Story: The Woman in the Mirror

Before you read this, a quick word of introduction. This is a story I wrote for a class on my MA course. We were told to write a brief story in the style of another writer and I chose Edgar Allan Poe. Although, hopefully you would have guessed that fairly quickly.

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THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

Murderer! Yes – I will not deny it. The woman lying dead in the attic died with my hands around her throat. But I swear to God! The woman lying dead in the attic is not my sister. Not anymore. If you allow me to tell you the whole story, perhaps things will become clearer.

I was called home from my studies two weeks ago to attend to my sister Virginia. I had received a letter from her fiancé, Verden Collins, requesting my presence most urgently. He wrote that he worried my sister was losing her grip on her senses, and that she had confined herself to the attic. Virginia had always been prone to bouts of nerves as a child, but this latest development was unfamiliar and clearly a cause for alarm. My carriage arrived late last night, just as the storm was building to its height. Collins stood waiting, shaking with cold. He appeared to be in a state of barely restrained terror, for he would glance, wide-eyed, up at the ceiling after the end of every hurried sentence of his greeting.

After Collins had made familiar with the recent developments I made my way up the stairs of our old house towards the attic. I noted with some displeasure the condition of our home. My sister and I were the last surviving members of our family, and my work meant that I was often out of the country. Under Virginia’s care the house had been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. The grand windows were filthy, and dust and grime coated the carpets and staircases. As we reached the final flight of stairs which led to the attic Collins tugged on my shirtsleeve. “I cannot go in with you” he told me. “I fear your sister is not herself”. When I asked him to explain himself more fully Collins merely babbled, making little sense. I reassured him that I would discern the affliction my sister suffered from. It is my profession, you see, to help those men and women who believe themselves to be suffering at the hands of some unseen spirit or malevolent force. I hoped that a familiar face would bring her some comfort.

I went into the attic, carrying a lamp in my right hand. As I entered the room, Collins pulled the door shut hastily behind me. A little shaken, I raised the lamp and cast my eyes around for Virginia. The attic had been used as a space to store some of the more unpleasant gifts and objects the family had accumulated over the years. It had not been built for comfort. My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and I slowly discerned the shape of my sister.

She was sitting at the end of a bed, filthy with dust, and was wearing a long white dress. In the gloom it took me a moment to realise that she was wearing our mother’s wedding dress. Our mother had been a large woman, and the garment hung off my sister and most of it tumbled to the floor where it collected dirt. My sister did not seem to have registered my arrival, and instead was staring fixedly at a large mirror that stood in a grotesquely elaborate frame opposite the bed. I moved closer and cleared my throat, hoping that the sound would rouse her. She continued to sit, gazing at her own reflection. Even saying her name did not prompt her to turn around. As I moved next to her I saw that her lips were moving at a tremendous speed. Virginia appeared to be in avid conversation with her own reflection. Shaken at this sight, I shook her vigorously by the shoulder. She turned slowly to face me. Her face was deathly pale. “Simon?” she asked. I smiled and nodded. “I have come a long way to see you, Virginia” I told her. “Would you care to join me downstairs? We have much to talk about.” A terrible sorrow appeared on my sister’s face. “I am not permitted to leave this attic,” she said. “I must stay here.” I made every effort to convince her to come down, but she refused. After a minute or two, she turned back to the mirror and no longer acknowledged my presence, and resumed mouthing the words I could not interpret at the mirror.

I left the attic, troubled but hopeful. She had recognised me, at least, and I expected greater success in the morning. It is always easier to confront the disturbed with the impossibility of their delusions in the cold light of day. I went downstairs, and Collins followed close at my heels. He was perhaps even more anxious than before, eager to know what had happened. I told him that my sister was plainly exhausted; perhaps suffering from malnutrition, but that I had high hopes for her spirits in the morning. Collins did not appear relieved. Instead, he drew closer. “And the mirror?” he asked. “Is she still talking into the mirror?” Before I could answer, he grasped my arm. “Did you not see her reflection? Did you not see what was in the mirror? For God’s sake, man, you grew up here; do you not know what hides in the shadows of this house?” Of course I was familiar with the tales, the stories of ghosts and ghouls, evil spirits. But I had never been frightened as a boy. Why should I have been, when the blood that drips down the walls runs through my veins?

As he studied my face, we were both startled by a terrible crash. Collins howled and ran back up the stairs. “It must not escape!” he cried. I hurried after him, terrified that a man in such a state might do more harm than good. In my haste I tripped on the stairs and fell. I heard Collins open the attic door and scream once. I stood up and ran up the remaining stairs. As I entered the attic I saw the mirror was smashed, with pieces of broken glass strewn on the floor. She stood in our mother’s wedding dress, now more red than white. In her right hand she held a shard of glass. On the floor lay Collins, his throat cut. She looked up and stared into my eyes. As I stared back, a cold terror gripped me. She smiled, and a small laugh escaped her lips. I fell upon her, staring into the eyes of the thing that struggled briefly, then subsided as my hands closed around its throat.

Murderer! I have killed, that is certain. Perhaps the irons on my wrists are justified. But my sister is free. And whatever had hold of her did not escape.

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Hello.

Hope you enjoyed it, it's just a bit of fun really. It had to be short, but I'm not sure I would have wanted to stretch it out any longer. It's cribbed from The Tell-Tale Heart and The Fall of the House of Usher, mostly. I call it a Poe-stiche. Boom boom. I did fully intend to write a new story this week, but I've been a bit busy this week with Raindance preview screenings for Fohnhouse (www.fohnhouse.blogspot.com) and the project with Benjamin Sheppard (www.wittystairs.blogspot.com) which apparently we're not talking about yet. Hopefully Ben's forceful optimism will mesh with my general misanthropic gloom and we'll actually make something happen. I will let you know if so. But that is why I've not written a new story. Not to mention the ongoing search for a job. But that's not very interesting.

I'm currently reading Dracula Cha Cha Cha by Kim Newman, which is the third in his strange, incredibly entertaining horror mashups (although more similar to Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen than Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) which feature an alternate history in which Dracula defeated the forces of light and married Queen Victoria, and vampirism became popular. The first, Anno Dracula, is mostly filled with Sherlock Holmes, Dracula, and late 19th Century literary references. The second, which I've not read, is called The Bloody Red Baron and set during World War 1. Dracula Cha Cha Cha is set in 1950s Rome, riffing on La Dolce Vita, James Bond, and Dario Argento movies. Everyone from Michael Corleone to Orson Welles to Nico pops up. Great fun.

So, next week I will try to put up a proper story. Failing that, I will ramble, you can skip it and wait for the next post. Hope you enjoyed the story.

Story: Send in the Clowns

The circus was closed for the night, and the last wailing child had been ushered out of the big top. Puzzled parents got the little ones safely into their cars and drove them bawling back to town. As the carnies set about dismantling the equipment and throwing sawdust on what the kids had left behind, the clowns went back to Bo’s trailer for a drink. As Jojo, Abe, Red, Emmett, Chazzie, Bebe, and the others found a seat in the cramped space with customary skill; Bo reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

“I swear,” he declared, “kids used to want to come see the clowns.” He took a slug and passed the bottle on to Jojo, who wiped Bo’s red make-up from the bottle before putting it to his lips.

“You want a bit of fear, Bo, a bit of fear to make them excited,” Jojo said, forever in search of a silver lining.

Bo scoffed. “Did you see the look on their faces, Jojo? That wasn’t excitement. That was terror.” Red, the oldest of the group let loose a hacking cough and spat a wad of phlegm into the first handkerchief of his multicoloured chain.

“It’s the horror films. They make ‘em think we’re all monsters” he grunted, stuffing his handkerchiefs back into his roomy left pocket. As the make-up smeared bottle was passed around the trailer the clowns continued to bemoan this sorry state of affairs. Where was the wonder? Where were the happy smiles? What had happened to the fun?

When the bottle had come full circle and returned to Bo, he took a long gulp and stood up straight, the roof of the trailer flattening his green wig against his skull. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I didn’t become an entertainer, an artist, to frighten the piss and sick out of small children. I say we do something about it.” A murmur went around the trailer. Jojo, sat at Bo’s right hand, looked up at him.

“What, exactly, do you suggest?” he asked. Bo grinned.

“We take the fun to them.” As the clowns leaned closer in interest, Bo produced another bottle and told them his plan.

Louis the barker was finishing his cigarette by the entrance to the big top when he saw the door of Bo’s trailer open, and the entire clown troupe pour out. He watched without much interest as they piled into Bo’s Ford KA with their usual dexterity and heard their whoops of excitement and laughter as the KA sputtered into life. He could hear Blue Oyster Cult start up on the car stereo as they drove away from the big top, off the heath, and towards the town. Louis sniffed and dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot. He didn’t have time for their antics tonight. Tess d’Urbearded-Lady said that Butch the dog boy had given her fleas and had come complaining to him about it. He hated these small towns. Nothing good ever happened in a small town.

In the small town of Lidlock, at Number 5, Cedar Place, little Sara had been put to bed an hour ago but still lay wide awake. Her parents had told her that clowns were nothing to be scared of. They weren’t bad people. They were just trying to entertain her. Still, lying alone in the darkness, she saw clowns in every dancing shadow on her bedroom walls and curtains. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and told herself that it was all in her mind. The clowns were in the circus, back up at the heath. She was safe here. She started to drift off to sleep.

There was music coming from outside. Almost inaudible at first, but steadily growing louder. Music and laughter. Sara knew that she should stay in bed. She knew that she shouldn’t look. But somehow she couldn’t help herself. She crawled out from under the covers and went to the windows, pulling the curtain back just a crack.

Sara’s bedroom window, like many bedroom windows in the little town of Lidlock looked out onto the town square. The town square was little more than a glorified roundabout, with a modestly sized fountain of a modest mermaid in the centre of it. As Sara stared into the night, she saw the source of the music; a small car careening around the roundabout at a dangerous speed. The car screeched to a halt and the doors opened.

Sara watched in terror as a seemingly endless number of clowns poured out of the car. There was no way that they could have all been inside. Under the streetlights their paint-caked faces seemed to glow in the dark. She watched as they staggered and swayed, laughing raucously. A fat clown in a red wig dropped the bottle he was carrying and it smashed on the road. He turned his face up to the night sky and cackled. She watched as one of them, wearing a blue wig and blood-red makeup smeared on his mouth, turned and saw her watching. He saw her and he grinned. His maw was missing several teeth, and the few that remained were stained a dark yellow. He raised his hand and extended a finger, pointing at her. Sara screamed.

Standing in the square, trying to get some kind of routine started, Bo started to question the wisdom of his plan. Obviously there was no way to back out now. And it had been a good idea. Still was. They probably should have gone a little easier on the whiskey. Chazzie was trying to juggle but was just embarrassing himself. Red was leaning against the side of the car, having a coughing fit. They hadn’t changed the CD, which meant that Blue Oyster Cult was still belting out of the stereo. And even he knew that Emmett shouldn’t grin like that at that kid in the window. Jojo called out his name and pointed to one of the houses. The front door was open and a tall man in a dressing gown was approaching, holding what looked like a cricket bat. Bo put out his hands and started to explain, but the man didn’t want to listen. Instead he lifted the bat and hit Jojo over the head, hard. Jojo crumpled to the floor. This was all wrong. Bo braced himself for a fight and was raising his fists when something hard hit him in the back of the head and everything went black.

Sara’s father would never be higher in his daughter’s estimation. Her dad had not only been brave enough to go outside and face the horrible clowns, he had beaten them. Then the police had come and taken them all to prison. Well, some of them. Some of them left in an ambulance. Sara’s dad and the other dads were heroes.

The next morning Louis stood outside where the now-dismantled big-top had stood. He waited for the clowns for an hour, then dropped his cigarette neatly by the other stubs, crushing it under his boot. He could always find other clowns. Small towns, he thought. Nothing good happens in small towns.

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Hello there.

Some of you have read this story before. I've been doing my best to write new material for this blog, but there's been a bit of progress on my longer projects recently so I thought I'd cheat and put this little piece up.

It was originally written for a "reading out loud without seeming like a nervous wreck" workshop on the Warwick MA Writing course given by super writer AL Kennedy. I find reading aloud difficult, nerve-wracking, and unpleasant. So, I thought I'd write something funny. And it got a couple of laughs, which was lovely.

This story was also inspired by being told by one Lucy Amsden that clowns aren't scary. Apparently it's a popular misconception (which I share, because they certainly scare me) and she should know, she studies them. So I thought I'd write about misunderstood clowns who mean well but suffer because of their image in pop culture. I'm pretty sure I gave her the story for her birthday, so it's technically hers. She probably won't mind. On that note, I suppose this is as good a point as any to thank Lucy and her fella (and my old, old friend, from the times before I could form words) Guy Dorey for providing me with everything a writer needs during the difficult novel writing period: many mugs of tea, good food, quality sofa time, reassurance, a fire, and a kind of sloe gin.

There will hopefully be another (new) story soon, and some of that writing about writing I promised. I hope you enjoyed this one. I'm working on my rather shapeless novel, which is slowly getting going, and a pilot script which could be a lot of fun.

Oh, I found the cure for my reading out loud nervousness. It's a glass and a half of white wine, in case you were wondering.

Oh, and finally, finally, Guy's brother Max is a builder of theatre worlds but is also a very talented illustrator. He works with Adam Z. Robinson on an excellent blog of dark short stories called Tales From the Red Barn. Check it out! http://talesfromtheredbarn.wordpress.com/ For those interested in Max's theatre stuff, his blog is here! http://cardhousetheatre.blogspot.com/

This is my writing hat. It reminds me I should be writing.

Story: Eliza is a Witch

Our parents had been told that Eliza Belmont was a witch. It was a Wednesday evening and the PTA had decided to go en masse to the nearest bar for a drink to smooth over any disagreements after their bi-monthly meeting. I don't know what Eliza Belmont was doign there, but she decided to take the opportunity to tell everybody. She tapped a spoon on her wine glass and waited until everyone was quiet, cleared her throat, and spoke louder and clearer than anyone had heard he speak before. She told the assembled adults that she was a witch. Dad told me that there had been an awkward pause after she’d spoken, then a couple of laughs. The laughter spread. Then Bobby Creed’s stepfather had slid into the booth alongside her.

“If you’re a witch,” he said, “let’s see some magic.”

Dad said she didn’t even blink. She just lifted her hand off the table and clicked her fingers. Bobby Creed’s uncle’s head dropped straight onto the table with a smack. He didn’t ever lift it again. She pushed him out of her booth and stood up. Everyone took a step back. Eliza closed her eyes and every glass in the place shattered. There was all kind of screaming and yelling. Shards of broken glass were stuck in people’s hands, and Shirley the barmaid suffered a hailstorm from the broken beer mugs that had been hanging over the bar.

“Quiet,” said Eliza, and everybody was. Dad said he didn’t feel like he had a choice. Neither did anyone else.

“I said I’m a witch,” she said. “I’m telling you this for your own good. I’m telling you this so you’ll know to leave me alone. There won’t be another warning. This is as clear as I can make it.”

And with that she turned and walked out. She left a twenty dollar bill on the bar for Shirley.

I was still awake when Mom and Dad got home. They usually came in to say goodnight. But that night I heard them climb the stairs, go straight to their room, and close the door. I heard their hushed voices coming through the wall but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The next morning they told my brother Jason and I about it over breakfast.

“You boys know Eliza Belmont? Young lady who lives down on Foxwood Street?”

We nodded.

“You boys need to stay clear of her. Understand?”

“Why?” asked my brother. At thirteen he was four years older than me, always a little readier to challenge my parents on whichever issue happened to present itself.

“She’s a witch,” Mom said simply. Dad turned to look at her and she shrugged. “What? It’s better that they know. We agreed. They need to know.” She turned to us and I could see in her eyes that she meant to be heard. “You keep away from her.”

Before we could ask any more questions we were ushered out of the house and onto the school bus. The bus was quiet that day. The bus had never been quiet, not a day that I’d ridden it.

It wasn’t until after school that I heard the name mentioned again. I was looking for Jason to see if I could hang around with him and his friends after school. He usually let me, as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn’t tell anyone what they got up to. That afternoon I found him behind the library, talking to Mike and Eddie. Eddie was tall, a little round, and decent to me, but Mike was short, skinny, and mean. Whenever Jason let me tag along Mike made it clear that I wasn’t welcome. Most of the time he’d tell me so. It was Mike that spotted me first.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, and Jason turned round.

“What are you doing here, Ollie?” The surprise in his voice told me that they were planning something. Something they didn’t want anyone to know about.

“Just seeing what you guys were doing,” I said, as casually as I could.

“Bring him along,” said Eddie. “We could use a look-out.” Mike hawked a glob of phlegm at the ground and Jason nodded.

“Fine. Come on, squirt.” I tried not to let them see how happy this made me.

As they walked down the street I stayed about a foot behind them. That was very important. Any closer and they’d lower their voices and stare at me until I retreated. I heard Eliza Belmont’s name mentioned several times. If I’d had any sense I would have run home, or tried to convince them that they should let it go. But that wouldn't have made any difference. It might have made them more determined to do it.

We made a left turn onto Foxwood Street, walked past three or four houses and then stopped. I knew whose house we were looking at. It looked just like all the others. The only thing different about it was that the curtains were drawn. We could see that the front door was firmly closed behind the screen door.

“What do you think?” asked Eddie. Jason scratched his chin.

“If she’s home, we leave. If she’s not, we go inside, take a look.” He turned and put both hands on my shoulders. “If you see her, you fuckin’ yell. Understand?” I nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

Mike smirked at me. He liked that I was staying behind. I watched them creep carefully around the side of the house and out of sight. I stood there, shifting my weight from leg to leg. I waited for what seemed like forever. After a while I realised that I desperately needed to pee. If they didn’t get back soon I’d have to abandon my post or piss myself. As I looked around to see if there was anywhere I could go I heard a whoop. The three boys were running towards me, each with big grins plastered on their faces.

“Did you go inside?” I asked. Jason ruffled my hair.

“Sure did, squirt,” he said. “Hey, I got something for you.” He handed me a small silver clock. I turned it over in my hands. The back of the clock was engraved, quite simply. To my Eliza. I smiled up at my big brother. I knew what he’d done was wrong, but what was I going to tell him?

On the walk back they talked about how easy it had been, how the house hadn’t been creepy at all. They talked about what they would have done if Eliza had been home. I did notice that we were walking a little fast than we had on the way there. Then Eddie and Mike left and I walked home with my big brother alone. The rest of the evening couldn’t have been more normal. We had dinner, we were asked about school, we watched a little TV, then we went to bed.

I was woken up by my mother shouting. I thought that I might have missed the bus, but the clock told me that there was more than enough time. Dad stormed into my room, ran to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Where’s Jason?” he asked. I told him I didn’t know. The telephone rang and my mother answered it. Seconds later she was calling to my father, saying that Mike’s parents didn’t know where he was. Then Eddie’s mom rang asking if we knew where Eddie was.

I stayed in my room while all this was happening. I sat on my bed. I knew what had happened. By the look on Dad’s face when he came back into my room, I could tell that he did too.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I’ve never felt shame like I did standing outside Eliza Belmont’s screen door while my Dad rang the doorbell. She answered it quickly. She’d been expecting us. I thought I could see just the tiniest trace of a smile. She spoke before Dad could open his mouth.

“They’re gone, Mr. Deakin. Where they’ve gone they can’t get back from. You should be grateful I left you with this one. I did tell you. I told all of you. Mr. Deakin, I only told you last night.”

She looked down at me. When I’ve dreamt about that moment I’ve remembered her eyes as being furious, or tearful, or gleeful. But the simple fact is that it was patience that I saw. And I’m sure that in her opinion she’d done me a tremendous favour.

“Now, you have something of mine, don’t you, Oliver?”

I’d brought it with me. I reached into my coat pocket and took out the small silver clock. She took it from me and turned it over in her hands, looking at the inscription. The smile grew, then disappeared completely.

“Thank you, Oliver. Goodbye, Mr. Deakin.”

She closed the door. I could hear Dad starting to cry as we walked home.

That night, when I couldn’t hear my parents arguing anymore, I got out of bed, put on my jacket and my sneakers, and crept out of the window. I walked quickly and quietly. I knew where I was going. I knocked on Eliza Belmont's door. After a moment or two it opened.

“Hello, Oliver.”

She came out onto the porch dressed in a long black coat. As she looked down at me I could see that she was wondering what to do with me. After a moment or two she took a step forward and closed the door behind her.

“I was just going out for a walk, you can join me if you like.”

I nodded. We walked in silence for a couple of minutes. I was a little surprised when she finally asked me a question.

“Did you come to ask for your brother back?”

I nodded.

“I can’t do that. I couldn’t do that. Not even if I wanted to. Would you like to know why you’re still here.”

She didn’t wait for me to nod.

“If I took you as well, who would be left to tell people what I can do, what happens? I told your parents. You know that, don’t you? I told everyone.”

She gestured at the houses that lined the street. Not a single house had a light on. I wondered how many people were actually sleeping. As if on cue I saw an upstairs curtain twitch in number 41.

“They were all told. But this still happened. So now, you can tell them. Because you know what I’m capable of. Here we are.”

I saw that I was standing in front of my house.

“Go to bed,” she said. “And tell people what happened to your brother.”

I told people. I didn’t have to, everybody new. But I told people anyway. Our family packed up and moved away about three weeks later. As far as I know, Eliza Belmont is still there. I hope she’s been left alone.

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Hello.

So, here's another one. This was a bit of a Comfort Zone story. People who've read my stuff before will know that I write about witches quite a lot. Well, I like writing about witches. And while I've got a lot of time for evil witches and ethereal witches, I really like witches who just get on with it. Admittedly this story isn't my most original work, but I was quite taken with the idea of a witch who told everyone who and what she was.

There's also the matter of the American setting. It's been a while since I tried this. I apologise for anything that doesn't ring true, but it just sounded American in my head. Or what I think American sounds like. If any Americans are reading this, it's set in an area that you don't know very well. It's a small town in....that area. You know the one. They sound a bit like Brits there.

Eliza Belmont may return, or be transplanted to THE NOVEL IN PROGRESS. I like her no-nonsense-ness. I also like her name.

Just a quick note about names. I'm not good at making up names for my characters. They're quite a useful procrastination tool ("Look, I can't do any more writing until I figure out what he's called!"). In the past I used to just cull names from my CD collection, now I've resorted to cribbing surnames from characters in era or area appropriate films. However, Eliza comes from not one, but two songs (Myla Goldberg by The Decemberists and Where the Wild Roses Grow by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds), and Belmont is one of the roads I grew up on. Eddie and Mike just seem like the names archetypal American teenage kids would have if they weren't going to make it to the end of the story/film/whatehaveyou.

That being said, every now and again a character will spring to life with a full and decent name. Doesn't happen very often, but it's nice when it does.

Hope you liked the story.