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
Friday, August 12, 2016
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."
***
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