Candle in the Attic Window(83)

When darkness slides across the landscape, she retreats to her cot in the tent beside the other men. They sit in awkward silence, unsure how to behave now that her secret has been laid bare. She asks that they leave a lamp lit, even when they sleep; the darkness is unbearable for her now. She swears that she can hear Storbridge’s husky breathing, or the soft murmurings of the pale doctor who bandaged her wounds. Even years later, married to Foreman Bao and mother to his children, she will not sleep without a lantern’s glow or a stoked fire. She does not want to dream of the faceless, bonneted women and their strange children, or remember the frozen nights spent in that mysterious cavern.

But when the winter nights are bone-numbingly cold, her healed leg aches with remembered pain, and her dreams are dark and haunted.






Sarah Hans is a Buddhist, steampunk, and horror writer. Her work is appearing in several anthologies this year, including Historical Lovecraft and The Crimson Pact: Volume 1. You can read more of her work, and follow her adventures aboard The Airship Archon, at her website: http://sarahhans.com/





The Forgotten Ones





By Mary Cook



Come and see us now, Mother; this is where we lie

In this dank and distant place with not a glimpse of sky.

Fasten back the turf, Mother, like the man next door

When he dug this grisly grave for when we breathed no more.

He gave us sweets and shiny things – said we mustn’t tell.

The doorway to his ghastly house became the mouth of Hell.

This is how we sleep, Mother; neat as in our beds

But now our bones are white and bare, with only skulls for heads.

Don’t you feel some shred of guilt, some tiny prick of pain?

The two of us were led away and never seen again.

Look upon us now, Mother; this is where we lie

Since you let our wicked neighbour bring us here to die.






Mary Cook is a UK-based writer and editor whose articles, short stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications, both in print and online. Her main writing interests are humour, horror, and the writing craft. Her collection of humourous horror poetry, Collywobblers – Perverse Verse for Guys and Ghouls, is available at Inkspotter Publishing: http://inkspotter.com/bookstore/index.htm.





Nine Nights





By T. S. Bazelli





Marianne opened her mouth, but no breath escaped. Something pressed against her chest, drove out the air so that she could not scream. She fought to raise her sweat-bathed arms, but they rested on the white sheets like lead. If anyone walked by, they would never notice anything was wrong. Marianne fought, voiceless, sucking up the darkness and choking on it like water. Scissors gleamed in the moonlight.

“My Lovely Marianne.” A whisper of a voice, vaguely female, amused.

Snip.

The girl had dark eyes, dark skin, and dark hair, like her own, but the girl was too thin, too hungry, too short. Marianne knew she must still be dreaming. She fought to wake, her eyes blurring over as she sought air and screamed.

It was a hollow, faraway sound, but at once, humid air flooded into her lungs, smelling of citronella, fried fish and decay.

Marianne kicked the blankets and mosquito net away. It was just a nightmare, she breathed, slowing her heartbeat. Who would not have nightmares when there was a coffin in the living room?

She did not feel at home in her grandparents’ house, in the Philippine heat. She’d grown up in Canada, beneath cool, rainy skies. Even at 14, she was too tall, too pale, too fat, compared to the tiny women in her family. She scratched at her legs, drawing blood, as the itch of a hundred mosquito bites flared up again. Marianne wanted to go home, but she couldn’t. It was the dead girl’s fault.

Her mouth burned and her head ached. She needed water. She stumbled downstairs in her pajamas, vaguely aware of the sound of a guitar strumming and the smell of cigarettes.

There were still three days until the funeral. Until then, there was always someone awake with the body. There was no avoiding it. Marianne had to walk past the coffin to get to the kitchen. Aunties congregated around empty plates of food, staring at her as she walked past.

Marianne kept her eyes on the table. There were only a few egg rolls, pieces of chicken, rice, bits of glassy noodles stuck to a metal serving dish, a few bits of roasted pork. In the morning, the containers would be full again, and more people would come.

Her father looked up from the couch where he sat with her grandfather. They were both dressed head-to-toe in black, despite the tropical heat. It did not seem right. Her father’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying. She’d never seen him cry. Marianne couldn’t cry for the girl in the glass coffin, whom she knew nothing about. She’d come for the white sand beaches, palm trees and coconuts, not for this.

One of the older women stopped her as she passed. She had no choice but to smile, and take the old woman’s hand and press it up to her forehead respectfully for a blessing.

“Kumusta, po,” Marianne said in Tagalog. Her accent grated on her ears.

“What is your name?”

“Marianne, po.” That was how you addressed your elders, she remembered.

“So pretty.” The old woman patted her cheek. “You look like your cousin Carmelita.”