Now I Can See You by Dorothy Davies - February Femmes Fatales

An Interjection: I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I didn't show anyone, so afraid of ridicule was I - but I couldn't help but splatter those words out onto paper and later, screen.

When I was at Junior School I won the annual writing contest one year but my English teacher sneered at me as she handed out my prize in front of the entire school, announcing that - if it had only been down to her choice - my best friend would have won. My best friend's family, unlike mine was very wealthy and influential. Funny that. Sadly, both my best friend and I were mortified. As for my teacher, the bitch went on to disaffect other students and it took many years for me to regain any confidence. I'm catching up now - in droves.

The reason for this pre-amble is that Dorothy Davies has been an incredibly supportive influence in my 'rebirth'. (How dramatic! Please don't think I'm that far up my own backside). Dorothy's writing, whether the wickedly dark fiction and horror you have read here or elsewhere, or her fabulously well-researched historical novels - is extraordinary.

I have no more introduction to make, than a simple, but very profound thanks to Dorothy Davies for all her support, encouragement and bloody-compelling fiction.

Applause...

NOW I CAN SEE YOU

I wondered what sort of sight I was as I stood on his doorstep, waiting for him to open the door. Pretty horrific, I should think, with empty eye sockets weeping blood which trickled down my face and onto my clothes. I had one arm wrapped in duct tape around the arm of the chair which I had broken off in my escape efforts. He would not be pleased to see me, but he had something I wanted.

I heard the door open and the gasp of horror. I pushed at his unresisting chest and he backed into the hall. I sensed where we were going, pushed a bit more and he fell into the dining room, scrabbled to his feet and found a chair. Saved me the job.

I had duct tape in my pocket and, taking advantage of his shock, managed to tape him to his chair, only I did a better job of it than he had on me.

“Now,” I said, through teeth that were bound to be bloodstained – it had been hard biting through the tape – “let’s see how you like it!”

“I...”

“You what? Thought I would die, Mr. Optic, like the others? No such luck. You picked the wrong person this time. Where are my eyes?”

“Eyes ...”

“Those things you scooped from my head with my own spoon, remember? I want them back.”

“They’re...”

“They’re what? Eaten? Played with? Thrown to the cat? What?”

“In a jar of formaldehyde.”

“Oh. Right. Useless then.”

I could smell his fear, along with everything else. I must have been more horrific in appearance than I realised. He had let go of everything. And I do mean everything.

“Then you owe me some eyes, Mr. Optic.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why? That’s what the papers call you, isn’t it? You collect eyes, right?”

“Well...”

“You probably have some boring suburban name which matters not right now. I want some eyes. I’ll settle for yours instead.”

“No, please, I mean, let me...oh God, who are you? What are you?”

“Questions you should have asked before you tied me up and scooped out my eyes, Mr. Optic. Too late now.”

I had the spoon in my pocket, the one he used.

His screams were satisfying.

His eyes fit my sockets.

I stood back and watched the blood pouring down his face, just as it had mine, a few hours earlier. The difference was, I knew he would die.

I was about to walk out on him and his darkness forever, but paused to enjoy the moment a little longer.

“Thank you, Mr Optic. Now I can see you. I quite like what I see, too. That was for me and all the other women you mutilated and left to die. This should be a reminder to all you men who like to play murderous games... don’t mess with a zombie.”

_________ The End _________

Bio: Dorothy Davies is a writer, editor and medium who lives on the haunted Isle of Wight, a small island off the south coast of England. This may have something to do with the very strange stories she writes...

Ruins by Susan May James - February Femmes Fatales

Last year, Susan May James opened the very first February Femmes Fatales showcase with the chilling Shadows. How wonderful that she has agreed to grace The Feardom's pages once again with a new tale, Ruins.

Susan has a wistful way with words; a delicate beauty that dabbles in cruelty. She also describes the most inviting settings for her fictional treats - who wouldn't want to tread Abigail's path in Susan May James's new, atmospheric thriller...

RUINS

You walk barefoot towards the castle ruins; heather brushes your ankles and your feet press a trail into the early morning dew. Bright sunlight tinges the mossy landscape and you pause, glancing back at the tent before changing course to move along the rocks that line the edge of the sea.

You think you are alone.

Standing straight, you stare out across the waves, your long blonde hair and white nightdress billow in the wind. For a moment you stretch out your arms and tilt back your head, like the winged angel you once purchased for our Christmas tree. When you look up, worry creases your fine features. Wrapping your arms around your waist, you bend forward, lips parting.

‘Abigail,’ I whisper as my grip tightens on the binoculars and I brace against the castle wall. Your voice, calling his name, makes me shiver and I almost feel a flash of regret. But then I remember yesterday; the two of you sitting on the rocks, laughing, pointing, drinking wine, no-doubt hoping to spy a seal or a dolphin.

‘Maybe an orca,’ I smirk.

You run back towards the tent, although you know he’s not there. Predictable, you then make your way to the car, still calling his name, still hoping.

I smile at the look on your face when you find it empty.

Finally, you turn back towards the castle—logic tells you that he probably woke up early and went for a hike around the ruins—and you chastise yourself; you should have checked there first.

Then, all of a sudden, you stop short.

I know you’ve seen it, the present I left you. Pressing the binoculars against my eyes, I watch with excitement as you double over. It takes a few minutes before you stop retching. In a panic you run back to the car, but it’s locked; the keys are in my pocket. Again, I smile.

Dropping the binoculars, I reach for my rifle.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Susan May James is a Canadian born writer living in London. She writes short fiction and is currently juggling a number of projects. Her passions include travel, photography, and history. Susan can usually be found scribbling and scattering on her blog: http://scribble-scatter.blogspot.com/

Lily's Friday Prediction

Thank you for understanding that I was unable to comment on entries this week (see my final comment last night if you missed it). You're a wonderful, talented group and I am always so proud that this growing community takes the time to not only enter the weekly Prediction challenge but to read, give feedback and support to each other.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

Despite not being able to comment, I did read everyone's entries and my, were they varied with a particularly grizzly feel. Nothing wrong with that!

My winner this week is S. K. Adams with Whips .N.Chains. The first of many tales of revenge, but that final line - "...what was that damned safe word?" has chilled me all week. Consistently good writing over the weeks, it's always a wicked pleasure to read Shaun's short snaps of horror. Congratulations Shaun!

I have two runners-up - and they are both new to the Prediction!

Phantasmogoric's untitled entry was 'riddled' with deliciously disturbing description and I loved the gore, detritus and deity invoked. Perfect.

Tina's work-a-day tale Riddle shows promise with a full-scale novel-bound murderer. I really enjoy stories where reality becomes warped by terrifying events, and this is a great example of that.

Well done Phantasmogoric and Tina. More please!

Words for 24 February 2012

Quick fingers, do your walking...

• Mandarin
• Assemble
• Spume

Blimey - toughies there. But I know you'll rise to the challenge.

Rules

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have until 9pm UK time on Thursday 1st March 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 2nd March. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

I learned a lesson this week, that I thought I already knew: never judge a book by its cover. Can you trick me with the words from your book...?

___________________________________

These Cold Bones by Anna Harris - February Femmes Fatales

The fiction that has been glittering in The Feardom's halls so far this month has impressed and astounded. Every tale hangs in a gilded frame on my red walls, suspended by black ribbon - the words ebbing in and out sight, of consciousness, of belief.

And now, something different is padding its soft feet across my Persian rugs to take its place on centre stage. A poem. A beautiful and disturbing poem that twists and turns.

These Cold Bones is written by our very first Femme Fatale in the 2012 showcase, Anna Harris. With these deft and chilling words Anna proves her versatility as author and poet. Please enjoy...

THESE COLD BONES

I'm cold to my coreless core
wearing skinless bones
the very ones
with which I hugged you
- the ones that stifled moans

Cosseted you,
pronounced you mine
when I was warm
and when I warmed you, too
- when we were fine

I used to radiate
some said, with love of life
a life of love
the love of you
- the perfect wife

Arsenic, a slab of marble
and cold hard clay
divides our bond
six feet apart
- by night, by day

Me down, you up
too far to touch
each alone
in solitary chill
- no fleshy warmth to clutch

Your poison seeped
in through my mouth, my skin
my blood, this casket
and now it feeds the earth
- that I’m encased within

You’re frozen to your spineless soul
a foreign chill to mine; worlds apart
But I’ll feast, take my revenge
when you take sleep
- my succour, your sucking callous heart

____________________________________

Bio: The day cloning is as common as the garden variety cold, Anna Harris will abscond to a deserted tropical island with nothing but palm trees, her laptop and a vat of chocolate for company. She’ll let her team of replacement Annas stay home in Australia chasing their tails.

Under a Veil of Red by AJ Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

Coming towards the end of AJ Humpage's reign of Femme Fatale terror, Under a Veil of Red will speed through your soul faster than you can run.

Without spoiling anything I absolutely love this tale of times, of despair and bigotry because - you know what? - it makes me remember.

AJ's work consistently blows me away. It can only be a matter of time. While we wait for her to be snapped up let's enjoy...

UNDER A VEIL OF RED

The rain came down so hard it stung her skin, flooded her vision.

Thick mud crawled up her aching calves as she ran through the mire. The darkness made it worse; she could barely see where she was heading. But she had to keep running, had to.

Voices behind her slewed through the storm, like echoes carried on raindrops.

They were getting closer, inching into her frayed senses minute by minute and igniting a fear so intense that it burned and raged in her chest. She had never known such disparate terror – the darkness and the cold and the braying horde seemed so far away from the ordinary life she knew, the only life she knew.

But now her legs were tired, solid, becoming heavy. Breath stalled in her clogged lungs. Every cell in her body had exhausted every ounce of energy, yet she somehow pushed through the pain that flooded her core and she forced herself forward through thicket and trees and dark recesses.

Thick branches scuffed her face and arms and she slumped – a momentary respite.

Voices...closer now.

Her skin tingled from the cold, made her shiver. She grabbed onto a branch, got to her feet and half jogged, half stumbled into the encroaching darkness. She had been running for almost an hour, and no matter how much her mind willed it, her body couldn’t cope with the lactic acid filling her muscles with fiery spite and again she dropped to her knees, watery fingers pulling her deeper into the muddy mire.

Thoughts tumbled around her head, then melted the moment the light grazed her face.

She peered up through the squall, cold breath hanging in the air.

Somewhere up ahead, more lights scattered through the branches.

Surrounded.

‘There she is!’

Her stomach bunched, then sank. She could run no more. The adrenaline in her veins turned to an icy flow.

They seemed to approach from all directions, moving in on her like ghoulish, hungry spectres, the light from their torches blinding her with flashes of white.

She held up her arm to shield her face, blinked against the flare.

The sound of the rain song against the leaves filled the void, all that she could hear from her rain soaked pit.

The men surrounded her, remained still. The glare from their torches shielded their granite faces from her.

The sound of movement made her turn and look up. A shape whose face she could not see and who sheltered beneath a wide brimmed hat, stared down at her.

His voice parted the darkness. ‘You can’t escape us.’

‘I’m innocent,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear on my life.’

The figure leaned forward. ‘What about the Bible? Do you swear on the Bible?’

The rain masked her tears. ‘No, I...I don’t believe in God.’

‘Then you are a witch,’ he said, flat.

‘I’m not a witch! I’m just an ordinary wife and mother, I--’

‘You are the Devil’s consort,’ he cut in, blunt. ‘There is no place in this society for those who conduct maleficium.’

She took in a deep breath. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t know what that means.’

He stared at the wretch kneeling in the muddy pool, the light glinting from the rain-dappled surface, stared at her soiled face, her drenched, matted hair and torn clothes.

Disdain dribbled into empty spaces and filled the atmosphere with a stilted sense of detestation.

‘Godlessness is a crime. That you are most certainly guilty.’ His eyes lacked emotion. ‘Kill her.’

‘No! Please! I’ve done nothing wrong. Please...’

The first strike dug into her shoulder blades, but rather than pain, she felt a strange dullness, as though being numbed. The second one struck her across the side of her skull, the impact strong enough to throw her into the mud.

Cold dirty water sluiced down her throat, made her retch.

Any hint of pain seemed lost to jagged senses, until the slice of something sharp across her back brought her mind into sharp focus, then another slice and another, and she rolled in the mud, but saw that her legs had not moved, and then she saw the men hacking at her limbs in a strange, silent frenzy, their movements shuttered by the light.

She screamed then, but not from the pain.

Even through the relentless drone of the rain, she heard their swords whipping through the air, over and over, and then one hard slice severed half her hand from the wrist, spattering her contorted face with thick droplets and saturating her vision with a warm scarlet hue.

She fell back into the mud, felt the rainfall on her face, soft against her skin, almost soothing her, and she drowned beneath a veil of red.

* * * 

He walked back through the woodland towards a group of men waiting by a main road.

A tall, slender figure gestured from beneath an umbrella. ‘A job well done, Mr. Treese.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘One less witch to threaten the laws of our land. Did she confess?’

‘Yes sir, she admitted to her godlessness.’

‘A crime against humanity if there ever was one,’ Edward Van de Gaard muttered. ‘But a crime nonetheless.’

Treese smiled; guile slithered beneath his sallow skin. ‘She isn’t the last one by any measure.’

Van de Gaard walked towards a car parked nearby. From across the river, the beguiling lights from New York City pulsed through the darkness. ‘I don’t doubt it, Mr. Treese.’

‘She has a child,’ Treese said. ‘And a husband.’

Van de Gaard turned, faced Treese. ‘I have every faith you’ll exterminate every last one of them. There will be no more ungodly heathens left to threaten our way of life. You’ll see to it, won’t you, Mr. Treese?’

Treese’s eyes blackened to glistening shards of coal. He smiled without humour. Rain trickled down his face, washed away the blood. Her blood. ‘Of course, Senator. Every last one...’

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

Easy Prey by Laurita Miller - February Femmes Fatales

Short, sharp and shocking Laurita Miller's second February Femmes Fatales tale may be a quick read but it packs a pretty punch.

It's one of the things I really like about Laurita's writing; she can be quite economical with words but she uses them in such a wise way. As I'm sure many Predictionees will agree, getting a complete tale or rounded vignette into a hundred or two words is quite a skill.

Travel into the dark alleyway of Laurita's world...

EASY PREY

Shoved violently against the wall, hairy forearm across the back of my neck, he was on me before I could react. His breath came in hot bursts against my cheek, ugly words carried on foul air, begging for a reaction.

He got one.

Within seconds he was on his back, my size five boot pushed under his chin and held there. I watched the light in his eyes fade, fade, flicker, and go out.

I took a deep, shaking breath and savoured the rush of adrenaline that surged through my body. A delicious high.

I smiled and wiped the blood from my swollen lip. There’s always one that can’t resist the lure of a lone female at night.

Sucker.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Laurita Miller lives on a rock and sometimes comes out of her basement for coffee. Her work is scattered all over the web, like flies. She blogs here – www.ringkeeper.blogspot.com

Sliver by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

AJ Humpage's character Hackett came to wicked, wicked life here at The Feardom. Festering in AJ's mind, this monster - for he can barely be considered a man - slips in and out of The Prediction chambers and has started venturing further. A terrifying thought indeed.

Hackett is the shining dark star of Sliver. Enter his world - you'll never forget it.

Join me in trying to convince AJ to take this beast into a full novel of his own.

SLIVER

A sliver of skin.

Sliced delicately, thinly, it had started to curl. Soon it would crumble and the only thing left of her would be gone. The only organic thing left of her.

Light reflected from Hackett’s grey eyes. His mind drifted from the noise of his exhibition.

He’d burrowed beneath her conscience like a maggot, manipulated her whims and thoughts with voracious audacity and plied her with meaningless trinkets. He’d spent months moulding her, priming her. The more she trusted him; the more the veil of promised love trapped her beneath his sticky blanket of persuasion.

‘I saved your messages on my phone,’ she gushed, the day he picked her up. ‘Don’t worry; no one knows it’s you. My parents think I’m staying with friends. Daddy would be furious if he found out.’

Daddy was a highflying financier in the city. Rich sonofabitch.

Hackett chose his girls for their simple beauty, those who would become works of art. She was delicately boned, soft. Pliant.

He took pride in his petty deceptions, turning them into something exquisite.

He showed her around his country house, led her to his workshop.

She noticed his collection of instruments. A famous sculptor by trade. Enfant terrible.

He fingered the knives. ‘You’d be perfect to carve.’

A master’s muse and model, she wasn’t afraid to show off her pert little body. ‘Yes. That would be amazing because Daddy collects art.’

Petty deceptions. Like tinselled snowflakes descending through a frosty dusk, finite and cold to the touch. He wondered if she could see the satanic shadows squatting in his expression, the hint of a blackened, ghoulish imp impatiently salivating.

A smile slithered across his lips. Deceitful. Sedulous.

‘Carve me, make it beautiful,’ she whispered.

And he did.

But not how she imagined.

That evening - the perfect time for creativity and secrecy - Hackett lulled her to the workshop with the pretence of sublime creativity. The first punch stunned her. The second one blotted out her consciousness and made it easier for him to handle her.

She was ready to carve.

She awoke to a dull grey cloud which stained her expression with dreadful sickness. She lay gagged and strapped to his sculpting table, naked and vulnerable, like a cold joint of beef.

The throb of her heartbeat crawled beneath her skin, stuttered with abject terror every time he moved. Perspiration oozed across her skin from swollen pores, darkening like a stain.

He placed his blade against the meaty flesh at the top of her thigh, forced the knife towards her knee, scraping out a long thread of flesh, like an ice cream scoop.

She jolted. Terror engorged veins stiffened in her neck, eyes shot wide. Hands contracted wildly as she strained against the straps. Fear bristled across the workshop, like chains scraping across a concrete floor. It clung to the cold walls, reluctant to fade.

Blood spilled down her trembling thigh. He smiled at how dark and rich her juice was.

He dug another part of her leg, lifted muscle and skin, laid the pieces on the table next to him - moist, human spaghetti, gleaming beneath the light.

Her body stuttered. Tears gilded her pain with terror, skin sickened to a strange glaucous hue - made worse by the strip lights which sucked the colour from her flesh.

Hackett then reached for the dermatome to harvest her skin.

The shock of his onslaught spread through her body like a thick, malignant shadow, overloading her nervous system. A trickling sound diverted Hackett’s attention. He saw pale yellow liquid ooze from between her legs and dribble down the table leg.

They did that sometimes when the fear became too much, nerves shut down and they lost control of their bodily functions.

An hour later, he moved to her neck.

But even when he sliced into her, she remained conscious, fraught. She watched every moment, soaked by a grotesque, bilious-tinged horror. The workshop quickly became odorous with approaching death - her misery stained the air, roused his senses. Her bowels had opened, spreading like a stain across the table, spattering onto the floor.

Hackett ignored the stench and pushed the knife through the thick sinew and fibrous neck ligaments. It took a while, sawing through her delicate neck bones. She gave one final blink before the last slice detached her head from her shoulders and dropped to the floor. A wide crimson arc shot from the stump and spattered the wall.

Her eyes flickered, skin twitched.

He carved her.

The noise of Hackett’s assembled guests broke his thoughts. His memory of her vanished.

A large crowd had gathered around the exhibit; art dealers, critics, buyers, the press...Hackett loved the attention. Craved it.

He moved around the sculpture – a decapitated human, feminine in shape, reclining, stripped of flesh and holding her severed head as though clutching a purse.

Martin Burroughs – Hackett’s most favoured client - gazed at its brassy sheen. ‘It’s fascinating, macabre, but that is your signature style, Hackett.’

Hackett’s eyes shifted. Most of his sculptures resided in many of Burroughs’ various offices and homes. Hackett leaned in, lest the press should hear. ‘I read about your daughter in the paper...how terrible...’

Melanie Burroughs had run away from home.

‘Seven months and still no word. She’s always been rebellious. It’s not a pleasant place out there.’

Hackett’s lips twisted. ‘No, it’s not. Kids...they think they’re so grown up.’

Burroughs peered at Hackett. ‘She’s barely fifteen years old, she’s my little girl.’

Hackett’s eyes shuttered. He touched the sculpture. ‘Well, I’m sure she’s not too far away...’

Burroughs shook his head. ‘Anything could have happened to her.’

Anything indeed.

Petty deceptions filtered through Hackett’s mind. He glanced at the sculpture, the way 14-year-old Melanie Burroughs held her severed head as she lay on a bed of her own flesh, bits he’d so lovingly carved. He lifted the little plastic container, stared at the sliver of skin inside.

Smiled.

All that was left of daddy’s rebellious little girl.

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage