Mist and Shadows: Short Tales From Dark Haunts

by Yasmine Galenorn

  The dreams begin.

  Do you want me? Do you want me in your bed, under your body, in your soul?

  The words echo in my sleep. I see her standing before me. She lets me get close enough to where I can almost touch her and then dances away, laughing. Follow me if you can. Catch and you can have. Come now, it’s your game but I set the rules. If you catch me, I’ll be yours forever.

  And I give chase and find myself on the edge of the ocean. She stands on a craggy rock that juts out from the cresting sea foam, her arms upraised to the wilding moon. I begin to wade towards her and find myself in an ocean of blood. She turns and laughs and the overpowering scent of death lifts and once again, a whiff of lilacs, midnight oil of the sheiks. My empress, my lotus flower. My tease and tormentor.

  And I wake, screaming.

  I should destroy the picture, but I can’t. Should take it back to the store but I can’t. Tried but can’t seem to take her off the wall. Too exquisite, my temptress. I can hear her during the day now. She follows me, cajoles me. Whispers in my ear. She wants me, I know she wants me to catch her, to take her down, to plunge into her center and make her mine. I want to hear her say “I love you.” She wants so much for me to notice her.

  I can’t win. Not with her. But each time she hammers me, each time she leads me astray, I find another outlet. When the pressure builds too much, there are always women who mean nothing, nameless women by the side of the road at night. Women who would twist me around their fingers if they could. And they substitute nicely. Can’t ever bring them home. Joanna is a jealous mistress.

  Sometimes they fight, sometimes they comply. I prefer the ones who fight. Then I can twist the leather a little tighter, hold the candle a little closer, listen to the singe of delicate hair. They never return. They all disappear into the realm in which my Joanna walks, but they aren’t as strong as she is. They quietly vanish forever.

  Joanna, queen of my dreams, leads me on my nightly chase. And during the day she haunts my thoughts.

  “Do you dream of me?” She whispers in my ear. I brush the wind from my neck and pull my jacket tighter. Invisible bitch. Can’t see her but she’s there. Always there, and I am always aware. Her presence, a flutter of lilac and narcissus. Her voice, a choir of a thousand nightingales singing in the moonless sky and when she beckons me, I lose will, lose control, lose all sense of self.

  “Do you dream of me?” Her eyes pierce my soul, scarify my heart. Two obsidian coals, glowing in the wash of skin so pale that should she fade and I awake, there will be no forgiveness, no return from core of her abyss.

  Mortuary Man

  “Jack, can you hear us?”

  They whisper to him. He knows their kind, inside and out. Knows them intimately, as a lover. Touches them in all their secret places. They think they can fool him, pretend to sleep the sleep of the ancients and hide their cold thoughts behind still colder eyes.

  He reaches for the phone. There is one person he can call to shake their words out of his thoughts. One person who understands him, like a mirror, reflecting. She is brilliance to his vacuum, light to his darkened candle.

  The phone rings. I know who it is before I reach for it and it scares the hell out of me. Every night since he found out I got divorced, he’s called. He talks, endlessly, his words spiral around, catch me up in their chaos. I loved him once, would have ripped out my heart for him. Salome’s sacrifice. But it’s been fourteen years and even though we’re still linked, I fear that connection. He’s going mad.

  “I need to hear you say my name.”

  Again and again, always the same. “What’s wrong?”

  “They whisper to me. They want me to do things I shouldn’t do.”

  The Slim Fast shake I had for dinner sours. He’s hinted before. I never take the bait, never want to know what he does in the dark corners of the mortuary in which he works. There are some roads even my jaded mind refuses to walk.

  “You need to get out of there. Are you still on your meds?”

  “No,” his voice is slow, a wisp of silk on skin. He can make me melt with the whisper of my name. “Lithium makes me go numb. I take it and can’t remember what you sound like. You’re the only one in this world I trust.” A pause. “I wish I could come visit you.” Plaintive, a little boy eyeing the most beautiful chocolate drop in the world.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Jack, I know you—”

  “What are you wearing?”

  Close eyes, lean head against the refrigerator.

  Every night his questions get more personal, more prying. He scrutinizes me with his words, pries me open, comes dangerously close to puncturing my heart. I cry myself to sleep, both longing to help him, and fearing that someday, he’ll show up on my doorstep. I cry for the boy I knew and loved.

  “What are you wearing? I want to see you in my mind.” His breath is slow; I can hear his anticipation.

  “There’s someone at the door. Bye.” I slide the receiver back onto the cradle. Sweat drenches my palms. I race outside, force air into my lungs. Slowly, the world returns to normal, but he’s out there and he’s thinking about me, and his ghosts are whispering to him in the night.

  Jack…we know you can hear us…Jack, wake up.

  His eyes flutter. He has beautiful lashes; any woman would be jealous of them. As his head leaves the pillow, rhythms shift, the world changes. There’s a flicker of electricity when the night descends, a buzz that signals the sleeping of the waking world and the waking of the dead.

  Jack…come tend to us.

  Oh, how they call, those beautiful bodies, waxen and pale. Alabaster brilliance under the light of perpetual slumber. He slips down the stairs, into the display room where the caskets rest on their podiums. Then, into the back. Here, in the chamber of the dead, they wait. He opens each vault and pulls out the slabs one by one.

  Here he straightens a tie, there—shifts an elbow. As he makes his way down the row, he comes to her bed and hesitates a moment before venturing to wake her. She looks very much like his Mia, long dark hair, eyes brilliant pools of chocolate. But the life is hidden now, secreted away in recesses beyond the touch of the living. Except for him. He runs his hand along the silken strands, wondering what shampoo she preferred, hoping that he made the right choice. He’ll go out, buy sweet shampoos and conditioners, lotions to soften cold skin. He spends money out of his paychecks to do this and never begrudges a dime. Her hair is long, reaching well past her shoulders, and he leans down to inhale deeply. Below the scent of honeysuckle is another sweet scent. Cold, cloying, it’s the last perfume her body will make.

  His lips are near her own and he looks into the dark eyes that will be shut for tomorrow’s service. Her family will never know his hands cleaned their loved one, that his careful arrangement made her beautiful for the last time. No, tomorrow they will whisper good-byes and regrets, never realizing that she still lives, that Jack can hear her, and that when they consign her to the earth, they trap her forever. Jack alone will give her the memories to last her throughout the time her body lets go of form and slides back to the primordial ooze. And now, he gazes at her beauty. He intends to give her a night to remember, to hang onto when the worms are eating their fill.

  “Mia, help me.” He always calls me Mia.

  I wipe the water where it runs out from under the towel and shake my long tresses free of the damp turban. “Are you on your meds? You need to take your meds or you are going to have panic attacks like this—”

  “No! You don’t understand, they talk to me. I can hear them whispering all night sometimes. Do you want to know what I hear?”

  Trembling, I want to slam the phone down, kill the connection. This is more serious than I thought, and with an instinct honed by experience, I know that he’s moved out of my league. I make a decision that I’ve avoided for weeks.

  “Jack—”

  He knows what I’m going to say, of course. Because he knows my thoughts, just as I know his. Right on cue, he sta
rts babbling. I can feel his resistance. “Jack—listen to me.”

  He pauses. I don’t want to say this, I don’t want to let go of the only man I’ve ever loved like I loved him, but every heart has its limits and sanity is a precious commodity.

  “What do you want, Mia?” The extra emphasis on my name—is he warning me? Begging me? Whatever he wants, it’s no longer mine to give.

  “You have to stop calling me. I’m too tired to deal with you, this is too much and I can’t be your strength anymore.”

  “I see,” he says.

  I hear a quiet click and the line is dead. I stare at the receiver, then quietly replace it on the cradle. He hates me. I know it in my gut. I know it in my soul. He will love me, hate me, forever. Instinct takes over, I run to the door, lock it and press my back against the cool wood. How many nights will I stand here? How many nights will I watch the doorknob, waiting for it to turn?

  Siobhan & The Siren

  (Originally published in Haunts Magazine, 1994)

  Eight days out from Hanging Point the sea turned choppy, where ocean waves mingled with the sapphire forks of the water Wastes. Here, the water turned a brilliant aqua. No land could be seen from this point, only the outcropping known as Dead Hand’s Rock, and it was this landmark that the sailors used to guide their way, fearful of the legends enveloping the stone, but even more fearful of getting lost in the great water Wastes covering more than two-thirds of the world. Once lost in the eternal azure of the Wastes, a man would go mad and long to join his soul with the soul of Aqualia, and many had died in attempting to breathe the air of the seas.

  Siobhan adjusted her position so she could stretch her legs and watched as hours passed in quiet meditation. Her father had recently failed to return from a voyage at sea. His friends said he jumped the boat at Dead Hand’s Rock and they blamed the siren. Siobhan wanted to find out for herself, so she stole a skiff and sailed out of the channel into the waterways. That was seven days ago. Tomorrow she would reach her father’s death site. From there, she had no plans.

  Too young to claim a part of his inheritance, too old to be taken in by friends, Siobhan accepted the challenge to survive and made her way on her own. Now, with the future uncertain, she calmly enjoyed the solitude so seldom available at home and, whatever came of tomorrow, she would welcome in the dawn.

  “Hard keelwaves coming in,” said Tolly. Siobhan patted the ogritte’s head and nodded.

  “Yes, little navigator. I see. The weather will be rough tonight. Will we bear the storm?”

  The ogritte shrugged. “Bear what storm? If the storm turns, we might live. Should it be too wild, we will die. Such are the ways of the wastes. Storms are individual. We will do what we can.”

  That night, the winds swept up and Siobhan was forced to layer three blankets around her to keep the chill aside. Tolly clung to the mast of the one-sail ship with determination. Instinct warned the ogritte to flee, but loyalty won over and near midnight, Tolly landed by Siobhan. “We’re not going to make it. The boat will crack. You should prepare.”

  Siobhan’s heart chilled. To be lost in the wastes without a boat was certain death. No one would think of rescue. It was not the way. When Aqualia called, the goddess expected an answer. Death by storm was an honor. Death by water, a gift. To die in fire was disgrace—so the gods had decreed it.

  Food into pack, blankets strapped tight, what else to be done? Everything readied, the only thing left was the final crack of the boat, the sinking of the skiff. Siobhan dangled her legs in the water and occasionally cast a look at Tolly. “What shall you do when we go down, faithful one? No boats needing navigators come to our sight. Will you die?”

  “An ogritte born of water? No, I won’t die. If Aqualia claims me for the change, I’ll climb on the circle and go ‘round again.”

  Siobhan nodded. “Why shouldn’t we get the chance as well? Why only one life on land?”

  “Because, silly bird,” Tolly piped, “you are not waterborne. Only those born of Aqualia are given second lives. But your life goes into the wastes, enlarges them. You’ll feed the world with the water of your body. Your soul will be free to swim.”

  The snap of the mast came at dawn, a downfall of wind and thunder with white waves shielding for battle. Then, a thin snap heralded the break of the joint and, as the boat drifted, the army of waves ripped it apart.

  Tolly went down, uncomplaining, and Siobhan did not weep. You do not mourn great honor and renewal. But an ache in her heart replaced love. Soon she had no support, but managed to snag hold of a small board that bobbed in the shifting currents. She held tight. Until Aqualia pulled her under she was duty-bound to survive. Life was hard in the Wastes and not to be given up lightly.

  Dawn broke, calming the winds. The water stilled, the storm abated. Aqualia waited in sea-green depths, crowned with a tiara of shells and wearing a shining robe of woven weed. As she slipped into unconsciousness, Siobhan thought she heard her call.

  Eight days out from Hanging Point the sea turns choppy, where ocean waves mingle with the sapphire forks of the water Wastes. Here, the water turns a brilliant aqua. No land can be seen from this point, only the outcropping known as Dead Hand’s Rock.

  The siren leans back on her elbows, sunning herself. The glorious golden morning dries her hair and draws the chill from her body. The Wastes were cold last night from the storm and she is tired from battling through the waves. The siren is fair, with pale skin and hair the color of the sky. Her eyes reflect waterfalls, and her scent, the flowers from the grotto of Aqualia.

  She sits here every day, watching and waiting, a priestess of a Water Goddess, a sentinel of the Wastes. And now, in the water near the Rock, she spies a woman child, not full grown but come of age. The girl floats, clutching a broken board, her eyes closed. The lute which stands next to the siren lets out a clear, crystal note. With a smile that eclipses the sun, the siren glides into the water and draws the girl onto Dead Hand’s Rock.

  Siobhan’s eyes fluttered open. Bright light, blinding light, and the sound of sea birds calling. She struggled to her feet and immediately fell again. Too weak, too hungry. Tolly was dead, that was her last memory.

  When her mind cleared she opened her eyes again and slowly rose, propping herself with elbows on hard stone. One glance told her. Dead Hand’s Rock. And a basket of sea fruit sat beside her. Nothing else.

  Hunger knifed her stomach. She bit into one of the fruits. The spine-chilled globes of plum and kriel were sweet. The plants grew thickly under the surface out here, sailors were able to survive on them when their water supplies ran low. Siobhan ate deeply, the fruit restored her will, and when she finished she stood to assess the borders of her new land. Twelve strides wide, fifty strides long. No caves on the sides, no shelter, no growing things. Who had left the basket of fruit was a mystery, but for now, one she could ignore. It was enough that she lived. Aqualia was not ready to call her yet. As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Siobhan sheltered herself from its rays with one of the blankets she’d managed to save and slept.

  The night was calm, warm with a gentle breeze. At midnight Siobhan woke to see another basket of fruit and she heard a splash. Hesitant to question the gifts of the gods, she returned to sleep on the granite. Waves crashed against the Rock, familiar and strangely comforting.

  Three days and another three pass. The siren wearies, but knows she must not stop. Fruits picked from the garden of Aqualia sustain Siobhan and change her. On the seventh day, she brings a lute and leaves it along with the fruit. Each night, she sings songs to the dreaming girl who will not wake. Music is passed from mouth to mind as a legend is created.

  Siobhan plucked quietly at the strings of the lute. Her solitude appeased her. There was nothing to worry about. Her food was provided, her dreams were rich and full of color and sound. As time passed, she found herself slowly forgetting her father and family. It was as if she had always lived on Dead Hand’s Rock and had known no other life. On the morning of the
eighth day, she looked into the water and saw her reflection. Her hair, so long the color of wheat, was now streaked with blue—the blue of the sea. She reached for a strand and then stopped. Why should she be puzzled? Hadn’t it always been this way? Her eyes were the violet of twilight, the time of sirens and dreams. She gathered up the basket and dove into the water, swimming deep and far to gather her breakfast. It had always been thus and would always be.

  The mists roll thick around the edge of Dead Hand’s Rock as the water laps gently against its sides. Aqualia has been silent lately, her storms at a lull. Siobhan plays on her lute, singing the songs of her life, of her goddess. There is a sound in the mists, as a net of golden song shimmers out from the lute, echoing to draw in the ship. She smiles as it crashes into the rock reefs and the men plunge into the depths, to meet Aqualia. The sound of their death hails the birth of new water. She continues to play as the ship sinks, and in the hovering mists of the twilight, the siren waits.

  Minor Deaths

  There is blood on my hands.

  Spattered dots, stippling my fingers.

  An icy white vanity with gold faucets...clouds of mist shadow the rest of the scene. It is the most natural thing in the world for me to be here.

  White sink, red blood—a trail of pink as the water splashes over my hands. I scrub with a washcloth but the blood clings to my skin, a thin layer of red sealing my pores. My hands stand out from my body. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with them. Right now, I don’t even know if they’re mine. I don’t remember where the blood came from.