March Madness: Red Rose

Welcome to my version of March Madness. I will post several brief scenes showing characters embracing insanity. Here's the first.

Red Rose

By Nomar Knight

     Phil Daly never forgot the night a weird stranger came in to the diner he worked at. As a short-order cook, Phil observed some strange people, but none like the man in the black raincoat. It was a humid night, and the place was filled with prostitutes and johns looking to regain some energy. The occasional police officer would stop buy for a quick coffee and the usual small talk with Thelma, the fifty-nine year-old waitress. Thelma was busy serving the other patrons and flirting with cops half her age. The weirdo took a seat located in the middle of the diner. He sat quietly, rocking back and forth.      

     It seemed to Phil that something wasn't quite right. The man's salt and pepper hair was disheveled. He maintained his coat on and appeared to look straight ahead at an old jukebox that was playing Return to Sender by Elvis.

     When the officers left, Thelma finally approached the man and greeted the stranger with a smile until she got a close look at his face. "What will it be, mister?"

     The man maintained his stare at the jukebox and said, "All I want is a red, red rose."

     Thelma glanced at Phil and shook her head. Then she said to the stranger. "We don't sell roses here. Would you like some coffee?"

     The man remained silent so Thelma took it upon herself to fetch him a cup of coffee. Then she went over to Phil and whispered, "Something about that guy gives me the creeps."

     "Take care of the others and give him some time. Maybe he's trying to decide what to order."

     She rolled her eyes and did as Phil suggested. After a few minutes she went with pad in hand and asked the stranger, "Are you ready to order?"

     The man continued rocking in place, staring at the jukebox as the Beatles played Let It Be. He spoke louder, "All I want is a red, red rose."

     Thelma put the pad in a pocket in her apron and sighed, "Sir, there's a flower shop two blocks from here, but they don't open for another four hours."

     "All I want is a red, red rose."

     The man practically yelled.

     Thelma shot Phil a worried glance. Just when Phil was about to call the police, a pair of uniformed officers entered and greeted Thelma. She took them aside and explained the situation.

     They both approached the stranger. The younger of the two said, "Do you need help, sir?"

     "All I want is a red, red rose."

     The older officer asked, "Are you lost? Is there someone we need to call on your behalf?"

     The man stopped rocking in place and for the first time, shifted his stare from the jukebox directly to the officer's eyes. 

     "My wife."

     "You want us to call your wife? What's her number?"

     The man looked back at the jukebox and began his rocking, but the older officer placed a hand on the stranger's shoulder then removed it.

     "We want to help you."

     Again the man turned to the officers and said, "My wife is mad at me."

     The older officer grinned, "Shucks, I'm married, my wife is always mad at me. Is that why you want the red rose?"

     The stranger smiled and slowly rose from the chair. He acted as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

     "All I want is a red, red rose."

     The younger officer said, "The flower shop is still closed, but you can buy her one when it opens. Why don't you let us take you home?"

     "My wife," the man fidgeted on his feet. He glanced around as if the walls were caving in on him. "I broke her heart."

     The married officer said, "I figured that. Don't worry, the flowers should help make things like they were."

     "Impossible."

     The officers looked at each other then back at the stranger. The married one said, "Nothing is impossible."

     The stranger put a hand inside a pocket and pulled out a red rose. It was soaked with a red liquid.

     "Is that blood?" The younger officer's eyes bulged upon seeing the flower.

     The man reached in his other pocket prompting the officers to draw their weapons. Then he opened his hand. "This belonged to my wife."

     The stranger held a human heart. 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2015. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

It Waits by Nomar Knight

It Waits 
by Nomar Knight

     Something lurks in the shadows while you sleep. Sometimes you feel its presence but do your best to ignore it. Then there are times when despair gets the best of you as you lie in bed, paralyzed with fear. You can almost see its red eyes beaming through the darkness, waiting, breathing, salivating in anticipation when it reveals itself. Without realizing, you allow your imagination to run wild. A silhouette forms right before your wide eyes. A faint illumination glimmers off what can only be described as sharp talons. Reason tries to force its way back in by producing an obvious question. Where is the light coming from? Then as if in quick reply to your thoughts, a car outside continues its journey, casting away a brief flash, leaving you once again at the mercy of the shadow.
     You rest a full minute before another thought comes to mind, you must turn on the light. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of your soul lies the knowledge of the existence of evil in its purest form. Still unable to move, you whimper softly wondering not if, but when will the shadow attack.
     A thump rattles your insides as you pray for silence. The betrayal of your pounding heart masks otherworldly noises. If only you could move again. Another louder thump adds to the agony created by a merciless tormentor. You find yourself believing in God. Then, as if the message comes from an entity outside yourself, the word--demon-- pops into your mind. Suddenly, your eyes follow a scraping noise below for you realize there’s something under your bed.
     At last, your lips unseal and you scream; only nothing comes out. You wonder if this is what death is like. Just when you’ve lost all hope, you feel the blanket slipping off your legs. Your lips begin to form a smile, convinced you're moving again until you understand the blanket was pulled off you. Again you call to God, this time calling on his guardian angels for protection. All thoughts of time standing still increase your heartbeat until a coat of perspiration covers your body. A liquid runs out of your eyes into your ears. Tears? There’s no time for tears. Your vision clouds and your lips tremble as you feel something pressing down on the mattress next to you on the bed. You strain to listen to the beast breathing but instead, a rushing stream of internal blood wreaks havoc with your senses. A low murmur escapes your lips. “Stop.” Your fingers begin to spasm, making you wonder if the evil entity is losing its grip on you. Then when you recall having installed the lighting system to respond to voice commands, your confidence returns.
     But as you start forming the words needed to shine light on your predicament, you pause; a morbid realization reiterating the horror that waits. You inhale gobs of cold air in attempt to work up the courage to face the demon, when all of a sudden, a chilling breath strikes against the side of your face.
     “H, Help me!” Your words stutter against the frosty night, yet in spite of your pleas, an icy breeze brushes against your cheek as a white mist coils by your nose.
     “Lights on!” At last your command brings forth instant illumination. Your muscles loosen and you manage to sit up, afraid to look beside you.
     When you finally turn your eyes on the very spot where trepidation ruled, you sigh with relief, for your nemesis is no longer present.
     You start to rise, wondering what just happened. Was it a dream? Was it temporary paralysis? As you slide your cold feet into a pair of slippers, two grimy, green talons hook your ankles, pulling you under the bed. Your right cheekbone bounces off the hardwood floor. You scream as you realize your worst nightmare has come true. Your body shivers with your vain attempts at kicking evil in its face. Using your sheer will to survive, your eyes connect with the monster. Oh those dark crimson eyes. Your muffled cries fade as you become aware that your world is slowly merging with a darker, bloodier realm.

-701 words

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2015. All rights reserved.

Republished. A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

Hostile Creatures

Mama told me not to go out at night. She worried about the creatures. She said anything the creatures touched would die. In fact, none of my kin felt comfortable knowing they lurked, watching, waiting to destroy.

Too bad I couldn't stay home. I just had to press my luck on account of an ache in my belly. The odor seeping through my pores anytime I'd get anxious was more than I could bear. So once again I crept in the woods, trying not to let the full moon's glow reveal my position. My anxiety increased with the hopes of spotting one of them. The creatures didn't scare me even though I had seen the tragedies they caused. Bodies everywhere. The sound of profound loss multiplied through wails of mourning. So much death and destruction every single night.

Twigs snapped, freezing me in place. I inhaled, trying to spot the change in the atmosphere while doing my best to blend in with the shrubbery. A few seconds later, I heard vegetation shifting. I knew it couldn't have been a breeze on account of the dry humidity. A familiar scent reached my nostrils. It took all of my control not to puke from the stench. Holding my breath proved challenging, but I had to endure. I had to get back to Mama. She would be real angry if anything happened to me.

Just when I was about to move, bushes parted and I was face to face with a hideous beast. Two holes expanded to reveal glowing black pupils. Its mouth opened revealing uneven teeth. I thought about sprinting out of there, but a slushy loud noise coming from the creature made my stomach growl.

I wanted to communicate with the monster, to tell it not to make noise, but they never did understand us. Its shrill scream was deafening. Running was no longer an option. The malice permeating from the creature as it raised appendages had traumatic affect on me. A shiny metallic claw-like thing came barreling towards my head, narrowly missing me.

Any thoughts of taming the beast evaporated for my drive to survive dominated the frightening encounter. I didn't have time to get away so I stopped the clawed arm and snapped its head back. The sound similar to the cracking of twigs ended its screams. Yanking its head clean off, I dug my teeth deep inside its torso, chewing on its entrails, alas eliminating the pain from my belly. 

I knew Mama wouldn't be happy with me for eating another hostile creature, but the hunger always won. Besides, the misguided beast had attacked me. What I thought a strange talon glimmered on the ground. An ivory handle revealed it was a weapon. 

Thoughts of dragging the carcass so that my kin could feed and discover the tasty treats were replaced my the inevitable speech that would follow. Momma wanted us to keep to the rules for hunting. She wanted us all safe. Besides, colonizing the beautiful planet would take time. My kind had planned to share the environment with the hostile creatures, but if the others could learn to acquire the same tastes I did then perhaps they would see that taming the savages was no longer an option. They would discover that the hostile creatures...humans were delicious. 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2015. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

Extreme Cleaners by Nomar Knight

Extreme Cleaners

By Nomar Knight

Tommy Tatum got the nickname Tommy Tantrum when he was fourteen-years-old. He had a habit of annoying the girls in his class. The tall lanky fellow would inevitably end up on the floor after a round of hair pulling. The girls would get the upper hand with one swift kick in the nuts. His suffering eventually morphed to a full blown tantrum.

Years later, Tommy grew up and married Carla Towns. She was a petite sweet thing who had never gotten sick a day in her life. It amazed the neighbors how Carla became a klutz soon after marrying Tommy.

The borough of Brooklyn was huge and had several hospitals nearby. Every time Carla “fell” Tommy would take her to a different hospital. One day a doctor recognized the signs of abuse. That same doctor met with a horrible accident. The brakes in her car had malfunctioned and she crashed under a truck.

On a cold night in the city, Tommy’s short fuse ignited after a month long layoff from work. Carla should have known not to suggest she look for employment. The one thing Tommy hated losing was his pride. No longer a young boy who threw tantrums, he replaced that aggression by pounding on Carla every time his ego felt threatened.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t mean it.” Carla sobbed and cowered away from Tommy’s raised fist.

“How many times I have to tell you? I’m the man of the house! I provide for you.”

Normally, after pounding her head and face he would stop and drink a bottle of whisky. Then he would coddle her out of guilt to try and ease her pain. Somehow, he always managed to convince Carla to hide the bruises under a pound of makeup.

As Tommy Tantrum struck down on Carla, his blind rage prevented him from seeing how awkward Carla’s head snapped back. It wasn’t until he realized his fists, and the mattress sheets were filled with so much blood that he stopped and panicked.

Instead of reaching for his usual escape in a bottle, he flipped on his laptop and found an internet site that boasted about unique problem solving. The company’s name was Extreme Cleaners and Tommy never expected to see me, an old classmate, at his door.

“Jack?”

Tommy’s eyes looked haunted, his hair disheveled.

“It’s been a long time, Tommy.”

I tried to peek behind him to get a look at the crime scene but he coddled the door close to his body.

“Are you going to call the cops if you don’t like what you see?”

“We promise discretion.” I stared at him with as much compassion as I could muster. “Do you have the two grand in cash?”

Once he let me in the apartment, I could see how his body trembled. He led me to the bedroom where I saw what was left of Carla.

“Is that Carla Towns?”

He nodded. “She’s my wife.”

I set a bag on the floor and put on latex gloves. “Not anymore.”

He opened a small safe that was in a closet and muttered, “Damn woman is costing me my life savings.”

While he fetched the cash, I recalled how Carla had treated me in high school. Her eyes beamed when we talked and she usually twirled her hair. Too bad my old man moved us out of state. I had pretty much forgotten about Carla until I faced enormous challenges as an Army Ranger. As soon as I served my tour, I looked up the beautiful Carla. Unfortunately, Tommy Tantrum had already married her.

“Here you go.” Tommy held a wad of hundred dollar bills.

Without hesitating I shoved them in my pocket.

“Aren’t you going to count it?

I remained silent, pulled an axe out of the large duffle bag along with plastic coverings and trash bags.

“Maybe you should go to a pub or something.”

The compassion I had demonstrated earlier had vanished, replaced by disgust.

“Nah, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

I scanned the room, spotting a bottle of whiskey on the dresser. “You might want some of that.” I said, gesturing to the booze.

He took it and remained in the living room while I went through my cleaning ritual.

After a couple of hours, I placed the sealed trash bags with what was left of Carla’s remains on the floor near the entrance of the living room.

He stared at me through tear filled eyes. “How come you don’t have any blood on you?”

Secrets were power and I didn’t intend to empower Tommy.

Changing the subject, I asked, “Have you gotten your story straight about Carla’s disappearance?”

He shifted baggy, haunted eyes away from my gaze then whispered, “The cops won’t believe me.”

“That’s the trouble with crimes of passion. You didn’t plan for contingencies.”

A confused look consumed him.

“That’s why it’s best to plan ahead. You know, to cover your tracks against those pesky CSI guys.”

“I didn’t know I was going to kill her.” He bowed his head and sobbed as if though he showed remorse for what he had done.

“Ah, but I knew you would eventually kill her. You were a ticking time bomb.”

“How could you know? I haven’t seen you in years until today.”

“That’s true, but a year ago you crossed paths with me in the worse way possible.”

“I don’t understand.”

I stepped closer to Tommy, about ten feet away and continued to enlighten him.

“I was married to an amazing woman. She had a great heart and always looked out for battered women. Imagine my surprise when you took Carla to the emergency room where she worked.

Tommy Tantrum’s face paled.

I continued, “Then when my wife, the doctor that tried to have you jailed, the same doctor that died in a suspicious accident. Well…”

As he rose from the sofa, I pulled out my .45 caliber pistol, equipped with a silencer.

He was about to speak but shut his mouth when I aimed my weapon at him.

“You’re poison Tommy Tantrum. You stole any chance I had with Carla and then you snuffed the life out of my wife.”

I pulled another sheet of plastic from the bag.

“Spread that on the floor for me.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Actually, you haven’t checked if I cleaned your bedroom.”

His eyes popped.

“I’ll save you the time. Everything is the same mess only now your wife is chopped up and in these garbage bags.”

“Are you going to kill me or are you going to break your word and call the cops?”

I pumped a round, striking his belly.

“I promised discretion and I meant it.”

Tommy sprawled on the floor, his body writhing in a silent tantrum of death.

“You know, Tommy, at first I had planned on making this look like a murder suicide, but then I decided, no one is ever going to find your body, but they will find Carla’s.”

I stood near his head and watched as he whimpered.

“You took away any future I could have had with Carla. You took away my wife. So now I took your job away. My father is on the board of directors in that company. And lastly I’m taking away the illusion you tried so hard to maintain. You’ve never been a good man and now when your wife’s chopped up corpse is found, you will be a fugitive for your name is tarnished forever.

Tommy Tantrum was Extreme Cleaners first client and he most certainly would not be the last.

- 1, 268 words

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2014. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

Liquid Silence

Liquid Silence

By Nomar Knight

As I rested on my bed, counting paint cracks on the ceiling, a sound caught my attention. 

Drip.

I thought, great, I either forgot to shut the faucet or some minor repairs would have to be made.

Drip.

I was all set to investigate when I realized the sound wasn’t caused by water striking the sink. 

Drip.

I remained still, concentrating on identifying the sound.  I don’t know why, but an urgency to solve a mystery ignited my penchant for adventure.  My mind raced with images as to what could have been causing the annoying sound. 

DRIP.

I noticed how the latest drop took longer and in fact, became louder.  My stomach churned.  Perspiration increased for I hadn’t noticed the fan had stopped working.  It appeared that the power went out.

“Thank goodness the sun’s not gone yet.”  I mumbled, doing my best to see the positive.

DRIP.

Once again I realized the impact of the drop of liquid.

“It’s not raining.” 

A thought popped into my mind.  I lived on the top floor and judging by the sickening silence in the neighborhood, the only possible explanation had to be rain. 

“Get up you chicken and look out the window.”

DRIP!

It got louder than the last time and it rattled my nerves.  I fought to rise from the bed, but for some reason, my head remained on the pillow.  I willed my arms to move, yet they remained on the mattress.

“What’s happening?”

I heard a tremor in my voice.

DRIP!

Images of blood, spreading on my linoleum covered floors, shook me to the core.  An overwhelming feeling of despair took hold of me.  I gasped trying to take in gobs of air.  I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t breathing. 

“Must get up.”

DRIP! Drip.

My eyes remained wide open.  It wasn’t until I blinked that I realized my stare never broke away from the ceiling’s cracks.  Had I hypnotized myself?  Was that even possible?

“Move it!”

Like a Master Sergeant, I ordered my body to cooperate.  The time to break the chains of immobility had finally arrived. 

“Get up you weasel!”

DRIP! Drip. DRIP!

Madness!

At last, my arms moved.  Slowly, I rose to a sitting position.  I waited until my breathing normalized, pleased to finally gaze at the open door.  Drawing enough strength to rise and make it through the threshold, I entered the hallway. 

DRIP! Drip. DRIP!

I gazed down and spotted a puddle of water growing steady, nearing my bare feet. 

I followed the trail with my vision and spotted Lucinda, my dead wife, standing by the guest bedroom.  She stood naked and soaked from head to toe. 

I opened my mouth to scream, yet the only sounds I heard were…

DRIP! Drip. DRIP!

The dark haired beauty floated towards me.  Her hands spread wide enough to wrap around my neck.

I breathed and yelled, “This is impossible!”

Her clammy fingers gripped my throat.  “Die, Cory!”  She hissed.

As she squeezed my life back to hell, I swore if my prince would give me another chance, next time, I’d burn the witch. 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Flash Fiction Presentation.

Fear the Unknown

Fear the Unknown

By Nomar Knight

Once again I find myself on the short end of the stick, wondering when people are going to learn to accept fate for what it is.  It’s a cruel, but necessary learning process.  My name is Mr. Coffin.  I teach high school English.  Every year I’m forced to move to a new school because where I reside, common sense doesn’t exist.  I perform to the best of my abilities.  Gain popularity with the students, and yet, I don’t even have a classroom. 

It amazes me how my students constantly overachieve in the standardized tests, yet the mediocre teachers continue to get rewarded.  So as I sit in my Honda, wondering how I can change my luck, a thought occurs to me.  I haven’t identified the enemy.  At first glance, it appears that another frightened teacher, unwilling to deal with the unknown, used her feminine tears to convince the powers that be to screw me again.  At least, that’s how other teachers will view her act of treachery.  Too bad they don’t know that I’m not an ordinary teacher.  In fact, I am no ordinary human. 

At last, the troubled teacher arrives in her grey vehicle.  A hint of sorrow touches my heart for I hate to see anyone cave in to fear.  I mumble to myself, “Best put this one out of her misery.”

I open the glove compartment and brush my fingers on the handle of a seven inch blade.  I stare at her as she finally exits her car. 

Danger!

My heart races and slams against my chest.  The anticipation of blood causes my manhood to begin to rise.  Images of brutal beatings bombard my mind.  It feels as if my darkest thoughts become reality.  I see myself moving in slow motion.  Another version of me hurries to the teacher and plunges the blade in her spine.  I even hear my imitator whisper, “How does it feel to get stabbed in the back?”

A horn blows, regaining my attention.  In the far distance I hear a tormented soul scream for her life.  For one instant, as the haze clears, an alternate reality seals off the visions and I sit in my vehicle.  My fingers stroke not the handle of a knife, but of a hairbrush. 

I take a deep breath and watch as the troubled teacher carries books up the stairs.  I grin, thankful that in this dimension, violence usually is the byproduct of poor choices.  Perhaps in an alternate universe I committed an unspeakable act, but in my current existence, I choose to meet fear of the unknown head-on.  I choose to rise to whatever challenges life has to offer.  As I retrieve a briefcase from the trunk of my car I mumble, “Lord, protect me from evil.”

I go to the office, ready to take on the groups that the frightened teacher left behind.  I wonder if I am given a classroom, how many rodents will come out of hiding to greet me.

One Sick Ride: Review of The Carnival by Lisa McCourt Hollar

One Sick Ride: Review of The Carnival by Lisa McCourt Hollar

As a kid I always looked forward to visiting a carnival for its sweet cotton candy fragrances, the children’s laughter, and the high pitched screams of the excited teenagers.  The colors tended to magnify everything, making me feel smaller than I actually was.  I recall the joy I felt as someone won a big prize. 

It wasn’t until I got to my teen years that I got on scarier rides.  I recall the Funhouse being weird since mirrors distorted my appearance.  Or did they really provide me with a glimpse of how we humans really look.  Hmm, I guess that’s for another post.  Anyway, I enjoyed the creativity that went into trying to scare people in the House of Horrors.  A dummy hanging by its neck, a mummy moving mechanical hands towards my head, and a maniac with a sharp looking scythe on one hand and someone’s head on the other, usually got screams from the other kids.  I did my best to eliminate fear by naming them after relatives. 

After reading Lisa McCourt Hollar’s short tale, The Carnival, I flashed back to the old days because just like those rides, this eBook is definitely not for the squeamish.  It starts rather innocently, with Lucy, a pregnant teen following a carnie to a more secluded area on orders from her fiancé Tom.  Along the way Lucy describes in vivid detail all she sees, bringing the experience to life for the reader. 

I recalled being mesmerized by Lisa McCourt Hollar’s prose as her imagery and dialogue slowly peeled away the illusion that the main character was living under.  Yes, things aren’t always what they seem to be and this author maintained a high level of tension throughout. 

Now, I must warn you, this story is extremely graphic near the end, so gore lovers, this is one read you’ll want to sink your teeth, er, um eyes into.  For those that appreciate a good horror tale, Lisa delivers the goods.  Although, if you have a weak stomach, you may want to read this one after you’ve digested your meal.

Here's a link to the book, The Carnival, on Amazon.  Be sure to read her other books, including children's tales.  Yes, she's a wonderfully versatile author. 

© Copyright Lisa McCourt Hollar 2011. All rights reserved. 

Lisa McCourt Hollar has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display the book cover for The Carnival.

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills Book Review.

Flash Me: Accepting Submissions

One of my favorite things to do at this blog is to read other writer's work, be it flash fiction or poetry.  Normally, today I would feature a short story writer, but alas, I've run out of material to share.  Of course, I could make this blog solely about my work, but I prefer treating my readers to a variety of writing styles and talent.

Tomorrow I'll either have to share a poem of mine or post something else, if anything, because I don't have other poetry to share with you either.

If you are a writer and would like extra exposure, feel free to submit a flash fiction story between 300 words and 2000 words.  Poetry in the range of 150 words to 450 words will be welcomed.  Send your submissions to knightchills@gmail.com under the heading Short Story Submissions or Poetry Submissions.  For short stories please submit one story only, so send in your best.  For poetry, you may submit up to 2 poems. Please keep the ratings content in the PG or R range. 

Although Knight Chills is about Horror, I do enjoy reading a variety of genres and I particularly like it when a couple of genres are mixed.  So besides Horror or Dark Fiction, I'd like to read Dark Romance, Science Fiction that's on the dark side, Dark Comedy or witty comedy.  As for poetry, it doesn't have to be dark, just well written.  Please don't send limericks since they are too short. Poems can be either Free Verse or poems that Rhyme.

One of the most popular poems on Knight Chills was written by Bren Freeman.  It's not a dark poem at all and our readers enjoyed it immensely.

I hope to read your submissions as early as today.  Reprints are welcomed and as always, the writer retains full rights to his/her work.

Also, if anyone has written any informative articles about horror or writing horror and you'd like to be a guest blogger on Knight Chills, feel free to send me an email. 

I look forward to corresponding with you.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Philomena by Adriana Noir

Philomena

By Adriana Noir

A lone, piercing cry echoed through the corridors and jarred Claire from the pleasant escape of her dreams.  As she fought the pull of slumber, confusion set in, followed by a mounting sense of dread.  Her heartbeat hitched and Claire shook her head in pleading denial as she felt the security of her false world slip away bit by bit, like tiny grains of sand sifting through an hourglass.  Before her eyes even opened, she wanted to run, to hide—to disappear forever.  The bloodcurdling wail increased in intensity.  It slammed through her conscious, bringing one terrifying word to mind.

Philomena.

The mere thought made her blood run cold.  Fear trickled down her spine and gnawing guilt rose in the pit of her stomach.  Claire knew, without opening her eyes that he was watching, waiting, gauging her every reaction.  His unmistakable scent infiltrated the room.  It carried on the spring breeze wafting through the open window.  Still, she chanced a peek into the darkness, only to wince and draw deeper into the comforter.  Two eyes stared back at her.  Wide, accusing orbs, so pale they appear to glow, watched, unblinking from the shadows.

The sweet, earthy aroma of sandalwood and smoke grew stronger as Aldric approached the bed.  Her ears prickled, filling with the soft rustle of his clothing.  He closed the distance between them in long, graceful strides, his feet soundless on the wooden planks.  Slender, cool fingers brushed her cheek in a deceptively tender gesture.  There was no place to go, no method of escape, and she stared up at him, conveying a silent plea with her eyes, hoping he would understand.

"Claire, darling?"

His voice was velvet and seductive, a compelling baritone.  It could lead angels from heaven and lure them straight into the depths of hell.  After all, she had followed, unaware of what fate held in store—unaware or uncaring.  She could not resist Aldric's tragic beauty any more than an art collector could resist an original Monet.  Now, it was too late to make amends.

His generous lips curved into a smile, as if he sensed her thoughts.  She watched as an ebony lock slipped out of place to rest against the pale satin of his cheek.  Aldric's eyes mesmerized, but the mock concern glimmering in those eloquent shamrock pools didn't fool her.  Not anymore.

Claire averted her gaze to watch the sheer curtains dance in the breeze.  They moved beneath invisible fingers, plied by a grace and beauty she no longer understood.  The scent of warm lilac teased her senses and, for a moment, she let it wrap her in comfort.  It chased away the damp odor of mildew lurking beneath the sandalwood and smoke, the smell of rot that encased the walls of her prison. 

Outside, the clouds shifted and a thin sliver of light fell through the narrow windows.  The pale glint of the moon eased the dark shadows, and for one blissful second, all was forgotten until another keening wail sliced the silence.

Hungry and demanding, the sound set her nerves on edge.  Claire swallowed against the acidic bile lodged in her throat.  Her breath came in shallow snorts; her nostrils flared.

Philomena.

A sigh of strained patience escaped her lover.  Aldric took her hand in his, holding it against his breast.  She thought she could feel a rhythmic thud beneath her palm, but words skittered through her brain like roaches scuttling for shadow: deception, trickery . . . until she became convinced it was naught but the violent hammer of her own heart that she felt. 

Claire's lips pressed together in a grim line to keep the screams from coming.  Madness swelled within.  It loomed overhead in a thick, insidious cloud, and she prayed that the burgeoning weight would become too much.  That like rain, the terror would somehow break free and fall to the earth in driving sheets.  Perhaps it would cleanse her and wash away all that she had done.

Aldric drew her against him and cut her thoughts short.  His fingers speared through the damp tangles of her hair making her tense on instinct.  Without warning, his arms wrapped around her and squeezed like a snake constricting its prey.  Claire whimpered, terrified he'd somehow found out about her secret—her dirty, shameful secret.

She hated them.

Philomena's cries grew louder still.  Wetness trickled down Claire's bosom. It seeped through the thin nightie in blossoming stains, stains that threatened to purge her soul.  Hot crimson flooded her cheeks, bringing a hint of warmth not found in the air.  It wasn't enough to chase away the biting cold that settled into her core whenever those bloodcurdling wails pierced her ears.  The fires of Hell itself couldn't banish those chills.

Aldric tipped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.  Claire trembled beneath his touch, fear and revulsion wreaking havoc on her frazzled system.  Her breath caught with a hitch and she prayed he couldn't see through her thin disguise.  His eyes gave nothing away, but something sinister rose in their depths. 

A scream bubbled against Claire's lips.

"The baby needs you."

For a moment, confusion obscured her thoughts.  Baby?  What baby?  Then, realization sank in, dropping like weighted lead through her heart.

Philomena.

With rubbery legs, Claire stood.  She forced a smile for Aldric's benefit though every fiber in her being tingled with nervous tension, screaming at her to run; run as far, and as fast, as she could.  Each step made her feel as though she were falling forever downward into an eternal abyss.  The urge to flee tore through her in ragged bolts, errant surges of electricity and impulse.  Yet, she couldn't break free.  Her body, weak and pathetic, betrayed her.  It answered the call of the soulless and damned.

She inched into the hall, flipping the switch on her way past.  Soft, welcoming light flooded the corridor, but the shadows still remained.  They always remained.  Claire shuffled forward, one foot at a time.  The movements felt stiff and robotic, disassociated from her own body, as if she were sleepwalking or moving in a trance.  She wished that was the case: that she could somehow wake from the nightmare embroiling her life . . . that Aldric and Philomena would somehow disappear forever and let her gather the few shards of sanity and peace that remained.

Why had she not listened to that screaming voice of conscience?  She had known since day one that something was wrong . . . terribly wrong.  Aldric had been too good to be true.  Yet, like a fool, she kept coming back for more.  She had believed all his lies, his seductive coos, and promises of love.  One icy touch had sent all sense of reason into a state of permanent hibernation.  His pale, penetrating eyes had hypnotized, immobilized, and now she was trapped in a nightmare from which she could never awake.

Claire's eyes drifted shut when another heinous wail lanced the silence.  Her blood turned frigid as if glaciers crept through her veins.  She shook, the aftershock rippling through her body in an uneasy tide. Beneath the demanding scream, something else rose.  A whimper echoed in her ears, the soft, pleading noise similar to a frightened animal.  It took Claire a moment to realize the raw noise emanated from her own throat.  Ashamed at her cowardice, and terrified Aldric would speed her progress along, she crept forward.

The antique doorknob rattled in her grasp.  She hated the old, rundown house almost as much as she hated its occupants.  The brass chilled her palm, sending another frigid stab of fear straight through her heart.  Her nightgown clung to her flesh, saturated with a mixture of milk and stinking sweat as Philomena's shrieks grew more savage, and with the last bit of latent courage that remained, Claire pushed the door open.

An arctic blast assailed her, driving the breath from her body in frosty plumes.  Low bursts of fog rose above the crib in the center of the room, growing with each lofty scream.  Claire stared in horror through the thin, wooden rails, watching Philomena's pale fists pump in the air.  Her heart seized in her chest as that monstrous head turned at the intrusion and the baby fixated her with an accusing glare.  Silvery blue eyes, so light they were almost clear, shone with anger and hatred.

It took every ounce of strength she had not to turn tail and run.

Claire edged forward, one hand held out in uncertainty, as if she could somehow placate the beast.  Her heart jack hammered against her chest and cinched with pain.  Tears stung her eyes, but she was certain they looked nothing like the watery graves her daughter boasted.  A muffled sob vibrated in the hollow of her throat, and Claire fought the familiar mixture of dread and horror that consumed her whenever she dared too close to the room.  She ached to offer a reassuring coo, to pick the child up and nurse her with all the love and care of a normal mother, but she couldn't.  She hated the caterwauling beast confined in its crib.  The mere thought of touching it made Claire's skin crawl as if infected by maggots.

Fighting a wave of rising gorge, she pressed forward.  Philomena stared up at her, her colorless eyes brimming with resentment.  Gaunt, pinched features twisted with violent fury as she screamed.  Claire's hands twitched at her sides.  The urge to suffocate the monster surged through her veins, as potent as the rising tide after a storm.  Somehow, she had to rid the world of the miscreation sprawled before her, undo the damage she had done.  There had to be a way . . .

Those eyes, those soulless eyes, bore into her with fevered intensity.  She felt a disturbing sense of calm settle into her core, and Claire knew, as she lifted the creature to her bosom, that Philomena had worked her demon's spell once again.  It was no more than a glimmer of a thought, and as soon as the notion came, it passed.  She shuffled toward the old rocking chair in the corner, no longer mindful of the room's unsettling chill or the revulsion wrenching her soul.  All that mattered was feeding the precious bundle in her arms.

Loud suckling noises filled the air.  Tiny lips quested against Claire's exposed flesh, smacking with zeal until they found what they sought.  She let her eyes drift shut, though her body stiffened with pain.  The baby feasted, and she remained motionless, staring at the wall as it attempted to quench its endless hunger.  The pain grew more intense and a low, rumbling growl snapped Claire to full attention.  Cursing, she wrenched Philomena away, her own brow drawing in furious reprimand.

"Ouch!  You hideous little—"

Philomena let loose a scream that slaughtered the words in Claire's throat.  It was unearthly and raw, a forceful protest wrought with loathing.  She watched in wide-eyed horror as the screams seemed to multiply, growing to a cacophony of voices rising from a single being, none of them human, but all of them emitting from a mouth smeared with blood.

Two rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth jutted in ragged intervals from the baby's gums, none of them wider than a sewing needle.  Claire blinked in disbelief—once, twice, but the gruesome image still remained.  Philomena flailed, her crimson-smeared mouth opening wider with each furious scream.  Without thinking, Claire flung the swaddled infant to the floor and sprang to her feet.  Hands splayed in front of her, she staggered away from the abomination, a series of high-pitched mewls squeaking past her throat as she inched toward the door.  She could feel the insidious mixture of blood and milk trickling down her skin.  Each sinister kiss against her flesh made Claire shudder.  She had to get out.

Philomena lifted her head, and even from where Claire stood, she could see the thick blue-grey veins throbbing beneath the surface of the bulbous monstrosity.  She could smell the sickly-sweet stench radiating from the creature she was forced to call a daughter.  Her hand fumbled for the doorknob behind her, her fingers scrabbling in vain against coarse wood.  A sharp yelp pushed past her throat, and she pulled back to find a splinter lodged beneath her nail.

The aberration on the floor sensed her weakness, however fleeting.  It pushed itself up, its tiny arms quivering beneath the strain.  Claire screamed, but even the shrill, jarring sound could not drown out the voice in her head—the quiet, pleading voice that kept insisting this just wasn’t possible.  The baby, if she could be called such, was only a couple weeks old, yet here she was, pushing herself up on her hands, her body trembling as she attempted to get her knees beneath her.

Nothing in the parenting books Claire had read prepared her for such a thing.

Philomena crept across the floor, her gown trailing behind her and dragging against the wooden planks with a slithering, raspy sound.  She grunted and growled with exertion, but she did not slow.  Silvery eyes locked on her mother and the leathered strips of her mouth stretched back into a feral leer.  Needle-like teeth glinted in the moonlight, teeth still stained with Claire’s blood.

Terror kept her rooted in place.  Claire’s heart performed tricks in her chest.  It hammered then stopped, hammered then stopped, until she grew dizzy beneath the spell.  Loud roaring droned in her ears, like the roar of the ocean fading in and out in nauseating surges.

Why had she been so weak?  Why had she let loneliness get the best of her?  Why had she played with that damn Ouija board?  Was this her punishment?  Oh, but the house had been so empty before, so quiet and still.  Now, now she would give anything for that peace once again.

Frigid fingers bit into her ankle, snapping Claire from her thoughts with a scream.  Without thinking, she kicked out, booting the creature away.  She felt a hint of satisfaction as she watched it fly through the air before landing across the room with a loud thud.  That sick sense of accomplishment died as soon as the first pitiful wail pierced her ears.  Filled with pain and mourning, it broke Claire’s heart.  It was as if all of the heartbreak and suffering in the world poured forth from her daughter’s lips.

Her hands twisted with panic.  Sweat beaded against her flesh, amplifying the chill in the room.  Fear-laden icicles draped around her heart.

“Claire?”

She didn’t have to turn to see the displeasure etched into Aldrics’s features.  It weighed in his voice, sending ripples of unease darting down her spine.  Fear constricted her heart to a screeching halt.

“What have you done?”

Answers eluded her.  She remained rooted in place as he brushed past her and strode across the room to his beloved daughter.  The cries had since quieted to mere whimpers, and even those died as Aldric cradled Philomena in his arms.  Her hands and legs dangled limply, performing a lifeless dance as he clutched her tight against his chest.

Claire held her breath until her lungs ached.  Agonizing moments ticked by as she waited to see what would happen next.  She didn’t dare breathe as the deep reverberation of Aldric’s voice filled the room.  It vibrated off the walls and through the empty corridors of Claire’s heart, and as she listened, a strange energy tingled around her.  The hairs on her arms lifted in response.  Even the fine down covering the back of her neck stood on end as Aldric whispered and murmured in foreign tongues, his body bowed over his daughter in a protective arch.

There was a time when his secret language had stirred excitement and arousal; when those strange words and sounds had been exotic and exciting.  Now they sounded sinister.  The illusions surrounding her life fell away bit by bit, each sloughing off like rotted layers of skin to reveal the ugly, raw seepage beneath.  What remained was a glimmer of something so unspeakable it induced madness.

The atmosphere grew heavy, weighted down and charged with static, like the calm before a storm.  Aldric glanced over his shoulder, his pale green eyes full of accusation.  Claire withered beneath the blistering hatred, her knees trembling as she struggled to draw air into her aching lungs.

“How does it feel to die, Claire, to feel your life slip helplessly through your hands while others look on with disinterest?”

She clutched at her throat, her fingers clawing in desperation against the invisible chokehold.  As she did, she watched the heinous bundle in Aldric’s arms begin to stir.  The long, gangly fingers twitched and curled and Philomena’s chest heaved in a lofty cry.

Claire hit the floor, hands and knees splayed against the rough wooden planks as darkness closed in.  She wanted to clasp her hands over her ears to drown out the shrill, monstrous noise.  Never in her life had she heard anything like it.  It was as if every legion in hell had been unleashed and now resided in the single, solitary scream emitting from her daughter.

Philomena.

As much as she hated that hideous beast, Claire never imagined that would be the last thought, the last thing to flitter through her mind.  But as her body jerked on the floor, ensnared in death’s final throes, Philomena’s name echoed with haunting clarity inside her head.

Ϯ ~ ϯ ~ ϯ ~ ϯ ~ ϯ ~ ϯ ~ ϯ

A lone cry pierced the night, pulling Claire from the pleasant shroud of her dreams.  She stirred against her pillow, resisting the urge to sink deeper into the comforter and give in to the sweet promise of slumber.  Her eyes drifted open and she listened, for a moment, to the rhythmic breathing of her lover as he slept beside her.  Another wail lanced the silence and Aldric rolled over, a mumbling protest falling from his lips.

She stared at him, admiring the beauty of his features and the smooth scape of his skin beneath the kiss of the moon.  Bathed in an alabaster glow, he was almost too beautiful to resist.  Not wanting Philomena to disturb him, Claire slid from bed, grabbed her robe from the rocking chair, and padded out of the room on quiet feet.

Hungry, demanding screams grew in intensity and pitch.  Her heart sunk in response.  Philomena was waiting and obviously not pleased at the inconvenience.  Claire made her way down the corridor leading to the baby’s room, the smell of death and decay heavy in her nostrils.  She wrinkled her nose, trying to locate the source as she made her way down the hall.

Nudging the door open, she stood for a moment and observed the crib situated in the middle of the room.  A low, dense fog hung above the wooden rails, growing larger with each fervent cry.  Taking a deep breath, she braced herself and pushed forward.

There, inside the crib, lay a swaddled bundle with ashen skin.  One side of the baby’s face had fallen away and a dark, empty hollow sat where an eye had once been.  The other stared up, a single watery grave, as Philomena regarded her mother with hatred.

Claire felt an overwhelming surge of guilt wash over her as she plucked her daughter into her arms.  She cradled Philomena against her breast and issued a mumbled apology.  She had been a bad mother as of late, a very bad mother.  Tears welled in her eyes, each one stinging like fire.  What had she done to her beautiful, beautiful baby girl?

She pressed her lips against the straggly patch of coarse hair covering Philomena’s scalp.  Rotting flesh clung to her lips as she pulled away to offer a nipple and settle in the chair.  She had been so tired lately; even the slightest movements left her feeling drained and exerted.  Gentle moonlight fell through the lone window centered in the room.  It fell across her skin, revealing mottled blots and leathery patches.  She swore it grew worse as the baby fed, yet Philomena, her precious, beautiful child grew more radiant with each ardent suckle.  Two watery blue eyes now stared up at her, unblinking in the darkness.

“That’s right, baby.  Eat,” Claire urged, her voice coming in a grated whisper.  A single tooth fell from her mouth and skittered across the floor.  “Everything is going to be okay now.  Momma’s here.”

© Copyright 2010 Adriana Noir. All rights reserved.

Adriana Noir has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.