Writers of the Future, Volume 29

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Then I knew, finally knew what I had been unable to realize in the two months since it had happened: Rosie had gone.

  She was across the room, laughing with one of Mom’s brothers. He was making a shape with his hands, and she was copying him in what looked like a rude joke. I turned, and there was Scott. He was watching her, too, and gnawing on one of the rocklike cookies.

  “Look at you, all dressed up,” I said.

  He looked down at himself as though surprised.

  “Rosie gave me this tie for my birthday one year,” he said. “She told me I ought to dress better. Then she made fun of me whenever I wore it. I don’t think she’s noticed that I’m wearing it.”

  I hadn’t seen much of Scott in the time since Rosie died, but he looked pretty much like you’d expect from someone who’d just lost his wife.

  “Will the two of you be getting any time alone today?”

  He shrugged. “What’s there to talk about? What’s it like being dead? I asked her that when she was home this morning. She says she doesn’t remember.” He gave a horrible little laugh. “And there’s not much to say about my life.”

  Perhaps in three years or perhaps in ten, Scott will meet another woman. Scott would never stop coming to Rosie’s Day of Return parties. Would he bring a new wife here? Would he bring his new children?

  Rosie was bouncing Anna into the air while Anna giggled and clapped. Anna’s ghost sister was restless in my belly. I was restless watching my ghost sister. Someone had turned on the television, and a local news program played a story about a dog parade.

  “I have to go,” James said. The day was so warm that he carried his jacket over his arm.

  I kissed him and held his hand. “Drive safely,” I said. I put his hand against my stomach. “Say goodbye.”

  The Ghost Wife of Arlington

  written by

  Marilyn Guttridge

  illustrated by

  SIDA CHEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Marilyn Guttridge was born and raised on the family farm in Oregon. When she was just a babe in arms, the first book her mother ever read to her was Tom Clancy’s Clear and Present Danger, and ever since then she’s been a collector of odd books. Marilyn grew up immersed in fantasy and science fiction of both the bestseller and obscure varieties, and was writing her first stories at the age of twelve—though she was telling them a long time before that.

  Now as a community college student, Marilyn is a fan of all things that go bump in the night. She hopes that one day her stories will capture the imagination the same way her favorite books captured hers.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Sida Chen was born in rural China and lived there until she was five. She doesn’t remember too much about her time there, and only retains a little of the language. When she arrived in Manhattan, she picked up English quickly and moved on to devour most of the local library’s stash of fantasy books. After her mother bought her a Lisa Frank unicorn book, Sida began to dedicate an equal amount of time to drawing unicorns and dragons.

  As she grew, she and her parents moved around the US, from Manhattan to Connecticut, before finally settling on Long Island. Though the amount of time she spent on books diminished, her doodling never stopped. Near the beginning of middle school, her father bought her a tablet as a birthday present and she began to experiment outside of traditional art using programs like Painter and Photoshop. Today her art still contains a lot of dragons but currently her favorite settings to illustrate are steampunk inspired.

  Sida is currently studying biochemistry and visual arts at Columbia University and hopes to start a web comic this summer.

  Sida’s website is Junedays.deviantart.com.

  The Ghost Wife of Arlington

  The streets of Arlington were gloomy with summer dust, the afternoon sun giving the light a bronze hue while the shadows hinted at ash. Buildings older than Vivian’s grandparents loomed four, five, six stories over her, crowding the narrow streets like elegant sentinels, luring her in to her destination. The ever-burning gas lamps of Bone Rattler Street had little effect on the gloom not even the sun could entirely break.

  Vivian, the lone pedestrian on Bone Rattler Street, wore black and carried a red umbrella, the single dash of color against the shadows. Her black hose whispered as she walked, skirt and coat swaying.

  They called this Bone Rattler Street, though that was too crude a name for it. If Vivian had had a chance to name it herself, she would have named it Shadow Way. In the meantime, she called it “His Place.”

  An abandoned bicycle rested near a wall. Vivian smiled at it, and continued along. She was familiar with these streets, in a way none of the other living residents of the city were. A few solitary lights still burned in the empty shops, perhaps maintained by the relatives of their owners, perhaps by the force of will of those who still dwelled there. The silence was overwhelming as Vivian’s footsteps echoed down the narrow alley.

  Vivian was the only one allowed to pass unmolested through this street. He had given special orders she was not to be bothered, and the ghosts obeyed Him. Of course they did—they would never dare invoke His wrath.

  Vivian carried on her arm a bag of gifts. Orders or no, she preferred the occupants of Bone Rattler Street to think of her fondly. On one doorstep she left a bottle of red wine, on another whiskey, and cakes next to a window. It was a walk she performed every Sunday, while the living were at church.

  They whispered of her walks, those who lived in Arlington. They feared her as much as they admired her for it, leaving tokens for her to bring to this street, where only the dead remained. Today she left a yellow chrysanthemum at each door. Next week it might be lilies.

  The people were terrified of this place. For good reason, she supposed…not everyone would take well to kindness. His orders, and fear of Him, kept Vivian safe from those who received no gifts, from those who made others keep their distance.

  Water ran through the gutters, dusty and thick with filth. Even in the heat of summer, no matter how dry the weather, even if Vivian carried the umbrella for shade, the stones of Bone Rattler Street were always soaked as if there had been a thunderstorm.

  Vivian peered out from under her umbrella. Her dark brown hair was bound loose behind her head, and her dark eyes studied the lighted and darkened windows. Someday, she knew, her parents and grandparents would inhabit a place like this, and eventually Vivian herself. Who would take her place when the time came, she wondered. Perhaps He would find her replacement, as He had found her.

  It seemed likely. Vivian knew herself to be a temporary amusement for Him. He was, as most Immortals are, fickle in that manner. Mortals amused Him for only so long.

  His gift was not in her bag.

  His gift was her.

  Vivian met with Him in the house on the end of the street. It was larger than any of the others, more imposing. It loomed like a judgmental watchman, dark and clean and regal. Vivian left her bag and umbrella by the door, and walked inside. She knew the way up by heart—she could have walked the path in her sleep.

  “You’re late.” His voice carried down the stairs, deep and soft.

  “No, I’m not. I’m exactly on time. Noon, you said. It’s just noon now.” Vivian brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “Usually you’re early.”

  “That doesn’t make me late this time.” Vivian was the only person in the city who would have dared argue with Him.

  The city had a hundred names for Him—Bone Rattler, Black Coat, the Orphan Maker. Vivian called Him the Shaker.

  The room she met Him in was bare, and the dusty light illuminated His black coat like a silhouette. He had a hundred different faces, but today He
wore the one Vivian was most familiar with—that of a handsome aristocrat, with auburn hair and pale skin, tall and lean, with spidery hands. The Shaker stood with His back to her, hands clasped behind His back and feet apart, the collar of His coat turned up. He looked like a military commander.

  Perhaps more than a little pompous. He had changed His face again.

  “And all you survey is your kingdom,” Vivian said, smiling.

  He turned His head toward her. “You do enjoy taunting me, don’t you?”

  She removed her gloves. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am summoned every Sunday by an Immortal whose favorite form of entertainment is children’s rhymes.”

  He scowled at Vivian, and turned His gaze back to the window. He had given Himself high cheekbones today, and an upturned nose. It seemed unusual, but Vivian liked it. She walked to His side, clasping her hands before her. “It’s a small city, but you rule it well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Many Immortals abuse their power.”

  “I have little care what you mortals do, so long as it does not make any more work for me than necessary,” He replied. “That you live in relative autonomy until your deaths is a great service.”

  “They live well because they fear you.” Vivian sat on the window seat, crossing her ankles and admiring the Shaker’s new form. “This suits you. Handsome and distant. Very good.”

  “This is not for you.”

  “Isn’t it?” Vivian smiled. “I see no reason you’d want to make yourself handsome.”

  He frowned. He disliked when she could guess things about Him, but it was the reason she had yet to be replaced. She interested Him.

  In some places, Vivian had heard, the Immortals kept themselves hidden, and ruled in secret. More ridiculous, even, the mortals there believed Death was a single entity. Or—inconceivably—that Death was not even an entity at all, but a force, something that happened when the body ceased to live. Vivian could not help but laugh at that. As if her Shaker were an event; the very idea was ludicrous.

  The Shaker motioned her to follow and turned on His heel, leaving the room. Gloves in hand, Vivian pursued His swift stride, the heels of her shoes clicking while His left silence. He watched her from under His eyelashes, which He had made quite enviable. She adjusted her earlier assessment—He was more than handsome, He was beautiful.

  He took her to the rooftop. A light wind had picked up but dust still hung over the city. The hot sun warmed her shoulders as they watched the still and quiet Arlington. Church bells rang, and the faithful began to pour back on to the streets.

  “It is funny, how they still hope to be saved from me by God.” The Shaker’s face was bemused.

  “They are afraid.”

  “What do they call me, again?”

  “Black Coat, Bone Rattler—”

  “Not those.”

  Vivian swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Devil.”

  The Shaker was quiet for a moment. “Devil, is it? And what have I done to them that’s so devilish?”

  “What you were made to do,” Vivian replied. “They hate you even as they appreciate your mercy.” She wanted to reach out, to touch Him, but she knew He did not want her to. Accepting comfort would be admitting weakness.

  “And what do you think of me?”

  “You know what I think.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  Vivian looked up at Him. “There is a sort of cruelness in this, you know. I love you, and yet you don’t believe me.”

  The Shaker shrugged. “Mortals are careless with their words.”

  “If ever another mortal has served you more diligently, then God strike me down,” Vivian said. “Every Sunday for four years, without a complaint—with eagerness and fondness, even—I have come down this road. Still you doubt me.”

  The Shaker laughed. “You speak of four years as if it were a long time.”

  “For me it is.” Vivian looked out over the city. “Four years is a very long time to be alone. They won’t come near me, you know. No one speaks to me.”

  “An unfortunate hazard of this occupation. You knew this when you first came here.”

  Vivian pursed her lips. “God only knows why I love you,” she said. “You certainly give me no undue kindness.”

  He smiled and pulled her close. There was no warmth from His skin, but the arms about her made her feel somewhat better. Vivian sighed and shook her head. “God help me.”

  He brushed her cheek with His fingers—ice cold they were, but Vivian had grown used to it. When He did not threaten to freeze her, His skin was hot as fire, and little in between. When they were intimate, He did His best to manage that temperature for her, but she had more than a few unpleasant scars to mark her as His. She looked up at Him, taking in this new face.

  “You look sad,” He said.

  “I was just thinking someday you will grow tired of me,” she said. “I will outlive my usefulness to you.”

  His frown deepened, and He stepped away. “You mortals. You know so little.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes, and watched Him as He walked to the far side of the roof, the wind catching His coat. The sun cast Him in gold.

  “Shaker…”

  He was silent.

  Vivian sighed, and returned to inside the house. She would not leave Bone Rattler Street until nightfall, perhaps not until midnight. As the Immortal sulked, she walked down to His kitchen, the chill air of the house making her shiver. Her black clothes made her feel like a shadow drifting.

  Plenty of far more real shadows followed her as she walked, whispers and movements she hardly paid attention to anymore. His children, He called them, and she supposed she believed Him. They said in the city that most of His attendants in the last two hundred years had been women—that these Whispers were His children she could well imagine.

  If the Shaker ever ate or had need of food, Vivian didn’t know, but His kitchen was always supplied for her. Tea and cakes and other little snacks. She nibbled on a bunch of grapes while she thought, a single window admitting some sunlight. The Whispers crowded in the corners, watching her. Vivian glanced at them occasionally, but they always fled from her gaze. Perhaps the last attendant had not been so kind to the Shaker’s Whispers.

  He came down in His own time, to discover her nursing a cup of chamomile tea. The Whispers followed His coattails, barely formed figures chasing after, shadowed shapes casting glances her way.

  The Shaker brushed His lips along her forehead. He had tried to warm Himself, it seemed, but now He felt like a fever. Vivian just managed a smile.

  She did not know why the Shaker looked for attendants as He did. Many Immortals wanted little to do with their mortal subjects, and fewer still wanted in them some kind of partner. But the Shaker…well, despite her many guesses about Him, He was inscrutable.

  “So you like this new form?”

  Vivian’s smile became more amused. Older than civilization, yet He preened like a teenage girl. “Yes, I like it. It’s beautiful.”

  “Beautiful.”

  Vivian nodded, finishing her tea. She stood, assessing Him a little more fully. She straightened His collar, which had fallen somewhat, and brushed His hair out of His eyes. “There,” she murmured, and kissed His cheek. She tapped the end of His nose. “This was a nice touch. Unconventional, but it works for you.” His lips were fuller now as well. At first glance, it seemed He had assembled these features at random, but the longer she looked at Him the more she liked it.

  She ran her hands down His chest. “You’re very thin; I don’t know I expect
ed that.” His waist and hips were incredibly narrow, and she could imagine for what purpose He had done that. His long hands settled about her waist, and the Shaker kissed her hair. Whether it was all an act or genuine tenderness, it won Vivian over, and she sighed. The Whispers began to creep away.

  He took her up to the bedroom, though if He ever needed it for sleep, Vivian would have been amazed. They said Immortals didn’t need sleep.

  Vivian had never known any man who could do what the Shaker could. It was perhaps the advantage of infinite time to learn that made Him what He was, but Vivian didn’t care—when she was with Him, Bone Rattler Street could have been burning to the ground and she never would have noticed.

  Vivian curled against Him when they were done, enjoying that for a few moments, His skin only felt flush, and not like ice or fire. He traced the curve of her hip, endlessly fascinated with the shape of her. Any slight change He noticed.

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.” She ran her fingers through His hair.

  “Again.”

  “I love you.” She kissed His face.

  He fell back on the bed, tracing His fingers along her throat and breast. “Once more.”

  “Shaker.”

  “Please.”

  “I love you.” She whispered it this time, a hand over His heart. “Now please, just be quiet.”

  He kissed her, tasting of mulled wine and something earthy. It was a familiar flavor to Vivian now. His skin was beginning to cool.

  When Vivian left at almost midnight, her umbrella over her shoulder and the empty bag on her arm, she was tired but calm. She would sleep through most of Monday, and on Tuesday she would buy groceries.