Hi there, my name is Diane! This is a bookish blog where I'll be posting my reviews and thoughts about what I'm currently reading, as well as my all time favourite books. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!
I sat at a table, ate with a knife and fork, dabbed politely at my face with a napkin.
Now I’m coiled in the undergrowth, hidden by the brambles and the dying half-light of late evening. I’m watching a group of people – family or friends – as they eat in the peculiar way I used to.
Their cutlery clinks on china and their laughter tinkles. They are dressed well. They come from money. Their voices are honeyed and proper, and their chatter inane. A dinner party.
The word comes to me; al fresco.
This is a novelty for them, eating outside, breaking bread to herald the hotter weather.
I feast outside day and night.
One of the women pushes her plate away. Too much food, watching her figure.
In the darkness, I stifle a laugh, the choking sound a million miles away from their wind-chime tittering. I remember when I measured my own waist and tracked my calories, denying myself pleasure for the pursuit of perfection.
Now I give in to every impulse. I devour every morsel. Fat and gristle; flesh and bone. I consume everything.
They are finishing their meal now. Knives and forks and napkins are placed neatly on the plates. A man pours everyone glasses of wine they will never drink.
Out I crawl from my hiding place. The “too much” woman notices me first. A flicker of curiosity registers on her face before the horror takes over. Then the inevitable scream.
I smile at them. I enjoy trying out the gesture again but now they are all screaming. I forget my teeth are much sharper than theirs. We are alike in many ways but in the difference they find fear.
They take in my naked form and my body disgusts them. I have limbs but they are longer. A stomach which is swollen from all my good eating. Eyes which are wide so I can better see my prey. Shrivelled breasts that hang low, an inconvenience to the hunt. Hair that is kept long, a half-remembered vanity.
They are panicked, babbling now as they raise their phones, their first instinct not to run but to record. This has been a shift in the ritual through the last decade. I wonder what will come with the next generation.
Some things though will never change. I will advance and they will finally flee, but I will catch them.
The roads were dead, the night was dark and he felt the familiar thrill lacing through his body now that he had her safe in his trunk.
She was unreal, the best one yet, and it has been so easy. He flirted with her, danced with her a little, and bought her a drink he loaded with just enough rohypnol to get her in his truck without any fuss.
She wasn’t his usual type – he normally went for blondes – but something about her was magnetic. Her long black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes struck him as soon as he walked in the bar. He didn’t care for her heavy eyeliner and lower back tattoo but he let it slide. She had given him the eye and he knew he had to have her. It wasn’t any girl that could light up a dive bar. He couldn’t wait to snuff her out.
As he reached the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, he felt his erection straining his jeans. He was so close. Soon it would be a knife scraped over pale flesh, strangled screams, pleading, life in his hands. He heard a scraping in the trunk – she was waking up right on cue. He jumped out the truck and took a beat to savour the balmy night. This was his time. When the cicadas had stopped screaming and the birds had stopped chirping. There were just stars and silence. The perfect blank canvas.
Showtime he thought to himself as the sounds of her struggling grew more frantic. He popped the trunk and grinned as he took in her tear stained face, her mouth contorted in agony around a gag. She was going to be his masterpiece.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun, princess,” he said, dragging her toward the house. To his delight, she sobbed louder. “I’m going to be a real gentleman and carry you across the threshold, princess” He loved how feeble her squirms were. Now he could begin.
He flung her on the old four poster bed, the sheets had never been washed, stained by the women who came before. This was one of his favourite parts, before the blood, taking his time to tie their limbs to the posts, making them completely at his mercy.
He relished the sight of her. Gagged, tied and pleading. This is how women should always be. But he couldn’t help himself, he wanted to hear her beg.
“I’m going to take this off, princess” he said, crouching next to her, removing the gag almost reverently.
“Please” she choked and sobbed, her voice reedy with terror “i’ll do whatever you want, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just let me go”
“You know I thought you might be different, but you bitches are all the same, begging like dogs.” He whispered. “I’m going to take my time with you, and I’m going to bleed you good.”
He turned, ready to reach for the knife on the dresser but froze, feeling a pricking down his spine.
“I don’t think so. I think I’m going to bleed you dry”
Her voice was low, steady and commanding.
“Turn around and kneel” he felt her words reverberate in his head, a crushing compulsion. Before he could even think about refusing, he was on his knees in front of the bed.
She had freed her arms and he watched her effortlessly snap the ropes binding her legs.
He couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. What the fuck was she.
“Are you surprised?” She laughed, rubbing the smudged eyeliner from her tear stained face and standing tall.“You see, I’m a really good actress. “Did you honestly think a girl like me would just let a piece of shit like you buy me a drink? No, no I smelled what you are as soon as you walked into my bar, and I knew I had to have you.”
He felt his gut begin to bubble, fear lacing its way through his body.
“no, this can’t be real,” he choked.
“Oh it’s real” she said “you tried to roofie a fucking vampire. And now I’m going to tear you apart’
“No, please no, I’ll do anything” he was crying now, fat tears and snot rolling down his face.
“You beg like a bitch” she hissed “now take your clothes off’
He felt that same crushing in his skull, and then he was naked. He felt his dick shrivel with the sudden exposure.
“How many women did you kill? She asked, her voice steel.
“Please, I -”
“Tell Me” her voice a knife twisting in his head.
“Eight” he blurted.
She bared her fangs and he felt the involuntary trickle of urine down his thighs.
“I wish I could take my time with you but I’m really thirsty and I can’t stand looking at you”
“Please!” He screamed, beyond desperation.
She smiled. “This is really going to hurt”
She was on him before he could scream again. She went straight to the jugular, tearing his throat and spitting the ruined flesh on the filthy floor. He gurgled wildly and she felt the bloodlust take over. She drank deeply, revelling in his agony.
Too soon he went limp, his lifeblood drying up.
She wiped him from her lips and gave him one last look. Death always revealed their smallness. One less scumbag to worry about.
Dawn was still a ways off, she would walk home, enjoying the night, knowing nothing could hurt her.
I think about dying a lot. I have this recurring dream about my death, or rather the aftermath. The loved ones at my funeral, or more so at some dingy function hall buffet after; eating finger sandwiches and sausage rolls, chatting it up with each other while I start to decompose. Maybe they share a few stories about me, but it’s mainly about themselves – how the kids are doing or who at work is an arsehole. The moving on begins but there is no moving on for me. I become past tense.
I had the dream last night and it clings to me as I dress and make my coffee. The coffee is tasteless and I make a mental note to buy new pods when I can bring myself to go to the shops. I’m still awash with that sticky sleepy feeling, unable to get myself to wake up properly. It’s a Saturday and I have no plans. I could ring up my friends, go for brunch or get cocktails but they all have children/ partners/ dogs. Their calendars are booked weeks in advance. Mum would be happy if I came round but I can’t take her ‘constructive criticism’ when I’m already feeling off.
I don’t have a bad life. I have a steady job, nice friends and a flat that feels like home. My mum loves me, but I’m sure she wishes she had grandchildren and a son-in-law. She still hasn’t come to terms with the fact her only daughter is a child-free lesbian. My dad works overseas but he sends me regular texts and tries his best.
It’s just that for a while now I’ve felt on the periphery of my own life. It’s like everyone I love is the main character of their story but I am always a supporting character. I worry that nobody thinks of me in their spare moments.
I could wallow, stay in bed, watch reality TV until it’s time to go to sleep again but I feel an urgent pull to leave. Outside It’s an overcast, drizzly day but I barely register the rain. I feel light now that I’m outside, I don’t know where I’m going exactly but I feel the heaviness from earlier sluicing off me as I head towards town. Nobody looks at me as I walk, they have their umbrellas up and their heads down. I make an effort to look at their faces anyway. Everyone deserves to be seen.
I left my phone at home and I’m not sure of the time or how long I’ve been walking for but for once I don’t feel the pang of anxiety at being unreachable. It feels like freedom. I stop suddenly. I’m standing in front of my favourite pub, The Pale Horse Inn. I always joke to my friends it’s like something out of Lord of the Rings; a cosy place with a log-fire and comfy chairs where Hobbits wouldn’t seem out of place.
I blink and I’m inside, and for a moment I wonder if it’s my birthday. Sitting in the pub is everyone I know and love. They take up every one of the armchairs and Charlie the barman is passing around trays of sandwiches but no one notices me.
Oh. I think I know what this is.
There’s mum and she’s crying lightly but with a small, sad smile on her face and, my god, my dad is sitting with her and his hand is on hers! His eyes are misty and he’s saying:
“Our girl, she was so special”
“Do you remember when she found that poorly kitten and put it in her school bag so she could nurse him back to health, then turned out she was bloody allergic and she came out in rashes and couldn’t stop sneezing – she was so sad we wouldn’t let her keep him ” my mum sniffles.
He nods, “how could I forget, she never met a soul she didn’t want to help. I’m glad I did one good thing for this world – bringing her into it.”
“I’m glad you’re here” my mum says.
They’ve not spoke in ten years but they’re hugging now. I smile.
I walk around the room. No one sees me of course, but I can feel their emotion, their love for me is like a light pulling me forward.
My friend Chris and her wife Jill are laughing and crying.
“I’m going to miss the way she would walk in the door” Chris says.
“Hello, hello hello” Jill imitates my greeting. They really noticed me.
All around the room people I love, showing me they loved me too.
“This was her favourite pub you know – always said she felt like she was in the Shire”
“Her drink order was a vodka cranberry always served tall”
“If you started talking and everyone else was talking over you, she’d be the one to listen”
My name a chorus in the room.
I hear my Auntie Ellen say through a thick throat “a major bleed in the brain, she was asleep, they say she didn’t feel a thing.”
So that’s how it happened.
I really didn’t feel a thing. And looking around the room now all I feel is peace. It wasn’t like my dream. I was so loved.
Stacey smiled as she heard the opening strains of Wham’s Last Christmas and lowered herself onto the plush armchair, steaming mug of coffee in hand. Looking down at the two children tearing the wrapping from their mountain of presents, she felt at last like all was well. She had never been one for Christmas but she was almost dizzy with it now, seeing the happiness on their faces. So much love, it threatened to overwhelm her.
The room could have been straight out of a magazine, it was so immaculately decorated. Ornate wreaths hung on the walls and the tree twinkled with warm lights; though with their matching pyjamas and bright smiles, the children were somehow even more perfect.
It hadn’t always been easy but now Stacey had it all; her little boy and girl, her dream house, everything she ever wanted.
“look mummy!” the little girl said, “It’s so beautiful, I’m going to play with it every day!” she stood beside a Victorian dolls house, the remnants of the wrapping paper strewn over the floor.
Stacey felt an odd flutter in her chest and her vision swam grey. The doll house was just like one she had as a child, right down to the painted white flowers crawling up the pink exterior. She had the worst kind of déjà vu that stirred a profound sense of wrongness in her.
Shaking her head, she took a deep drink of coffee. Get a grip of yourself woman, she chided herself, It’s bloody Christmas. The coffee was hot and rich, settling her nerves enough to let her melt back into the happy moment, though that strange familiarity still gnawed at the edges.
“It’s lovely” Stacey forced a smile in her voice. “Santa’s been good to you this year”.
“We can play with it all the time mummy, it’ll be the most fun forever”
Stacey smiled for real this time. She was probably misremembering and overreacting as usual. Today wasn’t about her, it was about the children.
“That’s nothing compared to this!” The little boy shouted, “ Look Mum, a bike!”
There was that awful feeling again. It was uncanny. The bike was powder blue with yellow wheels, an exact copy of the one she had received for Christmas aged seven. There was no misremembering this, a photo of her riding that exact bike had hung on her parent’s wall for years.
“Love, who got you that one?” Stacey said, struggling to keep her tone bright.
“Santa of course, silly.” the boy said sweetly.
“Of course, silly mummy!” Stacey felt frayed, an intense headache beginning to build at her temples. What was wrong with her? She needed to keep everything perfect for the children. They were so beautiful. So sweet. Everything she had ever wished for but those gifts… who had bought them? This seemed like more than a coincidence.
Stacey stood up abruptly, the strange panic reaching a boiling point. In her haste, the coffee dropped and hot liquid sloshed at her feet.
“Mummy, are you okay?” The girl said, concern lacing her voice.
“I’m fine love, but look at the mess I’ve made” Stacey was flustered, the pain in her temples screeching.
“No you haven’t mummy, everything is lovely” the girl replied sweetly. Stacey looked down puzzled. There was no mess. The mug of coffee felt solid and warm in her hands.
“My mistake I…’ she trailed off, trying to find the words, “I think I just need a lie down.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would help quiet the headache. The pain was getting excruciating now and the music wasn’t helping. It felt like it was getting louder, and why was it still playing anyway? She didn’t remember Last Christmas being this long.
As soon as the thought passed her mind, the song started to distort, the dulcet tones of George Michael warping into a terrible shriek.
Stacey covered her ears. “Please, make it stop!” She yelled, pain and panic overtaking her.
“Mummy, are you okay?” the little boy shouted back. She wanted to console him but everything was wrong. She couldn’t even remember their names.
Oh god, what were their names?
She forced her eyes open. The music stopped, leaving them in terrible silence. The boy and girl stood in front of her, smiling.
She didn’t know who they were.
“You’re not my children, are you?” Stacey said, the realisation numbing her.
“It’s easier if you don’t fight it mummy” the little girl replied, her voice saccharine.
Reality was starting to seep in. This wasn’t her house. This wasn’t her life.
“I don’t have any fucking children, I’m a student, I still live at home for fuck sake!”
“We’re trying to help you” the boy said, reaching out to her, “just take my hand and we’ll make the pain go away”.
And pain there was, she felt like she was going to burst with it.
What the fuck is happening?
She wasn’t going to take his hand, he was a stranger, this was all wrong. So wrong. She watched in horror as the children’s faces began to distort until their features were completely blank. Stacey screamed. The pain reached a crescendo and she felt herself falling into blackness, the illusion shattering
….
Stacey’s eyes fluttered open and she felt her body twitch lamely. She tried to move but she was paralysed. She wasn’t alone though, a figure was crouching beside her. The dread she felt was matched only by the pain that now engulfed every nerve in her body. With her heart racing, stacey swivelled her eyes over to the figure and even in the low light she could tell it wasn’t human. Its clawed fingers were splayed on her chest, forcing her down. Worse, much worse, she felt the awful thing suckling wetly at her temple. She now knew what was causing her agony and tried to scream out but her throat was so dry she managed only a pathetic yelp.
The creature was probing the inside of her head with its tongue.
The awful pressure of it violated her, pressing against her skull. It defied everything she knew to be true but the thing was inside her, lapping at her brain like a fucking ice cream. With a horrible finality, Stacey realised she wasn’t getting away from this. All she wanted now was for the pain to disappear, to go back to that happy place.
“Shh, mummy” she heard a sweet voice say inside her head. “Come back to us, we’ll make it go away.
Please, She thought desperately. Help me.
“We’ll make it perfect for you this time mummy.”
Stacey could barely keep her eyes open now but saw two faceless children hovering on her periphery. She let her eyes flutter shut and the pain mercifully started to recede. Music played faintly in the distance as Stacey felt herself be pulled into the blackness.
……
Stacey smiled as she heard the opening strains of Wham’s Last Christmas and lowered herself onto the plush armchair, steaming mug of coffee in hand. Looking down at the two children tearing the wrapping from their mountain of presents, she felt at last like all was well…
It was the night before Halloween in Wellsboro and the boys were gathered in a semicircle outside the hardware store, straddling their bikes like they were a hardened motorcycle gang rallying outside a dive bar. There were four of them – Chris, Mike, Cory, and Jack. As the oldest, just one month shy of sixteen, Jack had always been the de facto leader of the group, and tonight was no different. On his orders the boys had filled their backpacks with eggs, toilet paper and as much of their parent’s liquor as they could get away with.
“Alright…” Jack spoke in a hushed voice. “Here’s the plan… we’re going to go to Oak and teach those condescending fucks a lesson. See how they like their precious mansions when they’re covered in yolk and TP.”
“Condescending? Biiiig word for you bud, someone’s obviously being doing extra credit with Mrs Andrews.” Chis snickered, looking to the others for approval.
“Yeah? I heard it from your mom, shit for brains. Now listen up, this is important…”
Chris looked defeated but joined the others as they pulled in tighter to hear the rest of the plan, they were still at the age where a ‘your mom’ retort ruled supreme.
“Here…” Jack reached into his backpack and pulled out a pile of red masks, dishing them out to his friends before donning his own. “Got ’em from Razzles. Those Oak streeters won’t know what’s hit them.”
They were cartoonish Devil masks made from cheap shiny plastic. Jack had bought them, not only because they were the cheapest thing in Razzles joke shop, but also for the fact that they looked low effort yet dangerous. He wanted people to see them and fear them. The rest of the boys dutifully put on their own masks and began pedaling.
Their destination, Oak Street, was the evergreen neighbourhood in Wellsboro. Nothing bad ever happened there; their lawns were always manicured and their houses remained pristine. Even last year when the worst storm the town had seen in fifty years tore it’s way through the streets, the entirety of Oak emerged without so much as a scratch.
The residents were the town’s old money families, entrenched in almost every facet of Wellsboro life – much to the chagrin of every aspiring business owner that didn’t have Oak heritage. This would have been a slightly less bitter pill for the other townsfolk to swallow had Oak streeters not had the attitude that they did. They walked around with the kind of arrogance that only comes from being born into money, seemingly oblivious to what the rest of Wellsboro thought about them.
“…like their shit don’t stink too.” Jack had heard his dad say earlier that day, swigging from a beer with a bitter note in his voice. He had been drinking a lot lately, ever since Lance Arison – who lived in the most lavish house on Oak Street – had bought the garage he had worked at for his entire adult life. Jack’s dad and his buddies had been laid off, and ever since then he had become a different person.
That was the reason that Jack had hatched his plan. He just wanted, for at least one night, for that fucking street to be something less than perfect, and top of his list of destruction was Mr Arison’s house
This one is for my dad, asshole.
As the boys got closer to Oak, a feeling began to stir among them, a buzzing of camaraderie that came from the heady mix of their parent’s booze and the anonymity from the masks. They were a pack, red-tinged and hollering; Wellsboro’s avenging devils. Jack looked up at the moon that was so bright it illuminated them more than the streetlights. It looked almost too full and was tinged with rust. Blood moon, He thought to himself with a strange chill, feeling a sense of trepidation that he couldn’t verbalise to the others. He saw Cory look over at him with a concerned expression. He grinned back, squashing his anxiety. Tonight was not the night for second thoughts.
Their wheels skidded to a halt as they reached the signpost. Jack threw the first egg and the boys cheered as it made contact with the sign, smearing the ‘Oak’ with yellow.
“Let’s do this thing!” Mike shouted, racing in front of the others, already beginning to stream toilet paper over the road. While the rest of the boys followed, Jack hesitated. Something felt off. Their energy demanded a chase but every crack of an egg went unanswered. No sounds or movements came from the houses, the lights were off and the curtains drawn. There was a profound wrongness in the air, as if they were the last people left on earth.
Jack looked in the direction Cory was pointing. The Arison house. It stood out from the others, not just from its size and grandeur, but from being the only building with any light. It was dim and flickering but in the still of the rest of the street it was like a beacon. Game on, Jack thought, pushing his anxiety to the back of his mind as he joined the others, pedaling furiously.
As they neared the Arison’s, they noticed a strange rhythmic noise coming from the house that stopped them in their tracks. Jack got off his bike and put a warning finger to his mouth, gesturing to the others to keep quiet. They followed as he sneaked towards the window, making sure to keep low to the ground. He looked through the glass and for a minute he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing in the dim light. When his eyes finally focused on the shapes through the window he felt his stomach fall. He wanted to look away, to run, but he was frozen. There were around twenty of them, naked, pressed against each other, chanting slowly in unison in a language he couldn’t understand. With a twinge of childish embarrassment, he found himself repulsed at seeing bare adult flesh. It felt perverse, shameful. He couldn’t make out any faces except one – Lance Arison. He was the only one clothed, standing in front of the congregation in a red robe. In his hand he held a long, curved blade that he was using to gesture to something just outside of Jack’s line of sight. There was the sound of a scream from somewhere deeper in the house and the rhythmic chanting faltered. It was the worst sound Jack had ever heard, piercing and full of terror – enough to shake him from his stupor. Whatever was going on here was bad – really bad, and they needed to leave, now.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” He shouted, half-hysterical, as they ran to their bikes.
Except their bikes weren’t there.
The boys looked around in disbelief. It hadn’t even been five minutes… they had thought they were alone, but from the corner of their eyes they saw figures start to emerge from the shadows of the Oak tree lawns. “I’m sorry kids.” One of the figures said, closing in, his voice distantly familiar.
“Can’t let you go I’m afraid. Just take comfort in knowing that you’re going to be part of something great. Something bigger than you could understand.”
There were too many of them now, swarming around the boys, beginning to chant the same words Jack had heard at the house. He grabbed desperately at Cory’s sweatshirt, trying to come up with one of his plans, anything to get his friends out of this but he couldn’t think. He’d let them down, dragged them into something darker than he could have ever imagined.
“I’m s-sorry guys,” Jack started, his voice faltering with fear “I shouldn’t have…”
There was a sharp pain in the back of his head and he realised with a dull panic that he couldn’t speak anymore.
The last thing he heard was Cory screaming his name before everything went dark.
***
The next day the town was in a frenzy. Wellsboro hadn’t had anything as bad as this happen in years. Four teenage boys that didn’t make it home and were nowhere to be found. The police had cautioned parents to think twice about trick or treating and had assembled a search party. They looked everywhere in town for the boys, except the one place that didn’t cross their minds. Nothing bad ever happened in Oak Street after all.
It had been three days since the boy had moved across the street. They had first spotted him ducking awkwardly out of his parents Volvo, legs too gangly for a smooth exit. He had felt a prickling at the nape of his neck then, as if someone was watching him intently, but shrugged it off when a scan of his surroundings found nothing amiss. He had no way of knowing they could hide in plain sight.
He was tall but seemed uncomfortable with it, stooping ungainly by the car as he struggled with the bags his mum passed to him. They found out later he was seventeen but from his face he looked younger. There was a boyish quality to it – pale with a seemingly permanent blush to his cheeks and a faint smattering of acne scars across his chin. Although it was clear he was ill at ease with himself, he seemed mercifully free from teenage angst from the way he was grinning and joking with his parents. They knew straight away that he would be perfect.
***
The boy saw her three days after he and his parents had arrived at the sleepy cul de sac in Downham. He was avoiding the sun, messing about with the new PlayStation game his dad had given him as a gift for sacrificing his summer so his mother could work on her novel in the peace and quiet of village life. He leaned back on his chair and saw her out of his bedroom window in the garden across from his. She was the first person his age he had seen since they had arrived and the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life.
She was perched on a weathered deckchair, doodling absently in a thick leather-bound journal, the sunlight illuminating her soft blonde curls. For a moment the boy thought he was dreaming. No girl that looked like that could possibly end up in a sleepy Lancashire village, especially not at the same time as him. He pushed his chair closer to the window to get a better look at her. The girl looked to be around his age but her beauty was timeless. She was wearing a white floral sundress that fell just above the knee, her pale skin almost seeming to shimmer in the bright sunlight. He knew what other boys his age would be thinking from the way her dress skimmed her curves but instead the first thought that came to him was of how much he would love to have a milkshake with her – at the kind of old fashioned diner he had seen in American films. A catchy love song would be playing on the jukebox and they would share a thick vanilla shake. She would look up at him smiling and he would reach over to tuck a loose blonde curl behind her ear before leaning in to…
He realised with a start that she was looking up at him, an amused smile on her face. His heart was beating. How long had he been staring at her? he wondered anxiously, probably looking like a mad pervert thinking about a stupid milkshake. She gave a little wave and signaled for him to come down. He pointed at himself in disbelief, inwardly cringing at his awkwardness. She tossed her head back and laughed before mouthing “yes, you”. His hands were clammy as he held up his finger, “one minute.” he mouthed back.
As he scrambled down the stairs he fretted about what he could say to give a decent first impression. With his friends and parents he was funny and easy going, always quick with a joke or retort, but with girls his words always seemed to get garbled on their way from his brain to his mouth. He knew what the girls in his school thought of him, goofy and harmless, someone to smile at in the hallways but never dream of going any further. He was fine with this, for the most part. His mum had always said he would flourish at Uni and he clung to this, but here was the opportunity for a fresh start right now.
He opened the door and saw that she was standing now. He struggled to keep his cheeks from turning even more pink as he took in the full effect of her body.
Don’t you dare get a boner you fucking idiot, he chided himself.
“I thought it was illegal for teenagers to move to this street!” she called over to him. Her voice was deeper than he imagined it would be, with a teasing lilt to it that made him feel strangely at ease.
“Did you get a special license or something then?” He shouted back, pleasantly surprised by how confident he sounded.
She gave a throaty chuckle that made him smile, “Something like that. Come here.”
He looked down at himself and noticed that in his haste he had forgotten to put his trainers on, leaving his frayed spiderman socks on full display. Idiot, he thought again to himself glancing back at his door.
“Please… I’ve been waiting for you!” The singsong lilt of her voice drew him back in and he walked in her direction feeling slightly dazed.
When he reached her she sat back down on the deck chair, smiling widely. “There you are at last.” she said.
Standing in front of her he could see that her eyes were deep green, almost cat like.
“I hope I’m not disturbing your… er… art.” He replied, his voice faltering as he gestured to the journal lying open on the grass. The contents of the page gave him a chill. It was full of strange symbols and lettering that was difficult for him to comprehend, like he was looking at something not meant for his eyes.
“Just scribbles” she said brightly, but she closed the book a little too quickly. “So tell me, how did you end up here? City boy moves to a quiet village to stir up trouble?”
He gave a loud snort, “I don’t think I could stir up trouble if I tried. And city boy… I wish… seaside actually, we travelled from Morecome a few days ago. My mam’s a writer and got the idea that somewhere new would help with her block. It’s just for the summer holidays until I start six form… but I’m already missing chips on the beach.”
Chips on the beach? He cringed at himself, Why the hell have I gone and said that?
To his delight she laughed, the sound of it once again settling his anxiety. “Chips on the beach – that sounds like heaven on earth.” She closed her eyes in faux bliss. “Well, no chips I’m afraid but I do have squash inside if you fancy cooling off?” She offered smiling sweetly up at him.
His stomach leapt before he looked back down unsurely at his old jeans and frayed socks, suddenly cautious about what her parents would think
“Your, er, folks wouldn’t mind?”
“I never knew my father, and my mother died a long time ago. My sister is pottering about somewhere but you don’t have to worry about her.”
His sympathy just about overrode his teenage boy lizard brain that was screaming in triumph at the thought of basically being alone with the most stunning girl he had ever met.
“God, I’m so sorry about your mum. I can’t possibly imag…”
“Ancient history” she cut him off, jumping to her feet. “Besides… she was evil.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, instead he just looked on awkwardly as she walked towards the door.
“Coming?” She asked, her voice honey.
He followed her like he had a choice.
Inside there was a heaviness to the air and a cloying sweet smell that made him feel dizzy. She led him into the living room and gestured to a slightly battered looking beige sofa.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the drinks.”
His palms were clammy again and his stomach gave an uneasy churn. He was in a girl’s house, a beautiful girl’s house and he had no idea what to do. He looked around the room to try to settle his nerves but it was oddly outdated and sparse. In the centre there was a worn orange rug and a heavy oak chest with a red pillar candle burning on top, to his surprise there was no television, instead, the focal point of the room was a large ornate bookcase filled to the brim with books which all looked like they belonged in another century. He was trying to think of something intelligent and literary to say when she arrived with the drinks.
“Here,” she said handing him an icy glass of orange squash, “you must be so thirsty.”
He realised he was, so much so that he drained his entire glass. It had a strange but not unpleasant herbal aftertaste, and he immediately felt his shoulders slacken and a grin spread across his face. He felt good. He felt really good. She sat her own glass on the chest and joined him on the sofa, looking up at him suddenly serious.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you.” she said.
She held his face in her hands and kissed him.
It was the kind of kiss he had only dreamed about, soft and deep and full of meaning. His grin was even wider when she finally pulled away.
He giggled, “I don’t even know your name”.
She smiled back at him but there was a rueful quality to it.
“My name is Poppy.”
“Well, hi Poppy, I’m Matthew, nice to kiss you.”
He registered somewhere deep in his brain that he should be cringing at himself but he didn’t care, he felt euphoric.
She kept smiling sadly as she reached for something between the sofa cushions.
“Matthew, I’m so sorry I have to do this. I know you’re one of the good ones but… some things in life are unavoidable. Just know that I truly loved meeting you today and I can’t thank you enough for this.”
His expression was still blissful as she plunged the knife into his temple.
***
His face fell and his eyes went vacant as his body slouched against the sofa. She gave a small sigh. She knew it needed to be done. She had felt the familiar twinge start to work itself throughout her body, the warning sign that the rot would set in if they didn’t act soon, and she couldn’t let that happen to them. They had been planning a hunting trip to town when he had practically fallen into their laps. Such a sweet, gullible boy… so easy to draw in. She knew she couldn’t have passed up such a gift but wished there could have been a way around it.
“You’re getting soft in your old age, Popsy” a voice called from the doorway.
Poppy looked up at her sister. They were remarkably alike but where she was soft and blonde, her sister was sharper with raven hair that was adorned with a red ribbon to match her floor length dress.
“It was just easier in the old days Elspeth, this one was… different. But I know, needs must. Us before anyone else.”
Elspeth kneeled in front of her sister, beaming with pride. “Us before anyone else! And Please don’t fret, Popsy… you certainly gave him a hell of a goodbye – his face after you kissed him was one for the history books, and with the herbs he wouldn’t have felt a thing. He went out on a high. Speaking of which…” She raised the bowl in her hand, “ready when you are.”
Poppy gave a small smile and nodded, taking the bowl from her sister. It was adorned with the same symbols she had scrawled in her journal earlier and it had seen them through over thirty of these ceremonies now. Three hundred odd years of witch-hood with a sacrifice needed once every decade. Just one offering of virginal life-blood was all it took to keep them young, beautiful and powerful until their bones began to ache again.
Poppy reverently tucked a loose curl of Matthew’s hair behind his ear, poising the bowl just below before carefully removing the knife from his temple, sending the blood trickling into the waiting vessel. All the while Elspeth crouched beside her and said the right words in a hushed voice.
Elspeth was the first to drink. She moaned in pleasure as she felt it melt into her, making her strong again. Poppy couldn’t help but smile at seeing her sister restored. She drank too and closed her eyes, blissful as the life-blood took hold. They felt indestructible, all powerful, they could fell cities and empires, seduce even the most loyal of men if they wanted to. Instead they discarded their clothes and laughed and danced, floating carefree in the air like they used to in the old days.
Afterwards, they found themselves in a heap on the floor, still giggling from the rush of it. Elspeth turned to her little sister, “where to now Popsy?”
“Let’s go to Morecambe, Ellie.” Poppy replied breathlessly. “I want to see the seaside.”
He eyed the plate with contempt, fork held in his hairy fist like a weapon.
“What’s this meant to be when it’s at home then?”
Paula bristled, but managed to plaster a smile on her face.
“It’s spiced vegetable stew from the cookbook Angela bought me. It’s quite delicious, I promise,” she replied in the tone of voice usually reserved for coaxing toddlers into behaving.
She had spent the better part of the day on the stew; carefully slicing sweet potato, lashing the chickpeas in oil and garlic, making the perfect broth with just the right amount of cinnamon and turmeric. She had been delighted when she’d tasted it. It was the best thing she’d made in months, but her stomach had fallen when she’d thought of her husband’s reaction.
Maybe if I plated it just right, she allowed herself to think for a moment. But here he was looking at the plate like she had just served him dog shit.
He mashed the fork into the perfectly assembled layers of vegetables, stirring the contents of the stew violently together until it was all pulp.
“A man needs meat,” he practically growled, stretching the last word out before smacking his tongue violently against his teeth to emphasise the T.
Paula couldn’t help but notice the flecks of spit spraying all over her cooking.
“But darling you’ve had meat today. Sausages for breakfast and chopped pork sandwiches for lunch? I just thought this would be a nice change.” When she called him darling what she really meant was filthy rat man. Her carefully cultivated patience was wearing thin. Three good years then thirty spent wishing she were somewhere else. It was hardly worth it.
I’ll leave tomorrow, she said to herself like a salve, I’ll go to my sister’s and leave this filthy rat man to slobber over sausages alone.
“I’d rather go hungry.” He sulked, pushing the offending plate away from him.
Starve then, rat man. She wanted to say, the words flashing red in her mind. Instead, she gave a small sigh and hated herself for saying quietly, “we have steak in the fridge.”
He made a smug little noise that made her teeth clench. “Cooked well done, mind. I want it nice and charred.”
As the steak sizzled in the pan, Paula imagined a life alone. No ungrateful man farting and sweating all over her beautifully laundered sheets, not having to tiptoe around him or worry about what he would say, being able to eat the food she wanted free from his judgement – Bliss.
“How long does it take to cook a steak exactly?” He bellowed from the sitting room, breaking her reverie.
She sighed again, plating the dutifully charred steak with an extra helping of spite.
He took the plate from her without thanks and made a show of ignoring the cutlery instead taking the steak into his hands, tearing chunks of meat with his teeth.
Worse than a pig, horrible hog of a man, Paula thought with profound disgust as she turned away from her husband.
He let out an odd, strangled noise that made Paula’s head snap back. His face was going purple and his hands, slick with grease, had let go of the steak. He was choking, making awful desperate gurgles.
“H-he-help me,” he cried out, gasping.
Paula was frozen. She should be calling an ambulance, trying to clear his throat, doing the Heimlich manoeuvre; Instead, she stared, numb and then exhilarated as she watched her husband choke to death.
“B-b-bitch” he spluttered, before letting out a pathetic wheeze. His head lolled forward with a staid finality.
Paula let out a frenzied giggle.
Well, that’s that then.
She allowed herself to call the ambulance, the hysteric edge to her voice thankfully registering as grief instead of excitement.
“My husband… choking… not breathing… please… come as quickly as possible!”
She closed the door on her husband and sat down at the kitchen table. They lived far from the nearest hospital, it would be at least fifteen minutes until the paramedics would arrive, the call handler had told her gravely. The perfect amount of time for Paula to enjoy her stew.
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