I remember my daughter crying over Great Expectations- she was 11 at the time.

(I remember her age, because I remember telling that later to a new school in small town Canada where we rocked up, who put her randomly in an ESL class because her name wasn't white- anyway that's a different story)

I was like - why are you crying? And she sobbed that she loved Pip and why was there no-one like him, and she wanted to marry Pip.

I loved Bilbo Baggins- I didn't want to marry him - he's obviously not marriage material, but I loved him very much and wanted desperately no harm to come him.

I also "fell in love" with Hamlet when "doing Shakespeare" at high school. I was shocked by his death, I hated how useless Ophelia was (yes, that was me as a teenager), and I wished so much I could be at that bloody court in Denmark and save him. I also loved Horatio, but not the same way I loved Hamlet.

I loved Emma from Jane Austen, and also Anne from Persuasion, and I would have married either of them in a heartbeat, if I could. I still would. I never really got that much into Elizabeth Bennet- she always seemed rather exhausting- all that witty banter! And running around in fresh air! But I definitely had moments where I aspired to be like her- and indeed, where I secretly thought I was like her. Lol.

I loved David, the biblical narrator in "God Knows", by Jospeh Heller. So funny, so gorgeous, so smart. I learned so much from him too.

Obviously I loved Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited, and I just wanted to reach out into his world and be with him. I would have gladly traded places with Kurt.

Flaubert said he was in love with poor Emma Bovary. I read Madame Bovary, and didn't quite get the appeal, myself, but it might have been the translation.

Who are your literary creations you fell in love with? And what was it like?

My mother was a very organized lady. “Everything in its place, and a place for everything”- such a funny but perfect saying and I never heard anyone else use it.  

She was into crafts, or nail polish or something, I can’t remember clearly but I remember quite well her little white drawers full of little pots of shiny colours and brushes and tools with sharp points and things, and a kind of multi-level tray-thing with wheels, which she would push around the house into the living room or garden. She would sit doing her crafts or nails or whatever it was, bent over with fierce concentration pushing the sharp pointed things at other things. All her stuff was in neat white labelled boxes, although I couldn’t read yet so I don’t know what the labels said. None of that “needles in biscuit tin” crap.

Dad threw it all out after she left.

I think.

She often gave me my own paper and paints to “create art”, as she called it, while she was doing her thing. There was one box I was not allowed to touch.

This box wasn’t white- it was shiny red and had a glittery pattern of golden circles and stars on it. It was a different size and shape from the neat white labelled boxes, so I have a very clear memory of reaching out my pudgy hand, it was lying on the top tray of her wheelie thing, and her grasping my hand just as I felt the thick smoothness of the glittery lid.

“Nicholas. I told you. We do not touch that box.”

I looked back up at her. I knew my mother was beautiful, because I heard other people say it all the time “Where’s that gorgeous wife of mine?” “Oh look at you honey, like an angel!” “absolutely stunning”, but at that moment she looked twisted and terrifying, like the Stepmother in Snow White. I gulped, feeling my eyes grow big and my heart beat fast.

“Ok Mommie” I whispered.

She didn’t hurt me. She smiled very sharply, her lips were sharp and as red as the red paint.

“Now remember. You never touch that box. Ok?”

She laughed and her face suddenly looked normal again. “Good boy. You want snacks? Or- let’s make cotton-wool lambs! Do you want to make lambs with mommie?” She pulled out some white cotton wool from a white box “Look at these googly eyes! aren’t they funny?”

I didn’t think the eyes were funny, and I didn’t want to make lambs, but I didn’t want her to look like Stepmother again, so I nodded and we made lambs. Mine were all crooked and looked crazy but hers looked like real actual baby lambs like we saw at the petting zoo we had visited. She put them all on the TV.

Sometimes I thought the lambs moved- they never seemed to be in the same position. They were always perfect white, they never became dusty or grey. Until Dad threw them out. But then once I saw one of the perfect ones in his room, so he hadn’t thrown them all out.

One morning I came into the living room, the wheelie thing was there standing in the middle of the perfect neat room, and the red shiny box was lying on top of the white boxes on the top tray, shining very brightly because the morning sun must have been lying on it.

I walked towards it, reached my hand out and started opening it. It was warm, from the sun, I remember thinking.

I could barely make out what was in it- it was full and heavy - something soft- but also very sharp, something hard and white, but also soft and cottony and dry- something still, but also something started to slither- the sun seemed to hit me in the eyes and I was dazzled and I could barely see anything, and then I heard a croak “Oh Nicholas. What have you done?”

Although the whisper hadn’t come from behind me, I turned around. My mother was there, beautiful but very sad. Not at all like Stepmother.

She came forward slowly, and snapped the box closed. I couldn’t move, rooted with fear.

She cupped my face. “Poor Nicholas” she murmured. “Don’t worry, you’ll be ok. Time will dull the pain.”

Then she left the room, taking the shiny red box.

I never saw her again.

Police came, and Dad had to leave. I was sent to live with Auntie, which I hated- Auntie was kind and had nice things to eat, but her home was so cluttered, not like our neat lovely home with all of my mother’s neat boxes organized perfectly, everything in its place and a place for everything. And we only watched TV there, nothing else to do.

 Then I was sent back to live in our home with Daddy. It had changed a bit- not much, but there was no sign of the wheelie tray thing or any of my mother’s stuff. Daddy spent a lot of time in his room. I didn’t go to his room, not because he told me not to, but because I didn’t want to. I heard him talking in his room, and once I accidentally caught sight of him, sitting on their bed which had seemed so huge to me as a child but didn’t seem so big anymore. The red shiny box was on his knees, the lid was propped open and he was looking into it, and a small woolly lamb which looked alive with shiny googly eyes was by his side. He must have heard me, he looked up at me, smiled sharply like Mommie used to, and laid a finger on his lips. I moved away and we never talked about it and as soon as I could I moved away from the house and lambs and the box and never went back.

Caitlyn was a happy ghost.

She stayed at home, of course, where else would she go? A stay-at-home mom in life, and even more so in death. She watched her three sons and their father, but she didn’t need to protect them or anything ridiculous like that- protect them from what? After the shock and relief and numbing pain of her early death, brought on by cancer, had passed, they seemed to be doing just fine.

Well not fine, fine.

Caitlyn found herself rather enjoying watching her husband struggle with school lunches and managing the schedule for Noah’s soccer with William’s dance class- yes he only ever went by William, none of that Billie/Liam shite- but he figured it out, and James, at sixteen and soon with a brand new driving license- so funny that he thought it would bring him freedom! was a quick study in helping his younger brothers with homework and getting them to practice.

It meant James dropped out of basketball, but honestly- he hadn’t been that good and the last couple of years had been rather performative- Caitlyn, now unbothered in death, could finally admit that to herself, and it was probably better for his future career to spend his evenings doing homework while waiting for Noah or William to be done, rather than chasing the ball himself.

Caitlyn thought she’d be sad when James finally gave up basketball- but actually, she wasn’t. She had spent so many of her hours of life driving him around. Now he could do the same for his brothers.

And there was that time when Noah was sitting on the garden steps, his shoulders shaking with sobs- he had been reminded of his mom as looked out at the garden. Caitlyn had felt sad then- she wasn’t a monster after all, just a ghost, but then she couldn’t help being entertained by how his father had awkwardly patted Noah’s shoulder, and then told him that his mom would feel better in heaven if he mowed the lawn. That was just the kind of mom-strategy she would use to get the boys to do their chores. Too funny!

Noah mowed for five minutes, then ran inside. She watched her husband irately finish the job. That was fun.

It had been so much work- being their mom. And the cancer- at first she had perversely enjoyed the attention- but then she had been in pain- and scared. And then the pain got worse. So by the end, it had been a relief to die.

But now she had all the time she needed to rest- no more work. Just watching her beautiful sons grow.

She had quickly put a stop to unwanted visits from a divorced school mom- she didn’t want any meddling with her sons’ life. As a ghost, Caitlyn had a few tricks- she super-imposed her own cancerous face on the mom’s when she looked at a mirror to “fix her face”- and that was that. The mom couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

And young Sophia too, who had come over after school to “do homework with James”- causing William to be late getting to dance class- well, that couldn’t be repeated. Testing her powers, Caitlyn nudged Sophia as she was going down the stairs.

Oh dear, thought Caitlyn looking down at Sophia’s broken body and crooked neck at the bottom of the stairs. She hadn’t quite realised the extent of her ghostly strength.

She had to be more careful, she told herself as she watched James fuss and shout. She didn’t want her sons getting so spooked that they left the house. She wanted them right here, so she could keep on watching them, no- watching over them, enjoying their life just as much as she was enjoying her death.

Alan held Layla close.

“I love you” he murmured.

To his utter delight, she murmured back “I love you too. I am grateful you are in my life”.
He looked at her. Her hazel eyes seemed to be sparking yellow and there was an unfamiliar twist to her lips. He wondered if everything was functioning properly, but her words gave him such joy that he chose to ignore the suspicion. Layla was generally undemonstrative verbally, although a great girlfriend in other respects, and he had been craving her verbal affection ever since they started dating.

Now, it seemed he was getting it.

He had implanted the GRAT3000-1 up her left nostril into her brain when she was sleeping.

She barely flinched. He thought about using this positive anecdote at the lab meeting on Monday, when they would be discussing prototyping GRAT3000-1 for romantic relationships. But he had smuggled it out for his own private purpose, so he probably shouldn’t.

So far, GRAT3000 had been a roaring success in the workplace. Only a few years ago, society had been brought to its knees by constant strikes, an unruly workforce, and an oligarchy simply refusing to lower profit margins. Then GRAT3000 had been introduced, developed by the very lab where Alan worked. The government could hardly legislate it fast enough. Within months, aided by heavy-hitting advertising, it became the new norm. If you were working, in any sort of workplace, earning below a certain amount, you probably had GRAT3000 inserted.

It was nothing short of a miracle. Employing the latest biochemical technology, it reprogrammed the brain to produce constant feelings of gratitude for working and being employed, while stifling any form of resentment and frustration at workplace issues.
Order and calm returned to society. Alan’s lab owners became multi-millionaires. Alan and his peers all received nice bonus checks, enabling him to pull a girl like Layla. Photos of union bosses shaking hands with corporate bosses mushroomed. People reported better sleep. Only the mental health industry reported losses. No-one cared. Everyone was sick of their shite anyway. Therapists retrained as care attendants at senior care homes. Staffing shortages were a thing of the past.

And now, judging by Layla’s reaction, maybe relationship issues too would soon be gone.

Alan kissed her. Layla had always been fun in bed, but now she returned his kiss with a certain submissive tilt of her head that was new. It excited him immensely.

She drew back and looked at him. The yellow spark was still there. “Just a minute sweetheart” she whispered, and slipped out of bed.

He had leant back with his eyes closed, so he didn’t see her coming back holding a knife.

He felt the steel point enter his own ribcage, opened his eyes and had a few moments to watch her draw the same knife across her throat and fall, their blood spurting and mingling together in their final breaths.

Giovanni exited the church and hurried towards his seminary dorm. He had taken too long at his evening devotions but he had been so carried away in contemplating the eternal glory and majesty of God that he had lost track of time, and he was the last one out.

Now it was wholly dark, and he was quite alone. Ordinarily he would not have thought about it twice- his dorm was barely five minutes away, but there had been a spate of murders of young seminarians. Not here, thankfully, but across the world. Nevertheless, Giovanni recalled seeing the Polizia cars parked by the seminary office earlier that day, and the flash of dark-blue and white uniforms through the windows. They had been told nothing, and Giovanni wasn’t even sure if the visit was in connection with the sensationalized, unsolved murders of the student-priests across the American and Asian continent.

He heard a gentle sigh and step behind him, and whipped around. His heart bursting with relief, he saw it was only a small woman, edging a bit closer in his personal space than he would have liked, a long blue-edged veil hiding her face. He quickened his pace, and to his discomfort, she accelerated along with him.

And then, with his dorm building looming in sight, she reached out, and put a thin hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t want to acknowledge his time had come. He tried to fight back but she had supernatural strength. He went down, his back pressed against the warm pavement, and he saw her raise her weapon of choice, a thick wooden cross with cruel sharp nails sticking out of it.

Her veil fell back and he saw her face, her familiar, beloved face that he had been gazing upon adoringly barely ten minutes ago, now twisted with fury, but still recognizable.

“Madonna!” he gasped. “Why? We love you, worship you! What have we done?!”

She paused. “You?” she spat. “You have done nothing- worm! This is in revenge for my son, our beautiful son, that he took away from me!” her voice rising to howl of agony, she smashed down the cross on Giovanni’s head. He felt the nails splinter his skull and enter his brain. His screams of pain mingled with her furious shrieks.

“Why now?” he cried with his dying breath.

“I. Got. Free” she hissed, bringing the cross down with every word. “I was imprisoned, all these centuries, thinking on the torments of my son. And now that I am free, I will avenge him, so each and everyone of you dedicated to his death cult is erased from the face of the earth!” The final smash fully killed Giovanni, rolling over in blood, splintered bones, and brains.

Mary straightened. She knew she had a lot of work ahead, and she had to be smart about it. Curbing her desire to burn the seminary down, she vanished into the shadows, biding her time until she could safely strike again.

Every kid's story starts with the Mother. Dead mothers, annoying mothers, caring mothers, absent mothers, terrible mothers, absolutely fucking insane mothers... the books we read in childhood throw an endless parade of these women at us, and here is an appreciation post for all - no that would be impossible, rather for some of our book mothers:

I start with Ma Ingalls. Caroline. An amazing super-mom- I remember reading and being absolutely bowled over by her endless skills- churning! cleaning! cooking wonderful food! teaching! making beautiful big dresses! wearing big beautiful dresses, and dancing in them! Having beautiful children! Putting up with Pa Ingalls! Never being angry! The list is endless. I secretly wished my mom was more home-making wonder-woman like Caroline Ingalls. Next, I offer:

The nameless (I think?) mother in The Railway Children.

Despite having no name, Mother was a driving force of the story. Smart, talented, caring, loving, a bit mad- who writes a poem as a gift for her child's birthday? Who gets mad "but downright beautiful" (what?) because her children accepted help from someone (I forget who). Mother was charming, powerful, mysterious, and fed her children toast and jam through her genius writing powers. I loved her.

Marmee from Little Woman. What a great character. I loathed her passionately- the way she talked to Jo about managing her anger- the stuff with charity- and I've said it before and I'll say it again, she was indirectly responsible for Beth's sickness.

Honorary mentions not from childhood books:

Mrs. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. Oh you silly, embarrassing, but absolutely correct woman. You are all our moms- all of us wincing in embarrassed agony when our moms say something cringey.

Lady Marchmont from Brideshead Revisited.

Another nameless one: Mother from Portnoy's Complaint.

Who are the mother figures from books that stuck with you- love them or loath them? Who helped you understand your own mother a bit better? Tell me.

Top according to who? Myself? My readers? We don't always see eye to eye. Not to mention that arguably, every horror story, hell, every story starts with a Mother somewhere. Weird, good, absent, horrible, terrible, wonderful, amazing, sacrificing, beautiful, pure, crazy fucking insane. It's all about the Mothers.

1- Most recent of all, and we will soon find out if readers enjoy it too, poor Patrick and his terrible Mother, her back always to everyone as she bustles at the kitchen sink:

No Patrick Now : r/shortscarystories

2- One of my most popular stories- Motherhood at its finest:

My Children : r/shortscarystories

3- But what about those quiet, everyday moments, all beautifully shaped by Mother's wise yet gentle hand?

Ocean View : r/shortscarystories

4- Here is Mother in all her mad glory:

Father, Mother, and Billy : r/shortscarystories

5- Mothers are known for making sacrifices for the children, right? It's just what they do!

A Compliment to the Gods : r/shortscarystories

I came downstairs and sat heavily in a kitchen char. She was at the counter, fussing with dishes, her back to me.

Her back was slightly broader, perhaps, than twenty-five years ago. But I swear, it was even the same dress that she had on. And the sound of the dishes hitting each other- the same sound.  

At any moment now I almost expected Patrick to run in.

Something welled in me. Poor boy.

I know, it was my fault. The authorities wrote up how I was clearly remorseful for what I had done- that’s why I was a free man now, sitting at home my wife making me a brew, rather than in prison where I should have ended my rotting days.

The square of sunlight on the floor was exactly the same- I remembered that square throughout the past twenty-five years. The cells I spent most my time also had a tiny square of sunlight high up by the ceiling. I would stare and stare at it, remembering light falling across Patrick’s face after he received the blow meant for his mother, and the tiny trickle of scarlet blood snaking out from beneath his gold sunlit hair.

He would have been just over forty. With kids of his own.

She put the thick steaming mug before me. “Milk?”

Stupid, stupid stupid. She knows I don’t take milk, ever. The welling inside me grew hot.

Why is she still here, big and broad, moving the dishes around calmly- why didn’t she walk away, why did she stay, how is she not dead of a broken heart- her son is dead, why is she giving me a mug of hot tea rather than splashing it in my face and screaming at me?

Patrick – oh my son, my son. I wanted to roll up in a ball and lie in that square of sunlight and howl to the sky. Why had he gone, and this stupid thick woman stayed? She was supposed to be gone!

Patrick had entered the kitchen – he had heard our voices raising - he saw me grab a bottle from the table, lunging at her.

He had cried out and stepped between us. The bottle caught his temple.

Oh my son.

We stared at him, crumpled and still on the floor, the square of sunlight on his face.

I don’t remember anything she said to me, after that. She came to visit me in prison, along with the other wives and girlfriends. I never asked her to. She brought me things- things to eat- and she looked much the same, all through the years, this woman I hate, this woman who has turned me from a normal man into a monster who murdered his own son.  

And then it was time to go home.

My fingers tighten around the hot mug. There is no Patrick now to protect her.

She will die, and pay the price for what she has done to me, to my son.

 

I was making plans with a friend to go watch the Devil Wears Prada II, and we were talking about Meryl Streep, as one does, and her movies, and we remembered The Bridges of Madison County- we had both watched it in the nineties. We had both liked it.

But then I remembered telling my mom about it- she loved Meryl Streep too, and I told her to watch The Bridges of Madison County, with my dad -it's a beautiful love story! So she did, but even though they both loved movies, and watched a lot of movies together, somehow the story line of the Meryl Streep character cheating on her husband upset my dad. He stopped watching, got up and left the living room.

I remembered my mom telling me this, kinda laughing it off like a funny story, and then today I told my friend, and we both laughed. She said she could see his point.

I was making plans with a friend to go watch the Devil Wears Prada II, and we were talking about Meryl Streep, as one does, and her movies, and we remembered The Bridges of Madison County- we had both watched it in the nineties. We had both liked it.

But then I remembered telling my mom about it- she loved Meryl Streep too, and I told her to watch The Bridges of Madison County, with my dad -it's a beautiful love story! So she did, but even though they both loved movies, and watched a lot of movies together, somehow the story line of the Meryl Streep character cheating on her husband upset my dad. He stopped watching, got up and left the living room.

I remembered my mom telling me this, kinda laughing it off like a funny story, and then today I told my friend, and we both laughed. She said she could see his point.

I turned on the dishwasher as I do every other night, said good night to my father, and went upstairs to my room.

My mom watched me -slightly critically- as I did my skincare, and got into bed. We chatted about my day- her days being all the same, as she was fond of reminding me. I told her about my art project, and that Ellen and Jamie had started dating. Yes- Jamie is a girl, mom. She raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment on that, and I felt proud of her.

She was sitting at the foot of the bed as usual. I smiled at her, I was genuinely glad she was here with me. I couldn’t talk to my dad, of course, as I could talk to her. He wouldn’t know or care about Ellen and Jamie dating. Or my project, for that matter. Mom wanted to see my progress, but I had kept it at school. On purpose- I knew she would ask to see it, and I didn’t want to show it to her. It was supposed to recreate a childhood memory, and I knew she would have lots to say about what I had chosen to make. She always had lots to say about whatever I was doing.

She asked if I had any photos of my project on my phone, and when I said I hadn’t, she was surprised. I could tell she didn’t believe me- but chose not to push it.

Funny how Dad couldn’t hear us chatting, mother and daughter. Or maybe he could, just didn’t care.

I was sleepy. After all I had spent all day at school, then homework, chores. She had just sat on my bed, waiting for my return. She used to ask me to do my homework in my room, so she could help me with it like she used to, but I didn’t. I didn’t give her any reason as to why I wouldn’t -I learned that from a TV show- and she stopped pushing about that too, after a while.

I look at her through my drooping lids, before sleep fully takes over. She looks exactly as she did when she was alive, perched on the foot on my bed, wearing the same old Daisy Duck t-shirt she used to wear around the house. The light of cars driving by pick up on her gold chain, which I have now. Funny how a thing can be at two places at once.

I haven’t told her I am leaving home. She hasn’t asked me about college, even though she knows I am planning to go- we used to talk about it. But she’s not saying anything, and so I won’t either.  I’m pretty sure she can’t follow me to my dorm- I’ve never seen her outside my room, not since she died. I wonder if she’ll still be here in my room, waiting for me, when I visit for holidays.

I guess I’ll find out.

 

You have no idea what we've been through the past couple of years. We've been screamed at, spit at, called every name imaginable, all because we want to keep your sorry asses safe.

"Your safety and comfort are our top priority"- it's printed right there, in front of you, asshole. We just want to make sure you're fucking safe, and your greasy ass knows what to do if this flight goes tits up- it won't, don't worry, we're all trained professionals here, BUT YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO US OK?

The crew is fully on board with the new improved safety demo. We need you to pay attention, ok? We're tired of doing the safety demo again and again, and you don't even do us the courtesy of pretending like you're listening. You don't even glance our way. You're looking out of the window, fussing with your phone, your bag- goddammit put your fucking bag under your seat you stupid mo- and buckle that fucking belt before I strangle you with it!

Do you know how to inflate a life jacket?

Where is your nearest exit?

These things could save your lives, fuckhead.

And since you won't pay attention when we ask you nicely, by god we're gonna make you listen.

So, consider this.

After we reach cruising altitude, the plane will actually drop a few hundred feet. Then we will run through the safety demo again, with you practicing the steps like your life depends on it.

There are no downsides to this plan- our objective is to make you sit up and learn safety guidelines.

The flight will start as usual. The actual hell that is boarding these days will take place, you'll all settle down, we'll do the regular safety demo, nobody will pay attention, fine, cool, whatever. You're gonna regret that.

Then we'll take-off and start climbing.

Cruising altitude.

Then WHOOSH!

With no warning, the plane drops.

Cue screaming, wailing, clutching, tears, barfing.

Oxygen masks dangle down. Of course none of you fuckers have the first clue how to put it on, despite us showing you, over and over AND OVER again.

It will only last 5 seconds, ok? You’ll be fine. Noone is gonna die.

With spring fully underway, the ants are crawling out again, busily traipsing along the invisible trail from the coffee table to the windows, to the balcony door, to the kitchen. 

Ugh. I plopped down on the couch, having poured myself a well-deserved glass of wine to herald the weekend. I looked around for the control and flicked on the big communal TV. When I picked up my glass again, there was a tiny intruder doing laps in the dark red fluid. 

I was determined not to let a creature a thousandth my size harsh my Friday night vibe. I fished it out, and flicked it, still squiggling, away. There, let its friends feast on its wine-brined corpse. 

I settled back into the couch, mildly grossed out despite myself, wondering whether it was worth a sparring match with our landlord about getting rid of pests. He would only say we had an infestation because we weren't cleaning properly- we had been down that path before.  I eyed the old coffee-stained mugs dotting the coffee table. He would have a point. Fucking Billy. Never did his share of cleaning. 

“Billy” I yelled, taking a big gulp of ant-y wine and stabbing my fingers at the control. There was no sound. Funny - I thought he was off work today, lazing round the place like he always does on his time off. I had bumped into him in the morning in the kitchen.

I opened my mouth to call for him again, thought better of it and raised the glass to my lips instead. After all, I am not his keeper. It doesn’t matter to me wherever the fuck he is, so long as he pays his rent on time.

I could feel the wine taking effect, the pleasant haze but also something else. The TV, the control, the wine glass, they swam, and it was as if my vision sharpened, and they appeared brighter, huge, and then fading away in the distance. Oh God - had Billy spiked the wine? He was the kind of guy who still found pot brownies funny. Fucking loser. 

I heard a thump thumping noise not from the TV, I looked up - it was the trail of ants, moving down the leg of the coffee table and towards the stairs. I could hear them. Thump thump. Not the balcony outside. The stairs. 

I think I had another sip of wine. A movie scene floated through my head, from a few years ago- I think I went with my mom - a pretty blond girl in a blue dress holding a bottle- “Drink Me”. The girl drank and everything changed. I got up from the couch and followed the ants upstairs to Billy’s room. Because I had to. 

I stood in the doorway and looked inside. There was enough early evening light from the window that I could see clearly, the human shape on the bed, but moving in place like small black piano keys, glinting black. I could hear quite clearly the whirring clacking sounds of their jaws, chomp chomp chomp, the rustly sound of their bodies. 

I was hungry too.    

Sarah looked with delight at the charming, flower-covered little inn where she and Kenneth were spending their overnight getaway trip. Already she could feel the stresses of the city melt away in the fresh country seaside air, with the lush sunlit flowers, the gentle lapping of the waves from across the coastline road, all creating a sensation of joy deep in her soul that she could not remember experiencing for years. She looked across at Kenneth, hauling their overnight bags out of the car, the sunshine lighting his little curly brownish-gold ponytail of which he was unironically and absurdly proud, the leafy shadows of the tree patterning the tattoo of two interlocking puzzle pieces on his neck, and a surge of tenderness and love towards him swelled up in her.

 He sensed her looking, and for an instant their eyes locked, and Sarah felt as she did in their early days of dating, a few years ago now. 

Smiling, they walked in and up to the check-in desk, where a local girl took down their details and rattled off a list of the local hiking trails, restaurants and beaches to catch the best view of the sunset. “You are also of course welcome to stay here and enjoy dinner with us, we have a simple but excellent menu, and there are always a few guests who prefer to stay in and enjoy the grounds and perhaps catch a game of cards after sunset?” She gestured to the interior, and Sarah looked over to a living room furnished amply with comfy couches, armchairs, and overflowing bookcases, opening up to a large dining room.

It looked like the card game had already started, with a grey-haired group of four settled around a table. Sarah could hear their low murmurs and the slight shuffle of cards. But the young couple were excited to check out their room, and they went up as soon as they were done checking in.

The room was beautifully done up in the New England style, pretty floral curtains and bed linens, glowing wooden floors and faraway seascapes dotting the faded striped wallpapered walls. Sarah reached out to Kenneth, and giggling like teenagers, they rolled on the tightly covered, beautiful bed.  

Kenneth paused what he was doing, and pointed to a sign handwritten in elegant cursive, reminding guests that quiet hours started at 8:30 pm, and asking them to be considerate, as noise carried.

The sign made them giggle even more, heightening their desire. Joking about “silent sex”, they passed delightful moments together, before rolling apart and deciding to go for a leisurely beach walk before returning to the inn to sample the excellent menu.

The sunset over the majestic Atlantic ocean was everything the brochures had promised, and their phones full of fresh photos and hearts full of renewed love, they wandered back into the inn, holding hands. 

They didn't dally long at the dining table. The receptionist-turned-server sensed their desire to vanish to their room, and whisked their plates back and forth efficiently. So caught up in their rekindled romance, Sarah barely noticed the cardplayers sitting further down at the same table they were seated earlier, their murmurs providing only a background for the couple’s animated chatter. 

The drive, the beach air, the pleasures of the bedroom exhausted them, and soon they fell asleep, entwined. 

Sarah woke up to flashing blue lights piercing through the curtains. Kenneth was already standing, looking through the window. “Ambulance” he said. “Probably one of those old cardsharks downstairs. They looked about a hundred years old.” 

Sarah felt an irrational annoyance- why would someone need an ambulance on the very night they looked forward to for their romantic getaway? She was determined not to let it spoil her mood. “Come back to bed sweetheart” she called softly, and she snuggled up to him. They lay quietly, listening to the voices below and a slight patter of feet in the hallway. 

Silence soon returned, along with the peculiar pitch-black darkness of rural areas. Kenneth fell asleep. But for Sarah, already prone to insomnia, sleep proved more elusive, and she turned and tossed until the small hours, greyness already on the horizon, when she suddenly plunged into a deep black sleep, that she had never before or since experienced. 

She woke up to darkening gold sunshine lighting the curtains. Had she slept through the whole day? She felt dizzy. The bed was empty. “Kenneth?” she croaked. She was alone in the flowery patterned room. A shimmer of shock went through her as she noticed Kenneth’s phone on the nightstand by his side of the bed, dead. 

She went out into the hallway, unsteady on her feet. “Kenneth?” she cried, gripping the banisters. She made her way downstairs and stepped out into the living room, where the curtains were already drawn, lit only with soft yellow light from a couple of ornate decorated lamps. 

“Kenneth?” she called, walking towards the four cardplayers who had their heads bowed deep into their game. Had he joined them? But they were all old people, their bodies hunched over the table, faces turned low- she stepped closer- the one closest to her, with his back turned to her had a low silver-streaked pony tail, a familiar but now so so faded greyish distorted wrinkled neck tattoo- the two puzzle pieces stretched apart  - but- how- what- she gasped, and all four raised their heads and looked at her with their marbled eyes - “We needed a fourth, dearie” said one kindly.

She made a strangled noise trying to call for help, for somebody, but all four had turned back to their game, as if she had become invisible. She turned, and ran, ran, ran to the door, out, past the big flowers now the colour of dusk, towards the calm silvery beach, the heaving grey ocean catching the last rays of the blood red sun. 

Ahhh Thursday evening. And I am off tomorrow. Long weekend. Oh joy, oh sweet bliss.

I make myself the "trending summer cocktail" as per social media- pinot grigio, clingstone canned peaches (well, plastic jar actually), and Jamaican ginger beer. I am waiting for my partner to get off work- we have dinner plans- no occasion.

On my second cocktail, I notice an ant squiggling in the white wine. Too bad ant, I think, fishing them out respectfully. You may not share my drink. I flick it away. My homemade traps consisting of little jars of dishwashing liquid and vinegar covered by punctured aluminium foil are clearly not working. It doesn't matter.

I will still be happy.

I don't mean upset, or distressed- not like Good Night Mr Tom, I mean genuinely scared. For the same reason I disqualify The Amazing Mr Blunden- I was scared by it, but moreso upset, confused, and weirded out.

For me, it was The Whispering Knights.

Even though I had to google the title because I had forgotten it, I still remember the storyline- three English school kids awaken or summon Morgan Le Fay, the powerful witch from ancient England, and mayhem in the sleepy little village ensues.

The scene when one of the kids wakes up, and sees the shadow on her wall. I'll never forget that. It wasn't even the "peak" action scene of the book.

That did it for me. I was- still am- a nervous sleeper, prone to nightmares. My childhood bedroom at the time had a built-in wardrobe which for some reason opened in the back to a large cemented storage cave kind of thing, where my parents used to store piles of spare bedding- ugh. In the best of times, that cave and wardrobe was a weird, unpleasant place (childhood hide and seek with a motley crew of cousins ftw). Post-reading "The Whispering Knights" was not the best of times.

I have to add, it is a very crisply-written, competent sort of book. Nice engaging story, plucky English children from the countryside accidentally awakening ancient evil, wise old mentor feeding them delicate cucumber sandwiches while providing advice on how to fight ancient witchcraft, a decent chase scene. The author scared me so badly but not because she meant to.

Ironically - I remember quite clearly the line from the shadow-on-the-wall scene that got the heroine through the night - "Oh no- I've grown up past this nonsense" she thinks to herself, or words to that effect. "this is not how she's going to get me- shadows on the wall, monsters under the bed, oh no". She flicks on the light, and vanquishes the shadow. But somehow, flicking on the light didn't quite do it for me.

Tell me about your book-caused scaries.