THE young man helped Lily catch Finn and lower her onto the weathered wood of the veranda. Lily shivered. "What's wrong with her?"
His brows knit as he gazed down at Finn. Her tangled hair was flung over her face. "She'll be fine. She'll wake in a minute."
"The monster." Lily cast a fearful glance at the door.
"Is gone." He picked up the camera Finn had dropped, glanced at it, handed it to Lily. "It's a Leica. Keep that. It's worth something."
His next breath was so sharp, it made Lily tear her gaze from the door to narrow her eyes at him. As he sat back on his heels, looking almost afraid, Lily became worried.
"Hey." She caught his attention by snapping her fingers at him. She was still trembling. "She said something. The monster. Like a curse . . ."
He began to rise. "Blodeuedd didn't finish the hex. What is your real name, Snow White?"
"Lily. What hex?"
"It won't hold. What is your sister's name?"
"Finn."
He was moving backward, away from them.
"Wait." Lily rose. "Why were you here?"
He was at the steps. He turned away from her and shadows seemed to ribbon from his hair. "I had business with the flower girl." Street light flashed silver across his eyes.
Lily realized with a fear that clutched at her insides that he was a monster, too. "Why did you help us?"
He turned his head slightly. "Because I wanted to. I probably would have done her in her anyway." He began moving down the steps.
"Are there more of you?"
"Unfortunately, yes." He was on the paved walk now.
"What's your name?"
He vanished into a night that had become familiar with Trick-or-Treaters, cricket sounds, and the murmur of TVs.
Then his answer drifted back. "Jack."
"Lily?" Finn's eyes opened. A gentle, shimmering wind swept over the sisters.
A voice whispered, Forget.
***
"Pinkie swear."
"Why should I? You made me go up to that house. It's your fault I fell. I hope I don't get tetanus."
"That's why we should pinkie swear. I don't want you tattling to Dad. Here. Want this cool old camera?"
"I...that looks familiar."
"It was on the porch of that creepy old house."
Finn sat with Lily in the gazebo behind their apartment building. Their candy was scattered around them. Finn had washed her cut knee and put an Adventure Time Band-Aid on it. She was examining the Leica camera Lily was attempting to bribe her with.
"C'mon." Lily extended one hand.
Finn reached out to touch Lily's ripped corset. "I can't believe you jumped over that gate."
"Well, it was stuck. When you fell, I freaked out."
Finn frowned and rubbed her temples. A shiver shook her when she thought she heard an owl in the trees nearby. "We don't ever go to that house again. Okay?"
Lily shrugged. Her lip was swollen from when she'd fallen and bitten into it. "Okay. You're right. It was a bad house. Now, pinkie swear."
Finn grudgingly twined one pinkie around her sister's. The plastic beads on Finn's bracelet and the silver charms on Lily's sparkled in the light from the Chinese lanterns strung around the gazebo. "I'm glad there was no one home."
"Me, too. No more scary houses, okay?"
The End
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Saturday, November 5, 2016
A Tale of Two Sisters: Part Five
THERE was no face within the wig of silver ringlets. There was nothing. Only darkness and a smile of shiny, metal teeth.
Finn scrambled back.
The girl of nothing and night leaped for her.
Someone knocked Finn aside.
Finn, dazed, lifted her head to see her sister slashing a wooden knife at the shadow girl. "Lily?"
Lily slipped in the blood and glass and went down, the knife spinning across the floor. The shadow girl glided over her and slahsed her nails across Lily's corset.
Finn felt a calm, cool ferocity as she reached for the wooden knife. She gripped the hilt. She pushed to her feet. She flung herself at the monster.
The shadow girl twisted. Finn felt the blade plunge into the girl's chest as if through black ice. A chill bled over Finn's hand, numbing it. Flowers spilled in tendrils from the wound and Finn couldn't look away as the shadow girl writhed on the floor.
"Finn." As Lily dragged her up, Finn reached out and snatched up the old-fashioned camera the shadow girl had used against her.
As she and Lily fled, Finn felt the black-ice chill follow them, a mass of breathing darkness that had once worn the shape of a girl.
Finn ripped her hand from Lily's. She spun, raising the camera. She pressed the flash button again and again and the series of blinding flares caused the dark thing to retreat back into the hallway.
Finn backed away with Lily.
As they stumbled out the door, the darkness surged forward, whispering, "May she sleep when she loses one she loves! A sleep only broken by a dead man's kiss--"
A young man in black slid past them as the darkness surged over the threshold. He cut out with two flashing daggers, drove the darkness back, and kicked the door shut.
As Finn began to fall, their rescuer turned. She met his blue and gray gaze and whispered, "You . . ."
Darkness took her.
***
Finn scrambled back.
The girl of nothing and night leaped for her.
Someone knocked Finn aside.
Finn, dazed, lifted her head to see her sister slashing a wooden knife at the shadow girl. "Lily?"
Lily slipped in the blood and glass and went down, the knife spinning across the floor. The shadow girl glided over her and slahsed her nails across Lily's corset.
Finn felt a calm, cool ferocity as she reached for the wooden knife. She gripped the hilt. She pushed to her feet. She flung herself at the monster.
The shadow girl twisted. Finn felt the blade plunge into the girl's chest as if through black ice. A chill bled over Finn's hand, numbing it. Flowers spilled in tendrils from the wound and Finn couldn't look away as the shadow girl writhed on the floor.
"Finn." As Lily dragged her up, Finn reached out and snatched up the old-fashioned camera the shadow girl had used against her.
As she and Lily fled, Finn felt the black-ice chill follow them, a mass of breathing darkness that had once worn the shape of a girl.
Finn ripped her hand from Lily's. She spun, raising the camera. She pressed the flash button again and again and the series of blinding flares caused the dark thing to retreat back into the hallway.
Finn backed away with Lily.
As they stumbled out the door, the darkness surged forward, whispering, "May she sleep when she loses one she loves! A sleep only broken by a dead man's kiss--"
A young man in black slid past them as the darkness surged over the threshold. He cut out with two flashing daggers, drove the darkness back, and kicked the door shut.
As Finn began to fall, their rescuer turned. She met his blue and gray gaze and whispered, "You . . ."
Darkness took her.
***
Saturday, October 29, 2016
A Tale of Two Sisters: Part Four
AS Finn held out the candy offering, the strange girl gestured for her to come closer. Not wanting to be rude, Finn walked slowly toward her. The girl reached out and accepted the candy with in inclination of her head.
"I'll give you a treat. Choose any one of my perfumes." The girl gestured grandly to the shelves.
Finn turned and warily surveyed the glimmering bottles in their individual cubbies. All of them seemed to glow like magic potions. The bottles themselves were lovely, spun glass formed into animals, flowers, people, objects, and mythical creatures. The girl continued speaking, her voice almost a lullaby. "There is the fragrance of a boy's first heartbreak. There is one of summer rain on skin. There is the scent of a taste of power. A perfume created from a first kiss. There is one made from a mermaid's tears and another from an animal's first taste of blood."
Finn wondered if the weird girl was messing with her. "Is there one that smells like lilies?" She reached for a shimmering purple bottle with a label on it, its picture that of a lady holding flowers. She took it down and turned.
"Hey!" She flung up an arm as the girl, who had risen, lifted an old-fashioned camera and clicked it. The flash blinded Finn.
The bottle slipped from her fingers. She tried to catch it, but it hit the floor and shattered. Blinking furiously, she stared down in dismay at the broken glass, the torn label that now looked as if the lady with the flowers had a skull for a face. The liquid from the bottle wasn't purple . . . it was a bright scarlet. There was something small and white in it . . . Finn bent closer, squinting. It couldn't be a tooth . . .?
She looked up and the parlor faded for an instant, into gloom and shrouded furniture and a floor littered with debris. Then the glamorous parlor returned with a queasy wavering.
The camera flashed again. Finn recoiled. As the flash flared again and again, she turned her head away, backing toward the door. "Stop!"
The girl lowered the camera. She was close now. Finn saw that her skin was as white as powder and she wasn't wearing make-up--she looked bloodless. Fear wormed its way back into Finn as the scent of flowers became overwhelming--and it drifted from the girl.
"That was Mother's Last Embrace, that fragrance you just spilled." The girl tilted her owl-masked head and her sweet voice seemed poisonous now. "Did you lose your mommy?"
The memory of the horror of her mom's car accident last year swept up into Finn's throat like vomit. She smelled winter and blood and gasoline. She swoooned. As her knees hit the floor, she felt glass cut into her skin, tasted tears in her mouth.
"This was my trick." The girl in the owl mask crouched before Finn. She reached out with one livid hand, her sharp nails shining like metal. "Wasn't it splendid? I wonder what perfume your blood will make?"
Finn's vision blurred as she remembered the scent of her mom's shampoo, the tang of fresh-cut daisies in the kitchen, the spicy perfume her mom wore whenever she and Da went out to dinner. Mom.
Finn snapped from the enchantment. She lunged at the girl and tore the owl mask away.
***
"I'll give you a treat. Choose any one of my perfumes." The girl gestured grandly to the shelves.
Finn turned and warily surveyed the glimmering bottles in their individual cubbies. All of them seemed to glow like magic potions. The bottles themselves were lovely, spun glass formed into animals, flowers, people, objects, and mythical creatures. The girl continued speaking, her voice almost a lullaby. "There is the fragrance of a boy's first heartbreak. There is one of summer rain on skin. There is the scent of a taste of power. A perfume created from a first kiss. There is one made from a mermaid's tears and another from an animal's first taste of blood."
Finn wondered if the weird girl was messing with her. "Is there one that smells like lilies?" She reached for a shimmering purple bottle with a label on it, its picture that of a lady holding flowers. She took it down and turned.
"Hey!" She flung up an arm as the girl, who had risen, lifted an old-fashioned camera and clicked it. The flash blinded Finn.
The bottle slipped from her fingers. She tried to catch it, but it hit the floor and shattered. Blinking furiously, she stared down in dismay at the broken glass, the torn label that now looked as if the lady with the flowers had a skull for a face. The liquid from the bottle wasn't purple . . . it was a bright scarlet. There was something small and white in it . . . Finn bent closer, squinting. It couldn't be a tooth . . .?
She looked up and the parlor faded for an instant, into gloom and shrouded furniture and a floor littered with debris. Then the glamorous parlor returned with a queasy wavering.
The camera flashed again. Finn recoiled. As the flash flared again and again, she turned her head away, backing toward the door. "Stop!"
The girl lowered the camera. She was close now. Finn saw that her skin was as white as powder and she wasn't wearing make-up--she looked bloodless. Fear wormed its way back into Finn as the scent of flowers became overwhelming--and it drifted from the girl.
"That was Mother's Last Embrace, that fragrance you just spilled." The girl tilted her owl-masked head and her sweet voice seemed poisonous now. "Did you lose your mommy?"
The memory of the horror of her mom's car accident last year swept up into Finn's throat like vomit. She smelled winter and blood and gasoline. She swoooned. As her knees hit the floor, she felt glass cut into her skin, tasted tears in her mouth.
"This was my trick." The girl in the owl mask crouched before Finn. She reached out with one livid hand, her sharp nails shining like metal. "Wasn't it splendid? I wonder what perfume your blood will make?"
Finn's vision blurred as she remembered the scent of her mom's shampoo, the tang of fresh-cut daisies in the kitchen, the spicy perfume her mom wore whenever she and Da went out to dinner. Mom.
Finn snapped from the enchantment. She lunged at the girl and tore the owl mask away.
***
Thursday, October 27, 2016
A Tale of Two Sisters: Part Three
AFTER ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door and not getting any response, Lily began pacing frantically on the porch, trying to peer into the windows. She hadn't noticed the shutters on the windows before.
She fumbled out her cell phone, to call her dad.
The phone was dead even though she'd charged it an hour ago. She shook it as if that would help.
She whirled and flung herself at the door and began pounding on it. "Give her back! Give her back!"
"Little girl. What are you doing?"
The voice, male and gently mocking, made her quickly wipe the tears from her face, and turn.
The young man standing at the gate was lean in black, one hand, glinting with rings, settled on the rusting post. Sable hair shadowed his face. His eyes reflected the street lights like a cat's. His flashing smile immediately put Lily on the defensive. She said, "I'm not a little girl. I'm twelve."
He began moving up the walk. "I do apologize, Snow White. I didn't recognize you."
"Do you live here?" she demanded. "Your house took my sister."
"I't s not my house." He halted at the bottom of the steps and surveyed the Queen Anne. "And it's not really a house."
Lily no longer felt so beautiful and grown-up in her lipstick and mascara. She was scared. "What is it then?"
He glanced at her and she told herself he was wearing contacts that made his eyes so silvery, like mirrors. He was gorgeous in the way predatory animals were. He gently told her, "It's a monster's den."
Lily whirled and lunged at the door.
The young man loped up the stairs. He caught her wrist, his fingers cold from all the old rings he wore. "I'll tell you how to save your sister, but you'll have to kill the monster."
Lily stood very still because she couldn't believe this was happening . . . all because she'd taunted Finn. She whispered, "There aren't any such things as monsters."
He didn't say anything He just looked at her. She hunched her shoulders. "Will you help me?"
He crouched before her, gazing at her. His eyes were normal now, only one was blue and one was gray. He took something from his blackpea coat and her eyes widened as he held out a wooden knife in a wooden sheath, all beautifully carved with images of roses and thorns. "I can't. The monster won't let me in until she's finished with your sister. Take it.'
"Are you crazy?" But Lily gripped the hilt of the wooden dagger.
"Perhaps." Again, that flash of a smile. "But that doesn't mean I'm not teling you the truth. All you need to do is stab the monster in the heart. Is that bracelet silver?"
Clutching the dagger against her, Lily glanced at her charm bracelet. "Yeah. How do I get in?"
***
She fumbled out her cell phone, to call her dad.
The phone was dead even though she'd charged it an hour ago. She shook it as if that would help.
She whirled and flung herself at the door and began pounding on it. "Give her back! Give her back!"
"Little girl. What are you doing?"
The voice, male and gently mocking, made her quickly wipe the tears from her face, and turn.
The young man standing at the gate was lean in black, one hand, glinting with rings, settled on the rusting post. Sable hair shadowed his face. His eyes reflected the street lights like a cat's. His flashing smile immediately put Lily on the defensive. She said, "I'm not a little girl. I'm twelve."
He began moving up the walk. "I do apologize, Snow White. I didn't recognize you."
"Do you live here?" she demanded. "Your house took my sister."
"I't s not my house." He halted at the bottom of the steps and surveyed the Queen Anne. "And it's not really a house."
Lily no longer felt so beautiful and grown-up in her lipstick and mascara. She was scared. "What is it then?"
He glanced at her and she told herself he was wearing contacts that made his eyes so silvery, like mirrors. He was gorgeous in the way predatory animals were. He gently told her, "It's a monster's den."
Lily whirled and lunged at the door.
The young man loped up the stairs. He caught her wrist, his fingers cold from all the old rings he wore. "I'll tell you how to save your sister, but you'll have to kill the monster."
Lily stood very still because she couldn't believe this was happening . . . all because she'd taunted Finn. She whispered, "There aren't any such things as monsters."
He didn't say anything He just looked at her. She hunched her shoulders. "Will you help me?"
He crouched before her, gazing at her. His eyes were normal now, only one was blue and one was gray. He took something from his blackpea coat and her eyes widened as he held out a wooden knife in a wooden sheath, all beautifully carved with images of roses and thorns. "I can't. The monster won't let me in until she's finished with your sister. Take it.'
"Are you crazy?" But Lily gripped the hilt of the wooden dagger.
"Perhaps." Again, that flash of a smile. "But that doesn't mean I'm not teling you the truth. All you need to do is stab the monster in the heart. Is that bracelet silver?"
Clutching the dagger against her, Lily glanced at her charm bracelet. "Yeah. How do I get in?"
***
Friday, October 14, 2016
A Tale of Two Sisters: Part Two
FINN didn't like it when Lily called her chicken. Or 'yella,' like the people in her mom's favorite black-and-white movies would say.
Thinking about her mom while standing on the veranda of the spook house made something pinch inside of her, like a toothache in her chest. When the door to the house opened, she ventured one step forward, called out, "Hello?"
Lily shouted her name. Finn scowled and defiantly set one foot into the house. The lamp in the hall was joined by a galaxy of others further in, revealing a parlor with a domed ceiling and wall-to-wall cubby shelves. Each cubby housed a small bottle, each a different color and shape. And each bottle glowed.
Enchanted, Finn moved into the parlor. The stained-glass lamps resembled twisting flowers and columns of swirly-haired ladies rose toward the ceiling. On a little round table circled by old-fashioned chairs and a red velvet sofa was a tea set of pink porcelain. The colors in the parlor were disorienting--deep reds, pale yellows, and vein blues. Verdigris green crusted some of the metal frames of the pictures and mirrors on the walls. There was a rich scent in the air, like the dust inside of an old church.
A rustling sound from the shadowy hallway on the other side of the parlor made her next breath a tiny hiccough of fear.
Turning her head, she saw that the front door had closed without her having heard it do so.
"Hello?" The new voice seemed to echo her earlier inquiry, to mock it.
A girl emerged from the hallway. She wore a plastic owl mask and tattered pink finery that made Finn think of a ball gown a dead prom queen might wear. The wig of silver curls piled on her head was decorated with twigs and leaves and wilted flowers. The girl asked, "Are you here for one of my perfumes?"
Even as Finn wondered why she didn't hear Lily knocking at the door or ringing the bell, she glanced at the decorative bottles in the cubbies. Each bottle looked as if it held a glimmering potion. Some had labels hanging from ribbons; others had the labels pasted on. Finn looked back at the girl. "I'm just here for trick-or-treat."
"Trick?" The girl glided forward and tilted her masked head to one side. "Treat? Do I get a trick? or a treat?"
This was getting weird. Finn began back toward the door. "I'm the one who gets the treat."
"I think"--The strange girl moved to the middle of the parlor--"I would like to see a trick first."
"You're wearing a costume. Don't you want a treat instead?" Finn delved a hand into her plastic pumpkin and drew out her most prized candy of the night.
The girl sat on the red velvet sofa shaped like a heart, her pink ballgown netting over it like gossamer. She looked own at herself, then up at Finn. The eye holes in her owl mask were black. "Yes. I suppose we do wear costumes. And this night is for tricks."
***
Saturday, October 8, 2016
A Tale of Two Sisters by Katherine Harbour
"It's a bad house, Lily."
"It isn't. It just looks bad."
The rambling Queen Anne, with its moss-green exterior and ivy-choked front yard, was a source of fascination and speculation for the neighborhood kids. It had been sitting, abandoned, in the wooded lot on the corner, forever. On Halloween day, the house seemed spookier than usual, looming, dark and gaunt against the sky streaked with neon orange and lavender. Their dad had allowed them from five to six to trick or treat, as long as they stayed on this block. So they'd done the rounds. Now their plastic pumpkins were filled with candy and they'd engaged with a few other trick-or-treaters who'd admired their homemade costumes. Finn was Little Red Riding Hood with a bloody plastic hatchet and a skull face, and Lily was a glamorous, dead Snow White with puncture marks on her neck.
"There's a light on." Lily, who was always longing for something adventurous, pointed. She swished her cape. "So someone's there."
"It's not light. It's just the sun reflecting off the glass."
"Oh, come on, Finn. We haven't done one scary and fun thing tonight and Dad won't let us watch Halloween. You are such a chicken."
"No I'm not. See you later, alligator." Finn stalked to the ivy-tangled gate and shoved it open. Her crimson velour cloak was vivid against the foliage as she marched up the path onto the veranda shrouded in creepers that reminded her of the shed skins of snakes.
"Finn. Wait--" Lily pushed at the gate that had swung shut, frowned because it was stuck.
As Finn ran up the steps, the sun slid behind the trees.
And the house's door slowly opened. Lily saw a hallway dark but for that single lamp like a tiny, alien sun, and hissed. "Finn! Come back here."
But Finn, on the veranda, was peering into the house.
From within, Lily thought she heard a woman singing softly. She didn't know why that singing made her shove at the gate with frantic force.
Then her little sister stepped into the house.
"Finn!" Lily swore. She dropped her pumpkin and clambered over the gate.
She fell. Her chin struck the cracked cement and her teeth sank into her lower lip. As she spit blood from her mouth, the door to the house slammed closed. And Lily fiercely felt the house had just become her enemy.
***
Friday, August 12, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part 7 by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE (2012)
Christie saw Clara walking toward the pond. Even though she had tried to feed him to the monster that she loved, he couldn't let her die. He jumped up and ran after her, clutching the silver knife.
"Words!" the auburn-haired girl shouted after him.
"Clara!" His breath tore at his lungs. When he spoke her name, he felt as if his voice box was being shredded. He saw the shadow rise in dark tatters from the water, immense, arching toward her.
"Clara!" His voice tore as the horned shadow grasped her and dragged her into the water. He shouted the most powerful words about water that he knew, those of Thoreau:
"The water understands . . .
Ill-used, it will destroy.
In perfect time and measure destroy
With a face of golden pleasure, elegantly destroy."
He felt as if things were burning his skin, saw his outstretched hand inked with words written in a language he didn't know.
The leaves continued to fall. The watery shadow was frozen, Clara in its embrace.
"Clara." Despite the terror holding him at the sight of that impossible tableau, Christie reached for her. She turned. Her eyes were black holes. There were cracks in her face.
She whispered, "Please."
He slammed the silver knife up, into the area where the monster's skull should be. The blade cut through the stilled water that formed the kelpie as if through a wave. His arm holding the knife vibrated. He let go and fell back.
The monster burst apart in a scattering of diseased-looking black fluid.
And Clara, now a figure of bones and parchment skin, sank back into the water.
Christie's mind had stopped working.
"Phouka." He heard the orange-haired boy say. "We're losing him."
The auburn-haired girl crouched before Christie. There were freckles across her nose. He noticed that even more than the wraith-silver of her eyes. Her voice ws gentle. "She died a long time ago. She was the lure. This place"--she indicated the hotel behind him--"was a lure. Dark things like to play tricks. Next time, you will be able to deal with such strangeness. For now, FORGET."
***
Christie blinked. He sat in the cold morning, facing the pond behind the hotel. A line from Keats drifted through his head: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
"What are you doing out here?"
He looked up to see Leon and Marisol striding toward him from the hotel, which looked pretty and perfect in the rising sun. He pushed to his feet and wondered what he had been doing out here.
"I went for a walk. I think I fell." He touched his sore jaw. "Can you check my eyes and see if I have a concussion? Is one of my pupils bigger than the other?"
"Let's just get you back to the hotel." Marisol hooked an arm through one of his.
As they moved away from the pond, Christie glanced back at it and wondered why he felt lke crying.
***
At the convention center, he met the five other young winners at a luncheon. Leon and Marisol kept to themselves, mostly. Christie recalled how silent the audience had been as Leon and Marisol read their poems, as if enchanted.
The two sat in his room as Christie was packing--he 'd found his mud-stained suitacase on his bed. He didn't remember putting it there, or how it had gotten mud on it. He wonderd how hard he'd hit his head when he'd fallen.
Marisol hugged him outside the hotel as his cab drew up. Leon clasped his hand and grinned. "Maybe we'll see each other again."
"Why wouldn't we?" As Christie slid into the cab, he recognized the driver who had brought him here; the tall, stern-faced woman with the black braids.
"Airport," he told her, and smiled. He couldn't wait to get back home.
***
Leon and Marisol turned back to the hotel. As the sun glazed the windows with red, the hotel changed. The glamour that had cloaked it, even in the day, faded. A transparency of the hotel's true state overlaid it, solidified, and it became the building that everyone saw--abandoned, sinking into ruin. The graffiti across its doors read NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE.
Hand in hand, Leon and Marisol walked into the hotel, and faded.
The End
Christie saw Clara walking toward the pond. Even though she had tried to feed him to the monster that she loved, he couldn't let her die. He jumped up and ran after her, clutching the silver knife.
"Words!" the auburn-haired girl shouted after him.
"Clara!" His breath tore at his lungs. When he spoke her name, he felt as if his voice box was being shredded. He saw the shadow rise in dark tatters from the water, immense, arching toward her.
"Clara!" His voice tore as the horned shadow grasped her and dragged her into the water. He shouted the most powerful words about water that he knew, those of Thoreau:
"The water understands . . .
Ill-used, it will destroy.
In perfect time and measure destroy
With a face of golden pleasure, elegantly destroy."
He felt as if things were burning his skin, saw his outstretched hand inked with words written in a language he didn't know.
The leaves continued to fall. The watery shadow was frozen, Clara in its embrace.
"Clara." Despite the terror holding him at the sight of that impossible tableau, Christie reached for her. She turned. Her eyes were black holes. There were cracks in her face.
She whispered, "Please."
He slammed the silver knife up, into the area where the monster's skull should be. The blade cut through the stilled water that formed the kelpie as if through a wave. His arm holding the knife vibrated. He let go and fell back.
The monster burst apart in a scattering of diseased-looking black fluid.
And Clara, now a figure of bones and parchment skin, sank back into the water.
Christie's mind had stopped working.
"Phouka." He heard the orange-haired boy say. "We're losing him."
The auburn-haired girl crouched before Christie. There were freckles across her nose. He noticed that even more than the wraith-silver of her eyes. Her voice ws gentle. "She died a long time ago. She was the lure. This place"--she indicated the hotel behind him--"was a lure. Dark things like to play tricks. Next time, you will be able to deal with such strangeness. For now, FORGET."
***
Christie blinked. He sat in the cold morning, facing the pond behind the hotel. A line from Keats drifted through his head: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
"What are you doing out here?"
He looked up to see Leon and Marisol striding toward him from the hotel, which looked pretty and perfect in the rising sun. He pushed to his feet and wondered what he had been doing out here.
"I went for a walk. I think I fell." He touched his sore jaw. "Can you check my eyes and see if I have a concussion? Is one of my pupils bigger than the other?"
"Let's just get you back to the hotel." Marisol hooked an arm through one of his.
As they moved away from the pond, Christie glanced back at it and wondered why he felt lke crying.
***
At the convention center, he met the five other young winners at a luncheon. Leon and Marisol kept to themselves, mostly. Christie recalled how silent the audience had been as Leon and Marisol read their poems, as if enchanted.
The two sat in his room as Christie was packing--he 'd found his mud-stained suitacase on his bed. He didn't remember putting it there, or how it had gotten mud on it. He wonderd how hard he'd hit his head when he'd fallen.
Marisol hugged him outside the hotel as his cab drew up. Leon clasped his hand and grinned. "Maybe we'll see each other again."
"Why wouldn't we?" As Christie slid into the cab, he recognized the driver who had brought him here; the tall, stern-faced woman with the black braids.
"Airport," he told her, and smiled. He couldn't wait to get back home.
***
Leon and Marisol turned back to the hotel. As the sun glazed the windows with red, the hotel changed. The glamour that had cloaked it, even in the day, faded. A transparency of the hotel's true state overlaid it, solidified, and it became the building that everyone saw--abandoned, sinking into ruin. The graffiti across its doors read NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE.
Hand in hand, Leon and Marisol walked into the hotel, and faded.
The End
Friday, August 5, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part Six
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here (2012)
Christie pushed out the doors, into the garden.
Clara was walking down the path, toward the pond.
He had kissed her. He had felt her warm skin against his, her heart beating against his chest. Maybe she wasn't a ghost, but a dead ringer for an ancestor with the same name. "Clara!"
She kept walking.
A chill grazed the back of his neck. He turned, the fear brewing into an angry, horrified defiance.
The Barrington Hotel rose behind him, abandoned, partly boarded up, profaned by graffiti. Its topmost windows were black and gaping. The wind moaned through it with the mournful eerieness of the abandoned.
He turned back, swallowing hard.
Clara had fallen.
He dropped his suitcase and ran to her. When he reached her, she looked no different. He crouched beside her. "Clara, what's going on?"
Her eyelashes fluttered. She whispered, "Please help me to the pond."
"Clara--"
"Please. Before it's too late."
He assisted her in standing. Her arm curved around his shoulders. Her skin was warm. She was not a ghost.
They trudged quickly through the garden, around the hedged roundabouts, toward the scraggly part, where the trees huddled around the pond. The tin roof of the makeshift temple glinted. Pale toadstools had sprouted in the soil.
Christie heard someone humming softly near the pond. "Clara . . ."
"It's all right." She stepped away. She took his hand and led him up to the temple. "We're safe here. They won't find us."
"They?" Christie glanced over his shoulder, back the way they'd come. "Clara, please tell me what--"
He heard a noise from the pond, as if something immense had surfaced. Another chill raked over his clammy skin.
Clara sat before the altar, gazing at the goat skull. "I love him, Christie."
From the vicinity of the pond, a voice that sounded like an animal trying to speak called out, "Clara . . ."
Christie's guts knotted with terror. Moonlight frosted Clara's skin as she turned her head and looked at him. "It'll be all right. I promise. He'll drown you and you won't feel a thing."
Christie leaped out of the temple and ran.
His foot caught on a root. He went down, his chin smacking painfully against the ground. His ears filled with a buzzing sound--
He twisted around and stared at what stood near the pond, flickering like an old black-and-white film, a tall, shaggy figure, ram horns curving on the sides of its head. Its eyes glinted like the reflection of light across a blade.
Christie scrambled up, dizzily slid onto his hands and knees, whispering, "No . . . no . . ." as his brain balked at what was happening.
A shadow fell over him.
He scrambled away, pulled himself up by grabbing a tree branch. He didn't want to look at whatever horror had come out of that pond.
"Christie . . . Hart." That same animal voice spoke his name. He turned his head.
A very dead young man who resembled a 1930s movie idol stood there, his hair and suit dripping water. He was smiling, holding out a hand. "Don't be afraid. You can't get away. It won't be so bad if you don't struggle."
Christie sagged against the tree. He was wheezing now and his skull felt as if something had crashed into it. He wanted the terror to end. He just wanted . . .
"Christie." Clara walked past the thing pretending to be a smiling young man. She stretched out her own hand and said sweetly, "Come on."
"Kelpie." The female voice, stern and young, broke the spell that held Christie. He almost wept with relief as the auburn-haired girl and the boy with the orange hair emerged from the night.
The dripping apparition turned toward them and flickered like a candle, half of his face revealed to be a skull with something moving in one eye socket. The voice was a growl. "This is not your lady's territory."
"No." The auburn-haired girl stepped forward, steely-eyed. "But you are endangering all of us with what you are doing here. There are too many missing children."
The dead young man tilted his head to one side. The shadows of ram horns threaded with bioluminescence curved from his long brown hair. "This was my place before your lady came."
Christie could understand the words they spoke, but his mind was registering a language he couldn't identify.
Then the drowned young man slid into darkness, which pooled toward Christie's feet.
Liquid black hands reached out and grabbed Christie's ankles. He shouted, his voice tearing. He fell onto his back and was dragged toward the pond. He clutched at grass, at weeds--
Something was flung onto his chest--a wooden scabbard with a curved knife in it. He seized the hilt, flicked the scabbard away. The blade shone silver. He reared up and slashed at the darkness dragging him. The phantom hands released him. He rolled away with a sob.
Then the orange-haired boy was crouched before him. "Use your words, boy. Poetry."
Christie scrambled back. He couldn't see the thing from the water, the old god or the monster, whatever it was.
"You need to do it." The red-haired boy who looked like a Botticelli angel with golden eyes pointed at the pond. "We cannot destroy our own."
"Can't I just leave--"
"Leave and it'll keep drowning and eating people. We can't hurt it. Only you can."
***
Christie pushed out the doors, into the garden.
Clara was walking down the path, toward the pond.
He had kissed her. He had felt her warm skin against his, her heart beating against his chest. Maybe she wasn't a ghost, but a dead ringer for an ancestor with the same name. "Clara!"
She kept walking.
A chill grazed the back of his neck. He turned, the fear brewing into an angry, horrified defiance.
The Barrington Hotel rose behind him, abandoned, partly boarded up, profaned by graffiti. Its topmost windows were black and gaping. The wind moaned through it with the mournful eerieness of the abandoned.
He turned back, swallowing hard.
Clara had fallen.
He dropped his suitcase and ran to her. When he reached her, she looked no different. He crouched beside her. "Clara, what's going on?"
Her eyelashes fluttered. She whispered, "Please help me to the pond."
"Clara--"
"Please. Before it's too late."
He assisted her in standing. Her arm curved around his shoulders. Her skin was warm. She was not a ghost.
They trudged quickly through the garden, around the hedged roundabouts, toward the scraggly part, where the trees huddled around the pond. The tin roof of the makeshift temple glinted. Pale toadstools had sprouted in the soil.
Christie heard someone humming softly near the pond. "Clara . . ."
"It's all right." She stepped away. She took his hand and led him up to the temple. "We're safe here. They won't find us."
"They?" Christie glanced over his shoulder, back the way they'd come. "Clara, please tell me what--"
He heard a noise from the pond, as if something immense had surfaced. Another chill raked over his clammy skin.
Clara sat before the altar, gazing at the goat skull. "I love him, Christie."
From the vicinity of the pond, a voice that sounded like an animal trying to speak called out, "Clara . . ."
Christie's guts knotted with terror. Moonlight frosted Clara's skin as she turned her head and looked at him. "It'll be all right. I promise. He'll drown you and you won't feel a thing."
Christie leaped out of the temple and ran.
His foot caught on a root. He went down, his chin smacking painfully against the ground. His ears filled with a buzzing sound--
He twisted around and stared at what stood near the pond, flickering like an old black-and-white film, a tall, shaggy figure, ram horns curving on the sides of its head. Its eyes glinted like the reflection of light across a blade.
Christie scrambled up, dizzily slid onto his hands and knees, whispering, "No . . . no . . ." as his brain balked at what was happening.
A shadow fell over him.
He scrambled away, pulled himself up by grabbing a tree branch. He didn't want to look at whatever horror had come out of that pond.
"Christie . . . Hart." That same animal voice spoke his name. He turned his head.
A very dead young man who resembled a 1930s movie idol stood there, his hair and suit dripping water. He was smiling, holding out a hand. "Don't be afraid. You can't get away. It won't be so bad if you don't struggle."
Christie sagged against the tree. He was wheezing now and his skull felt as if something had crashed into it. He wanted the terror to end. He just wanted . . .
"Christie." Clara walked past the thing pretending to be a smiling young man. She stretched out her own hand and said sweetly, "Come on."
"Kelpie." The female voice, stern and young, broke the spell that held Christie. He almost wept with relief as the auburn-haired girl and the boy with the orange hair emerged from the night.
The dripping apparition turned toward them and flickered like a candle, half of his face revealed to be a skull with something moving in one eye socket. The voice was a growl. "This is not your lady's territory."
"No." The auburn-haired girl stepped forward, steely-eyed. "But you are endangering all of us with what you are doing here. There are too many missing children."
The dead young man tilted his head to one side. The shadows of ram horns threaded with bioluminescence curved from his long brown hair. "This was my place before your lady came."
Christie could understand the words they spoke, but his mind was registering a language he couldn't identify.
Then the drowned young man slid into darkness, which pooled toward Christie's feet.
Liquid black hands reached out and grabbed Christie's ankles. He shouted, his voice tearing. He fell onto his back and was dragged toward the pond. He clutched at grass, at weeds--
Something was flung onto his chest--a wooden scabbard with a curved knife in it. He seized the hilt, flicked the scabbard away. The blade shone silver. He reared up and slashed at the darkness dragging him. The phantom hands released him. He rolled away with a sob.
Then the orange-haired boy was crouched before him. "Use your words, boy. Poetry."
Christie scrambled back. He couldn't see the thing from the water, the old god or the monster, whatever it was.
"You need to do it." The red-haired boy who looked like a Botticelli angel with golden eyes pointed at the pond. "We cannot destroy our own."
"Can't I just leave--"
"Leave and it'll keep drowning and eating people. We can't hurt it. Only you can."
***
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part 5 by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE (2012)
Christie missed the morning panels, but he was prepared for the reading when it was his time at three o'clock, and arrived at the convention center early. He recited his poem--it was a long one--and received a pretty medal. He returned to his seat next to the other winners, where Leon nudged him. Marisol was next.
"We're going out later. Come with us? I mean, it's our last night here."
"Let me see if I can get Clara to come." Christie hadn't seen Clara at all today.
"Who's Clara?"
"The daughter of the hotel owner. Don't smile at me slyly."
"That's just the way I smile. We'll never find out about the haunts." Leon sounded disappointed.
"I'll ask her," Christie promised. "I'm sure she'll tell me the hotel's haunted. That pond is. Drownings. Devil worship. It has everything."
***
Christie, Leon, and Marisol walked around the neighborhood and had lunch. Afterward, Christie returned to his room, where he decided to crash for a little while before attempting to find Clara.
He woke in the dark because he thought someone had whispered his name.
Deciding that his phone must have buzzed, he fumbled for it. There was a text from Leon: WHERE R U? WE'RE 10 MINUTES AWAY. There was an address. They had left without him? He felt wounded.
He was showered and dressed and in the hall in fifteen minutes. He took an empty elevator down to the lobby, which was also deserted but for one desk clerk.
As he stood outside in the chill, a cab slid to the curb. He ducked in. The cabdriver, a black man with silver hair, looked at him funny. "What are you doing out on the border like this?"
That was a weird way of defining the city districts. Christie said, "I'm attending a poetry convention."
The man looked back over one shoulder. "Why're you standing outside of that place?"
"I'm staying there."
"You're staying in a place that closed up ten years ago?" The driver narrowed his eyes in the rearview mirror. "What are you up to, son?"
I am so not in the mood for this, Christie thought, wondering if the man was senile. "Let me tell you where I'm going? Friends are expecing me."
***
Christie didn't find Leon and Marisol at the restaurant. He texted Leon. He didn't get an answer, but he did get a take-out meal, and had to call for another cab, whose driver kept blissfully quiet the entire time.
***
Christie did it out of curiosity: He snapped open his laptop and Googled The Barrington Hotel.
The Barrington had been a hot spot in the 1930s. It had hosted gangsters and actors. One actor had drowned in the pond in the back. Accompanying the article was a black-and-white photo of a young man with slicked-back hair and one of those annoying faces that seemed chiseled out of marble. The hotel's owners, Edward Barrington and his socialite wife, Zelda, had died in a fire in 1938. They had had a daughter. Her name had been Clara.
Christie stared numbly at the black-and-white photograph of a girl who looked like the Clara he had met, down to the little white dress and marcelled blonde hair.
The room was too cold. Autumn wind howled outside. He switched the TV on just to hear the normalcy of a sports game. He felt dizzy. He looked back down at this computer screen and scrolled to a picture of the hotel from 2005. The next tragedy had involved the hotel shuttle bus, transporting several guests to The Barrington. There had been a crash. All the passengers had died. The passengers were listed, with photos.
Christie had once fainted from hunger when on a camping trip with his dad and brothers. He felt that awful vertigo now, as if his brain were lifting from his body. He stared at the photos as his mind worked to find a solution that made sense.
The lights went out. In the gloom, Christie lifted his gaze from the laptop to the window.
The window was now boarded up, the curtains around it now tattered. The wallpaper was peeling. The bed beneath him was soggy. The acid reek of mildew made him retch.
He hurled himself off the bed. He slammed back against a wall and slid down, squeezing his eyes shut. "This isn't real. Stop it."
The wind ceased howling. He opened his eyes. The room was as it had been, neat and brightly lit. A malevolent thing in disguise.
He jumped up and shut his laptop, threw it into his suitcase, zipped up the suitcase. Luggage in hand, he stumbled to the door. He was shocked when it opened.
The hallway seemed safe. As he passed Leon's room, he hesitated. One of the photographs of the passengers on that doomed shuttle bus had been Leon Emmet. Another had been Marisol Hernandez.
He knocked on Leon's door. No one answered.
The lights at the end of the hall went out.
Christie fled, rushing through the door to the stair.
In the lobby, all seemed deceptively well. The desk attendant stood before the Art Deco mural of Native Americans. The auburn-haired girl from the old bookstore and the red-haired boy who accompanied her stood in the lobby talking. They looked at Christie. Their eyes glimmered silver.
He pushed out the doors, into the garden.
***
Christie missed the morning panels, but he was prepared for the reading when it was his time at three o'clock, and arrived at the convention center early. He recited his poem--it was a long one--and received a pretty medal. He returned to his seat next to the other winners, where Leon nudged him. Marisol was next.
"We're going out later. Come with us? I mean, it's our last night here."
"Let me see if I can get Clara to come." Christie hadn't seen Clara at all today.
"Who's Clara?"
"The daughter of the hotel owner. Don't smile at me slyly."
"That's just the way I smile. We'll never find out about the haunts." Leon sounded disappointed.
"I'll ask her," Christie promised. "I'm sure she'll tell me the hotel's haunted. That pond is. Drownings. Devil worship. It has everything."
***
Christie, Leon, and Marisol walked around the neighborhood and had lunch. Afterward, Christie returned to his room, where he decided to crash for a little while before attempting to find Clara.
He woke in the dark because he thought someone had whispered his name.
Deciding that his phone must have buzzed, he fumbled for it. There was a text from Leon: WHERE R U? WE'RE 10 MINUTES AWAY. There was an address. They had left without him? He felt wounded.
He was showered and dressed and in the hall in fifteen minutes. He took an empty elevator down to the lobby, which was also deserted but for one desk clerk.
As he stood outside in the chill, a cab slid to the curb. He ducked in. The cabdriver, a black man with silver hair, looked at him funny. "What are you doing out on the border like this?"
That was a weird way of defining the city districts. Christie said, "I'm attending a poetry convention."
The man looked back over one shoulder. "Why're you standing outside of that place?"
"I'm staying there."
"You're staying in a place that closed up ten years ago?" The driver narrowed his eyes in the rearview mirror. "What are you up to, son?"
I am so not in the mood for this, Christie thought, wondering if the man was senile. "Let me tell you where I'm going? Friends are expecing me."
***
Christie didn't find Leon and Marisol at the restaurant. He texted Leon. He didn't get an answer, but he did get a take-out meal, and had to call for another cab, whose driver kept blissfully quiet the entire time.
***
Christie did it out of curiosity: He snapped open his laptop and Googled The Barrington Hotel.
The Barrington had been a hot spot in the 1930s. It had hosted gangsters and actors. One actor had drowned in the pond in the back. Accompanying the article was a black-and-white photo of a young man with slicked-back hair and one of those annoying faces that seemed chiseled out of marble. The hotel's owners, Edward Barrington and his socialite wife, Zelda, had died in a fire in 1938. They had had a daughter. Her name had been Clara.
Christie stared numbly at the black-and-white photograph of a girl who looked like the Clara he had met, down to the little white dress and marcelled blonde hair.
The room was too cold. Autumn wind howled outside. He switched the TV on just to hear the normalcy of a sports game. He felt dizzy. He looked back down at this computer screen and scrolled to a picture of the hotel from 2005. The next tragedy had involved the hotel shuttle bus, transporting several guests to The Barrington. There had been a crash. All the passengers had died. The passengers were listed, with photos.
Christie had once fainted from hunger when on a camping trip with his dad and brothers. He felt that awful vertigo now, as if his brain were lifting from his body. He stared at the photos as his mind worked to find a solution that made sense.
The lights went out. In the gloom, Christie lifted his gaze from the laptop to the window.
The window was now boarded up, the curtains around it now tattered. The wallpaper was peeling. The bed beneath him was soggy. The acid reek of mildew made him retch.
He hurled himself off the bed. He slammed back against a wall and slid down, squeezing his eyes shut. "This isn't real. Stop it."
The wind ceased howling. He opened his eyes. The room was as it had been, neat and brightly lit. A malevolent thing in disguise.
He jumped up and shut his laptop, threw it into his suitcase, zipped up the suitcase. Luggage in hand, he stumbled to the door. He was shocked when it opened.
The hallway seemed safe. As he passed Leon's room, he hesitated. One of the photographs of the passengers on that doomed shuttle bus had been Leon Emmet. Another had been Marisol Hernandez.
He knocked on Leon's door. No one answered.
The lights at the end of the hall went out.
Christie fled, rushing through the door to the stair.
In the lobby, all seemed deceptively well. The desk attendant stood before the Art Deco mural of Native Americans. The auburn-haired girl from the old bookstore and the red-haired boy who accompanied her stood in the lobby talking. They looked at Christie. Their eyes glimmered silver.
He pushed out the doors, into the garden.
***
Friday, July 22, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part 4 by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE (2012)
Christie was awakened by music--eerie, manic fiddle music. The slight discordance was what jerked up his head from the pillow. The room was freezing. The heat had apparently stopped working.
Grumbling, he got up in the light of the television and checked the wall thermometer. He didn't believe it when he saw that it was sixty degrees. He moved to the window, which overlooked the garden maze. Another party was being held in the furthest reaches of the garden, near the pond. He could see lights and moving figures. The music came from there.
When a humming sound pulsed in his ears, he shivered. The humming faded, but the nape of his neck prickled. He heard laughter and voices in the hall, a girl singing sweetly, as if a group of drunken guests were passing by. He hurried to the door, looked out of the peephole. He didn't see anyone. He grabbed his phone and texted Leon: DID U HEAR THAT? NO 1 OUT THERE.
A second later, Leon texted back: ON 3, WE STEP OUT, OK?
Christie counted, then yanked the door open and stepped into the hall.
Leon was there, looking bewildered in plaid pajama pants. He shook his head. "Weird."
"There's a party going on at the pond."
Leon looked back into his room. Then, with one hand on the doorknob, he leaned slightly toward Christie. "I've got company."
"You're hooking up?" Christie felt betrayed. "Is it Mari--"
Leon widened his eyes and slid back into the room, whispered, "No time for ghosts."
"Well, no," Christie muttered as his door shut. "You're getting laid."
He thought of the party and the pond and felt a thrill of daring. Was it some of the locals? Did Clara know about it?
A whisper of sound made him turn quickly. He thought he glimpsed a pair of spindly shadows cross the wall at the corridor's end.
He walked cautiously over and saw that the wallpaper was stained, as if by smoke, forming shapes that resembled two gaunt people.
He returned to his room and made some coffee in the brewer. He gazed out the window at the moving figures and lights near the pond.
***
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a hoodie and boots against the cold, he left the hotel by the garden entrance and strode down the labyrinthine path, toward the thicket of trees around the pond. The night was eerily quiet. He heard only leaves rustling and the sounds of traffic in the distance. He knew he wasn't supposed to be able to catch such delicate sounds. Fireflies winked between the trees. When he came to the last part of the garden, he found it deserted.
Maybe I went the wrong way. And maybe the revelers had headed back around the pond.
He pushed through the thickets, his heart galloping. The moon, reflecting from the clouds, created a bright illumination.
He saw a structure near the pond, a makeshift temple, its roof of tin, its pillars made from mismatched timbers painted with symbols. Arching over it, its roots snaking into the pond, was a giant yew tree.
The party had ended apparently, but Christie found no evidence of it--no beer cans or footprints or any sign of a group of people. He stepped up into the temple, and halted.
Someone had placed a goat's skull on a pedestal. Green candles surrounded it. Flowering vines draped it. Shells and little statues had been placed around it.
Rotting wood gave way beneath one of his feet. He fell backward, his head smacking against the boards. He lay there for a minute, until the stars stopped flashing behind his eyes. Dread crawled up through his stomach.
Then he heard something splashing in the pond, something big.
He rolled over and eased up onto his knees. He gazed at the pond glistening darkly beyond the trees. When he heard a noise like a bull bellowing softly, he pushed to his feet and lurched out of the temple, in the direction of the hotel. Every instinct within him warned him against turning his head and looking at that pond again.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
But he did.
He saw a large figure standing there, facing him, its back to the pond. Moonlight glistened on skin so white, it reminded him of things long submerged in watery depths.
When a hand clamped down on his shoulder, he whirled, one fist drawn back.
"Hey." Leon raised his hands. "I can't believe you came down here on your own."
"Did you..." Christie turned toward the pond.
"Come on back." Hunched up in his jacket, Leon looked around. "That place is not scenic."
"Boys." They turned to see Marisol approaching. "It's freezing out here. Where's the party?"
"I told her." Leon shrugged when Christie glanced at him. "There's no sign of anyone. Are you sure--"
"Don't ask me if I'm sure." Christie started back up the path. "They're gone now, whoever they were. But I'm sure they were here."
***
Christie was awakened by music--eerie, manic fiddle music. The slight discordance was what jerked up his head from the pillow. The room was freezing. The heat had apparently stopped working.
Grumbling, he got up in the light of the television and checked the wall thermometer. He didn't believe it when he saw that it was sixty degrees. He moved to the window, which overlooked the garden maze. Another party was being held in the furthest reaches of the garden, near the pond. He could see lights and moving figures. The music came from there.
When a humming sound pulsed in his ears, he shivered. The humming faded, but the nape of his neck prickled. He heard laughter and voices in the hall, a girl singing sweetly, as if a group of drunken guests were passing by. He hurried to the door, looked out of the peephole. He didn't see anyone. He grabbed his phone and texted Leon: DID U HEAR THAT? NO 1 OUT THERE.
A second later, Leon texted back: ON 3, WE STEP OUT, OK?
Christie counted, then yanked the door open and stepped into the hall.
Leon was there, looking bewildered in plaid pajama pants. He shook his head. "Weird."
"There's a party going on at the pond."
Leon looked back into his room. Then, with one hand on the doorknob, he leaned slightly toward Christie. "I've got company."
"You're hooking up?" Christie felt betrayed. "Is it Mari--"
Leon widened his eyes and slid back into the room, whispered, "No time for ghosts."
"Well, no," Christie muttered as his door shut. "You're getting laid."
He thought of the party and the pond and felt a thrill of daring. Was it some of the locals? Did Clara know about it?
A whisper of sound made him turn quickly. He thought he glimpsed a pair of spindly shadows cross the wall at the corridor's end.
He walked cautiously over and saw that the wallpaper was stained, as if by smoke, forming shapes that resembled two gaunt people.
He returned to his room and made some coffee in the brewer. He gazed out the window at the moving figures and lights near the pond.
***
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a hoodie and boots against the cold, he left the hotel by the garden entrance and strode down the labyrinthine path, toward the thicket of trees around the pond. The night was eerily quiet. He heard only leaves rustling and the sounds of traffic in the distance. He knew he wasn't supposed to be able to catch such delicate sounds. Fireflies winked between the trees. When he came to the last part of the garden, he found it deserted.
Maybe I went the wrong way. And maybe the revelers had headed back around the pond.
He pushed through the thickets, his heart galloping. The moon, reflecting from the clouds, created a bright illumination.
He saw a structure near the pond, a makeshift temple, its roof of tin, its pillars made from mismatched timbers painted with symbols. Arching over it, its roots snaking into the pond, was a giant yew tree.
The party had ended apparently, but Christie found no evidence of it--no beer cans or footprints or any sign of a group of people. He stepped up into the temple, and halted.
Someone had placed a goat's skull on a pedestal. Green candles surrounded it. Flowering vines draped it. Shells and little statues had been placed around it.
Rotting wood gave way beneath one of his feet. He fell backward, his head smacking against the boards. He lay there for a minute, until the stars stopped flashing behind his eyes. Dread crawled up through his stomach.
Then he heard something splashing in the pond, something big.
He rolled over and eased up onto his knees. He gazed at the pond glistening darkly beyond the trees. When he heard a noise like a bull bellowing softly, he pushed to his feet and lurched out of the temple, in the direction of the hotel. Every instinct within him warned him against turning his head and looking at that pond again.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
But he did.
He saw a large figure standing there, facing him, its back to the pond. Moonlight glistened on skin so white, it reminded him of things long submerged in watery depths.
When a hand clamped down on his shoulder, he whirled, one fist drawn back.
"Hey." Leon raised his hands. "I can't believe you came down here on your own."
"Did you..." Christie turned toward the pond.
"Come on back." Hunched up in his jacket, Leon looked around. "That place is not scenic."
"Boys." They turned to see Marisol approaching. "It's freezing out here. Where's the party?"
"I told her." Leon shrugged when Christie glanced at him. "There's no sign of anyone. Are you sure--"
"Don't ask me if I'm sure." Christie started back up the path. "They're gone now, whoever they were. But I'm sure they were here."
***
Monday, July 18, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part 3 by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE Part 3 (Year 2012)
The cocktail party at the hotel that evening was attended by a number of people in fancy clothes. Attempting to procure liquor, Christie and Leon were shot down by the bartender.
Christie straightened his tie as he and Leon turned away. "I guess I don't look as grown up as I thought."
"You nervous about reciting your poem tomorrow?" Leon, who was wearing what Christie suspected to be a designer suit, looked around the garden.
"No. You?"
"No. Marisol is." Leon suddenly smiled. "There she is."
Marisol was weaving toward them. She wore a little black dress and her hair in a single braid. Glancing at Leon, Christie said, "Why don't you go tell her how nice she looks before I'm tempted to?"
Leon rubbed a hand over his scalp, then grinned and moved toward Marisol.
Christie snagged one of the non-alchoholic drinks carried on trays by waiters. He wove toward the table scattered with a paradise of appetizers and began stacking them on a plate. Life was good.
As he nibbled shrimp on a toothpick, he saw Clara moving toward him through the crowds. She was a pale flame against the chic darkness of the other guests. She selected a tiny pink cake from the spread and idly asked, "Are you having a good time?"
"Not really, no." He spotted a large bird moving across the grass. "That's a peacock."
"I saw someone leading a zebra couple of minutes ago. This is very extravagant." Clara ate her cake.
Christie was disappointed he hadn't seen the zebra. "It is swank."
"There are others." Clara nodded toward a group of people their age--the other winners, he assumed, of the young writers' award.
He said, "I should go over and introduce myself."
"Or you can come with me." Clara set an Emily Strange lunchbox on the table and opened it. She began putting appetizers and little cakes into it. She shut the lid. "Come on."
Thrilled, he followed her. As they passed the bar, she snagged a bottle of wine while the bartender was distracted. Her high-heeled red shoes clicking on the paving stones, she led him back toward the hotel, which seemed quiet.
"Clara," he felt compelled to ask, "where are we going?"
She opened a door and glanced back at him. She grinned and moved up a spiral of wrought-iron stairs. He followed her up the staircase, to round room at the top of a tower, where a chandelier of pink glass cast a rosy light over them as Clara opened the lunch box and set the canapes and petit fours on the balustrade. He walked to her side and gazed down at the grounds, which seemed more extensive than he'd thought. He saw fireflies sparkling in the trees. He looked out the other side of the cupola and saw the city of Detroit, lit up and modern.
He glanced back over the grounds, where the small wood surrounded the pond that gleamed like a black mirror. The sight of it made him uneasy.
Clara leaned back against the balustrade and tilted her head, watching him. "You see that pond? The Huron-Wyandot tribes worshiped something there. Later, it became a witches' meeting place. Not good witches. People have seen something that looks like a goat walking upright."
"I live in a town where all sorts of werid stories like that get around. I'm not impressed."
"No?" Clara turned and picked up one of the canapes, bit into it. "In the 1920s, a young man who was on the verge of becoming a movie star drowned there."
"So, do you think if the white people had listened to the natives, they would have been advised to not build anythinge there?"
Her cherry lips curved. He decided to take a chance. He kissed her. Heat dazzled him as she knotted a hand in his hair.
His heart plummeted when she stepped back and said, "That was nice. Why do you like poetry?"
He breathed deep and reached for the bottle of wine. He took a swig. Then he said, "Because it's powerful. Words, combined in a certain way, are like magic spells."
"I never thought about it like that. Do you know what 'abracadabra' means?"
"Tell me."
"It means 'I create as I speak' in Aramaic."
"You're an unusual girl. I like that."
They finished off the bottle of wine and talked some more. They didn't kiss again, although Christie kept thinking about it.
***
He chivalrously escorted her to the elevator which went up to the penthouse where her family lived. She kissed him again before stepping back. The doors closed over her.
He returned to his room and, dizzy from the alcohol, collapsed on the bed.
***
The cocktail party at the hotel that evening was attended by a number of people in fancy clothes. Attempting to procure liquor, Christie and Leon were shot down by the bartender.
Christie straightened his tie as he and Leon turned away. "I guess I don't look as grown up as I thought."
"You nervous about reciting your poem tomorrow?" Leon, who was wearing what Christie suspected to be a designer suit, looked around the garden.
"No. You?"
"No. Marisol is." Leon suddenly smiled. "There she is."
Marisol was weaving toward them. She wore a little black dress and her hair in a single braid. Glancing at Leon, Christie said, "Why don't you go tell her how nice she looks before I'm tempted to?"
Leon rubbed a hand over his scalp, then grinned and moved toward Marisol.
Christie snagged one of the non-alchoholic drinks carried on trays by waiters. He wove toward the table scattered with a paradise of appetizers and began stacking them on a plate. Life was good.
As he nibbled shrimp on a toothpick, he saw Clara moving toward him through the crowds. She was a pale flame against the chic darkness of the other guests. She selected a tiny pink cake from the spread and idly asked, "Are you having a good time?"
"Not really, no." He spotted a large bird moving across the grass. "That's a peacock."
"I saw someone leading a zebra couple of minutes ago. This is very extravagant." Clara ate her cake.
Christie was disappointed he hadn't seen the zebra. "It is swank."
"There are others." Clara nodded toward a group of people their age--the other winners, he assumed, of the young writers' award.
He said, "I should go over and introduce myself."
"Or you can come with me." Clara set an Emily Strange lunchbox on the table and opened it. She began putting appetizers and little cakes into it. She shut the lid. "Come on."
Thrilled, he followed her. As they passed the bar, she snagged a bottle of wine while the bartender was distracted. Her high-heeled red shoes clicking on the paving stones, she led him back toward the hotel, which seemed quiet.
"Clara," he felt compelled to ask, "where are we going?"
She opened a door and glanced back at him. She grinned and moved up a spiral of wrought-iron stairs. He followed her up the staircase, to round room at the top of a tower, where a chandelier of pink glass cast a rosy light over them as Clara opened the lunch box and set the canapes and petit fours on the balustrade. He walked to her side and gazed down at the grounds, which seemed more extensive than he'd thought. He saw fireflies sparkling in the trees. He looked out the other side of the cupola and saw the city of Detroit, lit up and modern.
He glanced back over the grounds, where the small wood surrounded the pond that gleamed like a black mirror. The sight of it made him uneasy.
Clara leaned back against the balustrade and tilted her head, watching him. "You see that pond? The Huron-Wyandot tribes worshiped something there. Later, it became a witches' meeting place. Not good witches. People have seen something that looks like a goat walking upright."
"I live in a town where all sorts of werid stories like that get around. I'm not impressed."
"No?" Clara turned and picked up one of the canapes, bit into it. "In the 1920s, a young man who was on the verge of becoming a movie star drowned there."
"So, do you think if the white people had listened to the natives, they would have been advised to not build anythinge there?"
Her cherry lips curved. He decided to take a chance. He kissed her. Heat dazzled him as she knotted a hand in his hair.
His heart plummeted when she stepped back and said, "That was nice. Why do you like poetry?"
He breathed deep and reached for the bottle of wine. He took a swig. Then he said, "Because it's powerful. Words, combined in a certain way, are like magic spells."
"I never thought about it like that. Do you know what 'abracadabra' means?"
"Tell me."
"It means 'I create as I speak' in Aramaic."
"You're an unusual girl. I like that."
They finished off the bottle of wine and talked some more. They didn't kiss again, although Christie kept thinking about it.
***
He chivalrously escorted her to the elevator which went up to the penthouse where her family lived. She kissed him again before stepping back. The doors closed over her.
He returned to his room and, dizzy from the alcohol, collapsed on the bed.
***
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here: Part 2 by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE Part 2 (Year: 2012)
The hotel lobby was busy the next morning, which made things normal. Christie and Leon met up and decided to search for the other five writers of the young poet contest.
"There." Leon pointed to a girl with her black hair in braids. She looked up at them from the coffee bar, then sauntered over, a Styrofoam cup on in one hand.
"Marisol." She held out her other hand. Christie shook it and he and Leon introduced themselves.
"Do you think it'll get wild later on?" Christie indicated the other guests.
"Poets aren't as rock star as they were way back when." Marisol indicated the front entrance. "Someone told me about a great cafe nearby. Want to walk?"
"Let's go." As Leon headed for the doors, Christie swept a glance around the lobby, looking for the intriguing auburn-haired girl he'd seen last night.
***
Marisol was from a local suburb and knew her way around the area. She took them on a brief tour after breakfast. They wandered down streets lined with old houses, some of which were boarded up, their yards now jungles of weeds and creepers. They found a used bookstore and argued mildly about which poets deserved their fame and which ones were overrated.
They reached the convention center and stayed together to attend panels and explore the booksellers' stalls. Christie learned that his new friends had each written pieces that, like Christie, they would be reading tomorrow.
They took the bus back to the hotel and separated with plans to meet up later.
Restless after being inside all day, Christie wandered into the garden, which seemed wild despite the topiary and the paved paths leading to roundabouts, the last path ending near a wood of tall pines, dark and foreboding. He saw the black glimmer of water beyond the trees.
He turned and found a girl sitting on the base of a statue depicting a Native American chieftain. Her golden hair was fashioned in a stylish bob. Despite the cold, she wore a little white dress and a red hoodie that matched her sneakers. She was watching him, her face remote.
"Are you one of the poets?" she asked idly.
"I am. Are you?"
"No. Didn't you hear me coming up the path?"
He didn't want to explain why he hadn't heard her. "Were you trying to sneak up on me?"
"I've been sitting here watching you for about five minutes."
"I'm flattered, really. 'And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the vine, and no birds sing.'"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why did you choose that particular line from that particular poem?"
Usually, girls who weren't into poetry assumed he'd made up any he spoke. He figured their deceased authors, most of whom had been players, wouldn't mind. "I thought you weren't a poet?"
"I'm not." She stood up and began to walk along the rim of the fountain. "My family owns this hotel. My father. My mom is probably somewhere in Morocco or Paris having cocktails."
"Oh." He didn't know how to respond to this bitter and light-hearted statement about parental abandonment. "I'm Christie."
She glanced at him. "I'm Clara."
"Is that a pond or a lake?" He peered through the trees at the black shine of water.
When she didn't answer, he tapped his ear. He heard a slight buzzing and turned his head.
Clara stood with her hands over her face. Concerned, he moved toward her. "Clara? Hey--"
"I have to go." She whirled and ran back along the path.
"Fantastic." He turned to face the woods which seemed excessively dark for even an overcast afternoon.
Then a shadow--tall and narrow--moved between one tree and the next, blocking out the water for an instant.
Christie told himself, That wasn't anything.
His phone buzzed. He nearly screamed. Teeth gritted, he pulled it from his back pocket.
He frowned at the text from Leon. HEY. WHERE R U?
***
It was Marisol who suggested a cab ride to one of her favorite restaurants.
As the cab made its way through a neighborhood where every other building looked as if it had undergone an individual catastrophe, Christie saw that phrase again, graffitied across another wall.
Nothing good ever happens here.
"Is this a safe neighborhood to be in?" Leon peered out the window.
"Blight." The cab driver, an old man with a heavy Russian accent, glanced at them in the rear view mirror. "Urban blight."
"Well, yeah, but things are getting better," Marisol said defensively.
The cab driver said something in Russian. Christie whispered to Leon, "This is where he says something weird and disturb--"
"They cause blight. When they are not happy." The driver shook his head.
"Who is 'they', sir?" Christie tried to keep a straight face. Marisol nudged him.
The cab driver didn't answer.
They rounded a corner and Marisol said, "There is is. The best Thai food you'll ever experience."
As Leon and Marisol ducked out into the rainy night, Christie handed over his credit card to the driver. The man said, almost absentmindedly, "In Romania, they are called leshi."
"Excuse me?" Christie frowned.
"The leshi..." The driver spoke matter-of-factly, handing the card back. "They have come into your cities--the worst of them."
"The worst of what?" Christie stepped back. "Is that a gang or--"
"You." The driver shook a finger at him as music pulsed from a club across the street. "Careful. They like redheads."
"'kay..." Christie said carefully and watched the cab take off.
Across the street, in front of a nightclub flashing neon letters that spelled out DIAMOND JACK'S, a group of extremely attractive people were gathered. Although their clothes were modern, they had a distinct antique look. The music from the club sounded wild, with a woman's voice wailing in another language.
After dinner, Marisol took them to another used bookstore. Christie found a first edition Walt Whitman and an illustrated copy of Hans Christian Andersen's stories. As he selected some old copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels--his friend Sylvie would love them--the bells above the door tinkled.
A girl with auburn hair and a boy whose curls glinted like flames had entered. The girl wore a black suede hoodie and tartan trousers. A headband of tiny rhinestones glinted in her hair. She was the girl he'd seen in the hotel lobby. As she moved gracefully with her companion to the glass case of first edition books, she glanced over her shoulder and the fluorescent lighting made her eyes glow like a cat's. Christie thought he heard her companion, in buckled boots and jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, call her Phouka, before they moved further into the shadows of the bookshop.
Phouka, he thought, fascinated. What a fantastic name.
***
The hotel lobby was busy the next morning, which made things normal. Christie and Leon met up and decided to search for the other five writers of the young poet contest.
"There." Leon pointed to a girl with her black hair in braids. She looked up at them from the coffee bar, then sauntered over, a Styrofoam cup on in one hand.
"Marisol." She held out her other hand. Christie shook it and he and Leon introduced themselves.
"Do you think it'll get wild later on?" Christie indicated the other guests.
"Poets aren't as rock star as they were way back when." Marisol indicated the front entrance. "Someone told me about a great cafe nearby. Want to walk?"
"Let's go." As Leon headed for the doors, Christie swept a glance around the lobby, looking for the intriguing auburn-haired girl he'd seen last night.
***
Marisol was from a local suburb and knew her way around the area. She took them on a brief tour after breakfast. They wandered down streets lined with old houses, some of which were boarded up, their yards now jungles of weeds and creepers. They found a used bookstore and argued mildly about which poets deserved their fame and which ones were overrated.
They reached the convention center and stayed together to attend panels and explore the booksellers' stalls. Christie learned that his new friends had each written pieces that, like Christie, they would be reading tomorrow.
They took the bus back to the hotel and separated with plans to meet up later.
Restless after being inside all day, Christie wandered into the garden, which seemed wild despite the topiary and the paved paths leading to roundabouts, the last path ending near a wood of tall pines, dark and foreboding. He saw the black glimmer of water beyond the trees.
He turned and found a girl sitting on the base of a statue depicting a Native American chieftain. Her golden hair was fashioned in a stylish bob. Despite the cold, she wore a little white dress and a red hoodie that matched her sneakers. She was watching him, her face remote.
"Are you one of the poets?" she asked idly.
"I am. Are you?"
"No. Didn't you hear me coming up the path?"
He didn't want to explain why he hadn't heard her. "Were you trying to sneak up on me?"
"I've been sitting here watching you for about five minutes."
"I'm flattered, really. 'And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the vine, and no birds sing.'"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why did you choose that particular line from that particular poem?"
Usually, girls who weren't into poetry assumed he'd made up any he spoke. He figured their deceased authors, most of whom had been players, wouldn't mind. "I thought you weren't a poet?"
"I'm not." She stood up and began to walk along the rim of the fountain. "My family owns this hotel. My father. My mom is probably somewhere in Morocco or Paris having cocktails."
"Oh." He didn't know how to respond to this bitter and light-hearted statement about parental abandonment. "I'm Christie."
She glanced at him. "I'm Clara."
"Is that a pond or a lake?" He peered through the trees at the black shine of water.
When she didn't answer, he tapped his ear. He heard a slight buzzing and turned his head.
Clara stood with her hands over her face. Concerned, he moved toward her. "Clara? Hey--"
"I have to go." She whirled and ran back along the path.
"Fantastic." He turned to face the woods which seemed excessively dark for even an overcast afternoon.
Then a shadow--tall and narrow--moved between one tree and the next, blocking out the water for an instant.
Christie told himself, That wasn't anything.
His phone buzzed. He nearly screamed. Teeth gritted, he pulled it from his back pocket.
He frowned at the text from Leon. HEY. WHERE R U?
***
It was Marisol who suggested a cab ride to one of her favorite restaurants.
As the cab made its way through a neighborhood where every other building looked as if it had undergone an individual catastrophe, Christie saw that phrase again, graffitied across another wall.
Nothing good ever happens here.
"Is this a safe neighborhood to be in?" Leon peered out the window.
"Blight." The cab driver, an old man with a heavy Russian accent, glanced at them in the rear view mirror. "Urban blight."
"Well, yeah, but things are getting better," Marisol said defensively.
The cab driver said something in Russian. Christie whispered to Leon, "This is where he says something weird and disturb--"
"They cause blight. When they are not happy." The driver shook his head.
"Who is 'they', sir?" Christie tried to keep a straight face. Marisol nudged him.
The cab driver didn't answer.
They rounded a corner and Marisol said, "There is is. The best Thai food you'll ever experience."
As Leon and Marisol ducked out into the rainy night, Christie handed over his credit card to the driver. The man said, almost absentmindedly, "In Romania, they are called leshi."
"Excuse me?" Christie frowned.
"The leshi..." The driver spoke matter-of-factly, handing the card back. "They have come into your cities--the worst of them."
"The worst of what?" Christie stepped back. "Is that a gang or--"
"You." The driver shook a finger at him as music pulsed from a club across the street. "Careful. They like redheads."
"'kay..." Christie said carefully and watched the cab take off.
Across the street, in front of a nightclub flashing neon letters that spelled out DIAMOND JACK'S, a group of extremely attractive people were gathered. Although their clothes were modern, they had a distinct antique look. The music from the club sounded wild, with a woman's voice wailing in another language.
After dinner, Marisol took them to another used bookstore. Christie found a first edition Walt Whitman and an illustrated copy of Hans Christian Andersen's stories. As he selected some old copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels--his friend Sylvie would love them--the bells above the door tinkled.
A girl with auburn hair and a boy whose curls glinted like flames had entered. The girl wore a black suede hoodie and tartan trousers. A headband of tiny rhinestones glinted in her hair. She was the girl he'd seen in the hotel lobby. As she moved gracefully with her companion to the glass case of first edition books, she glanced over her shoulder and the fluorescent lighting made her eyes glow like a cat's. Christie thought he heard her companion, in buckled boots and jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, call her Phouka, before they moved further into the shadows of the bookshop.
Phouka, he thought, fascinated. What a fantastic name.
***
Friday, July 15, 2016
Nothing Good Ever Happens Here by Katherine Harbour
NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS HERE
(A Thorn Jack story set in 2012, before the events in Thorn Jack)
Nothing good ever happens here.
As the cab drove past the remains of the boarded-up church, those words in graffiti across its doors seemed to glow in the fading light.
This is the part in the horror movie where I'm like, 'Oh shit.' Christie grinned and returned to the book in his lap. It was an old book of W.B. Yeats's poems, one of his favorites. He figured he owed it a trip out of Fair Hollow. The book had inspired the poem that had won him a place at the three-day writers' conference which he and six other students from around the country had been invited to attend in Detroit.
He tugged the wool hat from his curls and tried to make his legs stretch as far as they could in the cramped space. It seemed to be an overly long ride.
"Here." The driver, a gaunt woman with coal-black hair and a crow's eyes, jerked the cab to a halt.
Christie peered out the window at the Barrington Hotel, which had been described in the letter as 'grand and luxurious, with a history.' It did look grand and luxurious, but not in a comforting way . . . more as if something old in the throes of decay had put on a mask and some fancy clothes.
He paid the driver and, hauling his backpack, got out. As the cab pulled away, he stood and gazed at the gaudy entryway with its stained-glass doors and stone ladies curving over the arch. He was sixteen. This was the first time he'd ever been away from Fair Hollow without his brothers and his parents.
He was going to enjoy it.
He pushed through the doors. The lobby was decorated in rose-reds and golds, with an Art Deco mural of Native Americans in feathers and paint behind the front desk. As he headed for the desk, a girl in jeans and a fur-lined aviator's jacket strode past him. Tiny stars glimmered in her auburn hair. she glanced back. Her eyes seemed to flash silver. She turned and continued out the doors into the rain-swept night.
***
After exploring his room, he called Sylvie, Aubrey, and, lastly, his mom. At nine o'clock, he fell asleep in his clothes, watching The Lord of the Rings.
He was awakened by the sound of a girl crying.
He sat up, blinking in the light from the television, where Frodo and company were visiting the elves. He hunched up and listened to the girl sobbing in the room next door.
I should see what's wrong, he thought. I should go over there.
He slid from the bed, tugged on his boots. He switched on a lamp and stepped out into the hall, which was furnished in hues of purple and gold like some fairy-tale castle. The paintings on the walls were of forests with the distant figures of Native Americans in them.
He peered at room 709. He didn't hear the sobbing now.
The door flew open and a boy his age stared at him, startled, the lights harsh on his brown skin. "Hey."
"Hey."
"So why are you standing outside my door?" The other boy wore a T-shirt and jeans. On the bed behind him was a guitar.
"Uh." Christie tried to figure out how to say he'd come to check on the guy's girlfriend because he'd heard her crying.
The other other boy said, roughly, "Is your girlfriend okay?" He leaned in the doorway, eyes narrowed. "Did you do something to make her cry like that?"
"My girlfriend?" Christie was offended. "I came here to . . ." He stared at the interior wall of the other boy's room. Then he leaned back to check the distance between his door and his neighbor's. His own room's wall ended near his door. That left an entire room's length between his wall and his neighbor's. But there was no room between them, no door.
"What are you looking at?" The other boy sounded wary.
"I don't have a girl in my room," Christie told him. "I thought you did."
The other boy turned his head and stared at the wall.
"There's a space between our rooms." Christie didn't know why he whispered. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. The fancy corridor seemed suddenly exceptionally chilly.
"Yeah. There is. Your room ends down there?" The other boy pressed an ear against the wall. He looked at Christie. "I'm Leon."
"Christie. You're not, by any chance, here for the writing conference, are you?"
"Hey, then, good to meet you." Leon grinned and reached out. Christie grasped his hand. They both turned and gazed at the wall.
"It could have come from upstairs? Downstairs?" Christie was trying to ignore the creeped-out feeling that had begun to settle inside of him.
"A vent." Leon decided. He took his phone from his back pocket. "Why don't you give me your number? If this happens again, we can check it out."
Christie gave him the number to his cell and entered Leon's into his. They promised to meet up at the events tomorrow, the panels and signings at the convention center that, on the map, was only five blocks away.
Christie returned to his room and sat in the middle of the enormous bed.
He didn't know if he should have been able to hear what he'd heard. He'd been born partially deaf and his hearing aids were only supposed to assist, but as the years went on, he'd gradually begun to distinguish distinct sounds, the tonal qualities of people's voices. He'd tried telling his doctors this. No one believed him.
There was a painting above his bed, of another forest, at night, with a tiny white figure in it, like a girl in a gown. He didn't like the look of that vast forest, the black glitter of water between the trees.
He fell asleep with the lights on.
***
(A Thorn Jack story set in 2012, before the events in Thorn Jack)
Nothing good ever happens here.
As the cab drove past the remains of the boarded-up church, those words in graffiti across its doors seemed to glow in the fading light.
This is the part in the horror movie where I'm like, 'Oh shit.' Christie grinned and returned to the book in his lap. It was an old book of W.B. Yeats's poems, one of his favorites. He figured he owed it a trip out of Fair Hollow. The book had inspired the poem that had won him a place at the three-day writers' conference which he and six other students from around the country had been invited to attend in Detroit.
He tugged the wool hat from his curls and tried to make his legs stretch as far as they could in the cramped space. It seemed to be an overly long ride.
"Here." The driver, a gaunt woman with coal-black hair and a crow's eyes, jerked the cab to a halt.
Christie peered out the window at the Barrington Hotel, which had been described in the letter as 'grand and luxurious, with a history.' It did look grand and luxurious, but not in a comforting way . . . more as if something old in the throes of decay had put on a mask and some fancy clothes.
He paid the driver and, hauling his backpack, got out. As the cab pulled away, he stood and gazed at the gaudy entryway with its stained-glass doors and stone ladies curving over the arch. He was sixteen. This was the first time he'd ever been away from Fair Hollow without his brothers and his parents.
He was going to enjoy it.
He pushed through the doors. The lobby was decorated in rose-reds and golds, with an Art Deco mural of Native Americans in feathers and paint behind the front desk. As he headed for the desk, a girl in jeans and a fur-lined aviator's jacket strode past him. Tiny stars glimmered in her auburn hair. she glanced back. Her eyes seemed to flash silver. She turned and continued out the doors into the rain-swept night.
***
After exploring his room, he called Sylvie, Aubrey, and, lastly, his mom. At nine o'clock, he fell asleep in his clothes, watching The Lord of the Rings.
He was awakened by the sound of a girl crying.
He sat up, blinking in the light from the television, where Frodo and company were visiting the elves. He hunched up and listened to the girl sobbing in the room next door.
I should see what's wrong, he thought. I should go over there.
He slid from the bed, tugged on his boots. He switched on a lamp and stepped out into the hall, which was furnished in hues of purple and gold like some fairy-tale castle. The paintings on the walls were of forests with the distant figures of Native Americans in them.
He peered at room 709. He didn't hear the sobbing now.
The door flew open and a boy his age stared at him, startled, the lights harsh on his brown skin. "Hey."
"Hey."
"So why are you standing outside my door?" The other boy wore a T-shirt and jeans. On the bed behind him was a guitar.
"Uh." Christie tried to figure out how to say he'd come to check on the guy's girlfriend because he'd heard her crying.
The other other boy said, roughly, "Is your girlfriend okay?" He leaned in the doorway, eyes narrowed. "Did you do something to make her cry like that?"
"My girlfriend?" Christie was offended. "I came here to . . ." He stared at the interior wall of the other boy's room. Then he leaned back to check the distance between his door and his neighbor's. His own room's wall ended near his door. That left an entire room's length between his wall and his neighbor's. But there was no room between them, no door.
"What are you looking at?" The other boy sounded wary.
"I don't have a girl in my room," Christie told him. "I thought you did."
The other boy turned his head and stared at the wall.
"There's a space between our rooms." Christie didn't know why he whispered. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. The fancy corridor seemed suddenly exceptionally chilly.
"Yeah. There is. Your room ends down there?" The other boy pressed an ear against the wall. He looked at Christie. "I'm Leon."
"Christie. You're not, by any chance, here for the writing conference, are you?"
"Hey, then, good to meet you." Leon grinned and reached out. Christie grasped his hand. They both turned and gazed at the wall.
"It could have come from upstairs? Downstairs?" Christie was trying to ignore the creeped-out feeling that had begun to settle inside of him.
"A vent." Leon decided. He took his phone from his back pocket. "Why don't you give me your number? If this happens again, we can check it out."
Christie gave him the number to his cell and entered Leon's into his. They promised to meet up at the events tomorrow, the panels and signings at the convention center that, on the map, was only five blocks away.
Christie returned to his room and sat in the middle of the enormous bed.
He didn't know if he should have been able to hear what he'd heard. He'd been born partially deaf and his hearing aids were only supposed to assist, but as the years went on, he'd gradually begun to distinguish distinct sounds, the tonal qualities of people's voices. He'd tried telling his doctors this. No one believed him.
There was a painting above his bed, of another forest, at night, with a tiny white figure in it, like a girl in a gown. He didn't like the look of that vast forest, the black glitter of water between the trees.
He fell asleep with the lights on.
***
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