep within their sockets, stared ahead but saw nothing. It was as if she was no more than a statue, motionless, lifeless, void of emotion or purpose other than to be viewed by the frightened occupants of the house. Mandy crawled over next to Paul. The pain in her gut was crippling so she moved delicately, being careful not to aggravate it more. She nudged up to Paul. She had managed to avoid looking out the window but was finding it increasingly difficult to do so. Sheer curiosity, bolstered by fear for her own safety, was hard to ignore. “You sure you saw something?” Paul groaned. “Of course I'm sure. It was a girl and she was already dead. I saw her.” Mandy clamped a hand over his mouth. “Be quiet,” she whispered. She could feel something wet on her stomach and used her other hand to staunch it. She'd have time later to look at it, hopefully. “She might hear us. Our only hope is to stay quiet.” Paul nodded and pushed her hand away. “Fine, but I think you should know something.” “What?” “The girl, the ghost, she looked just like you.” Mandy was unaware of her mouth dropping open. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. And yet, in some distant and offhand way, it didn't surprise her. She took a deep breath and peered out the window. The girl stared back at her. Mandy ducked back beneath the window, her face frozen in disbelief and fear. “It...it can't be.” The window shattered then, spraying jagged shards of glass into the room. An arm, thin with the pallor of death, sliced through the opening. Louie pressed himself against the wall in a mad effort to put as much distance between the apparition and where he was crouched. It was all he could think to do. Paul scuttled away from the window as Mandy sat perfectly still. She watched as the arm bent toward her, skeletal fingers clenching and unclenching in an effort to find purchase. “Get away from there!” Paul shouted from across the room. He had holed up in a small shoe closet and was peering out from behind the door. Mandy ignored the warning, partly because she was well aware of the danger she was in, and partly because of something else, something intangible, something that she couldn't understand for the life of her. She was curious. She wanted to connect, so to speak, with the apparition and see what it was, what it wanted, where it came from. “Mandy! No!” Paul and Louis shouted in unison. The moment their fingers touched Mandy and the ghost both jerked their hands apart. Thin plumes of acrid smoke drifted up from the point of contact, further staining the already dank air of the room. The ghost vanished. The pain in Mandy's gut increased tenfold, causing her to double over. Her vision blurred into a misty and vague collage, her head throbbed, her stomach felt as if it was going to explode. You have been dead for days, the voice inside her head whispered. But now you are complete, now you can truly join the ranks of our growing army. At that instant a heavy pounding on the front door shook the room. “Why are they knocking?” Louis mumbled through his fingers. He had his hand clamped over his mouth, an involuntary response to keep quiet. “Their ghosts! Ghosts don't need to knock!” Paul inched out from the closet, just enough to get a view of the door, just enough to see that he, or one of them, had neglected to lock it. At that instant the door swung open, revealing two shadowy figures standing in the opening. They became sinuous, flowing into the room like a wisp of smoke. Paul slammed the closet door shut. Louis cowered in a fetal position, too afraid to move. Mandy stood, an indifferent expression on her face. The figures separated, one veering toward Paul, the other toward Louis. Both men were frozen where they sat. Fear rooted them to the floor, even with the threat of a supernatural death staring them in the face. Louis watched the figure glide across the room like a dream. It stood before him, its form shimmering in the dull light of the room, and raised an arm, reaching for him with graceful but frightening speed. He felt a cold hand, ethereal and yet corporal, vaporous and yet firm, delicate and yet strong. He hardly felt the life being choked out of him. Paul cowered inside the closet. The darkness felt soothing to him somehow. It was like when he was a child and hid beneath his covers at night, shielded from the terrors that lurked under his bed or in his closet. But those monsters were in his head, and these were real, and the difference between the two was not lost on him. He had his eyes open despite not being able to see anything other than darkness, and his hands were over his ears in a vain attempt to block the sounds of Louis gasping for breath. “Mandy?” he whispered. The knob turned and the door creaked open. He looked up, too afraid to not look, and saw Mandy silhouetted in the doorway. “I'm already dead,” she whispered. “I died days ago from an infection in my stomach. It gave me tremendous pain.” She gestured to her gut with a thin, trembling hand. “It took a while for my death to catch up to me, that's all, as it has to Louis.” She stepped to the side to reveal another figure behind her. Louis. “I died just last night,” he said without a hint of emotion. “It was a defect in my heart, from my father's side. I passed away in my sleep.” Paul struggled to breathe. Fear clamped its icy grip around his very soul, tightening with each passing second. “And now, Paul,” Mandy continued as she moved aside a little farther, just enough to show yet another figure, one that looked familiar to him somehow, “there's someone here who wants to meet you, someone who has been searching for you.” Paul saw the figure, the spitting image of himself, flow toward him in one seamless motion. He watched the shadowy hand reach out for him. A finger uncurled from the rest of the digits as it did so and stretched toward his head, eventually tapping on his forehead with its tip. Instantly, a fiery pop ignited in his brain. He hardly felt the aneurysm. 💀💀💀 Rick McQuiston is a horror fanatic who has been writing for over 25 years. He's had over 400 publications so far and is currently under contract with Raven Tale Publications for several novels. Currently, he is working on an anthology and a new novel. |
About the hostLinda 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. |