Stillborn

A dark shape moved among the trees, nearly indistinguishable from ebony night. The wraith-figure stepped cautiously closer to the edge of the forest, glancing once up at the sky. The new moon teased the stars into shining but, despite their brightness, the could not remove the shadow that kept him hidden. He progressed with an almost sinuous grace, nauseating to watch, halting at last beneath the great pine near the house at the edge of the village. Searching each window with milky eyes, he found candlelight, the flame illuminating a young woman. He whispered her name, an exhalation of the longing of the universe. An agony of despair blazed within him. It nearly made him want to rip his heart out; but that would not cease the pain. Such things could kill him no longer. Immortality was not his, yet not a form any would envy.

What of his actions deserved this? Few memories remained of his transformation. The afternoon had been warm and summery as he strode through the forest towards her house. His hands had fiddled with the ring in his pocket; no one alive could have been as anxious as he.

Suddenly, there had come a shrieking cackle, the glimpse of a witch-hag’s face. Fire had blazed, leaving behind this wraith-body shivering on the ground. The witch had vanished, but her voice remained.

“Wish you to be human again? The curse will lift only if you kill she that you love. Unless you wish to live forever alone, for none will accept you now!”

The choice, however sickening, had seemed clear. Yet, now his heart screamed in denial. In stories, the hero could save himself and his love. Here, there was no such option.

A moan sounded, the embodiment of that one unanswerable question:

“Why?”

Dark storm-clouds reflected his despairing thoughts. A single flash rent a tall birch nearby. Lightning: that near-divine power, able to rip soul from body in defiance of immortality. The hairs at the back of his neck rose, warning of imminent proximity. He remained still.

“You say you love me,” his beloved had teased. “How will you prove it?”

She must never know.

The Wasporcist

I'm cheating a little today and posting this story because @lianabrooks and @clareswords were talking about it on Twitter last week, and agreed that it's one of my creepiest stories. A couple of people asked about it, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it for you, because why not. If you're keen, it's actually one of the stories in my anthology To Dust and Other Stories; you can find a blurb over on my website :) 

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Anyway. Sans further ado, The Wasporcist.

Today.

My ears won’t stop ringing. It’s been a week now—ever since Halloween, actually. That party was insane. I prob’ly shouldn’t have let that guy pour me a drink, even if he did compliment my outfit.

But anyway, the ringing. Every noise echoes in my left ear with a weird, computerized-voice-over effect. It’s especially bad in a crowd, since the echoes get so loud I can’t understand what anyone is saying.

I went to the doctor today. She says nothing’s wrong. I think she thinks I’m making it up.

Nov 8.

Ear ringing persists. It’s like the electricity in my brain is going mad, buzzing so loud I can hear it.

Will my brain explode, I wonder?

Day after yesterday.

The buzzing is so loud now I have trouble hearing anything else. At least it means I can’t hear things echoing.

First day of the rest of forever, in which I never hear again.

Have determined that my brain has been replaced with a wasp, and it’s mad at being trapped in my pitiful skull, hence continuous buzzing. Must see an insectologist or whatever they’re called to get it out.

Nov 13.

It’s Friday. I should have known that was a bad start. Insectologist, who is apparently actually called an entomologist, tells me that wasps don’t live in people’s heads. I told him I’m always an exception. He told me to call a shrink.

Had shrink. Didn’t work. Besides, I don’t need a shrink, I need a waspinator. I wonder what they’re called. Let me check.

Internet says exterminator. How dull. I vote in favour of waspinator. Let me go call one.

Nov 13, later.

Called. Booked. Didn’t tell the guy where the wasp was; just said ‘up there’ when he asked. Hope he comes prepared.

Another day.

Waspinator should be coming today, wootwoo. I am so SICK of this buzzing. I swear, the thing is driving me insane. Even Josh thinks I’m acting weird, and he’d know, he’s the King of Weird.

Oh, knock at the door. That’ll be the Waspinator. I’ll report back in a minute.

Later.

The guy looked at me like I was mad when I told him the wasp was in my head. “Too right it is,” he said. I think that was a little uncalled for. Still, I made him check, just to be sure. He shone a light in through my ear and said he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Personally, I’m suspicious. I think if I looked in his ear I wouldn’t see anything at all. Ha. Idiot.

But seriously, what am I going to now? Who am I going to call?

…Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters! Dun da-dun dun-dun.

HEY! That’s actually not a bad idea! What if it’s not a wasp? What if it’s, like, a demon who’s just pretending to be a wasp?

That’s so awesome I’m practically bouncing in my seat. Who do you call for demons, again? Exercise-thingies. What are they called? Oh yeah, exorcists. Right.

Snigger. Wasporcists. That’s what I need: a wasporcist. But I doubt that’ll be in the phone book. I supposed I’ll just try for a generic exorcist first.

I’ll let you know how it goes, diary-m’dear.

Even later.

I love coincidence. Got this mad phone call earlier that Josh took. Sounded like it was one of those sales calls, you know? The ones where they try to sell you a trip to Hawaii or insurance for your fish or something? Yeah. Those. But anyway, I was listening, and so I heard when Josh told the guy we didn’t need an exorcist.

I practically snatched the phone out of his hand, I was so excited. I mean, seriously? What are the odds?! So awesome. So anyway, exorcist—his name is Brad—agreed to come out. Says it sounds like it could be a demon. He gets situations like this all the time, he said.

Hmm. I wonder if there’s, like, a conspiracy of demons, all invading people’s heads as wasps? I wonder if Josh has heard buzzing lately?

I just ran out into the hall and asked him. He said he hasn’t. Bummer. No conspiracy after all. Oh well. I guess I’ll just wait for the exorcist.

Nov 20.

Exorcist is coming, exorcist is coming! I’m so excited. I hope he’s cute.

He should be here any minute now—oh, look, see? A knock at the door. I wonder if he knew I was writing about him coming, and that’s why he knocked now? I wonder if he’s been waiting at the door for, like, half an hour, just waiting for me to sit down and start writing so he could knock just as I wrote about—

I’m COMING, Josh. Sheesh. Let a person finish their sentence, will ya?

Urgh, better go before he comes in here and see this. No one’s supposed to know I’m keeping a journal. I’m only doing it ‘cause the shrink last year said I should. Not that I ever have anything interesting to write about.

Well, until the wasp-invading-my-brain thing.

Bloody hell, Josh, COMING. Right. See me go…

Tonight.

OHMIGOSH! The Wasporcist is totally that guy from the party, you know, the random one who poured me a drink? And he’s CUTE.

But yeah, ha, I told you it was a wasp-demon. Brad took one look and agreed. Said it was a pretty potent demon, though, so he’d have to come back a couple of times and have at it in bits—too strong to tackle all at once. Good thing I sold the car, exorcists aren’t cheap.

Mind you, why would they? With the work they have to do? No, thanks. Makes me shudder. I’m more than happy to pay someone else to do the dirty work. Especially if it means this infernal buzzing will stop.

Dec 2.

Sorry I haven’t written in ages, diary-dearest. I’ve been… occupied. Don’t tell Josh, but I think Brad—he’s the exorcist I wrote about last time, remember? —I think he has a crush on me. He’s come over every single day this week, usually while Josh’s at work. He brought me flowers, yesterday. Daisies. My favourite, not that anyone but you knows that.

Josh says he’s creepy. I dunno. He’s pretty cute. And I think the buzzing isn’t as bad when he’s around.

*scowl* Josh still thinks I’m making it all up. Idiot. I bet he wouldn’t even know what colours I like. (Green and purple, for the record.)

Anyway. Bed.

Dec 3.

I don’t have long, I’m going out to dinner in a minute with—oh, better not say, just in case. I’m sure you can guess. We arranged it this morning when he came over. And guess what he brought with him? Earrings, purple and green ones. He’s only known me for two weeks and already he knows more about me than stupid Josh.

Dec 6.

Brad is right. Josh is a dickhead. He’s been totally unsympathetic about this whole wasp-demon head-invasion thing, and keeps on ragging at me for the money missing from our bank account. It’s not like it’s that much; Brad is charging me less than half price, since the demon’s proving so hard to get rid of. And he told me at dinner the other night that he’s barely had any clients this month, and he had to negotiate with his landlord to pay double rent for December because he couldn’t afford to cover November.

…Maybe I should run away. I don’t mind being poor. And I know what it’s like to be so lonely…

But where can we go?

December nine, three nineteen pm. The moment of my momentous decision.

I’m doing it. Tonight. I’m going to sneak out of the house and I’ll meet Brad and he’ll take me away from here, away from all of this nonsense. The healing is almost complete, and he’ll take me away, and then I’ll be totally fixed, and he’ll never be lonely again, and everything will be wonderful.

It’s not like Josh will even care; he’s barely spoken to me since he found me sitting in the corner the other day doodling hearts around Brad’s name.

Okay, so that was a tactical mistake, but seriously, if he wasn’t such a jerk I wouldn’t be thinking of leaving.

No, not thinking, I am leaving. Tonight.

Oh, gosh, it gives me shivers just thinking about it. I’m so excited I can hardly wait! I wonder if Brad will mind if I’m early?

I’m going to go pack now, just in case. Can’t wait can’t wait can’t WAIT!!!!

 * * * 

Josh closed the document, throat burning, chest tight. “Yes,” he told the police officer standing behind him. “That’s her diary.”

“Well, you won’t mind if we take the laptop up to the station as evidence then?”

Josh shook his head. What difference did it make?

The officer gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m truly sorry. But your help—well, it might just make the difference between finding the killer and not.”

Josh nodded. Sure. Let them think he was a hero, if that’s what they wanted. He knew the truth. He’d lost her long before some psycho had torn her body apart in the woods behind the house, and even long before she’d gotten that stupid idea about the wasp in her head.

The psychiatrist had warned him she might never come back. He’d been stupid to hope.

And now his ear wouldn’t stop ringing.

Aftermath

“Are you all right?”

I snorted. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Cran gave me a sidelong look. “I was only asking.”

“And I was only answering.” I shifted so’s he couldn’t see my face, and stared out the window. “Of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? It was only a small demon, after all.” My jaw twitched as I tried to hold back the sarcasm.

Silence for a moment, then I heard the rustle of cloth as he stood.

He left without saying a word.

I was glad.

I waited a while to be sure he wasn’t coming back, then I went to the sideboard and poured myself a few too many finger heights of lemon vodka. I glanced away so I didn’t have to see my hands tremble.

I was fine. The demon was gone. It had needed barely any prompting, even; just a splash of holy water, a garlic sandwich and a quick prayer – and gone.

A tiny demon.

Insignificant.

So why did I feel so damn messed up? Violated, even.

I gulped down the alcohol, ignoring the burn in my throat, and slumped back down on the lounge. I stared out the window, smiling half-heartedly as Molly, the insane labradoodle, chased the neighbour’s cat across the lawn.

Yesterday, if someone’d told me what was going to happen, I’d’ve called them insane. Actually, I’d’ve prob’ly called them a bloody idiot, get out of my way now, thanks very much. But whatever.

I closed my eyes and draped a hand over my face. The sunlight seemed extra bright and shiny today, and it hurt my eyes to look outside for long.

Something moved behind me and I jumped, whipping out the crucifix from down my shirt. “Dammit, Cran,” I said. “Did you have to come in so suddenly like that?”

He looked abashed. “Sorry.”

Cran never said sorry. My grip on the crucifix tightened and I found myself wishing I could switch my alco for water – the holy kind. “What did you say?”

He glanced up at me. “I said sorry. I know you’re pretty jumpy still. I’ll try to make more noise.” He tried on a grin.

I narrowed my eyes. Was it just that my recent freak-out had put me on edge, or did something about him seem different to normal? A tightness around the eyes, a twitch of the lips, something in the carriage of his shoulders.

The crucifix dug into my palm. I set the drink down and shoved my hand into my pocket, looking for the last stray clove of garlic. It came up empty. Hell.

I edged towards the kitchen. “So, uh, big plans for today?” I asked.

Cran shrugged. “Game’s on tonight, I was thinking of heading over to Mickey’s to watch.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said with deliberate casualness. The demon was good, very good. I could almost believe I was just making the whole thing up. If it hadn’t just possessed me yesterday, if I hadn’t seen its tics and mannerisms up close and personal, I’d’ve missed the whole exchange going on on Cran’s face: demon versus man, the internal struggle for control.

“Yeah,“ the demon said with Cran’s voice. “You?”

I stuck my bottom lip out nonchalantly. “Nothing much. Still, you know.” I held up my free hand and stared at it, transfixed for a second by the shaking. Bastard, I thought. You did this to me and you know it. I’ll kill you this time. What was it that killed demons for good, again?

Cran gave me a sympathetic look. “Yeah. That. Not much fun, I reckon.”

I shrugged and made it to the kitchen, sliding in behind the bench and pretending I was rummaging for something to eat. “I lived,” I said. You won’t, I added in the privacy of my own skull – which, thank God, was private once again.

Bastard demon. First me, now Cran. It wasn’t going to get away with this.

Stakes, that was it. Like vampires, their cousins. One big happy life-stealing family. I ground my teeth.

Cran moved toward me. “So how long do you think it will take? To, you know, recover?”

I fished around in the utensil drawer for the big bamboo chopsticks. A stick was nearly a stake, right? Near enough was good enough, or at least I bloody well hoped it would be. “No idea,” I told Cran. “S’pose it depends.”

“Yeah?” He – the demon – responded. “On what?”

I shrugged again. “Things.”

“Can I help?”

Hell, he was right behind me. I could feel him breathing down my neck. I shivered. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, you can.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “How?” His mouth was right next to my ear. His breath was warm.

F—ing bastard. Why Cran? Why the only man who’d ever loved me in my entire miserable life? Bloody, bloody hell. “Like this,” I whispered.

I twisted around, one clean movement, but too quick for him to react. The crucifix slammed into his forehead, the bamboo stake into the side of his neck.

His eyes went wide. “What the—“

He gurgled.

I pushed him off me and he crumpled to the floor, and I tried to pretend I wasn’t crying. “You bastard,” I said through the tightness in my throat. “I name you Azazel.”

The air shimmered in front of me. “You rang?”

I blinked, regained my senses, scrambled backwards. “What the hell?”

The faint outline of the demon lifted an eyebrow. “You called. I appeared, despite the warmth of your reaction last time. To what do I owe the honour this time?”

My gaze flickered between the hazy demon, hovering in the middle of the kitchen, and the crumpled, broken body lying beneath it. “You possessed him. You bastard, you possessed the only man I ever loved!”

The demon glanced down. “That hunk of meat? Hardly. So few brain cells it would be like ingesting water to stave off famine. And the few that he has – had – were far too good to be pleasant.” It shuddered. “No, thank you. I have better taste than that.”

I stared. “No. You possessed him. I saw you!”

The demon huffed. “If you think, even for a second, that I would possess something like that...” It trailed off, head tilted, staring at the bamboo skewer in my hand.

I followed its gaze and stared horrified as the blood trickled down to meet my fingers.

“Oh, you didn’t. You didn’t!” The demon cackled. “Oh, my precious, that is just too lovely.” It cackled louder. “Well done!”

I drew in a shaky breath. “Get lost,” I said.

It clutched its sides, laughing uproariously.

“Now,” I said, anger hardening in my chest. I stood, took aim, threw the stake and the crucifix all at once.

The laughter cut off. The shimmer snapped out with a shriek.

I stared at the body lying glassy-eyed on the floor. The demon was gone.

Dear Santa

Dear SAntA, 

for christmas i wish everyone else in my family had more brains. i'm really sick of my sister being so stupid. And mum and Dad are so mean sometimes.

yours,

Tommy.

PS i’m NOT little. if any one calls me LITTLE Tommy again you might not be able to bring me any presents. sorry. TB.

Tommy stared down at the sheet of paper with his tongue between his teeth and his brow wrinkled. That looked about right.

He folded it up, tucked it into the envelope, and sealed it. He pulled a face. Envelopes tasted ick.

Tommy bounced down the stairs to the kitchen and tugged on his mum’s sleeve. “Mum, Mum!”

“Tommy, why aren’t you in bed?” she said, without turning around.

“Mum, I need you to post this letter! You have to post it quick, it’s nearly Christmas and it has to get to Santa in time!” He waved the letter up at her.

She smiled and took it from him. “I’ll post it when I go to get your sister from Betty’s, okay?”

Tommy bounced on his toes. “Will it get there in time?”

She tousled his hair. “I think so.”

Tommy ran back to his room and flopped on his bed. He stared at the ceiling. Mum said she’d post the letter, but what if she forgot? What if she only said she would? It was Christmas tomorrow. There wasn’t much time.

He tossed and turned and eventually fell asleep.

***

Tommy blinked himself awake. He stared at his door for a minute, feeling dozy. Then he bolted upright. “It’s Christmas!”

He leapt out of bed, whipped on his bathrobe, and pounded down the hall. He bashed on Samantha’s door as he passed, grinning as he heard her yell. He took the stairs three at a time and bounded into the living room.

Presents! 

He pranced around the Christmas tree, snatching at the brightly wrapped gifts. The blue one was his, the one with the huge gold ribbon too, and the bike in the corner. “Come on!” he yelled. “Faster!”

His mother stumbled into the room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. His father yawned and stretched before plopping down on the couch. “We’re here, kiddo,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Tommy pouted. “Sam isn’t here yet. Do I have to wait for her?”

“She’s coming, dear,” said Mum. “Just a moment.”

“Sam!” Tommy hollered. “Hurry up!”

She stomped into the room, eyes mostly closed, hair teased up like a fluffy halo. She collapsed onto the beanbag and folded her arms across her chest. “Shut up,” she told him. “I’m here.”

Tommy jumped for joy. “Presents!” He dove at the stack, pulling them out with both hands and tossing them to his family. 

Soon, everyone had a large pile in front of them, and the others had woken up enough to laugh and smile.

“What are these?” Tommy’s mother asked, holding up a strangely shaped package in green, the size of a football.

“I don’t know,” his father answered, “but I have one too.”

“We all do,” said Samantha, pointing at hers on the floor.

Tommy pouted. “I don’t.” He grabbed his sister’s and rattled it. “What’s inside?”

“I don’t know, who are they from?”

“Open them!” He bounced on the edge of Samantha’s beanbag, and she was too excited about her strange parcel to mind.

“On the count of three,” she said. “One, two...”

“THREE!” Tommy shouted, tearing at her wrapping.

She batted him away and he sprawled on the ground.

“Look!” She held it up. It was brownish grey, kind of squidgy. A ball? he wondered. Some sort of cushion?

The rest of the wrapping dropped away and he stared at it.

“It... it looks like a brain,” Samantha said, mouth twisted in disgust.

“I think it is,” said Dad, holding up his.

“Weird.”

Tommy poked the brain, wondering what it could do. The brain twitched. He gasped, and scrambled towards his parents to see if their brains had moved too.

Samantha screamed.

He whirled around. The brain was pressed against her face, thin tendrils grasping her head as she thrashed against it.

Tommy moved towards her but froze as another scream sounded behind him. 

“Mum! Dad!” he shouted.

But they were too busy to notice; the brains sucked squelchily at their faces. Mum shrieked and leapt to her feet. She ran forward, right into the Christmas tree. It toppled over, tangling her in the cord of lights and tinsel.

Dad stood, trying to follow her voice, hands waving in front of him. He bellowed as the brain gave an extra loud slurp, and tripped to the ground.

Tommy shrank back under the lip of the sofa, whimpering.

Samantha screamed again, tearing frantically at the brain. But it was no use; within minutes all three family members slumped motionless on the ground.

The brains slurped happily.

Tommy cried.