​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…

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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.

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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…

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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