#fridayflash: Pearls From the Past

Pearls From the Past

By Louise Dragon

Outside the wind howled over deepening snow drifts.  Choir practice over, we bundled into our wooly mittens and knitted hats.  Wind tugged the heavy church doors and smashed them against the sides of the old building.  Puffs of cold powdery whiteness melted on my face as we raced into the blizzard, our cumbersome boots rattling buckles like jingle bells.

Christmas Eve, Santa Claus was coming tonight!

So much to do.  My mind raced over last minute touches to finish on my homemade gifts and settled on the hanging of the biggest sock in my sock drawer.  Maybe I could borrow one of Dad’s socks?

Marianne, my older sister, chugged along beside me while Bess, the youngest of us pranced sprightly through the snow singing in her off-key voice, “ave, ave, ave, Mar-EE-a.”

“I hope I get a new bike,” I said skipping over the frozen wasteland of Railroad Street.

“I hope I get one of those new Barbie Dolls with the hair that really grows,” Bess chimed in.  Her cheeks were as red as her scarf.  Her little six-year-old legs were having a difficult time keeping up with us so I stopped for a moment to snap a giant icicle from Joe Zarnick’s roof.  I used this weapon to stab repeatedly at the sweeping branches of the huge pine tree in front of Joe’s house.

“Deeze, come on, you’ll make us late,” Marianne snapped.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said pausing to for a few more stabs at the tree.  I wonder if trees feel pain, like people do.

“You’ll get the onion again this year.” Marianne stated, hands on hips.

“Will not,” I replied making a mock stab at her with my icicle sword.  “You’ll get it for being such a snot.”

“Betcha you get it again,” Marianne taunted.  “You’re worse than I ever thought of being and everyone knows it, even Santa.  Stay out here and freeze for all I care.”

Unable to come up with a smart retort, I clamped my mouth shut and followed her into our warm parlor.

“Take your boots off.” Ma shouted from the kitchen.

On the kitchen table I found a small square package at my place on the kitchen table.  It was wrapped in brown paper and scrawled on top were the words—MERRY CHRISTMAS—TO: DENISE PERRY, 13 WILLOW LANE, FARNUMS, MASS.  The return address simply stated – FROM: SANTA.

The package! My rich Godparents must have sent it from Easton.  I whispered to Marianne under my breath, “Who cares about the stupid onion.  Look what I got!”  I grabbed the package eagerly.

“No, no, no,” Ma yelled.  “You go put that under the Christmas tree.  You know that no gifts get opened until after church tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told, shaking the gift for rattles, and loosening a strip of tape along the way.  I stared hard at the small package sitting alone under the huge Christmas tree.  What could it be?  A gold locket?  A watch, or maybe even a camera?

The package haunted me as I tried to force myself to sleep on that long ago Christmas Eve night.

“Oh come let us adore hi-IM, Chri-IST the Lord.”

From the balcony of the old church, I could see Ma, Dad, little Eva, and baby Lukey sitting up in front before the replica of the old manger.  From way up here I marveled at the softly glowing faces of the Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.  As the final strains of the song left my lips, my stomach tightened – threatening nausea, and my knuckles turned white as they clutched the old railing before me.  My mind traveled far from here.  It floated back home to gaze with rapture at the stacks of gifts under our Christmas tree at home.

The Presents!  So many!  In moments I’d be back there in my rightful place beside the worn blue couch tearing at wrappings and trying out that new blue bike I’d seen tucked away in the corner under some brightly wrapped gifts.

The spicy aroma of church incense along with the wet wool smell of too many bodies on that small balcony made my head reel and my stomach flip-flop threateningly.  In the distance, a mournful long blast of the train whistle broke through the church proceedings and people tumbled from the small building.

The walk home seemed to take hours.  How could parents and siblings move that slow when they all know about the excitement ahead?

I saved the small brown-wrapped package for last.  As everyone gathered about, I carefully peeled back the paper to expose a small glass decanter filled to the brim with marble-sized white pearls.  The fancy top was attached with a strip of silver tape, which I immediately removed.  An aromatic scent of pine and lavender filled the room when I carefully lifted the lid.

“Oh, bath oil beads,” Ma announced.  “Aren’t they pretty?  Be sure to send a proper thank-you note to Aunt and Uncle.”

Everyone scattered to play with their new stuff.  That glass jar of spongy sweet-smelling orbs was fascinating.  Easily the most beautiful and grown-up present I’d ever received.  Glints of Christmas tree lights reflected from their smooth pearly surfaces.  If I stared hard enough, I could even make out the shapes of Ma’s favorite old Christmas ornaments mirrored on the small spheres.

I may have dozed with my little jar of precious gems, right there beneath the tree.  Perhaps, oh, I pray this is true, just perhaps the events that followed were dreams.  I wasn't that much of a troublemaker—not at that age.

I remember counting out the beads.  They made cool little plunking sounds as I dropped them into the jar.  Unfortunately, once I’d removed them all, I could not get them to all fit snugly back in their places in that jar again.  Since two beads refused to be squashed back in, I took them to the bathroom to try them out.

Steam fogged the windows of our little bathroom as I ran warm water into the big claw-footed tub.  After dropping in the two beads, I remember feeling a trifle disappointed because they were so white that they disappeared into the water leaving behind nothing but a hint of pine-lavender fragrance.  I leaned my head back against the cool high back of the big tub and let the silky fragrant water caress me.

Suddenly, I sat bolt upright.  Something had bitten me.  The cooling water had a kaleidoscopic oily coating, like gasoline in a mud puddle.

Ouch, my ankle.  Mixed in with the pleasant pine smell I detected an underlying aroma of onion.  I wanted to vomit.

Ouch, my knee. I yanked it quickly above the surface to find a small round bead attached to my skin.  As I stared at it, a thin trickle of blood ran into the water leaving a thin, wavering streak.  I poked at the bead, which produced another bite of sharp pain with a similar trickle of blood.  As I studied the bead, its smooth whiteness formed striations like those of a small onion.  It bulged and pulsated as I watched.

Smack.  I spattered it like a fly. Blood and a viscid-looking yellow pus-like substance sluiced down my leg and began to form a new little round onion shape.

I jumped from the water, my heart pounding.  The other bead was fastened to my belly, just above the navel.  When I tried to pull it off, it dug in deeper, like a tick burrowing into its host.  I tried to scream for help, but only a hoarse croak came out.  My throat was locked with fear. The wound on my knee itched maddeningly while the pain in my belly pulsed with each bulge of that accursed bead-thing.  Finally, I gritted my teeth and yanked that sucker off.  The pain exploded through my being as I dropped the damnable little thing into the toilet and flushed.  Horror visited yet again as I watched the swirls of water flow over the thing’s tiny snapping mouth -- smeared red with my blood.

 It only took a few minutes to find the other bead pulsing weakly on the bottom of the empty tub.  It went into toilet also along with each of the other beads in the jar.  I counted them as they plunked into the water and then took a deep breath once they were gone.

I tried to tell Marianne about the beads.

“Don’t be silly, Deeze.  Stop trying to irritate everyone with your foolish stories.  It’s Christmas.  Stop lying and try to behave.  No wonder you get the onion every year in your stocking.  Santa Claus is trying to teach you a lesson.”

“But . . . But . . . I have a bite on my stomach . . . They tried to kill me,” I said pulling up my pajama top to show the angry welt.

“Oh, wow,” Marianne jeered.  “It’s only a pimple.  Now shut-up and stop trying to ruin everyone’s Christmas.”

“But . . . But . . .” I said to her disappearing back.

Heeding Marianne’s advise, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ruin everyone’s Christmas.  I dutifully sent a thank you card to my Godparents.  I didn’t blame them.  Those beads didn’t come from my rich Godparents.  Those beads came from Santa Claus, himself.  He sent them as a warning that I’d better start behaving, or else.

I tried my best to heed his warning.  You see I counted those beads when I dropped them down the toilet that long-ago Christmas day.  Counted and there were only twenty-one beads left in the jar.  I know that two beads stayed behind to watch over me.  To make sure I’m behaving.  Whenever I enter that bathroom I hear them skittering around in the corners.  Always just out of sight.  I know they are there.  I know, so now I behave.

end

 

#fridayflash: Pearls From the Past

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Five)

Such A Fine Son (Part Five)
by

Louise Dragon

Joy Wheeler’s bitter words dogged Lyle for a fortnight.

Get rid of it—get rid of it—get rid of it.

When he found time to power nap between emergencies, his dreams clouded with grisly images: fearsome monsters chewing and clawing their way through the womb of helpless Wendy Wheeler.

Spots of anemic pink blood spattered on white . . .


Dark hollows circled Lyle’s eyes like smudged ink but he refused to allow his lack of rest to affect his work. With steady hands he continued to save the battered lives of trauma victims rushed into his care from dusk until dawn. When he wasn’t scrubbed and engaged in the ER, Lyle made rounds to check on his patients or attempted power naps in the intern’s quarters.


Tap, tap, tap.


“Doctor, Detective Steiger is asking for you.”


The squeak of a door hinge and Maggie’s anxious face emerged haloed in a slice of light from the hall.


“Doctor . . . there’s been another incident. The police need to talk to you.”


“I’ll be right there, Maggie.”


Wearily, Lyle rubbed his aching eyes and ran a hand over his raspy shadow of whiskers. Gathering his hair back into the ever-popular tail, Lyle took time to run a toothbrush over his gummy teeth and slosh a little water over his haggard features.


Striding into his office, Lyle could find no sign of Detective Steiger’s presence except for a faint whiff of spearmint. Puzzled, Lyle backed out and gave Maggie a questioning look. She quickly pointed toward Wendy’s room before returning silently to her med. charts.


Through the patch of glass imbedded high on the door, Lyle could see Detective Steiger. The rugged young cop had hold of one of Wendy’s tiny hands. His lips were moving but Lyle couldn’t hear the words through the heavy oak door. The sight of Wendy spurred Lyle’s emotions. The normally slack blue-gray eyes typically gazed straight ahead. Those eyes, still quite dull and lifeless, now seemed trained on the face of the babbling detective. Concern gushed over Lyle. His hands clenched and unclenched. A gout of anger pushed him through the door.


“You were looking for me, detective?”


“Yes, can she hear us?”


“We believe that, yes, coma patients do hear and remember what goes on around them. You were talking to Wendy just now when I came in. Tell me, did you get a response from her? Anything at all?”


“She seemed to be paying attention to me, although she never moved a muscle.”


Lyle sighed. “I thought as much,” he replied scratching his raspy beard.


“Has she said anything since I brought her in?” the detective inquired.


“I’m afraid not, it’s still too soon after her ordeal. Shall we talk in my office?”


As he followed the detective from the room, Lyle glanced back at Wendy’s prone shape, little potbelly just beginning to make a dent in the blanket. The expressionless blue-gray eyes stared straight ahead.


“What seems to be the problem?” Lyle asked, holding open his office door and motioning Detective Steiger inside.


“Doctor, I’m sure you’re familiar with Wendy’s mother, Joy Wheeler,” the detective began speaking carefully around his massive wad of gum.


“Yes, quite,” Lyle returned, expressionless.


“Well, we found what was left of her scattered about the foot of Coca-Cola Ledge.”


“Suicide?” Lyle questioned.


“Hardly,” the detective shot back. “She was literally torn to pieces. Chewed up and spit out like an old hamburger.”


Lyle noticed that Detective Steiger seemed to be studying his face for a reaction of some sort. Although the detective’s words affected him hardly at all, he tried to compose his features into what felt like a look of shock and surprise. Steiger finally seemed satisfied with Lyle’s facial expression and continued.


“Could be the same perpetrator as that of the girl.”


“Soooooo . . .” Lyle prompted.


“Well, nothing, I guess,” the detective muttered chewing vigorously on his gum.


“If the girl still isn’t talking, I’m pretty much dead-ended here.”


“Like I said,” Lyle stated, “It’s still too soon. While Wendy has healed well physically, her mental state is still working to recover from her ordeal.”


“Well, keep me posted, Doc.” Steiger left the floor in his customary haze of spearmint.


Lyle splayed his hands on his desk blotter to keep them from clenching and unclenching uncontrollably. His head ached from battling the deep-seated fury that seemed about to consume him.


“Control,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “100, 99, 98, 97, 96, control.”


Lyle’s breathing slowed and his head cleared. Incident all but forgotten, the young doctor began his early morning rounds.

Continued . . .

Link to Part One (Such A Fine Son)

#TuesdaySerial: Such A Fine Son (Part Five)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XI

Wrenge (11) by Louise Dragon

It was approaching midnight when Brad left Nietupski's. He stood on Alec's porch for a moment gazing at the peaceful indigo sky.
He wished he had never come here.
What a mess this was.
He wished he had never known Wayne and Elizabeth Michaels.
What made Brad angriest was Joyce Nietupski putting one over on his father. Brad would never forget that his father sent an innocent man to prison. He hated that stain on his father's memory, would give anything to erase the discovery from his mind. His father -- duped by conniving women yet again.
Driving through the deserted park by Mount Moriah Brad's mind replayed sentences from the rhymes. He knew the words by heart now. Alec had said that everything they needed to send the Wrenge back to where it originally slithered out, was in those words.
(Cast your shadow in his wake, Blood and bone from the wicked take.)
Brad tugged an old picture of Wayne Michaels' death room from his memory. Blood had been there, bone too. The shadow?
Hell, the room had been full of shadows. Alec had said that the shadow was important. Which damn shadow?
Brad pulled his car into the rest area at the mouth of Moriah Gorge. He needed to think, damn it.
He realized that it bothered him most that the Wrenge was female. Brad had never been afraid of a woman before. Never considered them worthy adversaries . . .
(Until now?)
He felt like Rocky Balboa, a little excited at challenging a worthy contender. He'd have to think it through, however. Not rush headlong into something this bizarre with no gloves or protective cup. Didn't want to end up on the ropes looking at the wrong end of a limb!
As Brad sat thinking, mulling over the words from those mysterious rhymes, a stroke of luck -- one that even surpassed all of Rocky's contrived performances -- floated out over the top of Mount Mariah.
Brad sat perfectly still in his car. Tiny little pings from the cooling engine seemed as loud as gunshots.
A dark brooding hulk lifted from the top of the high craggy cliff before him and floated out toward the the center of Memphis. In mesmerized silence, Brad watched until the thing disappeared over the purple horizon.
(Okay, bitch. Now I know where you live!)

~~~

Continued in next post . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XI

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XI

Wrenge (11) by Louise Dragon

Nietupski explained to Brad that to make proper sense of the whole affair, he'd have to begin with a little family history.
Apparently Nietupski's mother, young, pretty Joyce Ashton Nietupski, unbeknown to her husband, had been a victim of serious child abuse, for years, at the hands of her domineering father.
Sometime during her high school years, Joyce had become fascinated with historical Mythology and, to keep from having to spend time at home, she threw herself into those studies. The Wrenges and Furies, winged avengers from The Underworld who were known to punish for crimes that had escaped detection, had particularly intrigued her. Joyce became obsessed with her knowledge of these iron willed vigilantes said to travel up from the gates of hell to dispense their own brand of hideous justice.
She spent hours delving through old dusty volumes in the library and discovered that whenever enough frenzied anger spilled into the Netherworld at death, an Wrenge could be born. The Wrenge could travel up through a winged portal leaving behind her mark in the portal as a warning of her presence on earth.
Joyce figured she needed the Wrenges more than anyone. She needed them to defeat her father. To punish him for his cruelty.
Along this time, Joyce discovered black magic rituals designed to call demons up from the gates of hell to do the sorcerer's biding. She began to practice these rites, sacrificing small animals, burning black candles in tins of graveyard dirt, and chanting singsong phrases. Still her father lived on.
To escape him, Joyce married Joe Nietupski, a nice man from the east side of the city who might shield her from the monster who had raised her. Late at night, Joyce practiced her sacrificial rites in the basement of the old mission church where she and Joe lived. Her daughters, Meg and Tisi, where named after Wrenges from the myths. As they grew older, they worked with Joyce and developed their own adept skills in black magic.
Alec had been born much later -- around the time Joyce and the girls were discovering human sacrifices. Old man Ashton was still alive and well while Joyce had become thin, sickly, and old before her time. She continued to blame her father for everything that was wrong with the world.
In her eyes, once the old man was dead she would then live the life she was intended to live. Sacrificing a real human was, to her, a last chance for retribution. Her own colossal anger at having to commit this vile act would surely bring forth the Wrenges.
Many years later, Joe had explained that last day to Alec. Explained how Joyce and the girls had wanted to die. Had begged him to kill them so that they could be the portals for the Wrenges. Since he refused, they slashed their own naked bodies and drew winged portals on their flesh and the walls. Slashed open their own throats as Joe helplessly watched them die. The ultimate human sacrifices.
A few days later, Bradley Swistack, Senior, came and took Joe away. Alec never saw Joe again until he buried his father's body a few weeks ago.
Alec had blamed Joe for the death of his mother and sisters until his twenty-first birthday. On that day, he received the only letter his father ever sent to him. The letter with the truth and the key to the forbidden basement room. In the basement, Alec had found his mother's relics. His father had tacked the one empty portal above the front door before he was taken away. It was to be a gruesome reminder for Alec. Death isn't always permanent. "What do you mean by 'empty portal'?" Brad asked, confused.
"Well," Alec said. "See the red symbols inside the oval on the portal that you brought?"
"Yes," Brad replied glancing at the drawing in question.
"The portal that's tacked above my door, the one that belonged to my father. It's empty -- no symbols inside the oval.
It's those symbols that worry me. I remember what my father wrote, 'the Wrenge travels up through a winged portal leaving behind her mark as a warning of her presence on earth.' Why did you think I was so spooked?"
"Mr. Nietupski? The oval above your door is the same as this one," Brad said.
The color drained out of Nietupski's face. He rushed outside to confirm what Brad had told him, staggered back and threw himself into his chair. "I swear to you. It was a blank portal when Dad hung it there. Now it has those symbols in it.
This is worse than I feared. I'm afraid to go down and check the basement. Her stuff is still down there. Just like she left it.
I wanted to get rid of it, just couldn't bear to touch those things."
"Wait a minute, just wait a minute," Brad said. I sort of understand where you're going with this story, and everything. Not that I really believe all of this nonsense. Where does Elizabeth Michaels fit into all of it?"
"Who's Elizabeth Michaels?"
"She's the woman whose basement I found this in," Brad explained holding out the drawing.
"I don't know any Elizabeth Michaels," Nietupski said with a shrug.
"What about Turner, Elizabeth Turner?"
"Wait a minute, my sister Meg had a friend . . . Lizzy. It could have been Lizzy Turner -- blonde, attractive. Meg could have taught her about the Wrenges I suppose."
Brad didn't like it. Sure the story tied up a lot of loose ends, but it was just too friggin unbelievable! A friggin fairy tale from the friggin dark ages for Christ's sake. Still . . .
"Okay, Nietupski, say I buy your story. Are you trying to tell me there's some kind of demon out there killing guys off?"
"Well sort of. A winged demon. Female presumably.
According to what I've read, she could be a flawless beauty or a disfigured monster. Definitely winged though. Like a bat."

"Can it be killed?"
"No. I think it can be sent back though. Down there -- with my mother's things, there were pages from an old book . . .
Something about the shadow. It works through its shadow. Come on, I'll show you."
Brad followed Alec Nietupski down a narrow flight of stairs. The main part of the basement was like a neat concrete box, complete with the usual cellar things like furnace, spider webs etc. A small wooden door in a shadowy corner was locked with a padlock. This was where Nietupski headed, fishing a key out of his pocket as he scurried along. "Everything's just how she left it," Nietupski said. "Put this padlock back on myself ten years ago and haven't opened it since."
The hinges creaked loudly. The room smelled musty and old.

Dead.

The light switch didn't produce any light, so Nietupski grabbed a flashlight and fresh light bulb from a shelf by the stairs and went in first. Brad decided to wait for some light on the subject.
He watched the flashlight beam as the dark room swallowed it up, heard Nietupski screw out the old bulb and screw in the new.
The blast of light stung Brad's eyes, but not enough to ever make him forget the sights in that room. All of Brad's doubts about Nietupski's credibility vanished with that first flash of light.
A large stone altar ran across one entire wall. Above the altar was a large crumbly-looking sheet, like a page from a huge volume. Hieroglyphic-like characters danced around the largest winged oval Brad had yet seen in his investigation. Eight blood-red symbols were centered inside the oval. Right between its wings. Alec Nietupski was staring at the parchment -- his face
pale. "That one was blank, too," he whispered.

"What?"

"When I locked this room up, that portal was empty too. Now it has marks in it."
On top of the altar stood many twisted lumps of black wax, small dried bones, red and white vials, tin boxes of moldy sand, a large knife, and many broken old books and papers.
Brad picked up one old, yellow parchment from the top. On it was written a poem or chant of sorts:

A drop of blood, crimson red,
A pale white bone from the living or dead,
Falling tears from those mislead,
Dark earth resting across the dead.
The path of rage is up ahead.
Shadows of Wrenge are those of dread.

Brad jotted the strange words in his small notebook. They seemed important, somehow.
Most of what was written was in rhymes and riddles. Brad found another that also looked important and wrote these words down:

Oh sister Wrenge hear my cry
Ride with me across the sky
Called from the eyrie where shadows swell
Send offenders on to hell
Shadows cross where mortals walk
No more pretext, no more talk
Cast your shadow in his wake
Blood and bone from the wicked take
Tears and fears will end the ache

Nietupski continued to gaze up at the winged portal. Brad had to take his arm and physically lead the man from the depressing little room.
"Wait," Nietupski said. "There's another important passage here." The frightened man carefully moved aside some debris on the slab. "Here, here, write this down too, it must be important or they wouldn't have scratched it into the altar, 'Beware of watchers as you sleep, or to the eyrie your soul will creep.'"
Brad wrote it down with the others.
Upstairs, Brad showed Nietupski his notes.
"Mr. Nietupski can you help me decipher these riddles?"
"Officer, I think after all we've been through, you should be calling me Alec."
"All right, you can drop the Officer part too. I'm Brad. My visit was never official. Elizabeth Michaels was married to my best friend. I think he was the first victim of that Wrenge. Stabbed with one of his own bones. A real mess. No one at the station would ever believe this story. I
may need your help to stop this . . . this . . . whatever it is.
Can I count on you Alec?"
"It's falling together. It's all falling together, isn't it? Dad knew. It's why he kept drawing those empty portals.
When the symbols began to appear in his drawings he must have been petrified. All alone down there in solitary with nobody to talk to but the rats. Scared right to death!"
Tears flowed freely from Alec's bulging red eyes, reminding Brad of a curious statement that Nietupski had made earlier.
"Tears. You said something before about tears."
Alec swiped his arm across his face. "They use them – for their rituals -- my mother, sisters, probably Elizabeth Michaels.
Read back those words. There's something there about tears . . ."
Alec was right, it was all falling together. Brad, suddenly remembering the vials of liquids in Elizabeth's things, went back to the first rhyme that he'd written. "Falling tears from those mislead."
"They're tools," Alec said. "Blood, bones, tears, graveyard dirt, they're tools for calling up the Wrenges."
Brad felt cold. Slimy tentacles of fear slithered across the back of his neck.
~~
Continued . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge XI

Dragon Chronicles XXXV

XXXV. The earth trembles at Mortara
The Latin passage is opened shaped as a cynara
A prudent person is reduced to silence
His blood now poisoned in the sacred chalice

Dragon Chronicles XXXV

#flashfriday: Alma

Alma by Louise Dragon


“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.


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 . . .”
end

#flashfriday: Alma

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge V

Wrenge (5)
By

Louise Dragon



Wayne paced, stopped, opened the window, snapped on the television, lounged briefly in his recliner, and then jumped up and paced some more.


Glancing at his watch every five minutes, Wayne's restlessness carried him past the six o'clock news and into the old sitcoms. Murphy Brown's escapades did little to lighten Wayne's mood. But, by the time Roseanne told her third one-liner, about the same time as the sun slid behind Mount Moriah, Wayne lay nodding in his recliner. Thirty minutes later, while his soft snores and rigorously grinding teeth punctuated the quick responses of Rescue 911, a huge dark shadow filled the softly lit living room and then floated away.


Wayne mumbled in his precarious slumber. The shadow swooped again as the Wrenge soared closer in the indigo sky looking for a landing site.


The porch roof next door, with rough shingles for good footing, gave the Wrenge a perfectly unobstructed position.


Stationing herself where her shadow cast a visible stain on the Michael's living room carpet, the Wrenge folded her great wings protectively around herself and dozed peacefully in the cool autumn air.


Twisting and moaning in his uneasy slumber, Wayne suddenly bolted into consciousness. He sensed, rather than saw, the shadowy mark by the window. Shivering from the cold, rancid night air wafting through the open window Wayne felt his testicles tightening and the little hairs on the back of his neck stiffening. An incredible rush of aloneness swept him and a dull ache in his chest reminded him to breathe. Eery music wafted softly from the television. The remote lay three yards in front of him, on the coffee table. He longed to reach over and switch off that dreadful music but his limbs ached – they were also numb with inexplicable fear and refused to cooperate.


His jaw felt like he had been kicked in the face by a horse.


The room was dark.


Bluish light from the television did little to dispel the suffocating blackness that swelled with each cautious breath.


As his eyes grew accustomed to the murk they were drawn to the grayish patch of carpet just ahead. It looked more like a deep hole than a shadow. The oval shape yawned and stretched like a giant mouth ready to take a bite.


As Wayne worked to steady his breathing and try to rationalize his fear --


(just your guilty conscience at work)


-- the ever darkening shadow began to boil and twitch. Its edges rolled inward, like a waterfall of ink, while the center bubbled and frothed like liquid tar.


(Just a dream -- the music, the stench -- just my guilty conscience at work. I'll wake up soon.)


From the center of the churning darkness a delicate form rose. Faintly iridescent, it sucked in light as it glowed dark blue, violet, finally pale pink. Wayne heard a sucking-pop as the pink shape moved out of its inky pool.


The features stabilized into Elizabeth's face.


(Now I know this is a dream.)


Daintily, Elizabeth's pink, naked body stepped forward. Her smiling face was beautiful, unlined and glowing -- her body soft and round.


She looks just as she did on our honeymoon, Wayne thought.


His limbs felt heavy and his jaw throbbed. The television fell silent but he sensed it watching him with its single blue eye.


Elizabeth's rosebud lips parted.


"Blood," she whispered raising a graceful arm and pointing to Wayne.


Electrified by the sudden sound, Wayne's teeth involuntarily clamped shut: biting down hard on his tongue. The salty taste of blood gagged him as his eyes filled with tears and blurred his vision. Inert limbs suddenly reanimated -- flinging him out of the chair.


He was face to face with his dead wife's wraith.


Elizabeth's pointing finger dabbed briefly at the trickle of blood on Wayne's lip. Her touch was icy and damp like a slug inching across his mouth.


Sweat seeped from Wayne's pores.


A mottled purple tongue flicked from her mouth as the Elizabeth-thing licked his blood from her finger.


Wayne felt her fetid breath on his neck -- smelled the stink of decay, and, although he caught only a brief glimpse, he was sure he had seen festering worm holes and maggots on her dank purple tongue.


He could feel his gorge rising and clamped his teeth together. Fresh pain throbbed in his torn tongue and aching jaw.


The salty taste of his own blood and the pain in his mouth brought anger.


This was when the reality of Wayne's situation blossomed in his brain.


(Who in the hell does she think she is . . .)


Wayne's arm came up. Hand clenched into a fist. "Listen you . . ."


"Bone," the Elizabeth-thing whispered as she reached out a small pink hand and tore off Wayne's upraised arm at the shoulder.


For a dream this pain is awfully fierce, Wayne thought.


The cauliflower knob of bone on the end of the severed arm that Elizabeth clutched looked dreadfully real. So did the bloody empty socket on his right shoulder.


In a swooning haze, Wayne heard the raucous grating of his own teeth -- smelled the sickening odor of his blood and felt the sting of tears in his eyes.


With primal fear he watched Elizabeth peel back the flesh from his severed arm and tear out the bone -- it gleamed with a pink hue as Elizabeth's small hands stripped flesh away. Again his neck and chin were washed in the revolting stink of her breath as her rosebud mouth yawned exceptionally wide and chomped blackened teeth onto the nub of bone. The bone

broke with a distinct cracking sound leaving a sharp-looking, splintered fragment in Elizabeth's hands: hands spattered with droplets of maroon blood and orange bits of flesh and broken blood vessels.


"Tears," it whispered, touching Wayne's cheeks and lapping gory fingers with that worm-riddled tongue.


Fear mushroomed from Wayne's broken body when he saw that rosebud mouth moving toward him.


(She's going to kiss me.)


His scream was swallowed by her cavernous mouth clamping over his lips. A jolt, like electricity, coursed through his body as the bone splinter pierced his heart. With the last of his comprehension, Wayne felt his soul, or his essence – perhaps it was his tumultuous fear, sucked from his body like a modified abortion.


"Fears," the Elizabeth-metamorphosis whispered as she stepped back from the dead husk of Wayne Michaels and reentered the roiling shadow.


Rejuvenated, the Wrenge drifted silently through the indigo skies over Memphis.
~~~
Continued . . .

Link to Wrenge (1)
Link to Wrenge (2)

Link to Wrenge (3)
Link to Wrenge (4)

#TuesdaySerial: Wrenge V

#fridayflash: Wrenge

Lightening slashed open the raging black clouds. Thunder shook the rocky ground. She stood facing the wind and opened her wings. She was alive for the first time.
***
Wayne Michaels, murmured in his sleep. In his dreams, he again struck the fatal blow. He watched his wife tumble, in slow motion, down the stairs for the last time. Her mouth formed a round O of surprise; her reaching hands scrabbled for a hold. While he slept, Wayne clutched his hands behind his back. Clutched them tightly as he had on that night as his wife bounced from wall to stairs. Each thump echoed in his brain.

He could have saved her!

If he had only reached out one hand instead of stubbornly hiding his palms like a bad boy caught in the cookie jar.

But Elizabeth crashed to the bottom with one final thud.

From his place at the top of the stairs Wayne heard her gasp out her last breath: saw her chest rise once before she became motionless forever. Her once beautiful face locked into an angry mask of death so hideous Wayne had to look away.

In his nightmare, Wayne’s eyes moved from the fresh corpse to the window where the late afternoon sun swept golden rays across the carpet.

But the day darkened abruptly.

Chills gripped Wayne.

His thudding heartbeat gnashed and grated likes machinery.

“I’m coming,” a tiny voice grated in his ear. “I’m coming for you, Wayne.”

Wayne needed to wake up now. But as he turned toward the window again, a huge dark shadow swept by . . .

Jerked awake by something he couldn’t quite remember, Wayne Michaels shivered in the cool night air. Harsh grinding sounds plagued his ears. It took him a moment realize that his teeth were grating against each other. While he slept, he had kicked off the quilt and could feel goose bumps bubbling on his naked flesh. Rubbing his aching jaw, Wayne reached about on the floor. His hand encountered something soft just as a dark shadow blotted out what little light had been in the room. Shivering with fear that he couldn’t explain Wayne snapped on the bedside lamp. Yanking the quilt from the floor, he wrapped his chilled body and huddled miserably in the big empty bed, still rubbing his jaw. He hadn’t had a problem with grinding his teeth at night since he had been a child. He really hated sleeping alone. Damn Elizabeth. Why did she have to be so weak?

He left the light on for the rest of the night.

***

Two days later, Wayne paced, stopped, opened the window, snapped on the television, lounged briefly in his recliner, and then jumped up and paced some more.

Glancing at his watch every five minutes, Wayne’s restlessness carried him past the six o’clock news and into the sitcoms. Comedy escapades did little to lighten Wayne’s mood. But, by the time the sun slid behind Mount Mariah, Wayne was nodding in his chair. Thirty minutes later, while Wayne’s soft snores and rigorously grinding teeth punctuated the quick responses of a new TV rescue show, a huge dark shadow filled the softly lit living room and then floated away.

Wayne mumbled in his precarious slumber. The shadow swooped again as the Wrenge soared closer in the indigo sky looking for a landing site.

The porch roof next door, with rough shingles for good footing, gave the Wrenge a perfectly unobstructed position. Stationing herself where her shadow cast a visible stain on the Michael’s living room carpet, the Wrenge folded her great wings protectively around herself and dozed peacefully in the cool autumn air.

Twisting and moaning in his uneasy slumber, Wayne suddenly bolted into consciousness. He sensed, rather than saw, the shadowy mark by the window. Shivering from the cold, rancid night air wafting through the open window Wayne felt his testicles tightening and the little hairs on the back of his neck stiffening. An incredible rush of aloneness swept him and a dull ache in his chest reminded him to breathe. Eerie music wafted softly from the television. The remote lay three yards in front of him, on the coffee table. He longed to reach over and switch off that dreadful music but his limbs were numb with inexplicable fear and refused to cooperate.

His jaw felt like he had been kicked in the face by a horse.

The room was dark.

Bluish light from the television did little to dispel the suffocating blackness that seemed to swell with each breath.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the murk they were drawn to the grayish patch of carpet just ahead. It looked more like a deep hole than a shadow. The oval shape yawned and stretched like a giant mouth ready to take a bite.

As Wayne worked to steady his breathing and try to rationalize his fear—

(Just your guilty conscience at work)

The ever darkening shadow began to boil and twitch. Its edges rolled inward, like a waterfall of ink, while the center bubbled and frothed like liquid tar.

(Just a dream—the music, the stench—just my guilty conscience at work. I’ll wake up soon.)

From the center of the churning darkness a delicate form rose. Faintly iridescent, it sucked in light as it glowed dark blue, violet, finally pale pink. Wayne heard a sucking-pop as the pink shape moved out of its inky pool.

The features stabilized into Elizabeth’s face.

(Now I know this is a dream.)

Daintily, Elizabeth’s pink, naked body stepped forward. Her smiling face was beautiful, unlined and glowing—her body soft and round.

She looks just as she did on our honeymoon, Wayne thought. His limbs felt heavy and his jaw throbbed. The television fell silent but he sensed it watching him with its single blue eye.
Elizabeth’s rosebud lips parted.

“Blood,” she whispered raising a graceful arm and pointing to Wayne.

Electrified by the sudden sound, Wayne’s teeth involuntarily clamped shut: biting down hard on his tongue. The salty taste of blood gagged him as his eyes filled with tears and blurred his vision. Inert limbs suddenly reanimated—flinging him out of the chair.

He was face to face with his dead wife’s wraith.

Elizabeth’s pointing finger dabbed briefly at the trickle of blood on Wayne’s lip. Her touch was icy and damp like a slug inching across his mouth.

Sweat seeped from Wayne’s pores.

A mottled purple tongue flicked from her mouth as the Elizabeth-thing licked his blood from her finger.

Wayne felt her fetid breath on his neck—smelled the stink of decay, and, although he caught only a brief glimpse, he was sure he had seen festering wormholes and writhing maggots on her dank purple tongue.

He could feel his gorge rising and clamped his teeth together. Fresh pain throbbed in his torn tongue and aching jaw. The salty taste of his own blood and the pain in his mouth brought anger.  This was when the reality of Wayne’s situation blossomed in his brain.

(Who in the hell does she think she is . . .)?

Wayne’s arm came up. Hand clenched into a fist. “Listen you . . .”

“Bone,” the Elizabeth-thing whispered as she reached out a small pink hand and tore off Wayne’s upraised arm at the shoulder.

For a dream the pain was awfully fierce, Wayne thought.

The cauliflower knob of bone on the end of the severed arm that Elizabeth was clutching looked dreadfully real. So did the bloody empty socket on his right shoulder.

In a swooning haze, Wayne heard the raucous grating of his own teeth—smelled the sickening odor of his blood and felt the sting of tears in his eyes.

With primal fear he watched Elizabeth peel back the flesh from his severed arm and tear out the bone. It gleamed with a pink hue as Elizabeth’s small hands stripped flesh away. Again his neck and chin were washed in the revolting stink of her breath as her rosebud mouth yawned exceptionally wide and chomped blackened teeth onto the nub of bone. The bone broke with a distinct cracking sound leaving a sharp-looking, splintered fragment in Elizabeth’s hands: hands spattered with droplets of maroon blood and orange bits of flesh and broken blood vessels.

“Tears,” it whispered, touching Wayne’s cheeks and lapping gory fingers with that worm-riddled tongue.

Fear mushroomed from Wayne’s broken body when he saw that rosebud mouth moving toward him.

(She’s going to kiss me.)

His scream was swallowed by the cavernous mouth clamping over his lips. A jolt, like electricity, coursed through his body as the bone splinter pierced his heart. With the last of his comprehension, Wayne felt his soul, or his essence—perhaps it was his tumultuous fear, sucked from his body like a modified abortion.

“Fears,” the Elizabeth-metamorphosis whispered as she stepped back from the dead husk of Wayne Michaels and reentered the roiling shadow.

Rejuvenated, the Wrenge drifted silently across the indigo skies over Memphis.
End

Author's note: The first two sentences of my #fridayflash story: Wrenge, are courtesy of #storystarters – a Twitter Application.

#fridayflash: Wrenge