I gobbled down my first meal in days, barely chewing, expecting to feel guilty about it afterwards. But I only felt relief; besides, I never really liked my neighbours.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Thanks for reading my two-sentence horror story… Mmmm human flesh… Feel free to share your own in the comments!
A single drop of rain rolled over the tip of Leigh’s nose and hit the map with a thud. Its splatter distorted the icon for one of the many tourist attractions along the Royal Mile, which struck Leigh as appropriate. The rain had calmed, but fresh pools of it had formed in every crevice, pocket, and hole of the city. Leigh refolded the map sloppily, allowing only some of the folds to line up, and stuffed it into her back pack. An irritation was flickering inside of her and one more minute of that useless map was going to ignite it. Flinging her hood back she pulled open the heavy wooden door to the pub she had been pacing in front of for what seemed an immeasurable amount of time. The bartender gave little more than a slight glance upwards before returning her eyes to the ketchup bottles she was marrying. Leigh took a deep breath and approached her.
“I’m sorry to bother, but I’m looking for South Bridge. Can you point me in the right direction?”
The bartender raised her head, sluggishly, as if it too had been weighted down by the heavy rainfall. Without a smile, she asked, “The vaults, then?”
Leigh nodded nervously. The acknowledgement of her desire to engage in paranormal exoticism still made her uncomfortable, even after months of travel.
The bartender gave a sort of grunt, before jotting down a few quick directions on a napkin and silently sliding it towards Leigh. Before she could be thanked, she turned 180 degrees and began removing half empty whiskey bottles from the display shelf.
“Pay Becky no mind. Hospitality is not her strong suit.”
Leigh torqued her head to the right to see that the Australian accent belonged to a tanned, stout, man of about thirty. He had a cartoonish smile plastered on his face, and was gripping a half empty pint glass with both hands.
Leigh nodded graciously and headed for the door, but he called out to her to wait up. After downing what was left of his pint, he jogged towards Leigh and they exited into the cool, grey, day.
After a short walk, the two of them joined what looked very much like a rag tag team of wannabe investigators at the meet-up location. Leigh was surprised, since these tours more often tended to attract couples looking for something out of the ordinary to define their vacations.
“First time?” her companion asked. He had introduced himself as Duck on the way over.
“Here.” Leigh tried to keep her responses short and concise, purposefully revealing very little of herself.
In truth, she had been on so many ghost walks lately that the experiences were all beginning to bleed into one another. But then, she figured that pretty well described tourism as a whole. She had been in Scotland for four days now, but this was her first venture into its ghostly underground. She had been to Castlehill, the site of many historical witch burnings, but was discouraged by the vast number of unthoughtful feet trampling it; dripping ice cream into the porous cobblestone of what Leigh thought one might consider sacred ground. She left in a hurry.
“Been here three times myself.”
This caught Leigh off guard, and she felt her head cock in a very obvious, and perhaps judgemental, way.
“I know,” he replied to her reaction. “But you never know when something will happen. I’d hate to miss it.”
Leigh offered a sympathetic nod. She wasn’t sure why she was being so patronizing. Weren’t they all here for just that? To see something; feel something – to have any type of visceral experience that they could then use to obtain to a sense of knowledge about life and death. That was probably, on some level, why Leigh was there. She attributed her curiosity to a fondness for history, but ghosts aren’t really about history. Ghosts are about the the future, and our inability to understand it; our fear of it. That, Leigh thought to herself, should be the real premise of her book.
Before they entered the vaults, the tour guide offered a rehearsed spiel about the importance of understanding the risks involved. Terrible things had happened in the vaults, and those who had become trapped down there (she explained) were often filled with anger, resentment, and vengeance. As Leigh looked discreetly about her she caught flashes of discomfort in more than a few tourists eyes. Some twitched a little, others fidgeted with their fingers or tried to steady their breathing. During her paranormal travels, Leigh had discovered that most people who did these tours were secretly terrified, as though testing their personal limits. People had become so easy to read. Duck was one of the others, though. He wanted to see something. Needed to, even. He was a man seeking concrete answers, and nothing short of concrete evidence would do. Leigh, on the other hand, was looking to immerse herself in the past. Her research grant depended upon it. Ghost stories interpreted through contemporary frameworks – it would be a bestseller.
In the vaults, they listened to stories about class divides in Edinburgh, about immigration and poverty, gardyloo, and crime. A man who looked as though he’d dressed for bird-watching rather than ghost-hunting gave an audible shudder when the guide talked about grave-digging and the sale of corpses to university professors. Duck laughed more than Leigh was comfortable with, but the damp darkness of the vaults kept her rather distracted.
She took a deep breath and let herself feel it. She tuned out the sound of the guide’s theatrically hoarse voice, and made the restless excitement of the group fade behind her eyes until everything melted away. Then, there was just her… and him.
At first it was just a flicker of light, so faint she almost didn’t notice it. But as she focused, it became more clear. It was the flame of a match, migrating upwards until the glow of a cigarette revealed his face. Or, rather, an echo of his face. More real than a shadow, but less tangible than the touch of someone familiar. They caught eyes and he nodded politely from across the cave-like space. Leigh smiled, and breathed a shallow sigh of relief. He approached her and as he did so the dark engulfed them, hiding them from prying, curious, eyes.
Leigh brought her pen to her paper, still smiling, and whispered, “Hello sir. Thank you for visiting me. Please, share your story.”
The man smiled, and began his tale.
©Shyla Fairfax-Owen
March 9,
Addie,
I’m sorry I couldn’t write sooner; things have been … well, I don’t know the word exactly. Something just isn’t right. I tried to keep track of my thoughts on paper, like you said; likes, dislikes, opinions, things I’ve seen, words I know – the stuff that makes me me. But it’s all gone. I came home one day and the notepad had all the used pages missing. Then they recalled the paper. All paper, Addie. Notepads, scrapbooks, books, printed media. Everything had to be handed over by February 28th, and on the 29th, they stormed houses and tore them apart looking for paper, Addie – Paper! It was all burned they say. There was a public demonstration where officials set fire to heaps and mounds of the stuff, but it probably wasn’t all of it. Some say they just incinerated the rest in – what do you call those things… where they cremate people. Anyways, it’s all gone. Now you know why I’m writing this on a napkin.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m starting to think you might be right. It’s like what you said that time, “control the medium, control the message.” I think you said it was a quote, but I can’t remember. All I know is I’m getting a distinct feeling that this is the beginning of something really, really big. I’ll keep you posted when I can. I hope these are getting to you. And I hope you enjoy the fruit basket I’m sending this one in.
I know I probably don’t have to say this to you of all people, but be careful. I love you.
Darcy.
P.S. Mom got hacked. They swapped everything out, but she seems to like her new name. Just some adolescent shit-disturbers, I think. She’s fine, though.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
January 30,
Addie,
I guess I’ll just start with – I miss you. It’s a funny thing, mourning the loss of someone who isn’t quite gone, but certainly isn’t here. I have these momentary lapses of memory. I’ll see something that reminds me of you, or come across a meme I know would make you giggle. I’ll pull up your name on my contact list to send it your way and then I remember that you won’t see it. So, yeah, it’s a curious thing; missing you.
But I’m getting used to it, I think. Because you’re not gone, but the digital you is gone. Everyone acts like that’s the same thing, but it’s not. That’s why I’m writing this letter to you – to the real you. I want you to know I haven’t forgotten you. And I’m not mad. That day you unplugged and left, I said some pretty shitty things. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t get it, how you could just throw away your whole life over some fear of something that you couldn’t show me. I’m stubborn like that though; I need evidence, a digital footprint – anything. I’m still like that Addie; I can’t lie and say I believe you. But I miss you, and I’m finally ready to do anything to get you back. So I’m going to find the proof Addie. I’m going to see it, and then I’m going to know you’re right. That you’re not crazy.
So I’ll start at the beginning. I remember the first thing you said. “These thoughts aren’t mine.” You kept saying your thoughts and feelings were jumbled. You started unplugging at night to try to clear them up, but that just made things blurrier. You said it was too late for you. Well, if you’re theory is right, there’s still plenty of time for me. So I’m going to start writing down my thoughts. Pen and paper, just like you said, so they can’t access them. You must be thinking, why now? Like I said, I miss you.
I’ll write again soon. I love you.
Darcy.
P.s. mom is fine.
In the dead of night, It Follows
The Fog closing in, exacerbating your wallows
Halloween lingers in the air
Trick ‘r Treat and a bit of gory flare
Candy Corn and Ginger Snaps stuffed under your bed
You’re sure there’s a Scream or two stuck in your head
It’s all festive and sweet, but it’s no Child’s Play
“You’re Next,” it whispers as you lay
The Others might be hiding in your shed
After all, it’s the Night of the Living Dead
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Happy Viewing to anyone out there taking the 31 in 31 Horror Movie challenge! Hope you get in some of the classics. Stay Strange.
Last Year’s Halloween Poem, All Hallow’s Eve
Stalwart as it hoots
Tidings of death it does bring
Impenitent glare
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus Series – check back soon for more!
Crows flock high above
Omniscient eyes pierce the soul
Deleterious
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus Series – check back soon for more!
Delilah could feel them gaining on her. She wanted to look back, gauge their distance, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the ground. What if she tripped on a branch, or stepped on a chipmunk? It would squeal under her foot, it’s back crunching, it’s body writhing. She’d scream, and lose her balance. No; she couldn’t afford any mistakes.
“Heeeeereee piggy piggy!” she heard them squeal.
Hoards of maniacal laughter followed from the eager, unrelenting, crowd behind her. Delilah gasped, her air supply falling short now. She dared a glance beside her and tried to calculate whether she could hide behind the tree to steal a breath. Maybe she could change directions and lose them completely. But, that would be cheating; Delilah knew the rules better than anyone. In fact, she had made the rules.
“Hey Piggy Piggy Piggy!”
Delilah swiftly brought her attention back to her feet. Her eyes widened when she saw they were caked in mud – when had that happened? She had only looked away for a second! Grunting and panting in displeasure and desperation, Delilah kept moving. But now she could hear the stampede right on her heels. She could feel their sticky hands clamouring for her, smell their anxious breath being carried by the autumn breeze.
It was now or never, so Delilah chanced another glance up. Hopefully she wouldn’t get stuck in a knee-high mud pond. But it was worth the gamble, because just ahead, within her reach, she could see it. Safety. She was going to make it. She was going to be fine. She leapt, just the way her phys-ed teacher had taught her.
“HA!” she yelped as her feet slipped into the centre of the giant leaf pile they had compiled for this very moment.
She cackled obnoxiously, throwing leaves at the boys who looked distraught and unnerved. Max rolled his eyes and insisted they start over; he’d be the pig this time and Delilah would be a wolf. But no one was paying much attention to him. They were all in the leaf pile now, so he put his sulking aside and joined in.
“I told you I was faster!” Delilah screeched at him, sticking out her tongue and scrunching up her face. He smashed a handful of crisp yellow leaves into her face, laughing as she spat and whined.
“Sore loser!” she accused.
Delilah scrambled free of the group and looked down at her shoes. Her mother was going to have a fit. They were brand new and Delilah had heard daddy complain about the price. She looked at her watch and felt a cold sweat overtake her. 6:48! The trouble had just doubled. She was late for dinner – again. Delilah could hear the scolding now, ‘you and those boys Delilah I swear, you’re like a wild animal out there! No sense, I tell ya, no sense!’
“I gotta go!” Delilah yelled passingly behind her as she made her way back through the woods. If she was as fast as a piggy, she’d make it just in time to not get dessert.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
It started out like any other day – a lot of stories do. I was walking my dog, Patsy, at the usual time in the usual place. But there was something distinctly unusual about the air. It was cooler than the average autumn morning (if you can really call it morning when the sun has barely yet committed to rising). More to the point though, the air was heavy, as if it should have been thick with fog or humidity. Instead, it just seemed to weigh on Patsy and me.
After urinating on her favourite tree, Patsy bellowed a deep gurgled cry and began digging. Any other day I’d have left her to it, anxious to see what all the fuss was about. But not that day. On that particular morning, the cumbrous chill was burying itself in my pores and nesting an uneasiness all through me. I felt uncomfortable; irritated. I tugged on her fraying leash to hurry her along and had half a mind to bark back when she vocally resisted. I crouched down and plucked her off the soft grass, wetted by the fresh morning dew. She struggled to free herself from my grip – and that’s when I saw it. Her paws were caked with blood. I know you see that sort of thing in the movies all the time, but somehow I hadn’t been prepared for the absoluteness of having a stranger’s viscous, rancid, heart-juice pawed onto my chest.
So that’s the story of how Patsy found poor Bailey Marcus; a plain-jane, straight B student majoring in nothing, holding no special achievements with which to mark her gravestone. I know that sounds pretty harsh, but it’s true, and I’m sure she knew it. What the unremarkable Bailey could not have known on the night that she got done in, though, was that she was finally about to have a profound effect on someone’s life – mine.
See, it was right about then (the moment with the viscera and the barking) that I started obsessing about Bailey. Her blood was on me, and it doesn’t get much more weirdly intimate than that. I felt like I owed it to both of us to seal that bond. The problem, of course, is figuring out how one goes about sealing a bond with a dead girl. Thinking about it made my head blur and swirl, the way cream does when it hits the dark abyss of coffee in a black mug. Spinning in circles seemed appropriate, though, since I had no starting point and no idea what the end point would be.
After the police questioning, the bagging and tagging, and the four hour diner shift that managed to feel like 16 rather than the typical 8, I headed home intending to crash land on my bed. During the walk I let my head blur and swirl as it pleased until I looked up and realized I was no where near my bed. I’d wound up at the university. It was as if I had been drawn to it by a magnetic force. At the scene of the crime, I had overheard the detectives going through Bailey’s wallet. It’s how I had learned her name, and that she was a student. I guess I was curious. I never applied to university; never stepped foot on a campus until then, which seemed as good a time as ever. As did the next day, and the day after that. I had no idea what I was looking for, or what I was getting out of the experience; but somehow walking those same grounds that Bailey had walked brought me peace of mind. It felt natural; right, even. I hadn’t considered how strange it might be until a detective questioning some of her classmates noticed me.
October was just closing in and the air was dry and rough against the skin. I was sitting on a rock in front of the entrance to the Film Studies department. I suppose it looked as though I was people-watching, but really I was just in my own head. I had recently taken to making up stories about Bailey that would take place wherever I happened to be on campus. On this particular occasion, I was imagining she had sat on this very rock skipping class, reading The Bell Jar, when a fire alarm hurried everyone outside. She would have dropped her book in the crowd and had to crawl over people’s feet to find it. I’m not sure where that story was going, because it was abruptly interrupted by a stern man looming over me, his badge catching the only bit of sunlight peeking through the dense mid-morning clouds.
He obviously had no leads on Bailey’s murder yet, and asked me why I was sitting outside of her World Cinema class, and whom I was waiting for. I explained that I had no idea that it would have been one of Bailey’s classes, and that I just liked the scenery there. His inquisitive nature led to a few more questions, to which I gave snarky remarks. But when he left, my heart began to pound. I had managed to find Bailey, a real piece of her. World Cinema.
That day, I sat in on a lecture about the ephemeral nature of Italian Neorealism; how it has no beginning, and no end. How it is independent of rules, of law, and of death. The room was surprisingly warm for its size. With an amphitheatre structure, it was easy to just become another face in the crowd – Bailey’s, even. So as the days grew colder, and shorter, I was comforted by following the day-to-day of Bailey (or what I had created of her, anyways). And then it happened. It always happens when you least expect it, I guess. Death.
I was walking home from an evening lecture on Gothic Architecture (I had branched out my stolen studies), when I caught a glimpse of a shadow behind me. You always like to think that when it happens, you’ll do all the right things, and put shame to those scream queens on the silver screen. But you don’t. He came upon me with such force, such intent, I almost admired his gumption. I fought back of course, but it didn’t matter. Seeing his face became immeasurably important. I snatched off his hood, and pulled down the scarf. Lyle Jones. An obnoxiously well-spoken front-row student in Bailey’s World Cinema class. He’d been eyeing me, but not in a way that put me on edge. Actually, it was flattering. When he looked at me, it was as if a familiarity shot between us. But now, there was nothing between us except blood.
And that’s when I realized it. The story was never about Patsy finding Bailey, or my obsession with Bailey – hell, it wasn’t even about me. All along it’s been about this guy; Bailey’s killer. And now, I won’t get to see how it ends.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
“Don’t you wish you could go back?”
“Go back where?”
“To a better time.”
Cassie thought on this for a long moment.
“There hasn’t been a better time,” she finally replied, her eyes on her bare, dirty, feet.
A warm wind washed through the two girls; it was almost comforting.
“Besides,” Cassie continued, “time travel isn’t real. We’re… stuck here.”
Tanya looked upon the vast emptiness before them, and after them. Father would be making his rounds soon. She sighed.
“I know. I just like to pretend.”
The girls carried on with their shovelling in silence, until father had came and left.
“Where were you before this?” Tanya asked. She had always been one to speak out of turn, but even for her, this was bold.
Cassie kept her eyes on her work, her heart thumping. She couldn’t tell if it was excitement, or fear, or an oddly pleasant mixture of both.
“No where.”
“You were somewhere. We all were.”
Cassie shivered, growing uncomfortable now. “I was no where. Or – well, I don’t remember.”
Tanya shook her head as if to say she understood completely. “I was somewhere. Somewhere beautiful. That’s where I’ll go back to. When I build my time machine.”
Cassie flinched. Angered by something she could not describe.
“Stop being a fool and work. He’ll be back before you know it and you’ll have no progress to show for yourself.”
“I will you know; build it.”
“Shut up!” Cassie directed her eyes right into Tanya’s now.
“You can come with me Cassie. I’ll take you with me, I promise!”
Tanya leaned into Cassie but Cassie’s stiffened body pulled away.
“I’m not going anywhere, Tanya. I’m a Child of Mercy and so are you. This is where we belong. Now stop your daydreaming and get back to work.”
—
The next morning the girls awoke to find that their number had been reduced to 12. Tanya’s bed appeared un-slept in, although the other girls could swear they had seen her turn it down with the rest of them. No one had heard a thing. No one had saw a thing. There was no note left behind. No good-byes. No explanations.
Tanya was simply gone. Vanished. She hadn’t built a time machine. Cassie was sure of that. If time had been turned back, Cassie herself would be back at home by her mother’s side, singing a lullaby to her baby brother – wouldn’t she?
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Beyond the Threshold 