Creative Book of 10 Best Short Stories Page 3

  “Jesus Mel!” his heart nearly ceased with fright. Melanie stood next to the other side of the bed, her pink sweater presenting a warm colour after such darkness. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he embraced her with relief. “What the hell…” he began, and stopped. It was not anger that simmered inside, and it was not total relief, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by how terrible she looked. Her eyes were surrounded with an ill-looking greyness that made it appear like she had bruises. Her skin was pasty white and her lips were dry and cracked. “Christ, Mel…” he spoke softly in his shock, “what is this, flu?” his eyes scanned over her sickly features which contrasted so much to the blooming bride on his wedding day. Cupping her chin gently in his fingers, he turned her head to witness the full extremities of the ill features. Her hair was no longer the shining health it had been, it was now a dull straw colour, as if the shine had been stolen. Her worried expression was what disturbed him the most, for she wore a look of sheer terror in her eyes, as if she thought he'd come to kill her. “Greg...” she wheezed, in a voice that sounded as sick as her face “...you have to go!” His brow lowered in confusion, as he gently traced her features with a concerned finger. She must mean to go for a doctor. “C'mon, Hun, we're going to get you seen to, it looks like a bad case of something.” He pulled on her wrist, but Melanie stood fast. “Mel!” he started, “What is it babe, we have to get you help!” he reached into his pocket for his car keys, and heaving with all his might, began to pull Melanie to the door, when he felt her wrist stiffen. Looking back in confusion, he felt his blood turn to ice.

  Melanie stood rigid, as if struck by an unnatural rigour mortis. Her eyes stared wildly, and the last remnants of her feelings and concern for Greg drained out of her vastly enlarging pupils. Seeing the dilation, Greg panicked and cradled his wife with both arms. Her body did not bend, and her skin turned a dull grey. He stared in horror into his wife's black, glassy eyes, and not a glimpse of emotion glinted in her set and stiffened face. Her cheekbones seemed to protrude unnaturally, and her neck was bent at a frightening angle. “Mel...” he swallowed his fear, just like on the day of his proposal, “Sweetheart?” he clicked his fingers, seeing only the reflection of his hand in the doll-like, dead eyes.

  Suddenly, he was forced to let go of her as her whole body spasmed. Flipping from his grasp, she fell to the floor, propped up on her arms. Her hair hung in wild strands that had escaped her ponytail. Greg watched in horror as a deep moan rose in her throat, and her bare feet began to elongate rapidly, a deep crunching sound indicating the strain of the mutating gristle inside. Her hips jutted forward, and her hourglass figure that had wowed the guests at the wedding began to become straight and firm. Looking up at Greg, her face had become a terrifying pale grey, and her eyes were watery and bloodshot. Greg held down the mortified bile that rose in his throat. Clasping the carpet with her fingers, Melanie gave a painful grimace, and Greg watched her cry softly in pain as her body began to change. Her breasts flattened, and she swiftly pulled her blouse over her head. Greg let out a horrified cry as he watched her back contort, and the spine jutted through the rippling muscle of her back. Her waist turned from feminine and voluptuous to thin and rigid, and her thighs hardened. The muscles moved under the skin like unborn children, and her fingers gripping the carpet crunched and extended. Greg chewed the sleeve of his coat in utter terror. His body had entered a type of paralysis like a rabbit in headlights. A further cry escaped his trembling lips as his wife's face extended, her nose and cracked lips pushing forward into a fleshy muzzle. Before all of her soul succumbed to her illness, Melanie turned her hopeless eyes up to Greg once more. Her muzzle lengthened, but still appeared to be telling him to go. It was no good. Greg was glued to the spot. The beads of sweat on his forehead ran down his temples like jewels of fear, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Melanie's eyes looking at him became a startling stone colour, spattered with flecks of the original brown. Dark, wiry hair sprouted from her beautiful and delicate skin, as if ensnaring the last of her humanity, and her ears extended upwards. Greg found his feelings. He sprang from the floor, and staggered down the corridor, he had barely reached the top of the stairs, when an unearthly growl stopped him in his tracks. Quivering, he slowly turned. There, just outside the bedroom door, stood the most terrifying looking animal Greg had ever laid eyes on. Crouched low to the ground, it's legs were poised in the ultimate preparation to attack. Its eyes stared unsettlingly towards him, and a dark tail lashed rapidly, indicating an insatiable appetite for carnage. Gripping the banister, Greg whimpered, still searching desperately for his cellphone. The object that was about to cost him his life. The creature stepped forward, in a terrifying, jerky movement that did not cease to send shivers up his spine. The hackles on the shoulders stood up in a deathly warning. A warning that Greg could not possibly take heed of. Scrambling down the stairs, he fell halfway, clattering to the bottom. The beast bounded effortlessly over the banister, landing in preparation on the bottom floor. Approaching Greg, it's black, marble-like claws clicking on the tiled floor, it stood over him. Greg looked into the face of the predator, right in the eyes. The foam dripped from the muzzle onto his chin, and the sight of jagged teeth met Greg's eye line. The flashbacks started. Mel's face on their wedding day, the vows, her mother's now understandable disapproval. The reason for Mel's two days alone was now clear. The bride's vows were correct, a grim corner of his mind recollected, 'Till death do us part.'

  Waiting for Susan

  Jeanne Davies

  Waiting for Susan

  Sunlight flirted with me through the whispering beech hedge along the footpath, as I skirted around the edge of the graveyard. The cemetery lay silent and unchanged but for a small mound in the corner, draped in decaying floral arrangements. The lichen-covered obelisks loomed like bed heads for those who lay sleeping there, a reminder of how life is so temporary.

  My thoughts reflected on the accident. The red flash in the corner of my eye, the sudden impact and a thump which still pounded in my dreams. I had entered a strange world of shadows that day as the car spun slowly on a timeless merry-go-round, until the motion ceased with a sickening lurch … and then came the silence. There were sounds of distant sirens and voices from far off places calling to me from a twilight world, which I was glad to leave.

  Today the glorious azure sky dazzled my vision and all at once … I was elated to be alive! I cautiously pioneered the muddy trail like an earthworm emerging from sodden brown depths. It was the first breath of springtime and, although the sunshine was kind, it was a little too novice for any real warmth. Golden light washed all over the landscape and suddenly the gloom of winter was forgiven. Little underground soldiers had broken ranks and appeared as golden trumpets heralding the rebirth of spring.

  A small solitary figure, barely visible under a fountain of half naked willow branches, stood by the church gate. Her long golden hair cascaded to her shoulders and fanned into a shimmering curtain, which cut across her bright red jacket. One of the dogs charged towards her with hackles raised and broke into a bark … as usual it was the younger dog, India. I realised it was a child of about seven or eight. Her little face was as waxen as a cream camellia and it quickly fell into a worried grimace.

  “Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you!” I shouted, quickly whistling the dog back to my side.

  The little girl managed a weak smile but her eyes implored me to linger. She looked anxiously behind her and then back at me as though she was waiting for someone. Her young face seemed already worn by the world and she reminded me of a moth caught out in the daylight.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “Yes … thank you,” she replied. Her voice was so young, it sounded like a skylark singing. I felt reluctant to leave her standing there alone, but understood it was not good for children to be talking to strangers. I raised my hand in a kind of wave and turned to follow our usual route out into the open countryside.

  Clusters of tiny primrose hid shyly a
long the banks of the newly flowing stream as we continued to walk towards the meadow. The dogs knew she was following before I did. I looked back and smiled at her and she nodded and drew her satchel nervously over her right shoulder. She stood motionless, waiting for me to carry on so she wouldn’t catch up with the dogs, but when I glanced again she was trying to keep up with our pace.

  Soon our paths separated as the dogs led the way out towards the panoramic views on the horizon. The little girl in the red coat set out tentatively on the other path leading to Copse Farm. She walked quickly and every now and then broke into a run, but she constantly looked around to see if we were still in view. She started to sprint but stumbled and dropped her school bag into a ditch, so I waved to tell her not to worry … to let her know that someone was keeping an eye on her. As the dogs bounced through the green fields, I stood and looked back to see her disappearing in to the small cluster of farm cottages. Poor kid, I thought, as I recalled my own qualms about walking home alone. She was probably waiting for a friend to meet her and they didn’t turn up.

  The dogs padded softly on to the rich mossy grass of the pasture and we inhaled the day. Trees were still holding tight to their buds but all the young catkins abandoned caution and flew into a dance on the gentle breeze. The colours were so bright and vibrant that they stained my eyes. Overhead a plane had torn a huge white scar across the sapphire sky.

  On our way back home we walked through heavily-ploughed fields, next to cattle still eating winter’s fuel in pens, and on past Copse Farm. There were three little cottages in a line, joined together by their front garden gates. I looked up at the window of Rose Cottage and there was the little girl waving. She held up a ragdoll, all floppy and pink, and her pale features creased into a grin.

  Over the next few days our walks seem to coincide and the little girl in the red coat would be waiting under the willow. The dogs decided to ignore her walking behind us and each day I would watch her go safely on her path to the farm and at the end, she would turn back and wave at us.

  One particular day she caught up with us by the stream and I was suddenly aware of her walking quietly by my side.

  “What are your dogs called?” she asked, and the purity of her voice unnerved me.

  “India and Tabitha … Tabitha is the naughty one!”

  Her skin was as pale as the snowdrops clustered under the tree roots, but her light blue eyes were set inside dark hollow sockets. We walked on in silence for quite a while, there seemed no need to talk, but I knew she was grateful for the company.

  “What’s your doll’s name?” I asked

  “Her name is Susan and she always comes with me, wherever I go!” A vague smile settled on the ashen lip and without warning, she ran off along the path waving … and that was the last I ever saw of her.

  A few days later, winter made another attempt to hold spring as its prisoner. The rain fell in a fine mist creating a grey gossamer veil over the whole landscape. On days like these, walking dogs became a duty. The fields were flooded by three days of harsh rainfall and our usual route was too difficult to take. I turned up my collar against the March winds and trudged down the path to Copse Farm, wondering if I would see the little girl at Rose Cottage. As I was walking, head bowed against the blustery weather, something pink caught my eye. I parted the tall grasses with my boot and there in the ditch lay Susan, all covered in mud. I stooped to snatch it before one of the dogs grabbed it and used it as a chew toy. I headed on towards the cottages, squeezing out water from the soggy ragdoll as I went.

  As I reached Rose Cottage I half expected the little girl to be waving down at me from the window again, but the blinds were closed. All the curtains in the cottage were drawn shut, which seemed odd during the daytime. Strangely the two dogs became subdued and decided to sit either side of the front door, staring at me like sentinels. The rain was falling more like a curtain than a veil now and I was happy to stand under the part-covered porch. I rang the door bell several times and then resorted to loud knocking. Eventually a short, stout woman appeared at the side gate holding a red umbrella.

  “They’ve gone away!” she shouted, looking me up and down suspiciously.

  “Oh, I see,” I said, moving towards the gate.

  “They won’t be back for several months as they’ve gone travelling round the world.” She made me feel very unwelcome, but I thought maybe she didn’t like dogs.

  “Oh, how nice, but I think the little girl might be missing this,” I said, holding up the bedraggled object. “I found it in a ditch.”

  Despite the reflection from the red umbrella, I witnessed the colour draining from the woman’s plump face and her mouth seemed to droop down at the corners. She stared hard at me, speechless. I suddenly felt embarrassed and the silence between us began to deafen me.

  “Do you think you could keep it for when they come back?” I asked. “It might need a bit of a wash.”

  “Oh no, I can’t possibly do that,” she muttered, turning her back on me as if to leave.

  “Well, if you’d prefer I can take it home and wash it first?” I suggested.

  She pivoted around again and I noticed there were pools of tears lying like half moons in the bottom rims of her eyes.

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean I couldn’t give it to them; I couldn’t possibly upset them by bringing it all back to them … that’s why they’ve gone away, to try and get over it.”

  I stared blankly at the woman.

  “They need to get over the tragedy of it, you see,” she said, quickly dismissing the tears with the back of her hand. “It’s been several months now and they’re still trying to cope … they’re trying to help each other through it.”

  We stared at each other as though we were holding a conversation in two different languages. I felt the weight of the water dragging my hair down over my face in the shape of little worms. The rain on the woman’s umbrella was making a hollow noise like someone playing on a tin drum and the drum became a funeral march, melodically playing inside my head. I looked down at the doll and suddenly tears washed with the rain down my face.

  “The little girl … she has died?” I asked.

  The woman nodded like a stoic bulldog on the rear seat of a fast car. “She’s buried back in the churchyard over there,” she gestured as if she could see her.

  Merry-go-round horses were moving sedately around in my head whilst I tried to remember when I had first seen the little girl … it wasn’t months ago, but barely a week. The cold rain seemed to slide down inside my raincoat like a serpent, slowly creeping along my arms and legs and down to my ankles. Like a deadly poison it turned my whole body numb.

  “Leukaemia it was,” went on the women, her voice coming from somewhere far in the distance. “Emily was a beautiful little girl, like a delicate flower. Her parents did everything they could for her, you know … took her to every specialist doctor they could find. But it was no good; she was taken from us. It nearly sent her mother crazy … they put her in a mental asylum for a bit. It was so tragic … tragic … tragic,” the voice echoed.

  “Are you alright dear?” the woman asked as she held the red umbrella above my head and pushed her pansy like face up close to mine. “Do you want a glass of water or anything?” she said peering up at me.

  “Did she miss the doll?” I stuttered, thinking that water was the last thing I needed.

  “She cried for it for days when they took her to the hospice … Susan she called it. They looked everywhere for it but no one could find it.”

  I was aware of one of the dogs whining next to my boot. Mechanically I clicked the leads on the dogs … I don’t remember if I said goodbye to the woman, it was all a blur. I was still clutching Susan in my hand as I stumbled into the house. How could it be the same girl? If it was, how could I have seen her and walked beside her last week, when she had been dead for several months? I fumbled to take off the dogs’ leads and filled a bowl with warm soapy water to immerse Susan in.


  -o0o-

  This time I walked alone, holding the modest bunch of snowdrops. The whine of the metal gate was the only sound to break the silence of the lonely cemetery. I crept past ancient slabs of concrete where time had completely worn away any engraving … man’s final attempt at immortality failed, I thought. The newer stones were pristine and deeply cut with words from loved ones and special vases with holes in, some filled with flowers and others waiting to be remembered. I reverently approached the little mound in the corner where all the flowers still held on to the silhouettes of their previous glory. I had hoped to find a beautiful stone angel as a headstone, but there was just a simple little wooden cross there. I carefully placed the floppy pink object with the snowdrops just there, and I knew that Emily would no longer need to wait for Susan.

  Reluctantly, I lay down and took my place next to her.

  A Spontaneous Act

  George R Mitchell

  A Spontaneous Act