Ghoul by Elliot Pearson

I was on the roof of my single-story apartment, sat in a deckchair watching the slight silver-blue glow of the full moon bathe the park opposite and bringing the night creatures—the ghouls—into the light. There were three of them in total tonight.

I ate cold beans straight out of the can and smoked a cigarette. I’d become somewhat careless, perhaps overconfident, in recent weeks, so I threw the can ahead of me to see if the ghouls stirred.

They didn’t.

These were the dumb ones. Slow, unable to run. Weak and malnourished. Too stupid to figure out a way to open cans to eat. I didn’t know why they decided to stand there, hunched over in the moon’s light every other night, sleeping, or whatever they were doing. They were starving to death, so I’d only be putting them out of their misery, anyway.

I smoked the cigarette down ’til I could taste the chemical plastic of the filter and flung it away. Picking up my AR-15, I cocked it. I took aim at the closest ghoul about three-hundred meters away, standing idle, faceless under a dark hood, and fired. It dropped dully and without a sound. No different in death than in life—if it could still be called that.

The one a little further away from the dead one was wearing only pants and no shoes. Bald and scratching at something—probably maggot-filled open sores. I fired six rounds and thought I heard air leave the dead soul, but I couldn’t be sure.

Got you, you stupid son of a bitch. I felt little more than if I’d shot an empty can of beans.

I looked up to see where the last ghoul was. It’d gone. Must have wandered off or gotten scared by the shots.

Then I heard a scrambling sound. The thing was right below me, trying to climb up to the roof.

I got up out of the chair and looked down. There it was—sunken, milky white eyes with a dilated center and gnashing rotten teeth. We made eye contact for a moment. I was looking into the eyes of death manifest. “I’ll come up there and fucking kill you,” it said, dark blood now leaking from its maw. But it was as if the voice had come from somewhere else, not from the thing that was once a man—disembodied and far.

It clawed at the wall with long skeletal hands, producing blood, tearing its nails off trying in vain to scale it. It let out a desperate moan before I took aim and made its head pop.

I felt the pumping in my capillaries, which brought me back to myself, back into my own body.

It’d been a while since I’d been so close to a ghoul, and hadn’t heard one speak for a long time. I figured I’d have to clear the body in the morning.

I hated touching those disgusting things.

***

Next day I was in luck. Something had gotten rid of the body for me—an animal or another ghoul. I’d seen them eating each other before. Dead or alive, they didn’t care.

The plan for the day was to get gas for the car and head to the supermarket to stock up.

And kill any ghouls I might find while out. They weren’t out and about during the day, but if they were, they were hiding, usually sleeping, in buildings.

I took my .22 with me and headed out.

I drove fast down the empty streets—a few new, dark and emaciated ghoul bodies littering the way—but the thrill of driving like a maniac had worn off. Like most things, it’d just become the norm. Doing whatever you like with no one telling you to stop is like having Christmas every day—or something like that.

I filled the car and looked behind me at the mountains. Their jaggedness was stark against a cloudless sky. To the left of them and above was the moon. Still out in the clear light of day.

Lighting up in the supermarket, I grabbed a cart, and headed straight for the canned goods aisle to fill it.

I went to the cigarette counter and grabbed a couple of Camel packs. I’d never taken them all as I knew the ghouls seemed to have no use for them, hadn’t seen another uninfected person in weeks, and I suppose I liked the routine of picking up a few packs at the end of my shop.

But to my surprise, there was a body behind the counter that day. A young woman, early-twenties, I guess, hugging herself tight, presumably asleep, a serene look on her face. Her hair was bleached, but the roots were black and had grown out considerably. She was wearing a loose-fitting black tank top and denim shorts. My eyes lingered on her pale bare legs for a while before her eyes flitted open to reveal the sunken, milky whites of a ghoul. I took in a sharp inhale of breath and quickly placed my right foot on her chest to prevent her from rising. There was a look of hatred, rage, and fear in her eyes. I scrambled for the gun at the back of my jeans, took it out as the girl wailed like a stuck pig, her arms flailing, and aimed at her face, my hand trembling. I hit her on the top of her scalp, removing skin, hair, and skull. She continued to flail but was now silent, black ooze leaking from the open wound. I removed my foot, turned, and leaped over the counter, took the cart and quickly headed out into the morning sun.

***

That evening, I was back on the roof smoking. I watched a ghoul riding a bike, dragging along another—a skinny woman with matted bedraggled black hair—with some sort of makeshift leash. I picked up my rifle and aimed at the one riding the bike, but I was too late, and they passed into shadow.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them doing things like that. Some had a degree of intelligence. I occasionally saw them communicate, pass things to each other, before heading off on their respective ways, but these instances were rare. Whether the ghouls had their own form of culture or were just acting out remnants of their former lives, I had no idea.

All I knew was they had to be exterminated. They were abominations. Abortions of life without a future, with nothing to offer. It was either me or them, and for me there was no deliberating about which option I’d pick. This was pure survival.

No other ghouls appeared, so I gathered my things and called it a night.

***

I awoke to a terrible sound. A demonic, high-pitched scream right beside my ear. I shot up and saw a long, tall silhouette standing at the foot of the bed. My God, I thought. One of them has found a way in.

Two red eyes appeared on the shadow man, and I screamed, leaped out of bed, and wrestled the ghastly thing to the ground, rolling around with it, writhing hysterically. But then I realized there was nothing in my grasp. A moan came from behind me then, something like a death rattle. I rushed to the wall to find the light switch, feeling only the glossy, almost sticky, texture of the wall until I found the switch and flicked it up. I gazed around the room, but there was nothing—no one. I was alone. It was a hallucination. I was drenched in sweat that had quickly gone cold. I calmed my breathing and sat on the edge of the bed, placing my head in my hands and taking deep breaths.

Fucking hell.

***

The scream that woke me in the night may well have been real. When I left the apartment, I saw several wooden planks had been torn off the windows and the reinforced glass had cracked. The culprit was a large, jagged rock below the window. I picked it up and lobbed it toward the park, where it landed with a dull thud.

I’ve had it with these bastards terrorizing me in my own home.

After replacing the planks with new ones, I headed out with my rifle to hunt down and kill as many of those inhuman monsters as I could find.

I’d not been to the mall in a long time and felt like checking into the bookstore, figuring the mall would be as good a place as any to find hiding, sleeping vermin.

A horde of them were standing hunched over in the men’s restroom and I unloaded an entire clip into the weak, just stirring bodies. They all died in silence.

A couple of ghouls were stumbling about in the movie theater like blind people, some sitting facing the empty screen, as if they were watching a film I couldn’t see. I blasted them one by one, straight to hell.

The rest of the mall was empty, but my bloodlust was unquenched.

I picked up a few books in the bookstore before casting them to the floor, realizing I’d long ago lost any interest in reading. I liked the idea of it, but not the reality. What use was there in reading now? What knowledge could be gained? What emotions could be felt? There was no future for me either. Everything was a futile waste of time. I was living in an entropic world, slowly wasting away and falling down.

***

I was heading home when I saw her walking slowly along the sidewalk.

A ghoul walking about in daylight?

I slowed down, kept my distance from the sidewalk, and lowered the window.

“Hey,” I called out.

She froze and turned to look at me. Then she ran.

I stopped the car, put it in park, then got out and pursued her.

The girl was fast, but I soon caught up with her and called for her to stop. She didn’t.

I grabbed her and tackled her to the ground. We both hit the concrete hard, me shouldering most of the impact. She didn’t try too hard to defend herself, just kicked a little and flailed her arms hopelessly. I grabbed hold of them and pinned them down, wrists to the concrete. She stopped struggling and looked into my eyes. Hers were black, seemingly without whites. I’d never seen eyes like them. But she wasn’t one of them.

“Calm down,” I said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She was breathing heavily. I put my finger to my lips, then lightly held her cheek. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in—well—forever.”

She was still looking into my eyes. But she didn’t say a word.

“I have an apartment,” I said. “It’s safe there. Do you want to go there with me? I’ll protect you.”

She nodded then. I let go of her. “Don’t try to run now,” I said.

I rose and offered her my hand. She took it, and I lifted her up off the sidewalk.

I held her by the waist as we walked to the car. She was rake thin. “When we get to my place, I’ll give you something to eat.”

***

The girl was ravenous. She ate three cans of cold beans. I just stood and watched her eat, transfixed. I felt far away from the entire scene, looking down at myself from above. It was unreal to be sharing space with another person. Watching a person do something as simple as eating was beautiful.

It’s not all fucked.

When she finished, she looked up at me shyly.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Ayla,” she said.

“Ayla. That’s a nice name. Nice to meet you. I’m Alex.”

I held out my hand and extended it toward her. She regarded it for a moment before taking it. Her hand was soft, but a little calloused. And cold. Like a cadaver’s. I held it for a while, stroking the soft pad between her thumb and forefinger, to warm it. She pulled away then.

“Sorry, I just haven’t seen someone for so long,” I said.

She nodded.

“How have you survived out there all this time?” I asked.

“I-I just kept moving during the day,” she said. “Finding places at night and locking myself in.”

“Have you seen anyone else?”

She shook her head and looked down into the empty can of beans. “And you’ve just been in your apartment the whole time?” she asked.

“Yeah, the ghouls are either too weak or too stupid to get in.”

“Why do you call them that?”

“Because that’s what they are—freaks. Vermin to be eradicated.”

“Have you ever thought that they can’t help what they are?”

“Not much. No. We don’t know what caused it. Maybe it was their own choice. And besides, whatever they once were, that’s not what they are now. They’re not human anymore.”

The girl went back to staring into the abyss of the can.

“Say—there’re some water jugs under the sink. You can use one to wash yourself if you like. Bathroom’s just down the corridor. Use the shower in the tub.”

“Okay.” She got up and took out a jug from the cupboard under the sink and headed down the corridor and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her but not locking it.

I realized there wasn’t a towel in the bathroom. I grabbed one from the bedroom, then knocked on the bathroom door. She didn’t respond. Opening the door softly, I peeked through and saw her pouring water over pale, bare skin. A heat overcame me, and I stepped fully inside. She regarded me then, not with fear or apprehension, or even shame at her nakedness, but with an expression I couldn’t read. It wasn’t telling me to go away or to come closer. But I came closer and held out the towel. She took it, let it drop just outside the bathtub, then took hold of my forearm and pulled me in. She looked into my eyes—hers hypnotic, swirling, wet, and black like marbles of deep-sea oil, pulling me closer and closer in.

***

I awoke that night beside the girl. But there was something wrong. It wasn’t the peaceful solitude of a post-coital union between two lost souls who’d found each other at long last. There were others in the room with us. Dark shapes standing long and tall at the foot of the bed—stretched shadows. Three of them. One held a long knife that shone in the darkness like old silver.

I grabbed the girl’s arm and shook her awake.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft. “They’re with me. Come to deliver us from this dark fate.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about until she held her belly and gently caressed it. She looked at me with those deep black eyes and I knew then that she was neither human nor ghoul. She was something else. Something more.

“A new beginning,” she said as the three shapes came nearer to surround us.

Picture of Elliot Pearson

Elliot Pearson

Elliot Pearson is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry. His work has appeared in such publications as Star*Line, The Banyan Review, and The Stygian Lepus. After working as a teacher in Spain and Mexico, Elliot now lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and is working on his first novel.

Seeing Red by Chris Tattersall

His cramped, damp, and cold kennel was his safe space. The hunger was incapacitating and the beatings severe, but it was the red sweater of his first owner that he remembered the most.

Rescued and given a second chance, he relished the love and warmth of his new family. In return, he would be loyal and protect them with his life.

Slipping his leash, he darted past the man in red corduroy trousers, letting him off with a deep warning snarl.

It took little effort to subdue his target. Left with an exposed trachea, grasping for a futile breath, her pulsating blood, the same color as her Disney sweater, slowly decreased as it pooled around her stroller.

Picture of Chris Tattersall

Chris Tattersall

Chris Tattersall is a Health Service Research Manager and lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. A recent obsession of his being writing Novella-In-Flash. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

Some Fine Cuisine by David Wesley Hill

Matilda lay on the old bed in the twilight and gazed through the broken window while absently stroking her swollen belly. Then she turned to me. Her smile creased the pockmarks of her complexion and bared the yellow nubbins that were her teeth. In the darkness her hands seemed soft and fine, and I couldn’t discern the webbing of flesh linking her fingers. Momentarily, I wondered if the child would be like her, with gnarled skin as rough as rock. Or similar to me, hollow and with legs stilted and bent back at the knee like a bird’s. I hoped our child would resemble Matilda because she was beautiful to me, although I knew there was little likelihood it would take after either of us.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “And he’s hungry, too. Do you know what I’d like, Hilary?”

This was a game of hers and I played along to amuse her and to allow us to forget the actual time since our last good meal, a matter of weeks. I recalled the gaudy confections she always pointed out in the brittle magazines we found here and there in the ruins of the city, and said, “Watercress salad with fresh kiwi?”

“No, not tonight, I don’t think.”

“Sauteed medallions of veal in a butter sauce with capers?”

“Much too Continental, wouldn’t you say?”

I laughed, she laughed, I loved her. Matilda sat up and propped the tattered gray pillow behind herself. “We’ll start with snails in a Burgundy sauce, followed by a cup of jellied consommé, and finally filet mignon wrapped in bacon and stuffed with liver and garnished with asparagus and potatoes Anna.” She giggled at the unfamiliar words, her tongue clumsy with the syllables of another century. “And for dessert, I want goat cheese and a lemon sorbet and black coffee and Napoleon brandy. How does that menu sound, Hilary? Tell me.”

I mimed taking down her order and bowed as I believed a waiter would, my motions culled also from the yellowed periodicals, ancient flotsam of a different age, that she enjoyed. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you. That is all, sir.”

We laughed together as wind came through the window, scudding clouds across the moon. “Hilary!” Matilda gasped. Her hands went to her belly.

I kneeled beside her. Beneath the skin of her abdomen, I felt the movement of the child.

“It will be soon,” she said.

It had been five months. I hoped she was right because I wanted the event over with, a usual paternal desire, I suppose. But I had no way of knowing whether her feminine inspiration was accurate. There was no longer a common term for human gestation.

Then the child quieted.

It was time to go out into the streets and avenues to hunt. I went to our bedside cabinet and retrieved my pistol and six precious rounds. I inserted the cartridges. It had been eight months since I had discovered good ammunition, a single box somehow overlooked for generations on the floor of a sports shop. I couldn’t guess when I would have another occasion of such luck.

“Well, then, on what are we to dine?”

Matilda was still playing the game, so I replied in a similar spirit. “Perhaps a saddle of venison with cranberry relish and mushrooms.”

“What else?”

“An invocation of quail with Madeira.”

“And?”

“Stewed hare with fresh herbs and summer squash.”

“Yes, the menu will suffice now, I think. Kiss me before you go, Hilary.”

I kissed her forehead and her cheek and her lips. Since the moon was almost full, yielding enough light to read by, I brought Matilda several magazines to occupy herself with while I was away. I tucked the blanket around her, made sure she was comfortable, and embraced her again.

Then I locked our apartment door. Out of habit, I climbed the tenement stairs and examined the access to the roof, finding it secure. Then I went down four stories, through the lobby, and out the front entrance. This was iron grill work, which I fastened with a chain and combination lock. There were few in this post war world who could get by such precautions, but just to be safe, I made the gesture from the dead religion that Danton had taught me, and I crossed myself.

From the remaining signage I’d learned we lived on Riverside Drive, in what had been a residential neighborhood. Since the war, a nearby park had sprawled onto the concrete of the urban environment. The surface was crumbled and I had to force a path through brush and bramble, and around the overgrown hummocks that had once been cars, as I made my way toward West End Avenue. I moved as silently as possible, keeping to cover. Game had become scarce and I was determined to use all my skills to ensure Matilda and our child were fed.

From uptown came the sound of piping, a noise so strange that I had to listen. The music was made by a tribe of simians with territory nearby. They were terrible creatures, too much to handle, so I turned onto Broadway and moved toward the pond at 86th Street.

This was normally an excellent location for game.

I am not introspective, but as I went along, lurching from stoop to storefront to thicket, I began musing about the life I led with Matilda. More than anything, I wished I could make it better for her. Impossibly, I yearned for the civilization I knew only through the magazines that so thrilled Matilda and through the improbable tales the old man, Danton, had told us when we were children.

Not that I accepted all Danton said. Even as a boy, I’d always suspected he made things up.

Perhaps I lack imagination. But the century that lay between my birth and what Danton called the Great War was a gulf too great for my mind to cross. Unlike Matilda, I never could visualize the relics of technology, except for a few simple things like guns, actually working. Nor could I picture multitudes of people possessing the same kind of limbs, or dumb animals. To my mind, these had always been the fancies of an old man, and from an early time I preferred to concentrate on everyday facts instead.

Here, at least, Danton was straightforward. During the years since he had found us, abandoned as babies by our anonymous parents, he’d drilled into Matilda and me what he knew about survival. When he forgot to ramble on about history and philosophy, Danton was an excellent instructor. There was a craftiness to the man that still surpassed my own. Regardless of our current animosity, I still recognized Danton’s ability, and knew I was in his debt.

For one thing, he hadn’t eaten us when we were young and he was hungry. Instead, he had named us and raised us as his own.

Until recently, I couldn’t understand why. In his place, I would have devoured the two lost infants without a thought. Only when I felt the faintest stirring under my hand in Matilda’s womb did I at last have an inkling why Danton had adopted us. Only now that my own seed was flowering could I comprehend his altruism, or feel such disgust at what he proposed to now do to Matilda. Despite his explanations, which were full of ancient and abstract words, I couldn’t make any sense of his desire to give Matilda an infusion of old drugs and abort our child.

Caterwauling interrupted my thoughts, and I went down behind a clump of bramble, then dug myself into the brush. Nerves thickened my pulse while I looked along the avenue. The awful noise went on with such horrible and lunatic vehemence that I became afraid. When the screaming died out, I continued peering warily uptown through the screen of vegetation in which I was concealed.

The maniac vocalization broke out again, and nearer. The noise issued from the dark thicket that had been a pocket park.

A haze of clouds covered the moon, but I had no difficulty seeing the five figures who emerged from beneath the trees and ran through the tall grass. They were the simians whose eerie fluting music I had heard earlier. I hunched down and hoped I would escape their attention because they were vicious creatures with disturbing habits.

But as they approached my concealment, passing so near that I saw their every feature and heard the details of their panicky conversation, I realized I wasn’t in danger. Something had so spooked the simians that flight was their only concern. I realized, also, their vigilance would be relaxed by their maddened rush, and saw profit in this fact. Crawling out from under the brush, I began trailing the creatures.

The hunger in my stomach was like fire. I had difficulty moistening my lips. I hesitated to think what Matilda endured with appetite for two within her body.

Following a block behind the simians, I closed this distance when they reached the pond. They had lost all caution. Four of them went one way around the moonlit water while the fifth took the right-hand path.

Here was the opportunity for which I was waiting. I took out my hunting knife, increased my pace, and soon closed in behind the lone runner. It noticed me only when my blade was descending. With a startled yelp, it twisted awkwardly to evade the cut, and I stabbed it in its shoulder instead of the heart.

I wrenched the knife out of its fur. I had to kill it quickly, so I plunged the sharp metal, still bright after a century or more, into it again.

Life remained in the creature. It turned on me and took me in a terrible grip.

Perhaps the most chilling aspect of the situation was that it talked to me while we wrestled. Its words were distorted by the shape of its muzzle and by its long teeth, and like most animals, it lacked any concept of grammar, but I understood it well enough.

“Die man man hurt hurt o brothers hurt. O brothers.”

“Shut up. Shut your mouth.”

“Brothers die die man knife hurt die.”

I tore the knife from its flesh and stabbed again. The simian emitted a mewling exhalation and coughed blood in my face. I felt vitality slip from its musculature like water from a bowl. It cried a little and relaxed in my arms.

I lowered the carcass onto the grass and surveyed the area. The other members of the tribe were already out of sight along the avenue and our brief struggle had gone unnoticed. But I was uneasy despite the quiet because I couldn’t stop wondering what danger had startled the animals.

I hoisted the body across my shoulders and ran into the nearest side street. But my progress was slowed by a heavy growth of brush, thorn, and brilliant yellow roses. It felt like forever before I reached the adjacent avenue. Here the likeliest security was presented by the corner building, a structure of gray stone two stories high. I went up the front steps three at a time and through the gap where a door had been and into the dark lobby. I remained still while my eyes adjusted to the dimness.

Eventually, I became confident that the interior was free of peril.

I put the carcass down on the marble flooring. Nervously, I peered through the entrance back along my trail but observed nothing unusual. I finally decided I could return attention to my kill, which had to be dressed. Pulling the head back, I made an incision and allowed blood to drain from the body. Then I made a cut along the abdomen, so I could skin it. But as I began peeling the hide away from the flesh, the cold touch of metal against my nape interrupted my work.

A hoarse voice hissed beside my ear. “You are slow tonight, my boy. I could have had your liver in my fist already. So slow that I am ashamed of how easily I have taken you. But that would be admitting a certain failure at parenting on my part, don’t you think?”

The pressure of the spear point eased. I turned to face Danton. I hadn’t seen him in three months, and I was startled by the change in him. He had always seemed old to me, but now his age was doubly apparent. There were dark welts beneath his eyes. His hair had whitened. But I felt no sympathy for the man because of the contention between us.

“I’ll kill you if you ever do that again, Danton.”

“Will you now, my boy? I think not.”

There was no profit in arguing with Danton. I choked down my anger and began gutting the simian.

As I sent my hand into its body cavity, the old man said, “I’ve eaten only rat for a month and I’m sick of the diet. Let me have the heart.”

I ignored him. “Not a sly hunter like yourself, Danton. Not rat. I don’t believe it.”

“Impossible but true. What I hate most is how the bastards curse you as they die. You can just make out what they’re saying if you listen carefully. Give me the kidneys.”

Danton was still a dangerous man despite his age, so I motioned for him to go ahead and feed. He plucked up a hunk of flesh and put it to his mouth. Sighs and small noises escaped him as he ate, and I realized the change in him was starvation. This insight reminded me of my own hunger, but I refused to satisfy it before returning to Matilda. I stripped the pelt off the beast with quick passes of the knife and cut the carcass into smaller portions.

Danton wiped juice from his lips with a palm. Then he said, “Damn it, but nothing equals fresh meat. Give me a hindquarter, Hilary. Good, good. Now, my boy, tell me how Matilda is.”

“Why? You were going to poison her.”

“That wasn’t it, boy. Don’t you understand the simplest thing?”

“I get you well enough. You wanted Matilda to take some rotten drugs you rummaged up somewhere and kill our child.”

“Only because this pregnancy scares me. Let me go over my reasoning one more time. I hope it isn’t too late already.”

Seeing the gleam in his eyes, I realized Danton was beginning a lecture. From long experience, I knew it would be useless to interrupt. I returned to dressing the simian while listening with half a mind to his discourse. Danton wrapped his hands around the shaft of the spear and leaned toward me.

“For the hundredth time, let me tell you about the Great War. In those days, there were millions of people who were all the same except for minor variations in color. I know you have difficulty imagining such uniformity. I have trouble myself, because by the time I was born, the plagues had already made the world into what it is today. From what my parents told me, the preliminary blights were merely virulent, eliminating fifty-seven percent of the human population within a decade. Of greater impact, however, were the infections spread later on.

“First, the ancients set free a sickness of DNA, which joined to mammalian plasm and gave the higher animals the gift of speech. Even though the fact of articulate nonhuman species may seem like an ordinary thing to you and me, this was an effective act of terrorism to people not accustomed to it. Next came the Mutagenic Plague.

“This virus affected the very stuff of life. It introduced a random factor into the genetic material. From that time on, it was no longer possible for mankind or other mammals to breed true to type. I have sixteen fingers while you have eight, and that poor bastard there could have descended from a raccoon or monkey or domestic cat. The lines separating species were gone and the world will never again be what it was before.”

“All this is history, Danton,” I said. “Tell me something new.”

There was a sudden venom in his tone. “You’ve heard it before, but you haven’t listened. Just make damn certain you do now.

“Like the rest of the population during the final years, my own parents were soldiers. They were drafted to work on the project that eventually developed the Mutagenic Plague. What they learned then ruined them. Even though they survived the War, they were dead inside after that. I owe my birth not to any passion of theirs but to a government order, perhaps the last before society broke up. By that time, most people were so disillusioned with their offspring that few were having children.

“Knowing I wouldn’t look like them was not, however, what robbed my parents of optimism. It was knowing the effects of the plague would worsen, not diminish, in their descendants. It was predicted that the incidence of random genetic variation would increase over the generations until the species reverted to some basic common denominator. We have already seen the result of this activity in rats and other animals with high reproductive rates, which stabilized years ago in forms that are very unlike those of their ancestors. I fear other complex mammalian species are reaching that threshold. Which is why I decide to follow the advice of my parents and not have children of my own. And why you and Matilda, being several generations younger than I am, should rethink your decision.”

“Just what are you talking about, Danton? What’s this about rats?”

“Is your head as hollow as your bones, boy? Haven’t you heard me?”

“I’ve heard you, old man. I’ve heard you a thousand times. And so what? I guess it would be nice if the child took after Matilda or me. But what do I care if it doesn’t?”

“You miss my point. I’m not talking about additional fingers, or a tail or snout, or webbing like there is on Matilda’s hands. I mean that there could be a total break with genetic tradition, and that something awful might be born. I don’t want Matilda to endure that. Or you. Let us remove the child now. You may have another if this one proves vaguely human and I am wrong. I have what is necessary here.”

Danton took from his pouch a glass jar with a faded label, evidently the drug. I struck the vial from his hand.

“Not while I’m living, old man.”

The fight went out of Danton as the glass broke. He looked so pitiful that I felt an urge to hit him. But I restrained myself because I knew hunger and worry were making me edgy.

“Your philosophy is worthless, old man,” I said. “Tell me what you know about the scarcity of game.”

“Show respect, boy. According to the ancient literature, the depletion of wildlife from a habitat may be caused by catastrophe or by over hunting. Since there is no evidence of disaster or disease, I believe there must be some recent upset in the ecological balance. Perhaps a new predator migrated into the area and has already exhausted our local resources. Or maybe an endemic feral population has increased beyond feasible limits. I don’t know. All we can do is wait until a new equilibrium is struck. If I had the strength, I’d head south. That’s my best advice.”

“We can’t go anywhere until the child is born.”

“Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking. In any case, Hilary, there are always rats.”

I bundled up the carcass in my shirt and slung the sack over my shoulder. Danton took his portion of meat and followed me into the foyer. We peered out but discovered nothing unusual in the expanse of grass and concrete.

 I was thinking of Matilda and of how pleased she would be with my bounty, even if it was only stringy flesh and not some fine cuisine like in the magazines she read.

It wasn’t until we were outside in the open air that we became aware of danger.

Once, the intersection had been a major civic juncture. The nearest cover in our direction of travel was provided by a wild latticing of morning glory and ivy overgrowing a dry fountain in the center of the area. We made our way across the avenue toward this shelter and huddled in the shrubbery beneath the statue of a smiling child in the middle of the basin. As we caught our breath, we heard the sly sound that foretold our peril, a noise as gentle as a whisper.

Danton nudged my shoulder and asked, “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

We pressed against the pedestal and scanned the surroundings but saw only a few leaves tumbling across bald patches of pavement. I took out my pistol. Danton put down the simian haunch and readied his spear. Then we heard the odd teasing sound again. It lacked a definite point of origin and seemed to rise from all around us, as if from the air or from the ivy in which we were concealed.

The volume and clarity increased until I realized I was listening to an actual discussion. To my terror, I found I could decipher the exchange despite its lack of grammar and the slippery accent of the hidden speakers.

“Man o man man meat man meat. Good good. Yes.”

“Yes. Yes. O yes.”

“Man meat. Man meat.”

“Good. Good good. Good.”

I looked everywhere but couldn’t discover the source of the conversation. Then Danton gripped my arm and called my attention to a clump of vegetation before us. The tension in his eight spidery fingers communicated his fear as easily as words. Despite the moonlight, it felt like forever before I made out the reddish specks, glinting like coals, to which he was pointing. These, I knew, could only be eyes.

“Meat yes man man meat.”

“Go go. Go. Yes. Yes yes.”

“Man meat man meat.”

By the agitation of the discussion, I realized the creatures were encouraging each other to attack us. It was time to seize the initiative. I took aim at the nearest eyes and fired. Startled screams rang out as the shot echoed, and I saw dark shapes scurrying through the grass.

“Go get it, boy,” Danton said. “Let’s see what the bastard looks like.”

I raced out and retrieved the body of the thing I had shot and flung it down before Danton. The creature was small, but even in death it seemed to possess a malevolence greater than its size. Sensual lips had pulled back to expose an inlay of sharp teeth. Talons crusted with blood extruded from its paws. The shape of its body was almost human, but because of the large pads on its knees, I didn’t think it walked upright. Danton appeared interested in the fingers, which he moved curiously back and forth.

“The third one is opposable,” he told me. “It has the ability to use tools, but I doubt it did. The musculature is too feral.”

“What is it? I don’t like its looks.”

“That makes two of us. We’ve found our new predator, boy. The thing could have come from human stock. Other aspects, however, are animal.”

“I think it looks like the ape I killed.”

“Yes, there is a similarity. It also looks something like you, too.”

Our speculations ended when conversation once again sounded in the grass surrounding the fountain. The creatures were gathering to assail us again and so I cocked my pistol and fired off the remaining rounds at the baleful eyes. Shrieks welled up and then there was quiet. Knowing I had gained us only a brief respite, I tucked the gun into my belt and unsheathed my knife while Danton jabbed his spear at the air.

“They have the advantage on us,” he said.

I ignored him. I was thinking of Matilda. The knowledge of her frailty frightened me more than fear for my own life. I imagined her awaiting my return in the dark apartment. Perhaps this is why I made the decision I did. Despite his being a father to me, I had never really liked Danton.

“Prepare yourself,” he said. “The bastards are coming.”

A scream rose from the brush and a hundred of the things hurtled toward us, fangs glistening in the silver light. I think I shrieked, although I’m not sure of this. One was upon me, impaled on my knife and struggling despite the blade in its belly. More came immediately. Danton was being pushed back until he stumbled against the pedestal of the smiling child and went to his knees. The creatures fell upon him. A terrible wailing rose from the tangle of bodies, but I was already on my way away from there. Using my long legs to full advantage, I leaped up and over the imps and across the tall grass.

I told myself what was needed to survive was decisiveness, not philosophy.

So I turned away from the fountain and the horribly smiling statue and from the feast beside it and ran away from there.

A cloud passed beneath the moon, darkening the city. I didn’t slow down even after I became sure I wasn’t followed. Even so, I was gripped by an unreasonable fear, and wanted nothing so desperately as to be at home with Matilda. By the time I approached our tenement, coming upon it from the concealment of a wild growth of rhododendron, I was near to panic. I dashed up the flight of steps that led to the front door and fumbled clumsily at the lock across the iron grill work.

Breathing deeply, I closed the heavy door. Then I climbed to the fourth story. The dust coating the landings appeared undisturbed, but I remained on edge. I cursed Danton for having died and for having filled my head with his craziness. I knew Matilda was all right. She was even now gingerly folding back another page to follow an ancient article in the moonlight. I told myself that tomorrow, I’d have more luck at the hunt. I imagined the smile that would crack open her wrinkled lips, and how she might fan me with her webbed fingers. Going to the steel door of our apartment, I tested the knob. It held fast. So I slid the key into the mechanism.

My first intimation of disaster was sound where there should have been silence.

I went into the hallway and along the corridor past the living room and kitchen and past the smaller bedroom. Through the open door of the larger room issued whispering. I knew it was impossible for them to be here, but the noise was so like the conversation of the imps around the fountain that dread seized me. I threw the door open and flung myself into the room.

For a brief instant, it seemed all was well. Matilda was lying asleep where I had left her, the blankets tucked up, an ancient periodical beside her fingers. Yet still the whispers continued, seeming to come not from the closet or any corner of the room but from the very bed on which Matilda rested. Then I noticed the flatness of the blanket that should have risen upward with the swell of her belly, the wet discoloration of the linen, and a twitch of movement beneath the material.

I cried out and wrenched the covering off her. Then I unsheathed my knife.

I killed them all.

Mostly I cried. The moon set and in the darkness I stared at the dead things, the immature imps that were our get. One had been chewing her thigh into pablum. Another was at her breasts, lapping reddish milk with its sharp teeth. The others I scraped from her womb and killed before they could draw breath.

I sat beside Matilda through the dismal hours of the night. I closed her eyes and the magazine she’d been reading. Holding her hand, I stroked the webbing between the fingers and thought of all her fancy dreams, some fine cuisine. Eventually, I slept.

In the morning I awoke to the fact of my starvation. I gathered up our children. I was hungry, so I ate.

Darkness by Linda Sparks

Moonlight shimmered across my pale skin as I slipped through the darkness, wandering without illumination except for my companion, the Moon. She kept my secrets and she never permitted me to stumble.

My attire was spider-webbed with intricate black lace and the vaporous elegance of a bride’s gown. The wind off the sea was chilling my bones, yet I did not seek the comfort of sleep, where only dreams wander and weave their tales and are forgotten so easily by the duplicitous light of day.

Stone-cold walls emanate a formidable presence, bound by their memories and the howls of the tormented. These stones speak to me.

Gliding through the halls by memory, I hear the whispers of those who have passed this way. The scent of a candle newly snuffed hovers in the air as a reminder that, for some, light is useful and perhaps even necessary.

A soft sound ripples into my ear, like a forgotten song, and I listen with every fiber of my being. Music is an essential part of the human soul and the songs of my childhood dance in my head and later, the music of the ballroom and the joyous ribaldry of life.

The darkness of night is mine alone and I am filled with the sanctity of my purpose, passing each room and peering into these spaces in which I am the guardian.

Slumbering dreamers beneath the heavy quilt toss and turn restlessly, and I watch them with care.

When I pass the great hall, I hear the children laughing as their sire tells them a tall tale of heroes and great battles in which he is always victorious. The aroma of good food and warmth permeates them, and I am pleased. My family is warm and safe.

Yet my bones are bitterly cold and I move closer to the fire and, as I do, it sizzles and snuffs out, leaving a vaporous memory of smoke in the air. And the laughter is silent.

I came to this place as a child-bride and understood it was my duty to manage the household and to bear children to assure the bloodline for my husband, Sebastian.

Often, when my belly was fecund and my skin glowing, I would catch him watching me with that half-smile of wonder upon his dark features and my heart would beat with a magical strength within my chest, trying to escape the boundaries of mortality

Now, I slip through the darkness without a flame to light my way, searching for Sebastian and the sound of his voice, but I am met with silence.

A crash startles me, followed by a small shriek and then nervous laughter. The voices are young. Male and female and they are carrying strange lights to illuminate their pathway through the stygian night. Was I sleeping and they have awakened me?

I deliberately provoke them and send a vase crashing to the floor. Screams are my reward, and then they are running. It is strange that these faceless ones are prowling through my home without invitation.

Gusts of brutal wind whip through the open window and I realize it is my desire that this power will lift these strangers and toss them, hurtling them out of my home.

Then the blessed silence returns.

Although, I often believe it is a curse.

Where are the voices of my children and my mate? Where is the bustling of activity and the joyous gatherings? Are they all sleeping? Am I the only one who walks the night?

They are gone. I do not know their names, but it is true that visitors come here uninvited and prowl through my halls and carry strange little lights, whispering to each other and asking me questions. But they never await my answer. Besides, the questions are quite foolish.

Some even asked how I died.

I am not dead. Such an outrageous and quite rude conversation.

Sebastian. Where is he? My great warrior surely must be able to kick these ruffians from my castle or call out his guards and his soldiers under his command. But Sebastian is silent.

Sometimes I can barely remember his face and there are other times when I feel his breath upon me and his scent is a perfume which intoxicates me.

The beautiful moon goddess smiles down upon me, gently, protectively, and I feel a sense of intoxicating joy.

Pieces of my clothing fall away, but I continue on. I have many beautiful things to wear as the seamstress is quite talented and dedicated.

As I wander through these dark halls, I feel a strange sense of unease and I cannot say why that is happening. Perhaps it was all the nasty questions by those rude interlopers who invaded my home and disrupted my peace.

A fist of terror fills my chest and I cannot escape it.

My son! Where is he? Is he crying?

I am moving through the hallways and the rooms of this vast place, seeking my beloved child and, as I stop to listen, I hear his cries. I rush towards the sound, feeling maddened.

Where are the nursemaids?

Frantically, I rush through the halls, searching each room, but I am met with emptiness and the darkness which not only conceals but devastates in a way I cannot name. It is an unbearable darkness that obliterates all rational thought.

Jacques! My darling boy. Where are you?

I feel my heart exploding within my chest, yet still it continues to beat and I run, desperately seeking my child, meeting only emptiness.

I am halted.

Sebastian.

He is sitting beside the cold hearth where a fire has long since died and his hair is no longer dark but has morphed into a soft whiteness, yet I know his scent and his heartbeat. He is mine forever.

His face is cupped within his hands, his shoulders sagged, his body contorted in the way of someone crippled by a severe misfortune.

He is weeping. Great sobs are wracking his body, and he is gasping for breath. His suffering is immense. I move towards him, but the darkness swallows him.

I am alone in the moonlight, feeling baffled and betrayed by the silver streaks of light that now dapple the empty darkness.

The haunting howl of the wind cascades down the hallway and fierce gusts tear at my clothing, but I stand boldly against it. I have never hidden from conflict and I will not be taken by this insidious wind that has invaded my space.

I, too, wish to weep. But more than weeping, I feel a scream rising in my throat, and I struggle to swallow it. I am the Lady of the Castle and I shall not show my fear.

Am I afraid? Why? Is it the answers to those questions that were asked by the intruders and I refused to respond?

Now I am hurtling through the halls, desperately looking for my son. His name is Jaques. How could I ever forget his name? How have I lost him? I know every room and every corner and crevice in this structure. I shall find him. And then, Sebastian will cease his sorrowful weeping and he will embrace me and we will be safe again.

Frantically seeking, but never finding Sebastian or my sweet-faced son. I know he must be hungry. He needs me and I need to hold him tightly against my heart forever.

The tower. I have often thought of it as a place of solace where I might gather my thoughts. That was true until they locked the door and I became a prisoner.

They spoke of loss and madness and death. There were nasty whispers, but I had ears to hear. I tried to understand.

I wanted my son. They needed to help me find him. He was lost. Yet, Sebastian could not bring him to me.

My screams echoed throughout the halls of this vast castle and those persistent intruders scattered in fear. How dare they come here and disturb my wanderings? And ignite my memories.

Oh, how I wanted to forget.

But the memories blazed like a fire within my heart and soul, and I was stone-faced as we laid my son into the cold ground. I believed I had wandered into someone else’s nightmare.

And then the madness and the screaming and the never-ending despair took me. Sebastian could not console me. He was a stranger.

When he took another wife, I did not even weep. There were no tears remaining for me. Only the hollow and haunted task of continuing to breathe.

One moonlit night, I understood what I must do. I am clever and I worked at it diligently until I was able to pry open the caged bars of the window. No one noticed. They no longer had any interest in serving the Lady of the Castle.

The Lady of the Moon watched me, welcoming me, approving, applauding my cleverness.

When I crawled up onto the window frame, I was surprised at the ease with which I was able to accomplish this deed.

There was no hesitation as I perched my small body within the frame, looking out longingly over the sea.

And then I heard my child whimpering. He was waiting.

I leaped from the window, and I became a giant predatory bird as I flew out over the seas, morphing into something eternal.

And now I am vigilant as I walk these ancient halls in the shroud of comforting darkness. Each night, I listen diligently, knowing I shall hear my son’s voice calling to me.

Picture of Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks is a poet and author who prefers seeking the darkness and questioning as to what or who might be waiting there. She has been published by The Stygian Lepus, The Ravens Quoth Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and others.

The Girl Who Lived in a Shoe by Hari Navarro

Vanessa feels wettened fingers in her ears as they snap at the knuckles, and then, slowly, she closes her eyes. 

It is suddenly so deliciously hot as the clenching billowing maw above opens, and plastic scented light pours over her, gathering and pulling at her skin.

This artificial aroma; she remembers it as the cheap sun lotion she’d once lathered into her pores. Those dreamy chemicals that stuck in the grooves of her lips. That so filled her nostrils with memories of sand and bearded, moated boulders, and dunes that unraveled as skinny legs plowed through and up to their peaks.

And again, just now, the ground beneath suddenly tips as one foot slumps lower than the other. There is screaming, but it is not human. It is a wail that sucks into itself, and then something cool and sharp plays and runs through her hair.

She needs to be in the pit.

She feels safe in the pit.

***

Vanessa stands on the shore and contracts her feet into the strata lines of ruddied foam, sighing into its cooling swallow. This is a memory of teenage toes and grains that fouled sandwiches that cracked between the, then, effortless twitch of her smile. But, this is now, and her dry lips thin and split as she pulls them back against her teeth. Her mind leaching, bleeding them of any part of joy.

She stands alone with her eyes closed so tightly she can feel them beat, and she plugs her toes ever deeper, down and into the sand.

“I am Drowner of the incessant silences. Drowner of the septic naked thing that purged from the ragged canal in a gush of amniotic roadside wash.”

In this fuddled moment she feels intimately connected to this far beginning, and just short of the end of many a thing. The sand; it has changed its counsel over these long years, she thinks.

In her youth, its rub was a soothing and searing balm to the soles of her feet. But now, it offers only abrasion. Painful mutterings that echo of the very Earth’s approaching demise. Its slow remorse as the moving water forever scratches and wears away at its skin.

***

Vanessa opens her eyes, and for a moment, everything is blue. The sky is ripped of its clouds, and the sea is calmed and without its white-licked peaks. Above and below merge into something terrifying and lovely, and infinite and connected, and so very blue.

“How am I here?”

She loses herself sometimes. She gets lost amid sentences, and on familiar streets, and in the ramping beat of her panting as she claws randomly found flesh into her zenith release.

She gets lost in the question of whether she is cold or hot. A God or not. Sick or not. She gets lost in the not knowing if she is bad or if, indeed, she is good.

She hears sea birds, and she opens her eyes and marvels at how freely they drop and bounce through the currents. To fly.

Vanessa has to work today so surely she didn’t abuse the boys, she wonders. The boys is the name she has given to the capsules that bustle and ruminate in the shoebox beneath her bed—the team she is on as she tries to neatly fold her past. An attempt, of a night, to put it all most soundly to sleep.

Spittle crests and runs the edge of her lip, and her head falls away to the side and bits of shell between her toes poke at her eyes as they play in the sun, and the world pulls back into step.

The ancient sand. Wet cement fragments in time copied so perfectly her feet as she ran.

***

Vanessa is standing naked with her skin torn and rubbed raw at the points where her clothes were torqued and drawn until they snapped and raped from her flesh.

“What am I?”

She knows this place—this bent scoop cove with thrusting walls of failing rock and dripping clay that pantomime at her back. Cliffs that fold to the ever-angered, and at once, so very meek waves that bite and chew. An incessant hunger that crumbles the farmland splaying out from and cowering at its very top.

She knows it well.

There is a ladder of sorts leading down from this top. Not all the way, as it stops twice on little ledges that allow her to swivel and adjust her stance. The ladder is formed from found things. Its main poles are mill-shaved lumber, but the struts are nailed branches of manuka and parts of window frames and such—an old street sign, that even now, as the salt picks and plays at her bare eyes, she wishes the name would thicken, and spill from her throat.

But it doesn’t. Her past does so lock itself in corridors of identical rooms.

***

Before her now, a beautiful ghost wades into the waves with a towering fishing rod in his grasp. This, she knows at once, is her grandfather, the massive height of the rod playing in his hand, begging only to be cast.

She struggles to grasp just how she is here. How she now sees this rod, or still just how the mangled line, wound within its long-neglected reel, passes so perfectly up through its guides and now hangs before him and her, replete with sinker and lavishly baited hook.

She would have thought an apparition such as this would weld his rod in the pristine condition he always maintained it in life. Not projecting it, as it now sits, neglected in the rafters of her grandfather’s long-since visited shed.

He seems full of tiny holes that allow the wave-spun breeze easy passage as it passes through him and beats against her skin.

The old man flips the bar that locks his reel in place and secures his finger to hold the nylon just so against the pole. Then he steps one foot forward, to widen and steady his stance, and arches backward, and with his other hand gripping firmly at the rod’s base, he heaves it backward over his head.

She is sad as the line passes through her mind, and even sadder that she doesn’t flinch in the slightest as it does.

Nothing now is tactile. Everything is hollowed, and she cannot clutch nor caress the form of most anything. Just wisps of husk and shell remain.

“Please don’t speak,” she begs silently of the old man’s back. “Please, I don’t think I can bear it after all this time you’ve been gone.”

“Come now, little whip. What is it that you hope to catch?”

“Myself. As always, Grandad, you know. Always there to wordlessly syphon off my self-pity and loathing with one of these dear trips to the beach.”

The old man smiles as he violently lurches forward, thrusting his bottom hand down to cast his line out. And the lead at its end pours into the ascendant before then falling, the dive probing the farthest distant swell.

***

She thinks she is mad.

She thinks she is mad, as she can feel, again, hands at her back, shuddering as they continue to flail the clothes from her body.

There is a threadbare waterfall that excretes from the cliff behind her. It forms a small pool at its base, and then dribbles down between her parted legs. A stream that splits at the base of the pole she now holds, and then deltas through the sand before her, spilling the clay’s rusty tint further down, veining into the sea.

“So that’s why the foam is red.” She sighs through a briefest smile of relief.

Her hooked finger feels a tug on the line. Then nothing. This pull it is that thing. That thing she tried so hard to ignore as she slipped into the bath with lipstick smiles at her wrists.

It tugs again, and the reel hisses as it plays out. She cranks the handle at its side, and the guide bar flicks back into place. She stops and she waits, and then again it tugs and runs off to the left. She winds again, heaving back the rod, and then stops and locks the line, and heaves it back again.

Time now races, and she can see but flashes of the moon and the sun as they chop and change in the sky. Her name is Vanessa, and she wants to carve it into a sea log so that it might float away, and when found, someone could care to wonder just what it was she was for.

The tip of the rod bows and it whips from side to side. She can see it now; this gathered floundering thing, fighting in the nearby roll, and she wades into the waves and winds and winds and winds.

It flaps and it screams, and then, this mass, it distills in the splaying foam. A great hook scooped into the corner of her scream, and torn out through the puff of her cheek.

She is human. Black hair shaved back to her scalp. Her face pulled apart and leaking like fruit torn to its pith.

Vanessa falls heavily at her side. Guilt throbs in her fingers as she holds the poor girl’s head and, with a long ago practiced twist of her wrist, she removes the hook from her face.

“I’m so sorry, look how I have ruined you,” Vanessa pleads as her voice bends and cracks against the gutted ripped flap of flesh that now slides beneath her hand as she tries to hold it in place. “I so wanted to catch you, but now I have, all I want is to throw you back,” she says to herself as she cups her own head, running her hand across the crust at its fire-scorched brow.

***

She’s seen wonderful things. With her job, she has visited the world entire. She has sat alone in empty bars at dawn and sucked the head off fizzing amber shafts of filthy glass. She has marveled at the flustered faces of commuting crowds packed into trains, and wept as they looked so happy.

Grooves within a lock, clicking and clicking and clicking into place.

“I am a pilot, and I need to get back to the pit. The pews which sit behind me there, worshiped my invisible power to give them all wings to skirt the globe. To find safe passage. My sermon gave them comfort, and now look at the harvest I’ve lost.”

You were in the sky, and you left the cockpit, and as the switches passed above your head, you thought of nothing. Nothing.

Vanessa?

It is now late afternoon, but still the sun, it reaps. Vanessa lies naked and jagged and dead as the returning tide pushes and pulls at the holes in her body.

The bay is strewn with bomb-gouged bodies, and bits of headrests and plastic cups, and private things that float.

Her right leg floats atop the gentle surge of the tide. Its foot remains bound and safe in a shoe—it now the only thing that holds her in place.

The sea sways and sauces the sand, and the sand, it grates and parts and parts again. Smaller and smaller, until finally Vanessa becomes nothing at all.

Nothing but a single shoe to be found on a beach by a stranger.

Picture of Hari Navarro

Hari Navarro

Hari Navarro has, for many years now, been locked in his neighbour’s cellar. He survives due to an intravenous feed of puréed extreme horror and Absinthe-infused sticky-spiced unicorn wings. His anguished cries for more dip can be found via Black Hare Press, Black Ink Fiction, Hellbound Books, 365 Tomorrows, Breachzine, AntipodeanSF and Horror Without Borders.