Demon Chronicles: Apple Moonshine

by K.S. Bowers

stop talking. I hear footsteps. They are coming.

  Be still. Don’t move. Close your eyes.

  I do as Voice says. The door of the bedroom opens. Footsteps stop by me. Stinky breath is in my face. I know it’s the mean one by the smell of the apple moonshine. My momma’s smell was sweet like flowers and soap. Abigail said my smell is like bleach, which is yucky and I get mad when she says that.

  Pretending sleep is easy. I trick the mean one and the good one at naps, which are not fun. A blanket gets over my whole body even my face. At first this makes me mad, but it’s easier to fake sleep since they can’t see my eyes. Plus, I’m freezing from the bleach water because all I have on is my nightgown.

  I get picked up off the floor. I grew three thumbs taller since I came here. I’m heavy for the mean one who is getting lots of wrinkles. The mean one is grunting like a pig all the way down the stairs. I wish I were a pig. All they do is eat and sleep. Except I forgot pigs turn into bacon. I wish I were a flower.

  The whole cellar smells like dirt. The mean one pulled the chain for the light, almost dropping me. After the mean one went down the stairs, I did get dropped. Abigail got dropped on top of me. I can see the mean one’s feet walking away from under the blanket. Then the mean one tripped on the cellar steps and fell. The mean one doesn’t get up. I wait for the mean one to move, but nothing happens. I hope the mean one got deaded.

  That isn’t very nice. What if the good one’s hurt?

  “I don’t care. I’m mad.”

  I say I don’t care to Voice, but I do. I don’t want the good one to get deaded, but the mean one and the good one don’t happen at the same time.

  I’m going to help you stand.

  Voice really is magic. Even though I hurt and I’m cold, Voice helps me stand. I can see the blood good now ‘cause it’s light. My whole gown is blooded. I touch my head, it’s sticky. I cry now. I’m scared.

  Shh, don’t cry. You must be brave and do exactly as I say, or the good one could die. You don’t want her to die do you?

  “No, but I don’t care about the mean one. I hope the mean one gets deaded and goes to the bad place.”

  Voice ignored me say I hope bad stuff happens to the mean one.

  You must wake the mean one up.

  I tip toe to the steps. My legs hurt. Seventy switches are bad. I feel wobbly. Little lights in all different colors float in front of my face. This must be Voice’s magic. Blood drips from my head, making me sick.

  Don’t look at the blood. Focus on my voice. Do as I say. You must rescue the mean one.

  The cellar is spinning like when I hold my arms out and turn in circles. I squeeze my teeth tight again. Both the mean one’s eyes are shut. I poke the mean one’s face with my blooded finger, but the mean one doesn’t wake up. I poke harder, but nothing happens.

  “What now, Voice?”

  I know all the secrets of this house. I’ve lived here a long time. The people who built this house made a secret passage for the Underground Railroad. People used it to escape from bad guys. You can escape with Abigail. Look on the wall … the crack in the corner is really a door. If you push there, it will open.

  The crack is all the way across the room. I don’t want to walk this far, but Voice says I have to. It takes a long time to get there. I push the wall. Voice is right. The door opens, but inside is skinny. I don’t know how they got a train in there.

  “I don’t want to do anything else, Voice. I’m tired and cold.”

  I have an idea. You can make a fire to keep you warm. The smoke will wake the mean one. You’ll be a hero for saving her life. She’ll love you.

  “I’m too little to make fires.”

  I’ll help you. Do you see the bottles on the shelves?

  I nod. The good one told me this place was an apple farm a long time ago. They made lots of stuff with apples like butter, jelly, apple bacon, and this poison the mean one likes.

  Push the bottles off the shelves.

  Voice sings and makes me smile, but I stopped fast ‘cause it hurts to smile.

  I’m a little teapot short and stout. Here is my handle. Here is my spout …

  I love to sing. I sing with Voice in my head.

  … Just tip me over and pour me out.

  I tip the bottles over. One … two … three. I count now because I’m feeling very bad. Voice stops me when I make a big mess.

  Good job. Hurry now. Do you see the oil lamp on the wall by the stairs?

  I nod.

  Drop the lamp on the floor.

  It takes me a long time to walk again. I stopped ‘cause I was wobbly, but Voice said hurry. I went faster and got the lamp for Voice. I made a big crash when I dropped it, but the mean one didn’t hear me. The mean one slept through all those crashes.

  Take the matches from the first shelf on the bottom. It’s the little box with the red side.

  Voice is making me mad. I can’t walk, but he says this is being brave. I don’t care about being brave. Besides, I don’t see matches.

  No, wrong shelf. The other one. Good girl. Good job.

  “I’m not supposed to play with matches. Mommy said never touch them.”

  Mommy is in heaven and she won’t mind in an emergency. Come to the tunnel and light a match. Throw it far away from you and close the door. The mean one will wake up and put the fire out while you run away.

  I grab Abigail and put her in the tunnel with my blanket. Lighting a match is hard. It took lots of times to get it fired and when I tried to throw it, it stuck to my blooded fingers. I got it off before it fired me, but it didn’t go very far. When the match fell on the floor, it said whoosh. Fire went all over the place.

  I walk with Abigail a long time in the tunnel until I fall down. Abigail is sleepy. I guess we can take a nap. I don’t hear the fire anymore so the mean one must be awake.

  “Voice? Are you still here? I’m so cold.”

  I’m here. You can sleep now little one. Soon, you won’t feel cold anymore. When you wake up, your boo-boos will be gone and you can see your mommy.

  I lay on the floor with Abigail, and cover us with the blanket. Voice is right again. I don’t feel so cold anymore.

  About The Author

  K. S. Bowers lives with her husband and daughters in Atlanta, Georgia. She writes dark fiction and fantasy.

  Metamorphosis

  Clothed in white, I walked a sunlit path, until I came to a great ocean. She forced me to taste her waters and I began to drown. She billowed above me. She reached for me, crushing me in her tide. She pushed me down, closing around me. She stole my breath to feed her lust. I looked into her depths and saw others bound there. They beckoned me to join them. She pushed me down further still, bidding me to accept the silence as the others had, but I could not. I looked into their faces. They did not fight to free themselves from their watery grave. They were content to lie there, content to conceal the betrayal of innocence, but not I. I fought to rise above her. I broke free from her embrace. I left her treacherous waves, clothed in shame, and walked the path once more.

  I came to a fork. One path was dark and consumed by thorns. The second path was filled with a bright light. I chose the path bathed in light and was lured into darkness. The light blazed, giving birth to a fiery beast. She rose slowly above me. She reached for me, searing my skin with her touch. She pushed me down and a wall of fire encompassed me. She bound me, melting my lips. Her smoky hands clamped around my neck. She stole my breath to feed her malice. I looked into her depths and saw others bound there, their faces twisted with rage. She pushed me down, further still, bidding me to accept my anger as the others had, but I could not. I looked into their faces. They did not fight to free themselves from their fiery grave. They were content to burn there, but not I. I fought to rise above her. I broke free from her embrace. I left her treacherous flames, clothed in anguish, and walked the path once more.

  A heavy fog began to rise around me. I wandered until I came to a clearing. There I found a woman sit
ting on a stool, wet and naked. I approached the woman slowly, moving the damp hair from her face. Her skin was hot and burned my hand. She did not see me. Her gaze was fixed upon the empty canvas before her. In one hand she held a paint brush and in the other, an empty glass. She wept bitterly. Her tears streamed down her face, collecting in the glass. I watched as she dipped the brush in her tears and began to paint. Stroke after stroke, she slashed at the canvas in fury yet no image emerged. She turned to me, and painted lips upon my face. I started to thank her and a web grew in my open mouth. I tore the web away and the woman laughed as it grew back. She turned back to her canvas painting furiously. The more she painted the tighter her web bound me. I fought to free myself as her agony stole my breath. There were no others this time. I was alone. She bid me stay in this waste, but I could not. I wrenched the web from my face. I fought to rise above her. I emerged from her cocoon of sorrow and faced her. She stood and pointed with her brush to the painting.

  The fog parted as I crawled through the canvas. I shed my shame, anger, and grief. I stood. I breathed.

  Clothed in desire, grace, and hope I walked a sunlit path once more.

  I Hate You

  She looked at the woman before her. She clenched her teeth in an effort to stay calm. The other woman stared back, silent. She studied the other woman, focusing on her hair, breasts, thighs, and stomach. She evaluated every inch of the woman, except … her eyes.

  She should love this woman and she had at one time, but the woman betrayed her. They had been friends. She