Sunday, September 23, 2012
Trail Cam Bigfoot?
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Origins of 'The Nosferatu'
"The origin of the word 'nosferatu' is obscure. The first recorded reference in print was in a magazine article in 1885, and three years later in a travelogue entitled The Land Beyond the Forest, both written by the British author Emily Gerard. The travelogue described the country the country of Transylvania (its latin name translates as 'the land beyond the forest'). In both she stated that "nosferatu" as the Romanian word for 'vampire,' but there is no known identifiable corresponding word in any form of the Romanian language, ancient or modern. The closest are necuratul ('the devil') and nesuferitul ('insufferable one').
An alternative explanation, which has been accepted by many writers, is that 'nosferatu' is derived from an old Slavonic word nesufur-atu, which was apparently itself derived from the Greek nosophoros, meaning 'plague-carrier' or 'disease-bearing.' The obvious objection to the etymology is that Romanian and other Slavonic languages are Romance in origin and contain very few words from the Greek. It's also significant that, though the word nosophoros is a valid compound word in the Greek language--meaning that the two parts of the compound word are individually valid and are correctly combined--there's no evidence that the word ever existed in any phase of the Greek language. So this suggested etymology relies on an unknown Greek word that somehow gave rise to an unknown Romanian words, which seems fairly unlikely.
It has also been suggested that nesufur-atu/nosferatu was a technical term in Old Slavonic that had migrated into common usage, but never appeared in a Romanian dictionary. That is a somewhat difficult argument to sustain, given that the sole purpose of a dictionary is to record words in common usage, and it would be reasonable to expect thtat it would have been recorded somewhere.
So we'll probably never know exactly where 'nosferatu' originated, but the balance of probability is that Emily Gerard either misheard a Romanian word of was misinformed.
Bram Stoker, of course, used the word in his novel Dracula, but his usage suggests that he probably believed it meant 'not dead' or 'undead' in Romanian, not "vampire," and he used it as a calque or loaned word." ----from endnotes to James Becker's novel, The Nosferatu Scroll.
O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?
A bit about Death and the harvesting of souls...
Most all cultures personify the concept of death. To some, he (or she) is a friendly aide to the afterlife; to others, this is a being to be feared. Our own popular concept of death is likely an amalgamation of elements stemming from the many disparate cultures that have invariably influenced our own.
The following are a few examples of the more friendly aspects of those who help us shuffle of this 'mortal coil':
Psychopomps are beings--usually animals--tasked with delivering newly-harvested souls to the next realm. Crows, as carrion eaters, have been viewed as psychopomps in many different cultures for millenia.
Thanatos was the Greek god of death. A handsome and pleasant fellow by all acounts, Thanatos brandished wings and an extinguished flame as he led the deceased down to Hades and delivered them to Charon, the ferryman on the River Styx.
Valkyries are the sexy little secretaries of Odin, delivering messages and escorting slain warriors to Odin's great hall, Valhalla. Only the best warriors were chosen so that Odin would have a magnificent army when it came time for Ragnarok, a battle that would end the world.
Death's more popular visage has a more interesting, convoluted, and even controversial history. Our notion of the black-clad, scythe-wielding "Grim Reaper" came about during the Middle Ages, as Europe was ravaged by the Black Plague that killed more than 25 million people during the initial outbreaks. Death became reflected in artwork as a gaunt or skeletal figure brandishing some type of reaping implement, as if he were suddenly set upon the earth with the task of harvesting souls en masse.
Additionally, there are accounts (albeit, ones I am having trouble substantiating and might well be apocryphal*) that attest to beings in black that were sometimes spotted at the edges of plague-ravaged towns waving wands or 'scythes' that emitted a noxious gas. It is believed by some that this is how the death figure in a black cloak with a sickle came about. Still others--UFO proponents--cite this as an example of MIB's in antiquity.
*According to William Bramley, author of Gods of Eden: "In Brandenburg, Germany, there appeared fifteen men with "fearful faces and long scythes, with which they cut the oats, so that the swish could be heard at great distance, but the oats remained standing. The visit of these men was followed immediately by a severe outbreak of plague in Brandenburg. Were the 'scythes' long instruments designed to spray poison or germ-laden gases? "Strange men in black, demons, and other terrifying figures were observed in other European communities carrying 'brooms' or 'scythes' or 'swords' that were used to sweep or knock at people's doors. The inhabitants of these houses fell ill with plague afterwards. It is from these reports that people created the popular image of death as a skeleton, a demon, a man in a black robe carrying a scythe." Source(s): http://www.squidoo.com/origin_of_the_gri…
A note about the Plague: It was actually believed that foul miasmas were the cause and that if one inhaled something potent or pleasant, this "fresh air" would prevent their own demise. As a result, some took to wearing strongly scented herbs, including garlic. It may be from this tradition that garlic came to be associated with warding of vampires.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Bigfoot Kids
It was the early 1960's and there was a small
gas station hugging a small narrow road amid hairpin turns and surrounded by the
thick forests and steep shadowed hillsides. The woman and her new husband
stopped one day for gas and the elderly woman came out and filled the tank until
the younger man stepped in to do it. The woman struck up a conversation with
the younger woman as she sat in the old pickup.
The conversation went something like
this:
'You got any kids? I got me a boy and a girl
inside. They have to stay in there. They can't come out. Not safe for them at
all. You wanna come see?'
The younger woman stepped out to be polite and
followed as the woman tottered over to the door into the house at the side of
the station. The smell caught her attention first. It was strong and smelled
like wet dog and worse. Sorry she had gotten out she tried to excuse herself
but the old woman dragged her forward. Inside, there was a cage in a corner of
the room with a small creature sitting in it covered with hair. A similar
creature sat in front of a small screened television showing a grainy cartoon.
This one was wearing a t-shirt and jeans too short in the legs. His big hairy
feet were without shoes.
"I found 'em in the trees up yonder a winter
ago. I'd seen them before in the forests and down by the river. The mama, well
she was a human but the daddy was just like them. He disappeared. The mama was
dead and they were starving. So, I brought 'em home. I expect I'll send them
back there pretty soon; I'm getting pretty old you know..."
The couple drove off after that. Sure enough,
the old woman did die soon and the house, according to people the young woman
asked, was found empty of any other living creatures...just an empty cage in the
corner of the room and a pile of old children's clothing.
I thought of that story when watching a
documentary on History that suggested what we call Bigfoot might be a lingering
species of something similar to a Homo Hidelbergensis - a species known to have
been still in Asia when the crossing of the Bering Strait were made. Thus,
making it possible they too make that trek into North America. This opened up
the possibility of widespread native tales of interbreeding with the creatures
might be based on real events. Closer to humans, mating could happen with those
incredibly tall humanoids.
Although the tale may be a tall one crafted by
a woman pulling the leg of a visiting author of the arcane, it might be
mis-identification of someone suffering from a medical condition known to
produce long hair over the body or it might - just maybe - have a kernel of
truth in it hinting at something truly amazing and incredibly strange. [by Marilyn A. Hudson @ mystorical.blogspot]
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Flash Fiction Entry: Tea Party
Six months ago it was the perfect room. Additions gave the patchwork house character. He loved the way the room jaunted out in odd directions. Two small dormer alcoves flanked one side of the room and his bed would rest in a larger alcove across from the door. It was a great room before the remodel.
He didn’t run, he just froze. His mother bumped him with a box and he stumbled into the room. Ten feet from him was a small version of his bedroom door. His mother said it led to the crawl space between floors. It had been covered up by a previous remodel. She suggested he open it, telling him it had been a playroom before. Ian told her he’d look later.
His maritime bedroom was complete with a mariner’s compass, a ship shaped bed and now a portal to something that filled him with dread. Ian told himself it was silly. He hadn’t even seen the room beyond. The hairs on his neck told him all he needed to know about whatever laid past that door. It terrified Ian and certainly meant him harm.
After everything was stowed away, the family settled down for the night. His first night in should’ve been fun, but it wasn’t. The boy feared being alone in the room with that door. His parents told him to get ready for bed. His mother tucked him in the covers. His father looked in to say good night and then the lights went out.
The ship-bed’s running lights glowed softly. It was just enough to shine the way to the bathroom and illuminate the door to the crawl space. He couldn’t stand it. Ian leapt from the bed and took a child’s chair and wedged it under the door knob. For a bit he felt safe and drifted off to sleep.
Ian woke to a soft rattling. He glanced over and the door slightly shuttered. He pulled the covers high and hoped it would quit. The noise stopped. The boy peered over the covers just as the knob turned. The chair kept the door closed and the knob reset. A slow scratching at the door began. It sped up like a trapped animal digging to get out of a trap, then it just stopped.
His mother shook his shoulder in the morning to wake him. She asked how he slept. He said the house made funny noises. She said the house was settling, he’d get used to it. Each night, he propped the chair against the door and each night something scratched. Ian was terrified that whatever was in there would get through that small door.
That Saturday his father called him into his room. Ian saw the door open and his father in the space beyond. The man called for him to fetch some tools sitting by the bed. He picked them up and forced himself to walk to the door. For the first time he looked in and saw a place for a girl’s tea party. There was a small table with several chairs. The room was lined with cubbies that held dolls and stuffed animals.
He told himself it was just some girls playroom and nothing more. Ian knew he was lying. It was much more than that. It was something dark waiting for him to slip up. When he did that, it would pull Ian into that place and he’d never be seen again.
Being clever, Ian made a plan to better his odds. There had been a tea set on the table. That evening he smuggled some animal crackers and juice into the room. He place the crackers neatly on the tray and the juice in the tea pot. Ian took the dolls and animals from the cubbies and sat them in the chairs around the table. He left the room and secured the door.
His mother woke him in the morning. He’d made it through another night. Nothing had tried to open the door. There had been no scratching. When Ian entered the room later that morning, there wasn’t so much as a crumb on the tray or a drop in pot. His offering had been accepted. The boy knew what he had to do. Everyday he snuck treats in for the nocturnal tea party and each morning they were gone. Everything else would be the same, but the tray and pot would be spotless. Offering up some treats was a fair toll to pay to appease whatever lurked in that space.
The arrangement worked well until Richie came to spend the night. Ian disliked Richie almost as much as he feared that small door. The boy was his father’s youngest brother. Richie was ten and unpleasant. To Ian, he looked like a starving toad, all eyes and far too skinny. Since the guest room wasn’t unpacked, Richie would have to sleep in his room.
His mother had already set a cot for Richie, before Ian could go through his nightly ritual. The cot sat against the door. There was no way Ian could do what needed to be done. He was reasonably sure he was going to die that night. Richie said he looked in the room. The older boy teased Ian for the tea setup. Ian ignored his uncle and focused on the door. Richie was leaning against it. He did his best to block it out.
Ian woke that morning to his mother calling for him to get a move on, so he rushed to get ready. He hadn’t heard scratching that night. He was fine. Maybe this had all just been the house settling. Then what was eating the treats? Mice?
When he got downstairs, his mother asked where Richie was. He told her that RIchie was already gone when he got up. Ian complained that Richie teased him and didn’t make the cot. His father said Richie must’ve already headed back down the road to the Ian’s grandparent’s home.
Their day was filled with errands and shopping for household things that had been overlooked. When they got home, his grandparents were waiting in the drive. The pleasant afternoon turned dark. Richie had not gone home and no one knew where he was. They sent Ian to his room to put away his things. He grabbed his nightly offering. Once inside the room, he was startled to see it had changed. The animals and dolls were no longer seated around the table waiting for their tea. They were resting neatly in the cubbies. Unsure what this meant, he sat the cookies on the table and quickly left the room.
That night Ian secured the door, but heard no scratching. The boy woke early to voices downstairs. He quickly moved the chair. When Ian looked in, there sat the cookies, untouched. He heard a loud squawk and looked out the window. Below he saw his grandparents talking to policemen. Richie was still missing. He turned to face the small door and shuttered.
Ian soon learned sometimes misfortune is actually luck in disguise. The following week, his father’s company shut down and they had to move. The house sold quickly to a woman that had bid on it before. For the short time they remained after Richie’s disappearance, the door knob was still and there were no scratches.
Move-in day came and he scrambled up the stairs. He stopped so suddenly he nearly tripped. It was the only thing he saw as he approached the room, the thing that demanded his attention. Ian wanted to turn and race away. Yes, to run away to anywhere else, but he couldn’t. He was a big boy, nearly six, that was practically grown.
His maritime bedroom was complete with a mariner’s compass, a ship shaped bed and now a portal to something that filled him with dread. Ian told himself it was silly. He hadn’t even seen the room beyond. The hairs on his neck told him all he needed to know about whatever laid past that door. It terrified Ian and certainly meant him harm.
After everything was stowed away, the family settled down for the night. His first night in should’ve been fun, but it wasn’t. The boy feared being alone in the room with that door. His parents told him to get ready for bed. His mother tucked him in the covers. His father looked in to say good night and then the lights went out.
The ship-bed’s running lights glowed softly. It was just enough to shine the way to the bathroom and illuminate the door to the crawl space. He couldn’t stand it. Ian leapt from the bed and took a child’s chair and wedged it under the door knob. For a bit he felt safe and drifted off to sleep.
Ian woke to a soft rattling. He glanced over and the door slightly shuttered. He pulled the covers high and hoped it would quit. The noise stopped. The boy peered over the covers just as the knob turned. The chair kept the door closed and the knob reset. A slow scratching at the door began. It sped up like a trapped animal digging to get out of a trap, then it just stopped.
His mother shook his shoulder in the morning to wake him. She asked how he slept. He said the house made funny noises. She said the house was settling, he’d get used to it. Each night, he propped the chair against the door and each night something scratched. Ian was terrified that whatever was in there would get through that small door.
That Saturday his father called him into his room. Ian saw the door open and his father in the space beyond. The man called for him to fetch some tools sitting by the bed. He picked them up and forced himself to walk to the door. For the first time he looked in and saw a place for a girl’s tea party. There was a small table with several chairs. The room was lined with cubbies that held dolls and stuffed animals.
He told himself it was just some girls playroom and nothing more. Ian knew he was lying. It was much more than that. It was something dark waiting for him to slip up. When he did that, it would pull Ian into that place and he’d never be seen again.
Being clever, Ian made a plan to better his odds. There had been a tea set on the table. That evening he smuggled some animal crackers and juice into the room. He place the crackers neatly on the tray and the juice in the tea pot. Ian took the dolls and animals from the cubbies and sat them in the chairs around the table. He left the room and secured the door.
His mother woke him in the morning. He’d made it through another night. Nothing had tried to open the door. There had been no scratching. When Ian entered the room later that morning, there wasn’t so much as a crumb on the tray or a drop in pot. His offering had been accepted. The boy knew what he had to do. Everyday he snuck treats in for the nocturnal tea party and each morning they were gone. Everything else would be the same, but the tray and pot would be spotless. Offering up some treats was a fair toll to pay to appease whatever lurked in that space.
The arrangement worked well until Richie came to spend the night. Ian disliked Richie almost as much as he feared that small door. The boy was his father’s youngest brother. Richie was ten and unpleasant. To Ian, he looked like a starving toad, all eyes and far too skinny. Since the guest room wasn’t unpacked, Richie would have to sleep in his room.
His mother had already set a cot for Richie, before Ian could go through his nightly ritual. The cot sat against the door. There was no way Ian could do what needed to be done. He was reasonably sure he was going to die that night. Richie said he looked in the room. The older boy teased Ian for the tea setup. Ian ignored his uncle and focused on the door. Richie was leaning against it. He did his best to block it out.
Ian woke that morning to his mother calling for him to get a move on, so he rushed to get ready. He hadn’t heard scratching that night. He was fine. Maybe this had all just been the house settling. Then what was eating the treats? Mice?
When he got downstairs, his mother asked where Richie was. He told her that RIchie was already gone when he got up. Ian complained that Richie teased him and didn’t make the cot. His father said Richie must’ve already headed back down the road to the Ian’s grandparent’s home.
Their day was filled with errands and shopping for household things that had been overlooked. When they got home, his grandparents were waiting in the drive. The pleasant afternoon turned dark. Richie had not gone home and no one knew where he was. They sent Ian to his room to put away his things. He grabbed his nightly offering. Once inside the room, he was startled to see it had changed. The animals and dolls were no longer seated around the table waiting for their tea. They were resting neatly in the cubbies. Unsure what this meant, he sat the cookies on the table and quickly left the room.
That night Ian secured the door, but heard no scratching. The boy woke early to voices downstairs. He quickly moved the chair. When Ian looked in, there sat the cookies, untouched. He heard a loud squawk and looked out the window. Below he saw his grandparents talking to policemen. Richie was still missing. He turned to face the small door and shuttered.
Ian soon learned sometimes misfortune is actually luck in disguise. The following week, his father’s company shut down and they had to move. The house sold quickly to a woman that had bid on it before. For the short time they remained after Richie’s disappearance, the door knob was still and there were no scratches.
Shortly they were in a new home with what Ian now considered more properly shaped rooms and no tiny doors. He loved his new square room and its typicalness. There were no more nightly offerings to make, no nocturnal noises to fear. He was free, safe. He survived.
His parents received their hometown paper and one day while reading it, his mother’s face went pale. She sent Ian from the room. He made a production of leaving but hung out just around the corner. His mother told his father the woman who had bought their home had been arrested. Her daughter had gone missing and she was the only suspect. The police were also interested in her for Richie’s disappearance.
Ian wanted to tell them about the room. He wanted to tell them about the offerings, but he didn’t. They wouldn’t believe him and he feared the thing might come after him. The boy tried to quiet himself and let it all go, but all he could do was laugh. The laughter was soft at first and then it grew louder. Soon he was laughing hysterically. He wondered if he’d ever stop.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Retro Metropolis-Inspired Cover For The Mound
Inspired by several posts by Emma at Little Gothic Horrors,
I decided to fashion an alternative cover to The Mound with
the look of a 1930s deco movie poster.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Flash Fiction Entry: The Secret Pocket
The Secret Pocket
The carnival would drag on for hours, but she knew she couldn't leave. She would lose her nerve and not return. Instead, Milly wandered from attraction to attraction, looking at the faded colors of banners and signs, at wooden stalls worn from years of being taken down and put back up. She tried to play a couple of the games, but only won a small necklace that fell apart before noon.
She used what little money she had to feed herself and Missy. The food was greasy and delicious, often over- salted by sweat that fell from the brows of the people who served it. She caught a boy watching her as she slipped part of a corn dog into her dress's secret pocket, but she stared him down. His look of curiosity melted away as he recognized who she was. Everyone in their village knew.
After a while, Missy said she was tired, so they found an out of the way place to rest. Milly let her sister wrap her hand around her finger as she watched the crowds of people slowly ebb away into the night. She wondered if she should talk about serious things, but Missy didn't want that. Missy just wanted things to be normal, usual. Once they were sure most people were gone, they sang their favorite songs. All too soon, her sister told her it was time.
She kept her head down as she walked to the sideshow wagons. Most people probably viewed the wheeled cages of bearded women and misshapen people with some cross between revulsion and delight. Milly felt only sympathy. She wished she could stop and talk with them, but most of them were asleep. Missy told her she was just stalling.
Their goal sat some distance from the others, framed by an old twisted oak tree. She knew the occupant of the cage had keepers, but custom dictated that his guards would only come to the sound of screaming. She informed Missy this was unpleasant and proceeded to tap on the cage's door.
“A visitor,” came a voice from the darkness. The voice was soothing, deep and attractive.
“Y-yes, sir. You're the one they call the Geek?”
“Were I not, you would not be here, would you?” Chains clanked against each other and slide across the surface of the cage as the man moved closer. “And who might you be?”
“They said there is a key.” It was the story about the key had gotten Missy's attention in the first place. As part of the dark thrill of having a man like this in the carnival, the owners allowed him to keep the key to his cage. He was chained to the walls and couldn't get out, but he could give the key to anyone he wished.
All she could see of him was his hands. Pale fingers clutching the iron bars. His nails were filthy. “There is a key.” One hand let go of its bar and suddenly a battered iron key appeared between two fingers. “You are certainly welcome to join me, though I make no promises for your leaving. Not in one piece, anyway.”
“I suppose that is what she is counting on.” With a sigh, Milly plucked the key from him and unlocked the door. She was shaking as she pulled herself into the cage. It smelled like sweat and rot and other, darker things.
“You're in now, child. Tell me your name.” His voice had a thickness to it, like it held too much saliva. His mouth was watering.
“Before that . . . I have to know if it's true. Do you . . .?”
“Do I?” Suddenly, he slid from his shadow, chains coming with him. The rest of his skin was just as pale as his hands. Someone must shave his face, because she saw no signs of stubble beneath the faded stage makeup of white with black around eyes and mouth. His hair was wild and filthy, standing on end from the oils and dirt. His tuxedo was worn and tattered and possessed too many stains to even count.
She backed away from him, grasping at the far end of the cage. Missy told her there was no reason to fear. “Do you really eat people?”
The man laughed. “Oh yes. I eat them. It's not just some barker's trick. I eat human flesh and to be honest, I'm not sure if I can even help myself.” She met his eyes and wished she hadn't. “Not the answer you wanted to hear, little girl?”
“I . . . no. Well, actually, yes. It is.”
He sat back. “I don't understand.”
“You will.”
“Tell me your name.”
Is this really what you want? Is this how you want it to end? She lowered her head because she knew the answers already. She moved on her knees towards him again. “My name is Milly,” she said. “I am 14 years old.” She grasped the edges of her dress and pulled it up to her breasts. “And this is Missy. She is also 14. She is my twin.”
He gasped. Everyone always gasped. It was always such a shock for them to see Missy there, nestled against Milly’s belly, with her tiny head, one eye, and half a mouth. Missy had some hair, though not much. She had legs that fell limp and couldn't move, but one arm and a hand that could clutch Milly's finger.
“I must say,” said the Geek, “that is truly the most hideous thing I have ever seen.”
“She's not hideous.” Milly caressed her twin's face. “She's beautiful. I think she is the most beautiful person.”
He pointed at Missy, then attempted to touch her and failed. He tried again, succeeding this time, but only for a second before he jerked his finger away. “That is not a person.”
“SHE IS. She is a person. She's MY person. She always has been, even if no one else understood. They tried to ignore her, their own daughter and they treated her like she didn't exist. They didn't even name her. I named her.” She stroked her sister's hair. “I named her and when I was old enough, I ripped open slits in my clothes. Secret pockets so she could hold my finger, so I could feed her things. She can eat. She has some teeth.”
The geek flinched. “You named her.”
“Missy.”
“And . . . and why . . . why?”
Could she say it out loud? Did she have to? “Missy tells me she is dying. She can't hold on much longer.”
She supposed it a victory see such horror on the face of a man who inspired so much repugnance in others. “You came because you want me to . . . to eat her off of you?”
“No, I don't wish for this. But she does. She says I might die if she dies and is left to rot on me. She says I could never have a future if she was on me, all dead and everything. She wants you to eat her away from my body.”
The man pulled at his frayed coat sleeve, then ran his fingers through his dirty hair. “She wants me to--”
“Yes.”
“But she wants you to still be alive when I am finished. I must admit, I am not sure I can accomplish this. Once I begin chewing on someone, it is quite difficult for me to stop.”
Milly closed her eyes. “That's fine. Maybe that is even better. Maybe I should just die as well.” Missy didn't want that, but she wasn't the one being forced to consider a life without the most important person in it. Tears stung her eyes. The best thing to do was to just get out of here.
The man grabbed her and she cried out. “I can always tell when people are about to leave me, Milly. I just do not think I can let that happen.”
She whined in protest, but felt her body relaxing against him. She promised her twin. She promised. She couldn't leave, no matter how much she wanted to. She knew she wouldn't stop crying until the end. “It's okay.”
“I suppose I'm going to do this,” his voice held that thickness again as he spoke. “Though, I do wonder why your sister chooses for this to be her end.”
“She has always been a part of me,” Milly whispered, “when you eat her, she'll be a part of you. She’ll still belong to someone.”
The carnival would drag on for hours, but she knew she couldn't leave. She would lose her nerve and not return. Instead, Milly wandered from attraction to attraction, looking at the faded colors of banners and signs, at wooden stalls worn from years of being taken down and put back up. She tried to play a couple of the games, but only won a small necklace that fell apart before noon.
She used what little money she had to feed herself and Missy. The food was greasy and delicious, often over- salted by sweat that fell from the brows of the people who served it. She caught a boy watching her as she slipped part of a corn dog into her dress's secret pocket, but she stared him down. His look of curiosity melted away as he recognized who she was. Everyone in their village knew.
After a while, Missy said she was tired, so they found an out of the way place to rest. Milly let her sister wrap her hand around her finger as she watched the crowds of people slowly ebb away into the night. She wondered if she should talk about serious things, but Missy didn't want that. Missy just wanted things to be normal, usual. Once they were sure most people were gone, they sang their favorite songs. All too soon, her sister told her it was time.
She kept her head down as she walked to the sideshow wagons. Most people probably viewed the wheeled cages of bearded women and misshapen people with some cross between revulsion and delight. Milly felt only sympathy. She wished she could stop and talk with them, but most of them were asleep. Missy told her she was just stalling.
Their goal sat some distance from the others, framed by an old twisted oak tree. She knew the occupant of the cage had keepers, but custom dictated that his guards would only come to the sound of screaming. She informed Missy this was unpleasant and proceeded to tap on the cage's door.
“A visitor,” came a voice from the darkness. The voice was soothing, deep and attractive.
“Y-yes, sir. You're the one they call the Geek?”
“Were I not, you would not be here, would you?” Chains clanked against each other and slide across the surface of the cage as the man moved closer. “And who might you be?”
“They said there is a key.” It was the story about the key had gotten Missy's attention in the first place. As part of the dark thrill of having a man like this in the carnival, the owners allowed him to keep the key to his cage. He was chained to the walls and couldn't get out, but he could give the key to anyone he wished.
All she could see of him was his hands. Pale fingers clutching the iron bars. His nails were filthy. “There is a key.” One hand let go of its bar and suddenly a battered iron key appeared between two fingers. “You are certainly welcome to join me, though I make no promises for your leaving. Not in one piece, anyway.”
“I suppose that is what she is counting on.” With a sigh, Milly plucked the key from him and unlocked the door. She was shaking as she pulled herself into the cage. It smelled like sweat and rot and other, darker things.
“You're in now, child. Tell me your name.” His voice had a thickness to it, like it held too much saliva. His mouth was watering.
“Before that . . . I have to know if it's true. Do you . . .?”
“Do I?” Suddenly, he slid from his shadow, chains coming with him. The rest of his skin was just as pale as his hands. Someone must shave his face, because she saw no signs of stubble beneath the faded stage makeup of white with black around eyes and mouth. His hair was wild and filthy, standing on end from the oils and dirt. His tuxedo was worn and tattered and possessed too many stains to even count.
She backed away from him, grasping at the far end of the cage. Missy told her there was no reason to fear. “Do you really eat people?”
The man laughed. “Oh yes. I eat them. It's not just some barker's trick. I eat human flesh and to be honest, I'm not sure if I can even help myself.” She met his eyes and wished she hadn't. “Not the answer you wanted to hear, little girl?”
“I . . . no. Well, actually, yes. It is.”
He sat back. “I don't understand.”
“You will.”
“Tell me your name.”
Is this really what you want? Is this how you want it to end? She lowered her head because she knew the answers already. She moved on her knees towards him again. “My name is Milly,” she said. “I am 14 years old.” She grasped the edges of her dress and pulled it up to her breasts. “And this is Missy. She is also 14. She is my twin.”
He gasped. Everyone always gasped. It was always such a shock for them to see Missy there, nestled against Milly’s belly, with her tiny head, one eye, and half a mouth. Missy had some hair, though not much. She had legs that fell limp and couldn't move, but one arm and a hand that could clutch Milly's finger.
“I must say,” said the Geek, “that is truly the most hideous thing I have ever seen.”
“She's not hideous.” Milly caressed her twin's face. “She's beautiful. I think she is the most beautiful person.”
He pointed at Missy, then attempted to touch her and failed. He tried again, succeeding this time, but only for a second before he jerked his finger away. “That is not a person.”
“SHE IS. She is a person. She's MY person. She always has been, even if no one else understood. They tried to ignore her, their own daughter and they treated her like she didn't exist. They didn't even name her. I named her.” She stroked her sister's hair. “I named her and when I was old enough, I ripped open slits in my clothes. Secret pockets so she could hold my finger, so I could feed her things. She can eat. She has some teeth.”
The geek flinched. “You named her.”
“Missy.”
“And . . . and why . . . why?”
Could she say it out loud? Did she have to? “Missy tells me she is dying. She can't hold on much longer.”
She supposed it a victory see such horror on the face of a man who inspired so much repugnance in others. “You came because you want me to . . . to eat her off of you?”
“No, I don't wish for this. But she does. She says I might die if she dies and is left to rot on me. She says I could never have a future if she was on me, all dead and everything. She wants you to eat her away from my body.”
The man pulled at his frayed coat sleeve, then ran his fingers through his dirty hair. “She wants me to--”
“Yes.”
“But she wants you to still be alive when I am finished. I must admit, I am not sure I can accomplish this. Once I begin chewing on someone, it is quite difficult for me to stop.”
Milly closed her eyes. “That's fine. Maybe that is even better. Maybe I should just die as well.” Missy didn't want that, but she wasn't the one being forced to consider a life without the most important person in it. Tears stung her eyes. The best thing to do was to just get out of here.
The man grabbed her and she cried out. “I can always tell when people are about to leave me, Milly. I just do not think I can let that happen.”
She whined in protest, but felt her body relaxing against him. She promised her twin. She promised. She couldn't leave, no matter how much she wanted to. She knew she wouldn't stop crying until the end. “It's okay.”
“I suppose I'm going to do this,” his voice held that thickness again as he spoke. “Though, I do wonder why your sister chooses for this to be her end.”
“She has always been a part of me,” Milly whispered, “when you eat her, she'll be a part of you. She’ll still belong to someone.”
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Flash Fiction Contest Entry: "Flip Flop" (well, maybe just the flip)
Flip or Flop
“Chris, could you put your flip flops in the closet.”
“What?”
“Could you put your flip flops in the closet?”
“Oh, do they smell that bad?”
“No, they don’t smell. I never said that!”
“Uh, o.k. Then why do you want them in the closet?”
“Could you just put them in the closet, please!”
“Why? Your stuff is all over the cabin too.”
“Could you just...!!”
“Tell me why!”
“Could you just!!”
“No! Tell me why!”
“Could...just...because I’m afraid of them!”
“You’re what?”
“I’m afraid of them, o.k.?”
“You’re afraid of my flip flops?”
“Yes, well, not both of them, just the flip.”
“What?”
“I’m not afraid of the flop, just the flip.”
“Have you gone insane?”
“JUST PUT THE FLIP FLOPS IN THE CLOSET!!!”
“O.K., o.k.! ... Happy?”
“Could you also prop the chair up against the doors?”
“What?”
“Just put the chair up against the doors.”
“Why?!”
“So they won’t get out!”
“My flip flops?”
“Yes.”
“Get out?”
“Yes.”
“By themselves?”
“Yes.”
“My god, you’ve gone insane. I’ve heard of cabin fever before, but I only thought it occurred in remote arctic cabins, not on a fantastic beach in Thailand.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“For what?”
“For saving you.”
“From my flip flops?”
“Yes, well the flip anyway. I think the flop is probably harmless.”
“How can you tell them apart?”
“One flips, the other flops.”
“Which one flips, the right or the left?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then why are you afraid of the flip, and not the flop?”
“Because I haven’t heard the flop move around at night.”
“But you’ve heard the flip move around at night?”
“Yes.”
“By itself?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know you weren’t dreaming?”
“Because I pinched myself.”
“So?”
“And it hurt.”
“So? Maybe you pinched yourself in the dream.”
“No, you can’t.”
“What? Why?”
“You just can’t. It’s like keeping your eyes open when you sneeze, it can’t be done. If you even think about pinching yourself, you’re obviously awake.”
“What? I’ve never heard that.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, o.k., what if I was sleepwalking, and only put the flip on.”
“You weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you were snoring, so I could tell where you were.”
“What if... I can’t even believe I’m trying to argue with you. You’re insane!”
“We’ll see.”
“What do you mean, we’ll see?”
“I’m going to leave a trap tonight.”
“For my flip flops?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we shut them in the closet.”
“Oh, that won’t stop them.”
“What? I even wedged the chair up against the doors.”
“Don’t be a fool Chris! I only had you do that to slow them down.”
“Slow them down?”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you think they’ll try to do?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“What kind of things do flip flops normally do?”
“I’m not an idiot Chris! I know that flip flops are normally inanimate.”
“But these aren’t?”
“I think the flip might be possessed by a demon.”
“A demon?”
“Yes.”
“Possessing my flip flops?”
“Just the flip. Let’s leave the flop out of this. It could be a completely innocent piece of footwear.”
“Of course. It should always be innocent until proven guilty when it comes to footwear.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m going to put down a trap tonight.”
“To catch it red footed?”
“Exactly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to...”
“What?”
“Shhh!”
“Oh, sorry. What?”
“After we turn out the lights, I’m going to spread a thin layer of flour around the floor, so that if the flip comes out again, we’ll see its footprints.”
“Incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t really using the word incredible as a compliment there.”
“Just you wait.”
* * *
“Chris! Chris!”
“Scallops!”
“What?”
“What?”
“Wake up!”
“What?”
“Chris! Wake up!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Look!”
“Look at what?”
“Flip prints!”
“Oh my god, can’t you let that drop?”
“Look! The flip prints are in the flour!”
“You did this didn’t you?”
“How would I have done it? There is only one set of prints.”
“I don’t know but...”
“Come on! The flip prints lead from the closet out the front door.”
“You go after it then.”
“By myself?!”
“I’m sure you can take it.”
“Come on!!!”
“If this is a joke, it had better have a great punch line.”
“Come on! There’s flip prints in the sand outside.”
“Maybe it just wanted to go home.”
“No, look. They stop under that bush.”
“Excellent. Mystery solved.”
“Come on, let’s go see.”
“Without weapons?”
“Good point. What kind of weapons do we have?”
“I think there’s a ladle back in the cabin.”
“Go get it!”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not! Go... No wait, there’s no time. Look!”
“Look at what?”
“It’s shaking.”
“What?”
“The flip! It’s shaking. It looks like it’s afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I don’t... Wait a minute! Where’s the flop?!”
“Isn’t it back in the closet?”
“Look out Chris! Behind you!!”
“Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
“Chris, could you put your flip flops in the closet.”
“What?”
“Could you put your flip flops in the closet?”
“Oh, do they smell that bad?”
“No, they don’t smell. I never said that!”
“Uh, o.k. Then why do you want them in the closet?”
“Could you just put them in the closet, please!”
“Why? Your stuff is all over the cabin too.”
“Could you just...!!”
“Tell me why!”
“Could you just!!”
“No! Tell me why!”
“Could...just...because I’m afraid of them!”
“You’re what?”
“I’m afraid of them, o.k.?”
“You’re afraid of my flip flops?”
“Yes, well, not both of them, just the flip.”
“What?”
“I’m not afraid of the flop, just the flip.”
“Have you gone insane?”
“JUST PUT THE FLIP FLOPS IN THE CLOSET!!!”
“O.K., o.k.! ... Happy?”
“Could you also prop the chair up against the doors?”
“What?”
“Just put the chair up against the doors.”
“Why?!”
“So they won’t get out!”
“My flip flops?”
“Yes.”
“Get out?”
“Yes.”
“By themselves?”
“Yes.”
“My god, you’ve gone insane. I’ve heard of cabin fever before, but I only thought it occurred in remote arctic cabins, not on a fantastic beach in Thailand.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“For what?”
“For saving you.”
“From my flip flops?”
“Yes, well the flip anyway. I think the flop is probably harmless.”
“How can you tell them apart?”
“One flips, the other flops.”
“Which one flips, the right or the left?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then why are you afraid of the flip, and not the flop?”
“Because I haven’t heard the flop move around at night.”
“But you’ve heard the flip move around at night?”
“Yes.”
“By itself?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know you weren’t dreaming?”
“Because I pinched myself.”
“So?”
“And it hurt.”
“So? Maybe you pinched yourself in the dream.”
“No, you can’t.”
“What? Why?”
“You just can’t. It’s like keeping your eyes open when you sneeze, it can’t be done. If you even think about pinching yourself, you’re obviously awake.”
“What? I’ve never heard that.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, o.k., what if I was sleepwalking, and only put the flip on.”
“You weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you were snoring, so I could tell where you were.”
“What if... I can’t even believe I’m trying to argue with you. You’re insane!”
“We’ll see.”
“What do you mean, we’ll see?”
“I’m going to leave a trap tonight.”
“For my flip flops?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we shut them in the closet.”
“Oh, that won’t stop them.”
“What? I even wedged the chair up against the doors.”
“Don’t be a fool Chris! I only had you do that to slow them down.”
“Slow them down?”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you think they’ll try to do?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“What kind of things do flip flops normally do?”
“I’m not an idiot Chris! I know that flip flops are normally inanimate.”
“But these aren’t?”
“I think the flip might be possessed by a demon.”
“A demon?”
“Yes.”
“Possessing my flip flops?”
“Just the flip. Let’s leave the flop out of this. It could be a completely innocent piece of footwear.”
“Of course. It should always be innocent until proven guilty when it comes to footwear.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m going to put down a trap tonight.”
“To catch it red footed?”
“Exactly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to...”
“What?”
“Shhh!”
“Oh, sorry. What?”
“After we turn out the lights, I’m going to spread a thin layer of flour around the floor, so that if the flip comes out again, we’ll see its footprints.”
“Incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t really using the word incredible as a compliment there.”
“Just you wait.”
* * *
“Chris! Chris!”
“Scallops!”
“What?”
“What?”
“Wake up!”
“What?”
“Chris! Wake up!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Look!”
“Look at what?”
“Flip prints!”
“Oh my god, can’t you let that drop?”
“Look! The flip prints are in the flour!”
“You did this didn’t you?”
“How would I have done it? There is only one set of prints.”
“I don’t know but...”
“Come on! The flip prints lead from the closet out the front door.”
“You go after it then.”
“By myself?!”
“I’m sure you can take it.”
“Come on!!!”
“If this is a joke, it had better have a great punch line.”
“Come on! There’s flip prints in the sand outside.”
“Maybe it just wanted to go home.”
“No, look. They stop under that bush.”
“Excellent. Mystery solved.”
“Come on, let’s go see.”
“Without weapons?”
“Good point. What kind of weapons do we have?”
“I think there’s a ladle back in the cabin.”
“Go get it!”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not! Go... No wait, there’s no time. Look!”
“Look at what?”
“It’s shaking.”
“What?”
“The flip! It’s shaking. It looks like it’s afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I don’t... Wait a minute! Where’s the flop?!”
“Isn’t it back in the closet?”
“Look out Chris! Behind you!!”
“Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The Sisters (a creepy photo remix)
 |
| Found this image on Flickr and decided to turn up their already creepy look a notch or two. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)