Hindered Souls: Dark Tales for Dark Nights, page 5
“For what?” she hissed, knowing exactly what he meant.
“For another child.”
And with that, whatever feelings she still had and whatever thoughts of their future she had clung to were gone.
****
Bang!
René heard the door slam. Looking up startled she noted the mannequin’s cheek appeared swollen and inflamed. René briefly paused, her eyes fixated on the mark on the mannequin's cheek. As footsteps grew louder, she snapped out of her trance, shook her head and sighed. “Time to end this.”
As John entered the room, he quickly recognised the look in his wife's eye. “What’s up, my dear?”
“You know what’s up,” she said. “I think we need to end this once and for all. We can’t go on this way.” Her voice trembled.
“Oh,” John softly whispered. “So that's it then? We're giving up 5 years.”
“You don't love me anymore.”
“I've never stopped loving you. It's just recently you've made it so hard.”
“Well, I think it's for the best,” she muttered. Her eyes shifted to the floor as a tear formed in her eye.
“Please don't do this. We can make it work. I know we can. I can change… We can change. It’s just been hard since losing the baby.”
René's head snapped up, her eyes firing hate in his direction. “Anyway, you've been having an affair.” Her voice was no longer fragile but determined and full of venom.
“What? Of course I haven't. Why would you think that? And with who?” John said, slightly panicked.
“That bitch, Vicky, who else? Little slut! Well, just be warned she’ll never be a patch on me. No one will ever love you like I have!”
In the corner of René’s line of sight, just slightly behind the open door the mannequin’s head slowly tilted to one side. Her pale blue eyes—now alive—fixated on René.
René froze in place, incapacitated by fear, complexion instantly pale with fright as the sinister grin on its face grew.
As the mannequin slowly moved forward, now detached from her stand, all René could do was scream.
John rushed into the room in panic and froze at what he saw.
“My God! What's happened!” Panic elevated his tone.
“I—I don't know,” stuttered René.
“Not you!” John snapped. “Her!”
John rushed to the mannequin throwing his arms around her “My God what has she done to you?”
René collapsed onto the bed in disbelief “She… she's… What the hell is—“
“Shut up! What have you done to her? You evil bitch” John shouted in René’s direction. John raised his hand, gently tracing the outline of where the mannequin’s nose once was. “I’ll get it fixed my sweet. I promise, I won’t let her hurt you again.”
“Don't worry my love.” The mannequin’s gaze fixated back onto René. “It's my turn now.” She smiled.
****
“Why?” René struggled to get her words out as blood poured from her open mouth and mixed with the bright red lipstick that was smudged over her face.
“Because you didn't want me!” Muttered John. “You discarded me like you did her. She never wanted to go in the loft but I knew you had a fear of her and so I had no choice. I visited her regularly. The more you pushed, the more I visited. She was there for me when you weren’t. She was kind and she listened. I hurt too when we lost our baby, but unlike you, I had no one. I never wanted this. We never wanted this. This should have been you. We should have been happy.”
John began wiping the tears from his eyes. “Michelle was there, was willing to listen and comfort me when you wouldn't. Without her, I doubt I would have made it this far."
Blood had pooled around René's feet. The steel support that held Michelle proud was now forced through René’s back as she was hoisted onto the air. As her vision faded she lost consciousness.
****
As René regained consciousness one last time, she could just make out the scene playing before her. A young man sat holding his mannequin beautiful wife, vowing to love her until the end of time, regardless of her imperfections and insecurities.
John sat next to Michelle on the bed, gently rubbing the make up from her broken fibreglass face. He gently kissed her on the lips and ran his hand through her sculptured brown hair.
“I’m sorry."
“Don't be.” Whispered Michelle, holding John tight in her arms.
“Regardless, you will always be beautiful to me, my sweet gorgeous angel.”
Cornstalk
by Kevin M. Folliard
Uncle Jeb led his nephews past piles of swollen orange pumpkins and towering stacks of golden hay, toward the corn field on the outer edge of Stockton, Indiana’s Halloween Fright Farm. Eleven-year-old Craig had a shock of red hair and chubby complexion, while frail nine-year-old Kyle had Jeb’s sandy brown hair. The brothers wore the same maroon windbreakers, jeans, and neon green sneakers.
Uncle Jeb’s hands fidgeted. He took long, fast strides.
Kyle huffed and held up his hands. “Slow down, Uncle Jeb!” The boy rested his hands on his knees. He removed an L-shaped Asthma inhaler from his jacket pocket and took a puff.
After Kyle exhaled, his older brother gave him a shove. “Come on, Kyle! Uncle Jeb wants to smoke. You’re holding us back.”
Uncle Jeb gave his nephew a cock-eyed glare. “You think you know everything, huh, Craig?”
“Why else would you be in such a hurry to go into that stupid corn maze.” Craig gestured toward the “No Smoking” signs by the pumpkin patch, petting zoo, and hay ride line.
Uncle Jeb laughed. “Maybe I’m going into the maze cuz it’s fun?” He continued toward the ticket booth. A hand-painted sign read “Stockton Fright Farm’s Famous Corn Maze: Enter if you dare! $3 Admission.”
“Three.” Uncle Jeb slapped a ten dollar bill against the counter. A dour, red-faced man slid Uncle Jeb a single. “Keep the change.” Uncle Jeb grinned. “I’m plannin’ on gettin’ lost in there!”
The man didn’t even crack a smile.
At the start of the maze, three paths carved into the crusty gray field. Uncle Jeb clicked his flashlight and motioned for the boys to follow him down the right-hand path.
Craig rolled his eyes and glanced around the corn field. “This is lame. The corn isn’t even that high, you couldn’t get lost out here if you tried.”
“We’re not that far in yet,” Kyle said. “It probably gets scarier.”
“I don’t see any actors or scary props,” Craig said.
“Maybe they’re hiding?” Kyle suggested.
“Listen to your brother,” Jeb said. “Sometimes the scariest stuff doesn’t start that way.”
“Look!” Craig pointed at the horizon. “You can see the McDonalds golden arches. I can hear the highway right over there. You can’t get lost in this maze. It’s not scary.”
“Who says you have to get lost to be scared, anyway?” Uncle Jeb smacked a pack of cigarettes against his palm. He flicked his lighter. Yellow flame cast an orange glow against his grizzled face.
Craig smirked.
Uncle Jeb gave his nephew a knowing glance and lit up a fresh smoke. He took a long drag and carefully exhaled into the wind, away from his nephews. “I mean it certainly helps to be lost to get scared. But then again, there’s more than one way to get lost, isn’t there?”
Craig laughed. “This whole Fright Farm is dumb, Uncle Jeb. We should be trick-or-treating, but the village ordinance makes everyone stop at seven.”
Uncle Jeb exhaled. Smoke swirled in the breeze and wafted between rows of corn. “You ever think there might be a good reason for Stockton’s curfew?” Uncle Jeb aimed his light down a new pathway and continued into the maze.
“What’s the reason?” Kyle asked as they followed. “Our dad said that when you were kids you could trick-or-treat all night.”
Uncle Jeb flicked soft fireworks of orange embers. “Too many kids went missing.” He took another drag.
A chill breeze rustled the stalks, delivering the earthy scent of manure. In the distance, cars droned down the expressway. Faint giggles and chatter carried from other groups hiking down neighboring pathways.
Finally, Kyle asked, “What do you mean kids went missing?”
“On account of her.” Uncle Jeb struck down a new path.
“Who’s her?” Craig asked.
“I hate to say her name out loud on Halloween, you know?”
“No,” Craig snickered. “We don’t know.”
“Okay, but if you make me say her name, then I gotta tell the story. And if I tell the story, then you gotta have respect. Because if she’s lurking nearby, she’d be hard to spot.”
“Why?” Kyle whispered.
“Because she’s short. Shorter than you boys. Like a midget.”
“Little people,” Kyle said. “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”
“I’m afraid there aren’t many polite words to describe Lottie Lester.”
“Lottie Lester?” the boys repeated in unison.
“Now we’ve done it!” Uncle Jeb sucked one last drag off his smoke and sighed as he exhaled a gray plume. “We all said it.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette, stomped it into the dirt and prepared a new one.
“So?” Craig asked.
“So now I have to tell the story.” Uncle Jeb’s lighter flickered. “I’d better make this quick. Chances are Lottie’s ears are burning. She’s probably creeping down from Thatcher’s Woods right now, heading for this field.”
“What!” Kyle’s eyes swelled with fright.
Craig punched his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t be a baby, Kyle. He’s making this up.”
“Wish I were.” Uncle Jeb continued down the path. “Can’t believe you boys never heard the rhyme. I guess they stopped telling it after all those kids disappeared.”
“What rhyme?” Kyle asked.
“Lottie Lester, born to Esther. Burned her father, stabbed her sister.” Uncle Jeb exhaled. “Well now I’ve done it. She really hates the rhyme. She’s gettin’ mad.”
Kyle quickened his pace. “Maybe we should go back to the car, Uncle Jeb,” he said. “You can smoke in the parking lot, right?”
Uncle Jeb flicked ash. “This smoke isn’t bothering you is it, Kyle?”
“Nah.”
Jeb smiled and rustled Kyle’s hair. “You just let me know if it does, and I’ll stop.”
“The smoke’s not bothering him.” Craig dawdled behind. “He’s just being a ‘fraidy cat.”
“Am not!”
Craig scoffed. He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and swiped at the touchscreen. Videogame sound effects chimed and popped.
“Pay attention, Craig,” Uncle Jeb said. “Put that game away, because understanding this story, on this night, about this woman—creature--whatever she is—could mean life or death.”
“Ha! Ha!” Craig said. “I’m listening. I can do two things at once.”
“Who is she, Uncle Jeb,” Kyle asked, wide-eyed. “Who’s Lottie Lester?”
“It all started over a hundred years back with an outcast witch named Esther. The farming community that settled here drove her out of town, not just because she practiced witchcraft. That sort of thing is always easy enough to hide. But Esther was monstrously ugly. She had a face like a rusty frying pan, warts and scabs and unsightly skin tags all up and down her arms and legs. Her hair was coarse as steel wool. Her ears were ragged like something had been chewing on ‘em all her life.
“The people thought since Esther was ugly, she was somehow bad. Of course she wasn’t, not at first. But after being treated so poorly, driven out of town, forced to live in a beat up shack in Thatcher Woods and catch rats for dinner. Well after all that, I’d be mad, wouldn’t you boys?”
“I guess so,” Kyle whispered.
“I wouldn’t get mad.” Craig’s phone cast an electric white glow on his face. “I’d get even.”
“That’s what Esther did. She collected herbs, spiders, snake venom, and bat blood to brew a special concoction. Over the course of a waning moon, the mixture slowly simmered in a black cauldron above plumes of blue fire. Once it was just right, she crept into town in the dark of night with her potion and snuck onto the Lester Farm.
“The Lesters were a wealthy, respected family who helped settle the town. In fact, their land was right around this area, if I recall. Right where Stockton hosts this pumpkin patch and Halloween Fright Farm every year.”
“Yeah right, Uncle Jeb!” Craig snorted with laughter.
Uncle Jeb shrugged. “Maybe not right here. But somewhere close. The Lesters’ firstborn son Lucas was 18 at the time, the most handsome and eligible young man in town. With her special witch’s brew tucked under one arm, Esther scaled the farmhouse and snuck into Lucas’s bedroom. She hexed him so that he awoke, but couldn’t move or yell for help. Then she forced that potion down his throat.
“A potion like that--with spiders and snake venom, the diseased blood of flying rodents—well, it must have tasted like the most awful thing on Earth. Modern science would suggest it probably should have killed him! But when Lucas Lester awoke the next morning, he was very much alive, and one hundred percent in love with the old witch who lived in the woods.
“Lucas was too ashamed to admit it to his family, but he thought about Esther all day, every day. He couldn’t help himself. As soon as the rest of the town was asleep, he’d sneak into the night, trek up to Thatcher’s Woods, knock on the rickety cabin door, and find Esther waiting with scabby, mole-covered open arms.”
“Ew!” Craig shouted. “Uncle Jeb, this story is disgusting!”
“How could anyone, no matter what potion they drink, want to kiss someone with a frying pan face?” Kyle asked.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, boys. Esther’s potion changed Lucas’s eyes so that he saw something he liked. It’s the darkest most terrible kind of magic. An evil witch can make you love someone you hate--or worse, hurt someone you love. In any event, their secret love affair went on for months. But eventually the spell broke when Esther became with child. Lucas’s child.
“The old witch marched into town and declared to everyone that she carried the heir to the Lester estate. Of course nobody believed her. Even Lucas, once the spell had run its course, could only remember his time with Esther like a strange detached nightmare. They ran Esther right back out of town and threatened to kill her if she ever returned.”
“What about the baby?” Kyle asked.
“The baby was born under a full moon. Esther bled to death in childbirth, but with her final breath, she named her daughter Lottie and summoned a pack of wolves to spirit Lottie to safety.”
“Fake!” Craig said.
“I wish.” Uncle Jeb lit another cigarette. They came upon a new fork in the corn. “Hm.” Uncle Jeb scoured a full three-hundred and sixty degrees. “Gotta admit, I’m turned around. Which way did you say that McDonalds was, Craig?”
Craig looked up. Both boys scoured the air above the cornstalks, but saw only black sky and white stars. The highway noise had quieted as well. Dry leaves rustled.
“I guess this way is good as any.” Uncle Jeb turned down a rugged, overgrown pathway. Fallen stalks snapped under his boots.
The boys hurried after him. “Finish the story, Uncle Jeb!” Kyle said. “What happened to Lottie?”
“This story makes no sense,” Craig huffed. “How would Lottie even know her own name? How would anyone know about a baby born alone in the woods if her mom died?”
“Word travels down the generations,” Uncle Jeb said. “You just trust in that, Craig. And stay sharp, because here come the parts of the story Lottie Lester hates most. I’ll just bet she’s shuffling her way through this corn field right now. Trying to find the people talking about her.”
Kyle took a shuddered breath. Craig noticed his brother’s hand slip into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around his inhaler.
“Hey, Uncle Jeb,” Craig said. “You’re really scaring him. Come on.”
Uncle Jeb glanced down at his nephew’s trembling hand in his pocket. “All right, Kyle, relax. We’ll finish up the story and get a move on. Just take a puff if you need to.”
Kyle brought the inhaler to his mouth, pressed it with a loud hiss. Held his breath, then released.
Uncle Jeb patted Kyle’s shoulder. “Stay sharp guys. Speak up if you notice anything funny.” He dropped his cigarette and snuffed orange embers beneath his boot. The boys followed him down the darkening pathway.
“Kyle can’t handle this story,” Craig teased. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“I can too!” Kyle snapped. “I want to hear the end.”
“It’s fake anyway,” Craig insisted. “If Lucas was too ashamed to tell anyone what he did, and then didn’t remember what happened, why would anyone else know? How could wolves teach a baby to speak or walk or do any of the things that people do? Nobody would have known that any of this happened.”
“If Kyle wants me to finish, I’ll finish. Besides, Lottie did learn to speak. She learned witchcraft too. She grew up wild in the woods, with wolves and toads for company during the daytime. But at night, her mother visited her dreams, told her who she was, what she was.
“Like her mother, Lottie Lester was a hideous little thing. And I do mean little. She never grew past two and a half feet tall. She had stubby arms and legs and a flat face full of warts and zits. While Lottie Lester ate rats and slept in underground hovels, her father Lucas Lester got married and started a real family. He had a daughter Ellen, an angel of a girl with a voice like warm honey.”
“Does Ellen die?” Kyle whispered.
“Of course she does, dummy,” Craig snapped. “It’s in the rhyme: Burned her father, stabbed her sister.”
“Don’t get ahead of me, boys. As Lottie grew older, she delved even deeper into the dark arts than her mother. She didn’t need potions. Didn’t need to chant to pull off a spell. Lottie had a hard life, you see. No one to hold her. No one to show her love growing up. She fully embraced the wickedness of all the terrible spirits that lurk in the night. Lottie could hex a person just by looking at them.
