“Well if it’s so important then why can’t you deliver the message?” throwing up the air quotations just to be an ass, I’m so going to have fun pissing him off for all eternity.
“Because, jackass, I’m an Angel. We don’t do brainless minion work. That’s for you useless primitive human types, like you.” He shot back. Good so he can dish it too. This might be the beginning of a beautiful battle of the wills.
“Alright Captain obvious, then let’s get the show on the road, or do you need to primp some more before he go? Powder your nose maybe?”
“Jason!” slapping my chest, the playful smile that I had missed so dearly had finally returned to her beautiful face.
“And you….” Pulling her close to me, I wasn’t about to let her go, not yet. “I asked you once if you would marry me, and you replied yes. Is that your final answer or would you like to choice the fifty-fifty?”
“Oh my god, you really did ask me! I thought I was just hearing things. Yes! Yes, I want to marry you!” Her lips found mind before I could reply some witty wisecrack. Crushing down into the delicious feel of her kiss as I sink lower into her sweet mouth, ah death is good. I got the woman, and now a killer career, what more could I ask for?
Dark Fairy Reflection
by
S.J. Thomas
22nd April
Dear Miss Cooke
It is with deepest regret that I must inform you of the death of your Aunt Miss Pamela Shale.
She died on April 6th and as her sole surviving heir her estate is left to you.
I would be grateful if you would contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss the terms of the will and to undertake the necessary arrangements.
I remain yours respectfully.
P.R. Wynstrong
Wynstrong, Herbert and Smith Lawyers
Poor Aunt Shale.
She was my Aunt on my mother’s side and though she was my only family I hadn’t seen her in years. I tried to muster the appropriate degree of sadness but it was hard to elicit strong emotions over someone I barely knew.
Harder still was not feeling a measure of excitement over what I might have inherited. As a struggling artist, money is not something I see a lot of, and so the prospect of some ready cash was appealing to say the least.
I phoned the lawyer and fixed an appointment for two days time. No point in delaying.
24th April
My Aunt had lived out in the country in a small village called Yelton so I had to hire a car to get there. Boy was it worth it.
Not only had I been left a tidy sum, I was also now the owner of a bone fide historic country cottage that my Aunt’s lawyer Mr. Wynstrong informed me was over one hundred years old.
Mr. Wynstrong was all impartial politeness and cold efficiency, striking the required balance between commiseration and congratulation. The only thing that struck me as odd was his reaction when I asked how my Aunt had died.
He seemed reluctant to talk about the cause of death but eventually admitted that her heart had given out on her. Not so surprising for a woman in her late seventy’s but there was something odd about his manner and expression.
He was even more reluctant to admit that my Aunt had died in the cottage. As if that would disturb me, but it didn’t, not really. Let’s face it, how many houses that old wouldn’t have seen some death over the years?
Knowing I wasn’t going to get any more out of him I let it drop but decided I would see what I could find out after I moved in. I left with a set of keys and a bundle of paperwork.
28th April
First sight of my new house. A picture perfect country cottage complete with low stone wall and picket gate surrounding a rambling garden just starting to run riot with new growth.
I parked up and walked down the path, not quite believing all this was now mine. A heavy oak front door with rusty hinges, which I had to shove to open, greeted me. The door opened with a creak and sunlight flooded the hall, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
The cottage had a traditional two up, two down layout with the hall running down the middle. As I glanced around the living room and kitchen, I saw piles of books, old pictures and ornaments. A lifetime expressed in a seemingly random collection of objects and images.
Sadly I could also see that my Aunt had not been able to take care of the place. Dust lay heavy on the furniture and the walls were scuffed and faded with heavy cobwebs collecting in the corners.
What caught my eye the most though was a large antique mirror hanging at the end of the hall. The frame was carved oak and the glass was broken, a large crack running down the middle. The carvings were beautifully ornate; trees, leaves and vines and for a few minutes I stared at it fascinated.
As I looked I also began to make out the barest hint of faces and bodies, lithe sensuous figures dancing through the trees and vines. The more I looked the more images I could see and I decided that I would get the glass fixed.
1st May
Lots of sorting and dusting had unearthed some unusual and disturbing things about my Aunt.
She’d apparently had an interest in folklore and fairy tales and had collected many books on the subject. Sadly towards the end she had also become delusional.
In her bedroom I found her journal and a pile of particularly antique looking books on fairies and mythical creatures. Books so old they were bound in leather, the archaic language hard to understand, and the print so faded I could barely make out the words.
One book in particularly drew me. It looked far older than the other books but despite its obvious age it was shocking in its graphic illustrations. Illustrations of strange fairy like creatures engaged in orgies, killings and bloody rituals. Males and females writhing together in wild abandon. Brutal battles where the losers were torn to pieces by animals. Sickening sacrifices of children, their hearts cut out of their chests while they screamed.
Horrific images of dark creatures that bore no resemblance to the tales of fairies I grew up with as a child.
My Aunt seemed to have become obsessed with the stories though because her journal was full of references to these dark fairies. She wrote about noises and whispers in the night, vivid dreams, and reflections in the mirror.
The more I read the more sinister her delusions seemed to have become. To the point where she believed something, or someone, was after her.
2nd May
After I found the journal I went into the village to ask if anyone had noticed my Aunt’s behavior, and if so, why they hadn’t helped her or called social services.
The village shopkeeper was reluctant to talk but I kept on and eventually she caved. She confirmed that a few weeks before she died my Aunt had become reclusive, never leaving the cottage, and reacting violently to anyone who tried to help.
I asked her if she knew what had happened when my Aunt died and after much hesitation she admitted that it was quite a few days before her body was found.
Found in front of the mirror at the end of the hall. The mirror I had just had repaired.
She could not offer any more details and I returned home, feeling an unexpected sense of relief when I saw the cottage.
As I opened the door and stepped into the hall, the mirror caught my reflection, and for a second it looked like someone was standing right beside me. I couldn’t see any features but I got an impression of someone tall and dark.
I jumped, spinning round, but of course there was no one there and when I looked back there was just my reflection in the mirror, my eyes big and wide, and my skin pale. I looked into the living room and kitchen but was alone.
I shut the door and put down my bags then stepped up to the mirror, my hand reaching out to touch the glass. My gaze moved to the frame, the carved figures somehow seeming more distinct. As if they were choosing to show themselves.
“Don’t be so silly Abbey” I muttered under my breath. As I stepped away I felt foolish for letting my imagination run wild.
Clearly my Aunt
’s journal was getting to me.
3rdMay
Last night when I was lying in bed I swore I heard noises in the house. Like footsteps moving along the hall, pacing. With my heart beating a wild rhythm in my chest I made myself get up and check, but there was no one there and the doors and windows were all securely locked.
I went back to bed but lay awake for ages, my heart still racing, a cold chill running up my spine, but eventually tiredness won and I fell asleep.
And dreamed.
In my dream I woke up, aware of someone in the room standing over me. For some reason I couldn’t see the person clearly but I got the same impression I had when I saw, or thought I saw, the reflection in the mirror. A male. Tall and dark. Looking down at me with a frightening intensity.
I bolted up, meaning to scramble away, but something made me stop. His voice maybe; like a command ringing in my mind.
I looked up at him, fear and anxiety knotting my stomach, and he slowly leant towards me. Helpless I fell back against the bed while he came ever closer, unsure what would happen, unsure what I wanted to happen.
He stopped just inches from me and I felt the pull of his eyes. Silver, swirling. Like pools of liquid I could drown in.
He paused for the briefest moment, a second or a lifetime I couldn’t tell you, and then pressed his lips to mine. The barest softest brush of his skin against my lips and my whole body ignited in a blazing fire. I shuddered and gasped, waking from the dream as the most intense orgasm of my life ripped through me.
My body throbbed, my blood roaring in my veins, and I moaned with abandon as my body locked in an undeniable climax. A climax that left me quivering and breathless against the pillows, spent.
As I lay there stunned I knew I should run, should get out of the house, but exhaustion took me and I did not wake till the sun was piercing though the window.
6thMay
I am so scared. I think my Aunt was right. Someone is here and he wants me like he wanted her.
Since the day I came back from the village, since the night I had the dream, I keep seeing him in the mirror. Nothing more than a reflection out of the corner of my eye but every time I see more of him.
I know he has black shoulder length hair and pale skin. I know his body is strong and muscled. A scar runs across his cheek and there is a tattoo of a tree on his shoulder.
I don’t know who he is but every time I see him his expression becomes more and more consuming. Like he wants to devour me.
I sit in the living room, reading through my Aunt’s journal and books, and what I am seeing ties up with what she wrote about. Slowly I decipher references to dark realms and the beings that inhabit them. Dark fairies that need living souls to survive, who crave and desire mortals. Creatures not of our world but who can come through to ours via pools, ancient sites ... and mirrors made of the heart wood of the earth.
Like the mirror in the hall.
The mirror my Aunt died in front of. The mirror that was broken as if something, or someone, had tried to come through.
I look up at the mirror through the doorway and again I see him. The barest flash of his image but he is staring straight at me, his hands pressed against the glass.
Terror grips me and I run for the front door but as I reach for the handle a suffocating panic takes hold of me. A panic so strong I can barely breathe. Gasping I drop to the floor.
I turn around, looking straight at the mirror, but I see nothing. Forcing my breathing to slow I turn my head to the side and relax my gaze. After a few seconds he appears again, his image growing larger as if he is walking towards the glass. Again he presses his hands to the mirror; again his gaze is locked on me.
Slowly I stand and move down the hall, my back pressed to the wall. He follows my movement until I stop in the doorway to the living room, my hands gripping the frame so hard my knuckles turn white.
Still I see him in the mirror, a hungry desperation in his expression, and I suddenly understand. The mirror is a doorway. And this man wants to come through. This dark creature that came for my Aunt and is now here for me.
Suddenly his image bends, as if the glass has flexed under the pressure of his hands. A scream builds in my throat as I run for the stairs, not daring to look back.
15th May
I cannot leave. I am scared but I cannot leave.
I hear footsteps and whispers at night. I see him in the mirror, always watching me. At night I dream. A heavy feeling of dread wraps itself around me like a blanket and I know something dark and terrible is coming for me but I am held here.
At first I was held by fear; a paralyzing panic bringing me to the floor whenever I tried to leave the cottage. Now though I am held by something else; an inexplicable compulsion to see him again.
For days I have poured over the books. For days I have walked back and forth in front of the mirror desperate to see him.
I cannot leave. Like my Aunt before me I am trapped.
19th May
I know who he is now.
Nazeil, king of the dark fairies, a fearsome warrior who took over the fairy realm with blood and fire. A being that chooses mortal women, taking them to his world for his dark pleasures, feeding on their souls to enhance his powers. A being who delivers desire and death in the same breath.
He chose my Aunt but she was too weak to survive and now he wants me. I see him closer every day and god help me I crave him.
I remember how the mere touch of his lips in my dreams makes my body erupt in reality and I want more. He is hard and cruel, without mercy or compassion, but the feel of his gaze on my body sends liquid heat through my veins.
Lust and damnation blaze in his silver eyes and I want to taste it, want to lose myself in him. Want his strong hands on my body; want him inside me, consuming me, possessing me.
And I know from his dark gaze that he wants me too.
I know I don’t have much time left now. Every day the glass bends a little more and soon he will break through. And I won’t want to run from him.
He will come for me and take me heart, body and soul and I will be forever his. Trapped in the mirror.
Yelton Gazette – Saturday 12th June
Police forced entry into Lavender Cottage on Wednesday 9thJune after reports that Miss Abigail Cooke, the young woman who had recently moved in, had not been seen for some days. Miss Cooke was not found in the house and police were not able to find any trace of her or any leads as to her whereabouts. An officer on the scene reports that they found an unusual collection of old books on folk law, together with a journal belonging to Miss Cooke’s deceased Aunt, Miss Pamela Shale. The journal seems to confirm local rumors that Miss Shale had suffered some sort of mental episode prior to her death. Apart from the books the only other unusual thing officers found was a broken mirror hanging at the end of the hall, the glass completely smashed.
Spider Whisperer
by
Lisa Goldman
“Jeesh!” I groaned, swatting another spider from crawling on my leg. “How do you people live like this?” I stopped walking, searching the ground for more of the devils as Melanie, my sister, drudged onward through the overgrown path of knee high weeds and thick bramble. A backpack filled with garbage bags and cleaning supplies was slung to her back.
“You used to be one of these people.” Melanie slowed her swift pace and glanced over her shoulder. She sighed. “So what was it this time? An ant?”
“Ha, ha.” She knew I hated spiders, bugs, anything that resembled the blood-sucking, pinching, crawly, hairy, winged, multiple-legged insects of the world. I couldn’t escape them in their entirety, but it was the main reason I left this trivial country life as soon as I graduated high school—hoping never to come back—for a high rise in the city where fewer chances for the little critters existed.
Melanie tilted her head, her way of telling me she waited for a reasonable explanation. “I know what you’re thinking, but this one was huge. A spider. You didn’t see it,
and they seem to keep getting bigger.”
She made her way back the overgrown path and gave me a stern look. She wanted proof of this gargantuan spider. I pointed to the wiggling legged creature that fell next to my pumps. She bent down, hand extending. I gasped. “You’re not going to touch it, are you?”
Not only did she touch it, but she picked it up and balanced it on her thumb inches from my face. “This little guy. He can’t be any bigger than that ant I mentioned.”
“That’s because his legs are all curled up now. You should have seen him pawing up my pant leg.”
She gave me a wry look, glancing up and down at my improper outfit. After two days of relentless arguing, she had talked me into coming with her to sort and clean Dad’s old shed. Although she offered to loan me a pair of jean overalls, like the pair she wore now, I refused. Disgust had filled my mind at the image of me in such an unflattering, repulsive outfit. Of course, since she remained in this drab one traffic light farmer’s town, the clothing looked just fine for someone like her. I never told her of my adamant dislike for her clothes and instead rejected them politely, saying, “I’m sure I can find something in my suitcase to wear.” My options, however, were limited. I put on the most casual outfit I brought, a pair of sleek black pants, a periwinkle-colored, silk, tunic top, and my favorite black pumps. Unfortunately or purposely—I couldn’t be sure which—she neglected to mention the disrepair and hazards of the trail and the shed where I would ultimately be working in over the next few hours.
Glancing at our destination and back again, I nervously pulled at the ends of my shirt. I debated on offering her money to get out from venturing further across this wild landscape.
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