Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) (2 page)

The smell grew
stronger and stronger, bringing tears to his eyes. He coughed and
gagged, trying to eject the taste from his mouth. It was like
clotted earth and raw meat-the stink of the grave.

Jim Clay had
been a bad man in life. In death, he was worse; a hungry thing,
clutching at the only bit of warmth that it could recall, the
warmth that Bass was even now stealing away.

Something
clutched his ankle with a grip like iron. The walls and floor were
rattling unceasingly, louder and louder. He didn’t look down,
instead blindly kicking out. His foot connected with something
unpleasant, but the grip remained and tightened, even. The
hornet-voices surged back and forth.

Bass hissed as
his ankle began to throb. Something else gripped his upper thigh,
and a sudden weight began to drag on him. Shifting Abigail, he
reached for the bucket of water, fingers straining. It lay just
outside the circle of salt.

The dark
weight shifted from his legs to his back. Sharpness dug into his
kidneys and spine and Bass sank to one knee with a grunt. Teeth
snapped together below his ear. Bass hooked the bucket’s rope
handle and dragged it forward, hoping the light was enough to
see.

It was, and he
did. He saw a blotch of wrongness, rising above his shoulder, hands
gripping either side of his head now, pearly white teeth clicking
in a ceaseless rattle. Words and curses slipped through the
chattering teeth, coming in that high-pitched insect drone.

“Can’t have
her, Jim Clay,” Bass said, with effort. Dead fingers wrapped around
his throat, inexorable. Bass unceremoniously dropped Abigail Clay
outside the salt circle, just as the fingers moved upwards,
grabbing his head. The corpse-weight pressed against him and Bass
found himself being twisted around.

“Can’t have me
either,” Bass said. Then, with a growl of effort, he hurled himself
backwards, crashing through the chairs and down onto the circle of
iron nails.

There was a
shriek like a tea kettle on the boil and the weight sloughed away
from Bass. He rolled onto his stomach, snatching up the hammer.
Nails tumbled out of his pockets as he fumbled for two. The thing
on the floor writhed like a broke-backed serpent, whipping back and
forth in a hideous fashion.

Bass planted a
knee on the corpse’s chest, wincing as the sternum crumpled beneath
him. Nails clutched between his teeth, Bass grabbed the champing
jaws to hold the thrashing head steady.

Jim Clay’s
eyes opened, blazing like twin embers. Bass felt himself stiffen,
his heart straining momentarily. Then, he planted the first nail
and the dead man began to scream. By the second, the only sound was
Bass’ breath rasping in his own ears.

Jim Clay lay
flat, like a headless snake. The hornet-whisper was quiet and
fading. Bass looked down at the body for a moment, then spat and
turned to the woman, still holding the hammer. He carried Abigail
Clay outside to her family.

“Is he-”
Cestus Clay asked as he took his mother from Bass’ arms. Bass
tossed the hammer onto the ground and shook himself. His skin
crawled at the touch of the breeze, and the sound of leaves rubbing
together reminded him of the sound of cloth being pulled across the
floorboards. He shuddered, eyes closed, feeling at his throat.

“He wanted to
take the only good thing he knew with him, down into the dark,”
Bass said, not looking at anyone. “And he wasn’t planning on
resting until he did.”

“But now?”

Bass looked
back at the house, saying nothing.

“John Bass?”
Cestus said.

“He’ll take to
burying now, right enough,” Bass said, after a moment. Then,
“Though I’d as keep the casket closed. And keep the ceremony
short.”

END

Josh Reynolds
is a freelance writer
of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit,
and some of it was even published. For money. By real people. His
work has appeared in anthologies such as Miskatonic River
Press’
Horror for the
Holidays
, and in periodicals such
as
Innsmouth Magazine
and
Lovecraft
eZine
.

Feel free to stop by his
blog
(
http://joshuamreynolds.wordpress.com
)
to check up on him or to tell him he’s wrong
about whatever it is you disagree with him about.

K.T. Bryski

Like so many
applicants, Amy discovered the job through someone else. A friend
of her mother’s co-worker sent a link:
Summer Position at
Rosewood Historic Park
. Candidates required a background in
history, strong verbal skills, and a sense of loyalty, all of which
Amy felt she possessed. During her interview, she told the story
breathlessly: the flurry of emails (though I don’t pretend to
understand such things), the way she’d circled the interview date
twice on her calendar.

Like so many
applicants, she was young, with a few final pimples and a
newly-completed undergraduate degree. Her eyes were bright, she
drew appropriate connections between historical events and trends
in social history, and she pushed her coppery hair back with
nervous, flutelike laughter.

I
approved.

We hired her,
of course. Naturally, I had nothing to do with the contract, but
the committee solicited my opinion. They could hardly do
otherwise.

Amy started at
the end of April, with her eyes still shining and her arms full of
petticoats and dresses and bonnets, none of which fit, but all of
which pleased her. After Amy had seen her new locker, Chelsea
toured her around the park. Like so many applicants, Amy had
childhood memories of the grounds and buildings, but she trotted to
keep pace, drinking in Rosewood’s secrets: there is an emergency
phone in the Shoemaker’s Shop. There is a modern light switch
behind the door of the Minister’s House. The gardeners brew coffee
in their office under the Tinsmith’s, and they’re happy to
share.

I followed,
listening. In the dappled spring sunlight, the lines around
Chelsea’s mouth looked deeper than last season. She is only
twenty-five. She is only twenty-five, and yet her voice is dulled,
her face drawn.

Amy didn’t
notice, of course. She was too busy gaping in every direction.
Everything entranced her; from the male employees’ caps and vests,
to the apple blossoms that perfumed the air. On meeting the other
employees, she shook hands eagerly, never reacting to the slight
pause after introductions, the way their eyes slid guiltily from
hers. Once, Chelsea glanced in my direction. Her mouth twitched,
and I readied myself, but she simply swallowed and invited Amy for
drinks after work.

I suppose I
needn’t have worried. Chelsea knows better than to mention me.

The summer
passed, hot and cloudless. Rosewood pulsed with the shrieking of
day campers on field trips, and the half-tired, half-frantic shouts
of parents herding their broods. The staff answered questions,
demonstrated trades, and sweated. In the mornings, Amy sat on the
Town Hall porch with a basket of pioneer toys, showing off the
cup-and-ball and wooden Noah’s Ark. She was good, very good—she had
read all her assigned material on nineteenth-century childhood, and
she spoke
to
the children, not
at
them. In the
afternoons, she helped Chelsea in the Doctor’s House, describing
Victorian medicine and showing off the instruments with an easy
confidence.

Sometimes,
while walking from Town Hall to the Doctor’s House, she would throw
back her bonnet, stare into the hard blue sky, and whoop. At these
moments, I shivered with happiness. Like so many applicants, she
was intelligent, personable, well-versed in history. But more: she
loved
Rosewood,
loved
every blade of grass and every
nail with the same, fiery affection I felt. Pleased, I rested, and
watched.

Inevitably,
the summer drew to a close. The last week of August was glorious:
spun from light and warmth, its beauty enhanced by the imminent
spectre of autumn. At the end of that week, when the maple leaves
were turning scarlet, Amy went to the administrative office, and
asked to stay.

I had hoped
she would.

Her summer
dress was exchanged for a fall one, and Thomas trained her in the
Minister’s House. By this point, she had begun to leave work with
the other twenty-to-twenty-five-year-olds, giggling and flirting as
they ran for the bus stop. Each morning, I scrutinized her, trying
to judge what, if anything, she had been told.

Nothing.

And then, one
morning when frost coated the Town Green and Danny was delivering
extra firewood to the buildings, Chelsea threw her neckerchief to
the change-room floor. “I’m sick of this,” she muttered. “I want to
look my age!”

I turned very
cold, and circled nearer. Amy paused in buttoning her dress. “I
know,” she said. “It sucks. But trust me—it’s the costume. Everyone
looks older with their hair tied back, and no makeup...”

I relaxed, and
let Chelsea retrieve her neckerchief without incident. But, as it
happens, Amy was wrong. Without makeup, she looked younger. Her
wide blue eyes had not lost their innocent glitter. Freckles dusted
her nose, free from any foundation or powders.

Again, I make
no claims to understand such things.

As the
daylight grew shorter, and the employees’ breaths trailed behind
them like ghosts, Chelsea grew pale and withdrawn. Where once she
had spent lunch hours with Amy and the other young people, she now
ate alone. Often, she left half her lunch untouched. She spoke more
and more to the older employees, opted to catch the later bus. When
Amy, bewildered and hurt, tried to start conversations, Chelsea
could not meet her eyes.

I suspected it
would happen. Like so many employees, Chelsea’s passion for
Rosewood had dimmed, yet she could not leave. She probably felt me
watching her. Her lip trembled as she gazed at Amy from across the
staff room.

One day,
huddled on her corner chair, Chelsea leaned close to Joe. “Is this
right?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we...”

“No,” Joe
answered, in a tone that precluded argument. He placed his top hat
on his head, and stood abruptly. “It has to happen.”

I’ve always
liked Joe.

It was almost
November by then, and I was growing weak and restless. Geese winged
their way across the sky, shattering the autumn stillness with
their honking. There was a surge of school groups that kept
everyone busy. In the afternoons, Amy was usually too tired for
conversation, her voice raspy from hours of talking. Still, she
smiled and laughed, and caught the bus with the others.

Chelsea
glanced towards me more and more, her eyes ringed with shadows.
Blood beaded on her fingertips where she’d chewed the nails to
stubs.

The last week
of October, the list for Halloween positions went up. Amy was
thrilled. Each year, the park has extended hours on Halloween,
closing at ten. In some buildings, the employees tell ghost
stories. In others, they discuss nineteenth-century mourning,
burial practices, and particularly grim bits of local history. The
list filled quickly, but one space remained for Amy: the Doctor’s
House.

She was
surprised, I think. After all, with the macabre collection of
tools, it would be easy to frighten visitors. She offered the spot
to Chelsea, who normally works there. Chelsea refused. So did
everyone else.

Amy looked
perplexed, until she was given a thick sheaf of papers detailing
various “ghost sightings” in the house. Some were pure inventions
by bored staff. Others came from self-righteous, trembling
visitors. She threw herself into them, memorizing dates and details
with the fervour I loved. On Halloween, as the sun went down, she
found Chelsea, and asked for the Doctor’s key.

The skin
beneath Chelsea’s eyes was red and puffy, and her voice was thick.
“Be careful, all right?”

“Why?” Amy
asked, tucking the key in her reticule.

Chelsea
shivered as I brushed by her. “It’s Halloween. The veil is thin
tonight.”

Amy
laughed.

She did very
well, telling her memorized tales in exactly the right low,
insistent tone. Visitors flocked to the hear her. She bantered and
laughed in between, encouraging visitors to take pictures in hopes
of catching a spirit on film. Oil lamps on the walls and mantel
illuminated her grin. Her cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

By a quarter
to ten, Rosewood had quieted, the last visitors trooping across the
parking lot. Like every employee, Amy knows not to leave her
building until closing. And so, now, with fifteen minutes
remaining, she sits in the parlour, practicing her needlework and
replaying her favourite moments of the night.

I wait in the
corner.

Like every
employee, Amy is articulate. She learns quickly, and she knows a
lot.

But this is
what Amy doesn’t know.

At ten o’clock
precisely, Chelsea will come speak to her. She will apologize for
her recent distance, and she will give Amy a sad, desperate hug.
Then, she will ask Amy for help; just a few minutes to carry
something up from the basement. Amazed, unaware that the Doctor’s
House even has a basement, Amy will agree.

And so Chelsea
will open a door that Amy thinks is sealed, and lead her down a
narrow staircase. She will grip Amy’s hand tightly, and though no
one will hear it, and only I will see it, she will murmur, “I’m
sorry, I’m sorry.”

They always
do.

There isn’t
much in the basement. A tattered veil divides the room in two, and
a large table dominates most of the remaining space. Chelsea will
talk too quickly, fighting to keep Amy’s attention until the other
employees arrive. Quivering, they will surround her, gritting their
teeth against her cries. Then they will shove her through the
curtain.