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Made in nl
[MOD]
Decrepit Dakkanaut






Cozy cockpit of an Imperial Knight

Here be my attempts at contributing to National November Writing Month, a variety of short stories that I worked on. My output has not reached the required 50,000 word count, nor did I manage to write a single novel or novella. I envy the people who can juggle a full working day and still have the creative energy to put out a steady stream of words every day, I tip my hat at thee. Instead, I decided to just see how far I could get, starting off simple with a single short story inspired by an image I found on pinterest. I wanted to try and write something scary, but seeing as horror is not my forte, I’m was not sure what I would end up with. The final resuIt... I like both the story and the character enough that I worked on a follow-up story, quite a bit lengthier and messier, but again, I still like it and am happy that I got them done.

Also included, some blatant padding, something I wrote up back in July, trying to go for a short story kicked off by a muse, to use a cheesy term. What started as your run of the mill film noir scene, was after some prodding and encouragement turned into several one-page chapters filled with all the clichés we love and hate when it comes down to prohibition, gangsters and film noir. Not going to win any prizes, but written for the sake of wanting to write something, anything at that point. Also made me go “shitballs, I am rusty when it comes to writing” more than once.

Anyway, thanks for reading.

UNPUBLISHED ARTICLE - Eleanor Saunders (1967)

Spoiler:
“You know, strange things happen here at night.”

It was an off-hand remark made by the landlord when he found out that I was a reporter and that I was in search of something interesting to write about here up north. I was not all that interested at first, as whenever they would say that something strange happened at night, almost every time it was easily explained away as something fairly mundane or harmless. But at the same time, I was positively starved for a distraction after the long drive from down south, so I asked the man to elaborate, which he did with some reluctance. This annoyed me, it is poor form to hint at something, then refuse to explain further, but after some needling, he relented. His voice dropped to a conspirator’s whisper as the old man spoke of a dark ritual held on certain nights, involving things good god-fearing folk would never dare to consider. I must confess that I was mildly intrigued by this, though again, it was also fuelled by a desire to do something, anything at this point in my journey. I had been on the road for some time now and until that moment, my search for something of interest to write about had been fruitless. At this stage I yearned to do something other than drive around all day. So, wanting to both stretch my legs and having nothing better to work with, I decided to stay for a few days and investigate the matter, dismissing the landlord’s warning to not get involved.

I wound up spending three days in that quaint little town, taking in the sights and enjoying a countryside covered in a blanket of snow. It painted a picture I found quite enchanting and it reinvigorated me, I was glad that I had made this decision, if only because it made for a pleasant change of pace from the Big Smoke. During my exploration I also took the time to ask around about these strange things happening at night. The locals were friendly and welcoming enough to outsiders, eager to quiz me about the “civilised” south in exchange for answering some questions of my own. It was amusing to be asked about the tube, how many people lived on top of one another and how bright the city was at night, to me all quite mundane, but to those who knew only their little town, amazing. My own questions were met with mixed result; some simply shrugged or laughed, passing it all off as the tall tales of the fanciful, others feigned ignorance, while some, the elderly mostly, warned me to not investigate further. One elderly lady cast about a fearful look and made the sign of the cross, as if to ward off something evil, saying that it was the work of the devil and that they would do evil again soon.

A whole gamut of answers, some most curious but ultimately, useless to my investigation. Not even the local constable, usually a source of some credible information or hearsay, could furnish me with any useful answers.

At this point I had already decided to drop the matter and focus on where to travel next, for as invigorating as the stay had been, I was not paid to loiter and take in the sights, nor to write about baseless hearsay. I had reached a dead end, or so I thought until I met Fiona. It was late in the afternoon of the third day when I found her, a tall young woman with long auburn hair and striking emerald eyes awaiting my return by the pub. She introduced herself and asked if I was the one who had been asking all these questions, and if so, why? I explained to her the nature of my articles; to explore the strange and that the rumours fluttering about here had caught my attention. Though I did hasten to add that thus far, I had yet to get any good information on this all, or a clearer picture as to what was actually going on in the first place. I told her that I had already decided to drop it, unless she had anything noteworthy to share herself?

What I mostly remember about Fiona, aside from the colour of her hair and eyes, was her smile, a warm, generous smile that could put a mind at ease. She offered to answer my questions as best she could, suggesting that we walked around town to stay warm. I offered to buy her a hot drink, but with that same smile told me that some folk, the landlord of the pub included, did not approve of her and her ways. So, with some interest I followed her as we casually made our way through the little streets, listening to Fiona as told me about the history of the place, how old it was, the origin of its people and how they changed over the years. All very interesting, if history is ones point of interest, but what about these strange, evil things that some have alluded to?

Fiona stopped and turned to face me. “There is nothing sinister going on here miss Saunders,” she said, still smiling. “As I said, this is a place of great history and tradition, some of those traditions are still being kept alive now. There are some, those ignorant or closeminded, who misunderstand, mistrust these traditions because they know not what they are talking about. Besides, after tonight the complaints will cease for some time to come.” Why tonight I asked? “We are having a small, private gathering tonight, the last one of the year and after that, all good god-fearing folk can rest easy once more.”

Last of the year? This struck me as odd, as the year was still young, barely a few weeks old. Before I could ask any further Fiona stated that she had preparations to make for the evening and excused herself, I watched her depart, entering what appeared to be her house. Now, I must confess, I was intrigued and it almost sounded like an invitation was extended to me, it would be most impolite of me to decline such an offer, no? I did not leave until tomorrow anyway, so I decided to have a cheeky peek and see what it was all about.

Upon my return to the pub, I found that the landlord had seen us depart together, rather sternly warning me to not get involved with the likes of Fiona, for she was of ill repute. I assured him that it had never crossed my mind. I also told him that I had already dismissed this all as a tall tale and that I would be departing tomorrow. This suitably placated him and put him at ease.

Under the pretence of wanting to leave early the next day I retired right after having enjoyed a hearty dinner, there I prepared for my investigation and snuck out when the landlord was not watching. The sun had already set as I made my way through the quiet streets to Fiona’s house, where light was still burning. Steeling myself against the cold I remained out of sight and kept watch. Maybe an hour had passed by the time the light went out and Fiona, clad in a black robe and hood, slipped out of her house and made her way out of town. I kept my distance, but it was not hard to lose sight of her, there was a full moon and the black of Fiona’s outfit stood out starkly against the snow. Even then, if I did not tail Fiona, her destination would not have been hard to miss, I could spot the soft glow of fire from quite a distance away.

As we neared the location of the gathering, I spotted a ruin on a hill which I hoped would give me a good view of whatever was going on. I dashed over and found a suitable spot from where I could observe, then made myself as comfortable as I could. Fiona had not arrived yet, so I spared my hiding place a quick cursory glance. The ruins of an old watch tower, or outpost maybe? I think Fiona made mention of the Romans having been here at some point. I resumed my vigil, pulling my trusty opera glasses from my coat pocket. While not as powerful as regular binoculars, this beautiful piece of artifice was both stylish and compact, easy to carry and hide.

I adjusted the lenses and began my observation proper, noting that a small crowd had gathered around a collection of wood arranged into a square, almost like the base for a bonfire. What I at first assumed where people simply obscured by the darkness were in fact clad in the same black robes and hoods as Fiona, some carrying torches, others carrying bundles or sacks holding something. Most curiously, one of their number had a sheep on a leash. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice was voicing its objection to being here, but as I always did upon hearing this little voice, I ignored its pleas and kept on watching.

When Fiona finally arrived, she kept her distance from the group, a simple drumbeat began to emanate from somewhere and six men detached from the crowd who much to my surprise, pulled swords from underneath their robes. They then formed up into an honour guard of sorts, their swords forming a passage for Fiona to pass through. She calmly peeled off her left glove and then slowly advanced, starting to chant in a language I could neither place nor understand. Some of the gathered swayed in time with the chants, reminding me of stoned hippies, who when lulled into a trance, would do likewise. As she passed under the last of the swords someone stepped forward and offered her something, I caught a flash of gold as it was passed over. Fiona accepted it and continued her chanting, holding it in front of her, letting the light of the flames illuminate it. I recognized the object that she was holding as a hand sickle, circling the thing in front of her as she studied it and then with a deliberate slowness ran the blade across her naked hand. She clenched her hand and held it overhead, letting her blood spill onto the snow.

I will admit that this sight made me feel uneasy, to see someone sound of mind inflict harm on her own person. I was not prepared for what she did next either, which made my gorge rise in shock.

Fiona approached the sheep and in one deft motion cut its bared throat, calmly stepping back as the poor animal thrashed and bled out, its blood staining its fur and the snow a vivid crimson. When it moved no more two men took hold of the cadaver and placed it in the centre of the what I now recognized was a pyre. Fiona continued her chant as the others gathered and placed their own bundles and sacks besides the dead animal. When the last item was placed, Fiona waved her bleeding hand over the pyre several times, splattering the items laying there with her own blood, as if consecrating them. She handed the sickle back and accepted a torch in its stead, loudly speaking in that strange, unfamiliar language, head cast upwards as if beseeching something. She then touched her torch to the pyre and began chanting a final time, the others joining in as they sang what sounded like praise.

The fire swiftly took hold of the cadaver and objects piled on the mound, erupting into an inferno. Most curious of all was how the flames roared upwards, as if pulled up by something, creating an impossibly tall column of fire. The crowd was seemingly unfazed by the raging inferno, they simply kept chanting.

What happened next chilled me then and chills me now as I write down these words: Fiona turned and despite the distance between us, looked right at me, as if somehow, she knew exactly where I was hiding and put a bleeding finger to her lips, then smiled that smile. For a moment we locked gazes and time seemed to stretch on into infinity as I lost myself in her gaze, her green eyes somehow shining more brightly, more vividly than before. I do not know what broke the trance, but when I came to my senses, I lost my nerve and ran, ran like I never ran before, something I had not done since I was a frightened child. But I ran, ran all the way back to town, all the way to the pub, where I frantically banged on the bolted door until I was admitted. The landlord took one look at me, shook his head and pulled me inside, locking the door behind me, then ushered me over to the fireplace, where he offered me a measure of something strong. “Warned you, didn’t I?” he said with a sigh of weary resignation, maybe disappointment as well? He did not inquire as to what had happened, he simply kept me company for as long as I needed to recover my wits, assuring me that I would be safe here for the night. After I managed to finish the drink I made my way to my room, where I bolted the door and shoved a chair under the handle for good measure.

Sleep did come not easily and when it came, I was the sheep that Fiona advanced upon with the sickle, smiling that charming smile as the shadows chanted in time to the beat in a language I could neither understand nor place, but knew held power.

The next morning as I prepared to leave, I found Fiona who was waiting for me by my car, greeting me with the same warmth and kindness as the day before, as if she had not spent the night before being up to no good. She must have noticed my somewhat dishevelled look, asking me if I had a good night’s rest and if I could not be persuaded to stay a bit longer? I politely told her that I would not, I had to write something of substance soon, or else I’d be without a job. She caught me stealing glances at her bandaged hand. “A small price to pay,” she had said, still smiling as she held it up, carefully flexing her fingers. “I hope you have found your story miss Saunders; I did my best to put on quite the show for you.”

Oh, how I wanted to run when she said that, but despite the ice-cold touch of fear once more creeping through my body I had to know, what did I witness? What did they do that night? Why was that poor animal killed? Fiona studied me for a moment, her head cocked to the side, as if judging me perhaps? She nodded to herself and started to explain that throughout the years, most people changed, adapted, forgot about the old ways. But not Fiona, she was a living connection to a past stretching back to before the Romans, keeping traditions and rites alive as a Bandrui, or druid. What I had witnessed that night was a ritual meant to invoke a blessing over the town and its surrounding farms. By offering up some of their best produce and a healthy animal, they hoped to receive a bountiful harvest, healthy livestock and good health for the town’s inhabitants for the coming year.

Did the ritual work? And to whom, or what, was the offering made? Fiona shrugged and confessed that she did not know either who was watching over them all, just that it was out there. She then presented me with a parting gift: a small pouch of herbs, to make a brew that would soothe the nerves, then bade me a fair journey and departed herself, leaving me shivering in the cold, wondering. Not long after I was on my way, towards whatever city was closest, I had my fill of the countryside for the time being.

I later found out that the little town, whose name I shall not utter, had a bountiful harvest that year.

-m.p.E.S


THOSE LOST AT SEA (unpublished) – Eleanor Saunders (1967)

Spoiler:
After my, shall we say, misadventure in that small town, I found myself unable to tackle the mysterious and strange. My editor, ever the patient man, not to mention a savvy veteran of the trade, was reluctant to let the trip go to waste and persuaded me to write something completely different: travelogues. Part of me baulked at such a thing, writing simple travelogues I felt was beneath my mention and a waste of my skills. But in all honesty, I welcomed it, there was a desire to be creative, be productive, though perhaps not in my chosen field of interest at that moment. It would wind up becoming my passion for most of that year, for which I am ever grateful to my editor, who after reading a few test pieces I had penned, talked me into writing these articles for an extended period of time, sending me from one location to another.

It almost felt like a paid vacation in some ways and I took to this new assignment with much gusto, enjoying it immensely. Without shame I will admit that I look back fondly on that period, living a quasi-bohemian lifestyle where I spent most of the year travelling to and exploring little towns, not for the sake of mystery, but to make them known to the rest of the country. A personal highlight was that one midweek summer I got to spend at an actual castle, treated like a lady by the generous staff, fine dining and a room with divine view included. What made it even more enjoyable was a surprise visit by my partner, whom had conspired with my editor to surprise me. He did not come emptyhanded either, bringing with him some articles of clothing I had been missing dearly and most thoughtfully, a portable typewriter, I was growing tired of writing out these articles by hand at that point. But above all, it was good to see him again, we had missed one another immensely and though it was only for a short time, we made sure our time together was well spent. Sadly, he had to return south and pursue his own work once more, a trip across the pond no less. I would love to boast about my trips across our fair island, but they pale in comparison to the trips he makes across the globe for his employer.

I digress, suffice it to say that in the end I wound up spending a more than nine months doing nothing but driving around, taking in the sights, doing local research and writing articles about this town or that village. It was perhaps the largest volume of work that I had produced in such a short time, which my editor quite enjoyed, as did our readers, judging from the glowing feedback he gave me during the odd calls we had when a phone was available. It was fun and it made me realize that perhaps I had been writing about the wrong subject all along, that this was my true calling. But most importantly, it made me forget all about that dreadful business earlier in the year. One summer evening I even found the courage to dig out the pouch of herbs I had been gifted and made tea from it. Much to my surprise it did indeed ease some of the tension I had been feeling because of being constantly on the move.

As with all good things, they must come to an end and it was well into November when I received my final assignment. I had made it clear that I wanted to spend December back home, but I was told that there was enough time to spare for one last stop, which would be something a bit more along the lines of my original travel intentions. I will confess that I was feeling some of my confidence return when it came to the mysterious, most places I had visited had their share of local lore concerning such matters, but they were mere footnotes in my articles put there as a curiosity, it was sometimes hard to not delve a bit further into these, but they were not the meat of the subject. So, to be offered the chance to work on the very thing I set out to write about in the first place, I could not help but feel a tad giddy. A mystery was waiting to be explored and I was positively itching to have a go at it.

I set out on a cold, wet November morning to my destination, a small coastal town in the north of Scotland, it was not really known for anything, but I planned to change that upon arrival. As for the mystery, my only lead was that there was something sometimes seen in the water. It was as vague and threadbare as rumours came, but it would have to do. The closer I got to the coast, the gloomier things got, a thick fog forcing me to moderate my speed and delaying my arrival. It was late in the afternoon by the time I finally arrived, finding my way to the local inn, where I booked a room for a week, my usual allotment of time for the articles. Beforehand I had already decided to split my time equally, so I could both write about the town itself and, if I got a good lead, delve into whatever this mystery would turn out to be.

Much to my surprise securing sources of information would not as hard as I had initially feared. The landlord was most accommodating, especially after she found out that I was THE Eleanor Saunders, travelogue writer extraordinaire! I was a bit taken aback by this, but decided to go with it. She provided me with a list of noteworthy locations to explore and when carefully asked about the strange goings on regarding the water, directed me towards a tavern by the docks, helpfully sending word ahead that she vouched for me. This all left me in high spirits and I wished all investigations went this smoothly.

Now, my exploration and findings on the town, can be read elsewhere, I intend to wholly focus on the matter of the mystery in this article.

It had taken me a few days to get around to visiting the tavern, a quaint little establishment called the Mocking Mermaid. I no doubt looked wholly out of place as I stepped in, every gaze drawn to me as I shut the door behind me and gave the patrons a polite, but cheery greeting. An assortment of sailors and harbour folk gave their replies, then went back to their drinks. Now, I could not help but smile as I took in the scene for a moment, it was as if it was taken from the pages of a novel. The interior was gloomy, but filled with warmth and the smells of what I would romantically describe as those belonging to honest folk and honest work, forgive the description there. The owner was a most courteous man who permitted me to conduct my work here after I confirmed that yes, I was the lady who would be writing about their town for a fancy magazine. When I told him that I was here to investigate the other matter, he graciously assigned me a table and called over a gaggle of locals, sailors and fishermen by the look of their garb. They needed little prompting to one-by-one share with me their experiences, which I took down with pad and pencil. These men were not boisterous or loud, as one may expect them to be when recounting a daring tale to the likes of me, but they all told me of how they glimpsed a face just beneath the waves, or a clawed hand sticking from the foamy ocean, as if reaching out for something. One man, encouraged by his peers and a strong drink from the owner, told in a quiet voice how one night he had a stranger wander across his deck, as if searching for something, only to step off the boat and vanish into the depths, not seen again. He shuddered and shook his head in disbelief, as if still unable to believe it himself.

Thanking them for their time and promising them that yes, I was taking this all serious, I sat by myself with a measure of whiskey, checking my notes, when someone else joined me unbidden. He gave me his name, but for the sake of privacy, I shall refer to him as, perhaps a bit dramatically, the old mariner. He certainly dressed the part, clad in a thick jumper and fisherman’s cap, and when he spoke, it was clear that the man was an old salt quite accustomed to telling tall tales. The owner brought him a glass and a bottle of rum, adding to the overall image of the man’s persona.

“They say that you have been looking into the things going on around here.” He took a sip of his drink and studied me for a moment. “Do you actually believe the tall tales of these man? They could be playing you the fool lass, having a go at you at your own expense.” I disagreed with the sentiment, believing that there was a shared truth in their statements. We went back and forth on the subject for some time, until he finally said “Stare me in the eye, lass.” He had said it with a dramatic growl, glaring at me. I looked back, not flinching as we locked eyes for a few moments, until he made a noncommittal grunt. “There is something in your eyes, something that tells me that you have seen things that no other should have, aye? I think I can trust you with the following then. There is a man here, a fisherman like the others, who knows more about what is actually going on. He and his lad keep asking me to come along with them on their journeys, to make things right again as he says, but I’ve had my share of the sea. But you, a young lass like you, could go in my stead.” This took me by surprise, but my curiosity got the better of me and I agreed to his proposal.

As we waited for the men to join us, I had a most pleasant conversation with the old mariner, who loved to talk about the town and its inhabitants, many of his remarks and anecdotes wound up added to the article. We were joined by two men not long after, a father and son as I soon found out, the father, a fisherman, giving me a questioning look, whilst his son, introducing himself as Kieran, took an instant liking to me, bombarding me with all sorts of questions, which I tried my best to answer as swiftly as he shot them off. He was, in a clumsy, awkward manner, trying to be charming. He was quite relentless in his questioning until his father cut him off, telling him to check on their boat. He got up somewhat dejectedly, stealing one last glance at me as he departed. The old mariner made a harmless quip and we all had a quiet chuckle, he then formally introduced me to the fisherman, vouching for me and my intentions. Perhaps due to the old mariner speaking on my behalf, it did not take long for the fisherman to agree to take me along on his trip. There was a hint of reluctance and I also noted that there clung a weariness to him, as if he had been through something most tiresome for some time now.

I was told that we were to depart that very evening as we left the tavern, then asked me if I had the proper clothing for the trip. I suppose that a camel coat and knee-high boots were an amazing fashion statement, but not the best of attire to wear when onboard a boat. He dropped off a bundle of clothing by the inn, explaining that he brought me an old outfit that used to belong to his son when he was younger, he may have outgrown the items, but they would fit me just fine, or close enough. I quickly changed into this new outfit, including a thick woollen shirt, an oilskin coat and insulated boots. Everything was still too big, but at least the boot problem was remedied by wearing thick woollen socks. To finish the look, I donned a woollen cap, all I felt I was missing was a pipe. I had a good laugh at my own expense when I saw myself in the mirror, the outfit was mismatched and certainly not an amazing fashion statement, but I trusted that it would do its job and keep me both warm and dry.

Speaking of warmth, I enjoyed the hospitality of the inn while I still could, including a hearty meal and a pleasant conversation with the owner, who upon my departure assured me that I would be in safe hands, the fisherman was an old salt almost as venerable as the mariner himself. Bolstered by the meal and the words of assurance, I made my way over to the docks, where I was met by the old mariner, who offered to take me to the right boat, a little fishing boat called the Bustler. Kieran was overjoyed to see me again, even more so when he found out that I would be joining them on this trip.

“God be with ye,” the old mariner called out as we cast off and chugged away. It did not take long for the fog to envelop us completely, hiding the glow of the town’s lights from us, while also muting the sound of the engine and the slosh of the sea. I stood to the side as father and son expertly went about their business, setting a course for wherever it was we were going, the fog not hindering them in the slightest. After a while the fisherman ordered Kieran to take the wheel and then led me down into the hold, where there was some warmth and comfort. We sat there in silence for some time, until the fisherman declared that he was ready to tell his tale. I dug out my pad and pencil, preparing to write down his words.

“This is not for his ears. I have not told a soul about this, aside from the old salt.” He went quiet for a moment, fidgeting with his pipe as he no doubt gathered his thoughts. “Fifty-one years ago, during that so-called great war,” he said those words with a snort of derision. “I was but a young lad still, full of fire and eager to do my bit for crown and country, which I did by serving on a small patrol boat watching over these very waters. There were ten of us, all good friends and though the skipper ran us hard, he was fair. Those were good days, the best days for a young man.” He paused for a moment and I glimpsed up from my writing, to see him wistfully stare into nothing. I respectfully kept quiet until he was ready to continue. “All things must come to an end however, on a fateful night not much unlike this one we struck in all likeliness a mine. How it got there, I do not know, maybe it was put there by the Germans, or maybe it was one of ours, somehow it had gotten detached and wound up there. We were hit hard and took on a lot of water, sinking in no time at all. I was the only survivor, found clinging to a lifebuoy by a local fishing boat.” He paused for a moment and let out a shuddering sigh. “We went down so fast, I still don’t know how I managed to get clear, but I do remember how one of my friends held onto my leg for dear life, dragging us both under. I had to kick him off to not drown myself. Not a day goes by that I regret what I had done.”

There it was, the guilt he had been living with for most of his life now, giving the confession he wanted to give, but did not dare to.

I carefully voiced my question: Do you think your incident has anything to do with the sightings? He snorted, as if wanting to mock my suggestion, then sighed in defeat and shrugged. He was not sure, but he did not dismiss it outright either, going so far as to state that those who are out on sea a lot can be a superstitious crowd when needed. I could not help but laugh at the statement, pointing out that he had me, a woman, on board, wouldn’t I be bringing bad luck? He barked a laugh of his own and said that he would be keeping Kieran away from me. The mood lightened after that and we spent some time chatting away until he checked his watch and got up, telling me to get some sleep, it would be some time before we got there and he assured me, I would be awoken by the time we reached our destination. He did, oddly enough, tell me to bolt the door before departing, which felt like a weird thing to say, but I did it anyway. I yawned and shed the heavy, oversized boots, the coat quickly followed suit and I lay down on the berth, using the coat as a cover. The gentle bobbing of the boat along with the steady chug of the engine were a strangely comforting background noise, soon I was off to sleep.

When I awoke, I did not know for how long I had slept, but I felt rested enough to head back up again. As I wearily sat on the edge of the berth and stretched, only then did I notice that the engine was quiet. With some annoyance I slipped back into the boots, fearing that they had forgotten, or declined to wake me at all. I had just put on the coat again when there was a frantic pounding at the door, it was Kieran screaming to be let in. I did so and much to my surprise he stumbled in, quickly slamming the door shut behind him and bolting it again. I noticed that he was missing his coat and was looking quite dishevelled, not to mention as pale as a sheet. He told me in that rapid-fire voice that we were under attack by monsters and that his father tasked him with getting the gun. He threw the matrass I had been lying on aside and lifted the bottom up, pulling a double-barrelled shotgun from within. Then he froze, as if uncertain, or reluctant to do anything else. I called out to him several times, but got no response, he was too far gone.

With care I pulled the weapon from his now shaking hands and pushed him into a chair, then cast my gaze into the storage space, spotting a leather belt holding the ammunition for the weapon. I threw it over my head and wore it like a cowboy would carry a bandolier. I asked Kieran if it was loaded, but I got no response. After some guessing I managed to open it and I was greeted by two empty barrels, which I promptly loaded. I glanced at Kieran, noting that he was in shock, whatever it was that he had run into, it left him in a poor state of mind. I do not know what possessed me to do this, but I knew I had to do something, if not for myself, then for the two who I accompanied. So, I spoke to him in what I hoped was a commanding voice, telling him that I would go out and see what I could do, while he would stay put and lock the door behind me. With one last look at the shocked man, I unlocked the door and left.

I pulled the door close and turned on the spot, almost immediately came face to face with one of our assailants. It was a man, soaking wet from head to toe, clad in a sailor’s uniform. The skin was wrinkled and pale, as if having been in the water for a prolonged period of time. He, or it, I am still not certain just what it was that faced me, opened its mouth and retched a wet, gurgling groan as water came rushing out. It reached out with a clammy, wet hand, as if asking me to join it. I looked from the hand to its face, seeing that there was no spark of life in those eyes as it took another shambling, wet step towards me, retching up more water as it tried to speak.

I meant to fire once, but due to my unfamiliarity with the weapon and a large measure of fear gripping my heart, I pulled both triggers by accident. The discharge was deafening in the closed confines of the ship, but it had the desired effect of knocking the man over. It fell over backwards and thudded down wetly, not moving again. I kept the weapon trained at it, despite it being empty. What stuck to me the most at that point was that there was no blood. I could clearly see the holes in its clothes and the torn, pale, lifeless skin underneath, but no blood poured from the wounds I had inflicted upon it. I nudged its foot with my own boot and it did not stir again. Assuming that it was dead I went to work reloading the weapon, which seemed to take me forever as my hands were shaking, fumbling clumsily with the handle to break it open. I was grateful that the spent cartridges were ejected by the gun itself, so I could instead focus on putting a fresh pair in. The snap of the weapon clicking shut again resounded loudly. I gave the man one last look, noting that it still had not moved.

Under the impression that these things could be killed, I boldly stepped out into the cold night, but it was not its chill that stole the breath from me. Half a dozen or so of the men stood around the wheelhouse, batting at the door and the thick glass, the fisherman having locked himself in there. I noticed that one of the men wore an officer’s uniform, fancy cap and all, slapping its wet hands against the window of the door repeatedly. “Join us,” it gurgled, traces of brackish water sputtering from its mouth. “Make us whole once more.”

Two of their number took notice of me and broke off to advance upon me, issuing wet gurgling noises and their hands held before them as they prepared to grab hold of me. I raised the weapon to my shoulder and tried to aim as best I could, then fired at one of those approaching me, careful to only pull one of the triggers. I will not describe the sight of a man taking a barrel of shot to the face, but suffice to say, he went down. The other was undeterred and kept advancing. In my haste to switch targets I could not land the perfect shot, firing my second barrel into one of its upper arms. The arm flopped uselessly to its side, but this did not stop it from making a grab for the barrel of the gun with its remaining arm. A struggle ensued as we fought over control of the shotgun. I felt the rancid, brackish water spray onto my face as it gurgled something inaudible, trying to prise the weapon from my hands with an impossibly strong hold. I let out a frustrated scream, refusing to let go, as that weapon represented my only means of protection and I would be damned if I found my untimely end without putting up a proper fight.

“Stop!”

The man stopped pulling on the gun, but did not let go. It awkwardly turned to face its brethren who surrounded the fisherman. It was he who had shouted the command. He had opened the door of the wheelhouse and he stood amongst them. They did not attack him, but simply stood there regarding him with their dead eyes.

He started talking out loud, they were names. “Skipper McDougall. Monty. Cameron. Callen. Aiden. Brodie. Niall. Blake. Fergus.” Upon hearing that last name, the one who had tried to prise the gun from my grip let go and joined its brethren, the others doing likewise when a name, their name, was recited. One by one they shambled to the side of the boat and bodily threw themselves over, disappearing into the depths.

I was struck with awe at the command he held over these men, he had the means of banishing them, surely it was over now. But awe was swiftly replaced by shock as I saw him walk to the side of the ship, putting one booted foot on the railing. I called out to him, watching him looking down into the ocean for a moment, before turning to look at me. I could see the tears running down his cheeks, yet he mustered a sad smile, it was the look of a man defeated, knowing he could run no more.

“I must re-join my crew, or this will never end. Tell the lad,” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “Tell him that he’ll do just fine on his own. The Bustler is his now.”

He stepped off the boat and with a cry I ran over, catching just a glimpse of him as he was pulled under by many clawing hands. There was fear in those eyes as he vanished into the darkness. I sank to my knees, the weapon still in my hands. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts, to process what had happened just now. Then I remembered that Kieran was still locked in belowdecks, and that one of those things may still be down there as well. With a sense of urgency, I reloaded the shotgun and then carefully made my way down, only to discover that the man I had shot was gone, only a puddle of water remained as a reminder of where he had fallen. That and a lingering hint of the unpleasant stench that clung to their kind. I was relieved to find the door still closed and in one piece, the lock in place when I carefully tried the handle. I carefully knocked and called out to Kieran, who after some hesitation opened the door, a pale face with fearful eyes daring a peek. In hushed tones he asked me if they were gone, then quickly asked about the wellbeing of his father.

I felt a pang in my chest as I told him what had transpired, what his father had done and what his final words to his son were. He did not take it well, trying to put on a stoic façade, but I could tell that he was trying to, and close to failing to, put a brave face on. He said he needed a moment to himself, so I stepped aside and let him pass, watching him quickly walk out. I wearily sat down at the table, where not long before I had written down the story of the sailor and shared a quip about bad luck. I shed some tears of my own as I came to terms with everything that had happened just now. I quickly wiped them away and felt strangely ashamed, as if my sorrow was misplaced. Kieran was the one who had lost his father, whereas I only barely knew the man. I took a moment to compose myself and then headed back up again myself, finding Kieran pacing up and down the deck, as if in a daze, looking around almost like he was hoping to find his father not taken, but instead just sitting somewhere to the side. I tried to comfort him, which snapped him out of his daze, but he responded by angrily shoving me aside, declaring that he would take us home now as he stomped off to the wheelhouse, where he locked himself in and then set about operating the vessel.

Despite us surviving this strange ordeal the voyage back to port was a sombre affair conducted in complete silence, aside from the creak of the hull and the chug of the engine, which sounded all the louder now that the fog had lifted. The morning sun shone brightly through the clouds, promising a chilly but bright autumn day ahead of us. Yet despite these seemingly good omens and the assurance that the so-called balance had been restored, I sat on the deck with the shotgun in a white-knuckle grip, the bandolier of shells draped across my body, ever watchful for the return of the drowned men. They stayed their hand and so we sailed back into port without any further incident.

As we drew closer, I could see a flurry of activity as men set about preparing their boats, it seemed that they too felt or knew that it was over, that they could safely set sail once more. There were some cheers when they saw us approach, no doubt thinking us somehow responsible for the good weather. I was not surprised to find the old mariner waiting for us, there was more to the old salt than met the eye. When we moored the Bustler it was some time before Kieran joined me on the deck. He was still angry, whether it was at me I could not tell, but his mood was most foul as he took the gun and shells from me, tersely telling me to get off, he would join us soon enough, he had one more thing to take care of below deck. Feeling that he needed some more time to himself I did as he said, hopping off and stumbling about the quay for a moment, enjoying the feel of solid ground under my feet once more.

I caught the eye of the old mariner, who simply nodded in greeting and beckoned for me to follow him, leading me to his little shack. There he bade me to sit down at his table as he busied himself around his stove, pouring us both a generous measure of what I hoped was coffee. It was black as ink, almost as thick as tar and tasted like a bitter mixture of the both, but it was hot and it warmed my weary body. Nursing the steaming mug in both hands I began to recount everything, how the sailor had survived a wartime accident and his draw to that place ever since. Then came the moment of the attack, where I was met by a frightened Kieran, how I armed myself with the shotgun and coming face to face with one of our assailants. I described in detail what the men looked like and what they wore, the mariner grunting something under his breath that sounded like a confirmation. Finally, I came to the part where they all stood on the deck, surrounding the wheelhouse, imploring the sailor to join them. I took a moment to steady myself as I told the mariner of the sacrifice the sailor made, letting himself be dragged under water.

I found I could not continue and simply shook my head, feeling tears well up again. The mariner had taken it all in quietly and when he saw that I would not continue, put a rough hand on mine and simply nodded once in understanding.

“He told me that very same tale many years ago and we both knew that he was fated to die that day, all those years ago. But somehow, he managed to cheat death and elude his destiny, until now. It seems that he could not outrun it, he knew that the sea, the cruel mistress she is, will always get what is her due. His old crew knew this as well, they were always searching for him; they knew he was always near and they only got bolder as time went on. He knew that only he could make things right again and so; he finally did.”

We sat in silence for some time, in quiet contemplation, sipping from the coffee as we did. Despite the potency of the brew I was drinking, I could feel fatigue worming its way into my body, seeking to pull me under. I was looking forward to shedding the rough, heavy clothes I had worn for the journey and getting a good sleep, maybe a hot bath before that. My musings were abruptly interrupted by cries of “fire!” that made me jump up and dash out of the shack in an instant. It was with a feeling of dread and foreboding that I ran without thought straight back to the Bustler, somehow knowing that the fire would be there. My fears were confirmed when I saw it ablaze, a raging inferno that covered the entirety of the vessel. I shouted Kieran’s name several times, trying to find a way to get onto the boat and inside of it. A fire engine with hastily dressed volunteers arrived and they started fighting the losing battle of trying to save what they could, if nothing else they had to stop the fire from spreading elsewhere.

Hours after the fire, having done what I could to help, I returned to the inn a soot stained and bedraggled mess, where I spent a good hour scrubbing myself clean and mentally going over the events. They could not save the Bustler, nor did the diver, a man clad in a large and heavy suit with an armoured helmet, find any traces of Kieran’s body in the wreckage when he scoured the bottom. After that I went straight to bed and slept a long but uneasy rest I had not experienced since that strange, fateful night almost a year ago. When I got up the next morning, I decided it was time to depart, wanting nothing more than to return home, to be with my loved one once more. It would be grand to be home for Christmas, sleep in my own bed, not being on the road all the time. I comforted myself with those thoughts; just one long drive ahead of me and I would be home.

But before I left, I had to make one last stop by the docks, joining the ever-present mariner as we stood where the Bustler had burned and sank. The weather was chilly, but the wind carried with it the fresh scent of the ocean and the skies were clear, I could see the small fleet, anchored before, out there now, no doubt searching for Kieran. What I did next was perhaps a pessimistic gesture, but I had a feeling that Kieran would not be found, so I threw two dried sunflowers I had bought earlier into the water, watching as they drifted away, hoping that father and son would appreciate the symbolism behind the gesture, wherever they were. Much to my surprise the mariner said that it was fitting, then thanked me for what I had done, that I was there to witness it unfold, then shook my hand and wished me a good trip.

We parted ways and I was glad of it; another place I would hope to never, ever visit again for as long as I lived. I said my goodbyes to the few people I had spoken to over the last few days, thanked them for their hospitality, then got in my car and drove off. It is odd to put this into words, but I could feel my spirits lift ever so slightly the more distance I put between myself and that town, and after an hour I had fully put my mind towards the singular goal of getting home, I would let nothing get in the way of that now.

But sadly, along the way there was one final detour I was forced to make, concerning the case of a missing child and that damned asylum.

m.p.E.S.


A DETECTIVE STORY

Spoiler:
01.

Of all the places she had to walk into, why did it have to be mine? In hindsight, maybe it was because of the desperation that clung to me, perfectly accented by that heady aroma of cheap booze and cigarettes, wrinkled clothes, the general disarray of my office, and the piles of betting chits scattered about, ones that wound up putting me in debt with the wrong sort of crowd.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, framed by the harsh light shining in from behind her, making her look like an angel, here to deliver me from my sins. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw that unless I was seeing the wrong padre, she was no angel, they don’t dress like socialites getting ready for a night on the town. The fancy duds screamed “money”; she was looking awfully out of place around this part of town.
Unbidden, she entered and sat down, crossed her legs and plucked a cigarette from an ivory case, elegantly holding it up for me to light. For a moment I was dumbfounded, taken aback at how brazenly she had taken charge and I found myself falling in step, fumbling for my lighter, after three tries managing to light her choice of poison, a fancy French one, judging by the yellow paper.
As she took a long drag, she studied me, slowly exhaling, regarding me much like a cat might eye a mouse before pouncing in. I found myself lost in that gaze, half-hidden behind that long, dark hair. I mused that in days of old wars would’ve been fought over her, armies fighting and dying in her name. Now, she’d have to make do with me.
At long last she gave a smile, as if in approval and told me that she had a job for me, a trifle, perhaps tedious task, but the pay would be worth it. All I had to do was retrieve a certain item for her...

02.

The fist crunched into my face like a sledgehammer and knocked me senseless, for a moment all I could see were stars dancing across my vision. As I spat out a gob of blood, I was tempted to ask the goon to hit me again, to see if he could add in some stripes and make it a proper all-American beatdown. I gave a bloodied grin at my own stupid little joke. The goon in turn gave me an odd look and shook his head, muttering something about me having gone insane, his buddy, the one pinning my arms behind my back, grunted in agreement.
‘Not looking so good now gumshoe,’ someone said, tutting. A man in a cheap striped suit and fedora stepped in front of me, wearing his overcoat like a cape across his shoulders. Oh great, just what I needed. With a sigh I looked down at his polished shoes and I saw my reflection there, almost wincing at what gazed back, I looked like hell, I looked just like that poor sap stuck in the mud and blood of France. At the snap of the finger my head was forcefully pulled up, made to look at Eddie, a two-bit loan shark who loved playing at mobster, hence the cheap suit and attempt at fancy airs. Actual mobsters barely tolerated him aping the big leagues, just so long as he paid them their due and didn’t do anything too embarrassing. Like letting some down on his luck, schmuck borrowed a lot of money, which was used for some crazy bets that were all big losses, which the schmuck now couldn’t repay. Unlucky me, being said schmuck. Seems Eddie was looking to collect, too bad for him I had nothing on me, but it would appear he already knew that.
‘Word is some dame paid you a visit. A fancy one, someone with the look of being loaded.’ When I gave no confirmation of his findings he continued, somewhat annoyed. ‘You better hope this dame pays you well for whatever it is you’re supposed to do, because tick-tock gumshoe, we ain’t gonna wait around forever for you to cough up that dough, with interest.’
When I again gave no sign of paying much attention to him, he stomped off in a huff, snapping his fingers. The goon who had punched me cracked his knuckles and told me it was just business, rolling his shoulders as he got ready to get his exercise in. 

03.

Two-three-two.
Not much of a secret knock, but even I could remember it after having been tenderized by Eddie’s goons. The peephole slid open and the bouncer glared at me, shook his head in annoyance and unbolted the door, reluctantly admitting me to that little hole in the wall I liked to call home. I was greeted by that pleasant murmur of soft conversation, the haze of tobacco and that sweet, sweet smell of bootleg. Some of the regulars gave me a nod or a short greeting, nursing their drinks as I passed them by on the way to the bar.
As always, Natalya was there, and as always, she was scowling. It didn’t suit her, I told her once that she should smile more. That netted me a solid left hook and an angry retort “When you take better care of yourself I will smile!” That she even cared about a bum like me with empty pockets wasn’t something most folks would see coming. She’s an interesting character however.
She once, after a few shots of her own brew, told me that she used to be an aristocrat, but had to flee when the reds took over. I didn’t buy it, though I would admit that she’s got the looks for it, a most curious shade of auburn hair and hard blue eyes that pretty much said she didn't suffer fools gladly. I chuckled at that more than once, a Russian princess running a speakeasy, what a time to be alive.
With a groan I parked myself on one of the stools and greeted her. ‘Not dead yet I see,’ she said ruefully and with that curious accent that could be Russian, pouring me a shot of piss coloured fluid that had a most peculiar, sour taste to it. She vanished into the backroom for a moment, then returned with a piece of ice wrapped in a cloth, which I gingerly pressed against my bruised jaw. The princess regarded me, not asking how I got the shiners, but chances are she knew all the same, word got around fast when something went down.
Instead, we exchanged the usual pleasantries over some drinks and at long last I told her that I got a job, a well-paying one. One that would settle all debts, both with Eddie and her.
What? You thought she was running a charity, providing me with booze for free? Princess probably took pity on me, that’s all. Call me a sap, but it felt wrong to not repay her kindness before kicking the bucket. She snorted and shook her head in disbelief, having heard it all before from my sort. But she was happy that I had landed a job at least. I dropped the last drops of my drink down the hatch, thanked her for her hospitality and headed out, it was high time I got to work.

04.

The place I needed to be was but a brisk walk away, probably another deciding factor which wound up getting me the job I suppose. It had started to rain as I made my way over, washing away some of the blood and filth that clung to me, much like it tried to wash away the filth fouling these streets. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. I popped my collar up and screwed a crumpled cigarette in my mouth, the cheap sort, not fancy and French like hers, but pleasant enough after whatever I was offered by the princess. My body was still aching from the beatdown and I could feel a headache coming on from a lack of sleep, but a pounding skull was preferable to the dreams. With a shudder I suppressed the sudden flash of mud and blood and screaming.
I reached the place in question, a gentleman's club of sorts, to use a polite description. They didn’t serve drinks, but they offered music and down on their luck girls trying to make a living dancing and singing. It was still early, the lights weren’t flashing yet, but they were getting ready for the night, doors were already open.
A smart man would stay put, stake the place out for a bit, get a feel of things before deciding what to do next. With a sigh I flicked aside my cigarette and went inside, I never made any claims of being a smart man.
The first thing that hit me as I entered was the cloying scent of cheap perfume, it made the place smell like a boudoir, no doubt in an attempt to hide the stink of cigarette smoke and despair clinging to every surface. Then I saw the well lit stage surrounded by small tables and I was reminded of the place I visited years ago in France, where they had dancers do something called the can-can for us. Now there was a sight that sent many of us back to the barracks with blue balls.
I looked round and spotted the door labelled “MANAGER”, wherein lay the prize I was after. I didn’t get much further than that, as a pair of bouncers in sharp suits moved in on me. ‘Clear off buddy,’ one said, patting the bulge in his jacket for emphasis. 'No bums allowed,' the other growled, bunching his fists by his side. I had seen enough for now I suppose, so I nodded my thanks and skulked off into the rain again. I sighed in annoyance, I was in need of some hardware of my own if I was to pull this one off. Reluctantly I decided to call it a day, not looking forward to the dreams to come.

05.

Two-three-two.
I was greeted by that unhappy bouncer and those same patrons, part of me wondered if they ever left the place, or were perhaps a fragment of my messed up mind. I made my way over to the bar and nodded in greeting to the princess, who was scowling as usual. Still feeling some of the bruises from the beatdown by Eddie’s goons, I refrained from asking her to smile for me.
Instead I asked her if Irish was in today. She paused polishing the glass she was holding, studying me. Nobody asking for Irish was ever up to any good. I asked her again, please? With a sigh and a sad shake of her head she motioned for me to follow her into the back.
Irish was Irish, hence the nickname. He was also a cop who ran a little business on the side selling off confiscated hardware that happened to get lost along the way. He studied me for a moment, then looked at the princess, who simply gave him a nod and departed. Irish shrugged and beckoned me over, pulling his wares out of a crate for me to inspect.
Revolvers, handguns, I paused as he put a tommy gun on the table. The newsreels and papers loved a good story, they loved their violent crime and loved to sensationalise the men behind these acts. They adored the button man brandishing a tommy gun, blasting away at cops, cars, bars, each other, whatever, just so long as it makes for a good headline.
I was about to pick it up for inspection when Irish put something else on the table, something much more familiar to me, almost like an old friend. I picked up the shotgun and pumped it, testing the action. Smooth, well-maintained, either factory fresh, or used to belong to one very careful previous owner. Irish nodded in approval, as if he could read my mind and with a grin, thrust something else in my hands, telling me that the “knife” was part of the deal. I snorted as I accepted the thing, also picking up an automatic pistol and enough rounds for both weapons. I asked him how much I owed him and he simply shook his head, the Princess would take care of that.
I sat down at the bar and declined the offer of a drink, telling the Princess instead that I would repay her soon, cross my heart and hope to die. ‘Don’t die,’ she simply told me. The scowl was gone for a second and her features softened, replaced with a look of genuine concern. An awkward silence lingered for a moment and then it was gone as the scowl returned and she angrily dismissed me with a wave of her hand. ‘Do what you want, I don’t care.’
I headed on out, the shotgun awkwardly hidden away under my coat, along with the knife and pistol both tucked in my belt.

06.

I had taken up position opposite the entrance again, just watching, smoking, waiting for my nerves to steady themselves. Screw it, might as well get it over with, so no more dawdling. I threw my coat open and pulled the shotgun free, after a moment of thought I went for the knife as well. Though what Irish so generously called a knife was actually a seventeen inch bayonet that neatly slotted onto the end of the weapon. It’s been years since the mud and blood of France, but the simple act of fixing the bayonet into place felt familiar, like it was only yesterday since I last squatted in a trench, waiting to go over the top and into no-man’s land.
With a last drag of the cigarette I entered the club once more, the two bouncers sitting by the stage, their backs towards me, enjoying a little private show, a girl nervously dancing with nothing but a pair of feathers to preserve her modesty. The girl saw me, me and the heat I was packing. She dropped the feathers in shock and ran off backstage, much to the delight of the bouncers, who were none the wiser. A sadistic part of me relished what was to come, as I racked the slide and loaded the weapon, watching as both men shot from their seats at the sound, torn between facing me or running away.
I smiled and wished them a good day, to which they replied by going for their guns. I shouldered and fired, that familiar crump loud in my ears, watching the shot hit one of them nice and hard, he went down. The other returned fire while running for cover, I pumped and fired, pumped and fired, hitting him with the second shot. I was rusty, been ages since I last-
The door to the office was kicked open and a third man stepped out, brandishing a tommy gun. We locked eyes for a moment and I dove to the ground, as he braced and started to spray, hosing my general area. All I could do was stay down and hope that I didn’t get hit, just like in the mud and blood of France.
The staccato of fire was replaced by a click as the gun ran dry and I could hear him curse as he threw the drum aside, fumbling for a new one. Instinct kicked in as I jumped up and charged, weapon braced. He saw me barreling towards him and all he could do was give me a fearful yelp as I ran him through. Instinct and training took over as I mechanically stabbed him, repeatedly, as I was taught all those years ago. Out of breath, panting, I dropped the weapon besides the bloodied corpse of the man, part of me shocked at how easily the old habits slipped back in.
Snapping out of it I quickly made my way over to the office, where a short search turned up the item: a small wooden box, locked. I could’ve searched for the key, but instead threw it overhead at the nearest wall, smashing it. A sheaf of papers fell out and I quickly gathered them up, checking as I went.
There it was, jackpot.

07.

Do you have it? She was straight down to business, she knew what she wanted alright. I told her the good news and I thought I could hear a sigh of relief, quickly followed by instructions on where to collect my reward. There was an eagerness to her voice that not even the buzz and crackle of the public phone couldn’t quite distort. She wanted it as soon as possible and I was all too happy to oblige in all honesty.
As I made my way over to the place, I could feel that elation was slowly replacing the numbness of the wanton slaughter I had wrought upon those men. There was even a little spring in my step as I thought about the money.
Elation however also made me careless, as I was dragged into an alley by the scruff of my neck and then picked up by the lapels of my coat, slammed against the wall, hard. I got a good look at the mook holding me up, probably the same guy who had before pinned my arms behind my back. Standing behind him was the other guy who gave me the beating and, of course, Eddie.
‘You have something that’s better off with us, gumshoe.’ Eddie said, putting on those airs again, trying, and failing to, make himself look bigger and more important than he actually was.
I looked back to the goon holding me up, who was giving me a grin that promised nothing but pain. I smiled back, the gunshot loudly echoing through the alley, the bruiser letting go of me, slumping to the ground with a dumbfounded look on his face and a nice forty-five sized hole in his chest. Eddie and his other goon were rooted to the ground, terror written across their faces as they stared at me and the smoking pistol I was holding. It was a moment I found myself relishing to no end. ‘Now, let’s be reasonable here,’ Eddie said with a quaking voice. I could be a reasonable man when I wanted to, but right now, not so much, as I aimed at the other goon, the one who had punched me and shot him as well. A small voice in my mind was screaming at me in disgust at what I’ve just done, this was cold-blooded murder, but a larger part of me was rejoicing at getting even.
There was a pop and a red-hot sting in my gut. I looked down, seeing a slowly expanding circle of blood appearing. Looking up, I saw Eddie, in his hand a holdout piece, one of those things a lady would have stashed away in her purse, or strapped to a garter for self defence. I wasn’t sure what he had hoped to pull off with that lousy shot of his, but his little peashooter was out, while I still had five rounds remaining. It seemed to dawn on him that he had made his final mistake, but I didn’t give him the time to utter another word as I aimed and fired, putting the remainder of the magazine into him, all centre mass.
I stood there for a moment, angry, bleeding, but still alive and now I supposed, free of debt. That’s one way to settle those, right? With nary a look at Eddie I resumed my way over. 

08.

She announces her arrival with the roar of an engine and the squeal of brakes, parking her expensive car close by and nimbly hopping out. Smarting from the gutshot, I force myself to stand a little taller, to grin and bear it as she stalks up to me, an ever-present lit cigarette in one hand, as statuesque and graceful as ever. I’ve done some horrible things in her name, forgive me padre, for ever thinking of her as an angel. Or maybe I was thinking of the wrong sort? I can see it clearly now: Death clings to her as tightly as that dress she’s wearing and she isn’t bothered by it one bit, she’s made her peace with this all a long time ago. She pauses, studies me for a moment, taking in the mess I am. There is a split second of hesitation and then she moves in, flicking her expensive cigarette aside. She greets me and I notice that in her other hand she is holding a small bag, which she opens, showing me its contents.
I cannot help but whistle. That’s a lot of money, it looks like more than what was promised.
I show her the deed and we both smile, glad to be done with this ordeal. I wonder if her smile is just as insincere, as fake, as hollow, as mine, but something tells me it isn’t. All this for the deed to an ice cream parlor? Actually, I don’t care, we both get what we want and can put this all behind us.
We make the exchange and for a moment I expect her to speak up, to say something along the lines of “Oh, one more thing” at which point she reneges on the deal, plugs me with a holdout piece of her own and takes both the deed and the cash.
But shame on me for thinking ill of a lady, she simply nods in my direction, thanks me for the stellar job I have done for her and that there may be more work for me in the future, if I’m still around that is, nodding at the hand clutching my bleeding side.
As if lady, as if, I think to myself as I doff my hat in farewell.
We part ways, she gracefully hops back into her fancy convertible, roaring off to who knows where the grim reaper goes at night. I limp my way over to the speakeasy, I think I’ve got about enough juice left in me to settle that tab with interest and hopefully make the princess smile. Would be a nice thing to see before kicking the bucket, right? With a bloodied, shaking hand I start to knock.



Fatum Iustum Stultorum



Fiat justitia ruat caelum

 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Well, I thought those were great stories. Congratulations!

You really found the voice in the Eleanor Saunders pieces. The style immediately reminded of mid-20th century mystery fiction, bringing in elements of Lovecraft, The Wicker Man, and The Fog. I love a female lead who's got vulnerability and strength. The idea of her being an actor and simultaneously the observer of the scene by her later writing about it.

The Detective had a lot of hard-boiled tropes and a style of its own. It was a bit staccato, the scene jumping quickly between chapters where in a novel length piece there would have been some filler to give more context to the character but the core elements of the genre are all there.

It's bloody hard to write 50,000 words in a month. I wrote about 42,000 in The Case of the Halloween Hauntings during October to November 2019. It wasn't for NaNoWriMo, which I've never attempted.


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in nl
[MOD]
Decrepit Dakkanaut






Cozy cockpit of an Imperial Knight

Thanks for reading and the feedback, it means a lot to me.

Eleanor was a lot of fun to write, once I settled on the general tone and how to best present it, things somehow fell into place. The biggest thing that kickstarted it all was following image, which almost feels like paganism as seen through a Victorian lens:



As for the second story, I was toying with more overtly lovecraftian themes or mermaids, before settling on something that could be interpreted as zombies, vengeful undead, or restless spirits, something I'll leave up to the reader.

In hindsight, yes, the detective story is choppy, almost like an Edgar Wright movie that has been cut down even further. It could've done with more filler, but at that time, I was trying to keep things minimal, almost in a flash fiction sort of way.



Fatum Iustum Stultorum



Fiat justitia ruat caelum

 
   
Made in us
Secret Force Behind the Rise of the Tau




USA

Oh, I like this idea.

I wrote (guestimating) about 57k this year but only 49k of it actually got finalized. The rest was tossed so I'm not sure how much it counts. Not as productive as last year.

Most of that was for a long running fanfic and wouldn't make any sense to anyone here >.>

I technically wrote this before November but I gave it a once over the past month so I guess it sort of counts and it at least isn't from very late in a longer running story;

Spoiler:
The Forgotten King

The strands looked even darker when wet. A deep black with the slightest shimmer from the nearby fire. She didn’t smile, but she looked happy. In awe. Her eyes gazed into the sky, unflinching while the rain pattered her pale cheek.

She’d never seen rain before.

Jace turned his head up toward the shower head, half asleep and able to see her because of it. The image wasn’t like a dream. He saw her clearly. Her long hair, her vast eyes, and her pale skin. She was real and he felt her.

But when he opened his eyes and let them roll, she wasn’t there.

Just him, standing in a veil of steam.

The door cracked on the other side of the curtain. “Jason, you’re going to be late.”

His eyes fluttered, and looked around as the water ran over his shoulders and down his back.

“Jace.”

Pressing one palm to his eyes, Jace grimaced and sighed. She was gone. Again. “Almost done, Dad.”

Fully awake, he washed his hair, brushed his teeth, dried, off, and went to his room.

The space met him as a foreign land.

Movie posters marked the walls, framed and marked with white signatures. Books filled a tall case and spilled over onto the dresser beside it. The old TV—from before the wide-screen—awkwardly stuck out from the corner between the closet and the window. His desk rested beside his bed, both covered in clothes and disheveled sheets.

Jace glanced first over his shoulder. Confirming the door closed, he crossed the short distance to his desk. Running his thumb along the underside, he pushed and the notepad fell out from where he’d jammed it.

Flipping the pad open, he found the first blank space and quickly wrote his note.

She has black hair.

He saw the same words at the top of the page, dated three days ago. With a grimace, Jace marked out his first note and wrote ‘I forgot her hair color.’ His eyes met the page angrily.

He sat.

Flipping the pages back to the front of the notepad, he found each more frayed than before. He’d flipped through them so many times. Ink and pencil smeared across the pages.

The first three lines remained clear enough to read.

I can’t remember her name. I’m forgetting her.

She’s real.

Underlined three times.

She needs you.

Underlined three times more than once.

It was his hand writing. He had written the words. Still, he read them with disbelief and anger across his features. Slowly flipping forward, he read each note one at a time. He began marking dates three pages in. In a few places he’d marked when he forgot something he’d written.

He didn’t remember doing that and noted it three days ago.

In a few places he wrote small things. Brief stories, like how she didn’t know how to read but he’d tried to teach her. An additional line written later noted that her temper got the better of her. She’d asked him to read to her instead.

Just like mom read to you.

Jace stared at the lines.

The first line of the first page seemed to mock him.

I can’t remember her name.

Looking at the line ignited his eyes and a fist balled on the desk top. The forth line at the bottom of the page drew his angered glare. He read it more than once.

You have to go back.

At some point he wrote ‘go back where’ underneath the line, before he’d started noting dates. He did date the next line written under it with an arrow pointing to the question.

To the sun.

“What’cha doing?”

Jace flinched. “Becca?”

He turned in his seat and finding his little sister at the door.

She held a large stuffed bear to her chest, hair bound into two tails on either side of her head. Big brown eyes scanned the room warily. When he closed the notebook, her attention fell on it immediately.

Her eyes sank, and she buried her nose in the bear’s head. “You’re leaving again.”

“What?” Jace rose and crossed the room. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looked at him incredulously.

Dropping to a knee, he placed a hand atop her head and forced a smile. “Promise.”

She whispered something.

“I can’t hear you when you mumble, Becca.”

“You’re not wearing pants,” she repeated.

Looking down and noting the towel around his waist, Jace grinned and noted, “I can’t put any on while you’re standing in the doorway squirt.”

He put pants on as soon as she left the threshold and started down the stairs. Looking at the notebook one last time, he scanned the edges of some pages. There were symbols drawn into the margins but they were wrong. He shook his head looking at them.

There was one line that kept appearing on nearly all the pages, same as the fourth line of the first page.

You have to go back.

Jace closed the notepad and grimaced. “Can’t go away again when I don’t know where I was.”

He hid the notepad under his desk and finished getting dressed. By the window, he lingered with his arms stuck through a shirt. The shadows outside the house were long with the morning sun. A white and blue SUV sat below, parked beside his father’s truck.

Slipping on his shoes, Jace left his alien room and descended the stairs quietly. Balls of his feet. Slow steps.

The voices came up from the kitchen.

“—not sleeping well. Wakes up in the middle of the night and just sits in his room.”

The first voice was his father. The second was Sheriff Cranson.

“Summer told you therapy would be a good idea. Maybe you could use it too, and Becca. With everything that’s happened—”

His father scoffed. “So you can press your best friend about whether or not we’re lying?”

“I didn’t say that,” the sheriff protested calmly. “I wouldn’t do it and Summer would stop being my friend if I tried. I’m worried, Micah. It’s been a lot for you and Becca and clearly Jason isn’t getting any better.”

“He doesn’t need a shrink,” his father snapped. “He needs everyone to let it go.”

The sheriff sighed, and in a strained voice she pressed. “He ran from us, Micah. When we finally found him, he ran. I’m pretty sure he stashed something out in the woods but I’ll be damned if I can find it.”

Jace started backing up the steps slowly, still using the balls of his feet.

“You’re treating him like a criminal,” his father lamented.

“No one is so good they can’t end up in over their head,” Cranson replied.

At the top of the steps, Jace waited a moment and then stepped more loudly. The conversation died instantly. He descended at an easy pace, setting the boards and walls creaking.

Around the corner, he found his father over the stove and the sheriff sitting at the chair by the back door.

She lifted her mug. “Jason.”

“Sheriff,” Jace replied. Walking around the island, he opened a window over the sink at the same time he took a glass from the cupboard.

“You can call me Leila,” the woman offered.

He offered no response in kind.

Becca sat at the table in the furthest seat from the woman, leaning over and stretching her arm. Jace lifted the orange juice and filled her glass before emptying the carton into his. He patted her head again as she raised the cup and took his seat.

The home was well lived in. Old wallpaper covered the walls, original. His mother insisted it stay. Even after her death, the family preferred to let it waste than replace it. Small bobbles and knick-knacks covered surfaces and walls. She was a collector of old things, and like the wallpaper the father and children could not discard a one.

“Eat fast,” Micah Grant warned. He set breakfast out on two plates by the stove top. To his son, he noted, “Bus is gonna be here any minute. If you miss it, Leila’s going to have to drive you to school. I need to get down to the center and fix Alan’s mess.”

Jace nodded and helped Becca remove the yellow from her eggs before eating them and his own plate.

“Feeling any better?” Sheriff Cranson asked.

“Well enough, sheriff.”

“Leila,” she reminded. “My father was the sheriff.”

Jace eyed the star-shaped badge on her chest. It read ‘sheriff.’ He opened his mouth only to eat another bite. The eggs vanished from the plate quickly and he stuck the bacon into his mouth before rising.

“I’m going,” he said.

Lifting his backpack from its place by the front door, he took one look over his shoulder. ‘Leila’ leaned in her seat, peering around the corner. Watching him.

Jace pushed the door open and left.

The sun hit him instantly. A mild sweat broke out over his brow, and he exhaled sharply. Glaring at the cloudy sky, he forced his feet forward and made a line for the shade of the garage.

He checked over his shoulder again before turning back.

Creeping along the wall and keeping his head low, he came around to the open window and stopped.

“Go upstairs and get dressed, Becky.”

“Becca,” she corrected.

Their father nodded. “Go get dressed. I’ll drop you off on my way in.”

A shuffling followed the order, and Jace waited a few seconds longer for the conversation to restart.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” his father declared in a barely audible voice.

“And I’m not saying he did,” the sheriff reiterated. “I know Jace, Micah. I know he’s not a druggie or a thug. But he can still end up in trouble. Caught up in something.”

His father sighed and said, “He’d have told you if it was anything like that. If not you, Eric. They’re best friends they don’t do anything without each other.”

“Eric doesn’t know anything.”

“So you’re son’s telling the truth and mine’s a liar?”

Strained, the sheriff set her mug down and said, “The first words out of his mouth were a lie.”

“You don’t know th—”

“He was gone for two weeks, Micah. Just vanished from thin air, and he lied when he said he didn’t remember. He knows something and I can’t help him if he won’t talk.” She sighed and the chair started to slide over the floor. “You don’t even want to know what he had when we caught him.”

“I can’t know if you won’t tell me, Leila.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“He’s my son, I deserve to know.”

“It’s an investigation and he is your son. I can’t just tell a civilian every step we’re making.”

“So I’m a civilian. That’s what I am now?”

“Micha, please. You know how this works. I can’t bend the rules on the grounds of us having happy-fun-time.”

“He’s my son,” his father repeated. “I deserve to know.”

“It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”

Talking over her last few words, his father dropped or threw something. “I don’t even know how much trouble he’s in.”

“We can’t know if he won’t tell the truth.”

Jace scowled and retreated while the conversation continued.

He stuck to the shade, moving from one shadow to the next. His eyes scanned each before stepping into them. The sun baked the old apple orchard around the country home, but the trees provided enough shade to reach the dirt road.

He instinctively jerked his shoulder when it caught on a low lying branch and followed the sloping path.

The orchard gave way to thick forest along the path. A few cracks and scuttles in the underbrush brought him to a stop. He kept his eyes straight, moving only after a few seconds of silence passed.

When he finally reached the highway at the end of the road, the bus was pulling away.

Inside, someone turned and waved. The vehicle lurched to a stop and a car horn blared as a truck behind it came to a shaking halt. Jace ran past the ‘Grant’ mailbox to reach the door.

A sudden sound behind him pushed him to move faster.

“Almost missed it kid,” the driver snarled. “I got a schedule to ke—” The man stopped, his eyes looking over Jace for a moment. He turned his attention forward and pulled the door lever. “Eh. Go take a seat and try to be on time tomorrow.”

Frowning, Jace kept his eyes straight and went to the back of the bas.

Sliding into the second to last bench, he set his bag down in the empty space at his side. Cautiously, he leaned over and surveyed the woods. Shadows swayed with the wind, ungulated like serpents.

He looked away only once the bus lurched fully into motion and started down the highway.

“You’re bleeding.” Auburn hair fell over the seat in front of him, drawing his attention. Jess smiled and pointed at his shoulder. “Cut yourself?”

Twisting about, Jace grimaced at the small red cut and the thin red trail running from it. He pressed two fingers to line. “I was in a hurry. It’s hot out.”

Jess tiled her head.

Beside, her, her similarly haired twin brother—James—spoke up. “It’s almost winter.”

Jace’s brow scrunched in confusion.

“Need a band-aid?” Jess asked. “There’s a—”

“It’s fine.” Frowning, Jace added, “Thanks, though.”

Pulling his reddened fingers away, the cut already appeared dried.

Jess started to speak again and he turned toward the window. She stopped and a moment later sat down. Jace watched the back of her head regretfully, but turned his attention away.

The bus stopped several more times as it went down the highway, growing a trail of commuters behind it.

Eric slipped onto the bus with three others near the end and he slid himself into the seat beside Jace without a car.

“Doing okay?” Eric glanced around the bus obviously, drawing attention to himself. He leaned over, whispering, “Dude, I think our parents are banging.”

Jace sighed and pushed his bag to the floor so he could scoot away from the window just a bit. At Eric’s waiting expression he shrugged and replied, “Are they?”

“They’re barely hiding it,” Eric groaned. “Like, our mom’s were tight. You know, before? Our dad’s got along. It’s just weird.”

Jace looked out the window, a finger tapping against his knee. He squinted as the shadows went by, each fading abruptly into light.

“Love is like the sun,” he mumbled. “Everyone needs it.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Your mom said that all the time, I know. Least your mom is gone. My dad is still—” He stopped himself and grimaced. “gak, dude, I’m sor—”

“It’s fine.” With a long breath, he admitted, “she’s been gone a long time.”

“Still though. That was a dick thing to say. I didn’t mean it that way.” He grinned nervously. “It’s just that I’m too old to be adopting your little sister.”

Jace narrowed his gaze and turned his attention back to the forests.

The bus continued along its route, joining a line of two others in the final stretch. The commuters continued on their way when the yellow vehicles pulled off the highway. They exited below onto an old road running through a long town nestled between the foothills. Mountains rose on either side, enclosing Barely into a small cavity along the valley.

Barely barely counted as a town. Blacktop towered over the street. A Wal-mart capped off one end of the road across the highway. The other side was a long line of mom-and-pop shops, too many churches for such a small town, and the local schools. Both were churches before being converted and expanded.

The bus pulled up to the curb and the driver opened the door.

“Get going,” the man called. “Pay attention if you don’t want to be driving one of these in thirty years.”

“What’s wrong with being a bus driver Mr. Gardner?” Jess smiled and waved as she passed him. “You provide a vital public service.

That got a few laughs, and the man shrugged them off. He smiled, showing yellowing teeth with two notable gaps. “Ain’t got no dental girlie.”

“Did they have floss when you were our age?” Eric asked.

He shirked away as Mr. Gardner’s eyes turned his way. They turned back when they saw Jace.

Once down the steps and joining the stream entering the building, Eric looked back. “Dude, you’re like adult repellent now, you know?”

Jace glanced back as the door closed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” Jess asked.

“Plenty.”

“Don’t look it,” James quipped.

Jace checked the windows of the building lazily. He lingered on the second from the right on the third floor. “M’fine.”

“You look like your about to pass out,” Eric complained. “You can’t fall asleep in French anymore, dude.”

Jess crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought he was adult repellent?”

“Mrs. Greene is a hag,” Eric replied. “Big difference.”

“Sure you’re not cold?” Jess pointed. “James has a spare coat in his locker.”

Jace looked down at himself as he started up the steps. An old t-shirt and jeans. Sweat ran down his sides under the shirt.

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

He straightened up once they passed the double doors and entered the building. He kept his eyes forward, never acknowledging the crowd while avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. Lots of jeans and t-shirts. Windbreakers and sweaters.

Jess wore a big red sweater that came down to the hem of her skirt, and James wore an old letterman. Eric dressed in a loose fitting button up shirt—one bottom hanging over his slacks—With another shirt underneath it.

“The club is meeting after school,” Jess said. “Are you going to come? Everyone’s been wondering.”

“Maybe.”

“I might.” Eric elbowed Jace in the side. “Keep us away from my mom and your dad while they do whatever it is they’re doing.”

Jace nodded, eyes half closed. A hand waved in front of his face, and he batted it away sharply.

“Seriously.” Eric shook his hand out. “Did you get enough sleep?”

“I’m fine,” Jace slurred. “Stop asking.”

“Forgive my waning confidence,” Eric quipped.

Jace scowled, failing to keep his eyes straight for a moment. He met one curious gaze after another. They surrounded him. Pointing. Watching. Whispering. Barely was barely a town. Nothing stayed secret in it.

Returning his focus to his front, Jace grumbled, “Nothing happened, let it go…”

Eric frowned. “I can get that. Pretty sure it’s not happening anytime soon, though.”

With a sigh, Jace went to the stairs and began ascending. At the top he noted two girls standing by the second window from the right. He frowned and continued the other way.

Mrs. Greene stood at the front of the room in the same gray striped suit and baby blue ascot she always wore. She read a book while her hand wrote conjugations with the chalk, and gave only a passive greeting as seats filled up.

Jace took a seat up front near the door.

Eric hesitated before taking a seat behind him. “Don’t fall asleep again.”

“I know.” Jace rested his chin in his palm and waited for the bell to ring.

Phoebe entered the room and smiled at him. She’d cut her hair short recently and spiked it. “Hey, Jace.”

“Hey.”

Eric shot her a pair of finger guns. “Phoebe.”

She shook her head and took the seat beside Jace. “Good morning?”

“It’s fine,” he answered.

She grinned. “Excited for the foreign language requirement I see.”

“Yeah.”

Mrs. Greene closed the door as soon as the sound filled the halls and started the lecture. Jace followed her with his eyes as she paced the room, but his lids started drooping five minutes in.

The words on the board were the same ones from last year because Mrs. Greene never changed her lesson plans. Even in the higher level courses everything was the same.

Beside him, Bianca scowled and tapped his shoulder while Mrs. Greene’s back was turned.

Jace held her hand tight.

She was in pain, and angry. He kept his head swiveling back and forth, holding her to his side while the forest moved around him. There was something in the shadows. Something that slithered.

She couldn’t fight. She was too weak. She hated being weak.

He said her name as she grimaced and a grit her teeth together.

He almost remembered her—

“Mr. Grant.”

His eyes fluttered. Mrs. Greene glared down her nose at him, thin lips set into a frown. Beside him, Phoebe grimaced and gave an apologetic look.

“Warned you,” Eric whispered.

With a start, Jace’s eyes snapped open. “Uh, sorry ma’am.” He put on a cool smile, proposing, “I had to sit my sister last night.”

The woman didn’t seem amused.

She started to speak but like the driver before stopped herself. She huffed, crossed her arms, and turned around. “If this continues I’ll have to speak with your father about finding someone else to watch your sister, Mr. Grant.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t do it again.”

That was the third time she’d said that.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Jace repeated.

“Do you just not sleep at night anymore?” Eric hunched forward and leaned around Jace’s side. “Seriously, man.”

“I could watch your sister,” Phoebe proposed. “If you’re having trouble—”

“Dude!” Eric hissed and grabbed the paper on Jace’s desk. “How did you get a forty?” He checked that Mrs. Greene was across the room before whispering, “It’s the same pop quiz as last year. Given on the same day.”

Jace snatched the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

The bell rang and Jace was already moving through the door.

“Dude.” Eric followed at a quick pace. “Do you just not sleep at night anymore? What—”

“I’m just tired.”

Eye followed him down the hall.

“You keep falling asleep everything,” Eric continued. “And when you’re awake, you stare off into space. I know you’re tired of everyone acting weird but you’re acting weird what are we all supposed to do?”

Jace kept his own forward. Eyes forward. One foot in front of the other. It was the best way to survive.

“I’m seriously worried,” Eric hissed. “You can’t keep acting like nothing happened and saying you don’t—”

His voice stuttered to a stop when Jace spun on him, glaring.

“I. Don’t. Remember.” He punctuated each word with a heated growl. “Stop asking about it. Do none of you have anything better to do?”

Eric grimaced. “I’m not trying to—”

“If I remembered, I’d know what I was supposed to do about it.”

Moving toward a side hall, Jace nearly bowled through a group of girls. They moved aside with a start, began to protest, then silenced themselves. Jace moved faster, pushing the door open and storming out into the heat of th early winter day.

Outside, open courtyards flanked the gravel path. The cafeteria sat silent on the right, while a gym class played basketball on the right. Jace kept his pace, avoiding eye contact with Coach Brannigan as he went.

Behind the gym the track and football field lay at the bottom of a small hill, and around that Jace worked his way to an old dirt road that round around the base of Blacktop.

He kept one eye on the serpentine shadows, the hand facing the tree line in his pocket while the opposite hand reached for something at his thigh. Fingers fumbled lazily against his jeans, not finding the object they desired.

With the school shrinking behind him, Jace continued down the dirty road alone.

The road was uneven and overgrown in places. Once it lead to the mines that founded Barely but they ran dry well before Jace was born. All that stood along the road now, besides the school, were a few stores and houses.

At the far end, the one house stood on a small hill. Tall trees surrounded it, oaks with wide branches. A truck passed over the old stone bridge just down the way, but Jace turned and slipped into the shade of the oaks.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and walked carefully, avoiding the leaves and branches in his path.

The Masterson house entered the service of the township after the last heir passed away. Add ons and a parking lot extended out the rear of the building. It now served as a local library, living and bedrooms filled with books. What was once a backyard become the main entrance, but the original front door was never locked.

Stepping over the loose brick leading to the door, Jace pushed it open slowly. The hinges creaked but nothing answered the sword. Slipping inside, Jace went right and found his way into a corner behind a bookshelf.

Exhaling as he sat, Jace leaned himself into the stiff wooden chair. His fingers began tapping along his thigh and searching his pocket.

He ruffled angrily.

“Forget your wallet?”

He flinched, nearly jumping forward into the table before falling back to the ground.

Percy leaned over him, dark strands cascading over her shoulders in a wave. She raised one hand and pressed a fingertip to her cheek. Jace raised his head, watching as she drew her finger away and tucked the hairs on one side behind her ear.

“Ditch again?” she asked. “Pretty sure the sheriff came and hauled you off last time.”

Frowning, Jace looked forward and let her lean behind him. “I’ll just stay off main street this time.”

“Sounds a bit like postponing the inevitable.”

Percy stood up straight and stepped around him. She took the seat at his side deftly.

“But,” she drawled, “suit yourself. Maybe if you ditch enough, people will decide it’s easier to home school you.”

Her legs splayed out before her, heels smoothly sliding over the original wooden floors. She wore overalls, a long sleeved shirt, and a single yellow clip in her hair.

She started humming to herself as they sat.

Jace gave up on searching his pocket.

The books surrounded them. He knew them well. His mother had worked the building before passing and he’d spend his days away with her reading and going to distant places. The familiar pages no longer comforted him. Even when he came to hide among the shelves, he couldn’t bring himself to open them.

He let himself feign sleep to see her.

Leaning backwards, stretching himself over the back of his seat, he covered his eyes with his forearm and breathed. Percy’s humming was soft and shallow, the only sound in the house turned library.

Until she spoke.

“Dressed awful light for winter,” Percy noted.

“It’s hot out,” Jace answered. “And you’re in overalls and a t-shirt.”

Percy raised a finger. “A long sleeved t-shirt. It even doubles as mittens.” She pulled the sleeves over hands and waved them. “See?”

Jace gave no answer. He stared at the clouds through the branches, feeling himself drifting. Their image was clearly. Truly. The dark clouds shrouded the darker sky, but not enough to block the ribbons of brilliant twilight spanning the stars.

He saw her again.

They were chasing. He ran ahead. She was behind him, struggling to keep up. Her body remained exhausted and week. They’d lost something. Something important.

Not lost.

Taken.

“Are you ignoring me?” Percy pouted and in an exaggerated drawl said, “That’s very rude.”

Jace sighed. “Why don’t you ever just ask?”

“Ask about what?”

“You know what.”

“You mean about the whole missing in the woods thing?” Percy cradled her chin in her palm and shrugged. “Nah.”

Jace opened his uncovered eye. “Nah?”

“Nah. Asking about something you’d rather forget is kind of rude. You probably get enough of it anyway. I’m just here cause you seem lonely and well, I don’t have anything better to do.”

His teeth ground together in his mouth. ”I don’t want to forget.”

His grimace grew. The sound was beyond him, yet he could almost make out her name. It was on her lips. She said it too him over and over, angry that he couldn’t get it right.

Not her name, but her name. A name that went unwritten. They’d named her together.

“There was a girl,” he admitted. “I remember her when I’m half asleep, but I keep forgetting.”

Percy cocked her head to one side. “Girl, huh? So that’s the big story. Lot less exciting. My money was on international man of mystery.”

Jace shook his head. “I can barely remember her anymore. I remember ‘Eris’ sometimes, when I’m not forgetting her name.”

He saw the bundle clearly, cradled in her arms. He’d held her hand until it was done, and kept holding it while she stared at the small thing, like she didn’t know what to do with it.

With a heaving breath, Jace sat up. His eye went wide behind his hand. “We have a baby.”

“You were gone for two weeks,” Percy pointed out. “Not sure it works that fa—”

“It’s different there,” Jace realized. “Faster.” He inhaled, other memories flashing past his eyes. “Two weeks is a long time.”

Percy pursed her lips. “The ‘I don’t remember’ spiel might be necessary to avoid a padded room”—she smirked suddenly as the word rolled off her tongue—”daddy.”

“I’m forgetting.” The image faded from his eyes, and Jace sat up. “I remembered more when I came back.”

“And you’ve been forgetting more each day?” Percy sighed. “You want to talk to someone? Like someone professional. Not me. Home school doesn’t hand out doctorates in crazy.”

She faded away again. Both of them. In spite, Jace’s hands balled into fists. “I’m not crazy,” he affirmed. “They’re real.”

Rising, he turned and pulled a book from the shelf.

“I need a pen.”

Percy hesitated. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to write in the books.”

“I need to write it down before I forget again. Pen. Pencil. Give me—” She proffered a small pencil and held it out. “Thank you.”

Taking it, Jace opened the book and pressed the tip to the first page. He hesitated, eyes scanning the words as he scowled. With a frustrated growl, he turns the book to its side and lets the back cover drop.

Taking the card from the back—scrawled in names and dates—he writes his note.

Her name is Eris. You have a daughter. They were—

He stops, staring at the paper and the pencil and snarling.

Returning the book to its shelf, he folded the paper and tucks it into his pocket. He removes it again. Quickly, his hands adds a date to his note.

“What are you going to do?” Percy asked. “Jace?”

He turns away.

Still holding the pen, his feet down the shelves toward the back—now front—of the building. The elderly woman at the front desk is asleep. Stepping around a corner, he pops a door open and proceeds down the steps.

The basement is musky and humid, though it doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Jace?” Percy follows a whisper, hands folded behind her back.

Metal cabinets fill the basement, arranged into rows like the shelves above. Jace followed the pieces of paper stood up at the ends. He find the row marked ‘maps’ and opens the long and thin shelves at the bottom of the cabinets.

Shifting through the papers he finds a map of Barely and lays it out on the floor.It isn’t that old. The date in the corner reads 1998. He marks it with the pen. The library. His home. The sheriff’s office. The school. The small park where he’d reappeared a month ago.

You hid something in the woods. Date.

The Sheriff has something you need. Date.

“She’s that important?” Percy asked, crouched beside him. “This girl?”

“She needs me,” he answered. An anger fills his voice. His fingers turn white against the surface of the map. “They took her from us.”

“How can you even know they’re real? Maybe you—”

He writes the familiar words on the map, bigger than the rest.

You have to go back.


I also had the Lovecraftian bug this year

   
 
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