Ominous Tales

by Blake Everstone

  I begin sobbing. Weeping intensely at the thought of my daughter putting me in a nursing home. I look over to see my mother sitting on the couch as if she has been watching me all this time. I scream at her, “Are you doing this to me?” She lifts her pale white arms and crosses them in front of her. Her crooked ghostly head shaking left to right. I can hear the broken bones popping in her neck. I yell again, “Are you doing this to me?” Her blue mouth opens and expands into a large, unnatural oval as a deep, screeching, deafening NO departs from it, frightening the hell out of me. Her eyes look wickedly fierce as if fire is about to shoot out of them. She quickly starts flying towards me. I close my eyes petrified. Nothing happens. No violent shaking like previously. Uncontrollable trembling, I open my eyes to her grizzly face an inch from mine. Terrified, I scream and close my eyes tightly praying that God help me. I awake to find myself in my bed. Exhausted from what must have been another dream, I close my eyes and go back to sleep.

  Aroused by the bright sunshine, I sit up in bed and effortlessly raise my arms and stretch. I marvel at the fact I feel so refreshed because I haven’t felt this good in long time. Craving coffee, I rise and put on my house coat. With no complications and memory in tack, I make my way down the stairs. Now in high spirits of my renewed stamina, I arrive to the kitchen pleased with myself. Suddenly, my satisfaction leaves me as I see who is sitting at my table. It is my daughter, Ashley. Fear overcomes me, as I have for so long dreaded the day she puts me away. I sit down with her. She is writing on a piece of paper. I ask her how she is doing. She looks away and says through tears, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you, Momma.” Damn it! She must have been the person who called yesterday. I tell her to not worry about that and that I am doing wonderful. I look down to see that she has written a list. Reading it sends me into a panic but I try to keep myself grounded so as not to alarm her and add to the problem. It is a list of my bank accounts, credit cards, insurance policies and a phone number for a moving company. Oh, my God! My suspicions were correct! She is putting me in a nursing home. I cry and beg her not to. I put my hand on her arm and she brushes it away as if I am a pesky mosquito. Sobbingly she rises from the table and leaves the room. I stand up with intense anger. How dare she come in my home and think she can just put me away like a piece of garbage. As I storm after her, I hear a heavenly voice singing. Puzzled, I enter the guestroom to find an angelic blue eyed, blonde girl sitting cross legged on the bed.

  She looks up and in the sweetest voice ever and says, “Hi Grandma.” Grandma? This must be my 3-year-old granddaughter, Belle, that I have never met. She raises her arms to me as if asking me to pick her up. Surprised at my strength, I lift her from the bed and hold her as close as I can. Walking over to the rocking chair, she kisses my cheek. “I love you, Grandma.” My heart melts. She says, “Grandma, will you read me my favorite book again?” I tell her that I have never met her before so how could I have ever read her a book. She giggles, “Grandma, you're so funny.” She points to the book on the table next to where we are sitting, “You read it to me every day.”

  My head begins to spin as my heart races. How could I possibly have forgotten this little angel? She points to the book again and says, “Please Grandma.” I pick up the book titled “Polly’s New World.” As I read to her, she snuggles up close to me. She feels so heavenly, I know that I could stay like this forever. I finish the book and she jumps down out of my lap. I grab her and hug her scared to let go because there is a chance that I will never remember her again. She says, “I have to go take a bath.” I tell her that I would love to read her another book. I hear the water to the bathtub turn on upstairs. She wriggles out of my arms and looks at me sadly. “Grandma, you know I have to go take my bath.” I quietly mourn as she walks away. Maybe my daughter has good reason to put me in a nursing home if I can forget my own granddaughter. I close my eyes and rock back and forth till I fall asleep.

  I am floating and flying in a circle 8 pattern through the dark. The air is as thick as pea soup and has an ungodly stench. Suddenly, I wake to a loud noise. Gun shot? Fire cracker? Before I know it, I am standing in front of a large vase that used to preside on my entry table. Now it is shattered on floor reminding me of the egg from the other day and that morbid nursery rhyme. A large man holding a box is repeatedly apologizing to my daughter for breaking it. I sternly say, “That was my vase.” He apologizes one more time and returns to his task of moving boxes. Ashley picks up the big pieces of our porcelain disaster and travels pass me to the kitchen. I follow her. As she is disposing of the vase fragments, she notices an empty liquor bottle behind the trash can. She bends over and picks it up and then sits on the ground, weeping while holding it. Shaking her head and staring down at the floor she asks, “Why Mom?” Embarrassed and not wanting to engage in an argument, I quietly back up and head towards the stairs. As I’m climbing up the steps, it dawns on me that I am still here. The moving men were carry in boxes, not out. Maybe, just maybe, she has decided to keep me here and to take care of me. I let out a sigh of relief. I climb into bed thinking this is the perfect time to take a nap.

  No telling how long I’ve been asleep, my sweet Belle crawls into bed with me. She is whimpering as she curls up against my body. I hold her tight, grateful that I remember her. Wondering what is wrong, I consider her tearful eyes. As if through telepathy, my granddaughter tells me she is worried about her mom. I am suddenly transported to the living room, or so it seems. My dementia unpleasantly presents itself again and robs me the memory of walking down the stairway. Ashlie is sitting on the sofa across from my recliner. She has a drink in her hand and it appears to be the same concoction that I use to escape the worries of this world. She is softly sobbing into her drink. I walk to the kitchen and make me one as well. Returning to the living area, I sit in my recliner and quietly drink with her. She hasn’t even acknowledged my presence. How rude for her to come into my home and judge my drinking when she is doing the same thing. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe her grief is stemming from the fact of her having to take care of me. My dementia has now made me a walking talking burden. Remembering sweet Belle, I say to Ashley that her daughter needs her and is in my bed worried to death. At this, she cries even louder.

  I look over to see my mother in a dark corner. She is only a shadow but I know it is her. She has been watching us the entire time. I try to evaluate why I keep seeing her lately. I went through such a traumatic experience finding her, I must have filed it away somewhere in the back of my mind and this mischievous illness surely searched every nook and cranny of my brain to unleash my fears. Is dementia really an illness or a punishment from God handed down from cursed ancestors? From where I am sitting, I can see the place I found her. A shiver goes through me and I look away. My daughter is no longer on the couch. My mother is now frantically pointing down the hall. I rush to find my daughter in a zombified daze, sitting on her bed. I hear the water turn on upstairs. In a full-blown panic, I scream, “Oh my God!” “Belle!”

  Reaching the stairs, the invisible force field appears again. I fight my way passed it. Battling up the steps, my foot sinks into each one as if I am stepping into thick goo. The stairway seems to grow longer but my adrenaline to reach my granddaughter is substantial, I will not give up! As if the sinister force fighting against me sees my determination, it releases me and I run to the bathroom. What I see is horrifying as my sweet Belle is floating face up in the bathtub. She looks like a china doll with milky white skin. Her hair is freely moving within the water. Slim’s black body is standing with his paws on the side of the tub. He turns to face me, eyes widened in fear and ears pointed back. I rush to pull her out and just as I lay her on the rug to administer CPR, she vanishes, leaving me soak and wet. Sitting in shock, I desperately look around the bathroom for her. I begin to rock back in forth like a psychiatric patient. As I succumb to the sad realization that my dementia has, at last, devoured every single brain cell, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  It is B
elle! She is motioning me to follow her. There is great despair in her demeanor and I am sure it is because she senses her beloved grandmother has lost her mind. As I turn to follow her, we are both teleported to Ashley’s room. She is still sitting on the bed with her head bowed. My mother is there, as well, and has the same terror in her eyes as I had seen on Slim minutes ago. Ashley opens a series of prescriptions and consumes their contents washing it down with her drink. My mother, Belle and I run to my daughter and frantically scream trying to stop her. Our efforts are in vain as she pays no attention to us. My Ashley is committing suicide. Suddenly, I hear a loud gunshot. I look over afraid that she has now shot herself but there is no gun. Feeling something dripping from my face, I reach up to feel that it is me that has been shot!

  It all comes back to me. I flash back to finding my mother swinging from the noose attached to the banister. The exact agony I felt that day overcomes me. I begin to fall to my knees and before I hit the floor, I am sitting on my bed many years later. The cool steel of a shotgun is in my mouth. I pull the trigger. The top of my head explodes and I leave my body. Floating above the corpse, I see that bits and pieces of my remains are splattered all over the room. Only half my head remains attached to my body. The skin of my face and scalp are peeled back like a half-eaten banana. One of my eyeballs is stuck to my drinking glass sitting on the end table. My body falls back on the bed. Some suction grabs me and I remember the dark tunnel. My mother has grabbed my legs and is desperately holding on to me, not letting me be sucked in. Then I am standing in the bathroom and several years have passed.

  Sweet Belle is laying in the bathtub. I realize now that I, my mother and even Slim are all three ghosts and are crowded together in this small room. Hysterically screaming, we are useless as we watch Belle accidently drown. Ashley overcome with grief after finding her own mother dead is downstairs in a drunken stupor. She stumbles to check on Belle in her bed before she retires to her own and finds it empty. In a panic, she searches everywhere for her daughter and ends up in the bathroom. Sobered by adrenaline, she grabs Belle out of the bathtub while we watch. It is too late. Belle is dead.

  That was the day I met my sweet granddaughter who was born after my death. We have spent every day together since then, watching her mother sink deeper and deeper into a depression. She wanted to crawl up into her mother’s lap so many times and relieve her of her grief. I desperately wanted to hold Ashley and tell her we were all here for her but most of the living cannot see or hear the dead. So, every day, we helplessly watched.

  Now we surround the bed, watching our loved one die. Belle is crying and is by my side, hand in mine. The thought crosses my mind, what a peaceful way to go especially compared to my exit and my mother’s from this world. Her breathing becomes shallow. It looks as if she is just resting until she fidgets in her sleep, struggling to take her last breath. A strange but strong wind breezes around the room. We see a swirling circle on the wall. It begins to open and the dark tunnel becomes visible. Belle grabs hold of me in fear. For some reason the tunnel did not appear at her death, and I assume it is because she is a child and did not commit suicide. This black hole is the gateway to hell. As Ashley’s spirit rises out of her body, a large pair of demonic, black hands appears out of the hole. They grab her and start pulling her in. My mother and I both grab Ashley’s legs and pull with all our might. It is unclear how long we fight, but at last it lets go. The wind dies down and the hole closes. We fall to the ground and find our way to each other. The nightmare is over.

  Now my daughter has her daughter and my mother has her daughter and I have mine. There is no more time, no more worries and no more pain. No more alcohol and no more dementia. The bright light in front of the house is always there. The eerie fog visits the backyard often. We do no not open the doors. My mother no longer looks like a zombie with a tilted head. I appear fresh and clean in my favorite dress, eyes in tack. Sweet Belle has pigtails and is always singing. Ashley is finally happy again. Slim scratches the furniture, meows, and purrs as if he is alive as ever. Belle climbs up in my lap and we rock together in our rocking chair. We no longer read “Polly’s New World”. My granddaughter and I enjoy many other books and she does not leave me to take a bath.

  We died alone in life and live together in death.

  Broken Mirrors

  Walking through broken mirrors

  Melting into my reflection

  Lies roll down my back as sweat

  My heart endures rejection

  My face turns numb

  As I drain

  My mind deranged

  No longer sane

  Stepping one foot on glass

  And the other on burning coal

  Iced veins running viciously

  Through my soul

  Intense pain in my chest

  Blood dripping from my wrists

  Am I to dance in light

  Or join wretched in Abyss

  Eyelids heavy as bricks

  My body so tired

  Remembering I was the one

  You once admired

  The black tunnel opens

  I can see through

  The light is at the end

  So, to hell with you

  Journal to the Unborn

  August 17

  You are inside me. It is incredible that something the size of a butterbean can bring so much emotion and inspiration. My heart skips a beat each time I touch my stomach and think of you. I know your conception date to be July the 8th, because it is the only time I’ve ever had sex. I need no test. My sixth sense tells me that you are a little girl. I will name you Alexandria. I am compelled to name you that. I know that it is a name for a boy but it moves me. Alexandria means protector. It is ironic because it is I that must protect you. Not the usual way that mothers protect their children, only if it were that easy. Although we have much hardship before us, I’m am still filled with joy to have you with me. I am surrounded daily by sadness. There are even nefarious creatures who bombard me with mind games quite often. But you bring a light of hope within me. The reason for my journal to you, is because of two very important facts. First, the women in our family are both gifted and cursed. You will not escape it and should I not be with you, you need to know what is going on so that you don’t lose your mind. My heart mourns at the thought that you will go through the same atrocities that I have and possibly without me. My mother passed away during my delivery. It is a common occurrence among our family. For generations and generations women have died giving birth to their firstborn. It is part of the curse. It scares me and I’m not ready to explain it to you just yet. My Mother visited me many times throughout my childhood but that may not be possible for us, should I die. Some deceased remain in this realm and some don’t. There is no rhyme nor reason to it. It is what it is. You must learn to live with it my child. You WILL be visited. You will not be able to choose who or what comes.

  I love you my sweet Alexandria.

  August 23

  My beautiful daughter. It is hard to explain, but you have been talking to me. You have not learned English yet so you do not communicate to me with words but through feelings. Unlike other mothers, I am blessed to have the gift of this heartwarming exchange between you and I. Your innocent thought process is such a breath of fresh air. You express endearing sentiments of the way you love me. My heart soars at this adoration you already have for your mother. If only we could be alone in this enchanting moment. But we can’t. There is also something else with you. I pray that you are strong and do not let it consume your spirit. It is an insidious entity that will stop at nothing to have you. What frightens me the most is that you do not fear it. You seem to be playing with it. This entity is evil! Part of the curse is that we have a special light in us that attracts the dead, poltergeists, demonic entities and other malicious spirits. Your great, great Aunt Margaret visited me last night. It is the same one that latched onto her while she was in her mother’s womb. The fight between Aunt Mar
garet’s mother and this demon during childbirth was vicious. But her mother won and took the demon with her into death. If I cannot get rid of it before I go into labor, I swear to you my sweet Alexandria, I will fight like hell for you! The devilish being that latched onto me in my mother’s womb was not as strong as this one, but it made no difference. My mother had to force it to cross over with her to free me. It stayed with her, and in its anger haunted and harassed my mother for many years until it found another innocence to adhere to. Since your Aunt Margaret is familiar with this one, she will be working on a way to subdue it until we can free you. She is desperately trying to communicate with all our ancestors, but they cannot just be summoned at will. As it has been explained to me, they must first hear. It will be a faint voice from very far and it will be hard for them to differentiate it from the other voices, for we all hear many voices from the dead. Next, they will have to travel through a thick darkness, so thick that it can be felt, through many dimensions should they decide to accept the calling. It is a black fog that is cold, wet and feels slimy and they will travel through what feels like a labyrinth following the voice. Eventually they will see it’s light and will be drawn to it as it becomes brighter.

  My sweet Alexandria, I want so much to kiss your sweet face. I pray that I will be able to live with you my darling.