#fridayflash: Alma

Alma


“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 thin 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 steel, I heard only part of Alma’s words before the tip of Dad’s screwdriver stopped my heart.

“Now, we’re even, sis . . .”

End

#fridayflash: Alma

Letter from Denise P.

Letter from Denise P.

Dear Weezel,
I’m really scared and not sure what to do. I’ve been helping an old woman – Mrs. Candle – who lives at the end of our street. I think she’s more than 85 and she’s very bent and walks really slow.

Anyhow, Mrs. Candle gave me five dollars every week for coming over once a day and feeding Jessie (her dog), washing a few dishes, and sweeping the kitchen floor.

Last week, about three days before my thirteenth birthday, Mrs. Candle asked me to go upstairs and make up a bed in her guest bedroom because she expected a visit from her son, Harold.

Mrs. Candle’s house is really huge and looks almost exactly like the gingerbread house in the Hansel and Gretel book. I’d never been upstairs before or even in the front part of her house because Mrs. Candle spent all of her time in the four rooms at the back of the house, near the kitchen.

I found clean sheets at the top of the stairs in a closet where Mrs. Candle said they’d be. She sat on the stairs with a worried look on her face . . . It’s the same look I’ve seen on my grandmother’s face when I get too close to her glass bird collection. Mrs. Candle rasped instructions at me from her perch on the stairs. “Don’t forget to fold back the coverlet, dear.” Mrs. Candle calls everyone dear.

I got the bed made up in record time, and then took a moment to snoop around a little -- what a big mistake.

Mrs. Candle chattered away at the foot of the stairs and I answered her from time to time so she wouldn’t know I was snooping. I remember she was in the middle of a sentence when I opened the little door.

“It’ll be so nice to see Harold. He hasn’t been here to visit since . . .” Her words broke off and I heard nothing but silence from the stairs while my mind dealt with what it was seeing in that tiny room.

First I thought it was seaweed or cobwebs, and then I saw that it was hair -- gobs of dusty hair hanks in different colors. Hanging cloth pouches with strange symbols etched on them, and jars of worms, or slugs, maybe. The smell was cloying, like rotting meat.

“I think it’s time for you to come downstairs, dear.” The words, louder and clearer than her usual rasp, made me jump guiltily and I quietly closed the tiny door and backed away from it.

Mrs. Candle watched me walk down the stairs. Her usually pleasant old crumpled features twisted into a weird scary frown and she gripped my wrist in one of her wrinkled talons. “Are you a Nosey Parker?” She queried, her voice unusually steady. I couldn’t take my eyes off her mean expression. This was not the Mrs. Candle I was used to. “Should I tell you what happens to Nosey Parkers?”

I pictured the room full of hair, yanked my arm from her grasp and ran all the way home.

It’s been a week since that day and I was beginning to think it was all my imagination, but Harold Candle stopped by today to tell my parents what a nice job I did helping his mother out. He gave me a ten-dollar bill and asked me to continue helping his mother. The bill, faded and limp, had that same cloying rotten meat smell from that upstairs little room. I didn’t even want to touch it, but my parents were watching. What’s even worse is, now my parents expect me to go back there and earn those ten dollars.

What should I do?

Dear Nosey Parker Denise,
I suppose Mrs. Candle could have been a wig maker, but the smell that you mention from that room bothers me. I also think that Mrs. Candle’s attitude change that you described was a tad alarming. My advise is to put on some rubber gloves and tuck that ten dollar bill in an envelop, seal it and mail it back to Harold with a polite note resigning from that position. I’d also try to avoid that end of the street for the next few years. Good luck and don’t forget what curiosity does to Nosey Parkers. You didn’t take home any souvenirs from that little room I hope!
--Weezel

Letter from Denise P.

Secret Eyes (7)

As the rain thrummed on, I moved to stand by the front door. I wanted out. The sheer balefulness of the place disturbed me. My hives were hatching hives of their own and I kept glancing swiftly from side to side as if there were moving things on the edges of my field of vision. “True, could this place be haunted?” My voice had a shrill, tinny ring to it.
True looked at me, his big yellow eyes shining with excitement, “I suppose it could be. Might ‘splain why folks left it in such a hurry.”
I watched True carefully crunch his way through the rat turds to the dusty stone fireplace. Above the hearth was a painting that looked like it didn’t belong there. It took me a moment to realize what first gave me that impression, but then I noticed the cobwebs stopped short before reaching it. Apparently the spiders in this house had no eye for art. True clambered up on the hearth to get a better look, I was starting to shiver now inside my damp flannel shirt.
“Bernie,” he shouted, “Man, come and look at this.”
“No. I want to go home now. This place gives me the creeps. Come on, let’s get out of here.” My voice wavered to a scratchy whisper -- the longer we remained inside that house; the more hives erupted on my body. Only now I was too scared to scratch. I felt as though I needed to stay alert. Like there was something dangerous crouching unseen in the dusty corners of this old house – just outside my line of sight. Lurking . . . waiting . . .
“Man have you ever seen anything like this before? It’s the most amazing painting I’ve ever seen. It took me a while . . . but . . . well, com’ere and see for yourself.”
“What is it?” Eyes darting in all directions, I reluctantly scrambled up beside him. “What’s so special about it? Just a picture of Pancake Rock. You drew one yerself. I don’t see what yer so all fired worked up about . . . “
That’s when I saw them.
The painting, at first looked like an average work of art done in muted earthy tones of olives, golds, and browns, but when I looked just right . . . unfocused my eyes just a little bit . . . I saw them.
Eyes!
Hundreds of eyes were painted in with such skillfulness that to the average looker they melted into the scene with a watchful repugnance that made my skin crawl, hives or no hives.

Continued in the next post

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Secret Eyes (7)

Secret Eyes (6)

The house windows held enough grime to make peering through them quite a chore. Before I could rub myself a clean spot, True was turning the front door knob. I pretty much stuck to his heels from then on. The house smelled bad, rotten and decaying like punky old wood you’d find in the forest. Inside it also reeked, but a different stench, more like urine and old wine.
The interior of the house was not what I’d expected. Instead of emptiness and desolation, it was completely furnished with old-fashioned flowery furniture. It looked as though the folks who’d lived there had gone out to tend the farm one day and never came back. Dirty dishes still littered the kitchen table. Old food on them would have long ago been devoured by rats, mice, and insects. Mouse droppings littered the floors and open surfaces. Our shoes crunched over the debris as we walked about. Cobwebs shrouded the rooms with an eerie filtered light.
“Bernie, look, it’s like I said before – what happened to the people who lived here?”
I could only shrug. Who knew?
“Something must have happened, they’ve been gone for a very long time. Should we check the other rooms in case they just up and died here?”
I nodded and we carefully creaked our way through the old farmhouse looking for clues to its abandonment. I breathed a calmer sigh when no bodies or skeletons turned up. All of the bedrooms were empty with neatly made beds – moth-eaten and grimy now – but in their day they had probably been neat. Old homemade quilts and braided rag rugs gave me an inkling of the way homes may have looked about twenty to thirty years ago. The room reminded me of old photos that my mother had, photos of my grandmother’s house when she had been a girl.

Continued in the next post

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Secret Eyes (6)

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)