I hadn't considered the ghosts.

I have always wanted to live in a Victorian house. When the End came, we fled our home in the suburbs for the safety of the family farm. None of the surrounding farms were occupied anymore. It seemed that everyone else had fled for the comfort of the city. We declared squatters’ rights and found a place with a perfect vegetable patch and a well with a hand pump. The house was my dream, a Victorian home. We are safe here, if isolated from other living people. Just our family, dogs, chickens… and the ghosts. I hadn’t considered the ghosts.

Christmas for Georgina

December 22

The small girl shuffled down the street. She’d sold all her candies for the day, and had just enough money after the day’s sales to buy a day old cinnamon roll after she’d paid what was owed to Big Miss at the Center. She rubbed her dirty hands together for warmth and in excitement. Her stomach growled noisily. She hurried to the corner cafe.

As the door chime rang out, the clerk looked up from the paper he’d been reading. A smile softened his face as he saw the child enter.

“Georgina! How are you?”

The girl smiled shyly and cleared her throat. “I’m good, Mr. Brent. I need to use the loo, is that ok?”

“Go right ahead. I have a special treat for you when you come back.”

Georgina scurried down the corridor to the restroom. While washing her hands, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her dirty blond hair was passably clean, but messy, so she tried her best to tidy it. This accomplished she gave her face a cursory scrub and tossed her paper towel in the bin on her way out.

Brent handed the girl a big cup of cocoa, complete with whipped cream and even a muffin to eat. Georgina’s eyes grew wide in surprise.

“Oh, Mr. Brent, thank you! But I can’t pay you for this, I don’t have enough money!” A deflated expression settled on her face.

“Georgina, no need to worry! It’s Christmas! My gift to you, little one.” He smiled at her and turned to go back to the counter.

Christmas? What was Christmas? She wondered while she nibbled her muffin and sipped her cocoa. It seemed like something she should know but the memory was elusive. She looked around the cafe. Did Christmas have something to do with all the evergreen boughs she’d seen strewn around? And the music that had been piping relentlessly from storefronts?

Georgina sat for a long time, savoring the rare treats she’d been given. Mr. Brent had given her the food as a gift… a long forgotten memory drifted in the back of her mind. Gifts. Christmas was about gifts. And… family? Did Georgina have a family? It was so hard for her to remember. She vaguely recalled the sensation of warm fur, strong arms and a deep, rumbly voice. Her father? She must be remembering wrong. People don’t have fur. He must have had a beard. Or maybe a fur coat. But where was he now? Why was she all alone?

“Georgina, kiddo, isn’t it about time you headed back to the Center?” Brent’s voice was mellow, soft, and kind, but startled Georgina from her reverie nonetheless. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly five; if she wanted to avoid trouble she’d have to run to get back.

“Oh, thank you Mr. Brent! I didn’t know it was so late!” She wrapped her too-large coat around her and hurried to the door. “Thank you again for the cocoa. And the muffin. I do have to run, I have to be back before it’s too dark or Big Miss will be angry. G’bye!”

“Goodnight, Georgina. It shouldn’t be too dark, it’s nearly a full moon out. Take care of yourself. And Merry Christmas!”

Rushing back down the street toward the Center, Georgina overheard someone saying that Christmas was only three days away. Now that she’d become aware of the holiday, it seemed to permeate the air around her. A child yelled something about a person named Santa just as Georgina passed him and her mind filled with the color red and the sound of bells. She didn’t have time to process these memories as they surfaced, because she had arrived at the massive oak door of Miss Maloney’s Center for Unwanted Children. Georgina pulled the door open just wide enough to slip inside, where she promptly bumped into the ample bulk of Big Miss.

“Watch where you’re going, you little wretch!” the woman snapped. Georgina leapt back, apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, Miss. I didn’t see you, it won’t happen again.” She began to reach into her pocket to bring out her earnings from the day’s sales.

“See that it doesn’t. Have you got my money?”

Georgina nodded and handed the woman what she had. Big Miss counted the bills and coins, and handed the child a single dollar back.

“But Miss…. oh thank you, Miss.” The child’s eyes grew wide. A whole dollar?

Big Miss smirked. “Hmph. It’s not from me, kid. Miss Maloney herself ordered that you all get a pittance for Christmas.”

Georgina didn’t know what a pittance was, but she did know not to press her luck by sticking around Big Miss longer than necessary. She scurried up to the girl’s dormitory and ran to her bunk. Amy, a little older than Georgina, was sitting on her own bed and looking at a ragged piece of paper with a sad expression on her face.

“Hey, Georgie. D’ye hear about Lisbeth?” When Georgina shook her head, Amy went on. “She was taken away today. A lady came and wanted her and she adopted her.” Amy began to cry. Most of the children in the center were transient, and either ran away or were adopted within a few months. Whether they were adopted into loving families or adopted as servants was not the concern of the management, though the children speculated amongst themselves. Amy was one of the few children who’d been at the Center for more than two years. She had a weak leg which made it hard for her to work, and her plain looks and thin face didn’t make her stand out particularly well when potential families came around.

“Oh,” was the only thing Georgina could think to say. She didn’t really know what she was supposed to do when people started crying. She herself had only arrived at the center a few weeks before, and she didn’t remember much of her life before that. The child stuffed her dollar into a hole in her mattress and hurried down to the mess hall. If you missed supper, there was no more food until morning, and that was usually thin, salty porridge.

There were a few boys clustered together near the fireplace when Georgina entered the hall. She sat down near enough that she could hear their mumblings. More about this Santa Claus. After a moment Georgina gathered that the boys were arguing about whether Santa would find them in the Center or not, but they would put their stockings out on their beds come Christmas Eve just in case. This puzzled Georgina greatly; she didn’t understand what socks might have to do with Christmas. She finished her stew, which had by some miracle had actual meat in it, took her bowl to the kitchen and trudged upstairs for bed.

Amy seemed to be done crying and had fallen asleep on top of her bed. Georgina picked up the paper Amy had been looking at. It was a letter from someone named “Mommy” and said that she was sorry but she’d be back before too long. From the look of it, Amy had read and folded this paper countless times. Gently setting the paper back on top of the sleeping girl, Georgina climbed into her own bed to think. Darkness enveloped her, and eventually someone came in and lit the fire in the fireplace at the end of the long room. Georgina heard the last few girls come in and the squeak of bedsprings as they settled themselves. A few whispers, then silence. There were only seven, no, six girls now, since Lisbeth was gone. It was quiet, even as one of the oldest girls began to snore softly. Georgina was evidently the youngest, though she couldn’t remember exactly how old she was. She was certainly the smallest. She lay for a long time, trying to remember anything about her life before the Center. A few flashes of memory, about running through the snow with someone. She must have been much smaller then, because the ground seemed closer. Warm, crackling fires. The rumbling male voice that must be her father. Eventually the snippets of memory faded into snippets of dream, and the child slept.

December 23

When the girls woke the next morning, a thick blanket of snow covered the ground. The Center was not permitted to send the children outdoors on such days (rumors of children freezing to death in the snow had forced the policy), so they were confined to the Mess Hall. Despite the fact that Big Miss brought in a tub of tarnished silver for every pair of children, giving out rags for polishing, there was a jovial air about the place. Some of the boys started singing a song about a reindeer with a red nose, though they didn’t get far before the cook came in from the kitchen and scolded them to silence. There were whispers about Santa, gifts, wistful tales about the family they hoped would come and take them to a warm and cozy home. Some kids remembered the families they’d been born to, and told stories about mothers or fathers or grandparents. Eventually a boy named Donnie, who was sitting near Georgina, leaned over to her.

“Hey, kid. What you askin’ Santa for?”

The girl blinked. “Me? Why should I ask him for anything?”

Donnie laughed. “You for real? Cuz the man brings stuff to kids who’s good.” He shook his head at Georgina’s perplexity.

“Oh. I dunno. What would you ask for?”

“Eh, probly a mom. Maybe a penknife so’s I can make sumpin’ to sell. Make some coin, get outta here afore Big Miss can take it all.”

The girl paused in her silver polishing and looked at him. “Oh. I guess I’d ask him to make me remember then.”

“Remember what?” Donnie bent over the platter in front of him, but glanced at her, slightly puzzled.

“Everything. Where I was before this. Where I came from.”

Donnie looked down again. “You kinda weird, ya know?”

Georgina didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept quiet and Donnie didn’t talk to her any more.

December 24

The children were sent out to sell their wares (usually candy, though some of the older kids were given mittens or scarves to sell), as the snow had at least been cleared from the streets. Big Miss slammed the door behind them as they scattered.

Georgina wandered about, offering candy to the women with children because they were most likely to buy it. Today she had peppermints, and one little boy squealed with delight when his mother bought him one. It seemed that more people were rushing around than usual, but maybe that had to do with Christmas. One of the big girls had explained to the smallest kids that people in families buy presents for each other for Christmas, so they have to buy them before the day arrives. Georgina thought that sounded nice. She had sold about half of her candy when she spied a storefront with a tiny baker doll in the window display. Walking closer, she thought it would be a lovely gift for Mr. Brent, if she could afford it. He was always so kind to her. True, she needed a new sweater, but her old one was warm enough for now. Georgina entered the store, her precious dollar clutched in her hand. The young lady clerk smiled at her and told her that the doll was ninety cents. Georgina lit up when she bought it, thanking the lady and returning to the street with a smile on her face.

The next hours dragged by as Georgina wished her candy would sell faster so she could take the gift to Mr. Brent. At last there was only one piece left. They were ten cents each, so Georgina put her remaining dime in the money pouch and savored the peppermint as she walked to the cafe. She was so excited to see Mr. Brent that she hardly noticed how hungry she was.

The bell over the door rang, and Brent welcomed her as usual. Suddenly shy, Georgina stuffed her hands into her pockets and withdrew his gift. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Brent. I thought you might like this.”

As he opened the small parcel, his smile broadened. “Oh, Georgina. Thank you. I think he will live right here, on the shelf, and watch me bake.”

The little girl grinned as she watched Brent place the doll on a shelf above the counter, and she started toward the door.

“Wait, Georgina! I was hoping you’d come in today. I have an extra cookie for you.” With a smile, he handed her a sugar cookie as big as her hand. It was frosted to look like a large bearded man in a red suit.

“Thanks, Mr. Brent. Is this Santa?”

“Of course!” Brent replied, with a small chuckle. “You’d better scoot though, it’s nearly dark. I’d hate for you to get in trouble on Christmas Eve!”

“Oh, thank you Mr. Brent. Have a good Christmas!” She hurried out the door, his “Merry Christmas” following her into the chilly air. The sun was nearly set, and the moon had not yet risen. In spite of the happiness that infused her entire being, something seemed to prickle the back of her neck. She was suddenly very eager and anxious to get back to the Center. Georgina ate her cookie as she hurried down the streets, finishing just before she arrived in front of the great doors. A boy named Mike got there just after her and opened the door to bring them both in from the cold evening. As usual, Big Miss was waiting just inside for her money. Mike handed his over first but got a lecture about not having sold everything again. Georgina deposited her own earnings into Big Miss’s doughy hand and rushed off to the Mess Hall.

As the evening progressed, Georgina felt more anxious and uncomfortable. The creeping feeling was strangely familiar but not at all comforting. The girl began to feel ill and frightened. After picking at her supper of boiled chicken and unidentifiable limp vegetables, she went upstairs to bed. Nobody else was in the dormitory, and she changed into her nightgown and crawled under the covers until not even her head poked out. Her skin felt prickly and goose-pimply. She wasn’t cold, but she was shivering violently. A shaft of moonlight from the full, white face of the moon peeked in the window and fell across her blanket. With one final shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut and was finally able to force her little body into peace and sleep.

Some time later, she woke. She smelled the smoke from the fireplace. Somehow, Georgina could even smell the other girls in their beds. They smelled warm and salty-sweet and alive. Her brain tried briefly to question the fact that she could smell these things tonight when she couldn’t remember smelling them before, but the inability to remember seemed to be her lot in life and the thoughts drifted away. She pushed her nose out from her blankets. There was someone else in the room. She sniffed. A man? He smelled like… soot. And large animals. Reindeer? Something else. Sweets. Peppermint and gingerbread? She wriggled further out from the covers, a soft whine working its way out.

The man whirled around. His sparkling eyes caught sight of the pup on the bed, caught in a nightdress.

“Georgina! Sweet child! I wondered where you had gotten to.” He strode to her and scooped her up in his big arms, tucking her tail beneath her and gently scratching her head. “Your Da has so been worried about you. He has hardly been able to keep guard of the reindeer. Let’s go home, little one. You’ve got quite a story to tell, I’m sure, but now, you rest. The story can wait.”

The deep rumbly voice was familiar, comforting, and soon the little girl was asleep. She hardly noticed when she was placed in a sledge and wrapped in a quilt at the man’s feet. Georgina’s dreams were filled with jingling bells, snorting reindeer, and her father’s warm embrace.

Hair

Warning: this story is a horror story and not intended for children.

The police sergeant crouched over the woman’s lifeless body, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. Damn, he thought, another one. Just like the others: no hair, not even eyebrows or eyelashes. Her eyelids were a blotchy purple, and it wasn’t makeup. He knew that when the coroner’s report came back, the cause of death would be suffocation and there would be no trace of hair remaining anywhere on the body. Maybe this time they’d find some clue about this killer’s identity or motive. Unlikely, though. Last time all they’d found was some of Victim Number Two’s hair in the woman’s mouth and throat, with a few cotton/poly blend fibers. The women were apparently unconnected, and the sergeant was getting sick of whatever game this psycho was playing. 

A man casually strolled past the yellow tape, weaving through the inevitable gawkers. He smirked inwardly and pulled his fedora down over his eyes a little further. The chill of the winter day made him less than conspicuous in his overcoat and hat. He scratched his chin, fingers searching for any sign of growth. So far he was still clean. Satisfied, he turned and headed away from the crowd to get his morning coffee.

Laughter followed Liz onto the street as she stumbled over the curb. She giggled, steadying herself against the tall man she’d met at the bar. She found his tobacco and lavender scent arousing and she pulled closer as they approached his car. She faced him, leaning against the car in a way that she hoped was seductive but wouldn’t leave her sliding into the icy mud on the street. He leaned in to kiss her, then suddenly collapsed, pulling her down with him. Her eyes grew wide and her shriek was cut short as a damp, chemical soaked cloth was pressed against her face.

Consciousness came slowly and painfully as sounds dimly filtered through Liz’s mind. Worst hangover ever, she thought, in the brief moment before she realized that her hands were not just asleep, but tied behind her. Her head throbbed as she craned her neck to look around and her heart rate increased its rhythmic thudding. She was laying face down on a futon in a sparsely furnished and completely immaculate room. A hairless man was sitting in an armchair across from her, sipping coffee. 

“What do you want with me? Who are you? Where’s John? Where am I?” Her voice was dry and uneven, and she became aware of a soreness in her scalp. The man smiled, slowly, like a cat might smile. 

“Tsk, tsk, chérie. No more talking.” He rose and strode toward her. “You need to freshen up.” 

The man pulled her to her feet and she realized that she was naked. Her horrified gasp earned her no sympathy. He led her to a meticulously neat bathroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror; her hair was gone. Every blond strand had been plucked by the root, and her scalp was covered with red blotches. The strange man held a pair of tweezers in his hand as he reached toward her eye. 

Once the man was done plucking her eyelashes and eyebrows he’d carefully gathered every single hair and placed it in a small silver bowl. Liz watched as he gently added these new acquisitions to a bulging pillowcase, carefully zipping the top closed afterward. She had seen the news stories and knew it was only a matter of time before he’d killer her and leave her hairless, naked body in the street like the others. She contemplated escape. The window revealed the rooftops of nearby buildings, so she was too high to try jumping. The room had two doors; one to the bathroom and a bolted front door off to her right. There was no phone, therefore no way to call for help.  

By the time the sky outside had darkened, the man had shaved her arms and legs with a dry razor, carefully cleaning the blade and collecting the hairs in his little bowl, emptying it frequently in the pillowcase. Ignoring her cries of pain he’d plucked each of her pubic hairs and ripped the hairs from her underarms that had only recently broken the surface of her skin. He carefully dabbed each spot that she bled with alcohol, making her wince. Attempting to pull away earned her a hard slap to the face. Every hair was carefully gathered and added to the pillowcase. He worked quietly, but maintained a murmured monologue. 

“Filthy, unclean little things. Get them all. She will be clean...get them all.”

Twice, he left her alone, going into the bathroom and closing the door. When he came back his skin would look pink and abused, and she guessed he’d been shaving. During his second absence she made a plan. As soon as he shut the door behind him for the third time, Liz scrambled to the front door and started working the bolt with her mouth, hands still tied behind her. She cut her lips and tasted blood, but was rewarded by a click as the bolt moved. She turned, grasping the doorknob in her hands, and as the door opened her brain screamed FREEDOM. Liz turned, moving her body into a corridor. A hand roughly pulled her back and knocked her down. The man stood above her, holding the pillowcase in his fist. 

“Ah, chérie. We can’t have you going out and getting dirty again.” His eyes sparkled as he pressed the heavy sack against her face. Liz struggled and kicked, flailing desperately. She could smell the shampoo and perfume of other women as the fabric pressed into her nose. Her lungs tried to expand without success. She could feel burning weakness in her chest and limbs as oxygen became scarce. Gradually her struggles slowed, then ceased altogether. 

The next morning the hairless, naked corpse of Victim Number Six was found in an alleyway between an apartment building and a coffee shop.

Rejected again

Well, that's nice. 3 total submissions, 3 total rejections. My first two rejections were the nicest; the most recent one was rather form-letter-y. I wonder if Pseudopod just got slammed or hired a bunch of slush readers. Oh well. I will be putting Hair up here, because I want to put it somewhere and what's the point of having a writing blog with no actual stories?

I wrote during lunch again today, but I don't know how many words because it's by hand and I am not going to count them. It's 1 full page of lined paper, front and back, and half of another page. Part rambling, then I was suddenly struck by inspiration and started a horror story I'm calling "Egghead" for now, but we'll see if that sticks. Maybe it's not even horror, it might fall into the "speculative fiction" category. I just have to finish it and see where it goes.

I don't know what my deal is with horror; when I was younger I always (and I mean always) wrote fantasy. The last couple of years all my short stories seem to be horror. Maybe it's because that's more of a challenge for me? I don't know. Maybe my brain is just that messed up inside since having children... Who knows?

I may start putting whole stories up here, I just don't know yet. I feel like it would be nice to be able to put them out there but at the same time, I don't want to just toss them out here in case it hurts me while trying to submit them places. Oh, and I did submit "Hair" to Pseudopod, I'll update when I hear back about it, but it will probably be in a couple months.

The Tragic Existence of Spike

Spike doesn’t get along with the other animals in the neighborhood. The dogs won’t play with him; they tease him about his size and claim he’s too rough. He supposes the cats are afraid of him, although none have ever come close enough to ask. He heaves a sigh and lumbers down the street toward home, trying to ignore the shouts and growls from the dogs he passes. Maybe Dr. Frank will want to play when he gets home, but he will probably just work on his new project.  Sighing again, Spike laments his existence as a designer mini-stegosaurus rex.

This story is dedicated to my son, who would probably love a pet Spike.

The Man in White

He walks down the highway. Cars swerve past, honking. His spotless white suit flaps in the wind. He shifts his grip on his brown suitcase, smiles slightly and adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. The gentleman turns, facing the oncoming traffic, and begins to grow, rapidly increasing in mass. Drivers slam on their brakes, cursing loudly as he towers above.

“Remain calm. You will be assisted momentarily. Please remain in your vehicles until my staff has a chance to help you.”

He opens the suitcase. Corpses rain down before the stopped cars. Screams erupt as the dead stand and begin shambling forward.

The Man in White by Tena Kolakowski is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 United States License.

This was my first attempt at a "Drabble" type story- one of exactly 100 words. Thoughts?

Niles the Hero, written a long, long time ago.

Niles looked up from his breakfast of blackened salmon and gazed out the entrance to his cave. It was a nice cave, as caves go, with more than a dozen caverns and a lovely view of the valley below with an especially clear view of the village nestled within the valley. The villagers were panicking again, simply because some king from far away had kidnapped their beloved princess for the seventeenth time. Niles sighed, puffing a cloud of black smoke from his nostrils. Once he’d finished his meal, he rose and ambled over to the rather large mirror on the wall. He carefully picked his teeth with a delicately sharpened claw and pondered what to do that day, and whether he should polish his scales again, which would be the third time that week. With a snort that flung soot all over the mirror, the dragon shook his head and decided that he was sick of being bored, and that he wouldn’t polish his scales.

Once more he gazed across the valley. Shouts and other irritating noises wafted up to his ears.

“That’s it!” he roared, annoyed. He would rescue the stupid princess and put an end to this horrid racket. He tidied the dirt pile he slept on, generally cleaned up a bit, and gave his ruby scales a quick buffing for appearances sake. At last, he was ready to go. As he flew over the town everyone scurried about, terrified, and just generally panicked some more. Niles rolled his eyes. “Idiots,” he grumbled.

After an hour or so of flying, a beautiful, lamenting ballad belted by a sweet voice drifted up from a castle and pierced his eardrums. He covered his ears and began his descent. Landing on the roof above the room the singing came from, he braced himself and blindly reached into the room below. The singing had stopped at last, only to be replaced by a series of even more piercing shrieks and screams that echoed in poor Niles’ head. At last, after being whacked with chairs, kicked, poked with various and assorted objects, and generally berated, his scaly claw found the princess and dragged her out the window. His large obsidian eyes beheld the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. As he began to state his mission, all speech on his part ended with an abrupt roar or startled pain.

“You bit me!” He hollered.

“Put me down!” The princess screeched, after disgustedly wiping her mouth on her sleeve, as she wriggled defiantly.

Shocked, Niles looked at her. “Don’t you want to be rescued?”

“Yes, but…” She began to cry. A small trickle of mucus slithered out of her dainty nose. “A dragon was not my ideal hero. You are too big and smelly. You’re awful. Now leave.”

“Hmph. Well, I am taking you home whether you like it or not.” With that, he threw her on his back between his wings and took off. The following hour or so it took to get back to the village was the worst he could recall. The spoiled young woman on his back lifted his scales and poked him with hairpins, she pinched his wings, and she kicked, screamed and thrashed about as much as she could without falling off more than once (it cost Niles the remainder of his patience when he had to dive to catch her). At last Niles arrived back at his cave to get something for his headache. Meanwhile, the princess continued to scream and be as obnoxious as one could be. Immediately after he’d taken some aspirin, Niles made a very important life-or-death decision. He grinned toothily to himself and hummed a little dragon tune to drown out the villagers and the incessant cacophony the princess insisted upon making.

That night, Niles the Ruby Dragon sat down to a fine meal of roast donkey, with pickled cats for garnish, and a delicately toasted princess à la mode for dessert.

The moral of this story is this: Heroes are entitled to do what they will with whomever they rescue, even if that includes eating them for dessert. 

Niles the Hero by Tena Kolakowski is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

"Numb" submitted to Pseudopod 2/12/2010

Numb

It had been a frustrating day. The gray weather certainly didn't help my mood, the anniversary of Scott's death notwithstanding. I sent off edited documents, but my supervisor would inevitably pop by a few minutes later with a falsely cheerful comment about how things didn't seem up to my usual standard, or how some client called and she needed me to get six hundred other things done by the end of the week. My so-called friends went out to lunch and then got coffee without telling me, and by the end of the day I'd had enough. I left without saying a word and without looking back.

Drizzling rain gently soaked through my unfortunately non-waterproof jacket, my clothes and my skin as I walked down the street. I didn't know where I was going, I just wanted to go. Scott died a year ago today. We hadn't been married that long, but it didn't hurt any less now than it did before. I still loved him. I still missed him. I still couldn't sleep at night without him. I absently spun the platinum band on my ring finger. I couldn't bring myself to take it off yet. The ache inside seemed amplified and closer to the surface as the droplets gathered on my face. It wasn't fair, he shouldn't have been taken from me so soon. I just wanted to stop hurting, just to be numb for a few hours. When I did fall asleep, even in my dreams I ached for Scott, and I woke up crying most mornings. I was soon as thoroughly damp as it was possible to be, given that I was out walking aimlessly in the rain. At least it wasn't terribly cold. The sidewalk detoured slightly from the road through a small park. I followed the pavement through a grove of tall trees, breathing the deep, earthy scent of soil, grass and moss. The trail veered off to the left, and I continued along it mechanically, not really paying any attention. The greyness of the evening had a dulling effect on my senses, even seeming to swallow my footsteps. The grove of trees seemed much larger than I remembered from previous visits, but I wasn't really paying attention to my surroundings beyond where my feet fell. For the first time in far too long the burning ache inside me lessened slightly. The drizzle tapered off to become a thick, heavy mist only slightly less wet than the rain had been. I wiped a sopping clump of hair from my face. The trees above and around me continued to thicken as I walked onward.

The sidewalk gradually became less solid beneath my feet. There were buckles and cracks woven throughout the once-smooth pavement. Decay had crept in and nibbled away at it in places. Further along there were lumps of concrete scattered and broken among errant tree roots. Fallen leaves and detritus carpeted the ground with a slick covering that muffled my footsteps. I was vaguely aware of hearing my own breath drawn in and out, in and out. The now massive trunks around me creaked softly, feebly, as though simply existing was a strain. I kept walking.

My feet soon slipped on the now mucky trail as I left the last remnants of concrete behind. My hair curled damply against my face, dripping occasionally in the heavy mist. The rancid and sickly sweet odor of rot rose from the freshly-trod path beneath my feet, permeating the haze in my head. I remembered camping with Scott one fall, when we came across the partially-eaten carcass of a rabbit. The trees were thinning now, though some reached across my path. A few retained scattered stubborn leaves that clung to dying branches of mildewed gray-brown. The wood provided little resistance to my efforts to break a limb that crossed my trail. The sharp *CRACK* echoed in the silence around me, making me jump. I became aware of a chill in the air. I thought I heard a raven caw in the deeper woods behind me, but it may have been a reverberation of the branch being broken off. I carried the branch with me, just to have something in my lonely palms other than the memory of a warm hand. My shoes sank into the soft surface of the earth, intensifying the putrid smell that wafted up to me. Ambient noises teased the edges of my hearing, but only as long as I kept walking. If I stopped to analyze them they ceased, and the only sound I would hear came from my own breathing. A sudden pang broke through the dull absence of pain that had come over me and I blinked back tears, pressing onward before I was cocooned in the ache for Scott all over again.

The branch grew heavy in my grasp, so I switched it to my right hand. The texture made me shiver; soft and clammy to the touch, but firm inside, like a very long, dead finger. It had blackened my left palm and fingers where I'd been holding the stick. Disgusted, I rubbed the slick filth from my hand onto my jeans. The trail had widened, there were no trees any more, but it was no lighter than it had been when I was in the woods. My palm itched and I rubbed in on my jeans again as I navigated the irregular ground. A slight crackle behind me caught my attention and I whirled around.

I could see nothing but the same landscape of dull, gloomy gray-brown with hints of rotten black-green. The thick mist still hung heavily around me, obscuring all but one or two of the closest trees in the direction I had come. Silence pounded in my ears and my breath plumed out in front of me. I felt the increased iciness of the air. My fingers were cold, stiff, and damp, not unlike the branch I held. I tightened my grip, turned around, and resumed walking. Memories of my Scott crept into the cracks in my attempt to keep my mind blank. The ocean cottage where we'd honeymooned. His sunburned feet. The way he'd made love to me. The way he teased me when I ran away from the tiny fish in the surf. Tears burned and choked me and I walked faster.

Ahead of me the path forked and I kept to the left. The trail rapidly narrowed, gaining a resemblance to a game trail. My breathing seemed strangely amplified in my ears as though the omnipresent mist muffled any other sounds there may have been. I shifted the stick into my left hand once more as it had grown heavy in my right. I rubbed my palm against my damp jeans, trying to satisfy the itch. The cold dampness of the gray-brown-green rotting world kept my mind flat and dull, numb, and kept my automatic brain from derailing to memories. Thoughtless and steady I carried on.

Something to my right interrupted the monotony and caught my eye. I glanced absently in it's direction and continued walking. The image niggled and writhed in my mind as I walked. I realized what the thing had been and my feet stopped moving. Part of a thoroughly decomposed arm in a stagnant puddle. The bone was visible poking out of what had once been a sleeve of some indeterminate color and fabric. The smallness of the limb bothered me and I recalled the names we'd picked for our future children. My breath caught in my throat, and I started walking again, ignoring the prickling feeling at the back of my neck. I could not turn back. There were too many memories behind me.

What may have been an hour or maybe only a few minutes later I noticed that the ground seemed to feel softer, more cushiony, under my feet, though it looked the same. In spite of the pace I'd kept I was not fatigued, aside from the unnaturally heavy pull of the stick I still carried with me. My hands made imprints in the thin of the branch, which, if anything, seemed to be growing thicker as time went on. It certainly wasn't getting smaller, in any case. I muttered out loud to myself that it was crazy, it's just a stick, it isn't growing. My quiet voice surrounded me. The path through this unworldly landscape had gradually faded to nonexistence. I kept walking in what I guessed to be the same direction. The detritus absorbed my footsteps. My breath was unreasonably loud in the icy gray air, punctuated by sounds I dimly detected at the periphery of my hearing. Nothing ever revealed itself within the narrow scope of this muffled world. I gripped my branch and tried not to think about gathering firewood with Scott when we'd gone to the lake to try out our new boat.

My left arm felt heavy and thick, as though filled with sand. I stretched, massaged it with my right hand, but I may as well have done nothing for all the difference I felt. My palm slid around on the stick, as though there were a layer of mildew between my hand and the clammy skin-bark of the limb, and I noticed a tingly burning sensation deep in my palm. I dropped the stick on the ground at my and rubbed my hands together, trying to dispel the uncomfortable burning. The sensation eased but was replaced by an icy numbness. My right hand felt like it had bits of doughy muck dried onto the skin, so I rubbed it on my jeans. Some of the fabric brushed off with the muck, though I didn't realize that until I felt the chill on the skin of my thigh. I tried to warm my hands by putting them in my pockets, but my palm snagged on the edge of the fabric. I looked to see what my hand had caught on and I stumbled to a stop. Something was very wrong. My hand was too...thin, like a notebook that's had half the pages ripped out. My palm-oh God.The flesh was gone. Not entirely, enough remained that a vague pattern obscured most of the bones. Tendons flashed unnaturally, iridescently bright in the dull light. Blood seeped in a slow rivulet down my wrist and into my sleeve. My heart pounded, causing my shirt to vibrate over my slight breasts. Horrified, I felt my throat closing and realized that I felt no pain. I glanced around desperately, hoping to see anything that I could use to bandage my hand, but my eyes only fell on the stick I'd dropped some yards behind me.

The once skeletal limb had something on it. Something odd. I looked closer. My ruined flesh adorned the branch, gray-pink against the gray-green rot. The branch was plump, no longer skeletal but swollen like a bloated river-borne corpse. Scott's body after it had been brought to shore. A shiver ran down my spine. A maggot wriggled, corpulent and white, over the skin that my palm had lost to the corpse-branch. I shuddered and felt the hairs at the back of my neck prickling. More maggots were now swarming out of the broken end of the branch, covering the rotting skin-bark with a revolting mass of white, making it look more like a swollen, handless arm than a branch from a dying tree.

Something in my head snapped. A strangled sound of terror escaped my throat as I kicked the branch away. I was shaking as I started running, in a direction that I hoped would lead me home in spite of the thick atmosphere that hid any identifying features of the bleak landscape. I soon tripped over what I at first took to be a rotting log. I caught myself on my hands and pulled myself up, desperately ignoring the pain in my right hand and the numb grinding sensation in my left. I noticed that the jeans I was wearing now had holes in the knees from my fall, in addition to the holes along the sides where I'd been wiping my hands. Looking back, I realized it didn't look quite right for a log. Limbs, swollen like the strange carnivorous branch I had discarded, twisted around a body. A human body. The blackened corpse had strands of hair clumped around a rotting, fungal skull. The stench I had noticed earlier once again reached my nose, rotting vegetation mixed with the odor of putrefying flesh.

Bile rose into my mouth, spilling from my stunned lips in a yellow-brown sludge and dribbling onto my shirt. I fell to my knees as my stomach spasmed. Heaves overtook me, painfully and frustratingly dry. Tears blurred my vision as I crawled desperately away from the corpse, still retching.

A noise penetrated the sounds of my own gasping and gagging, shocking me into silence. My knees felt wet, warm, and tingly, as my hand had, but I could not move. A strange, wet crunching came from behind me. Very slowly, I turned my head. My breaths were so shallow I could no longer hear them over my pounding heart. There, perhaps ten feet from me, over the rotting thing that had once been a person, something utterly unnameable was crouched. The color was evidently that of the mist, though it seemed also to blend in with the sodden ground. It was visible more as a distortion of the surrounding environment than as an actual physical thing, save the eyes and the teeth. The eyes glowed an unearthly color; the teeth gleamed like tiny, jagged knives in the dull gray light. Hoping that it would prefer the decomposing corpse to the fresh meal I would make, I began to run.

The soles of my shoes felt thinner, as if the ground itself had been eating them away while I traveled, but I could not stop. I ran in the direction I thought the forest should be. I ran through the burning, tingling pain in my feet after my shoes and socks were indeed worn away. I ran as numbness set in, just as it had in my hand. I ran until there was not enough left of my feet to run, and then I crawled, dragging the tingling stumps of my feet behind me. I knew that the thing would find me sooner or later but I desperately hoped to make it home to my own world before then. I tried not to remember if the corpse had still had hands and feet. My hands tingled and burned with every movement I made to drag myself further. My left hand continued to disintegrate. My wedding band grated on bone.

By the time my knees had been eaten away, the ground had become less spongy. I pulled myself on my forearms and pushed with the nubs of my thighs, my torso dragging on the ground in my grotesque army crawl. I could feel the warm, burning, tingly sensation setting in along my stomach. I knew I wouldn't make it, but I could not give in. I caught a glimpse of a tree here and there ahead of me and pulled myself forward with more determination. A sharp tug stopped me and I made the mistake of looking down. I could see my own intestines tangled together, caught on a root. Blood smeared my entrails and the ground beneath me. Groping forward, I had to keep going. My right wrist scraped against a chunk of concrete. My heart leaped in false hope. Nearly there. I felt so weak. I no longer entertained any hope of survival, merely a hope of being found so that my mother would not always wonder if I was still alive somewhere. I lifted my torso to go over the root, then convulsed and heaved suddenly as my stomach was pulled from my ruined abdomen. I looked behind me and saw the bloody trail I'd left, pieces of my body scattered on the carnivorous ground. I shuddered, gagging, and turned back to keep crawling. I tried not to dwell on the absence of pain.

Perhaps ten or fifteen feet ahead of me, the thing waited patiently. The eyes were eerily still orbs in the gray mist. I could not see the teeth, but I didn't need to. I pushed my femurs into the ground, trying desperately to propel myself away from it, but the root was embedded too deeply inside me. As if it had grown into me while I hesitated. I could feel my brain clouding, my sight growing dark as blood loss and shock overcame adrenaline. My last attempt at speech died on my lips as the unnameable began to feed. As I mercifully lost consciousness, I hoped I'd see Scott again.


Numb by Tena Kolakowski is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.