Timothy gazed at the colored folders lined up neatly across his desk. Each held the equity valuation of a company under stress, and one of them would be the target of his next acquisition. He had narrowed it down to these four: a bicycle manufacturer that recently lost its family patriarch to cancer, a construction company in a town with a declining population, an independent film studio, and a metalworking company in Japan in a cash crunch due to a natural disaster. Any of these options would provide Timothy with a financial windfall once he downsized operations and divested the assets.
    The problem was, he had been so successful over the last twenty years that a whole generation of upstarts had studied his techniques and were now his competition. He wanted a project that would show he was still at the top of his game.
    He stubbed out his cigarette, then, one by one, tossed three of the folders in the trash, reciting “Not your turn,” for each one. The yellow folder remained on his desk. Let his competition have the other businesses if they found them; it was time for Timothy to go international. 
    “Takahashi Metalworks,” he tapped the yellow folder five times, “it’s your turn.”
***
    Takahashi was late. 
    Rather than sit in the car and listen to his driver’s small-talk, Timothy had walked the perimeter of his soon-to-be acquisition, a concrete and metal monstrosity marred by streaks of black grime, but with a carefully maintained flower garden at the wall’s base. Haven’t these people heard of power washers? Timothy wondered. The monolith rose from a patchwork of rice fields that stretched as far as he could see. Dotting the fields were bonfires from which billowing gray smoke drifted across the fields, and every now and then, Timothy spotted shapes moving behind the veil of smoke.
    His self-guided tour over, Timothy leaned against the car, took a deep drag on his third cigarette and seethed that he had traveled half way around the world for this meeting, yet only he had arrived on time. The sun hammered down, sweat dripped along his back, and he noticed even the flowers were beginning to wilt. He was just about to return to the air-conditioned car when a black vehicle appeared on a ribbon of road that bisected the rice fields. It pulled into a rear entrance and parked next to Timothy. A heavily wrinkled man with a full head of gray hair emerged from the car, and jogged towards Timothy with an energy that belied his age.
    “My deepest apologies,” the man said bowing so deeply Timothy couldn’t see his face. “You have been inconvenienced, and I am ashamed.”
    That’s a bit extreme, Timothy thought, but he answered, “Don’t worry about it. I had a chance to enjoy the beauty of the rice fields. You are Mr. Takahashi, I presume.”
    “Yes. I am Takahashi Akira,” he bowed again. “Welcome to our humble town.”
    “Hah, yeah, it is humble. There’s not much around here, is there?”
    A wide smile spread across Takahashi’s face as he looked out over the rice grasses. “Not much but the fields that have fed us for centuries.”
    “Uh huh, so why are those people burning the rice?”
    “Because today is Obon, a time when our ancestors’ spirits visit. The smoke from the fires guides them to the lands they nurtured. If you look closely, some of the fires are moving. Those families are escorting the spirits to their homes.”
    “But today is a Tuesday. Don’t those people have work?”
    “Oh! No one works during the three days of Obon. That’s why only the two of us are meeting today. I should be at home now, but since it is the day you insisted we meet, I—”
     “Wait. Three days?” 
    “Yes, three days with the spirits we are bonded to.” 
    “Wow. Three days to vacation with ghosts.” 
    Takahashi’s lip curled slightly at his guest’s contemptuous tone. “Enough about the dead. Come inside. It is the living I would like to discuss with you.” 
    There isn’t much to discuss, thought Timothy. He had secretly bought 30 percent of Takahashi Metalwork shares over the last few months, making him the largest stockholder. Now, he was offering a cash infusion as long as he was given controlling interest in the firm. Most of the Board members had already quit in protest of these terms. He didn’t care. It would just make his work easier. 
    Timothy followed Takahashi inside, bored by his guide’s explanation of the company’s history and skeptical of the man’s claims that the company was renowned for its metal art. Nothing he saw stood out as being exceptional. Until they entered Takahashi’s office. Timothy could practically smell the flowers and hear the insects that were etched into the vases, tea pots and sculptures that filled the shelves on the wall. He bent down to view a metal flower so delicate, he held his breath for fear the slightest breeze would crack its stem.
    Takahashi walked to an ornately carved cabinet, its doors open wide to reveal a small Buddha sitting among wooden tablets displaying bold strokes of kanji and photos, cracked and yellowed, of men dressed in period clothes. He indicated a leather chair next to the cabinet.
    “Thank you for allowing an old man to ramble on about his family history. I am a little sentimental today.”
    “Well, that’s understandable,” Timothy lowered himself into the chair and lit a cigarette. “You’re turning over your company today. Do you have an ashtray?”
    Takahashi set an irregular-shaped bowl on the table in front of Timothy. Etched along its sides were grasses and waterlilies, and on its bottom swam metal koi. When tapped into the bowl, ash from the cigarette looked like mud at the bottom of a still pond.
    “My God! This is exquisite. It’s almost magical” he said to Takahashi, who was busy with something in the cabinet. Timothy realized the man had lit incense when its smoke tendrils, rich with the sweet scent of cedar, drifted across the table.
    “Are those your ancestors? The ones who made these artworks?” Timothy pointed to the photos . 
    “Yes, and these tablets, called ihai,  hold their spirits,” Takahashi explained.
    Spirits again? Timothy thought, then raised his chin and released a stream of smoke that entwined with the thin line of incense smoke wafting skyward, like a tether between this world and the spiritual one. The thick cigarette smoke cast a misty veil over the ihai and Buddha.
    Takahashi poured a cup of green tea for Timothy, then himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet the men and women who work here and make this company successful. They are like family to me.”
    Successful? Ha! Then why am I here bailing you out? Timothy thought, but outwardly he smiled and nodded.
    “It isn’t their fault that the company is in a cash crunch,” Takahashi said, as if reading Timothy’s mind. “We hadn’t fully recovered from the earthquake when the world economy collapsed. But, as you have seen from our records, our company is strong.”
    “It is.”
    “I am very happy you will partner with us during this difficult time. We would have gotten through this crisis, but with your international outlook and fresh ideas, I believe the company will grow even stronger.”
    Takahashi waited, expectantly. Timothy remained silent, unsure what the old man was getting at. He glanced down at the contract that lay on the table between them. 
    “Recently, however, someone told me that you—what is the word in English?—furlough?—Yes!— furlough the employees of companies you take over, but don’t always bring them back to work.”
    “You want an international perspective? There it is.”
    “Lawyers are so unimaginative.” Takahashi waved his hand toward the contract. “But people like us, owners of businesses, understand that companies are most successful when the people who work in them are successful. Their lives change when ownership changes.”
    “What are you saying?” Timothy’s growing frustration leaked through fingers that drummed against his leg under the table.
    “I’m hoping, now that you are here, to speak with you instead of lawyers.”
    Just say what the fuck you want, old man! Timothy involuntarily clenched his hands, his voice was slightly abrasive when he answered, “Is there something the lawyers didn’t address in the contract?”
    “I hope you and I can negotiate a payout for furloughed employees. Like what you foreigners call a golden parachute, but without so much golden, just a parachute.” Takahashi smiled, and what Timothy could only describe as a girlish giggle escaped the elderly man. Timothy ignored Takahashi’s attempt at humor. 
    “I didn’t come here to continue negotiations.” The incense smoke had intensified and wafted about Timothy’s head. What he had found aromatic a few minutes ago was now cloying. He blew it away with a cloud of cigarette smoke.
    “We are sitting in the room where my ancestors negotiated with Japan’s first foreign visitors, where they consulted with the heads of major international companies. Their bodies may be long gone, but their spirits are watching us now. To expand our company, I have agreed to give up family control of the business, but without some help for furloughed staff, it would be difficult for me to sign the contract.”
    “I flew half way around the world to get this contract signed,” Timothy grabbed a pen from the table and signed his name, stabbing the paper when dotting the ‘i.’ 
    He turned to Takahashi and jabbed his finger at the contract. “There. It’s signed. It may be difficult for you to sign, but do so by tomorrow morning or the deal is off.”
    He grabbed his briefcase and sneered, “Why don’t you consult with your visiting spirits about what to do?” He stormed out, a trail of smoke swirled in his wake.
***
    Timothy flung open the limousine door, threw his briefcase onto the back seat and jumped inside. 
    “What the hell took you so long?” he yelled at his driver.
    “Sorry, sir. They told me I couldn’t wait for you at the entrance.”
    “Who told you that? There’s no one here but us.”
    “Well… I don’t know who it was. The smoke from those fires got really strong and I could hardly see the building. Someone came out of the smoke and gestured for me to move away.”
    “Hmph.”
    “Back to Tokyo, sir?” 
    “No, the guy didn’t sign!” Rage surged through him. “I have to be back here tomorrow and I don’t feel like driving back and forth. Does this backwater even have a hotel?” 
    “Let me check, sir….” The driver lowered his head over his cell phone, thumbs tap, tap, tapping the screen.
    Timothy pulled out his own phone to check his messages; three from his lawyer, one from his mom, and--
    “What the fuck?” Timothy yelped. 
    “Sir?”
    “N…n…nothing.” 
    There was a text from his assistant, Brian. The problem was, for the last three months, Brian rested at the bottom of the ocean with a chain wrapped around his waist.
    Curious, he opened the text and read “It’s your turn,” at the same time a fiendish voice dripping with resentment whispered, “It’s your turn.”
    “Holy shit! What was that?” His phone dropped to the black leather seat, its screen glowing with the strange message.
    “What was what, sir?”
    “You didn’t hear that?” Timothy could feel his heartbeat in his skull. That voice had come from inside the car, as if something demonic was sitting right next to him.
    “I don’t know what you mean, sir. Is something wrong?”
    “No, nothing,” The phone screen had darkened. He pressed the button to turn it on. There was no message from Brian. Just his home screen with notifications from his lawyer and mother. 
    “Mr. O’Hara, there’s a five-star hotel about 20 minutes away.”
    “Five stars? Really? I’m sure it’s crap, but take me there,” Timothy said.
    He lit another cigarette, took a few deep breaths until his heart had slowed, then picked up his phone to answer his texts. 
    “Here we are, Mr. Ohara.” The driver turned onto a forest road lined with towering cedars. Sunlight punched through the thick canopy, but was too weak to cast away the shadows that had gained ownership of the forest floor. Timothy caught glimpses of a glittering lake through the dense forest, like a promise of some future pleasure, but only when the car rounded the final curve and the trees were replaced by rows and rows of stone lanterns guiding them toward a hotel ablaze in afternoon sunlight, did he feel the gloom of the forest lift.
    “Wow! Look at that,” Timothy said. A lake and mountain range framed the hotel. Its clay-tiled roof swept across the building like a wave cresting over an entrance decorated with a delicate wrought iron cornice of three gods seated on billowing clouds.
    “Well, you outdid yourself. What a great find,” Timothy told his driver. “Get yourself a hotel for the night and pick me up tomorrow at nine.”
    He ran up the white stone steps and passed the doorman when…
    “It’s your turn,” shrieked a hate-filled voice.
    Timothy spun around. The doorman looked at him expectantly. Timothy sprung toward him, pressing his briefcase into the man’s chest like a riot shield. 
    “What did you say!? What the fuck did you say?” Timothy yelled.
    “I…I…I asked if you had any bags, sir…I’m sorry, I…”
    “How can I help you, sir?” The Hotel Manager pulled Timothy away and guided him into the lobby, throwing a look at the confused doorman that implied he would take care of him later. “I’m so sorry about that. I assure you, I’ll deal with the situation. Now, let’s get you checked in.” He turned to one of the hotel staff hovering nearby, “Ueda-san, get the gentleman a glass of champagne. You do drink champagne don’t you, sir?”
    “Y…yes, thank you.” Timothy took a deep breath, wishing he could light another cigarette, but a No Smoking sign rested on the counter. He handed over his passport and credit card. “I’d like your best room.” 
    The champagne arrived and he gulped half down at once, then averted his attention to the details around him, a technique his mother had taught him to control the temper tantrums he had as a child. Inlaid paintings of flowers decorated the hotel’s panel ceiling. On one side of reception, wood parquet flooring led to a sunroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a Japanese stone garden and koi pond. On the opposite side of the lobby mahogany paneled walls, claret carpets and leather chairs provided a haven for shadows and contrasted starkly with the sunroom’s airiness. 
    “I’m surprised this small town has such a remarkable hotel,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne this time.
    “This hotel has quite a history,” the Hotel Manager answered in a tone that indicated he was about to launch into an oft-told story. “There is a company in town that is renowned for its metalwork and sculpture. Look around the lobby and you’ll see some of it: the wrought iron railing lining the stairs, the teapots in the sunroom and the statues throughout the property. The Takahashi family grew so influential, the great-grandfather of the current owner became Minister of State. He met dignitaries from all over the world, so he built this hotel to host meetings and summits. Even the Emperor visited for tea once."
    “Takahashi? This is the hotel owned by Takahashi Metalworks?”
    “Yes, you know of it?”
    Timothy laughed out loud at his luck. A hotel had been listed in the company’s holdings, but he had presumed it was like any of the cheap business hotels that populated Japan. But this place? His investment had just become more lucrative!
    The champagne suddenly tasted more delicious. Timothy looked around the lobby with a critical eye. Those chandeliers were probably real crystal and would bring in a pretty penny. The metal goods were clearly not as valuable as those at the company, but would find a market, and with so few customers, clearly he could cut some staff.
    “It’s your turn.”
    Timothy grasped the counter for support. Pain, like spoken tears, infused this voice. He scanned the room for its source. That woman, silhouetted against the sunroom window, hadn’t been there before. She leaned against the table the same way Robin had that night he--
    “It’s your turn.”
    The voice from the car, again, but this time, it was a mucous-filled gurgle. Chills crawled along Timothy’s skin, his knees buckled, and he gripped the counter tighter. The voice came from the shadow-filled sitting room. He set down the champagne glass, its base clanking loudly against the counter as his hand shook. He peeked at the hotel manager to see his reaction to the voice, but the man continued typing into his computer. Timothy turned slowly. 
    Smoke now filled the spaces between the shadows, veiling a figure in a chair. He could see only the man’s shoes and trousers, which clung to his legs as if he’d been caught in a storm. Timothy glanced outside, expecting to see rain. The sun was bright, the doorman a silhouette. When Timothy looked back at the sitting room, the smoke had dissipated enough to reveal a swollen hand clasping a cigar. Open wounds in the fingers oozed liquid that shimmered in what little sunlight had wormed its way to the room. The man raised his cigar, dispersing smoke with his movement and unveiling swollen, purple lips set in a bloated face. One eye seemed ready to pop from its socket, and a ripped cheek exposed white flesh.
    “Wh…wh…what…?” Timothy said, but his constricted throat released only a series of squeaks. He cleared his throat, but before he could say more, the manager said, “Ok. Finished. You will be in the Chrysanthemum suite on the top floor, where the Emperor once stayed. It has an extensive balcony with a beautiful lake view. I’ll send up a complimentary bottle of champagne, so you can relax and watch the sunset, which will be in about an hour. Ueda-san will show you to your room.”
    Timothy felt weak. The strange voices, the grotesque man. Were these things real or was he having some kind of hallucination? He needed to get to his room, get some sleep. 
    He downed the remaining champagne in his glass, “Instead of champagne, send up a bottle of your best whisky.” With that, he followed Ueda across the lobby, gawking at cigar man who, at first, stared back, but then stood up and began to walk toward the elevator. 
    “I don’t need to be shown to my room,” Timothy said when they reached the elevators.
    “Of course. Here you are, sir.” 
    Ueda handed over the key. Timothy rushed inside and repeatedly punched the button. Cigar man and another guest, this one in overalls with dirt patches at the knees and along the side of one leg reached the elevator. Cigar man reached his fingers between the doors as they closed, a pinkish ooze squirted onto the elevator floor. The stench of rotting meat assaulted Timothy. He gagged down the vomit rising in his throat and backed against the elevator wall. When he looked at the floor again, it was dry. No stains, but the rotten stench lingered. He closed his eyes. It has to be jet lag. He’d check in with his US office, drink some whisky, then go to bed early. 
    “It’s your turn…”
    He recognized that voice! Marie? His eyes sprang open. He screamed.
    Marie stood before him, her baby nestled in the crook of her arm and grasping the hand of her toddler. Each child had a black hole over its heart where the bullet had entered. He couldn’t see the back of Marie’s head, but knew it was blown wide open.
    “You’re dead! You’re dead!” he screamed at the ghouls. “Get away from me!”
    They stood in the corner of the elevator, staring at Timothy. The sparkle Marie had always brought into a room was gone, replaced by despondency. The baby rested quietly in her arms, but the toddler’s mouth opened in a silent scream.
    Timothy slammed shut his eyes, They’re not here! They’re not here! he told himself, willing them away. 
    Instead, a movie memory projected against the screen of his closed eyelids. There was Marie standing next to him on the factory floor, so eager to help, as he stood before a group of uniformed workers, assuring them that they needn’t worry about the rumors of layoffs and plant closings. The mental movie showed their faces change from fear to skepticism and then to hope when he explained Marie LaPlaya, trusted company manager, would be his assistant. “We will be transparent,” he had told the crowd, “and make this company more efficient and profitable.” And they had believed it! All of them! He had finished his work, then returned to New York, so he hadn’t seen their reactions when the local newspaper announced the company had declared bankruptcy and their pension fund was now worthless.
    Marie, a single unemployed mother of two living in a community that now saw her as a traitor, lasted six months after the bankruptcy announcement. He had read in the newspaper that she had shot her kids, then herself, when the bank foreclosed on her home.
    “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I’m just imagining this. They’re not here,” Timothy mumbled, almost crying.
    Ding!
    His eyes bolted open. The ghosts were still there. He darted into the hallway before the doors fully opened and ran to this room, not looking back to see if the ghosts had followed. He thwacked the key against the touch pad, raced into the room and slammed shut the door. 
    The refined comfort of the room and its magnificent view of the lake and mountains offered Timothy no peace. He paced. He had liked Marie. Everyone had. She had been diligent, friendly and a great liaison. Sure, he had felt sorry for her when he learned about her suicide, but whatever drove her to kill her kids and then herself wasn’t his fault. Why would he “see” her now, half way across the world from where she died?
    He walked out to the balcony hoping to distract his haunted mind with the view. A tourist boat had recently docked at the lake edge, and the disembarking voices floated up to him before drifting away.
    And what about those voices he heard? They sounded as real as the ones below. That curvy silhouette in the tea room downstairs had reminded him of Robin. Timothy kicked the balcony railing, trying to deflect the emotional pain that coursed through him at the memory of Robin. The last time he had seen her she had been leaning over her desk—the one they had made love on that first time. He had been mesmerized as the ample breasts that he loved to bury his face in shook with each of her sobs. He had known she would be angry about him selling the business to a competitor. But she was tough, like him, and they were in love. She’d get over it. He hadn’t expected her to break down like a sniveling child.
    “I thought we were going to run the company together.”
    “I did what I had to do. Of course we’ll still work together.”
    “And do what?” She had practically screamed. “Destroy other people the way you’re destroying me?”
    “Don’t be so dramatic. You aren’t being destroyed. We’re going to make a fortune off this sale. Then we’ll get married. You’ll be fine.”
    “I built this company. This company is me! But it’s worse off now than when you came in to help.” Timothy reached out to hold her, to wipe her tears and end the pain that infused her voice, but she recoiled from him, “Don’t touch me!” 
    “Come on. Don’t be like this.”
    “You’re a monster! How could you do this to someone you love?”
    “I didn’t plan on falling in love with you. It’s my business, and I can’t let emotions dictate my business decisions. I love you so much. You’ll be ok. We’ll be ok. I promise.” 
    Robin’s “You promise?” was lost behind her unhinged laughter. Timothy waited for her to gain control. “You promise,” she whispered through a sigh. Robin slowly wiped her eyes, drew herself up, then walked toward the door. “I never want to see you again.”
    “Wait!” Timothy called. 
    She turned to Timothy.
    “You have to sign the papers.”
    Robin said nothing. She looked at the floor, swallowed, then raised her gaze to Timothy. “If there is a God, you’ll get what you deserve someday.” She closed the door gently behind her.
    They never met again—her lawyer had signed the papers the next day. 
    A blast from the ship’s horn brought Timothy out of his painful memory. He bent over and rested his elbows on the balcony railing, his head in his hands. Oh, Robin, you would love this hotel,  he thought. A new group of tourists were boarding the boat, their laughter mocked his pain. 
    “It’s all that talk of spirits today,” he muttered, “it spooked me, that’s all. But…wait…does that mean Robin’s dead? No, no, they aren’t real ghosts, it’s just…Takahashi must have put something in that tea. I’m hallucinating.”
    The ship’s horn blasted again. At the same time a thumping on the door behind him…
    “Room service!” 
    “Come in.”
    The hotel waiter entered with a bottle of whisky. Behind him walked in cigar man, Marie and her children, Robin, the man in overalls who had been at the elevator and a few others who Timothy didn’t recognize.
    A cacophany of “It’s your turn, it’s your turn, it’s your turn,” in voices young and old, loud and soft, streamed from the ghosts and bounced against the walls and inside Timothy’s head.
    The ghosts fanned out across the room. Timothy gawked.
    They stepped solemnly toward him. Timothy stepped backward until the balcony railing stopped him.
    “Who are you? What do you want?”
    “I’m nobody,” “I’m employee #489,” “I’m expendable,” “I’m…,” a deluge of simultaneous answers drowned out the shocked hotel waiter's, “I’m room service.”
    “You don’t recognize me?” hissed Cigar Man, stepping ahead of the others.
    “Go away! GO AWAY!” Timothy leaned back as far as he could go. The balcony railing dug into him.
    “Sir, stop, you’re going to—” the waiter warned.
    The ghosts surged forward. 
    Timothy’s arms waved wildly to keep his balance, but Cigar man jumped forward, the gashes in his bloated skin releasing the putrefying stench of death and decay. 
    “It’s your turn…,” Brian said.
***
    “Such a shame about his death. He seemed like such a…nice… young man,” Takahashi said as he handed over the signed contract to his lawyer. “Make it known that his last act was to invest in a company he believed in.” He sighed as he closed the doors to the cabinet that housed his ancestors’ ihai. “I guess I’ll have to put off retirement a bit longer.”

                                                                   💀💀💀


Linda Gould lived in Japan for 26 years and fell in love with the people and culture, which inspired her to write a collection of short ghost stories that she told to visitors on late-night ghost tours. This is one of those stories.

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




Dierdre no longer heard the ssssh of her snowshoes in the snow or the pounding of the blood in her ears. To check her bearings, she peered out over the scarf wrapped around her face. The surrounding whiteness burned her eyes. She blinked and looked downward.

Despite turning to the blackness of her boots and the grey of her long coat, the false vision of white snow dancing before her persisted. Diamond shapes approached from her left and right, shimmering in the pale sun, and converged in an endless maelstrom. She knew these images held no more substance than the wind, yet she watched them, sometimes thinking she heard the music they danced to.

Her chest burned, as did the skin on her face. She had to keep walking. Her teeth chattered, and her chest heaved, laboring with each breath she took. To stop was to die. She would soon smell the fires of the village where Braden hid Riju and Laveda.
And when she found Bradan, she would kill him.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Therron and Jaeger, the village’s two mightiest hunters, brought the strange woman on their sled at twilight. She had traveled far and was well-provisioned, but the cold had overcome her because she was alone and on foot. She was too weak to talk and could hardly stand. The grandmothers removed her snow-encrusted furs and set her by the fire, brushing snow from her face and black hair.

Others whispered—who but an outlaw would travel like this? Where were her kin? She was dressed well and carried good weapons—an ax and a sharp knife—but this was a bad omen. The grandmothers said she was too cold and that she would never warm. Her skin was blue. Nevertheless, they nursed her. When she was able, she would tell her story.

At sunrise, the woman asked for food. They gave her warm broth and watched as she devoured it. They gave her bread and watched her devour that in turn.
“She will live,” the grandmothers decided. They did not say in her hearing that the cold had mottled her perhaps once beautiful face. It had also left its mark on her hands and feet. She would never again be whole.

They gave her dried meat. She ate that, too, as if she had not eaten for many weeks.

“Now that you’re feeling better, let us ask: what is your name? What is your business?”

“I am Dierdre.” Her voice came in rasps. “I seek my children, whom my husband abducted. Perhaps he is in this village? His name is Braden, the ironworker? And my son, Riju, a boy of some seven winters? Laveda, his sister, a dark-haired girl of five winters?”

Those listening exchanged looks and shook their heads. No one knew these people. Dierdre sighed. She would have to keep looking when she recovered. She wanted her children. She slept.
 
                                                                        ***
 
At dawn the next day, the villagers found their strange guest had disappeared. On her bed lay a gold piece, perhaps in thanks or payment. They saw no tracks in the snow. The wise women and the seer talked about the incident for many days but could make no sense of it.

The visitor ate and slept like a human. The cold had marked her, but she posed no threat to the villagers. Nevertheless, the holy men performed cleansing rituals on the chance the stranger had been a revenant. The holy men used the gold piece to buy food for the village and distributed it to the poor women.
 
                                                                        ***
 
A few days later, Dierdre came to another village. It was a fair day, so she had her hood thrown back.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” called a guard from atop the wall.

“I am Dierdre, and I’ve come seeking my husband, Braden, the ironworker,” she replied.

The guard stepped closer. “You come bringing plague!” he screamed. “Get away.”

“I’ve no plague. If you know of my husband and my children, I want to see them.”

“What man would want to see you?” the guard replied. “Your face is ravaged. I cannot let you in to kill my people. Go!” He drew an arrow and set it in his raised bow.

Dierdre remained where she stood. You damn fool. “Are you hiding Braden?”

“I know of no man by that name.”

“Very well.” She turned and walked away.

The guard lowered his bow. His hands shook.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Must keep moving, Deirdre told herself. To stop is to die. And I must find Braden.

She shivered in the fading daylight, wrapped her hood over her head, tied her scarf over her face, and kept walking.

The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke, but she couldn’t tell from which direction it came. She kept walking, hoping it would grow stronger and a cabin or lodge would appear. Perhaps in the growing dark, she’d see a light.

A cry of delight escaped her. She came upon a path. Even in the deep snow, the signs of the many feet that had trod here remained. Dierdre turned south and east. Surely, she would find shelter with a fire and food. Perhaps people there had news of Braden and her children at long last. How long had she searched?

Did the path lead anywhere? Yet the sounds of cattle lowing came when the wind turned. A holding lay somewhere at the end of the path.

Put one foot in front of the other. Must not stop. Must never stop…

She glanced toward the sky, tilting her head back. The sun never reached high this time of year. Daylight waned quickly. Dierdre kept walking.
 
                                                                        ***
 
Full darkness had fallen by the time Dierdre approached the lone cabin. Big enough for perhaps cooking and sleeping areas built around a central hearth, it lay nestled into a natural fold in the land. A long porch roof hid the only door. Dierdre surmised such a building must have been intended as a hunting lodge, a temporary shelter for hunters far from home.

Why the livestock, then? It made no sense. Could it be a den of outlaws. Nevertheless, she knocked on the door.

Silence met her. She knocked again.

A woman’s voice called from the other side of the door, “Who calls at such an hour and in such a lonely place?”

“My name is Dierdre. I search for my husband, Braden, the ironworker.”

A longer silence met these words.

“I know of no such person,” the woman said.

“May I at least have a place to stay for the night? I am alone.”

This, too, was followed by another long silence, as if the woman were conferring with someone. Dierdre told herself she should not be annoyed but nevertheless grew more so with each passing moment.

“I will offer you all the hospitality we can. In return, I ask you to treat my foster father with respect. He has sought refuge under this roof.”

Dierdre could have screamed in exasperation. “I will treat your foster father as my own,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Very well. You are welcome, Dierdre.”

From within came the sounds of several locks being opened and a chain drawn. In a few moments, the door swung open.

Dierdre stepped across the threshold. The warmth of the hearth fire greeted her.

“I am Alma,” the woman. “Come sit by the fire. I’ll get you a bowl to wash in, then some beer and stew.”

“Thank you.” She removed her snowshoes, politely leaving them by the door, and removed her outer furs and face scarf.

Alma held out the bowl of tepid water for her guest to wash. Dierdre took it, glancing at her hostess’s face. “Thank you.”

Alma only stared at her without saying anything, her eyes wide. She turned to fetch the beer and stew, casting beseeching eyes toward her foster father, who sat wrapped in furs at the far side of the firepit.

Dierdre accepted both. Before she sat, she addressed the man. “Sir, I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome, Dierdre.”

Something in his voice caught her ear. She sat on a bench by the fire and ate a mouthful of the thin stew. “If I may ask, sir, what is your trade?”

The man smiled.

“Father—” Alma began.

“No need to fret, my dear. When I could do such things, I was an ironworker.”

Dierdre set her spoon down. “As is my husband.”

The man merely smiled.

“You know my name,” Dierdre continued. “May I ask yours?”

A cry escaped from Alma, but she said nothing.

“Surely, you must have guessed it by now.”

Dierdre said nothing.

“I am Braden, whom you have sought for so long.”

Dierdre set her stew and beer down and raised the ax she carried. “You stole my children!” she cried. “I’ve been a wanderer since you abandoned me! Now you die!”

Alma ran, interposing herself between the enraged woman and her foster father. “Have mercy, I beg of you,” she said.

“Dierdre,” Braden said. “you’ve accepted shelter under my roof and food from my larder. Where are your manners? You cannot murder your host. At least listen to me. Please—finish your dinner. You must be so hungry.”

“You left me with nothing! And robbed me of my children. Where are my children? What have you done with them?”

“I will tell you everything that happened. I give you my word. The children are well and happy. You would be so proud of them.”

Dierdre wavered. “Tell me about them.”

Braden smiled. “Riju built a great hall and leads a band of two dozen men. He has a little son. Laveda married a great chieftain across the water. She holds many acres of land and has a daughter and a son. Not bad for the children of an ironworker, huh?”

She resumed her seat on the bench and set the ax on the floor before taking a sip of beer and a mouthful of the stew. Alma kept her place between.

“Oh, seeing them would make you so happy. They have done well.”

“But how is that possible?” Dierdre asked. “They are little children…”

“Not so little anymore. Look at me. I am an old man. I will join you soon.” He pushed back the furs around his head, revealing a head of gray hair.

Dierdre peered at him. “Braden? How is this possible?”

“I’ve spent many years running from you,” he said. “I am tired. My foster daughter agreed to care for me this winter in this lonely place.”

“What happened? What did you abandon me?”

Braden remained silent for a long time. When he spoke, he said, “I did not abandon you. You must remember—there was a fire. Probably from my forge. Do you recall?”
She shook her head.

His eyes met hers, unflinching even faced with her terrible gaze. “I woke you. I thought you would get out on your own. I saved our children, for I knew they could not help themselves. I heard you scream, but it was too late. I could not get to you. You could not come to me.”

Dierdre’s face contorted. “You lie. You say that I am dead, but that is not so…”

“If you look, you will remember. If I could have saved you…”

Her body trembled. She screamed. The sounds were not words, but they spoke of her mourning and terror as if she were still in the flames. She cried, shocked at Braden’s abandonment, lost in unspeakable pain.

Silence fell, even more dreadful than Dierdre’s wailing. Braden stood and walked to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“A thousand times have I relived that day,” he told her. “A thousand times have I tried to save you and failed. But abandon you? Never. Take our children from you, their mother? Never. Forgive me, Dierdre.”

She sobbed.

“Forgive me. Release yourself.”

She turned her marked face up to his, her breath coming in gasps. “Killing you was all I lived for. It would serve no purpose now.”

Braden chuckled. She squeezed his hand.

“I will sleep here tonight and leave in the morning,” she said.

“You are welcome. Alma and I will make you comfortable.”

She nodded, letting a few tears fall.
 
                                                                        ***
 
In the morning, Dierdre departed without rousing anyone and set out for the west.
 
                                                                  💀💀💀

​Denise Longrie’s work has appeared in Spank the Carp, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Danse Macabre. She has self-published a nonfiction guide to pre-1900 speculative fiction. She is (…still) working by the flickering light of a Jacob’s ladder on a sequel treating twentieth-century pulp science fiction. In a previous life, she worked as a pharmacy technician.

​

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


The long lingering fingers of trees droop down lazily, as though they do not see me watching them, as if I do not know them. I tremble just a little at their touch, their fondling, velvety seeking.  Perhaps they do not believe that I am real. 
       Moving swiftly now, enduring the clawlike scratches of sharp twigged tendrils as they touch me, I focus upon my goal. I know where I must go and nothing shall deter me. 
       There are tales of unseen places and there are wishes unspoken in each of us as we move through this existence.  I am a believer of tales and I glory in the magic of such things and now I am compelled to follow this path despite its obvious hindrances. 
       Breathlessly, I slip forward, ignoring the protest of dead and dying leaves beneath my feet and the slithering creature that observes me and then sleekly escapes the dark path. Does it rush ahead to alert that I am coming?  That there is an intruder in the woods?  One with purpose and passion? Or does it sense a darker intent with my approach? 
       As I draw closer, the scent endows the air with indefinable odors, yet I taste the touch of mold and things long dead, and the promise of something alluring and beautiful.  Rather than repel me, this malodorous scent compels me forward. 
       Moving quickly now, I slip through the forest into a clearing, barely discernible.  If I close my eyes, will it disappear?  This place of magic that shrouds itself in forest and enchantment? 
       My heart is thudding brutally and my body is burning to twist and run away. I have never forgotten the scent of danger. It is deeply entwined within my DNA. 
       It is waiting there.  Watching. Patiently. I understand that it might well wait for all eternity as time is meaningless to those who are not comprised and perhaps even cursed by mortality. 
       In my mind, I hear the laughter of children as they pluck candy and other sweets from the famed witch’s house, an enticement for her young prey. I detect only the irresistible allure that drives me forward. This is not a dragon’s cave. Certainly, I have nothing to fear as I am not a hapless child, yet there is a coldness within my chest that shivers through my body and radiates into my limbs and excruciatingly into the tips of my fingernails. 
       If I look away just for a moment, the house disappears and shrinks back into the trees, yet I refuse to abandon this quest and I shall not close my eyes and stumble into a trap. It must be my over-wrought imagination as this house, no matter how strangely manifested, cannot possibly know that I am approaching.  Or does it possess a natural defense against any and all intruders who find their way into these woods? 
       Is there no sense of self-preservation within me? Do I seek that indefinable monster that may well devour me? Is it that inquisitive desire that allegedly killed the cat that now drives me forward relentlessly? 
       The aging, rotting door screams in protest as I shove it open and I enter into the suffocating darkness.  The reek of evil is nearly overwhelming but I persist. Not for the first time, I begin to hold a concern that I may be dream-walking as so often occurs with me as I have awakened in the past and found myself naked, standing under the moon, bewildered as to how I had arrived there. I cannot tolerate the feeling of not being in control of my body and my mind, especially while I am vulnerable and sleeping. 
       The corpses of forest creatures litter the room, half-gnawed, awaiting the return of the killer. I step lightly over them, despite the fresh gore.  I attempt to avoid the taint of this carnage.  It has nothing to do with me. Something has hungered and it has fed upon the foolish that were ensnared within its trap. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I would react in the same manner if I found a dismembered and decomposing human corpse half-eaten in this place.  I shrug away the thought. I cannot be distracted. 
       I am driven to see and to understand.  It is a simple thing.  We must all face our fears and, ultimately, our own demise. 
      The thought arrives unbidden and I cannot cast it aside, for death is queen here in this place of darkness, waiting quietly here in the forest for its prey. Have I become prey?  And why would I, with above average intelligence and sentience, choose to come here and walk amongst remnants of animals?  Was that haunting call in the night the voice that has brought me to this place? To what purpose? 
      I cast my eyes downward, feeling utterly chilled, fully expecting to find myself nude as has occurred before.  It seems there is nothing that can be done. When I fall into the domain of slumber, I am giving myself over to another’s control.
      Is that what is happening here?  Have I been compelled to stumble through the forest in the blackest of night, with not even a whisper of a moon, just to see what lies ahead at the end of this path?  Do we always want to know where that road or trail might lead us?  Why are we not content to ignore the challenge and move on and keep our soul intact within our fallible flesh? 
      All the monsters are here. I am certain of it.  I try to close my eyes tightly against that inevitable reveal but it is useless. I have opened a door to this which I fear cannot be drawn closed and most certainly not locked against the things that await me.  
      I jerk, opening my eyes wide, as I hear the creak of a board in this place of bitter wood and weeping sorrow.  There is no escape. And I am not alone. 
       A streak of blinding light nearly causes me to clamp my eyelids tightly against it again but my thundering heart and foolish bravery will not allow me to cede defeat. I have come here to find answers. I have searched for the knowledge and it now lies before me and it presents a danger beyond my wildest fears. 
      They called me evil. They said I was wicked and that I should die by the fire or the crush of stones upon my chest.  The hatred that blazed in their eyes and their frothing mouths did not alarm me as it should have done.  Rather, it confirmed my own belief that humans are far more wicked than the demons they insist they are pursuing.   
      When their dogs began dying and the milk of their cows turned as sour as rhubarb upon the tongue, I watched and listened to their whining.  None dared to blame God. Or Mother Nature. Or even the Old Man Himself, Nick, in reality the one known as Satan?  They tried not to say his name as though even thinking of him would conjure him into a reality that might well end their pitiful lives. (How could they, with their limited imagination, believe that the Dark Angel would squander his time and talent upon beings such as them?)
      They even screamed profanities when the cats did not die along with the other animals, insisting that felines were the chosen companions of Satan’s Bride and were, therefore, exempt from the killing disease or curse that was being inflicted upon the hapless canines. How would they know such things if they could not even bear to say his name?
      I observed the sleek strolling cats who now reigned amongst domesticated animals, although we are all aware a feline cannot be tamed, not even by the rule of magic. There was a preponderance of black cats which seemed to drive the populace absolutely mad.  It was the Devil’s work. He who could not be named was messing with genetics and assuring that black cats dominated the scene. It seemed no one recalled how the ancient Egyptians worship Bastet and honored her for the protection she provided against diseases and other injuries.
      Attempts were made to murder the felines. Still, I watched in silence, stifling my laughter.  These damned fools could not even control the animal population of which they believed themselves to be their masters. (My laughter was an honest reaction to the idea that they were not only trying to herd and capture felines, but they intended to massacre these wily creatures just because they were afraid of the potential darkness of the black cat and that she/he might be a familiar to one who served the Dark Master. 
      When the cattle and sheep began to die in agony, the entire temperature and mood of the community altered.  A true icicle of fear reigned over the townspeople. They began to distrust their servants, their mate and, eventually, even their children were plunked into the water for the drowning test. 
      I remember the pitiful wails of the children.
      “Mother help me, please!”  And mothers turned away lest they, too, might be besmirched by the taint of suspicion. Elderly women were tortured and paraded nude before the judges.  Their own sons did not dare to defend them. 
      Yes, this house had seen it all and it had endured.  I sniffed slightly at first, ultimately daring to breathe in the scent and the memories that inhabited these walls.  There was a sense of safety, as the house had undoubtedly been protected by enchantment and it had protected those who might be accused and huntedt.  That power no longer held here.
      I dared to breathe deeply again, understanding the danger. There are some things that we should never know even if we ask the questions.
      I felt the cries of the children again and the heat of the flames, totally shocked that they had dared to burn innocent young ones.  Truly, the curse of this travesty would find them and kill them in horrifying ways.  I was certain of it. The evil would return to them threefold. 
      And now I knew exactly why I had been haunted by my dreams of terrible flames and hideous homicides of so many innocents here and this house had been a refuge where some had survived the fury and the monsters who sought to destroy them.
      They quoted their black book.
      “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
      Yet, in that same book, King Saul consulted the Witch of Endor despite that taboo and the great risk to the witch. The King might have easily accepted her words and then had her put to death.  And what of Jezebel, the Queen of Israel, who was murdered because they wished to steal her kingdom? They always played the sorceress card whenever they wanted to steal or murder.  And I understood that even today, these murders continue to occur when they use every trick and rule at their disposal to murder powerful women. 
      Is this why I am here?  Is this why I have been called by my dreams?  I understood that bitter and tragic times were coming and I had been compelled to come to this place in the woods for a reason.
      With shaking hands, I saw the outline of a book, begrimed by dirt and years of idleness. It was nearly obscured by the shadows of time but I could not escape its validity and I could not ignore its importance. 
      I knew this book had been waiting for me.  My fingers reached into my pocket as I felt the small key that had been given to me by my grandmother so many years ago and she had urged me to keep it safe and that I would know the time when it would be needed.
      Hands shaking, I moved to the book and inserted the key into the lock.  A flurry of dust forced me to cough briefly as I gently opened the book, revealing heavy script carefully crafted in a beautiful flowing message. No matter the language or the code, if that was its design, I immediately understood.  This book had been waiting for me. I was the code-breaker and I was the designated keeper of these secrets which would now unfold before me and my purpose would be revealed at last. 
      Above where the book had rested, there was an object that was draped in dark linens, already ragged and worn by the ravages of time.  I knew when I cast aside these cloths and revealed the hidden thing beneath it, my life would alter forever.  
      The path had led me to my destiny just as my dreams had brought me here as well. 
      I realized I had no need to cast aside the cloth but I spoke the words from the page and the ragged materials disappeared as though they had never hidden anything. 
      A young woman looked back at me from a mirror.  Her face glowed, her eyes were veiled in ancient wisdom and mystery, and I understood that image was my grandmother, my great grandmother and many who had gone before me in our line and some had paid the blood price for that heritage, yet always assuring that the knowledge would be intact and kept for the next daughter. 
      We were the Keepers of Magic.
      With a wave of my hand, the house restored itself, the dead rodents came to life and scurried away, the congealed blood evaporated, and I saw only that face in the mirror, that progeny of a powerful bloodline of magicians and witches.
      I had come home at last.

                                                                  💀💀💀

 Linda Sparks has been published in multiple anthologies and podcasts including  Kaidankai, Ravens Quoth Press, Lothlorien, Spillwords, Sweetycat Press, (she was awarded the Emerald Prize for her poem "Dancing Girl"), and she loves writing dark, Poe poetry and short stories. She has 28 published books as she writes Horror, Fantasy, Science Fiction and mystery. She served as Editor for Valkyrie Magazine as well. She lives with her family in Florida.

​The Monster in the Dungeon first turned up in the Flame Tree Press in 2020


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





​So, here I am, stuck in a dungeon, surrounded by monsters.
Yeah, I know, what’s a dungeon doing in Crake’s Landing, the most boring town in the universe? Nothing exciting ever happens here.

At least until now.

I find it hard to believe, myself, but here I am in a genuine, old-fashioned, grimy-
walled dungeon. I’m not alone: I’ve got a zombie and a ghost for company. We’ve been trapped in here by a vampire. All I need is a werewolf to complete the set.
I’m not entirely sure how I got here…

                                                                        #

Courtesy of the parental units – who else? – my name’s Amanda Amelia Moon, but everyone just calls me Mel. Everybody apart from my mother, that is. I’m always and only Amanda to her. But the bit of my name that really matters is Moon.

The most exclusive group at school is the Maidens of the Moon: me, Becky and Kevin (don’t ask, it’s complicated). Becky’s the bright one – yes, she does wear glasses – and Kevin is the artist, but I’m numero uno. It’s my name and it’s my group. I’m not a brainiac, I’m definitely not cheerleader material, I’m too well-balanced to go the emo route, and I really don’t see singing and prancing around on stage as my thing.

So, I set up my own club: my rules, my people.

Despite the name of our little association, we’re all thoroughly grounded in reality.
We don’t dress like goths or hippies, we don’t pretend to cast spells, and we definitely don’t prance around in the nude during full moons. We love the idea of the supernatural; who doesn’t? It’s all entertaining twaddle – I’m a fan of Twilight and Sookie Stackhouse, Kevin’s a real Walking Dead-head (don’t get him started on where the TV series diverged from the comic books!), and Becky’s favourite characters are Eve and Kristof from the Otherworld series not to mention Patrick Swayze, but I think that’s because he’s a hunk, not because he’s a ghost.

Everybody knows there’re no such things as vampires, zombies and ghosts.

                                                                        #

Kevin found some pictures of a Ouija board and created a gorgeous copy for an art project. You can imagine how well the board went down with the teachers at our overly-conservative school, in spite of the effort Kevin put into it. The obvious craftsmanship of the polished oak. The delicately inlaid teak lettering. He even spent days creating varnish from some old recipe, and weeks of applying layer after layer, to make the surface shine.

Letters were sent home, and parental visits were endured. Were we being corrupted (though, by whom was never specified), or were our parents too lax? Were we going to flip one day, and burn the school down, or douse it in pigs’ blood? Come on, people, it’s just a plank of wood with some pretty letters on it! It’s a good thing that only head-spinning is considered a sign of possession, and not eye-rolling, because Kevin, Becky and I did an awful lot of that.

Anyway, it blew over eventually, and the Ouija board was all but forgotten.
A few months later, I suggested we dig out the board; it was Halloween, after all. We
gathered in my room with a sneaky bottle of vodka that Becky had liberated from her older brother. I closed the curtains to cut down the sunlight and hide the pink wallpaper (thanks again, parentals), then lit some black candles to create the proper atmosphere.

We were having a giggle, passing around Halloween make-up and my silver hand
mirror, the one with the handle in the shape of a gothic cross. Becky had used up pretty much all the white make-up, going for the ghostly look, and Kevin was painting his arms a decaying grey with the occasional suppurating sore.

We weren’t getting much from the Ouija board, though: so far, the planchette had
spelled out D-G-N-V-M-P-Yes-B-E-G-H-S-T-K-L-Yes-Z-M-K. Kevin said it seemed to be using text-speak, and we must have contacted a very modern spirit. I suspect our laughter had more to do with the booze than with Kevin’s statement.

I spilled half a glass on the Ouija board, totally an accident, somehow making a
smiley face pattern. Before I could wipe it off, the vodka reacted with the varnish, emitting a foul smell and a bubbling hiss. As I stared, the smile seemed to get wider, and then…

                                                                        #

I’m not sure what happened next, but I must have passed out. I came to with my cheek pressed to cold, damp stone. This wasn’t my bedroom. In the light of sputtering, greasy torches, I took in slimy walls and rusty chains, and Becky and Kevin slumped on the floor. A heavy wooden door indicated the only exit. It was locked, of course.

I peered through the huge keyhole and saw some keys hanging up on the wall, so far
away. There was an oddly-shaped crate in the outer room too. I felt my heart stutter when I realised what it was.

“It’s a coffin!” I shouted.

“What’s a coffin?” Becky seemed confused, as if she wasn’t seeing the same as me.
Kevin’s gaze skipped around the room, not settling on anything, as if he was stoned.
I struggled to make sense of our surroundings. Who has a coffin in a dungeon? a
small voice in my mind asked. Another voice answered and, all of a sudden, the first part of the Ouija board message made total sense: D-G-N was dungeon and V-M-P must be vampire.

We’re definitely in a dungeon, and vampires really do exist. Somehow, one had discovered that we were on the verge of uncovering his secret, so he kidnapped us. Crake’s Landing had a vampire, and that must be his coffin!

The others refused to believe me, ignoring the evidence right in front of them. Maybe Becky isn’t as clever as we all thought, when she’s under pressure. Or maybe it was the effect of the vodka and the fumes from the varnish. I still don’t understand why the others were so much more affected by it than me, but at least one of us still had a clear head.

“We have to get out of here and warn the town,” I whispered.

“Warn the – what? I don’t know what’s going on, but we definitely need to get away.
What’s wrong with the door? What happened to your room? And what’s wrong with Kevin?”

Kevin had pulled his shoes and socks off, and was counting his toes.

Becky and I beat on the door until our hands were scratched and bruised. The
dungeon contained a rough wooden chair and table. The hand mirror from my bedroom sat on the table; how did that get here? No time to think about that. We poked at the keyhole with the handle of the mirror to no avail: lock picking really isn’t as simple as it looks in the movies. We searched every inch of the walls, even tried scraping at the mortar with the mirror handle, but all we managed to do was break the mirror.

We lay back against the wall, making no sound apart from exhausted panting, as we
each sank into our thoughts. I was thinking about the Ouija board and, with a snap, the next bit of the message became clear.

“Hey guys, B-E-G-S-T-K-L means Becky, ghost, kill! B-E for Becky, G-S-T ghost,
and K-L is kill – obvious. When Becky’s a ghost, she can pass through the door and open it from the other side.”

“What? Wait a minute, Mel! That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think? The letters could
spell anything: begin, strike, lock – we ought to start hitting the lock with, erm,” Becky petered out. “With something.”

“Look, you’re not going to die – well, you are, but you won’t be really dead, you’ll
come back as a ghost. That’s got to be better than becoming a vampire’s buffet.”

It seemed so completely logical to me, but I didn’t have time to convince the others. I grabbed a bit of the broken glass from the mirror, and plunged it into Becky’s chest. She really wasn’t getting with the game and tried to fight me off, but I knew that the only way to save the town was to kill Becky. Kevin watched with huge eyes as I pushed harder, cutting my own hand too.

Becky’s body went limp and, after a few moments, I detected a faint wispy shape
easing out of her. It was her ghost, just like the Ouija board had told me. It looked at its body and seemed to sigh.

I pointed at the door, and Becky drifted out of the dungeon towards the key. I held my breath as she reached for it. And then her hand passed right through it.

I smacked my forehead, splashing blood in my eye, and wincing from the sudden pain in my injured hand. Something I hadn’t realised was that, while she could get out of the dungeon because she’s incorporeal, she couldn’t pick up the key, let alone turn it in the lock.

Becky re-entered the room and shrugged. Still, she would be able to make some noise and attract the vampire down here, where we could overpower it and escape. Somehow…

I looked at brain-dead Kevin and, in a flash, the rest of the message came into focus:
Z-M-K – Zombie Kevin. Of course! Zombies are strong and, because they’re not alive, the vampire wouldn’t be able to exert his Jedi mind powers on them. And he wouldn’t want to drink dried-up, rotten zombie blood.

I sliced the broken glass across Kevin’s throat – not too deep, I didn’t want his head to fall off – and he gurgled, then became very still.

After what felt like hours, he twitched and slowly sat up. I guessed I’d have to watch
out for him attempting to eat my brains, but that’d be a worry for later.

“Right, Becky, you go out again, and make some noise to draw the vampire down
here. Kevin can grab him when he comes in.”

I threw the chair against the door, breaking it into pieces but barely marking the door. I grabbed one of the legs to use as a weapon. Kevin moaned in the corner, but he was doing his best, bless him.

The plan worked. The door opened, and there he was. Long white fangs, blazing red
eyes, black cape – the whole shebang. I held up the mirror handle cross in an attempt to slow him down.
“What’s all the crashing? What are you lot up to?” There was something familiar
about his voice. Then he shouted “What the –?” He called behind him, “Martha, call an ambulance!”

The vampire morphed and, for a moment, looked like Dad. Was my dad the vampire, or was this some mind trick to fool me into submitting to his will?

I took no chances, and pushed him into Kevin’s arms. He was a bit slow to grab the
vampire, but somehow they ended up getting entangled. I stabbed the broken chair leg into the vampire’s chest. The blood-sucker struggled for a few moments before expiring with a gasp. I expected him to collapse into a pile of dust, but the body just lay there, on top of Kevin.

Strangely, it took on Dad’s appearance again. Maybe there was some residual magic
that made him retain this shape – despite all my reading, I didn’t know much about real monsters.

We’d done it. We’d opened the dungeon and even killed the vampire. Crake’s
Landing was safe again!

I pulled Kevin out from the vampire’s embrace and on to his feet, and dragged him
towards the door. It was heavy work, and Becky was no help – ghosts really are useless.

Before we could make our escape, something else materialized to block the exit.
“What’s all this commotion, Amanda? And what’s that about an ambulance?” A
pause. “What have you done to your father?” The voice had started quietly, but ended on a choked-off shriek that pierced my mind.

I saw a flash of pink. And damaged walls. And Mom at the door. And Kevin in my
arms. And Becky and Dad slumped on the floor. And blood dripping from the furniture and seeping into the carpet. And the Ouija board, with a bubbled pattern in the varnish that looked like the laughing face of a demon. The demon winked at me. The flash faded, and I was back in the dungeon again.

The werewolf that was once my mother lifted her fur-covered head and howled.

Demonic laughter still echoing in my ears, I grabbed the broken mirror, hoping the handle really was silver, and launched my attack.

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

 

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





The screechers are here. Their shrill, angry cries resonate in the dark crowns of the trees, cackle in the branches of the bushes around the house. Emily can’t figure out what kind of bird they are. So, she just calls them the screechers for the terrible sounds that they make. She presses her face to the glass to try and get a better look but can never catch a clear glance of any of them from the window. They’re nothing but shadows and quivering leaves. 
​
One time, Emily gets so annoyed with their ceaseless shrieking, she flings the door open and steps outside, thinking that she’d finally be able to identify the perpetrators of the terrible noise if she got a look at them up close. She sees nothing. 

Instead, the moment Emily’s shoes touch the stone of the front steps, she is overcome by a fear so intense, it leaves her struggling for breath. She steps back, shutting the door closed. 

Since the car crash, Emily has been hesitant to leave the house, and after that incident on the porch she is terrified of stepping outside. She suspects that her husband believes her fears to be unreasonable. He doesn’t say anything, but the way his gaze turns vacant whenever she brings up the subject of screecher speaks for itself.

                                                                          #

Emily used to enjoy driving before the accident. Some weeks ago, she decided that if she cannot walk out of the house, perhaps she can drive out, go for a short ride, and put her thoughts in order. She came down to the garage, but there was only one car sitting there – her husband’s. The side of the garage, where her little hatchback used to sit, stood empty. 

Looking at the empty gray square of the garage floor brought on inexplicable sadness, but Emily brushed it aside. It was a stupid feeling. Her husband must have taken the car to the service center. A reasonable thing to do after a road accident, however minor. She went up to the living room to ask him when they’re going to bring it back, but when she mentioned the car, he closed his face with both hands. “Emily,” he sighed and walked out of the room. 

Emily stayed where she was, confused, perched on the edge of the chair. After that day, silence seemed to stretch between them, taut as a tightrope. 

It wasn’t always like this. She remembers how thrilled they were when they first moved into this house. A cottage on the grounds of an old manor house, with a sizable piece of land attached to it—a garden, a pond, and even a small cemetery with three chipped and crumbling tombstones. Emily’s husband wanted to get rid of them, saying that they’re macabre, but she didn’t let him. The house was perfect with everything in it, and they were going to be happy there.

                                                                          #

Cocooned in her favorite chair by the window, Emily thinks of the early days of their marriage. How they couldn’t get their hands off each other. How they slept entwined in an intimate embrace. Now her husband sleeps on the far side of the bed. At night, in the pale light streaming from behind the curtains, she can see the angle of his shoulder, the long dip of his hip. His back is turned, as if even in his sleep he wants to keep the distance. Emily spends her nights turning and tossing, unable to rest.
At breakfast, he sits across the table from her and reads, eyes locked on the screen of the phone in his hand. Emily wants to say something clever about phubbing. She read about this new term online and yearns to tell her husband how it harms their marriage, but somehow, never manages to find the right words. By the time she comes up with a witty, not too confrontational comment her husband has already left the table and is on his way to work, the front door closing with a bang. The bitter bile of annoyance rises in Emily’s chest, but she pushes it down, stifles the urge to bang her fists on the kitchen counter and scream. 

Her husband grows more distant with every day. They never talk like they used to, and Emily wonders what it means. She worries it means that he’s in love with someone else. With time, she convinces herself that another woman present in his life is the reason for their current troubles.

“Who is she?” Emily wants to ask. The way her husband’s gaze slides off of her makes her want to scream, but she cannot do it—she wasn’t brought up that way. Still, the anger is building up, and one evening she finally snaps. A crystal glass flies off the table, sending shards flying across the floor. 

“I need to get out of here,” her husband mutters and leaves. As the sound of his car wheels rolling down the driveway fades into silence, Emily curls into a ball on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, paying no heed to the sharp glass pieces, and cries. 
From then on, her husband avoids her completely. She is not surprised—he has never been a fan of emotional outbursts. 

                                                                          ​#

Outside, thick milky fog creeps forward through the trees, spills across the lawn. The night is completely still, even the screechers have gone quiet. Emily gets out of her favorite chair and walks through the rooms. She needs to talk to her husband, make him understand. Make things right between them.

By the bedroom door she pauses. The sound of running water tells her that her husband is taking a shower. She considers going back to the living room and waiting until he’s done but decides against it. The sooner they have this conversation, the faster their life will go back to normal. 

Halfway across the bedroom, Emily’s gaze falls on her husband’s phone on the bedside table, just as it lights up with an incoming call. The picture on the screen is new. Her husband and some woman. Laughing. 

This is too much. Emily’s face burns with shame and indignation. In her worst nightmares she could not imagine being so disrespected in her own home, and the pain is unbearable. 

She dashes from the bedroom. Runs through the living room. Walls are pressing in on her as if the house is wrapping on itself. Forgetting her fear, she flings the front door open and dashes across the lawn. Anything to escape this suffocating humiliation!

The fog is so thick, Emily cannot see where she’s going and she doesn’t care anymore. Tears run down her face as she rushes away from the house. The ground is uneven, and she slips on the wet grass and stumbles, falling on all fours. 

The fog drifts apart. In front of her, stand the tombstones. Three old ones and one new. The new one has her name on it.

The screechers are here. Their ugly cries echo in the dark. One of them lands on the tombstone, and Emily sees it for the first time. On the body of a bird sits a skeletal, human-like face surrounded by a halo of dark, dirty-gray feathers. The ruffled feathers of a roadkill.

Emily remembers tires screeching on the road, and the car tumbling, going round and round and round until it stops.

Three more screechers land on the tombstones. Dozens hover in the sky above. And when they plunge down, pecking at her eyes and pulling her hair, Emily finally screams. The screechers answer with the desperate wail of fire truck sirens. 

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 Laila Amado is a migrating writer of speculative and literary fiction. She writes in her second language, has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth, and can now be found staring at the North Sea, instead of the Mediterranean. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Her speculative stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Tales to Terrify, Three Lobed Burning Eye, as well as in various anthologies.
Website: https://amadolaila.com/
Social media handles: Twitter/X @onbonbon7; Instagram @laila_amado; Bluesky @amadolaila.bsky.social