Carillon Beauty (part 3, conclusion)

Lilting tones hovered, like fluttering hummingbirds, all around Gwen.
With piercing beaks of melody, the music throbbed into her soul.
Mesmerized before her detested mirror, Gwen watched as beauty from deep within began to surface.
Scarred tissue from years of useless reconstructive surgery smoothed to a healthy pink glow. Jutting, deformed cheekbones melted bringing her beautiful blue eyes out of their dark caves of flesh. Clawed talons, separated into ten tapered white fingers: and yes, Gwen’s curved backbone, answering to the subtle chords of the Akuba beat, straightened, bringing her shoulders back and elevating her once heavy head.
As the beauty previously buried deeply in Gwen’s soul moved outward, it was replaced.
Replaced by something dark.
Something sinister.
Gwen felt this new outlook slither into the depths of her soul just as she
felt the muscles and bones in her body shifting. For the first time in Gwen Guthrie’s pitiful existence, she felt alive—euphoric!

**************************************************************

The Carillon Music Box changed Gwen’s life forever. She kept it locked safely away with her growing stash of trophies.
Gwen was beautiful. Even her mother’s fading beauty was no match for Gwen’s bewitching new glamour.
Men who before would have glanced quickly away in horror, now fell at her feet.
Gwen prodded the lifeless male corpse on the floor with the pointed toe of her new, red, spike-heeled pump. With a small penknife, she popped the two unseeing eyes from the face of her dead friend and cut away the excess veins and connective tissues. Two beautiful new trophies to add to her growing collection.
People would see Gwen now; she wanted them to look at her.

End





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Carillon Beauty (part 3, conclusion)

Carillon Beauty (part 2)

Gwen threw the pink box on her bed. Now it seemed a pipe dream— hopeless. Her mother was right. All of her past efforts screamed out at her: each disappointment casting another blemish on her hopelessly scarred face. Idly her deformed fingers traced across the pink box. Fingers that she usually kept hidden, from the stares of curious people. Gwen had been born with three fingers on each hand, each finger branching at the first knuckle with a lobster-claw effect. As little claw-like fingers began working at the box, loosening tape and glue to get inside, her mind wandered back to the charismatic ad. A little renewed excitement grew as she remembered the broadcast. “Your beauty will bloom eternally. Let the genuine Akuba Crystal music box cast a carillon spell for you.”
Rough claws traced the beautiful heart-shaped crystal. Squinting through thick glasses, Gwen could see a stately castle nested on puffy white clouds deep inside the heavy glass. A tiny silver windup key was buried in the base.
How could she have thought that a mere $49.99 would earn her the gift of beauty? Removing the bath towel from her vanity mirror, she turned the music box key.
Winding the key was a cumbersome chore that took forever to accomplish with her twisted fingers.
The music was alive: enchanting bells and chimes wafted from the heavy crystal figurine.

Continued in the next post.

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Carillon Beauty (part 2)

Carillon Beauty (part 1)

“Good God, Gwen, don’t you ever wear anything that isn’t gray? You need to put a little color into your life,” Cynthia Guthrie greeted her daughter at the front door.
“Why, Mother, so people will look at me?”
“You’re a beautiful person. When will you start thinking like one?” petite, blonde Cynthia said, sorting through the mail.
“Maybe when you start looking at me,” Gwen said to her Barbie Doll mother.
Cynthia glanced up sharply, “Spending your money on every beauty ad you read in the magazines is doing nothing but making us poorer.” She shoved a bright pink box into Gwen’s twisted hands. “Carillon Beauty? Another overnight remedy? Another miracle treatment? More like another disappointment. When will you learn, Gwen?”
“Look at me, Mother. Does that answer your question?”
Cynthia sighed, “Physical beauty isn’t everything. You’re beautiful on the
inside. The work you do in the Children’s Ward—the hours that you spend at the Homeless Shelter—you’re a kind, giving person. I’m proud of you, I love you just the way you are.”
But too often Gwen had seen it. That look in her mother’s eyes. That look screamed “how could someone who looks like me, have a child this ugly?”
Gwen, clutching her newest beauty aid, hurried past the telltale hall mirror to her room. Her mother would never understand. No one who looked like her mother had ever felt the pain of loneliness that rode on Gwen’s shoulders like a heavy, woolen cloak.
Carillon Beauty. Musical beauty. Gwen had seen the ad on television, had heard a few chords of the sweet elixir. At the time, she had to have it; she was positive that this time it would work where all the others had failed.

Continued in the next post.


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Carillon Beauty (part 1)

One Pleasant Street

Leona L. writes:
Dear Weezel,
I’ll tell you what scared me. Last week I had a nightmare about this big old creepy house. I can see the house in my mind’s eye as though I’m still standing there. It looked three stories tall with a gray slate roof and really weird windows. No two windows were the same. Round, square, tiny, and a few huge bulging picture type. All the windows had heavy white lace curtains shutting out the world. A giant porch wrapped around three visible sides of the eerie mansion. Above the front door -- written in large ornate script -- were the words:
One Pleasant Street
Suddenly my dog cried from somewhere. Was she inside the house . . . I hear whimpers as I run along the porch to each of the peculiar windows.
“Cricket! Where are you?”
The windows are veiled, I see nothing inside. I run for the front door – but there is no knob, just a thick glass oval window shrouded by heavy lace curtains.
Unexpectedly the door silently swings in and a dark shadow blots out the lightness of the day. Cowering bonelessly on the porch . . . I woke up. My Sheltie Cricket moaned softly in her sleep but we were safe in my bedroom.
Today I found a business card tucked under my front door.
Lacey’s Dog Grooming Boutique
1 Pleasant Street
Smokey Hill, Nebraska
It chilled my bones. Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll take Cricket to that Nebraska boutique . . . ever.

Dear Leona,
Aren’t creepy house dreams fantastic? Your dream gave me a delightful shiver . . . You opened my mind and let me look further into the blackness of the unexplained. I believe that something unknown really does exist out there and deep within our tired little minds we know it. We know it and we dream about it.
Thanks for sharing your dream with us. --W

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One Pleasant Street

Misery

Welcome back. The nightmares continue with bone crunching regularity from this dark and gruesome pit of evil. I’ve been asked to review random Horror Movie Flicks from time to time.
All movie reviews will be based on my personal opinion.
A thumbs up rating will indicate a good flick to watch on a dark night as the wind howls eerily around the eaves of your room. A thumbs down rating would suggest that you can feel free to melt the DVD down and recycle the plastic into a trick-or-treat Jack-O’Lantern for lugging candy around this Halloween.
Misery (1991) Horror-Suspense novel written by Stephen King, screenplay by William Goldman, and movie directed by Rob Reiner.
It’s no mystery to me that Kathy Bates won an Academy award for best actress with this flick. If you’ve read the book, you can see that her portrayal of the brutal nurse Annie Wilkes is downright uncanny. James Caan is also very believable as the unfortunate writer Paul Sheldon caught in the deranged clutches of his number one fan. You may want to cover your eyes when she swings back the sledgehammer.
This one is a must see for King fans and horror lovers. If you haven’t seen this yet, you may want to put this one on your MUST SEE list for this Halloween season.



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Misery

Seed of Evil

Devoted Reader,

Does violence beget violence? I suggest that maybe watching violent films, playing violent games, or reading violent novels may give one enough of a violence “fix” to get through the day. If that doesn’t work try the daily news! The world (and your own back yard) can be a violent place. Should some of that violence be censored? If you think about little kids (twelve and under) absolutely. Kids have enough to worry about just surviving peer pressure. They certainly don’t need a shot of extra violence on top of that! For your average Jane and Joe Middleclass, however, fictional violence may be more of a blessing than a plague.
Hopefully, the words below will give a few of us our Violence Fix for today. I call this delightful little tale . . .

Seed of Evil

The instant Claudia slipped backwards off the windowsill, she sensed the hundreds of feet of open space beneath her. What a rush!
The point of no return. The perfect ending to her life.
In her mind’s eye, Claudia pictured the devastation left behind as her body plummeted to destruction.
Her children, once beautiful sweet little babies, now slept the deepest sleep of all. How could she have known they’d become nagging and whiny? They drove her to it. Never giving her a moment’s peace. She felt no remorse. She had to do it. They had spied on her . . . watched as she buried the ice pick into their father over and over again.
Cried. Actually cried for him. How ungrateful. Didn’t they know she had done them a favor? Didn’t they know that she had to do it . . . he had found out about some of the others.
Once the necessary deeds were done she had thought about relocating and starting over; then she heard the sirens. Somebody had called 911.
No other way out now.
They’d never take her alive. The sidewalk rushed up and took Claudia’s life, but not before the evil seed planted behind her left ear had a chance to burst forth and bury itself in a female spectator. The spectator scratched at an itchy place behind her left ear and thought: What a beautiful way to die.

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Seed of Evil

Alma (part 2)

Devoted Reader,
Thank you for your patience. Below is the conclusion of Alma. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it . . .

Alma (part 2)

Frustrated, I kicked it and lashed out at it with my fists, pounding and yelling. I could feel panic rising inside me like flood waters. Holly, eyes wide and sparkling with tears, had backed into a corner. With both hands over her mouth she watched me bash at the attic door. I knew that my irrational behavior was frightening her. I must have looked like a candidate for a padded cell.
Finally exhausted, I put my back to the door and took deep breaths, trying to steady my nerves.
Holly was sobbing now.
Across the room, a ray of sunlight hit the glass of Alma’s old picture and sparkled there like a tiny light bulb.
(I should never have come back here.)
“I should never have come back here.”
“Mom,” Holly whispered through her fingers. “What’s the matter? Dad knows we’re here. He’ll come and get us.”
I sighed and plunked down on a box next to my daughter. “Of course he will, Honey. Of course he will.”
I felt the need to explain my actions to my daughter, although I wasn’t sure she was old enough to know about Alma.
“I was always afraid of Alma,” I began with a hoarse whisper.
(Alma could always hear . . .)
Briefly, I explained my fears. How Alma, born with a caul over her face, could do things: like move things and make herself or us bleed. Alma could roll her big blue eyes back until only the whites showed and make things happen.
What I didn’t tell her was about the day when Alma was twelve and I was thirteen. About the day when I put my hands around my little sister’s throat and squeezed until blood oozed from her nose and ears. Squeezed the nasty life out of my own sister right here, in this attic. Tied her heavy, lifeless body to the huge beams above and scrawled her suicide note.
When I had finished the story, I looked up—expecting that Holly would have questions.
I wasn’t prepared for the smirk on her face. Blood trickled from her little pug nose.
“Honey, did you cut your . . .”
A hideous chuckle gurgled from my daughter’s smiling lips. I watched as her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.
Horrified, I heard the tinkling of the nails inside their dusty glass jars. Like a hideous torrent of black rain those nails flew toward me.
Blinded by the flying steal, I heard only part of Alma’s words before the tip of Dad’s screwdriver stopped my heart.
“Now, we’re even, sis . . .”

Alma (part 2)

Alma (part 1)

Devoted Reader,
Halloween, to me, is more of a feeling than a holiday. The chills and thrills that I get from watching those old horror movies flit across my television screen just make me feel alive! Call me twisted if you must but I just know that there are many other horror fans out there like me who shiver at the thought of all the cool horror stuff spewing from our televisions at this particular time of year.
It was my love of watching old horror movies, reading scary mystery books, and never missing my favorite science fiction television shows that spurred me towards at little ultra creative writing of my own.
This story is somewhat longer and will be entered here in two installments. I hope you’ll come back tomorrow to see how the story ends . . . Alma would really like that!
I call this tale . . .

Alma (part 1)

“Hey, Mom, who’s this,” Holly yelled, waving an oval picture frame at me from across the attic.
Could it be, I thought squinting through the flurries of dust motes Holly’s waving had created. Alma, my God, I hadn’t let myself think about Alma in years. I could feel a pulse throbbing above my right eye as I snatched the picture from my daughter for a better look. The sweet little girl in the picture had large blue eyes and masses of curly blonde hair tied back with an aqua ribbon.
“It’s Alma,” I whispered, more to myself than to Holly. “My sister Alma.”
(Born with a caul over her face!)
“I have an Aunt Alma,” Holly asked, wrinkling her pug nose.
“No, Honey, Alma died long ago.”
“How come I never knew about her?” twelve-year old Holly questioned, hands on slim hips.
“Alma was . . . different. Our family never talked about her much. Come on, now let’s get Grandma’s attic cleaned out. The couple that bought this house would like to move in next week.”
“Why is her nose bleeding?” Holly was still studying the picture.
“Her nose isn’t bleeding, Honey.” I started folding up old clothes and sorting them into boxes.
“Holly, would you start over there in Grandpa’s corner? All those tools and jars of nails are going to the church. Can you pack them up in these boxes for me?’ I handed her two cardboard boxes.
“Mom, her nose IS bleeding.”
“No,” I said stubbornly. My hands trembled.
“Mo-om, look. It’s blood. Why take a picture of someone with a bloody nose?”
I didn’t want to look.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you wiping your hands like that?” Holly’s voice took on a high, fearful whine. Without thinking, I was scrubbing my hands across the old clothes.
I struggled to pull myself together for her sake.
“Nothing’s wrong, Honey. I’m fine, really. Just brushing off the cobwebs.”
(Blood on my hands—under my nails. Alma’s nose bleeding?)
A gust of wind whirled through the dust motes and hit the attic door, slamming it shut with a crash.
“I’m scared,” Holly whined. “Can we go home now?”
(Excellent idea. Let’s get the hell out of here.)
I hastily wiped my hands one last time on one of Dad’s old spaghetti strap tee-shirts. “I think we’ve done enough for today,” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “What say we go for ice cream and finish this tomorrow?”
Holly was already yanking at the door. Her wide blue eyes—
(Like Alma’s)
turned back to me, straining and stricken with fear. “The door won’t open,” she said in a panicky whisper. We’re locked in!”
“Don’t be silly. It’s probably just stuck.”
But the door wouldn’t open.

(continued in next installment)

Alma (part 1)

A Precious Stone

Are you ready to read a cool scary story? It is, after all, nine days until Halloween. I’m going to post one of my personal favorites – This was written by me in 1995, the time period of my life (midlife crisis) that I decided I would be a writer of Creepy Fiction . . . Please come with me now, as we explore the depths of my wickedness . . . I call this tale . . . A Precious Stone

“It’s past midnight, Cindy. Can’t this wait until morning?”
Dull granite dust shadowed Cynthia’s gray, haggard features. “Go to bed, Mother. You’re interfering.”
“But . . .”
“Go to bed, Mother.”
“How can I sleep with you down here? Every rap of that hammer grates on my nerves.”
“I have to finish. I have to finish it for me.”
“What then? What do you think will happen, Cindy? How much power
does that chisel have?”
“This is something I have to do.” Cynthia explained. “It should be of no concern to you.”
“You are my concern,” her mother said. “You’re sick. Knowing you’re down here in this damp basement . . . seeing you obsessed with this job—I care about you . . . not this . . . this outrageous thing you’re creating.”
“This thing, Mother? This thing will be my last and greatest triumph, my epitaph.”
Cynthia’s mother sighed, shivered, and hugged her arms closer to her body. She watched a trickle of ground water seep down in the corner of the stone foundation. “You haven’t eaten today. Can I bring you some hot soup?”
Cynthia’s thin face never left her work. Bony fingers clutching hammer and chisel continued to move spasmodically across drab gray granite. “No, I’m not hungry.”
“A sweater then, let me get you a sweater, it’s too cold and damp for you down here in your condition.”
Cynthia ignored her.
“Cindy,” her mother said, reaching for a thin moving arm. “My God,
you’re freezing. You’re as cold as . . .”
“As what, Mother?” Cynthia asked jerking her arm from her mother’s grasp and finally turning to face her.
Cynthia’s mother stepped back. Her daughter’s face, gray and hollow-eyed, appeared carved from the very same granite that she used for her work.
“I only . . .”
“You only want to keep me alive? Well you’re too late, Mother. I died. I died an hour ago.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Why am I still moving? Still working? Determination, Mother.
Something you taught me long ago. I made gravestones for a living. For other people. I couldn’t bear to let go of this one until I finished. Look at it. The detail. The beauty.
"Let me go, Mother. It's time to let me go now."

A Precious Stone

Other Voices

I find that many of today's literary magazines and anthologies seem to suffer similar limitations. Reflective and quietly contemplating stories are great if that's your bag.
I like horror!
There, I've said it.
Not only do I like to read stories and articles that are filled with violence, anger, turbulence, terror, blood, and monsters, but I actually go out of my way to search out such literature.
Nothing makes my day better than a well thought out monster or alien.
Yes, horror is finally taking its proper place as a genre and there is plenty of it to go around. Here horrors and mayhem will breath their chilled presence on any who dare to enter.
Don't be afraid! Unless, of course, you begin to hear the OTHER VOICES!

Other Voices