by D. L. Scott
“God, please no.” She tried to scream but it had come out a croak.
“It’s ok, you’re safe,” a deep voice said.
“911, NOW!” someone hollered from her right.
Tamia flinched as her head was lifted and something placed beneath it. She raised her hand to her head, the throbbing growing, her fingers wet. Her head felt like it was going to explode; the pain pulsed behind her closed eyes as she lay there. She couldn’t move. She was still gasping and struggling for breath. Her body shook.
“Please help me,” she gasped, her voice weak. She hadn’t thought that the stranger had heard her but his voice was near her ear. “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”
She didn’t know why but she believed him but she did. With that last thought, unconsciousness claimed her, and she slipped into a grateful sleep.
# # #
The shadow watched the scene and the people who surrounded the woman. He glared at the crowd in the streets. He heard the sirens in the distance and rage and fury twisted his features.
The woman was on the ground, her clothes bloody and body bruised. He thought she was unconscious. He couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t moving.
He sneered and his fists clenched and flexed at his side. It didn’t matter that the bitch had never seen his face and couldn’t expose him. Hell, he had never spoken past a whisper. Even though they never survived their escapes, he had always been extremely careful. It was the principle of the fucking matter.
He had never failed before and now this shit.
Fuck!
He had failed. He had fucking failed. He swore silently and scowled. It wouldn’t happen next time.
He took one last look at the woman and turned, disappearing into the shadows of the rotted city just yards away from the bright lights.
Oh yes, there would definitely be a next time. He wasn’t through yet; not by far.
About the Author
D.L. Scott has been writing since she was sixteen and loves write both horror and romantic suspense. Her writing credits include a self-published novella called The Anthology of Murderous Connections in July of 2013 and multiple fictional works in process. Her short story, Shadows, is the prologue of Shadow’s Prey, a romantic suspense set to be published in 2014. Her short story, Shadows, is the Prologue of Shadow’s Prey, a romantic suspense coming soon!
She currently lives out in the beautiful country of Missouri with her daughter and four dogs.
She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at https://www.facebook.com/Desiree.Scott.Author
The Collaboration: A Gothic Tale
By Krista Redmayne
They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Do haunt the houses and the graves about,
Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out,
Delighting still in their forsaken hosts.
– Joshua Sylvester, English Poet (1563-1618)
Norman’s rich masculine voice filled the small stone room as he read the changes made to the manuscript.
Brian slammed the large, worn Bible on the desk. He straightened, looking his brother in the eye. “Gabriel, I did my best. He had every comfort I could give him. He had his baths, and food, he had his house and he had me to shout at whenever he got bored with torturing his caretaker.”
“That, Brian, is part of the problem. He didn’t want caretakers. He wanted family. He wanted you to be here every day. Believe me, every time father called he pontificated on your absences, your selfish and hateful rants when you were here, and of your neglect,” Gabriel replied, his hands balled into fists and shoved deep into his jean pockets.
“Right, MY neglect - and you don’t know what he was saying, no, screaming, about you? How you abandoned him to marry ‘that slut’.
According to him you were a worthless son who had no feeling for family, for duty. What do you think, that he praised you or held you in some kind of high esteem; held you up like some kind of example of faultless son-hood? Because he didn’t. He was just as mean and vicious talking about you. Did you think he had changed after you moved out? Turned into an agreeable, charming, warm, bespectacled old man? Add a beard and he’s Santa? His becoming physically disabled only added to his cruelty, his manipulation, Gabe. As always, he was controlling and vindictive.”
Brian looked down at the still healing wound that started at his left shoulder and ran in a wide continuous slash down to the back of his hand.
Gabriel noticed his brother’s change in spirit as his anger and defensiveness subsided. He was suddenly quiet; tension tightened his shoulders and residual fear surfaced in Brian’s down cast eyes. “He did that to you, didn’t he?” said Gabriel, looking at the long ugly scar.
Brian gave a hollow laugh, “The man was dying, clutching at his chest. His lips were not blue, Gabe, they were black, parted as he gasped for air, spit and blood dripped from his chin cause he had bit them in his seizures. His eyes were glazed, rolling back in his head. I swear I thought I was in some kind of horror story. I tried to help him to the floor thinking I’d do CPR, and then he grabbed that damned antique silver letter opener of his and came at me. It was surreal, he kept saying, ‘I’m not going to hell alone.’ And his voice Gabe, it was so deep and raspy, nothing like his normal tones.”
Gabriel shuddered at the vision of his father attempting to murder his brother; it had not been enough to control their lives, he had wanted to consume Brian’s soul. Gabriel looked down at his feet for a moment, as guilt swept over him. He really had let his brother take the brunt of their father’s abuse. Then he looked up and gave Brian a somewhat strained and morbid grin, “You know Father’s motto, ‘Do it right, or die trying’. Good thing he died before he could finish the job.”
Brian laughed grimly, “I swear he was dead before he stopped stabbing at me.”
“Well, you know the devil never really dies.” Gabriel joked sarcastically. “He just changes forms.”
“Can I interrupt for a moment?” Madeline’s voice cut across Norman’s narration. “Are we really sure we want to start this story in the middle of an argument between the brothers? I was thinking it might be better to start with the setting, so the reader can digest the Gothic tone, the texture of the story, as it were, before we introduce the psychologically damaged protagonists and the malicious father as possible ghost. You know, getting a feeling for the setting is why we rented this - - place.”
Madeline gave a slight shudder, as she looked around the dusty, dark, almost windowless, room. Rough, uneven stone walls seemed to absorb the small amount of light allowed from the rustic candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling, casting more shadows than there were people in the room, adding to the feeling of claustrophobia.
“The atmosphere,” Edward stated, flatly, “is as much to inspire fear in us as to increase the creative flow, Maddy.”
“Well, it’s working,” Madeline shot back. “Did it have to be raining?” she complained, as she stood up to move closer to the fire that hissed and crackled sullenly as drops of rain found their way through the old, broken stone chimney.
She brushed honey blond bangs from her eyes and tucked wisps that had escaped a moderately severe bun behind her ears. Ashy grey streaks at her temples were so evenly placed they almost looked like salon artifice. Thick black rimmed reading glasses were pushed above her gently sloping forehead that showed the expected lines of a mind in conflict between practicality and creativity.
“This is Scotland, Lovey,” said Edward, “it rains a good deal of the time. Plus,” he went on, pulling the heavy drape back from the small single window in the room, “it has a great view of the ocean and the ruins of St. Andrews Castle.”
Madeline noticed that Edward’s hands were beautifully manicured as she glanced out the indicated window. Just then a streak of lightening illuminated the night sky, casting baleful shadows from the edges of the Castle ruins, like black, broken fingers reaching out, only to retreat again in an instant.
“Home sweet home,” Edward said under his breath, though the other two occupants heard him clearly. The stifling darkness seemed to close in around the house, isolating it even more than the five kilometers it took to get to the nearest neighbor.
Norman pushed past Edward to look out the tiny window, “Mom called nights like this ‘God’s Fury’” he said quietly, and then he turned and leaned against the tiny window sill. “Talking about God’s Fury, I suggest we change the character Brian’s name to Michael.” Edward and Madeline looked at each other uncomfortably, and then looked sympathetically to Norman.
“I know how much you miss your son,” said Madeline, quietly, “but I’m not sure you want to memorialize him in this way.”
“I do miss him,” Norman replied, his face reflecting his deep grief, as he stared unfocused at the elaborate antique mirror that hung across the room, “but that is not why I want to change Brian’s name to Michael. Norman refocused on the present, and looked seriously at Edward and Madeline. “Michael and Gabriel are Archangels, we can suggest that the boys’ father had a God complex, just by their names.”
Norman pulled out a notebook that was filled with hand written pages in three different scripts. “We talked about the fact that there needs to be a religious connection to build the feeling that the father character is damned. Just naming the two brothers, the protagonists, after Archangels feels like a good way of doing this.”
Maddy nodded, “it is efficient,” she replied. “But still, Norman, there are other angelic names, it needn’t be Michael. I do admit that having the father character naming his children after God’s highest angels suggests a grandiose and narcissistic personality-- it sounds like my ex-husband; if we’d had children his ego would have insisted on some kind of grandiose naming to reflect his importance.”
Madeline’s voice fairly dripped with angry sarcasm; at the same time tears were beading in the corners of her eyes. Maddy quickly swiped at the revealing tears, turning her back so the others wouldn’t see her do so.
Edward walked the few steps to Madeline’s side and gently pressed his hand to her shoulder. “You were smart not to have children, Maddy. No matter how much the mother loves, the father’s hate still corrupts,” Edward said somewhat cryptically.
Just then a gust of wind rattled the window and blew down the chimney hard enough to cause a door to slam, an echo of the violence sounded throughout the small house. All three of the writers jumped, startled by the loud noise.
“All right, then.” Edward said, his Scottish brogue deepening. He took a seat at the writing desk, but none of the gothic story’s collaborators put forth any ideas. Their silence was heavy with each individual’s grief and anger, separately reliving their own painful moments.
Outside the trio could hear the savagery of the waves crashing against the rocky shore, the storm, answering, exposing and increasing the authors’ dark musings. “This story is important,” Edward said under his breath again, “catharsis for all of us.”
Edward’s deep voice seemed to be an echo to the rumbling forces of nature. His tone became strangely conversational as he went on, “She died here, you know. Mum drowned right out in those waves, they said it was suicide, but I have never believed that. Father killed her.”
Just as Edward pronounced his father’s guilt there was a shrill shriek out in the storm.
Edward jumped up his face drained of color; the writing desk tottered and then tipped over crashing to the old home’s dull wooden floor. Norman gasped, startled, and stepped back against the window sill, his hand slipping past the stone edge and into the glass of the tiny window. Glass shattered outwards and rain and wind immediately took advantage of the opening to pour in.
“Damn, what was that?” Maddy said as she rushed over to Norman. Maddy grabbed Norman’s hand, and pulled her reading glasses down from her forehead and over her wide green eyes. She pulled Norman’s injured hand close and examined the fresh cuts and blood beading to the surface of the new scrapes that decorated the back of his hand.
“Yes, what was that?” Norman chimed in as he pulled his hand away from Madeline, slightly embarrassed by her caretaking.
“A bird, an albatross maybe,” said Edward, but his hands still shook with the adrenaline of fear. The other collaborators looked at Edward with doubt filling their eyes.
“Yes, a bird,” Edward repeated. He headed towards the small dining-room. Maddy and Norman followed automatically. Edward’s hands shook as he reached for a cut glass decanter sitting on an old ornately carved server that took up most of the space on the wall between the dining-room and the kitchen.
Edward poured himself a stiff shot of amber liquid in one of the only glasses, a brandy snifter, which was still stored in the server.
“Ok, that was a bit disconcerting. That bird sounded just like a child’s scream,” Norman stated.
“I thought it sounded more like a man’s scream, but I know what you mean,” replied Maddy.
Edward gave a short, harsh bark of a laugh, “and I thought it sounded like a woman screaming, like mum.”
“I knew your mom died here,” said Norman. “Did your dad die here as well?”
“Right here,” replied Edward in a dark and subdued voice. “Right here, in the dining room with a glass of brandy in his hand. Drank himself to death of course. I was only eleven; I think it was less than six months after she died that he went, but honestly I don’t really remember.” Edward placed his glass back on the server, took a deep and steading breath, and started walking back to the room where they had been doing their writing. “Like I said, writing this story is a kind catharsis for all of us. We need to finish, put all of our issues to rest and make one hell of a ghost story in the process.”
The rain was still pouring in the tiny broken window so the collaborators broke off and scrounged through their personal belongings to find something to cover the window and keep the elements out. Maddy had a medium sized white plastic bag in her suitcase that she had brought for her delicate undergarments as they became soiled.
She pulled the empty bag out and dug through her copious purse for something, anything that would attach it to the window sill and keep the elements out of their small oasis. Maddy trudged distractedly back to the front room.
“I wish I had some duct tape!” Maddy said as she dug through the contents of her massive purse.
“Duct tape… I think there may be some in the basement,” said Edward. He sprinted toward the hallway and stopped before a narrow door not far from the entryway. He turned the elongated door knob and pushed, but the door remained solidly closed. Edward stooped to look at the door carefully and then stood straight.
“God damn, the old man locked the basement!”
“Do you have a key?” asked Norman. “It is getting a bit damp and cold.”
“Yes, I have a key, but it is in my suitcase that was lost on the flight here. British Airways said they would track it down, but it will be tomorrow at the earliest,,” Edward replied.
“We could break it down,” said Maddy, her voice sounded thinner than usual and both of the men with her felt a protective impulse at the fear that was so obvious in her voice.
“We could,” said Norman, “but we could also stuff one of the heavy comforters from the beds in the window and I can guarantee that the rain will be defeated.”
“Yes, yes, I do believe that might be the best and most expeditious answer,” said Edward. But Edward’s hand lingered on the locked door.
“Why did he lock this?” Edward asked under his breath. Norman and Madeline didn’t quite know what to say so they said nothing.
“Should we continue to work on the story?” said Norman.
“Yes, yes, the story,” said Maddy.
“I have an extra comforter in my room; it is in the cedar chest at the end of my bed. I love cedar chests, Edward; I hope you don’t mind that I went looking through this one?” Madeline continued.
“Of course not,” said Edward, but his
eyes looked troubled. “Did you find anything else? I mean more than bed clothes?” Edward asked
There was a slight confused pause before Maddy answered, “No, just sheets and pillows and an extra comforter.”
“Oh, ok. Good,” replied Edward in a distracted voice.
Maddy walked rapidly toward the door to her room just down the hall and returned with a yellowed patchwork quilt.
“Window?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” said Edward, and the three writers went back to the front room.
The wind howled as Edward and Norman stuffed the handmade material into the shattered window. Maddy righted the small writing desk and picked up the papers that had fallen to the floor. Many of the pages were soaked.
“I’ll take these and lay them out on the dining room table to dry. Do you need any bandages for your hand Norman? I can grab them too while I am at it.”
“No, I’m fine,” replied Norman. “See, already stopped bleeding.” He held up the injured extremity for proof.
“Ok, be right back and then we can get back to work.” Maddy quickly dispatched the chore, but she returned at almost a run.
“Don’t laugh guys, but I swear I am too frightened to be alone for very long,” Maddy said, slightly out of breath. Her face was drained of all color. “I swear I saw something… well, something odd in the hallway.”
“What did you think you saw?” Edward asked. His voice sounded hesitant, like he didn’t really want to know the answer.
“Like I said, don’t laugh… but it was like a mist in the house, a moving fog, but it disappeared when I looked directly at it.”
“It’s the lack of good lighting in here, Maddy,” Norman said. But he gave a bit of a shudder, like he had felt a sudden chill.
Edward remained silent but walked slowly back towards the hallway. “Why did he lock the basement door?” Edward’s habit of talking to himself under his breath was starting to make Norman and Maddy uncomfortable and they looked at each other, worry about their co-author and young friend showing in their glances.
