Dark Matter: Short Stories & Poems
Copyright 2016 Rose Perez
Have you ever been woken up by a thud in the night?
The creaky stairs that remain quiet during the day but screech when the witching hour is upon us…the whispers in the hallway when no one is there…the cat hissing at something only she can see.
It’s as if the darkness invites the shadows that hide during the day and gives them a chance to frolic when the sun goes down; especially when you're tucked in for the night, and nobody would hear you scream.
Where exactly are those noises coming from?
Are the phantoms evil or are they quite benevolent? Through a few chilling stories and poetry, you'll meet specters, ghosts and other monsters who reign as kings during twilight. If they sound familiar to you, better check the closets and under your beds –- you may have some unwanted visitors prowling in the dark.
I've also invited a special guest author, FlyTrapMan, to share four grisly tales you'll relish toward the latter part of this book.
Unforgivable
She stared at the grave.
“An animal must have gotten into it.
Yet, anyone examining the dirt tracks, could easily detect that they led away from the grave and not the other way around. A shiver coursed through her, and the baby kicked heartily. Rubbing her belly, she tried focusing on other things. Franklin would be home soon. It was time to get supper ready. Waddling towards the house, her name was called. She turned and caught a faint whiff of decay and wet earth.
“Calm down, Judith.”
She took a deep breath. This wild imagination must be taking advantage of her lack of sleep. In the kitchen, Judith began scrubbing potatoes. The hearth in the fire wasn’t hot enough so more firewood was added. While spooning the potatoes into the broth, she heard a scratching at the door. Perhaps Franklin was laden with game and couldn't open it. She pulled at the handle and screamed.
The metal was scorching hot, and having stepped back, she was astounded to find herself still at the hearth. She hadn't grabbed the door's handle; it was the pot that was grasped. Her hand was swollen, and blisters were already forming. Cursing, she submerged her hand into a bowl of cold water.
“I'm the luckiest son of a bitch,” Jacob would say as he disrobed her. For almost a year, they had sex at least twice a day.
“Any day now,” he would promise her, sweating and panting. “We'll make a baby, you’ll see.”
She pulled her hand from the bowl. The blisters weren't as pronounced and throbbing, but the redness reminded her of a lobster she once ate in Maine when she had attended her cousin's wedding. She wrinkled her nose; remembering the stringy and smelly meat that nearly made her gag.
“Well, you are thinking for two now,” Franklin would’ve remarked, rubbing her back and shaking his head.
She stared out the window; scanning for any sign of Franklin. It would get dark soon, and he knew how she hated to be alone at night. The trees to the left bordered Jacob’s grave. Why was he buried so close to the house? True, it saved her some well needed cash at the time. After all, he had died practically penniless. The cost of a proper burial, in the town’s cemetery, was out of the question. Her mouth compressed into an angry line, and she lightly tapped her forehead against the glass.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” she scolded herself."
“Why was Jacob Mannford, the lying snake, ever trusted?”
The pot boiled and as she turned to attend to it, her shoe landed on a soft patch on the hardwood floor. A muffled scream escaped her. There was a muddy foot print, and as she pulled away, maggots squirmed, peeking out from the saturated dirt. With shaky breath, Judith grabbed the hearth shovel; scooping and scraping off the mud from the floor and underneath her shoe. Shuddering, she tossed the maggot encrusted soil into the fire. With weakened knees, she lowered herself gingerly into a chair.
“Don’t think. Just take deep breaths. You’re tired and hallucinating.”
Judith peered out the window; hoping to see Franklin. What was actually seen, drained the color from her face. There was a man standing in the yard, staring at the house. His plaid shirt and a big brass buckle cinching his leather belt were easily discernable. The buckle was a gift Jacob had received from his father as a wedding present. Their initials had been engraved into the metal, and he was wearing it when buried beneath the earth.
The nearest neighbor was a little more than a mile away, but if she started walking now, there was a good chance of reaching it just after dark. She took one step, and the floor disappeared. Her body descended into a swirling abyss. Beginning to lose consciousness, she abruptly landed on the bed. Judith reached to caress her belly; to make certain the baby was all right, but it was taut and flat.
“No!” She began to cry and buried her face in the pillow.
“Don’t cry, honey. If we can’t have a baby, we can adopt one. People do that sort of thing nowadays. There are babies in orphanages who need a mother and a father.”
Jacob was standing over the bed. He raked his fingers through his raven hair. There was a sense of desperation in his behavior that disgusted her and fueled her anger.
“Liar!”
She sat up, spitting out her contempt for him.
“I talked to Dr. Fohster, and he told me everything! That accident you had when you were a boy rendered you sterile.”
He shook his head.
“There’s only a slim chance…"
“Slim? That’s not what he said! When were you going to tell me, Jacob? All these months of trying and hoping --- all for nothing!”
She was screaming at the top of her lungs.
“There would never have been a marriage if I’d known. You knew that, didn’t you? Bastard, yet you never told me!”
From the corner of her eye, she spotted the poker by the hearth and grabbed it. Swinging it with all her strength, the poker smashed his face. He stepped back, stunned and reeling. Lifting it again, she brought it down hard on the crown of his head. Blood spurted, and he staggered.
She watched in morbid fascination as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Like a felled tree, he collapsed with a reverberating thud. His body convulsed a few times, and he moaned, then he went completely still. There was blood everywhere, and some of it had sprayed in her face. She licked her lips and tasted a coppery, sweet flavor that didn’t repulse her.
Judith had spent hours cleaning and scrubbing the house and remembered thinking how lucky they were to not have any neighbors nearby. Her muscles were aching by the time he was crammed into the wheelbarrow to be transported to the well.
Jacob was known as the town’s klutz. It wouldn’t be hard for anyone to believe he’d fallen down the well. As she tied the rope around him to lower him in, his head drooped to one side. His eyes flickered open slightly, and he said something unintelligible. Stooping, she grabbed a large rock from the ground and smashed it against his head before dumping his body into the well. A gurgling noise was heard for a few seconds, then silence.
Judith woke up on the porch floor; stumbling to her feet, dizzy and befuddled. She remembered fainting inside the house but had no recollection of making her way outdoors. The baby kicked, and a smile touched her lips. A cold breeze tousled her hair. Shivering, she grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t turn. Even rattling it didn’t help.
“What the hell --- !”
“That’s exactly where you’re going,” Jacob’s voice whispered in her ear as she desperately tugged at the door handle.
With hair forcibly pulled, she landed on her back. A frantic scream escaped her lips as she was dragged from behind. Her bottom thudded against each
step, causing her to shriek even louder. She reached back, attempting to scratch the assailant with her nails but only grabbed at air.
“Where are you, you fuck?!”
She heard him laughing maniacally, but there was simply no one to attack. Her blood chilled from the realization of where they were headed.
“No, Jacob, no, no, no please!”
Judith tried pleading with him. Tears were streaming down her face.
“My baby! Please don’t kill my -- my b-b-baby.”
She felt a gush of liquid escape and settle around her hips. Her water had broke. At the edge of the gravesite, the dragging ceased abruptly. Sobbing, she looked around but still saw nothing. Her legs were then savagely forced apart, and undergarments torn from her body. Excruciating pain shot through her as she was violently lacerated by what felt like a sharp instrument.
Her blood-curdling wails reached the crows on the treetops. They scattered from fright. The baby was mercilessly ripped from her body with the umbilical cord severed and torn. It pulsated and bled into the dirt like a defeated snake.
The infant was laid gently on the grass, and her cries were drowned out by her mother’s agonizing screams.
Judith reached for her daughter as the dirt from Jacob’s grave parted. She shrieked and was pulled into the earth. The dirt covered her bleeding, mangled body until no trace of the unfortunate woman was evident.
The dark figure looming above the infant, wrapped her with a plaid shirt. The baby girl, now warm and swaddled, stopped crying. The stars above twinkled, and a calmness descended upon Jacob Mannford’s grave.
The End
Always Just Watching
She traveled these woods many times. Sometimes marveling at the pink clouds of a sunset or catching glimpses of shy rabbits but always just watching.
“I must ask someone to walk with me someday,” she would say – while knowing all along that no one would ever walk with a ghost.
Dead Love
Forgive me, lover, for I have sinned
Your brother was over and he wore this grin;
the ones wolves wear when their prey is near.
Primal forces urged me on.
The pull, the thrust was much too strong.
Clawing with frenzy,
we shed our skins of decency and faith.
In its place, a hardened shell of fervor and lust
had swallowed us up.
Oh, I see the pain in your eyes.
It’s a slash to the heart which I can sympathize.
I’ve never spoken of the night
I came home early in late July.
Ah, I see a flash of surprise!
You never knew I knew, did you, my love?
Her bloated legs wrapped around your waist;
our bed transformed into a repulsive stage.
I, your sole audience member
while the lead role in your degenerate play,
the harlot, the whore was my own dead mother.
Moi
Gordon came home from work and was taking off his heavy woolen coat when his wife, Greta, shuffled into the room.
“Good evening, dear.”
She held up two small dolls.
“Look what I made from our old clothes! One is you, and the other is moi.”
The only French word Greta knew was “moi,” and she used it often, thinking that it made her sound cultured.
She handed him the female doll.
“Doesn’t it look like moi?”
He rolled his eyes, shoved the doll into his pocket and walked into the kitchen. He opened the oven door and brought out a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that Greta had kept warm for him. He frowned.
“No peas?”
“We’re out, and you hate asparagus, so….” her voice trailed and she shrugged. “Peas don’t be mad.”
Sighing, he sat at the table and started shoveling food into his mouth.
“Anyway,” she continued, “did you know in France, during the 1900’s, people carried dolls that represented themselves?”
He kept eating; closing his eyes and pretending to be somewhere else.
“My, it’s getting warm.”
She fanned herself and unbuttoned the first two buttons of her dress.
“The dolls were used to protect them from harm.”
He looked up at her with a look of derision. He quickly dropped his fork.
“Greta?”
At the tip of her collar, a tiny spark appeared; resembling what you’d see at the onset of lighting a match.
“What the —"
He heard a whoosh, and the spark swiftly flared, engulfing the top of her dress. She screamed, waving her arms around like a possessed windmill. Her hair had caught on fire, and he took off his sweater, trying to smother the flames. Another whoosh, and her entire body was engulfed.
The flames were higher and licked his skin. The heat was unbearable, and he pulled away, crashing into the oven door. Greta, reduced to a burning heap on the kitchen floor, had stopped screaming. He sobbed, clutching the oven door handle.
Inside the oven, he could see Greta’s doll immersed in flames. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he had bent to retrieve the plate from the oven.
He screamed; his mind and his wife gone forever.
The Wait
It was happening soon.
He retreated into the shadows,
averting his eyes from the moon.
He shivered from exhilaration and dread.
The wind carried smells of pine, dandelion,
and a faint odor of something dead.
Scents of oak, maple and birch leaves.
He wondered if the rabbit nearby
could also smell those things.
A branch cracked in the distance,
and for a brief moment,
all was silent.
Patter of tiny paws were now racing
across the forest floor.
He heard feathered wings,
a squeal,
then no pattering anymore.
He felt a pine needle in his hair
and fine specks of pollen on his skin.
He decided to just leave it all there.
Pain shot through his head like a bullet,
he gritted his teeth and gripped a tree,
trying to endure it.
The pain didn’t dull the memory
of her sneer and disdain,
didn’t erase how she’d taken his money
and run off with his best friend
His fingers twisted and contorted,
bones broke and re-adjusted.
Skin sloughed off his frame,
replaced by fur and mane.
Jenna! He half yelled, half growled.
His mouth now misshapen
and extending out
until it formed a muzzle
with incisors deadly and sharp.
Steadying himself on all fours
he raised his head to the wind
sniffing and plotting his course.
He picked up her scent,
and his eyes widened,
throwing his head back
and howling.
Blood Flowers
In a garden bathed in darkness,
where blood flowers grow,
souls of the broken hearted
keep vigil, toil and sow.
Rain is crimson water,
falling from rubicund skies.
Tears flowing endlessly
secure the flowers’
longevity
from morning,
noon and night.
Before picking blood flowers,
you must have thick skin or gloves,
for they spread unkind words
and will drain your heart of love.
Lovely to behold
with sanguine petals in bloom.
Their heady fragrance is toxic,
pollinating minds with gossip,
/> making paranoia mushroom.
Grossmutter Moth
Granny died Sunday
in the stark white room
reminding me of a cocoon.
Wrapped up in a cotton sheet,
she was still.
I imagined baby wings imbedded in her back,
waiting for the right moment to unfurl.
Will she become something else?
I asked my weeping mother
who didn’t answer and only cried louder.
Two nurses poked their heads in the room.
I covered my face with an imaginary mask
I created with my hands.
At the funeral, many came to grieve.
Some had phantasmal tears like my dad
whom I knew couldn’t stand Gran.
Naggy baggy, he’d mutter
under his breath when she’d ask him
if he’d found work
as he sat on the couch with a beer
and the growing stack of classifieds
she’d neatly set aside
for him each day.
No beer drinking or couch potato jobs?
I wanted to ask
but bit my tongue instead.
Granny would shake her head
and hobble down the hall;
having learned to accept life
with pains in the joints
and aches in the heart.
Dad was now rambling on at the pulpit,
soaking in the attention,
saying how much she’d be missed.
He managed to squeeze out a tear or two.
Clutching his heart,
he feigned a mournful bellow,
reminiscent of the sound
from a herd of walrus
I once saw on Discovery Channel.
In the midst of this vomit-inducing performance,
a solitary moth found his mouth irresistible
and bravely darted in.
Dad’s eyes bulged in horror as the insect,
flapping in his cavernous orifice,
kindly put an end
to his sickening pretense.
He spat it out, and for an instant,
I thought it was dead.
In a small puddle of spit it lay motionless,
then it made a slight movement.