Frightful Fairy Tales (9 page)

She changed into her white silk nightgown with the lace collar that simulated the froth of the ocean surrounding her creamy neck. Then placing her head on her key lime pillowcases, she spread her dark red hair around her and slipped into a sleep that lasted for three days.

While in her coma like trance, she dreamed the most horrific dreams. She envisioned herself at the age of four, sitting on her grandfather’s knee while the music of the neighbor’s calliope wafted around the back porch through the summer air. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the rumble of his voice talking to her uncles, producing words she was too tired to bother to understand. At this moment giant gears churned in front of her crushing out all other reality and prohibiting her from going any farther in the dream or escaping through the act of waking. Finally she was awakened by a sound that escalated to a pounding on her door, almost breaking it from the hinges.

She arose and staggered to the door, cautiously peering out of the keyhole. She saw it was her comrade Mr. Briggs and promptly let him in. She knew him through gambling circles. The Queen of Spades was adept at playing blackjack due to her psychic abilities, thus assuring that she would double the stolen fortune she bet if not merely break even.

He began to chide her about still being dressed in her nightgown at four in the afternoon, but he went on to say he liked the sight of it anyway and offered her a cigarette. This she took eagerly and sat on her double divan, casually draping her arm over the back. She looked up at him, inquiring only with her eyes the reason for his visit.

Briggs began promptly (which was his nature) to explain that he had heard of the recent death of an extremely wealthy young lady and would give her the exact location of the grave site if she gave him a percentage of the goods. After they worked out exactly what the percentage would be, the Queen of Spades agreed and led him to the door, where he fondly kissed her hand before she bade him farewell. She began to make some tea and prepare herself for her next job.

That evening on the way to the graveyard, her nerves were on edge. She felt weary and distracted despite the long rest. Leaves rustled behind her, blown by the wind, and she jumped. A feeling of foreboding hung thickly in the air. The Queen of Spades tried to ignore it as she successfully picked the lock with her ever trusted silver buttonhook. She silently walked in and shut the gate behind her. Although the rich populated this particular graveyard, it was older and no guards of any kind appeared to hinder her destination.

She found herself surrounded by urns overgrown with crawling vines. Some women with long hair clung desperately to sunken crucifixes, while in the background hands appeared from marble clouds clasped in eternal love. Many of the angels were headless.

She finally came to the recently dug grave of her newest benefactor. The freshly dug soil was strewn with lilies as the headstone read, “As the roses are sweetened with dew so the world was sweetened with you. Constance Penelope Byrne.” How her parents must have adored her and how crushed they surely were when their twenty-three-year-old daughter passed away without ever marrying. The Queen of Spades began to turn the earth, and as she did, her head began to swim until finally she had to stop. She sat back and patted her brow with her red handkerchief. She had no idea why she felt so ill. As she continued on, the sound of the wind (it must be the wind) moaned a little way off, sending a cold chill down her spine.

She knew it was time (what was true?) she shook her head of delirium and continued on. She struck the shiny new lid of the coffin and opened it without trouble. The sight that met her gaze was glorious: an ivory cameo, fine diamond brooches, two rings, and a solid gold buckle with four emeralds. A veritable fortune gleamed up from the fortunate. Constance had a pensive, sad expression as she lay motionless, coins covering her eyes. Black hair framed her pale face and hung limply on her breast.

The Queen of Spades sat Constance up to undo the hook on the back of the velvet choker bearing the ivory cameo. As she did, the coins fell off her eyes, which opened widely and mimicked the shocked expression the Queen of Spades simultaneously wore. Constance looked around and gasped for air. “Where am I?” and "Who are you?” Then seeing the walls of black dirt surrounding her, she screamed, "They buried me alive!"

Constance began to shriek and tried to scramble out of the grave, which threw the Queen of Spades into a panic. Afraid of being convicted, she pushed the girl back into the coffin and struck her with the spade, abruptly silencing her screams. She left the choker and quickly took three brooches and the rings, replaced the lid and filled in the grave as quickly as she could, then ran from the cemetery like her dress was on fire. As she ran, the young woman’s surprised, tormented eyes taunted her. They seemed to surround her even though the cemetery rapidly faded into the distance behind her
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She swore she could still hear Constance’s shrieks and cries of confusion and fury.

She ran to her home and bolted the door. She put on her nightgown and left the jewels in the pocket of her deep green velvet dress. She didn’t care if she ever saw them again. The incident that night made her think for the first time of getting out of the business. Slowly, her whirling thoughts subsided, and as the hazy blanket of slumber closed in around her, she swore she saw a vision of someone in the room with her before she lost consciousness.

When she awoke it was with a start; something cold and solid was in her mouth. She sat up and spit the object into her hand, then gasped in alarm. The brooches and rings stolen previously from Constance sat gleaming in her palm. She dropped them as if they were vile insects, and she immediately began making arrangements to hock them to her connections and be rid of them forever. That evening three big men in b1ack suits rang the bell. They talked her down to a fraction of the jewels’ worth, but the Queen of Spades was in no mood for bartering that evening.

As she watched them walk away, she sighed with relief, closed the heavy curtains, and made arrangements to meet her latest beau so she could go on a fancy-type date somewhere and take her mind off the hideous time she had been having lately. He arrived at 11:00, looking as dapper as ever, greeting her with “Hello, Angel,” and handing her a yellow tulip he’d obviously pinched from someone’s garden on the way over.

That night she arrived home drunk and was laughing so hard she was in stitches as she pushed the door shut and locked him out. She threw herself onto the unmade bed and fell deeply asleep fully dressed. She was awakened by the sound of someone ominously calling her name. Slowly she opened her eyes and the sight she beheld stopped her heart. There stood the ghost of Constance Byrne, blood glistening from the fresh gash on her head and running down her neck, matching the glisten from the stolen jewelry she now seemingly repossessed.

She looked at the terrified Queen of Spades and pointed accusingly in her direction, a stolen ring sparkling on the threateningly thrust finger. “You stole not only my inheritance but also my second chance at life. I despise you, you wicked wretch.” And with this, she came suddenly toward the Queen of Spades. Seeing this, she spoke some magic words she knew to protect herself from ghosts and the spirit instantly disappeared, the rings and brooches falling to the floor with a clatter.

The Queen of Spades looked at them lying still on the floor for a moment, but then the doorbell rang. She arose and stepped carefully around the jewels as she made her way to the thick velvet curtain to cautiously peek out. The three big men in black suits she had hocked the jewelry to earlier now pounded on her door with increased force. She immediately slipped on her coat. leaving the jewelry where it was, hoping they would see it when they broke in and spare the rest of her home. Then she slipped out the back door.

When she returned the next evening, she found she had no such luck, her home had been devastated. She lay on the floor with her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

After locking her doors, she began to clean up her house and fell asleep exhausted. When she woke up, she was choking. The ghost of Constance was straddling her and pushing the jewelry down her throat. She tried to push her off but her hands went through the ghost feeling nothing more than coldness. Blackness started forming around the circle of her vision, slowly leaching out everything but the grimacing smile of the ghost, and even this, too, slowly faded from view as she ceased her struggle and fell downward, ever down.

She awoke and couldn’t move her arms. The wooden lid of her coffin was mere inches from her face, and as her mind cleared the Queen of Spades realized ironically that she had been buried alive. A couple strolling near the cemetery heard her screams but dismissed them as the wind and continued on, never pausing to glance back. Meanwhile in a nearby grave the eyes of Constance shut forever, finally at rest.

THE GAMBLER’S LESSON

Gambling is the king of all vices. No one knows the truth of this more than Felix Worthy. The alluring grip of gambling held him fast and drained him dry like a succubus. Nineteen years ago his beautiful, beloved wife had died in childbirth, leaving him with his kind and lovely daughter, Ezmerelda, and the scant shack in which they lived. He lost everything else he owned to his all-consuming vice. He often felt he had been born under an unlucky star, the black beams of this star wafting down to encircle him like an asp.

Every night Felix went to the local saloon to gamble and drink. He left in the afternoon and did not return until very late in the evening or sometimes not at all.

One night Felix went to the saloon and sat down at the dice table. Across from him sat a very thin man with slightly pointed ears. He was dressed all in red crushed velvet with black edging. Rakish black hair with a widow’s  peak lay upon his head. His sharp blue eyes shone brightly against his pale skin. These eyes made Felix nervous, for it seemed they could look into his mind.