Beyond and Between

Dedicated to the unknown

A man thrashed and turned in a sweat-stained bed,

unable to find solace within the twisting tendrils of the sheets.

He lied back, and sighed, staring into the tightly drawn curtains.

He could not sleep knowing what once stood beyond that velvet barrier.

...

He had first seen her on a balmy August night,

as he threw open the curtains to welcome a chilled evening wind.

She stood on the balcony, head cocked in an angle of curiosity.

She was barefoot in an angel-white dress, with tumbling black curls.

She was standing behind the glass door,

nose nearly pressing against it, staring intently at him.

After he recovered from a startled tumble,

he sat on the floor staring into her eyes:

as green and sharp as finely cut emeralds.

He attempted to open the door, to let her in from the cold,

but she held the door firmly closed.

He attempted to ask if she needed help,

but all his questions were met with a blank stare.

He called the police, and met them outside,

only to have them point confused at the vacant balcony.

He was surprised, but relieved, and returned to his bed.

The next night, as he parted the curtains, she was again at the door.

Red-faced, he shook his fists; he screamed at her to leave.

She just stood, staring with soulless, verdant orbs.

He pounded the glass with desperation,

the glass cracked under the force.

That’s when she screamed, either in shock or pain.

He looked up, to see blood running down her face.

The wounds bled in line with the cracks in the pane.

He stood back as the cracks grew across the glass-- across her.

The blood drenched her once angelic dress, now dyed a dark crimson.

Her howling reached a crescendo, as fissures filled the frame.

And all at once it--she, shattered, sending sparkling shards cascading across the floor,

the moonlight dancing off her shimmering remains.

He stood in trembling silence, staring at the empty balcony.

In the Forest

It’s important to know when to walk away.

When work and home become a mundane hell,

The forest is there, with leaf-strewn paths leading out of the fray.

In the forest, I can forget the alarm clock's dreaded knell.

Here, I can find peace in the warmth of the mottled sunlight.

Here, I can bask in the grove’s rustic, dew-born smell.

Nature is a simple escape from man’s complex, modern plight.

The trees and stones have each carved out their place.

I wish I could become one of them, being here feels right.

As I stare into the treeline, a pattern reminiscent of lace,

I hear a crunch beneath my boot, and catch the scent of decay.

At my feet, a trail of small teeth leads off the path-- I hasten my pace.

I won’t investigate those bone-chilling screams, I refuse to stray.

It’s important to know when to walk away.

The Messenger

Every night he visited me, in the annals of my mind, playing out the same way each time.

There was a heavy stillness, as though sound had no place to land.

I saw a figure, blurred as if covered by a miasma of heat, yet I felt chilled to the marrow.

I began to recognize him as I grew closer, feeling an overwhelming sensation of ancient nostalgia.

Finally, I was very close, and he turned to face me.

I only ever saw the face: a skin-tight hood of featureless flesh.

Slowly, he attempted to open his mouth, stretching the blank skin taut.

The skin split, and a spray of crimson revealed a maw of churning, bloodied viscera.

He dabbed a single white-gloved finger into the pit of blood with the elegance of a pen into an inkwell.

The motions were swift and precise, as it painted a message in bright red upon the wall.

As I read the message, I felt an intense dread grow inside me, until I would scream myself awake.

I never remembered the message, just the figure and that ever-growing fear it instilled.

That is, until last night.

The dream played out as usual, until I saw the figure.

The figure was drenched in dried blood, and its shredded mouth was already wrenched open.

Where there was normally only skin, were two gaping black holes for eyes

It was pointing with a hand, dripping with thick, congealing blood, at the message on the wall.

I finally saw it.

SHE KNOWS

I awoke covered in sweat, screaming. She asked me if I had “that nightmare” again. I simply nodded.

The message shook me to my core, but I knew it was just a dream. I knew she couldn’t know.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

After she fell asleep, I carefully crept out to the yard.

The well stood near the back of our property, my eternal reminder of our lost essence.

I pried off the concrete cover, and peered down the dark abyss, and into the depths of my past.

My lies had been crafted in clockwork, each element perfectly aligned to let life tick along as normal.

I couldn’t shine the light down, couldn’t bare to see if those brittle bones still floated in the fetid water.

She had embraced me and cried, that’s how I knew she believed me, that’s how I was sure.

I knew he had to be there, there was no other possibility. She couldn’t have known.

I was always there for her, a constant stalwart. Surely everyone is entitled to at least one mistake?

I finally shone the light down, the beam shaking in my grip. The circle of light approached the bottom.

He was broken, since the day he was born. I dropped him into that well, because I  knew it was right.

I saw the light dance off the shimmering black surface of the water. His bones were gone.

I leaned in closer, desperate to prove that message wrong, considering if they could sink to the bottom.

Suddenly, a force slammed into my back, and sent me tumbling into the tainted black waters.

That’s how I was sure: She knew.  

Help Wanted

A pen tapped against the table.

Waves of frustration and ripples of desperation sloshed in the half-finished bowl of corn flakes.

A newspaper lay unfurled upon the table, like a cartographer’s latest project.

Each red circle noted a job offer, a potential cache of cash.

Each red slash noted a failed phone call, a reminder of meager skills and strict standards.

Help Wanted: Digital Assistant Applicant must have experience in complete adobe workset.

Help Wanted: Secretary All inquiries must prove capable of a words per minutes of 50+.

Help Wanted: Office Clerk Requires advanced application of Word, Excel, and Access.

The classifieds were a treasure map, but each chest was sealed with a larger lock than the last.

It wasn’t until the white paper was dyed with crimson rejections that I noticed it.

HELP WANTED: NO QUALIFICATIONS OR EXPERIENCE NEEDED

The voice that answered the call was a gravel pit, answering any questions in short, dusty grunts.

Yeah, you start tomorrow. Grand a week. Just keep track of my financials. Goodbye.

It was more than expected, and I didn’t care what I had to do for the money.

Since the divorce, I was buried alive with ever-increasing debts: desperate for an offered shovel.

I was greeted by the voice on the phone. He wore a suit, but looked uncomfortable wearing it.

As I was led to a cramped makeshift office in a trailer, I asked what his company did.

He went into a surprised coughing fit, and recovered with a slight chuckle.

He uttered “organic disposal” hastily, and then left with a door-slam.

Looking through the file cabinets of transactions, I was baffled by the riddle within the receipts.

Some of the purchases made sense: trash bags, rags, and zip-ties-- things I could understand.

But, other items didn’t fit: cooking pans, knives, and chemicals like Sodium Hydroxide.

The checks however, seemed to prove that he was doing something, and people paid well for it.

Each one was just a name, and every amount was the same:

John Smith - $10,000, Franklin Anderson - $10,000, Rose Johnson - $10,000, and so on.

A steady paycheck curbed my curiosity, until one day I saw a check with a familiar name.

Scarlett Richardson - $10,000 - for future services rendered. The name was my ex-wife’s.

After the things I did to her, the way she screamed, I never thought I’d have to see that name again.

Before I could even begin to consider what my ex-wife spent ten grand to dispose of, I felt it.

A searing sensation filled my body, and I fell to the floor. My body ignored my brain’s desperate pleas.

The man dropped the syringe, sighed, and said: “Sorry man, but-- I’m just doing my job, you know?”

He sat on my chest, and slid a deep pan under my head. He held a shimmering razor over my neck.

His motion was so casual, it felt like he was just getting ready to change my car’s oil-- Not kill me.

He slid the blade across my neck, and I heard a steady drip against the metal. I was a liquid hourglass.

I saw him stand, heard him pour an unknown liquid into an unseen tub, and felt him grab me by the legs.

Before my veins ran empty, I heard him mutter: “Great, now I’ll have to place another ad.”

The Legend of Mr. McFinley

Mr. McFinley was a good man.

Before the rumors, and accusing whispers. Before the hushed tones, and pointed fingers.

Mr. and Mrs. McFinley loved Halloween.

She would bake cookies, in the shapes of skulls and bats. Mixing batch, after batch of delicious morsels.

He would sew costumes, becoming ghastly ghouls. Even donning the guise of a bear-skin werewolf.

Together, they would decorate the manor with faux webs, and handmade skeletons dangling from twine.

The children would flock to their porch, drawn by the aroma of chocolate, and the glow of pumpkins.

Then, she died. “An aneurysm,” said the doctor, as if the method mattered.

Mr. McFinley withdrew from the world, robbed of the only joy he knew.

Halloween came: the eager knocks went unanswered, and the children left empty handed.

Pumpkins rotted, uncarved. Bags of flour sat, unused. Cobwebs stretched over the sewing machine.

The once magnificent house lay dark, covered in growing grime.

That’s when the stories started.

“I heard he killed her for insurance money,” said a gossiping soccer mom.

“He found out she was cheating, slit her throat,” claimed the grocery store clerk.

“No, he ate her!” said a big brother to a little sister, “Hides her bones in the attic!”

With that, his reputation was set. He wasn’t a man drained of zest, he was a deranged killer-- obsessed.

But, one year he had enough. The time for mourning had ended, no more self-pity and aimless lazing.

He would rejoin the world, in the best way he knew, on the best day he knew: October 31st.

He carved playful, toothy grins on pumpkins and squash. Breathing life with dancing flames.

He baked, as best he could, his wife’s famous cookies. Using extra chocolate to cover his fumblings.

He dusted off the sewing machine, using glittering gold thread, a tacky purple suit, and a crimson curtain,

Transforming into a fabulously sinister vampire, complete with real animal fangs, glued to false teeth.

And so, he was ready. Ready to be re-born in the joy of that most precious holiday.

So Halloween came-- and went. The door stood silent throughout the night. Cookies sat stale, uneaten.

Mr. McFinley was baffled, re-checking the calendar to ensure he had the correct date.

He emerged onto the porch, and stood in stunned silence at the scene before him.

His time away from the world had taken its toll on the town.

Parents steered their children away from the moss caked path, driven away by rumor and legend.

Teens dared each other to go up, only to settle for chucking eggs at the walls in delinquent rebellion.

Drunk college students smashed the glowing grins with orange-stained, seed-strewn ball bats.

The yard was littered with beer cans and egg shells. Putrid vomit leaked out of the last, unlit lantern.

Mr. McFinley was already a broken man, a psyche cracked with loss, barely held together.

Now, he was a man mangled by a scornful reception, his dashed hopes laid scattered in the yard.

Mr. McFinley sat in his armchair, head in his hands. Robbed of his last shred of potential happiness.

Then he let out a gravelly, bitter laugh at an untold joke. He stood up, knowing what he had to do.

He walked grimly to the shed behind the house. Opening the door to the scent of rust and dried blood.

In his youth, Mr. McFinley was a hunter. A master trapper, armed with teeth and chains: ready to maim.

The walls of the manor were lined with the trophies of his passion. Chests full of pelts, teeth, and bone.

He had left that line of work behind, in order to shield his wife from his history of bloodshed.

But she was gone, so he had nothing to hide, and nothing to lose.

He pulled out the rusted traps: bone-breaking, flesh-locking, and metal-toothed.

They wanted more stories to tell? They wanted a man deranged? They wanted a truly haunted house?

He would become the legend they made, bring truth to their camp-fire stories.

He would replace jack-o’-lantern smiles, with hidden metal-fanged smirks.

He would exchange freshly baked cookies, for freshly greased chains.

He would relight his passion for life through skinning, gutting, and cutting.

He would treat them like the simple game they were, fit only to be trophies.

Mr. McFinley smiled, filled with renewed purpose.

They would have the Halloween they craved, and he had a whole year to prepare it.

Mr. McFinley was a good man... Once.

I'm Worried

“I’m worried about Jason,” one said. “He never leaves his office,” said another.

“I don’t think he goes home at night,” they would whisper, voices full of suspicion and concern.

It was just average office gossip... For a while.

Then, the complaint box became full to burst: slip, after slip of bitter irritations etched on red paper,

All of them involving Jason.

He NEVER returns my e-mails!

He hasn’t chipped into ANY of the birthday funds!

He just starts screaming sometimes, and it’s VERY distracting!

I mediated, played devil’s advocate.

“Privacy is important here.” I would remind them, brandishing the employee handbook like a Bible.

“Tolerance is an essential element of our corporate mindset.” I spouted, the phrase devoid of meaning.

Eventually, people weren’t satisfied with my answers. My bureaucratic bulwark reached its limit.

His strange behavior had been ignored long enough.

Stepping into the dimly lit office, I was startled by the oppressive, unnatural atmosphere.

The room was humid, but chills ran down my back. A single lamp emitted a pale firefly glow.

Scattered across the floor were piles of paper, full of various scribbling and sketches.

Picking up a page, I was assaulted with an overwhelming fractal collage of ovals and angles.

Jason sat at his desk, jittering and mumbling. A pen, leaking like an oozing wound, in his grasp.

“Always watching, ever growing,” left his lips repeatedly, a manic mantra.

His hands were shaking, but the markings were steady: forming another ink-born menagerie.

I set a hand on his shoulder, a feeble attempt to cultivate the illusion of comfort.

He spun to face me, I  tumbled to the ground in revulsion.

His eyes are gone.

The hollow sockets have been reduced to grotesque pits of congealed blood, and blackened nerves.

He is smiling: too wide, too hard. His teeth groan from the pressure, ready to crack apart.

Letting out an unsteady giggle, he whispers: “They need more,” pointing an ink stained finger upward.

I crane my head to face the ceiling. My heart is silent in my chest, too stunned to beat.

Above us is a churning sea of unblinking, kaleidoscopic eyes, glimmering with gnashing white teeth.

The eyes drift slowly, constantly shifting in hue. The teeth move in an unpredictable, jerking pattern.

Suddenly, the eyes are staring at me. They turn a crisp blue, with just a hint of green. Just like mine.

The teeth grow outward. Seeping into barbed fangs, as they creep slowly towards me.

I look to the door, now plastered with a jagged enamel coating. My fate, and the exit, is sealed.

I see the teeth grasp my skull, I feel their hooked points sink ever deeper into the corners of my eyes--

I’m worried. But, not about Jason.