Toward the 20th
Ghost
20 Dark Visions
by
A. Kale
© A. Kale. 2010
Note: This publication is for private use only. Any copying or reprinting without the author’s permission is prohibited and is punishable by law.
“Good stories are like ghosts…
They haunt you.
They don’t let go.”
Anon.
For Ray Bradbury, for the stories.
Contents
Ghost Flowers
Ink
Dinner For One
The Mask
A Wet Dream
The Watch
Help Me
Dear Listener
Half-Blind
The Crime
Night Drive
The Eye Room
Rendezvous
The Tape
The Shadow
The Swimmer
The Gun
The Panther
The Talisman
The Demon
Afterword
Ghost Flowers
She crept up the stairs.
Butterflies fluttered inside her stomach. She struggled to maintain her calm. She hadn’t been up there in fifteen years. Things had changed. She had changed, grown up.
But it was time. Time to see them again, to stand in the middle of the room and take it all in; the memories, the shadows, the musty smell of dust. The flowers.
One step at a time, now. She was getting closer. The sounds from the party downstairs were getting fainter with each step she climbed. Why was she doing this? Why did she have to see them again?
She didn’t know. But she just had to. Her childhood was trapped up there. The secrets were up there, locked up and bound, waiting to be released, holding their breaths, waiting to scream, to shout out the truth.
It was her mother’s dying. She knew it; although she didn’t want to admit it. Her mother’s dying, her last words.
Her last words . . .
I can see them, my dear. I can see them clearly now.
What do you see, mother?
The flowers. The ghostly ones you used to see. Remember? You were just a little girl.
She did remember. When she was a child, she’d see them all the time. When she was sick; when she fell down and hurt herself; when she was sad. When someone close to her died.
The ghost flowers.
She reached the attic and opened the door. The sights and smells greeted her with a dusty, stifling embrace. She heard a strange, muffled sound; an echo of things better left forgotten.
She stepped inside. Coughed. The dust and filth irritated her sinuses, made her eyes water. It reminded her of being a child, scared, alone, with an insatiable imagination that had always got her in trouble.
She took a couple more steps, looked around her.
She heard her mother crying. Her heart ached. Her mother was sad. She wasn’t resting in peace.
A cold breath touched her cheek, chilling her soul.
She turned around and saw them.
Her mother was holding them out to her, offering them to her only child. Red flowers, dripping with dew. They were barely there, almost transparent, their colors faded. They were untouchable. Incorporeal. But she could see them.
The Ghost Flowers.
Ink
One story at a time, he told himself.
He always wanted to multi-task, work on several novels at the same time, add a few more streaks of color to his latest painting, think of better ways to market his work. But it had taken its toll, this ubiquity. He had to slow down and focus. He was dead-tired. Strangely enough, his work hadn’t suffered for it. He was producing some of the best work of his life. His last novel, Waiting for Sands, had gotten the best reviews of his life, and his latest short story collection, Taking and Giving, had already gone into a second printing. He was on a roll.
But it had taken its toll on him physically. Only thirty-five years old and already feeling bone-tired. His joints ached, his lungs wheezed, and his pallor was ghastly. He looked like that character, Charlie, from his short story, Unbound: a young man who, after writing twenty novels in four years, discovered that his muse was an evil creature from another realm, and that in exchange for inspiration, it fed on the writer’s soul, resulting in the writer’s eventual demise, spiritually, not physically. And, of course, he couldn’t write anymore.
He always thought that the stories he deemed the worst made the most impact; which meant either he had no idea what people liked, or that people were getting more and more tasteless.
He stretched and heard his back pop. A sweet pain followed. He sighed and bent forward again, tapping the keys, creating words. This novel was coming along nicely. He expected it to be finished in a week or so. Then he would send it to his editor, who would tear it apart, or try to, anyway, and then he would work on the second draft, and then revise that, and then send it to the copy-editor.
He could see it already. The black and red cover, the bloody images, his byline embossed and printed in silver.
He finished another chapter and pressed PRINT. His laser printer started rolling out page after page.
They were all smeared and ruined. He gasped in shock. The printer had malfunctioned. It was using too much ink, smearing the pages with it. The pages looked like Rorschach wet dreams. He grunted in disgust and pressed CANCEL. The printer stopped working midway through printing another ink-smeared abomination. He extracted the paper from the loading tray and saw that only one word was visible. INK.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t remember using the word ink anywhere in the novel. Strange, he thought. The printer started working again, releasing another page, almost blank, except for a small dot of ink in the middle of the page. Then it stopped working again, its hum dying down, like a beast going to sleep. He pulled the page from the tray and inspected the ink blot. It was a word, printed in very small letters. The word was INK.
He was baffled. What was going on here? The printer had gone insane! Or was he the one losing it?
He shook his head, brushing away these thoughts. He was getting riled up over nothing. He was bone-tired. He pressed PRINT again. The printer hummed back to life, and page after page, covered with neat little words in black, came out of it.
He sighed with relief and smiled. It had been nothing.
He got up and wiped his sweaty face with his hand. He needed some sleep. He left the printer to finish its job and went into the bathroom. He peed, washed his hands, then started to wash his face.
Then he heard it. The sound of something gurgling. A wave. He followed the sound. It was just outside the door. He looked down, at the door step. A black viscous liquid was seeping from under the door step. Ink.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He felt his eyes water. He was starting to weep. His tears felt thick and sticky.
He looked into the mirror. His tears were black, two inky rivulets streaming down his face.
He heard the printer. It was still working. Its job wasn’t finished. Yet.
Dinner for one
He sat at the table, looking at her.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. And she was his, and he hers. He couldn’t believe his luck. Only twenty-eight and already he’d struck gold. He’d found the love of his life. The perfect woman, a heavenly creature. He loved her more than anything. Loved her smile, her eyes, her smell, the unique copper color of her skin, the swell of her small breasts, the small triangle of golden hair above her sex, the way she laughed softly when she came, the way she kissed the place just under his belly-button, and the way she made him laugh, always.
But above all, he loved her for her limitless kindness. It was wondrous the way she dealt with people. She loved life, but loved sharing it even more. She loved people, all people. She had a way of making anybody smile. Her soft voice and gentle confidence made everyone at ease, and she knew it. And she wielded that ability to make life seem more beautiful than it really was. And he loved her for it.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘I am thinking of you,’ he said.
‘Really? Great. But don’t overdo it, OK?’
‘Why?’ he asked, smiling, savoring the sound of her voice.
‘Because you might miss out on other, more important things.’
‘Like?’
‘Like what we are going to do tonight.’
‘You mean after this dinner at one of the finest restaurants in the city?’
‘Yes. After this fine dinner is over, I want you to love me more than you’ve ever loved me before.’
‘I don’t think that is possible, my love.’
‘You could try,’ she said, and smiled mischievously.
He thought about it and it made him hard. She loved to make love every night. She said it was the best way to end the day, and he loved her for it; for her unabashed love of sex, the way she loved shedding her clothes and standing there, naked, smiling as he smiled, as his eyes took it all in, the poetry of her body. Then she would come to bed and let him do the same. And the way she watched his naked body made him feel beautiful and loved. Then he would go to bed, and let their bodies intertwine. And they would come together, as always.
The food arrived and they ate. It tasted great. But with her, everything seemed sweeter and tasted better. With her, life wasn’t ugly or sad. It was bliss.
They left the restaurant and decided to walk home.
The night was teasingly chilly. Not quite cold, not quite warm. There was just enough of a breeze to make you feel light, make you want to breathe in the cold air.
A knife flashed. She screamed. Someone grabbed him from behind. He saw an ugly smile. A man grabbed her, tried to open her legs. She screamed and fought. The knife flashed again, slicing the air. She stopped screaming. He started to scream. They ran with her purse and his wallet. He held her in his arms and wept. Just like that, his love was stolen away from him.
He opened his eyes. She was there, sitting before him. They were at the restaurant, awaiting their order.
‘What’s on your mind?’ she asked.
‘You, my love.’
The waiter came, gave him a strange look, and put down the plate.
Dinner for one.
The Mask
He sat on the porch, waiting for the Trick or Treaters. Another Halloween at home.
His mother never allowed him to go trick or treating with other kids. He was almost twelve, but his mother said that it was a dangerous world out there, filled with maniacs and perverts, and that it wasn’t like her time, when people could walk out in the streets and not fear getting mugged or having their throats slit. No, he wouldn’t go trick or treating. Not in a million years.
But his mother didn’t understand. It wasn’t just about the thrill of trick or treating – although that was reason enough – it was about being called a wimp by other guys at school. Almost twelve and he wasn’t allowed to leave the house on Halloween! It was a fucking tragedy.
He fidgeted in his seat, reading a tattered comic book that he’d found in the attic. It belonged to his dad, who was away on business. It was called Michael’s Abode. This issue had three stories that were supposed to be scary, but, of course, weren’t. But the drawings were. They scared the hell out of him. He knew that his mother would have a fit if she knew he had found this. She refused to let him see anything that had even a hint of violence in it. Of course, that didn’t stop him from watching plenty of horror films online, but he preferred to let her enjoy the illusion of parental guidance. Like now. Here he was, reading a horror comic book filled with gore and grue, while she sat inside, in the living room, unknowing, reading a silly romance novel.
He paged through the comic book, savoring the bloody images of carnage with glee. This is what Halloween is all about, he thought, scares and candy, and with the comic book in his hands and the mound of candy on the table beside him, he had plenty of both.
Then he heard footsteps. He lowered the comic book and saw a man in filthy, dark grey overalls, wearing a white, expressionless mask, staring back at him. He looked like something out of a nightmare.
The man stretched out his hand, as if waiting for something to be given to him.
The boy looked at the man’s hand and saw that it was covered with scars. Burn scars.
He swallowed and grabbed a handful of candy and dropped it onto the man’s open palm. The man instantly closed his hand and nodded his thanks.
The man turned away from him, about to walk away, when, suddenly, he stopped and turned around. He walked closer to the boy. The boy gulped, afraid. And, without a word, the man took off his mask and held it out before him. He wanted the boy to have it.
The boy’s eyes widened. He tried not to scream. The man inched his hand closer to the boy, urging him to take the mask. The boy took it with a shaking hand.
The man smiled and walked away. The boy could see him walking down the street, unwrapping the candy and throwing it into his mouth, chewing it happily. A bunch of kids walked past the man and said, ‘Cool mask, man. Mucho scary.’ The man smiled at them, his face monstrous, his fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Then he walked away, into the night, out of sight.
The boy held the man’s mask in his hands. He tried to forget the face he’d seen. But he knew he never would.
Rendezvous
They stood on the rooftop, watching the full moon.
He held a silenced-gun, she a red rose. The rose was his gift to her. His last gift. She raised the red rose to her face and greedily took in its scent. It brought back memories, all precious. She looked at the man before her, his back to her, and remembered making love to him for the first time. He had been so gentle, so caring. He’d made her feel like a queen, the way he softly caressed her body and delicately touched her most sensitive places.
They’d made love hundreds of time since then, but that first time … She threw away the rose and watched it fall, end over end. It was a long drop.
The man turned and looked into her eyes. He smiled. She loved his smile, loved the way his moustache curled at the sides when he smiled. Although his moustache was more grey than black now, to her he still looked boyish. Despite all they’d seen and done together, he, more than she, was still capable of exuding that charming innocence she’d fallen in love with when she’d first met him.
With his free hand, the one not holding the gun, he touched her hair. It still made her heart skip a beat, him touching her in any way. She raised her hand and touched his lips. They were wet and soft. Then she touched his moustache, felt the coarseness of its hairs. She loved him. Oh, how she loved him.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he slid his hand down her hair and touched her lips, silencing her. This was not a time for words. Words were useless now. This was a time for feeling and sharing things more profound than words. She understood. She smiled.
He embraced her, and she could feel his heart beating quickly. He was scared. It broke her heart. She tried to breathe deeply, quiet her own heart. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was. But she knew that she was never going to be able to slow down her heartbeats. Tonight, she wasn’t in control of anything. Tonight, she would give in.
It was time. She knew Abraham would never let them go. Not after what they’d taken from him. You never stole from Abraham and lived to tell the tale. They had run, and run, and run. But he had eyes and ears everywhere; he always managed to find them. He was coming for them right now, and the things he would do to them …
She cut off the thought. They had slipped, had made a bad judgment, and they were going to pay for it. Twenty years of stealing, robbing and cheating for Abraham, and still they had this dream of breaking free and living a quiet life, together.
Maybe they would, after all. Maybe there was an afterlife, a God in Heaven, and all that. But if there was, would he embrace the likes of them? She hoped so, for her lover’s sake.
She felt his hand grip hers. It was time. Tears swam in her eyes. It was time. He looked at her pleadingly, the tears in his eyes glimmering in the moonlight. If only she could do it. If only she could carry that burden. But she didn’t have the guts to do what he was about to do. She loved him as much, but she couldn’t do it. Never, never …
He raised the gun and pressed the cold barrel to her temple. His hand was shaking.
‘See you soon, my love.’
‘See you soon,’ she said.
She could barely see now. The tears swimming in her eyes made everything look blurry and unreal. She could blink and clear away the tears, but she didn’t want to. It was better this way. She didn’t want to see his face now. It would break her heart into a million pieces.
He cocked the gun.
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About the Author
A. Kale is the author of five books, including the acclaimed collections TOWARD THE 20TH GHOST and 9 LIVES: STORIES FOR CAT LOVERS, and COFFIN X: A NOVEL. All his books are available for sale at Amazon.com.
Contact him at: toward@Wingrave-Film.com
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