Not Your Average Monster: A Bestiary of Horrors

by Pete Kahle

  When Abby and Iris’s father arrived, he rushed into the house and looked at the baby resting on the couch, swaddled in Iris’s throw blankets.

  He picked it up and held it to him. He smiled at it.

  “What are you doing?” Abby asked, horrified. “That thing’s a monster.”

  “It’s not a monster,” he said. “It’s Iris.”

  “What?”

  “Your mom told me that Iris had no mother. Then she told me this story. It was insane, and I thought she had lost it. But hearing what has happened I believe her. I should have believed her all along. Sit down. I’ll tell you.”

  Abby had not wanted to sit down, but her father forced her to sit and forced her to listen to the story her dying mother had told.

  “Iris is special,” he said. “That’s what your mother told me. She was reborn from another woman. Your mother’s friend from when she was younger. Her best friend. They had grown up together and lived together when they were in college. When your mother was in her early twenties, her best friend died and was reborn as a baby. As Iris. Our Iris.”

  “I don’t understand,” Abby said.

  “Iris is special,” he said again. “Don’t you see? She’s not a normal human. Your mom, she kept the secret until she couldn’t keep it any longer because it would die with her. She wasn’t even sure if it would happen again, but it has. Her last words to me were that to live on, Iris must feed. She must feed at night. And she has. Here is our little Iris. She looks exactly as she did when she was a baby.”

  Abby breathed quickly. This was too much, and she didn’t know how to deal with it.

  “So Iris is gone?” she asked.

  “No, we get to live with her again. She’s a beautiful baby girl again.”

  “No!” Abby said. “It’s not Iris. It’s a monster.”

  “You’re talking about your sister! If your mother wasn’t there to love her, she would have died. Are you going to let her die now?”

  He held the child out to Abby, and Abby looked at it. Now that the blood and fluid had been wiped from its body, it did look like a normal baby. Abby had to admit, she could see her sister in this baby’s face. She picked it up and held it to her body. The baby gurgled and cooed again and reached its tiny fingers into Abby’s hair. Abby felt herself smiling. Holding the child felt right. She had made the promise to Iris to always be there for her.

  Abby said, “I’ll be the one to take care of you from now on. I owe you that much.”

  Megan Neumann is a speculative fiction writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas with her husband, two dogs, and one bossy cat. Her stories have appeared in Crossed Genres, Daily Science Fiction, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is particularly appreciative of the Central Arkansas Speculative Fiction Writers' Group for their loving support and scathing critiques.

  THE NEW GOVERNESS

  by Joshua Rex

  They’d succeeded in getting Miss Sims sacked the same way they had Miss Hilary- by being naughty to the point of evil. While the children of other fine estates played hop-frog and hide-and-go-seek, Harold and Lucy’s game was to see who could shred the nerves of the governess the quickest. No one was exempt from their devious schemes, and along with their teacher, the maids and footmen passed them in the hall as they would a buzzing hornet’s nest.

  Miss Sims had been Harold’s victim. After five weeks of torture, it had been the huge rat he’d caught in the pantry and snuck under her sheets as she slept that had finally done her in. The thing bit her three times as she struggled to untangle herself from the bedclothes, screeching like she were on fire and waking the whole house in the process while Harold and Lucy hid in a closet down the hall, laughing. She’d left the morning after, without notice and without collecting her final pay. When confronted by their parents - the Lord and Lady Ashton- the children feigned ignorance, claiming Miss Sims to be uneven in temperament and a bit barmy. They said they’d seen her licking the condensation off the windows of their lesson room (which wasn’t true) and writing endless letters to a certain deceased gentleman (which was) instead of tutoring them in Greek and piano.

  The next week was rainy, dismal and boring without Miss Sims to harass, so when their mother informed them that one Mrs. Gertrude Peals would be interviewing for the position of governess the following day, Harold and Lucy were ecstatic.

  The next morning, the children were having breakfast with their mother and father in the house’s lavish dining room when the butler announced Mrs. Peals’ arrival.

  “Show her into the drawing room, Mr. Caster. Tell her I will be with her shortly,” said Lady Ashton.

  After they’d eaten, Harold and Lucy crouched outside the closed drawing room doors, excitedly pushing one another out of the way to get a glimpse through the keyhole. A plant partially obscured where the woman sat, but they could still see the ends of a grey skirt, wrinkly purple veined ankles and old fashioned wooden shoes.

  “She’s an old woman!” said Harold. “You got an easy one, Lucy. You should have her running from the house in a week.”

  Lady Ashton entered the room, introduced herself and sat down opposite the prospective governess. A maid brought tea and served them as their mother droned on and on about the history of the house and the family while Mrs. Peals patiently listened. At length, they arrived at the interview portion- the part Harold and Lucy were most eager for.

  “You come to us with little in the way of references, Mrs. Peals. However I understand that you were briefly tutor to the Maisten children.”

  Harold and Lucy looked at each other. Neither was smiling now.

  “I was, my lady,” said Mrs. Peals. Her voice was low and grainy, with an odd wheeze as if there were a hole in one of her lungs. “Before the tragedy.”

  “Yes, of course. Given our proximity to Arlington Park - or what’s left of it - we were acquaintances of the Maistens. I’ve heard the ruins are still smoldering. Utterly tragic.” Lady Ashton took a sip of tea and then looked at Mrs. Peals in earnest. “Where you present at the time of the fire?”

  “I was away, unfortunately. In the city.”

  “Actually I’d say you quite fortunate,” said Lady Ashton, without taking her eyes off her.

  “I must disagree, my lady. The last few months have been decidedly dreadful. Many nights since I’ve lain sleepless. The tender faces of those children still haunt my dreams…”

  “And what of your family, Mrs. Peals?”

  “I am widowed. My husband’s been gone these twenty years now.”

  “And no children of your own?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Peals. “I wasn’t able.”

  “I see.”

  “Might I ask how old the children are?”

  “Harold is twelve and Lucy is nine. They can be quite… unruly at times. We’ve had three governesses in the last six months - all of them young ladies - and to be frank, Mrs. Peals, Lord Ashton and I have reached our wits’ ends. The children need stern guidance and firm reassurance, someone committed to them, yet unyielding to their waywardness. I believe an older, more mature woman of your experience is better suited to demand obedience while nurturing their intellectual development. Is this a charge you a willing and able to assume?”

  “It is, my lady.”

  “Then it is settled.” Lady Ashton picked up a gilded bell, rang it thrice, and then folded her hands imperially in her lap. “Mr. Caster?” she called. “Will you show the children in?”

  Harold and Lucy felt a shadow move over them and looked up. Caster was a big man, thick but not fat, with a dark cragged face and a full head of impeccably groomed red hair. Harold and Lucy hated him, as he was the only servant they’d failed to intimidate. He was far too clever for their tricks, and he also held a trump card - he’d been employed at Langston House twenty-two years, had worked up through the ranks from footman to butler and their father’s valet long before Harold and Lucy were born.

  “Shall I open the door, or would you prefer to continue spying on he
r through the keyhole?”

  Harold rose and emphatically brushed off his pants. “I would prefer it if you performed your duties without insolence.”

  “Yes, mind your own business, Caster,” said Lucy.

  The butler glared down at them. “Perhaps we might begin afresh with Mrs. Peals, and find other ways in which to amuse ourselves,” he said as he turned the doorknob. Harold and Lucy gave him a parting scowl and entered the room.

  When they saw her they stopped short, as if they’d just walked into a den where something dangerous lived. Mrs. Peals sat at an angle from their mother, stick straight in her chair, her wooden heels crossed primly, her knobby knuckled hands folded in her lap. She wore a drab, billowy blouse and a long grey woolen skirt - both of which were at least thirty years out of date and gave off a faint mustiness. Her silver hair, streaked with white, was pulled back into a tight bun off her forehead.

  “Ah! Here are the children. Harold, Lucy - I’d like you to meet Mrs. Peals.”

  The old woman slowly swiveled her head in their direction, revealing her oddest feature yet: rectangular glasses with mirrored lenses. She smiled at them, her teeth yellow-brown. “How do you do, children?”

  “Why do you wear those glasses? Are you blind?” said Harold.

  “Harold! How incredibly rude,” said their mother.

  “It’s quite alright, my lady. It is an obvious peculiarity about which I am often asked. You see, my eyes are extremely sensitive to light. The mirrors reflect the majority, permitting only that in my peripheral to penetrate.”

  “But your vision is otherwise sharp?” said Lady Ashton, looking suddenly concerned.

  Mrs. Peals looked back at the children, grinning. “Perfect.”

  Mrs. Peals moved in the following week. She brought with her only a pair of black trunks - one small and old, one large and new. Harold and Lucy watched from a distance as she carried the smaller of the two trunks herself, followed by a pair of footmen who struggled up the stairs with the longer narrower one. They stopped halfway up, breathing heavily and loosening the starched collars of their formal service wear. Mrs. Peals barked at them to continue and, looking rather frightened, they picked it up again and carried up the rest of the way to the governess’ garret on the fourth floor.

  Later, Harold and Lucy were outside in a shallowly wooded area of young trees flanking a creek that ran through the estate’s property. They liked to go there to discuss matters of the house, away from the snooping servants and, of course, Caster. Lucy sat on a large bowed vine threaded between two trees watching Harold as he poked through the brush and decaying leaves with a large pointed stick, looking for something to hurt.

  “So, what do you have planned for the unlucky Mrs. Peals?”

  The question caught Lucy off guard. “I haven’t decided.”

  Harold frowned. “Why not? Lessons begin tomorrow. You know that the first day is always the most crucial, especially since this one will be more difficult than the rest.”

  “I thought you said she was ‘just an old woman’, that she’d be ‘easy’?”

  Harold paused and stared at the ground. “This one’s not like Miss Sims - she’s done this before. She’ll be harder to break.”

  Lucy kicked her feet off the ground and began rocking back and forth on the vine. “She’s very strange looking. Do you think she’s a witch?”

  Harold laughed. “No. Just an ugly old woman.”

  “What do you make of those spectacles?” said Lucy.

  “You heard her. She can’t see in the daylight.”

  “That’s not what she said.”

  “Well, it’s all the same.”

  Harold overturned a rotted log and a toad sprung out. Suddenly exposed, it leapt in the direction of the water and safety, but Harold deftly pinned it down with the stick and held it there, grinning as he watched it struggle under the point, which he began slowly pressing into its soft belly. The toad’s movements became frantic, its arms and legs jerking and spasming. Finally with a pop, Harold impaled the creature and held it up for Lucy to see.

  “It’s dancing!” Lucy laughed.

  They watched it die, then Harold flung it against a tree and went back to searching along banks.

  “What if she started the Maisten fire? You don’t think she could have, do you Harold?”

  “No.”

  “What if she’s lying?”

  “Why would someone burn down the very place they are employed? Some clumsy maid knocked over an oil lamp, that’s what I think happened.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Lucy gathered a handful of stones and began skipping them in the creek. On a low branch to her left, she spotted a bird’s nest filled with hatchlings. It instantly became her new target. Harold picked up some rocks as well and joined in. He succeeded in knocking it out of the tree- sending the squawking chicks into the water. The mother bird flew in suddenly, cawing and screeching above her babies. Lucy brought her arm back and winged her last stone, striking her in the head. The bird froze midair, then plummeted in a spiral of loose feathers into the creek.

  “Well done!” cried Harold.

  Lucy beamed back at him.

  Lucy lay in bed for hours that night, going over a mental list of tricks: salt in her tea, a spider down her shirt, a nasty rumor about something illicit between her and Caster…

  She’s done this before - she’ll be harder to break.

  The words appeared in her mind as if a light had shined on them - and suddenly the idea came to her.

  She slipped out of bed, crept down the hall to the butler’s pantry and took a small bottle of lock oil off a shelf. Lucy pulled the stopper while picturing herself pouring a line under behind the governess’ desk.

  She’s old…the fall might kill her…

  She stood there a moment, considering this. Then she re-corked the bottle and started back to her room, grinning.

  Oh, then how proud Harold would be!

  “So what do you have in store for her? Something wicked I hope.” Harold was sitting with his fork in his fist, tines up like a rebellious peasant, waiting for his food.

  “Oh, it is wicked indeed,” said Lucy.

  “So, what is it?”

  Lucy told him.

  “Brilliant!” he said, with a mischievous grin. “If we eat quickly, we might get there before she does, that way we can set the trap early.”

  The servants set down their plates. Harold dug into his eggs while Lucy chewed on a toast point. She was too excited to eat anything more. They finished quickly, then hurried down the hall to the lesson room, Lucy fingering the phial of oil in her pocket as they approached door. But when they opened it, their cheerful expressions faded.

  Mrs. Peals was already there. She stood like a statue with her back to the blackboard in the well-lit room. The mirrored glasses reflecting the early morning light like coins over a dead man’s eyes. She wore the same outdated outfit, but with an added cameo at her throat and she held a thin white baton like a wand which she pointed at a pair of small desks and stated, emphatically, “Sit.”

  Harold and Lucy glanced at one another, then moved toward the little desks and sat down.

  “We will begin today with a lesson in the science of anatomy,” said Mrs. Peals stepping away from the blackboard. Pinned on it was stunningly lifelike illustration of a flayed man. His chest was butterflied and all his organs were neatly labeled. He was nude and completely shaved except for his beard and the hair on his head, and all of his intimate details were on display- the penis cross sectioned, the scrotum cut open to reveal the design of his testicles. Lucy blushed and looked away. Harold frowned and cocked his head as he looked at the chart.

  “This is a rendering of a deceased male, aged thirty-one,” Mrs. Peals began.

  “This is ghastly,” said Harold.

  “Children are not to speak out of turn, Mr. Ashton,” snapped Mrs. Peals.

  Harold’s nostrils flared. “You are to address me
as Master Ashton.”

  Mrs. Peals came toward him, her wooden heels like gavel blows on the floor, and stopped at the edge of his desk. She peered down at him, an image of wide-eyed Harold in each mirrored lens, and Lucy noticed that the image in her cameo was a human skull.

  “You are a child, Mr. Ashton. Children are masters of nothing, save error. As your elder and superior in this classroom I will be accorded that respect at all times, is that clear?”

  Harold stared back at her, mouth open, his face a conflicted mask of affront and fear.

  “Is that clear, Mr. Ashton?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Peals,” he said finally, in a boyish little voice.

  Lucy watched this exchange speechless. Miss Chambers had been the last who’d attempted to chastise him. Harold responded by hitting himself in the eye with a doorknob and claiming that she’d struck him. Miss Chambers was gone before dinner bell that same day.

  Mrs. Peals returned to the blackboard and smacked the chart with the baton. It made a sound like a bone snapping.

  “Continuing then… this drawing details the remains of a man killed in the prime of his life, in peak health when - yes, Mr. Ashton?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Peals. I was only wondering how the man died?”

  “He drowned. Note the slightly swollen larynx and the burst capillaries along the walls of the lungs…”

  Harold squinted at the rendering, rapt, his eyes following the baton as she circled the areas on the dead man’s throat and chest.

  “Why are you showing us this, Mrs. Peals?” Lucy blurted out.

  “So that you may gain a better understanding of the workings of the human body, Miss Ashton.”

  “But we are not medical students, and that man is, well, exposed,” Lucy said, “indecently displayed. It is scandalous! Father would have us whipped for merely speaking of it!”

  “There is no indecency in science,” said Mrs. Peals. “It is a man-made idea which exists solely to establish behavioral boundaries in society. In truth, we are no more than animals going about in slacks and sashes, and your meat is no different than their meat. A pound of flesh weighs the same, no matter its origin.”