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Grandma's Cooking and Other Poems by Holly Payne-Strange Grandma’s Cooking
Wet and warm and squelch-y Like worms too lazy to wriggle, or eels, dredged from the sea. Her grandmother’s recipe had always disturbed her. The others laughed. It was only pasta, after all. Fresh made, home made, Italian fettuccine. Who complained about that? But she could have sworn she saw it move, when no one else was looking. One lone strand curling back into the bowl, Like a thief, slinking to a safe house, or an arm retracted in sleep. But no one else saw it. No one else minded. None suffered when they ate it up, seconds and thirds and leftovers the next day. So one night, knowing how very sick her grandmother was, Knowing it was perhaps her last chance to try, Gabriella grabbed a bite. The old woman smiled and said “Thank you for joining us. I was so hoping you’d be the final one to taste the dish,” And for some reason, everyone else looked relieved. Her grandmother died that very night. But somehow her voice lingered, and her perfume, And her recipe too. And Gabrelia found she didn’t care so much about teenage things anymore, Enraptured instead with old memories, remnants of wars and decades past. It doesn’t matter what bowl dinner is in, The dish will always be The same. Mist In Venice Venice is misty in November. And empty, most tourists long gone by now, When I hum, it echoes through the alleyways, Broken only by the occasional click-clack of high heels And the flow of the canals. It is my favorite time of year, so peaceful, so serene. The darkness is almost cozy. And when the blood falls, it glimmers under the winter moon, Practically glittering On the ancient buildings and fresh frost. And when I howl, only the poor, departed souls can hear it, Their faces twisting with an unbearable loveliness. Because My Voice is lovely, Far too lovely for mortals to endure. It’s a prayer, It’s prosecco and peaches And all things Eternal. So I scoop out their insides, I examine them, laying out plainly All their faults, All their accomplishments, Knowing all too well How sweetness makes it worse. Sometimes I do pity them, But it’s rare. The few, poor, twisted souls, That thought they could get a bargain deal By coming to venice In November. Have you seen my doll? Have you seen my doll? She has red hair, and a blue dress I sewed myself. They promised they would let her stay with me When they put me in the earth. But they lied! They lied and lied and lied! They gave her to my sister instead, just because she cried. The others in the ground felt me tossing and turning. “I’ll go and get it for you.” Someone finally wheezed, Voice shadow and bone. “But I’ll need some help.” And so a dozen or more scrambled out of the grave Mostly intact, leaving only a head or leg or- Oh! I think it’s over. I think they won! I think I’ll get my dolly back. Disappear Diamond I saw the Black Prince Ruby, gleaming on his chest. And then, I couldn’t look away. Framed with smoke, Hazy with greed made shadow. I never knew it was so perfect, an unblemished passion That glitters and cries as he walks. He is beauty beyond reason. I followed him even as my feet bled Stumbling, unconcerned, over rock and root. My clothes now muddy and torn Rain only a distraction from his silent grace. He walks into the darkness Earth shifts beneath my feet Cerberus howls in the distance. I’m so happy. I can’t explain why, Especially as he takes and takes and takes, Not even looking at me. Sun and sadness erased Everything surrendered And memory fades. I wouldn't Change him For all The world. 💀💀💀 Holly Payne-Strange is a novelist, poet and podcast creator. Her writing has been lauded by USA Today, LA weekly and The New York Times. Additionally, she’s given talks on podcast creation at Fordham University and The Player’s Club. Her English language poetry has been published by various groups including Quail Bell Magazine, Call me (Brackets), and Red Door, while her work in Italian has been published by We Have Food At Home. She would like to thank her wife for all her support.
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The Magician’s Assistant by Michael Fowler  Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. She phoned at midnight. Why she didn’t apply during the day, I had no idea. These working girls were hard to anticipate. My last assistant had left me without notice only a week ago. She cared too much for a young man, or an older man cared too much for her–it was the same with all my pretty assistants. So once again I was stuck with my props in my hotel off the French Quarter, unable to perform my act. Not the way I wanted to perform it, with a beautiful young woman at my side who anticipated my every whim. So I was taking a few days off. Everyone on the magic circuit knew it, and my hotel and phone number were well advertised. She could have knocked on my door or called anytime, but she phoned at midnight. “Where are you now?” I said, after picking up my phone from the table where it lay charging. The room was dark except for the moonlight streaming in the window. A couple of electric fans blew warm air through the shadows. I got the feeling she was a long way off, but had something urgent to tell me. “Behind you,” she answered. I turned and she appeared, standing between me and my futon, illuminated as if the moonlight existed only for her. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties, slim in a pale dress, running shoes, no purse or baggage, and no phone. Something about her round face and thin mouth looked familiar, her dark hair too, but I couldn’t say I knew her. Did I ever know any of these footloose young women, their inner beings? I didn’t know how she got in my locked room, either, or what made her draw the moonlight. “Neat trick,” I said, placing my phone back on the table. “Entering my room without permission and imitating a call. I can tell you have an aptitude for my line of work. When can you start? I’ll be evicted from this place if I don’t pay rent soon.” She looked so much like the perfect assistant, I couldn’t think that she had dropped in for any reason other than employment. “I can start tonight,” she said, not disappointing me. She turned and, with a certain authority, began to examine my stored props by moonlight, ignoring the light switch. Moving swiftly, she ran her hand along the coffin-sized sword box, wherein my assistants suffered many ostensible impalements, gave a nod of recognition to my trained birds, their cages now covered and silent, and glanced knowingly at a tall, rigged guillotine. “It’s a bit late to sell tickets for tonight,” I joked about the hour as I watched her pale form roam about. “And then there’s the matter of training. Even if you’re experienced….” “Watch,” she said, and from among my things chose a small, closed case. This held a glass sphere roughly the diameter of a saucer. I did a standard turn with it in my act, making the sphere levitate from the interior of the opened case to the height of my chin, then hover in the air a minute before gently descending to its starting spot. It’s impressive even if you know how it’s done, and few do. She placed the case on the table by my phone, opened it, and began waving her hands at the translucent sphere. Like her, the globe took on a warm glow, then gently rose in the air, to an altitude well above her head. She continued to guide it in extraordinary ways with her supple hands, along graceful arcs and curves from ceiling to floor, leaving me transfixed. My amazement increased when she herself vanished from sight, and the glowing ball traced its paths apparently unassisted. “Now you,” I heard her disembodied voice close to my ear, and the sphere flew toward my hands. As the luminous ball glided before and at times behind me, I moved my hands in imitation of hers, making it appear that I now controlled the sphere, though she alone did so. However she managed it, this would be a sensational illusion for the stage. In only hours, through the night and into the next morning, she taught me the paths the ball must take, as if they were a series of ritualized dance steps. An audience would observe me directing the ball, while she remained invisible and seemingly offstage, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers with Ginger there but not there. I realized in that time too–there was no other explanation–I’d soon be working with a ghost. Had I known her, this ghost, when she still lived? She made no such claim of me, and didn’t so much as give her name, let alone reveal why she had come to me rather than some other, perhaps more prosperous, magician. Our conversations, if you could call them that, were as much clairvoyant as verbal, and we spoke hardly a word, exercising our voices only as a last resort. Yet my ghost assistant and I shared a professional bond closer than I had felt with any prior assistant, and we soon began working the southern circuit of small theaters, dinner clubs, and carnivals, with occasional appearances on local TV, in VFW halls, and the like. As my name spread, our minor act brought in a steady if unspectacular income, but my assistant, who remained secretive and anonymous, declined even the meager salary I offered her. Money was of no use to her, I understood. Anyway, her expenses were minimal. She didn’t eat or drink or do drugs, as far as I could tell, and the spangled and sequined uniforms her predecessor had left behind satisfied all her wardrobe needs. When we traveled from town to town, by bus or train, she never paid for a ticket or hotel room, either. In a few words and by pointing, she explained that she folded herself in my suitcase amongst my stage costumes and street clothes during our trips. While I slept she wandered in her spirit world, so I gathered, and otherwise became invisible when it suited us. She favored the night, but would appear during the day as needed. Nor did she object when I brought guests, male or female, into our shared hotel room, but made herself scarce according to her discretion. She was a quick study as well, clearly at home in the domain of magic. Under her direction the dance of the floating sphere became ever more elaborate. After handing me the case with the sphere inside, my assistant would step offstage, but at once return unseen to take charge. Then the glowing orb would emerge and follow me in inexplicable but elegant curlicues as I walked or even trotted across the stage, my hands fluttering. I also heard her speak to the sphere, unmistakably offering words of encouragement, as if the glass possessed human understanding. The words were too soft for me to comprehend, or for our audiences to detect, but I sensed their tone and import. To my regret, I was powerless to compel the globe as she did, and she was unable to teach me her method. Yet I became so proficient at pretending to lead the object that I easily imagined its reins were in my solid hands, rather than her invisible ones. We also took the sword box illusion to a new level, since airtight spaces and sharp implements did not imperil her in the least. Without harm and to local acclaim, I inserted more swords into an obliging young accomplice than any magician before me in this crowd-pleasing trick. But her behavior, while more than accommodating in most regards, left me uneasy. I found myself increasingly tormented by her secretiveness. What was she really doing as my assistant? In particular, what was the purpose of this repetitive and ritualistic dance of the glass sphere? Though no audience ever complained, and I myself never protested, in my view it dragged on too long, longer than necessary to make its artistic point, and even passed into languor. The drawn-out motions of the glass, as it glowed softly, together with her low voice that I alone heard, at last convinced me that it was not merely a show in my world, but the working out of some practical task in her spirit world. Here my imagination spun freely: Was my assistant a princess who, dressing for a ball at the palace, carried from room to room with her a shining mirror? Was she a mighty goddess who, walking along a forest path at night in another realm, arranged the moon in the sky with her marvelous hands? Or was she–and this more mundane notion stuck in my mind–the caretaker of some animal, nestling a large egg or small, round creature? None of these was obviously the right answer, but it was the last one, about nurturing an egg or a creature, that I came to believe, due to a certain occurrence. One night during our performance, I heard the squeal of an infant from the mesmerized crowd. That had to be it: she was caring for an infant on the “other side,” and her rocking motions and cooing sounds were her interaction with the child. This scenario explained all the facts, as I understood them, and on the spot I felt its truth. At once, too, a foreboding came over me, that the ceaseless demands of an infant might dissolve our union, which for career reasons I was of course anxious to prolong. Later in our room I told her that I was aware that she was caring for an unearthly child, presumably at all hours around the clock, and even during our stage performances, using me as an intermediary nursemaid of sorts. Perhaps, by gliding about onstage and waving my hands, I was helping rock it to sleep, or even change a diaper, who knew? After she confirmed the identity of the sphere with a subtle nod of her head, I pressed her with further issues: “Why have you come here? What do you want from me?” She had never explained any of these matters, and I had gone on thinking of her arrival in my life as an odd fact that perhaps I would never fully grasp. “I don’t know myself,” she responded, at last moved to speak frankly. “But I felt I had to seek you out, since you’re the father. When I was alive I was your assistant too, in Mississippi near Biloxi, and bore your child. But I see you don’t remember me, though it was only a year ago we met. After you left me, I drowned by accident in a flood.” “There have been many assistants over the years,” I acknowledged, “and it’s likely some have died by now. That much I find believable. But I don’t recall you, and I never knew of a child.” “The child drowned inside me,” she said. “She was born…after.” “She was born after she died, is that what you mean?” I was intrigued by this notion. “Can she ever know her father?” “She may someday see you, as I see you.” “Look,” I said, anxious to console her but still unsure of what she wanted from me. “Let’s go away from here. With your help my career is building steam. We can quit the Gumbo Circuit. Let’s all three of us head north to LA, Chicago, and New York. You help me, and I’ll help you any way I can.” “It’s beyond my power,” she said. “I’m bound to the region where I was born and died, here in the South, the infant also. The child and I would be two fish trying to swim on dry land. As it is I’m not well and may vanish soon, my daughter too perhaps.” Having no secure future without her, I remained, but only until I hired another assistant, this one quite alive and willing to travel. Nannette and I caught a train for California as soon as we finished her training. My ghost partner was of course aware of my plans, and even encouraged me, adding that her own health was getting worse, though I didn’t ask what declining health meant for a spirit. I was determined to flee her and her ghost child without delay, since I felt she had taken over my act and even my soul in ways I was helpless to prevent. In plain words, I had become spooked by her. In my travels, though, I thought of her daily, well aware of how much my act had fallen off without her. Bigtime agents refused to see me, and Nanette and I could not get bookings on the popular late night TV shows or big show halls in Vegas and New York, any more than my homebound ghost assistant and I had, though I had trained the lovely Nanette well. I was still relegated to dinner clubs and old theaters and a meager subsistence. After Nannette left me one night, my inevitable fate with assistants, I caught a train south, and a year from the date of my departure arrived back at my old decayed digs near the French Quarter, alone once more. As I lay in bed late one night, staring at the moon beyond my open window, I wondered if I would again be visited by my spirit assistant and her daughter. Or was she done with me, perhaps even nonexistent now, due to her sickness? I had heard nothing from her in a year. Then the moon, shrunken to the size of a saucer, sailed into my bedroom, leaving only blackness in the night sky. The glowing globe looped over my pillow once and once again, then landed in a splash of light on my bedroom floor. When the glow faded, a young girl, not more than four or five years old, stood before me, dressed as a magician’s assistant. “Daddy?” she said. Could it be? Could she have grown to this size already? But how did time pass in her world? Did I know? She had her mother’s round face and thin mouth. Her dark hair, too, was the same, that’s all I knew. “Mommy can’t come, Daddy. She’s gone away for good. But she wanted me to tell you, I’m taking her place.” I climbed out of bed in my rumpled pajamas, my step faltering a bit. I had lost track of my own time too, and had aged more than I could account for. But I felt nimble and eager as I stood looking down at her. “You know all my routines, my props, my secrets?” I asked. “All my feints and ploys to fool an audience? Your mother taught everything to you, a mere child?” “Yes,” she said, “and I’m not bound to the Quarter or the deep South, like Mommy was. We can go as far as you wish to go, Daddy. Listen, we’re performing on The Midnight Show with Sonny Miller in New York City in twenty minutes. We’re a special attraction. Look, you’re already in costume, like me, and the stage is set up for our father-daughter act. Come on, Sonny’s announcing us now.” I really was decked out in my flashy stage suit, and I took my daughter’s firm hand. We sailed through my window into the dark sky, a new moon shining on us like a silver spotlight. Together we basked in the thunderous applause. 💀💀💀 Michael Fowler is a humor and science fiction writer living in Ohio. Come, Gentle Night By Roly Andrews  Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. Monsignor Laurentius sighed. It was raining again ,as it always did in this hellhole and God-forsaken place. He waved away another infernal mosquito. Sometimes there were so many they threatened to choke should he dare open his mouth. He hated this place, and he hated the people who lived there. He cursed to himself, remembering hot, cloudless days on the plain near Toledo, long siesta’s under the shade of laden olive trees, then late afternoon swimming in the cool waters of the Rio Tajo. Those were the days; a compliant flock of parishioners, still reeling from the ravages of the trials, bending and genuflecting, scraping and cowering under the presence of God and his representatives on earth. Cardinals, Bishops and Priests lived royally, pillaging souls and, for a young Father Laurentius - plundering bodies. That was a long time ago, a time before a fateful dalliance with the bishop’s niece. She was young, of ample portion and eager. It was easy. She was easy. The perks of the job, he thought. Saving people did not always necessitate reading from the Bible. Sometimes you could act out the scriptures. All the clergy did it. It was rumoured the bishop had sired at least three children and had taken multiple lovers. Women seeking a leg over and a leg up toward heaven and salvation. So, why shouldn’t he? Life was good – until. The page from the Bishops Palace had arrived sweaty and parched. He had run ten miles along a dusty road without stopping to deliver the message. The ruddy-faced lad wore the look that many page boys did. The look of knowing what secrets men hid. And what lay hidden beneath the bishops’ and senior clergy’s cassocks. Laurentis read the scroll. He had been summoned to the Cathedral of St Mary. He was to face trial for indulging in sins of the flesh—carnal Knowledge. Laurentis gulped, knowing he faced ex-communication or execution. However, fate was even more unkind. The girl had become pregnant, and he was to be expelled to the farthest reaches of the Spanish empire – the Philippines. He hated this place and the simple and superstitious people he was supposed to save. They disgusted him. They hedged their bets, they bartered their souls and prostituted their beliefs between myth and truth, between dark and light, between God and monsters. They fornicated like rabbits and lived like animals. His was the cruellest and most vile of punishments, banished from ever returning home. He would be left to die here. His days were filled with leading a mass no one could understand, baptising babies he knew would be forever damned, and marrying couples who religiously forgot their vows within minutes. He would often perform exorcisms on real or imagined demons, this was the villagers’ favourite rite, and he suspected many villagers feigned possession so that he would have to ‘put on a show’ and display God’s power. People came from miles away to see an exorcism performed. Then he would bury people, prey for their souls, all while dripping wet from the incessant rain and knowing no one was listening. His flock were no better than inbred savages. A young man approached as he opened the church door after the lunchtime siesta. “Monsignor Laurentis, may I seek your counsel,” “Yes, my son, how may I help.” “My name is Ramiro and I wish to know more about the Christian struggle between light and dark. Good and evil.” The Monsignor looked up and said, “I form light and create darkness; I make well-being and create calamity; I am the Lord, who does all these things, Isiah 45:7.” “You mean the Christian God also created evil? Why would he do that?" “No, Son, there is a mystery about evil. The Bible says it is the mystery of iniquity. The battle between light and dark, good and evil, is as old as death itself.” Ramiro smiled. “Surely you mean life; for without life, there can be no death.” The old exorcist chuckled, “You are mistaken, young man, but it goes with your age! Death walks with and then stalks us all; it is possible to be both alive and dead, or should I say, dead and alive.” “This is the wisdom I seek, Monsignor, the reason I have come to see you. As an exorcist, you tread the fine line between the living and the dead, the saved and the damned.” “Then tell me, my son, how can I help you?” “Forgive me, Monsignor, but I think I have fallen in love with an Aswang.” “This cannot be so, Ramiro. You come from a long line of mortals. A relationship between a mortal and an Aswang is immoral and impossible. I am sure you are mistaken. If you are not, you will be shunned by your family and fellow parishioners. You will be excommunicated. She will be ostracised and vilified. It is an impossible match.” “But I love her. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was the one.” “She has bewitched you then.” “Yes, but I go into this with my eyes wide open. I am mortal. That is true. She is not; that is probably true, also. However, the only thing truer, more honest and righteous than these facts, is true love itself.” “You are young. Your heart is filled with lust and lasciviousness. Your head has become confused. Confused primal urges with romantic notions of life and love. Wait, Son, give it time. You will soon see this match cannot be. It will pass, wait and see.” “I love her and want to marry her, Monsignor.” “Ramiro, Ramiro, your heart is true; I can see that. But it is mistaken. You must believe me! Tell me, where did you meet this Aswang, and what is her name?” “Her name is Julieta. I met her when my friends and I infiltrated a strange occult gathering deep within the woods.” “Why would you seek out and attend such a coven of depravity? Did you have no concern for your safety or the sanctity of your faith?” “We disguised ourselves as ghouls, covering ourselves with pigs’ blood, then rolling in the foul bog of Capiz. We were safe from the underworld, but not from our noses.” Ramiro smiled; the Monsignor’s body stiffened. His forehead creased. “Why pray tell, would you do such a thing?” “My friends took me there to forget about a girl. A girl called Resare.” “Is she an Aswang as well?" “No, she is a mortal like me.” “Why then was there the need to forget her?” Ramiro lowered his head and spoke softly, “unrequited love.” A deep chuckle erupted from the Monsignor’s lips. His facial hair, beard, and moustache, unamused, remained in stasis. “Now let me understand,” he started, “to get over a girl – your friends decided to drag you, kicking and screaming, no doubt, to a debauched klatch deep in the forest. Then, to ensure your mortality remained undetected, you defiled yourself with pigs’ blood and filthy quag!” Ramiro shrugged his shoulders, “it sounds foolish, I know. Although mistakes often prelude good fortune. " “Let’s not stop there, though, my son. While you were there, you met an Aswang wench called Julieta. A being you have fallen madly in love with!” Ramiro gulped, “yes Monsignor.” “She has bewitched you; cast a spell! The Aswang you have fallen for is a vampire. These vampires live deep within the forest, far from our towns and villages, yet they crave a diet of human blood. Disguising themselves in the shape of beautiful young women, they hope to attract a mate to marry and infiltrate the mortal community. Once married, they slowly suck the lifeblood out of their foolish husbands and the community they live in. Can you not see your folly?” “That is an old wives tale,” Ramiro scoffed. The Monsignor stood, “you came here seeking counsel, you feebleminded young man. Please do not throw this in my face. I have had Aswang in my church! They are clever; they accompany their husbands to Mass, only to dodge, duck, and weave the blessings I throw their way. I have seen it with my own eyes. Aswang are exhibitionists; they are vile and lewd. Did she expose herself to you? Did you see her naked flesh?” “It is true love,” argued Ramiro, now blushing. “Even if she is an Aswang, I wish to marry her and seek your support and blessing. She comes here at sunset, expecting we will marry and be together for eternity. That is what she told me.” “I will happily marry you both if you can prove this Julieta is not an Aswang,” suggested the Monsignor. “Have you seen her in the daylight? As you know, the old wives say they do not like the sun! Tell me, have you met her parents? Does she have the slippery tongue of a serpent and the teeth of a shark?" Ramiro sat in silence. The Monsignor softened his tone, “You are a gullible young man, but you aren’t the first, nor will you be the last. I cannot marry you, Ramiro; I would be signing your death warrant and going against every covenant of my faith and humanity. Ramiro, tell me honestly, did she kiss you? Did you feel her warm and ravenous tongue in your mouth? There is no point in denying it -see how the Holy oil boils when I bring it close to you. I noticed it simmer as you walked through the chapel doors.” Ramiro nodded. “Then there is no time to waste, Son. Quickly follow me – I have a plan. We must prepare!” *** The setting sun gave the impression that St. Francis Borgia’s big bald head was sporting a halo. A good omen thought the Monsignor. The stained-glass window never looked so vibrant and alive. After genuflecting, he crossed himself and said a silent prayer. He was dressed in a red chasuble to symbolise blood shed for Christ. A purple stole clashed on top. Just as well Aswang suffered blurred vision, he thought, the colour combination was undoubtedly a cardinal sin against decorum. He looked around the chapel. Four cramped chickens clucked in a bamboo cage within the transept. The chapel smelt of vinegar, urine, and spice, well-known Aswang deterrents. There were sufficient votive candles to fill a Quiñón, all gleaming softly, their flickering light filling the chapel with peace and serenity. He had prepared as well as he could, and the cold feeling from the two hardened blades of his Boko knives hidden beneath his vestments gave him added comfort. He looked over at Ramiro, his hands and feet bound in strips of red cloth. The same material was tied around his waist and neck. “It is time, Ramiro,” he said after a moment. “Are you prepared?” “No, Monsignor, I’m afraid.” “Do not be frightened; the loving arms of Jesus Christ will keep you safe. Trust in him, and you will be saved. Drink this, and I will perform the exorcism to drive the evil from your body. You will sleep; you won’t feel a thing. The colour red and the power of the Lord will keep the Aswang away from you. I will save you from her.” The Monsignor took a chalice from the altar and brought it to Ramiro. “Drink this – all of it.” “What’s in it?” “Nothing to worry about, garlic, lemon, spices, salt, ash, and crab blood. It will put you to sleep. Keep you safe when Julieta arrives. I will wake you up when it is over. I promise.” “Are you sure?” “Trust me, son; I am a man of God.” The instant the last drop passed Ramiro’s lips, he started choking. He fought hard against the binds that held him, straining to scream and cough. The Monsignor rushed over; pulling Ramiro’s neck bind, he inserted his wooden crucifix into the bind at the back of the neck. He twisted and turned it further, garrotting Ramiro until his eyes bulged. After a few minutes of writhing, Ramiro collapsed dead on the chapel floor. The Monsignor smiled; exorcism may save the souls of the damned, but murder was a hell of a lot easier and quicker. He picked up Ramiro’s limp body and carried him to the pews before the altar. He propped him upright with the help of bibles and twine cinctures. He walked to the vestibule, the hinges of the molave door groaning and creaking as the heavy church doors swung open. Now he just had to wait. The moon rose; excited, the nearby animals raised their voices and made their presence heard. The night belonged to them, and they knew it. The bats, the flying lemurs and eagle owls greeted the night with tumult-filled hysteria. “Tiktik, wakwak,” they cried to the sky, mocking the humans lying in their beds, hiding behind locked doors. The Monsignor hid behind a panel in the vestibule; for his plan to work, he would need to lock the door behind the Aswang. A tailless Leopard cat, eyes bulging, ears twitching, appeared from nowhere, poking its nose tentatively through the chapel doors. Picking up the scent of the deterrents, it spewed a deep guttural growl. It froze, hairs standing up. After a moment, the cat turned and walked away. Damnation, the Monsignor cursed silently. But the cat returned, sniffing the air, growling, baring its teeth. It peered into the chapel, spying Ramiro on the front pew opposite the altar. Without warning, the cat miraculously transformed into a bat! Then it took off at breakneck speed, flying straight into the arched wooden beams of the chapel’s ceiling. “Got you,” the Monsignor whispered before quickly slamming the chapel doors shut. Perched upside down, the bat screamed on hearing the doors slam, “who’s there?” “I am Monsignor Laurentius; Ramiro asked me to marry you both. I presume you are Julieta?” “Why is Ramiro not moving? Is this some holy trick – priest?” “He is sleeping, that is all; come down and look for yourself. You can wake him, and we can start the ceremony. Be quick.” “Why should I trust you.” “Because I believe in love as much as I believe in Christ.” Julieta changed shape again. She appeared in front of the altar as a beautiful young woman dressed in a long white wedding dress. Her beauty was immense, her hair the colour of ebony, her skin deep mocha. She smiled at the Monsignor, beautiful white teeth flashing behind full luscious lips. She floated over to Ramiro. The Monsignor walked toward her, Bible in one hand, wooden crucifix in the other “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions….” “He is dead, she screamed; you have killed him!” “…by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ….” She shape shifted again, this time tearing toward him in the shape of a wild boar, mouth-frothing, tusks protruding, dying for a fight. The Monsignor dropped his Bible and reached with two hands under his chasuble. He pulled out his two Boko knives, planning to dodge the charge and plunge the knives into the back of the passing boar. But the boar stopped. Julieta appeared before him naked. “Take me, priest,” she cooed. “Look at my flesh; it is warm, firm, and willing. Take me. Take me now!” The Monsignor hesitated, his eyes drifting like a pilgrim on a trail. She clasped her breasts, cupping them. “Look,” she said wide-eyed, “when was the last time you saw the beauty of God’s creation?” Memories of warm summer evenings on the Banks of the Tajo flooded back. The bishop’s niece, Eugenie, was sixteen and ripe. How he had indulged and savoured, how he missed that. The Aswang sashayed closer, eyes fixed on his, then looked down, smiling at his growing erection. “You want me. You need me, come, I will give you what you desire. I will take you places you have never been, priest. A life of virtue is surely no fun.” The Monsignor started to shake and tremble; his mind began to race. No one would know, he thought. No one would know. Julieta batted her eyes, lifted a round shoulder, tilted her head and twizzled her long locks. “I know you want to. Believe me; there is more pleasure in my body than within the gates of heaven. Give in to your dreams of carnal pleasure; let me be your guide.” She slid her hands toward her pudenda, her fingers gliding through her downy blaze. The Monsignor’s loins were on fire, the dull ache of chastity replaced by the agony of abstinence. The sins of the flesh calling to him, demanding to be heard. “No, no, no”, he stammered, “no” – lashing out with his knives, slashing indiscriminately at fresh air. He had already paid such a hefty price for prostituting his piety. He would not do it again. She disappeared. “I’m up here,” she mocked. He looked toward the ceiling beams; she was now a giant brown rat, teeth protruding from a bewhiskered pointy face; fleas jumped from her body, and he could smell her foulness from where he stood. The Monsignor started to pray again. “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, begone and stay far….” “Argh,” the rat spat back, scuttling across the beams toward the altar. It settled immediately above the wooden crucifix of Christ and proceeded to defecate over Christ’s head. The Aswang laughed. “That’s what I think of your Lord Jesus Christ!” The Monsignor became angry; he raced to the chicken cage. Reaching in, he pulled out a squawking recalcitrant chicken. The chicken was headless in less than a heartbeat, blood spurting explosively from its neck. He threw the excited but expired chicken into the air. It half flew, half ran in mindless circles throughout the chapel. All the while, blood spewed into the air, onto the pews and floor. The noise, the smell of blood, and the moving animal thrilled the Aswang. It leapt down and slivered quickly along the ground, stalking the ever-slowing chicken. The Monsignor saw the serpent’s tongue darting this way and that, in and out, so it might taste the still-warm blood. The Monsignor killed and released another Chicken. This time the snake moved with lightning speed and swallowed the chicken whole. “More priest, more,” it cajoled, “this is such a tasty appetiser before I feast on you!” He felt sick. The snake was covered in chicken blood and feathers; its devil eyes possessed the stare of the dead. All the while, its proboscis-like tongue ravenously sought more gore. He grabbed the remaining two chickens, despatching and releasing one at once. The chicken gyrated in its death throws. “I love this game,” the Aswan gloated, slithering off and quaffing the chicken, splaying its feathers into the soft light of the chapel. “More, priest more. I see you have one left!” “You must come and get this one,” the Monsignor demanded. He cut the chicken’s throat with one hand while the other held it firmly, refusing to release it to the evil stalking the chapel. “Well, what are you waiting for, come and get it,” he jeered, blood splattering all over him. The snake evaporated back into Julieta, the woman. Again, she was naked. She sauntered, hips wagging, breasts gently swaying. She moved toward the Monsignor, smiling and giggling. “I will take the chicken. Then I will take you.” Before she reached the last two feet, the Monsignor threw the chicken into the air directly behind the Aswang. Excited, she turned to chase. The Monsignor raised his knife and stabbed her in the back. She screamed; she fell. She raised the dead with her almighty fury. The Monsignor reached for his other blade and stabbed her again. This time the power was such that it impaled her to the Chapel floor. She grovelled, she cried, she spewed vile. She demanded the Monsignor release her. He didn’t. Instead, he poured the holy oil over her wretched body. It burned, and she convulsed. Smoke rose from her body, head to toe. She released a smell so foul it made him gag. He started to pray again. “Begone in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.” In one final act of defiance, the Aswang returned to the beautiful bride Ramiro dreamt her to be. She wore a virginal white gown, her face soft and innocent—a truly magnificent example of God’s aesthetic, an ironic illustration of light triumphing over dark. The Monsignor shook his head in pity and dismay as he removed the knives and picked Julieta up. He carried her gently and laid her next to Ramiro. He removed Ramiro’s binds and laid him down also. It was heavily raining the following day. Just after sunrise, Ramiro’s maid came to see the Monsignor. “Father,” she said, “Father, Ramiro’s family are worried sick; he did not return home last night. Do you know where he might be?” The Monsignor took her by the hand and led her into the chapel. “I am sorry; when I came to the chapel this morning, I found Ramiro and this woman called Julieta dead in my chapel. It appears he has been poisoned, and she has been stabbed!” “This cannot be,” the maid cried. “Why would someone do such an evil deed?” “A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe. Than this of Julieta and her Ramiro.” The Monsignor looked up at the recently polished crucifix and sighed. Head down, he slowly walked to the alter. Forever condemned, he opened the Bible and re-read Proverbs 6:16-19. There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers. He smiled, and whispered, “O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment: This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.” For while he was damned, at least young Ramiro had been saved. All credit is given to William Shakespeare – thank you, Sir. 💀💀💀 Roly Andrews lives in Nelson, NZ, in his spare time he enjoys tramping. After many years of practising, he is still trying to learn to play the trombone! A champion for everyone, he has mentored rough sleepers and supported people affected by suicide. He advocates for the rights of people living with disabilities. WEBSITE: rolyandrewsauthor.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/Roly_Andrews Facebook: Rolyandrewsauthor Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rolyandrews/ Linked-In: Roly Andrews YouTube: Roly Andrews@Rolyprop02 Spotify: Roly’s Poddy THROUGH THE SHADOW GLASS By Arpad Nagy  Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. It was more a shape than a face that moved behind the broken glass, and instantly, I felt drawn in. Pulled. I leaned toward the surface, and the figure moved with me. It remained obscured, partially masked by a veil of dirty fog that brushed over the reflective coating, distorted, and disjointed from the splinters of glass. I bent my head toward my left shoulder; my eyes focused on the figure in the shattered glass, and as I moved, the misty reflection followed suit. A large section of the mirror at the bottom right was undamaged. I moved to set my face in front of the untarnished shard; perhaps I would get a clearer look there. I wasn't afraid then. I should have been. *** "Ludwig Kalenteri was a fine man…" The words from Father Dennis faded to a mumble as I looked up at Dad sitting beside me, looking at the coffin as the preacher spoke about Grandpa. I jostled and poked at my brother, sitting beside Mom. Mom grabbed my wrist, leaned down and gave a whisper that still sounded like a shout, "Leave your brother alone and be respectful. Stop fidgeting!" I was fidgety. And hot. I wondered if all churches were so uncomfortable and never understood why we couldn't bring a water bottle—Mass always made me thirsty. I thought of the broken mirror in Grandpa's garage. I thought of the face I saw in the corner, and my body broke out in goosebumps, and my bones felt cold. I thought of the two words mouthed by the face that looked like mine. "Help. Me." A shiver ran down my spine, clear to my toes, and I felt a surge of panic rush from my ears to my fingertips. I never wanted to see that damn old mirror again, but I had to know if she was still there. I needed to know who she was. I knew I was going to help her if I could. Then, Dad took my hand, and we were standing again. Father Dennis walked by and nodded at Dad. "Okay, guys, let's go," Dad said quietly. As we walked down the aisle to the front of the church, I saw Father Dennis standing at the door and shaking hands with people, I pulled on Dad's hand and stopped walking. "Autumn!" Mom's voice snapped at me from behind. "I almost trampled you! You don't just stop right in front of someone!" I don't know what made me do it, but I squeezed Dad's hand to make him look at me. "What is it, Autumn? We're holding up the line." "Grandpa wasn't crazy, Dad. He was just sad. He was always looking for Grandma Berta." Dad's face went a little funny, but his eyes got wet, and he looked at Mom, then back at me. "Of course, he wasn't crazy, Autumn. Whoever told you that?" "Felicia," I answered. "Every time we visit, she asks me what it was like to have a grandpa who lost his marbles." "I don't like that girl, Autumn. I don't particularly appreciate how she's always glued to your side when we visit. Now get a move on." Mom said, gently pushing me forward with her hand on my shoulder. *** I tried to squeeze in, but there wasn't enough room. The door to the garage bumped against the front of the car. "What are you doing?" I shrieked and stumbled backward, bumping into the car. It was Juno. He was standing there with half a sandwich in one hand and two cookies in the other. I scowled, "Why are you always creeping up on me like that? Can't you mind your own business? What does it look like I'm doing? Ding wad! I'm trying to go into Grandpa's garage, but Dad parked the car too close, and I can't open the door enough! Satisfied?" Juno took a bite of his sandwich, looked at me and the car, then took a bite of a cookie. "Why don't you just move the car?" Exasperated, I explained the obvious. "Because I'm thirteen, numbskull. I can't drive." "If you hold my food, I'll move the car." "You can't drive either, genius. How are you going to do that?" "It's Gramp's car," he answered as he handed over his cookies and the half-eaten sandwich. "It's a standard." Taking his food, I watched dumbfounded as my little brother opened the door, got in the car, and vanished. A moment later, I heard a metallic click and pop, and the car silently rolled back a few feet before jarring to a stop. Juno emerged from the car, smiling, walked to the garage, and opened the door without impediment. "So," he said, reclaiming his food, "Are we going in or what?" Walking to the back of the garage, I felt uneasy and wondered if I should have Juno with me. I stopped at the covered mirror and then turned to my brother. "Look," I said, sounding as relaxed as possible. "I'm going to show you something, and it's weird." "Cool!" he answered, stuffing the last cookie into his mouth. We walked to the back of the garage. There it stood, beckoning, impossible to ignore. I grabbed the blanket and pulled it off the mirror. Then I kneeled on the cement floor, leaned into the corner, and looked. A face looked back at me. "Juno? Do you see her?" I could feel Juno's breath on my neck, which only made me more aware of the goosebumps on my skin. "Autumn? How come you look so old? Is the mirror wrecked or what?" I turned to face Juno, and the reflection that wasn't mine also turned and looked at him. Juno, transfixed on the mirror, took a half step back. "That's—that's not you—is it, Autumn?" We both looked back at the face behind the glass and watched as she mouthed the two words again. "Help. Me." Juno moved beside me and took my hand. We leaned in closer. I raised my hand to wipe the mirror, but before I touched the surface, her hand suddenly shot up ahead of my reflection, the palm slapping hard against the mirror from the other side. Juno screamed. He pushed his heels against the floor, throwing himself into me. My knees felt frozen to the floor. The hand pulled away, leaving only the pointer finger touching the glass—we watched as two words appeared in the filmy glass. HE'S COMING. Juno whimpered, "Autumn…" I jumped to my feet, grabbed the blanket, threw it over the mirror, grabbed Juno's hand and pulled him to his feet. Two hands reached out from the shadows in the dim light and grabbed our shoulders. "Yahhhhh!" a voice screeched. "Ahhhhhhhh!" Juno and I screamed. I pulled Juno to my chest, covered his head, and closed my eyes, waiting for the ghost from the mirror to kill us. Gleeful, shrieking laughter filled the air. Confused, I opened my eyes. It was Felicia—the girl Mom didn't like. "Ha-hah-ha! Oh, my god! You two dumbasses should see your faces! You look like you've seen a ghost! Ah-ha-ha! I got you good!" Pulling Juno with me, I brushed past my "friend." "Wait! Where are you going?" Felicia called out. "Oh, c'mon, don't be sissies! I was just joking around!" Outside, back in the sunlight and safe, Juno tugged my hand and stopped. He wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled on my hand again. "Autumn? Who's in the mirror?" Before I could answer, Felicia appeared behind my brother. "What mirror? Who's in a mirror?" *** "I knew it!" snapped Felicia, "I knew your Grandpa was a weirdo. Everyone in town knows he was crazy." Juno had calmed down, and I explained everything about the mirror to Felicia. I finished, not knowing what to say or think. "I want to go back in and see the mirror! I didn't see anything!" she complained. "Felicia, I don't think that's a good idea." "You don't know anything except that you saw some dirty old face and a hand. It was you, and it looked weird because the mirror is broken, and you two pansies got spooked." Trembling, I told Felicia the truth, "It—it wasn't me." Before I could stop her, Felicia sprinted to the garage door. By the time I reached the back of the garage, Felicia was pulling a crate from behind the mirror—I hadn't noticed it before. I glanced toward the mirror, relieved to see the blanket still covered it—tough talk or not, Felicia wasn't above fear; she'd been careful not to touch the mirror. "I think I found something." Reaching into the crate, she raised a hand holding a tattered paperback book. "'Transcending the Reflective Plane–Meditation for Moving Between Dimensions.' This is the key!" She stated. "Show me the mirror, and let's read what the book says." "Umm–I don't think that's such a good idea, Felicia." Felicia was older than me by a year and taller by three inches. She moved closer and looked at me, unhappy at being challenged. I wasn't ready for whatever this was. The mirror and the book seemed like things we shouldn't be messing with. I wasn't prepared for this. I wasn't brave. "It's getting late. My dad will call us in soon, and if he catches us in here, we'll have to explain what we're doing and what we found." The moment of silence stretched between us. "Okay, fine. But I'm taking this book home with me and studying each page cover to cover. We only have a few days to figure this out before you run back to the big city. I'll meet you back here tomorrow at 10 am!" Then, as suddenly as she had appeared in the garage, scaring us out of our wits, she stepped back out the door and disappeared. *** "Mister and Missus Kalenteri," Detective Blume said with well-practiced patience. "I know how hard this is, how emotional it is. But I need you to focus. When was the last time you saw Juno and Autumn?" "Please, Jeff," Julius Kalenteri told his childhood friend, "Let's go by first names here. Don't treat us like strangers." Detective Blume nodded and sighed. "You're right, Julius; I'm sorry. Look, May, Julius–I'm positive the kids are okay. They probably wandered off into the gully. There's no reception down there; they'll pop back up over the bank any minute. Probably wet and muddy but no worse for wear. May Kalenteri interrupted, her voice shaky, pure panic only a stitch away, "Jeff! They're not in the gully. I'm telling you something is wrong. I don't think they would go in the gully, not with the creek. Juno is terrified of moving water." The detective looked at May and Julius. "Let's start at the beginning," he said gently, "When did you first notice the kids were missing?" "At lunchtime," May answered. "They didn't come when I called." Detective Blume nodded, making notes . "Where was the last place you saw them, or where they were supposed to be?" "In the garage," Julius spoke up. "They said something about a treasure hunt. Felicia came this morning and said she'd found some clues, and they could solve the mystery." "Any idea what this mystery was, or what kind of clues?" the detective asked. May looked at her husband and shook her head. Julius shrugged. "I don't know. It sounded like kid stuff. I was happy they found something to keep them busy–it's been a tough week, not a lot of fun for them." "This is good news. That Staddler girl, Felicia, and her brothers practically grew up in that gully. If they are down there, your kids are in good hands. Felicia will get them out or help if they're in trouble. She's a tough kid." May suddenly changed her opinion about Felicia Staddler. "Okay, we'll get a couple of fellas on the ATVs and have them run the gully. If we hear anything, we'll call you immediately. The same goes for you. If they show up, give me a shout. Stay put." *** Tired from carrying the broken mirror through the woods and down the slope to the gully floor, Juno and I sat on a log. Standing a few feet away, Felicia flipped through the book's pages. "Okay," she announced. "I know what to do, but I gotta say, this is pretty weird; your grandpa sounds like he went crazy–but if what he wrote down is true…." "…. then that's Grammie Berta in the mirror," I said, finishing the girl's sentence. "Is Grammie trapped in there like those bad guys from the Superman movie?" Juno asked. "Kid, you're too gullible," Felicia answered. "Do you think it's true, Autumn? Was Gramps crazy?" "Of course, he wasn't. Don't listen to her. She doesn't know what she's talking about." I said while glaring at Felicia, who stood defiant, her hands on her hips, jaw jutting out, and staring back. "Gramps was sad, that's all. He spent all his time looking for Grammie. He was heartbroken." "Then Grammie is in the mirror?" Juno asked. "Stop jabbering, and let's do something!" Felicia ordered. "Get the mirror and put it in the creek. Make sure the glass is facing up." Juno looked at me, panic in his eyes. "It's okay, Juno. The creek isn't any deeper than your knees, and you can stay on the bank; I'll go in the water." I told him, taking hold of the mirror. "Just help me carry it to the edge." "You promise I don't have to go in the water?" Juno murmured. "Promise I don't have to go in the water?" Felicia whined, mimicking my brother's plea. "Geezus, kid, you'd have to try pretty hard to drown in this little creek!" "Shut up, Felicia! Leave him alone! He almost drowned, you know! He's allowed to be afraid." "Gee, sorry!" Felicia snapped back. "That was a long time ago, and he was little then. Even if he fell in, he couldn't drown, is all I'm saying!" A minute later, I stood in the creek, the water just above my ankles. The mirror lay submerged just as she had instructed. "Okay," Felicia ordered, "Now we get some big rocks to anchor it in place. The mirror can't move while we try and open the gate." Felicia stuffed the book in the pocket of her jean jacket and gave the next instructions. "Everyone gathers around and places their hands on the frame." With a glance at Juno, then me, Felicia said, "Juno, you can sit here on the grass and hold the bottom. Autumn and I will hold the sides." "Then what?" I asked as we moved into position. "Then we look through the water until it goes flat. Your Grandpa's book says that when flat water moves over the mirror, the glass will move like the creek. That opens the gate." "Then what?" This time, it was Juno asking, sounding much braver than he felt. "Then we wait to see who shows up first," Felicia told him. "What do you mean, 'who shows up first?' "Juno's courage cracked with his question. "It might be your Grammie Berta in there, or someone else, but the book says there are also other–things–on the other side. Things that want to come out and be on this side." "What do we do if we see one of those things?" I asked, masking my concern with false confidence. "Simple pimple!" Felicia replied. "We just muck up the water. They can't get out." At first, the soft undulation of the clear water made it hard to focus, and we had to hold our eyes open wide to see our muddled reflections in the broken mirror. Then the water turned flat as though it wasn't there at all. We forgot about the stream and looked deep and long into the mirror. The glass began to move. Hypnotized, we leaned in ever closer. Two hands slapped against the mirror from the other side and held. The face of a long-haired, old woman appeared, looking dark and sad, and she stared at us from beneath the glass, but I saw no relief in her eyes. I saw evil. The glass turned dark, its surface moving in slow, syrupy rings and curls. At the edge where the glass touched the wooden frame, pale, wrinkled, bony fingers crawled out. Unable to pull away or explain, I reached for the hands. Felicia's eyes went even wider. The words from the sentence underlined profusely in red ink in the notebook raced across her mind. "NEVER LET THEM TOUCH YOU!" "No! Autumn, don't!" cried Felicia. "SPLASH THE WATER!!" It was too late. In the mirror, falling deeper beneath its surface, the black glass folded around me like a blanket. In shock and horror, I looked pleadingly back at my baby brother. I reached a hand to the edge for Juno. Juno plunged his hand into the creek, clasping his hand around my wrist. The twisting curtain of blackness curled over my face. The old woman's pale arms pulled me deeper into the dark water; her fingers gripped tightly on my hips from below, and my brother clinging to me from above. *** Numbed by shock, Felicia pulled back from the water, but her hands would not give up their grasp on the wooden frame, and she saw the boy follow his sister beneath the water and through the gate. She watched through the flat water as the woman's face reappeared. As she felt the water filling her ears, her final conscious thought told her that the woman behind the glass was never Grammie Berta Kalenteri. Felicia watched the world wash away. The mirror rose and rode the water, following its bends, rushing through the small, rolling rapids. A few miles downstream, a group of children frolicked and splashed. A boy pointed upstream. "Look! I see a boat!" The pale, bony fingers slipped in beneath the mirror, it’s nails clinging to the edge. 💀💀💀 Arpad Nagy is a 50yr old proud Hungarian Canadian throwback romantic man who loves to write. After sustaining work injuries and being relegated to desk work, he dove into writing and has been doing so full-time since 2021. His passion is fiction writing, and his niche is romantic fiction, although he writes in many genres, including personal essays, memoirs, pop culture, and anecdotal stories about being a father, husband, and former careers as a chef, oil man, and civil construction. He is an editor for four publications, three for nonfiction and one for short fiction at Medium, where he has nearly 400 published pieces. Links; Arpad Nagy – Medium arpad56nagy (@arpad56nagy) / Twitter Arpad T. Nagy (@arpad.t.nagy.5) | Instagram Arpad Nagy | LinkedIn Arpad Nagy (@[email protected]) - me.dm by Medium.com Burn by Nathan Perrin  Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. Every night Chloe visits me in my dreams. Flames surround my bed, smoke all around. Her eyes look at me, lifeless. She's charred and bloodied all over. She floats. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing ever comes out. She's the last person I ever saw die in a fire. I was a firefighter - she was trapped in an apartment building. I was pinned to the ground. I made eye contact with her as she burned up. She never screamed. Her eyes, though. In my nightmare, her eyes seemed to plead with me: Why didn't you do something? I couldn't do anything. I was in shock, pinned to the floor. We just stared at each other as the flames consumed her. Every night, it seems she punishes me for not rescuing her. Chloe points at me as fire surrounds my bed. Why didn't you do anything? And then I wake up. --- I sit in the marriage counselor's office. My marriage with Zoe is on the rocks. She doesn't know how to handle me now - the unexpected anger, the mood changes. "Until you confront these things head on, you'll never be free," says the marriage counselor. I want to tell the counselor that he's full of it. He hasn't seen the things I've seen. He doesn't know what it's like to watch someone die slowly or to rescue someone. He doesn't know what it's like to come home to a silent, empty home with a wife who doesn't understand him. Instead, I nod my head - out of respect for Zoe. "I'm not sure how much longer I can do this," she wipes away a tear. I just stare at her, despondent. --- I drive to the driftless region of Wisconsin a week later. I'm using the benefits and backpay from the fire insurance injuries to take a brief vacation. "I need this," I told Zoe. She nodded her head, "You do what you want." "I'll be back," I touched her hand. "I know," she looked away. As I pull into the rental house's driveway, I take note of how isolated I am. I love this. In Chicago, it's so crowded - I can barely hear myself think there. I take my bags inside and stretch out on the couch. I enjoy the silence in the empty space. Wood paneling, a rustic feel. Packers posters on the wall, deer heads. An old shotgun. I chuckle. Cheeseheads will be cheeseheads. I lay down on the couch and close my eyes, and pray the usual prayers I do when I'm about to sleep. I learned them from my seminary days, when I thought I was going to be a priest. Chloe visits me again; she floats above me. This time she's in the new house. She points towards me and lets out a barely audible word. I lean in closer to hear. "Burn," she says. "Burn." --- I eat some pizza as I watch the television that night. My feet are on the table. I crack open a beer. I get a text message from Zoe: "How are you holding up?" it reads. I text back, "Am doing okay. Love you." I see her typing for a few moments. There's a brief pause, and then she sends a heart instead of whatever she wrote. I smile. Progress. The television shuts off. I sigh and pick up the remote, trying to turn it on. Nothing. That's when I hear something behind me. "Burn," says a familiar voice. "Chloe?" I turn around. There's no one else in the house. "Burn," the voice says again. Auditory hallucinations. I heard about this. My buddy Francis once had 'em. He told me to take earphones and listen to music should it ever happen. So that's what I do. I put in earphones and start walking up to bed. --- Chloe has a friend this time in my dreams. Her friend is a little boy, I think. He's wearing pajamas and he's on fire. "Burn," they both say. "Burn." "What do you want?" I ask. They don't respond. "Please… tell me what you want," I say. "I can help you." "Burn." I wake up in night sweats. "It isn't real," I whisper. "It isn't real." --- I'm washing the dishes as I listen to podcasts. I'm scared of what will happen if I take out my earbuds. Zoe is going to call soon. Hearing her voice will do me some good, I figure. I stop the dishes when I smell smoke. I turn around and start walking through the house, hands trembling. I take out my earphones. Walking from one room to another, I don't see any fires. That's when I hear the whispering again. "Burn." I walk into the hallway. "Burn." I walk downstairs, the whispering gradually getting louder. "Burn. Burn. Burn." I get to the kitchen. "BURNBURNBURNBURNBURN-" I close my ears and eyes and yell. The chanting stops. I open my eyes to see words burnt into the kitchen table: "LET US OUT." I sit at the table and trace the words with my finger. "This can't be real," I whisper. --- A few hours later, I'm on the phone with Zoe. "How's the vacation going?" she asks cheerfully. "It's going okay," I lie. I keep staring at the burn marks in the table. "You know… having the same dreams," I continue. "You remember what the counselor says. You have to confront this. You can't let this have power over you." I look at the bedroom and remember waking up in night sweats. "You're right," I say. "Do you remember when you wanted to be a priest?" Zoe continued. "Do you remember one of the things you told me?" "I don't remember much these days." "You said a true saint knows the night eventually ends, and continues forward anyway. Something about the fire purifying us." I pause and inhale deeper, "I sounded good back then." --- Later that night, I drink alcohol and swallow five melatonin. I have to fight this. I have to figure this out. Chloe wants something from me. I'm not sure if I believe in God or the church. I do believe in what I'm seeing though. And I need to fight this, whether or not it's in my head doesn't matter anymore. I need to be free. I need to release this. I close my eyes and soon fall asleep. --- Chloe visits me again. She offers her hand. "Show me what you want," I whisper. I grab her hand and we start walking downstairs. The living room isn't there. Instead, a group of what looks like settlers are gathered around a group of women and children. They are holding torches. The settlers' eyes are filled with gleeful rage. The women and children look up at me. "Let us go," they whisper. "How?" I ask. "How do I let you go?" "Burn," they say. "Burn." The settlers throw the torches on the ground, and soon the children and women are caught up in flames. I scream. "Burn it all down," Chloe whispers before I wake up. --- In the morning, I wake up and walk around the house silently. There was no history like that in the area. I grew up here. I would know about this story. But they're haunting me regardless, whoever they are. The only way to let them go, I figure, is to burn the house down. That's what they want. But how do I explain what happened to Zoe and others? How do I explain releasing these ghosts? How do I talk about it with anyone the next day? I notice the fireplace in the middle of the wall. I could easily make an argument that a log just fell out as I was sleeping and things caught on fire. I could portray it as me being asleep while it happened. It's doable, I figure. "Burn," I hear the whisper again. "I know," I reply. --- A few hours later, after the fire is going in the fireplace, I walk up to it and push out one of the logs onto the floor. The carpet soon starts to smoke, catch on fire. I sit on the couch and start drinking. I replaced the batteries in all the smoke detectors with dead ones, made sure there was no way they could hold me accountable. I close my eyes and wait for the smoke and flames to escalate, occasionally adding more wood to the fire. That's when I hear a slow creaking. I look up and notice a beam about to fall. I jump up and try to run. I'm too late. The beam hits my back and I am pinned to the floor after hearing a loud snap. Chloe is in front of me now, grinning. "Burn," she says. "Burn." It sinks into my heart that Chloe is trying to kill me - that this was a set up. I grab the staircase mantle and start trying to pull myself. Smoke is everywhere now, flames are catching up. It's only a matter of time before the flames reach me. Chloe is laughing. I'm in the most intense pain of my life as I pull myself out from under the beam. More pieces of the ceiling start falling. The women and children are all around me now, chanting. "Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!" The flames pass me quickly and start burning up the door. I know fire doesn't move as fast as that. Chloe is here to trap me. That's when Zoe's words come to mind. "You said a true saint knows the night eventually ends and continues forward anyway. Something about the fire purifying us." I remember saying that now, and where it comes from. In some early church theology, fire is used to purify us of our pasts in the afterlife - to free us. I realize I can either die here with Chloe or I can crawl through the fire. I clench and start crawling through the flames.They feel cold at first, followed by intense heat and pain. I can smell myself cooking and sizzling as I crawl through. It smells like pork and mushrooms. I keep my eyes and mouth shut. If I breathe in the fire, I am dead. If I open my eyes, I will be blind. Keep crawling through. The children and women are laughing at me now. "BURNBURNBURNBURNBURNBURNBURN!" I feel the door near me. I reach up and touch the handle. I hear the skin on my hand cook as the most piercing pain I've ever felt shoots through my arm. I clench my jaw tighter and pull my hand away. Memories of Zoe come to mind. I can do this. I reach up, hear the skin on my hand sizzling again, and twist the knob with every bit of strength I have left. The door barely opens and I push myself through. I roll off the porch and onto the grass. I roll until I extinguish the flames. I let out a gasp and start coughing. Steam is still coming off my body. I open my eyes and look at the house consumed in flames. The chanting has stopped, and it’s just Chloe at the window, glaring at me. That's when it hits me. There were no settlers. It was all a trick to kill me, to avenge the youth and innocence that was taken from her. I close my eyes and let out a scream to alert someone - anyone, to come get me. --- I wake up a few days later in the hospital. Zoe is holding my hand. "I was afraid I’d lost you," she whispers. She leans in, gives me a kiss on the forehead. "I'm so glad you're here," she brushes my hair back. I try to talk but can't. I know my voice will come back someday. Instead, I just raise my hand and touch her face. I mouth the words: "I love you." "I love you too," she kisses me again. --- Chloe still visits me in my dreams sometimes. Except now I'm on the outside of the house watching everything burn down. I don't feel guilty for not going inside. Chloe glares at me from the window as the flames consume her whole. Sometimes she screams when she visits. That's when I have to turn my back and walk away. There's nothing I can do. Then I wake up, and say a prayer for Chloe. I continue with my day as much as I can. I don't have to absorb her anger, I've decided. I can wish her spirit well and hope she eventually finds peace, but I can't let her destroy me. I've got too much life left to live. Zoe's pregnant now. I have to be there for my family. Whatever forgiveness and redemption needed to happen has happened. The scars and skin graphs tell me that I've atoned. I'm lucky to be alive. All I can do is watch from afar as Chloe stays in the burning house, stays in her anger. She is always full of rage. She used to hide it when she was luring me in. Now I see someone so deeply hurt and wounded that she refuses to embrace peace. Those screams still haunt me though, even in the daylight. It's something in my gut, really. I know I'll see her again, one way or another. 💀💀💀 "Nathan Perrin (he/him/his) is a writer and Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. His forthcoming novella, Memories of Green Rivers, will be published by Running Wild Press. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com" |
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. |
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