Entry # 14

Truth or Dare

by

Carol Bond

It had started as a dare, nothing more than that, so who could have known it was to end this way.

Poppinac reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief; it was a pretty, embroidered piece from her sister’s drawer. Lying and thieving took first place in her young life. It pleased her to take what she wanted. Grinning the young girl mopped her nose, and silently called her sister a fool. 

“Psst Rolen. Get in ere, I am not going to walk these stairs on my own.” She hissed the words, a little fearful at the echo that bounced back at her from inside the darkened gloom. Cobwebs tattered and torn rippled in the musty stale breeze from the door pushed open. Dark shapes sat in wait for the pair and goodness knows what else.

Rolen was short for his age, everyone told him so, everyone that was except for Poppinac. He stepped up close, breathing heavily from the jitters he felt about entering the old man’s lodge. The window’s winked at him, the darkness of it’s empty belly within smelt like old man’s dirty socks, at least that was how he saw it. The old building had been empty for decades, not a soul had stepped foot inside forever and a day and the stories that floated around town were thick with horror.

“Why can’t you just leave it alone.” He knew he was whining but he also knew Poppinac and the stubborn streak that rose above good sense. “All we have to do it say that we went inside and if we hide for a bit, the rest won’t know. I swear it Poppinac we only have to say we went inside.”

She shot him a withering look, “For God’s sake Rolen. How can we do that without grabbing a trophy to say so. Those out there, with their knees shaking and their pants wet from the very thought of doing what they dared us to do, won’t accept the truth of it without a trophy.” Poppinac turned back to the yawning hole. “Well here goes.”

Rolen hung his head; he knew that the time for talking was done. Swallowing hard the young boy followed.

#

The man knew he was a ghost, knew that he was half mad with anger and grief. He felt so alone. He had a name once, all those years ago when he had walked with the living, it had been Charles Baron Wentworth but his mother called him Bert. Now names didn’t matter, nothing mattered in the endless shift of time. Not even the clock ticked anymore, its battery was long dead, just like him, a useless thing from a past long gone.

Over the years, he had learnt to manipulate the living world, little tricks to pass the time. The switching on a light, the slamming of a door and the one noise he had managed to conjure into the dead air. The word ‘Promise.” He never expected to use it but if he pulled in the energy around him and stood very still, pushing all of his will into this word, upon release it bounced about the house like a song. It pleased him sometimes to call it out.

Tonight on Halloween where the boundaries of the living and dead met, Bert sat brooding.

#

“Poppinac?” The young boy’s hand shook as he clutched for her shoulder.

Freckled faced with a shock of orange hair gave Poppinac an almost ethereal expression. “Well what is it?” and she pouted “Look all we have to do is walk the stairs and take something that used to be his. Rolen, I promise.” 

Even whispering her voice rang in Bert’s ears like a hammering anvil. His ghostly head lifted from his hands. Someone was here, in his house, talking as though they had a right. “They dare come into my home. They dare walk the same steps I did as a young man.” Empty words coming from a dead man, still it was his house even if his corpse laid in a coffin some miles down the road.

Soft footsteps drew him to his feet. Anger bubbled in an empty breast, real enough for this ghost.

“Rolen don’t step on my heels. There’s nothing here to worry about. It’s just an old house with the lights turned off.”

The sun was setting and the lengthening shadows twisted into shapes on the walls as the sun weakly pushed it will through the broken glass windows and discolored curtains. Rolen could hear his heart thumping in time with the breaking of sweat of his forehead. It dripped down the back of his neck, snaking its way to the soles of his shoes. He was a fearful mess.

From the corner of his eye, Rolen saw Bert. The ghost had pushed his head out of the wall just above the next step and Rolen screamed. He hadn’t meant to but what would you have done in his place. Poppinac missed her step, she had jumped on that scream, and as the poor girl slipped her body crashed into her friend. Down they both went, all legs and arms as they bounced off each other on the way down.

Bert stepped through the wall, he pulled on his most hideous face and lifted himself into the air to greet the banged up pair. The lights flickered and upstairs several doors opened and closed in resounding bangs. All of it a spectacle to alarm, he wanted those children gone. How dare they walk his house as if they had a right.

#

Rolen lay under Poppinac. She opened her eyes, nothing broken, but she had the makings of some pretty bruises and a nasty headache. Pulling the handkerchief from her pocket, Poppinac wiped her face. It was then that she realized she was sitting on her best friend.

“Rolen are you alright? I’m sorry but you scared me.”

Rolen laid so very still.

“Rolen please get up.” Her voice took on a begging tone. It was fretful for she was only a young girl.

Blood crept towards her feet from underneath his head and his arm, bent at an impossible angle pointed to the top of the stairs. Hanging in the air some feet above the ground was Bert. Oddly enough, he wasn’t angry anymore. Wonder filled his dead eyes at the sight of Rolen’s corpse on the floor. 

Tears fell and Poppinac dropped to her knees. “Oh what have I done? It was supposed to be a dare, that’s all.”

It all stopped, the door banging and the flashing of lights and in its place stood another ghost. Rolen looked at Poppinac, his dead eyes questioning, sadder than anything she had ever seen.

“Oh Rolen I am sorry. I didn’t mean to fall.” She hiccupped in her grief.
Rolen’s ghost looked on, as silent as the dark house he was now chained to. Bert held out a hand and Rolen took it. The ghostly pair made ready to leave, Poppinac was all but forgotten. 

“Wait – please.” Entreated the young girl, “Don’t go. What am I to do now, you’re my best friend, my only friend.” 

Rolen lagged and Bert stopped, they both turned, ghostly apparitions on a stairwell. The lengthening shadows were long gone, not even the full moon had the sense to send its beams into such a place. 

’They’ll blame me and I’ll be sent away to be locked in a prison with bars and no one to keep me safe. Please Rolen what should I do.”

The ghost once called Rolen shook off Bert’s hand and gently walked the stairs back to Poppinac. He reached out and with fingers alight with the last measure of living energy, snatched her handkerchief from her pocket. He looked to Bert, and with a nod Bert opened his mouth.. Poppinac felt her heart miss a beat, now it was her turn to sweat.

“PROMISE.” Came a booming voice.

“Promise? What do I have to promise?” She was a little more than scared now.

Rolen smiled and she knew what it all meant.

“Okay I promise.” The handkerchief left his hand and floated to rest nicely on his cooling corpse.

She sniffed as they disappeared through the wall. Now she was truly alone. Rolen belonged to a dare, one that she had foolishly accepted and the promise now made with love for her dear friend, was the one of truth. Straightening her shoulders, Poppinac left the old man’s lodge and took to the street. All she had to do was tell the truth. For the rest of her life Poppinac had to walk the path of the straight and narrow, no more stealing, no more dares, just the acts of a good girl doing the right thing. With a sniff and a wipe of her nose with her stolen handkerchief, Poppinac walked the long walk home.

Entry # 13

The Dark Gift
By: Corinna Marie Hypes
© 5 October 2003

Black as the darkest of inks midnight
His silhouette is carved from shadow
Provoking is his soft whisper of death
As it calls to me, so husky and hallow

Restless, is my deepest slumber
Visions graphic, tormenting my head
Enticing, they allure and seemingly beckon
Cunning is his persuasion steadfast at my bed

His touch is the tempest of broken wings
Caressing, fulfilling, and so utterly sensual
Inhabiting my very souls pliable essence
My submission to him is clearly essential

Hands as cold as winter's frigid wind
A dead heart that doesn't conceive
His hunger is evident upon my hot flesh
At this dark gift I'm about to receive

Mine eyes awaken in bewilderment
To behold this demon of eternal night
His eyes, dark pits of seducing power
Tis resigningly useless, my will can't fight

A soft sigh unknowingly escapes my lips
His gaze hypnotic and lulling my senses
My barriers torn down and unguarded
Leaving my spirit without usual defenses

I willingly invite him into my loving arms
Regret and doubt, of this I have none
No tears escape for that was to be
Nor do they cry for loss of warmth’s sun

His breathe upon my soft silken skin
Preludes to his razor sharp kiss
Mine obsolete, in anticipation I hold
I have no illusions, just solace from this

As his smile confirms my converging destiny
Realization then strikes heavy my heart
What if I should die before I should awake?
Twill be unavailing, no memories to part

His mind pushes into my open thoughts
Alleviating and answering all questions and fear
My faith be strong, his strength a beckon
I cling to his aura as his chiseled face draws near

Long sinewy fingers, they entangle my hair
Baring my neck as lips press to flesh unyielding
His long slender teeth penetrate deep and true
Pleasure and pain merge to the climax building

Mine heart beats profoundly as he intently drains
The life of this warm body still yet existing
As his mouth devours weary, my mortal soul
I grow weaker from his presence nonresisting

Peace and contentment, I feel such temporal things
Slipping into complete oblivion and serenity
Only to be thrust back into the drowning light
Tasting the blood upon my lips from my devil entity

Grasping his shoulders as mine mouth pulls deep
The source of his giving life from his veins
I know only the need to survive in this world
Or be lost forever in this world so insane

Almost desperately he removes me from him
Least I draw him down into the damning abyss
With eyes anew, I beseech instantly my surroundings
As my old body dies and rises into immortal bliss

An unfamiliar hunger unsatedly pulsates to life
Driving me forward into the sultry night air
Like the guiding and dutiful parent to his child
He takes mine hand and leads me toward my fare

Intense is his delight in unabashed taking
Of the unwittingly victims who dareth cross path
Before the night fades to various shades of light
I learned my lesson well, and seek to deal my wrath

His lair is deep within the earths confine
Escorting me into its depths, his coffin amidst
He lays me down upon satin sheets of old
As mine eyes close, his body close as I did insist

As the sunlight escapes and night recaptures its soul
We rise to greet the inanimate shadows forlorn
The moonlight before us, the world at our call
To heed this timeless dark gift of nature’s reborn

Entry # 12

Pumpkin’s Revenge

Margaret Callow

 

    Walking across the yard, October left Joe  in no doubt of its intentions. The sky was slowly releasing its night shades to  admit shards of peach and the crisp air enlivened his face. What little early  morning sun there was shed a brittle light on the grey stone buildings and a  puddle crunched underfoot. It was a gentle sound, but thin ice nevertheless.

  Hunched into his jacket, he  picked up the empty feed buckets and headed for the barn. In need of repair, the  timbered door no longer shut properly creaking complaint at the slightest touch.  As soon as its edge scraped the earth and flint the yard came alive with animal  noises. Calves, pigs and the chickens clamoured, their empty bellies adding  urgency to their voices.

      In the barn the gloom was sudden. Wearing  cobwebs for curtains, the high narrow window slits filtered light and he didn’t  see the wayward chicken until shrieking in feather-fluffed outrage it dashed at  his legs. Too late to join its own the night before in the henhouse it raced  away it’s rolling gait carrying it at speed across the yard.

         “Stay,” he warned, as his sheepdog wormed  its way on it stomach across the floor ready to pursue.

  Inhaling deeply, Joe savoured the smell  of grain, warmth and peace. The harvest gathered safely for another year the  dryer was silent and the feed bins full. It was a source of satisfaction that it  should be so, yet there was still work to be done. Mice had scattered wheat off  the towering shape of the grain heap still to be bagged, his ageing tractor  waiting to be serviced stood hunched in a corner and if he was not much mistaken  dark pools on the stone floor told him the rotting thatch needed patching in  places.

   Fluttering paper  hanging from a nail reminded him a page of the calendar would soon need turning,  but not before Halloween was over and done with. Dates, there were always dates  to be remembered. Farming and those days, the right days for planting winter  wheat, hoeing beet, weaning piglets, spraying vegetables, loading beasts for  market and picking the pumpkins. Every year he must be in the field picking  pumpkins to send into the town, as long as the weather complied with the dates,  that is.

   He unhitched his  hook from its peg in the wall, running his finger down the blade. Old and well  used, the wooden handle resting in his palm was worn smooth. Its tactile  response felt reassuring like a worn pair of shoes whose leather moulded to  every bump and turn of the foot it rested on.

Leaving the tool by the door,  he filled the buckets with pellets and went to feed the stock.

    He grew over an acre of  pumpkins. This year they’d grown well and most were cut, a source of relief as  he trudged toward the field. He could see them in the distance lolling amongst  their dark foliage, the orange orbs in neat rows one a clone for another. As far  as he looked they presented calm and ordered perfection.

  Almost at the gate the noise he suddenly  heard was alien to his ears. It was an odd sound and he paused to listen. Used  to the sound of a winnowing wind in a cornfield, the restless rustle of poplar  leaves in a breeze and the plaintive sighing of a gale as it sought out crannies  in the yard, this was different. It sounded like voices, not one or two, but a  hundred or more, pitched low, muted, whispers even.

   Shaking his head, Joe scrubbed  roughly at his ears. Was he losing his hearing so it turned his ears into  receptacles of flannel? When the dog’s whimper distracted him, he ran his hand  over its coarse-coated back surprised to feel it trembling.

   “Daft dog, what’s up with you,  eh?” he said affectionately, grateful he’d heard it.

The whimper was louder  this time, almost tempered by aggression, he thought and the animal’s eyes  rolled into their whites. Then backing away, it retreated some yards.

       “Murphy, for Christ’s sake what’s got  into you? Imagining things are you? Well you and me both, old fellow. Come on,  there’s only a day to finish this field.”

   The last of the pumpkins to be cut  from their vines were over on the far side. Picking his way between the rows,  Joe glanced over his shoulder. Murphy trailed behind him reluctantly slouching  low. Whatever it was had gone now. The field was quiet almost eerily so and when  a pheasant suddenly flew up with its clattering cry it startled Joe. He noticed  the dog ignored it. Strange, since his chasing skills were more advanced than  his staying ones, but there was little time to dwell on anything apart from  cutting and picking the ripe pumpkins.

    

   With the last load of pumpkins  deposited gently off the trailer and into a towering stack ready for the lorry,  time and light ran out. Easing his stiff shoulders with a calloused hand, Joe  teased himself with images of an indolent wallow in a steaming bath. It would be  some while off still. Another round of feeding, a sick cow to tend to and  mucking out were only a few of the chores left before he could discard his boots  in the porch.

  Looking across  the yard, he could see it would be a cold night. There was a steely-grey  sharpness on the horizon and not a breath of wind either so the smoke from the  house fire drew ruler straight from the pot. His final task of the day was to  choose two of the best pumpkins. One for each of the children carefully hollowed  out with eyeholes and a smiley face. That after all was what Halloween was all  about...

***

   In the town the hands on the church  clock were inching their way through the night. Half a moon surrounded by ebony  blackness managed to shed a lemony glow on the rooftops and pavements, but where  it failed only shadows dwelt in the doorways. Apart from the small concrete  building on a corner signed in blue with the word Police, life seemed to have  vanished completely.

   Cluttered with a fresh mug of tea and several empty china cups, a heap of  paperwork and loads of heavy files, the front desk propped up the Duty Sergeant.  Scratching his head, he stared thoughtfully at the pen in his hand then reached  for his tea instead.

       “Time you  were on the road, young man,” he called into the dim recesses behind him.  

       “Just  getting my helmet,” the police constable replied from somewhere.

In the  patrol car, the constable threw the helmet in question onto the back seat and  started the ignition. Sighing loudly, he grated the gears and finding the one he  wanted steered the car out of the parking lot. It wasn’t he really minded night  duty, but driving about was the bore. It was a small place where most were in  bed by eleven and crime was about minor misdemeanours. He dreamt of a wild car  chase, a mugging maybe or a raid on the jewellers shop in the High Street. One  day...

    Leaving the  built up area, he exited town by the only main road there was. Long and  straight, few lived beside it apart from an old recluse in a rickety shack and  some distance farther on, Joe and Patches Farm. The long miles to nowhere,  that’s how he thought of it, at least until you arrived at a crossroads and the  wider world.

   He should be  used to it, but his eyes still needed to strain through the inky black. Once he  thought he saw a pair of eyes, deer height he reckoned, but by the time he  reached the place it was gone. Seeing the outline of the farm buildings he  slowed the car. Sometimes Joe was up late with calving or some such and a chat  broke up the tedium.

  Frowning,  he peered through the windscreen. He could have sworn it was a clear night, yet  ahead of him, swirling like wisps of chiffon, what he thought must be a thin fog  rolled along the road towards him.

       “What the heck is that?” he muttered, calm turning to  fear.

Unnerved, he stopped the car and seemingly frozen in his seat stared  at the undulating shapes approaching fast. Never had he seen orange mist and  closer to him now it didn’t drift, but bounced on the road surface.

      “Christ almighty, pumpkins, they’re  bloody pumpkins.”

When the first hit his windscreen, hairs stood up on his  arms. He fumbled for his phone and dropped it. The car lurched under the impact  of them as they kept on coming, hundreds of them crushing one another so their  flesh was jamming up the windows, blocking the radiator, obliterating the air,  suffocating him with their weight. Sinuous green tentacles found the smallest  gaps, reaching for his throat...

Entry # 11

Soul Mates
by Jaleta Clegg


Silence reigned in Teremun’s tomb, as it had for a thousand long, dry years, since the last mummy had been deposited and the crypt door sealed. Sand filtered into the hot darkness, trickling over the sarcophagus in amber waves that piled on the stone blocks of the floor.

Munahmunah the rat longed to flick his ears clear of the sand, but the mummification spell held tight. He lay on the carved face of Teremun, one haunch resting on the Ankh of Termuthis. Munahmunah wished to die completely. The Ankh prevented his spirit from leaving his desiccated body. He would have sighed in frustration, had he breath.

Sand was the least of his irritations. Maibe, the virgin sacrifice, faced Naeem, the undead defender, across the chamber, two mummies locked in eternal longing, unable to touch, to consummate the desire born and nurtured in silent death. Munahmunah lay between them, their raging lust pounding in his bones.

The entrance block slid, grating on layers of dry sand. A thief slipped through the gap, a burning torch clutched in one fist.

The Ankh of Termuthis flared into heated life, the spells of protection invoked by the intruder lending movement to dry muscle and bone. Munahmunah the rat squealed, leaping away from the angry glow of the Ankh. The hair on his rump burst into flames. He launched himself in angry attack at the face of the thief. The man screamed, clawing the dead rat free as he fled the tomb.

The magic of Termuthis surged through the burial chamber. Munahmunah chattered his rage at the unjustness of death and accidental mummification.

Maibe shifted, her tightly wound form lurching from the wall. One hand tore free of her wrappings to beckon Naeem forward, seduction in the tilt of her head.

Naeem, a bundle of ancient rags, inched towards the object of his desire through the sand drifts. His wrappings writhed as he worked muscles desiccated and decayed by desert heat.

Maibe hopped once, twice, gaining ground toward the object of her thousand-year desire.

Munahmunah showed his teeth, disgust wrinkling his lip. The dead flesh cracked, flaking away to leave his jawbone bare.

The newly animated lovers ignored the smoldering rat in the doorway. The Ankh glowed, shedding a greenish light in the tomb. Power throbbed, giving temporary life to the dead. Naeem’s wrappings caught on the corner of Teremun’s sarcophagus. He sprawled in the sand, tripped by trappings of his death.

“Ah.” A faint breath of sound from Maibe as the defender sprawled, one abnormally short leg breaking free to roll across the sandy floor. Maibe's linen parted as she strained arms against ancient bindings. Her beckoning finger crumbled to dust.

Naeem rolled to his back. Maibe toppled, body pressed to his. A thousand years of watching, sensing his spirit, she would not waste this moment. Virgin in life, she would not remain so in death. Breathing a prayer of thanks to Termuthis for her Gift, Maibe tore at Naeem’s linen wrappings with mummified hands.

Naeem arched his back, responding to her urging. His arms came free. She paused only a moment to note the shortness of his arms. Physical deformities did not matter, not to one who loved his spirit from afar. Until now.

His claws tore the linen strips prisoning her dead flesh. She shivered with delight as his skin touched hers. He pulled her closer, limbs wrapping her torso. Maibe ripped at the face coverings. She must look on her beloved, kiss his lips, feel their passion burning bright.

He grunted beneath her. She writhed, wishing only for a moment that she still lived in truth. She pulled the last of his facial wrappings free.

Naeem’s long snout opened, fanged jaws crushing her skull. Both mummies crumbled as green magic exploded from Maibe's decapitated body.

The Ankh’s light faded, taking life with it.

Freed of their mummified servitude, the spirits of Maibe and Naeem rose from the tangled bodies on the sandy floor.

“A crocodile?” Maibe’s spirit voice echoed through the chamber.

Naeem snapped his spirit jaws in a reptilian smile.

“Virgin in life, virgin in death. Horus the Vulture-headed better have a good reward waiting.” Maibe’s voice faded as her spirit rose from the tomb.

Munahmunah gnashed his teeth as Termuthis gathered him to her Ankh. At least his eternity of sitting between unrequited lust and hunger was at an end. He had suffered for his inadvertent intrusion into Teremun’s eternal rest. But now, peace filled his soul as his body crumbled to dust.

Silence reigned in the tomb of Teremun, as it had for most of the last thousand years.

Entry # 10

Taking a Trip

By

Jessica Wagner

I drove for a long while, humming cheerfully to drown out the sound of her screaming. When that didn’t work, I turned on the stereo, allowing crackly, static-filled country to fill the cramped interior of the little sedan. I nodded in approval as some woman began belting out a heart-felt, anguish-filled song about betrayal and love. It wasn’t usually my thing—I’m an easygoing guy—but it was painfully appropriate.

“Please, Tom, I can explain!”

I cranked up the volume louder, continuing to hum, and downshifted as I crested over a hill to greet the panorama of colors smeared across the sky—a New Mexico sunset in all its glory, providing a backdrop along with the mountains and rabbit-brush spattered hills for me. There were no other cars driving along the road for as far as I could see—that was the true beauty of the Land of Enchantment. Even living in a country along with over three-hundred million people, you could still find ways to be utterly alone.

“It wasn’t my idea! You know how my mother is, Tom!”

My jaw twitched a little, but I smoothed a smile back on my face as I caught sight of the turnoff. I turned onto a dirt road, and I heard little thuds in the back of my trunk as I eased the car over a cattle guard.

“Oww!”

I reached over to steady the bloody little bundle, wrapped lovingly in a fuzzy blue blanket and resting next to me in the passenger’s seat. I briefly recalled the many times that Judie had sat here alongside me during road trips, flashing pearly whites as she laughed at one of our privately shared jokes, the wind whipping her blond hair so that it streamed out behind her, her green eyes sparkling in the sunshine. I put that thought carefully away, and braked as one of the many cows that grazed in the pastures alongside the road decided to cross not three feet from my bumper.

“Please, try to understand! She would have taken all my money away! I would have never done it otherwise!”

I waved at a rancher and one of his hands who were riding herd on their cattle, looking as at home in the saddle as I felt holding the chainsaw currently resting across the back seat. It had been a long time since I’d last ridden a horse—as a woodworker I’d never really had much of a need for them. But I felt a sudden yearning to be in the saddle again—perhaps I would ask the rancher if he needed an extra helper when I was done here.

I continued on, until the pastures were well out of sight and tall pines started flying past the windows, and then eased my car off to the side of the road. I shifted into neutral, pulled the parking brake into place, and reluctantly killed the engine. The music stopped instantly, and Judie’s loud, hiccupping sobs filled the air instead, drowning out the subtle symphony of the forest. I couldn’t help the twinge of annoyance I felt; I liked listening to the chirping of birds, the rustle of squirrels in the trees, watching the occasional rabbit scamper by. Why did she have to ruin it with her caterwauling?

Oh well, there would be time enough for him to sit back and enjoy nature’s symphony. Plenty of time.

I reached down to pop the lever for the trunk, then grabbed the chainsaw and opened the door. I left the bloody bundle inside as I walked around and lifted the trunk door to see her looking up at me, sooty streaks of mascara running down her blanched cheeks, hair rumpled in a way that just yesterday I would have found delightful. She was dressed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, both stained with blood, her wrists and ankles bound with twine.

“Tom, please, you have to believe that this wasn't my fault! I love you!!!”

I briefly wondered why I hadn’t gagged her—it would have made the trip much more pleasant. I sighed and rested the chainsaw on the ground as I lifted her into my arms and cradled her against my chest, for the last time.

“I did too—until I found our child in the dumpster this morning.”

Entry # 9

                                                                Nightmare at Sea

                                                                         by

                                                                  Cypher Lx

The ship gently rocked on the empty ocean. There was no wind to catch the sails. The only sound was the occasional wave lapping against the wooden hull. No one manned the crow's nest. Not that there was a need. There were no other ships and no land in sight. Skies were clear and a full moon shone brilliantly, reflecting on the water and illuminating the decks. Only two men were on the deck, the rest below decks in a deep slumber. A shadowy figure moved quietly toward the man staring out to sea while taking the occasional puff on his pipe. The figure stood behind him and the blade caught a glint of moonlight just before plunging deeply into the man's back. The pipe fell into the water with a barely audible plunk and he slumped forward without a sound. The figure drew back the blade and made its way toward the man at the wheel. The man was the captain. He allowed his crew to sleep after the three days of rough seas and now he was at the helm. The figure crept up behind him, but the captain heard the slight creak of the one loose board that lay two steps away. He spun around to meet a familiar face.

"Ah, it's just you," the captain said with relief in his voice. "Couldn't sleep?"

The figure gave a kind smile. "No."

With a sudden and swift movement the captain's throat was sliced open and he dropped making only quiet gurgling noises.

For several moments the figure looked around and took in all that had just happened and the irony of the fresh salt air in the crisp night. Somehow it seemed that the night made everything clean, including death. It gave the figure great pleasure and looking up at the crow's nest he let out a small laugh. Being that close to the sky made the rest of them look like ants and for days he just wanted to stomp on them. He had been relieved of duty earlier in the evening when the first mate had climbed up to his post. And the first mate had been relieved of his duty immediately after with one swift flick of a knife. The figure contemplated what had compelled him do these things, but could not come to an answer. What did it matter? This gave him more pleasure than anything ever had. After some time, he made his way below decks. The smell down there began to bother him more and more. No one else seemed to notice. The mixture of fruits, days old food, spilt rum, and the stench of his fellow crew was almost more than he could bear. He had been on many other voyages and it never affected him. This time was different, though he didn't know why.

Ever since the last port four days ago, he had felt different. Like everyone else, he indulged in the luxuries that all good ports have. Real food, much drink in different varieties, and all of the loose women a man could handle. Each of these done in excess. Normal behavior for men of the sea and something that he had grown accustomed to these last few years. And like all visits to a port, most could not remember pieces of the revelry. He was no exception. But something had changed and he could not pinpoint the exact moment when it did. He stood in the doorway of the sleeping quarters watching his crewmates as they lay in their bunks, completely unaware of the fate that would take them one by one. As the moonlight cascaded through the portholes, he tried to remember what the whiskey and rum had seemed to wash away. He recalled eating many different and somewhat exotic dishes made with poultry and seafood. The tastes of the rich desserts still haunted his tongue like a lost lover. Being a younger man, he had no problem with the women. There were trysts with four, or maybe five, different whores. A couple of them were taken at the same time. The brief moments in between were filled with drink and laughter.

He stepped from the doorway and crouched down against the wall. The memories came clear and clouded at the same time. They all mixed together in a flood of pleasure. It aroused him even now. He had woken up on the ship just before they had set sail again. Others had also indulged too much and had to be carried aboard. Suddenly, he remembered that he had a task and sprang to his feet. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. He had to be very quiet so as not to wake anyone. If one of the crew were to hear his actions, it would all be over and he would be taken down quickly. They would accuse him of mutiny and that was not his goal. Not that he really knew what the goal was. He had no desire to control the ship and he was not sure of what drove his actions. He just wanted this. This moment when time seemed to stand still, waiting just for him. Stepping softly to the first bunk, he covered the crewman's mouth and gingerly slit his throat. It was so easy. He continued from bunk to bunk repeating his actions with only the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. It was exhilarating beyond belief. A feeling that all the best food, drink, and whores in the world could not compare to. He glanced back in the pale light at his victims, some with their eyes open in horror, and a smile crept across his face. The massacre continued until he reached the last bunk. Here lay his best friend out of the crew. For a long moment he stood there watching his friend breathe. Blood dripped from the knife and hit the floor like velvet. He leaned over, holding the knife behind him.

"Wake up," he whispered.

His friend opened his eyes, sleep still weighing heavily on him.

"Has something happened?"

A grin slowly appeared on the killer's face. The irony of the question was not lost on him. In fact, he found it quite humorous.

"Nothing at all," he replied, and began laughing.

His friend's clouded mind cleared rapidly as he glimpsed the carnage behind the figure hovering over him. The figure brought his hand forward producing the bloodstained knife. His friend was trapped between him and the wall. His grin became even more evil when he heard the first yelp of fear. Stabbing over and over, he did not stop until he saw nothing but moonlit scarlet soaking his friend's clothing and blanket. Silence. A welcome deafness that only death can provide. Sweat drenched his brow and he backed toward the doorway to survey his work. As he stood there, sound began to return. The gentle lapping of the waves against the wooden hull, the occasional creak of the sea-worn ship, droplets of blood as they softly hit the floorboards. And with the sounds, the smell of iron canvassed the room, covering the stench that had so bothered him before. Never before had he felt such release.

So consumed was he with his job well done, that he did not immediately notice the presence behind him. He felt the breath on the back of his neck. It was hot and yet he was suddenly frozen in fear.

"Excellent," hissed the presence into his ear.

The knife fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. He screamed and dropped to his knees. In the moonlight he could see that he was soaked with blood. A hand lay kindly on his shoulder and he began sobbing uncontrollably. He now remembered what he had forgotten.

Entry # 8

                                                    A Witch's Kiss

                                                          By

                                                     Katrina Jack

Against a backdrop of midnight blue, sprinkled with the tiny lights of a million, billion stars and planets, Celandine flew. Perched “side-saddle” on the narrow wooden pole, she breathed in the heady fragrance of autumn, drifting up from the night-shrouded ground below. 

A gentle breeze ruffled her raven-dark curls, spilling out from beneath the brim of her hat. Albert, her green eyed, black furred cat, regarded her wisely from his place nestled amidst the bristles of the enchanted besom.

High above the earth Celandine soared filled with the peculiar joy that only Halloween could bring. It was the time of year that witches were at their most powerful; when spells could be cast with the sure certainty they would work.

Celandine clicked the heels of her boots together and increased her speed. Beneath her the stream of traffic on the motorway became a continuous blur of light. She squinted into the distance and spied the houses of the town. The sodium glare of streetlights dotted the edges of the roads. Celandine slowed the broom, until she was cruising above the rooftops.

She watched as human children progressed from door to door in search of “trick or treats.” Her lips curved in an indulgent smile and her heart, usually so cold, warmed at the sight of their rosy cheeks.

She flew on until at last she saw him, walking alone, head down and hands shoved into his pockets. She’d watched him for a long time now and coveted him, body and soul. Celadine’s pulse beat loud in her ears and she almost lost control. Albert hissed at her carelessness, before settling back again. 

She brought the broom down, landing silently in an alley, where she dismounted, took off her hat, and shook out her hair. Albert watched her, as she headed off towards the street.

As she neared the head of the alley, she paused. Her Beldame had cautioned against what she was about to do, warning that at best she could lose her powers, at worst her life. Phh! What did the old know about love?

Footsteps echoed along the road and Celandine stepped out, almost colliding with the man she’d chosen. As she gazed up into his startled face, she knew she’d been right. He was so handsome and there was kindness in those eyes. She muttered the carefully prepared spell and a white mist, filled with twinkling dots of light, rose up, surrounding them both. As the charm took effect, the young man reached out for her and took her in his arms. Celandine offered up her lips to him.

The kiss was everything she’d hoped for and its sweetness permeated her from head to toe. Then pain burned through her and she opened her mouth in a wordless cry. The face now looking down at her was hard and cold, the eyes narrowed and the lips a thin, tight line.

As she fell to the ground, her life blood ebbing around the blade of the knife stuck between her ribs, Celandine realised her Beldame had been right.

‘Do not think that witch-hunters are extinct my dear. Even in this, the 21st century of mortal man, they still exist. Beware the hunter, for he will have no mercy. Is it not written that thou shall not suffer a witch to live?’

The young man looked down at the fallen girl and a sigh of almost regret escaped him. Such a beautiful creature, but beneath that beauty lay evil and he must never forget it.

He glanced up at the star strewn sky, until the sound of children’s laughter sounded nearby. With a deft movement, he scooped the body into his arms and walked off towards the local crematorium, where he worked. There was a cremation scheduled for tomorrow.

No one would notice a few extra ashes.