When Hinges Creak in Doorless Chambers: A Haunted Mansion Short Story

New Orleans, 1925

Edward Gracey was a smart man, or rather, he would like to think so anyway. He had just graduated Summa cum Laude from Yale University, landed a job at an infamous firm in New Orleans and was finding good prospects for homes nearby. Luck was in his cards, most assuredly. He smiled as he parked his car down the street from the last prospect: a towering three-story Colonial piece with four large pillars gracing its entrance and iron facades framing the wrap-around porches on the first and second floors. Giant juniper trees stood its height along the right side of the house, symmetrical with the brick chimneys on the left. Overgrown shrubs and wax myrtles framed all corners, enveloping the home in a mysterious beauty.

Edward looked at the piece of scribbled paper in his hand. This couldn't be right. The house was beautiful, but no way could it fit in his price range. His hand went up to the iron gate of the entrance, leaning his head so that he might get a closer look. He felt a prick on the outside of his wrist. A vine full of thorns had snaked through all of the bars--he could have sworn they weren't there moments before but figured it a trick of the light--and they now had decorated themselves with drops of his own blood. Edward nervously chuckled, pushing away a small anxiety rising up in his throat. He heard the car door close shut and his trance broke suddenly at the sight of his fiancée in a buttercup yellow dress. Her rosy cheeks and matching lips suited the color, a vision of Spring in this eternal Autumn.

"Edward, is anything the matter?"

He crumpled the paper in his hand, stealing another glance at the thorns. "I'm afraid I've led us in the wrong direction. Or perhaps the clerk in the land sales office may have transposed the address. This can't be the right house. We will return to the office and I shall inquire--" But her eyes had drifted from him and focused their attention on the manor. Her breath caught in her throat and Edward could honestly not tell if she was breathing. Her lace gloves were wound tightly on the iron bars, the vines now nowhere near her. "Darling, best you stay away. We know nothing of these current residents and their temperaments.”  

To his surprise, she turned back and smiled. "Edward, it's beautiful."

He knew that tone. He was all too familiar with it. The vibrato of it shook him, the warm tone of it turned him into mush, the smile that accompanied it made his mind bend to her will. She only used that tone when she had her heart set on something and would do anything to get it. She was tenacious but always a lady; it was always what she didn't say that made Edward jump to her requests. But at this, he would be a broke man in two month's time and with a wedding to plan, it wasn't logical. "Darling, it must be far out of our price range. And who knows if it is even up for sale?"

"But it is for sale," came a voice from the gate.

A relic of a man appeared on the other side. His eyes were sallow and his face skinny; his large nose practically coming at them from the bars. He held an unsightly beagle by a rope leash, his other hand gripping a lantern. Dusk was beginning to fall and the fear on his face indicated dire consequences should the proper street lamps in front of the house were not lit. He stared at Edward and brought an insincere smile to the corner of his lips. As quick as it came, it went--he was unaccustomed to speaking with visitors, Edward guessed. Edward smoothed his waistcoat, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket. “It is, you say? Unfortunately, I do believe I don’t quite have the means. The sales clerk--”

“If you show an interest, I can bring you up to meet the Mistress. She is preparing for an expedition to the West Indies and would like to sell the home at the earliest, at any price.”

“We would love to see the house,” his beloved blurted, her arm circling and nesting in the crook of his elbow. “Wouldn’t we, Edward?”

He looked into her dark eyes, a glimmer of mischief circling in her irises. It was that tone again. Oh, how she loved to use it and what a fool he was to fall for it. He smiled despite a bead of perspiration dripping down his temple. He looked at the groundskeeper behind the bars--his smile was so forced, it looked painful. There was certainly more than what he was letting on. Edward could swear he heard the whole house creak from where he was standing. Unsettling whispers in the twilight hour settled squarely on his shoulders. His free hand squeezed the piece of paper in his waistcoat pocket. He was a smart man. He’d be foolish to let a good deal go to waste. He swore the groundskeeper gave a subtle shake of the head but ignored it, turning to his fiancee instead. “My dear, sweet Leota, how could I say no?”

The groundskeeper let out a sigh under his breath and unlocked the gate. Vines snapped and Edward thought he heard small screams echoing out from the stems. Caked rust flaked off onto the grass as the groundskeeper held it open for them. “Welcome to Gore Manor.”  

Baker Street Club: Prologue

Holmes lit the paraffin oil in the lantern, illuminating the air in the cavern. Water dripped from the stalactites above ringing out a light, yet ominous tone throughout the space. The air was cold and tight, the breath from Holmes was the only other young movement. Ancient auras haunted every other corner. Holmes’ fingers gripped the handle on the lantern, bringing it up to the back of the cavern. Light shone throughout, but the back wall hid a secret and Holmes was much too eager to find it out.

A beep broke the silence, startling Holmes. “Holmes, come in, have you reached the destination?”

“Now is certainly not the time, Drew. By my calculations, I should come up to the wall in—”

“10.5 paces. It’s not rocket science.”

Holmes made an eye roll so drastic, a migraine would be sure to form. “Have I ever mentioned how troublesome it is to have two detectives in this god forsaken—”

Holmes paused and seconds passed, static interrupting the communication. “Holmes? Holmes, what is it? Holmes, do you copy?”

“For gods sake woman, will you shut your mouth for just a moment? I think I’m there.”

“By my calculations—”

“I’m there.”

“Well?” Holmes pulled up the lantern, the light of the lamp revealing the wall of the cavern. Rivulets of water threaded in between the stone, marked with a twinge of crimson. Their destination pooled by Holmes’ shoes. “Holmes? Your pulse has gone up significantly and your fear levels are climbing. What the hell do you see?”

Holmes stared at the writing on the wall, the marks of red gleaming fresh on the limestone. Streaks on the edges of the letters signified it was done by hand, someone tall and without remorse. “Drew…? There’s a message.”

“Pics or it didn't happen, ma’am,” she sang through the comm. Holmes dropped the hood from her jacket and brushed back the hair from her eyes for a better view. A large scar traced the side of her face, originating from the corner of her blue eye. She would have let out a sigh, if all of the breath hadn't escaped her lungs. She lifted up the comm on her wrist, taking a photo. Holmes walked the perimeter of the wall, taking mental pictures of her own. “Is that—”

“Has the good detective been stumped already? Yes, it is blood and it’s relatively fresh.” She touched the corner of an unforgiving word and watched as it seeped into her fingertips. She rubbed them together and brought them to her nose, her eyebrows flicking upward. “I would say no more than…2 or 3 hours old.” She took out her handkerchief and wiped the blood away, stuffing it back in her coat pocket.

“Holmes,” Drew’s voice was more serious now, a quake of sadness floating between the vowels. “Do you think it’s for us?”

“My dear Nancy, a grander statement could not have been made for anyone lesser than us.” She lifted the lantern again, reading the script in totality.

When one half ends, he shall rise again.

The comm was silent for much too long and Holmes knew that Drew had been spooked, even if she didn't want to admit it. “Drew? Let the others know I’m coming in. We’re in for a long night.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she muttered through the static. The comm went dead and Holmes finally took a deep breath. She took one last look before turning around, pulling the hood back up over her head and tightening the scarf around her neck. She stuffed one hand in her pocket and led the way with the leftover light in the other.

“Not today, John. Not today,” she whispered, her voice becoming lost as the seconds ticked away.

How to Make a Memory

Magic. Of course they were. 

In retrospect, there really wasn't any other option as to what they were.

They were not just rivers. They were not just reflections of oceans. They were not just streams of Aurora Borealis pocketed within panes of glass.

His eyes contained magic. 

Molly bumped into a chair just then, letting cups fall aimlessly across the table she was cleaning. A catastrophic clatter rung in the air and when she looked over at him, he was staring at her with those magic eyes. They could hunt, those eyes, and you'd forgive them. Once she began to rescue the china from the table, she cheated and stole a glance through the gaps in her hair. He was looking back down at his papers, muttering soft words to himself, a trace of a small smile in the crook of his lips. She sighed and dragged her legs back into the small cafe. The winds from the east were picking up and she smelled the autumn leaves before they got a chance to blow in through the large glass doors. There were a thousand reasons why she chose to live in London, but she could not find a single one that could justify his presence. Shortly after she had started the job, he haunted that table and looked at her cautiously every time she crossed his path. 

    "Molly, table 3 please," the owner motioned to her. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her bangs clinging to her skin like nervous hands. Table 3. His table. 

    "You got it," she murmured, grabbing the platter of a large cup of water, tea bags and cream. He liked lemon and ginger in the afternoons. He sat in contemplation, both of his legs bent and fidgeting, his hand to his forehead trying to recall the written words from memory. She swallowed the concrete elephant in her throat and made her way to his table. "Your tea, sir." 

    He looked up from his pages, his eyes greeting hers in the foggy daylight. They were not just lights leading you from the smothering sea, they were magic. "Why, thank you darling, that was most kind. How much...?" 

    She raised her hand to stop him. "It's on the house. You're here everyday, we should treat you every once in awhile." He didn't loosen his gaze on her, but he continued to rub the corner of his pages in thought. Molly jerked her thumb backwards, motioning towards the cafe. "Well, I should get back to work. If you need anything..."

    "I'll surely let you know." A smile erupted from all corners, but he didn't let his teeth show. He was holding himself back. She wasn't an idiot. She knew when she didn't have a chance. But she smiled in return and turned to find some other hard surface to run into. Before she could take a step, she felt his hand grip her wrist. It was delicate but full of masked intention. "Molly," he began. 

    Her eyes widened. "How...?" 

    "Oh," he laughed fully then, then tapped his heart to mimic an imaginary name badge there. She clutched hers like a fool. 

    "Oh, of course. Sorry, what did you need?"

    He stayed quiet, motionless, his eyes searching hers for something behind the curtain. She felt a fear creep in the back of her mind, crawling its way down her spine and into her heart. They were not just daggers in which many women had suffered from, they were magic. It was his turn to swallow, for he could not find any excuse to entertain his overwhelming thought. "I...I won't be here much longer, today,"--he added the last word for what seemed like assurance--"but this will be the last one. Thank you."

    "Sure," she whispered. An inkling of bravery forced its way into her voice.  "See you tomorrow?"

    "Yes, of course. And you are more than welcome to join me anytime." He let her wrist go and she felt both empty and chained to him still.

     "See you then,"  she smiled, not addressing his invitation. She dared not to reveal her true happiness in that fragile moment.

As she walked away, Tom rubbed his fingertips together, her touch lingering like static. He watched her walk away, grabbing platters from forgotten tables and ghost patrons. He felt his eyes glass over and he returned them to his script. "Tom, hello," another female voice 

    "Lo, how are you?" His manager beamed at him, taking off her glasses and she sat across from him. She sniffed at the tea but declined to sneak it to her lips. 

    "Just fine, what do you think of the script so far?"

    "Honestly, too distracted to give you an accurate opinion." 

    Lorraine turned her head to the direction of his gaze, the familiar girl now scrubbing away at a table top. Her sad smile matched his. "Do you think she will eventually remember?"

    "Doctors say that she will. The accident took a lot out of her aside from her memory. But I see it in her, Lo. She's back there somewhere, fighting to get out. The way she saw me today...she knew something, even for the smallest of moments." He finally took his eyes off of her and looked at Lo. He blinked away the fear of her never returning. 

    "She'll come back to you, Tom. It's only a matter of time. She is full of something great, that wife of yours."

    "Yes, unequivocally." And the only word that could come to him in that moment was magic.

   

It's Alive. -A DC snippet

Soundtrack--A Fine Frenzy, It's Alive

It was Tuesday. I glanced at my watch: a quarter ‘til 9:00, and I knew Aria would be due to come in a short while. I stuck my headphones in my ears and waited for the elevator to finish its ride down to the main lobby. I felt it slow down and backed up to the railing in the elevator, propping my hands on either side of me, letting room. Frankly, I don’t pay much attention to elevators. Too many crowded thoughts, smells, and nerves—makes me antsy. I hung my head down, tapping my fingers in tune with the music, and watched the silhouette of the doors slide open. My eyes glanced up through my glasses and noticed a man of average muscular build walk in. He looked up through his longish brown hair that hung over his eyes, glanced right at me, and gave a small smile.

He saw me.
I didn’t return the gesture and merely slid my arm back to my side. His finger went down to the panel, but when he saw it went to the lobby, he retracted it. He wore plain loose jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt and his ear length hair looked like he had just washed it. A pair of old headphones hung around his neck, looking small against his broad shoulders. He had haphazard stubble on his face as if he hadn’t bothered shaving for a week or so. He smelled like the salt air and rain scented soap and…

Stop.
Stop. What are you doing? I felt my pupils dilating.
Just. Stop.
My pulse raced and my hand went to my shirt angrily, wanting to stop my heart from beating.

The synapses in this brain were firing like a guerrilla attack. He pushed his hair back from eyes with his fingers, revealing more of his face. I straightened my body rather quickly and leaned towards the corner of the elevator opposite him. I felt extremely awkward, a voodoo ragdoll under someone else’s control, and judging from his body language, he confirmed my suspicion. My limbs were bent outward like I couldn’t stand casually and an attempt to hide them behind my back only led me to slightly hyper extend my knees and stick my hip out. One of my fingers entangled a long curl of hair and began twirling it unattractively. In my peripheral vision, I saw a small smile fighting at the corner of his lips. My eyes wandered to his throat next, then his chest as it heaved softly underneath the cotton, then…

I thanked Hades when the familiar ‘ding’ uttered through the speaker, breaking my incomprehensible reverie and the doors slid open. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that he was looking at me and wasn’t moving. “After you,” he said, extending his arm out towards the lobby. His voice was deep and reminiscent of an overseas accent lost through the generations.

“I forgot something, have to go back up,” I croaked, my hand clasping my throat.
He smiled softly and turned to exit, his eyes giving me one last glance before walking across the threshold. He barely took two steps before I rushed to the panel and maniacally pressed the ‘close door’ button. I pressed it so hard and fast that I was gritting my teeth and started to taste the acid dripping from them. I saw someone rush to catch the door, but thankfully didn’t make it in time. I let out an exasperated sigh and took off my sunglasses. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down between my eyebrows and I wiped it off in anger. I looked at myself in the reflection of the elevator interior and turned my head side to side. My cheeks were bright red.

Was I…blushing? I laughed, but with an air of nervousness. “No,” I muttered out loud.
But…. I pointed to my reflection sternly. “No.”
Okay, no. I was much more powerful than a silly human body…and yet…it did feel rather…good.
“Blech,” I yell out, feigning scratching my tongue at the possibility of the thought. “I’m not good. I don’t feel good, I’m supposed to feel not good…and now I’m talking to myself. Great.” This body was starting to wear out its welcome. I needed a cupcake.

Child of the Garden

Soundtrack: Falling, The Civil Wars

The barn looked cherry red amongst the pristine white of the newly fallen snow. She hadn't really noticed the brilliance of it before that crisp morning. The cold wasn't bitter, but an incoming storm promised a change in the cold kiss that hit her cheeks. She followed his clean footprints to the edge of the clearing, up and down the small hills that eventually led down to the road. His navy blue coat almost blended in with the tree branches behind him. He turned his head slightly hearing her feet crunch in the snow. As she approached, she noticed his muscles tense, the worry in his eyes becoming more and more apparent. She stopped a couple of paces away from him, observing every little movement. 

She stared at his hair, the longer strands whipping across his forehead in the cold wind. He didn't want to look at her, but she silently begged for that contact one last time. She cautiously walked to him, lifting her hand up to his cheek. He slightly flinched, her warm touch raising his skin. He didn't say a word. She let out a small laugh under her breath and broke the silence. "Do you remember when you first came into my room all those years ago? The little boy from the garden." He didn't say anything, but closed his eyes at the fondness of the memory. It stung each synapse. 

The snow began to fall, blankets forming on their shoulders and hair. He was so still, as if he was frozen in time. She wished with her entire heart that it were true.

"Please..." she finally whispered, fighting back a choking cry. 

"You know that I can't," he finally answered gruffly. "It was stupid of me to come here, to see you. I need to go--the door will be closing soon." 

"That's you in there, don't you realize that?" 

"It's not me. I'm right here, flesh and bone and soul. I'm..." he paused to swallow the regret. "I'm just the boat stuck in your storm." He shook the snow from his hair, clouds of breath escaping his lips. Despite the strong scent of the pine, all she could take in was the scent of his world, a combination of cedar leaves and lightning. 

"I don't know what you want me to say. What do you want from me?" 

He squared his shoulders forward, masking the wound she just inflicted. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, holding the lapels closer to his chest. He stole a glance of her; her brown hair caught in the wisps of the north wind, her brown eyes glowing and prominent like a wolf tearing his soul apart. "I wanted you, that's all. That was everything." 

He turned away from her and darted into the clearing. She wanted to follow, but knew that she couldn't. Her time in that world had run out. 

Deathly Compromise--Excerpt #4

“Dee, Dee, listen to this one,” Aria is whispering to me, handing me an ear phone bud. We are both squeezed onto her small hospital bed, each of us wearing a pair of headphones. Only a few more days until they cut her open and stick their hands into her red filled cavity. I licked my lips in a Pavlovian response. My eyes flickered open from her incessant tapping and I removed my own bud. I listened to the flowing melody, the moving soul flowing from the trumpet, and felt my feet tapping over the edge of the bed.

“Louis? You’ve certainly upgraded, kid. I’m quite proud. That happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time.” She smiled satisfied, popping the bud back into her ear and wriggling back under the covers. She let out a wicked cough and my knuckles tightened with each grasp of air she took. There were only three more days until her surgery and while she tried not to show it, the worry covered her face like a smothering pillow.

“It’s really pretty, like flowers after the rain,” she whispers.

“I think of rain, too. But I always see a couple running through an empty street, trying to catch a train.” Aria let out another cough, but perked up, letting an ear bud drop from her lobe. She nudged my arm, afraid to ask for more but certainly not letting the curiosity evade her. “Well, if you must know…There’s always this man and this woman. They’ve just finished dinner…”

Paris, 1949

The rain was coming down. I looked over at him, laughing as the storm came down around us. The dinner had been perfect, the time passed so slow; and in that rain we saw each other in a way that seemed endless. He came towards me, his black coat covered in rivulets of rain passing through the creases like pulsing veins. His hand reached out towards me, his fingers slightly bent as if asking for permission. His face never dropped the smile, but there was a wrinkle of doubt in his laugh lines. He was searching for the world in my face; an answer that he would never receive. The faint sound of a phonograph in the cafe nearby playing La Vie En Rose whispered through the torrents. There were so many words, so many moments yet to steal, but I knew I could not take anymore. “You’re going to miss your train,” I yell, rain water dripping into my mouth.

“Then I’ll miss it,” was his only response.

“You can’t stay.”

“Why not? Why, when I have so much here?” He walks closer until our coat buttons are touching each other. “Give me one reason.”

“Because if you stay, you’ll regret it, and…I’m not prepared for that guilt.”

“You can’t see the future, nor can you decide it. I decide my own fate.” He lightly pounded a fist to his chest to emphasize his point.

My lips smirked up at his naivete, but it immediately turned into a frown. The rain would eventually mask my own tears. “Please Henry, please…”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you were trying to get rid of me so you would never have to see me again.”

“I swear to you, my intentions are pure, and I am incapable of lying.” If only he knew the whole story, I thought. If only I could tell him everything. Harboring a secret for millions of years is something that could wear a person down, even the most immortal of souls. I put my hands on his chest, feeling the wet tweed of his coat between my fingers and wondering how long this guilt would last. I had to say something. For him. After this long, after lifetimes of loneliness, I would have to deal with the repercussions. “Henry, I don’t know how to tell you this…” The whistle of a train blew nearby, and he was sure to miss it. If he missed it, I would surely lose him forever. The distant light from the train began to creep up on the tracks, the sheets of rain becoming visible. The air became so heavy, that it took every effort to bring words to my lips. “You really would stay with me? Forever? Until the end of time?”
“Until there is no more breath in my lungs,” he yelled happily over the noise. I let out a shaky breath and smiled. I held his coat in my hands tighter and rested my head on his chest. I heard his heartbeat pound heavy and beautiful in my ears. I felt the train vibrate, shaking the small pebbles on the ground. And through the rain, the cold, the undeniable tightness in my dark chest—it was a truly perfect moment. I felt his hand lift my chin, then both hands cupping my face bringing it to his. His lips were warm and like satin, pausing briefly to catch his breath. I felt the roar of the train pass through our mouths and when it was silenced, I felt a smile come through out of selfish happiness. Had I truly tricked Fate and been allowed this one joy? I embraced him tightly, feeling him shiver from the cold settling in. The rain through his coat, the chill in his bones, my mouth to his…

“And so they went inside and planned the rest of their lives together.” Aria’s face was wide eyed and attentive. Her short eyelashes fluttered as she smiled, her square teeth glistening in the whiteness of the luminescent bulbs.

“Yes,” she whispered softly, then leaned back onto her pillow. “I knew it.” She let out another cough and I felt the life starting to leave her. I looked at her sadly, thinking of this dream and the awful truth of it all. “Dee, will you be here for my surgery?”

“Yes, of course. I will be waiting on the other side for you.”

“Good.” I silenced myself with a concrete lump in my throat. “I’m scared, Dee. What if I don’t wake up?”

“People always wake up Aria. There’s way too much life out there to enjoy and too much waiting for you. When you wake up, you’ll be much happier than you were before you went to sleep. You know, you should listen to something really good and powerful right before. It’ll make you feel strong.”

“Can you pick it out for me?”

“Of course, kid. I’ll get only the best.” She smiled again, closing her eyelids softly like falling petals. Her breathing slowed and I felt her mind ease into the land of dreams. I got off of the bed and walked to the door, leaning in the door frame, watching her drift further away from the present.

Paris, 1949

I felt Henry take a gasp of air. For a naive moment, I thought it was in joy, but reality set in quite quickly. His hand gripped my own, trying to hold onto me as his body toppled to the floor. “No, no, no,” I uttered, more loud with each word. “Please, Kay, Fate, anyone…” I put his hand to his face as his eyes widened in choking despair and his skin turned purple from tightening veins. The rain had stopped, but the tears continued. “I tried to save you. Forgive me, please.” Something in my face frightened him. He swallowed all he had in his throat but I never got that resolution. I brushed back the hairs falling into his eyes and apologized with every spirit I had left.

He began to speak, softly muttering in my ear but I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t until his breathing nearly stopped when I heard him clearly say, “Monstre.”

I dropped him at that moment like something I couldn’t afford to touch any longer. His eyes were still open, but now empty. I closed his lids and apologized once more, softly and genuinely. I sat in the street, a wet monster blowing the cold air from my nostrils, feeling the fire burn inside me. My mind raced a mile a minute to the point that I couldn’t think coherently. I didn’t want to think anymore.

My hands began to burn.
I watched his body begin to sag onto the stone.
My face itched; the flakes of smoky ash beginning to fall from it. Wispy clouds of air still leaving my nose and mouth.
His hair fell back into his face.
My fingers snapped and stretched into dark talons as they reached out to tuck them back behind his ear.
The phonograph had long stopped, the scratch of the vinyl skipping endlessly in the dimly lit window. No one to be found.
I felt a little bit of life in him, lingering, wanting to fight off his destiny.

The fire in my eyes sensed it and beckoned it out. A dark hand touched his own once more, releasing the life like a gold ribbon in the air. I wrapped it around my talons like a piece of silk. The last of my tears evaporated. My free hand touched the pocket watch hanging from my neck, clicking it open. The life left my talons and into the watch, leaving it glow for a flicker of a moment until I clasped it shut. The lamp posts flickered in and out down the dark road, and as passersby began to come out after the storm, the mutterings began.

One voice questions, points.
Two check the body for a pulse.
A third shouts, screams.
More crowd the flooded street, puddles splashing across their legs as they all walk right past me.
I am invisible.
I am infuriated.
I know nothing of rational thought, longing, or remorse.
I only know the dark of night, the hunger for flesh and bone, and the thirst for souls to quench me.
Faces scour the area, looking for a culprit where no visible one can be found.
They will find me when they are ready.
They all do.

My cheeks felt flushed and wet. I brushed the tears away with the sleeve of my jacket and swallowed it down; put it on the back burner. Aria was asleep now, nestled away somewhere safe and away from me. “Take me with you,” I whisper. I clutched my pendant tight enough to sear my skin. I deserved every moment of pain. Another heart to break, another life to take.

Deathly Compromise excerpt: Flashback

April 14th, 1912

Cold air hit my face roughly, cutting through my skin and weighing down the fire developing in my throat. I walked along the slanted floor, against the crowd rushing and pushing through. My petticoat grazed the floor, picking up chips of ice; its blue velvet absorbing it instantly. A gun shot rang out and panic consumed the already desperate souls beside me. But I continued walking. 

In the distance, I saw her leaning against a rail, a grand petticoat dress adorning her body, a matching floral fascinator on her head with curling tendrils cascading down half of her face. Next to her, a man played a violin in sad earnest. She saw me and immediately began to smile. “My dearest sister,” she said as she spread her arms out for an embrace. I obliged her, softly kissing each cheek. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“I can see the stars perfectly out here,” I gazed, oblivious to those around me. “Much more bright than in the city.” I felt a shake beneath my feet, losing my pin point on the constellations. A little girl running fell down at my feet, her small hands touching the toe of my boot. She didn’t cry but her fingertips were blue and shaking wildly. I knelt down to steady her. Her head perked up but her eyes were blank and hopeless. I could have easily taken her, the desire in my stomach longing for her soul, but the emptiness in her face put a furrow in my brow. “Where is your mother, child?”

“She fell,” was all she could whisper. Her head slightly turned to gaze over the railing, giving her past away. Her eyes were as blue as the sea in the afternoon sun, but the flecks of gray smoked over them in the moonless night. They were rimmed with tears that she was aching not to fall. I stood her up, her hand steady on my arm. I felt Kay’s eyes glaring through my back. 

“You should be on a lifeboat, child. Do you know where to go?” 

She shook her head, her loose curls draped loosely from ribbons that had been holding them in place only moments before.“Dee, don’t. Let her be. She will find her way eventually,” Kay advised. I rolled my eyes, choosing to ignore her. 

“I will guide you. Just put your hand on my skirts here and I will take you there. Can you do that?”

She nodded quickly and walked around behind me, grabbing a tight grip on my skirt. “For the love of Fate, Dee…”

“Will you just shut your mouth for one goddamn minute?!” I retort. 

The floor creaked and cracked, and there was a shattering noise across the way that filled the atmosphere with pressure. The ship had cracked under the water’s edge, and the ship teetered even more upward. Kay and I seemed to adjust to the tilt immediately; our bodies knew nothing of imbalance. The young girl however, lost her grip on my skirt and began to slide on the wooden, splintered floor. I grabbed her arm reflexively and her eyes widened at the shock. The tears broke the surface, flooding the gray in her irises. “Dee!” I heard Kay’s echoing call. I squeezed my eyes, pushing away the nag, and looked back at her. “This is not why you’re here. You can’t save them.” 

The girl’s grip loosened as the tilt became more pronounced. The violin player had long since fallen to the water, many others falling in slow motion; snowflakes of long clothing and appendages. “Everything will be alright, child. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.” Her face quaked in fright, no response. “Just close your eyes, and when you wake up, it will all be a dream. Alright?!” I yelled out so that she could hear me. She nodded. I closed my eyes and pulled the tether of her life into my arms and chest. She let go of my arm, her body cold and empty, her body falling in the watery constellations of the Atlantic Ocean. 

Excerpt from Deathly Compromise

* Reference last post prior to reading *

A young couple who had gotten into a car accident came storming in on gurneys in the middle of the night. I had long abandoned the magazine doodling and was elbow deep in vending machine cookie wrappers and sugar coma when the slamming of the doors and medical alarms rustled me up. Both the girl and guy were attached to oxygen and nurses began swarming them as they turned into separate rooms across from each other. Their invisible tethers called to me. For a moment, I hung in the middle of the hallway, my boots squeaking along the tile, watching the life unravel around me. I stepped into the man’s room first. The smell of iron hit my nose like a hammer and the desire for sleep completely dissipated. I watched patiently as the nurses worked in a circle around the doctor. The sound of clothes being ripped echoed in the room, and drops of blood seeped down from the surgical bed to the cold floor. I found myself licking my lips instinctually, and flicked my eyes back towards the man’s chest.

            When his shirt came off, and the deep gashes in his side and abdomen came to life from the oxygen exposure, I let out a small gasp.

            The crunch of bone gritted in the air.

            For once I didn’t feel queasy.

            I was transfixed.

            I was entranced.

            I was hungry.

            I was…smiling.

            I walked over to the man, getting a close up of the damage. Internal bleeding, collapsed lungs, broken hip and collarbone, and a heavy blow to the abdomen; not exactly an easy fix. I felt for the girl across the hall, but all I could see was silent life there. I could tell she was already stable. The call came through and it was for him. When it pulled me in, I stuck my arm out between two nurses, and reached for his abdomen drenched in blood. The blanket of images enveloped me, making me let out an exhalation of relief. When it was over, there was nothing but static and emptiness. I stared at my hand for the longest time, turning it from side to side, fascinated by the staining of A negative. The crimson glistened in the luminescent light, thick with iron and gloss. It felt extraordinary, the overcoming of rapture, so much so that I found myself putting my hand up to my mouth, and licking each finger one by one like a cat bathing its self after a messy dinner. As the clean up began, I walked into the hallway, vaguely aware of the residue left on my face and hand. I sat in a nearby chair and contemplated, waiting for normalcy to return. It was achingly slow, but I started to get a grasp of where I was again.

            It had been ages.

            This body was starting to fail me, or my mind was. I couldn’t tell anymore. The lights in the hall flickered, and it was then that I noticed the rain had finally come, smashing like a titan on the rooftops of the building. 

Rough Draft--A Deathly Compromise Prologue/Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

I hate Jell-O.

With the fiery passion of a thousand hells, I hate it. It's not quite dry, not quite wet, and goes down your throat like a cold worm. Actually, I've had my fair share of worms in past centuries, and they tasted quite pleasant compared to Jell-O. I can smell the syrupy concentrate from a mile away; its sickening sweetness stuck in my nose. Suffice to say that being around the concoction all the time makes my day pretty stressful.

But not as stressful as Mrs. Williams.
I'm looking at her across from the hospital bed, from the guest chair in the corner. I'm laying back, my black Chucks propped up on the edge of the bed, giving her an annoyed glare. She's giving it back to me, tenfold. Her breathing becomes labored every few minutes, but she tries to stay as relaxed as possible. I cock my eyebrow and crack my knuckles. Her eyelids close half way in a menacing manner, and I notice her hand beginning to clutch the trigger for the morphine drip. I sit up. "Don't you fucking dare," I tell her.

She coughs and I see a small smile creep in the corner of her lips.
"I swear to Hades, Millie, if you press that damn button..." She presses it. Of course she fucking would. I throw my hands up in exasperation. "I hope you enjoy that morphine, like really enjoy it, down to your toes." I stand up and grab my sunglasses off of the counter. "I'm tired of this wishy washy shit, Milly. This is my 26th time being in here with you and frankly, I'm getting tired of it. You either want to die or you don't. Next time you call on me, you better be ready." I put on my wayfarer sunglasses and grab my jacket off of the chair back. I subtly hear a whisper coming from her lips.

"You're horrid," she tells me with whatever voice she has left.

"And you're kind of a bitch. Leaving all your money to your lover, but leave your dog to your son? That's low, even for me."

I walk out of the room into the hospital hallway. I hear the hustle and bustle of nurses passing, the beeping of heart monitors, visitors laughing and crying, nervous feet shuffling in the waiting room. The rain is really coming down outside; the drops pounding on the room, and thunder clapping, static hitting the hairs on the back of my neck. I grab a cup of coffee from the waiting room as I go towards a window. I haven't needed the necessities of food or drink for quite some time, but I enjoy some good sustenance every now and then. It keeps things interesting. However, whoever made the coffee today should be flogged because it is just piss poor, even for me. I hear a baby cry in the waiting room down the hallway and I curse under my breath. Seriously? Important rule of thumb: Unless it's coming out of your uterus or it's sick, don't bring a baby in a hospital. And never on a plane if you can spare it. They can sense me, and it drives me absolutely bonkers. I cringe at the high pitch scream and leave the cup of coffee on the window sill. Luckily, a call for me comes and it interrupts the wailing. Mr. Flock in the next ward...hmm...didn't think it would be today. A girl's work is never done.

I walk into his room, and he looks at me skeptically. He looks at me up and down, still in pretty good shape of someone of his age. "You?" he asks, surprised like most people. Obviously, he's seen me out and about.

"Yeah, what'd you expect?"

"Well, someone....in white?"

"Sorry to disappoint, Flock. Darker hues are more my ammo. You ready?"

"You're not going to talk me through this?" He coughs.

"If you just had to deal with Milly Williams, you wouldn't want to talk to anyone...ever again. Trust me on this."

"What's with the glasses?"

"It's the fluorescents. Make me all sallow looking." I wave my hand in a carefree manner, but take off the glasses nonetheless. "Satisfied?"

"Better. At least you're fairly attractive."

With a slight curtsy, I quip, "I aim to please."

He gives me a smile, but furrows his eyebrows in obvious pain. "So how does this work?" he asks, all humor aside.

"Well, I touch you and you pretty much fall asleep. You a Christian?"

"Nonpracticing."

"Phew, makes things easier. Okay, well...It all kind of feels like a dream. Whatever heaven you want, it'll be planned out for you. It's pretty fucking wonderful." I pause with concern. "You didn't kill anyone did you?"

"No."

"Alright cool, then yes, it'll be pretty great. You're gonna have a blast. Do you have any family coming?"

"I didn't have any children. All the others have passed."

"Well they'll meet you there, then."

"Oh god, I hope the hell not."

"Alright then, boss. Now, I'm going to touch your hand, okay? It'll be quick, painless. Just concentrate on something you love.....got something?"

"My dog, Bart."

I cock an eyebrow at him, teasingly. "Whatever floats your boat, man."

I walk closer to him, and smile, genuinely. Despite the prerequisite, it's fulfilling to see someone pass so they no longer have to live in pain. I reach my hand out to him, and with just a light touch, I see his memories. Some sad, some happy; a life mostly filled with empty smiles and regrets. And lots of women. Whoa. The later the life, the faster the flashes, in one fast forward motion, until it all fades to a white flash, then darkness. The darkness was soothing, an eerie calm down in the pit of my stomach, like a hot chocolate on a winter night. His monitor drones down to its long, low pitched tone, and I disappear before his nurse comes in. I put the glasses back on and stuff my hands in my pockets. I pull out my mp3 player and slide the ear buds in my ears. I have some Beach Boys to listen to. It's only 9:00AM, and I'm not happy about my first passing. Why is it always the semi-cool ones that go first and the damn annoying ones that last forever? This era is kind of shitty.

I'm Death, by the way. Everyone calls me Dee. Well, those who see me anyway. I like desserts, classic pop, and rainy nights. I also like awesome car accidents and cataclysmic events. But I hate Jell-O. I really regret not being available to kill the bastard who invented it.

CHAPTER ONE

I first transferred to this particular hospital in Seattle about 30 years ago. The rain's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be, and while most days are actually quite beautiful, I prefer the rain. It keep people in, keeps them safe; leaves less work for me to do than the routine hospital patient. There are only so many rain induced car crashes I can deal with on a daily basis. Come on, keep things interesting for me.

I chose my body a couple of centuries ago. It's been pretty sustainable. She was some rebellious daughter that was arranged into a Spanish marriage and hung herself the night before the wedding. I can commend a woman for sticking to her guns. Every new body I choose comes with certain memories...I see hers from time to time, not to mention her nature and urges, but we're pretty alike so I've come to see this thing as home for a few more years. Also, I think I look pretty decent. Black hair, light eyes, cream skin...can't really beat it; chalk one up to the Spaniards.

There's a half moon shaped lounge that I'm laying out in, feet up, reading a Better Homes and Garden magazine. This thing is absolutely terrible. How do women read this stuff? All these ugly flower arrangements and gross salads? And since when did making salads become as complicated as making a normal entree? I throw the magazine across the couch, missing the table on purpose.

"Dee, for the love of God..."

My head turns and my eyes peer over the top of my sunglasses. Not a lot of people can visibly see me, let alone call me by name, but The Duke is one of those exceptions. I give him a smile. "What's up, Gramps?" I pick up another magazine.

"I know you're some unearthly being and whatnot, but can you at least behave yourself? Some of the nurses get spooked."

"Eh...it's a slow afternoon. They need something to do."

"No, that's what my job is for, and right now, you're making it harder."

The Duke, aka Vincent Jacobs, was one of the hospital janitors. He was tall, African American, in his late 60's and was diagnosed with a terminal illness several years ago. That doesn't stop him--he works his normal hours amidst others who work half ass--and has comes to terms with his illness and death, hence being able to see me. He's not afraid of me, and I admire that. When I get his call, it'll be a bittersweet day. I never call him by his name. He reminds me so much of Marion himself when I met with him in California, that I had to bestow that upon Vincent. He doesn't believe me most days, but he goes along with it. I abide to his request, and go pick up the magazine. "How you doing today?"

"Well, I'm not dead yet."

"Me and you...we're gonna have fun when you're ready."

"You gonna take me on a hot date?"

"You better believe it, buddy."

He laughs under his breath as he empties a trash can near me. I watch him closely. He has a couple of more wrinkles now than he did a few weeks ago. He sweats more easily. I can smell his blood...he's been indulging in desserts lately which has risen his glucose but keeps him happy. He senses me inspecting him. "You keep your vulture eyes off me, Reaper. I'm not your lunch." I ignore the insult.

"Fine, just lay off those snack cakes. You've packed on a couple." I hit my stomach for emphasis and he lightly smacks my arm with a rag. "Hang in there, Duke. It's going to be a good day, at least for you."

"You may want to stay away from the cancer ward, then."

I let out a load moan. "Don't even tell me. Jones?"

"In all his splendor."

"Fuck." I straighten the sunglasses on my face, and jump over the corner seat, slipping The Duke a high five on the way out.

By then, it was lunch time. I can smell the nurses' lunches heating up in the microwave and another pot of coffee brewing in the nearby waiting room. It's still raining but I could sense the sun wanting to peek out through the cloudy barriers. Somewhere nearby, a visitor has opened a window in a room and I can smell the Pacific air. I'm pretty sure a homeless guy has just pissed in the street below as well. I have headphones tightly in my ears and walk towards surgery. Surely someone wouldn't survive there. I hear the bustle of someone coming down the hall on a gurney. Just from looking at her as she passes by, I can tell what's wrong. I can hear broken bones grinding against each other, a collapsed lung struggling to breathe. I can smell the iron taste of O negative on my tongue. She's trying to say something, but clots of blood just form at the back of her throat. The nurses are rushing while I trail behind casually. I have 4 minutes until I help her depart, according to the call. They finally reach the operating room, and pull away the sheet. The girl's abdomen is ripped open, glass shards speckling the site like sprinkles on a cake. I suddenly feel really nauseated. I cover my mouth. "Seriously?!"

I retch in the hazardous waste disposal bin in the corner. Like, really barf beyond belief. I see traces of yesterday's red velvet cupcake amongst used needles and bloody surgical gloves. Awesome. I wipe my mouth and look over at the table again. Suck it up, Dee.

I glance at the clock. The girl is beginning to flat line, and while the surgeon is trying his best to put Humpty back together, the others are trying to resuscitate. I still have two minutes, but this shit needs to be over with. I walk over, take a deep breath, and grasp the girl's hand. The memories flash, then the darkness. The flat line continues until the surgeon calls it. I could get in trouble, but I honestly don't give a shit. That girl didn't have an angel hovering over me, telling me to back off, and that thing was just too vile to deal with for a prolonged period. I did the girl a favor. I walk out of the surgery room feeling like I need an inhaler. My glasses, hanging crooked on my head, slip off and fall to the floor. I go to grab them, but my fingers are met by another's. "Dee, fancy seeing you here."

Ugh, his voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He's a seemingly attractive, okay gorgeous, male. Tall, blond, muscular, the whole bit. My host's body longs for him, which is sickening. This girl needs better taste. He wears a casual linen suit, like some sort of lost Beatles member, and he's glowing with that smile that I want to cut off his face. "I'm here every day, dickhead."

He tsks-tsks me. "Woke up on the wrong side of the ethereal space?" He stuffs his hands in his pockets and casually follows me. Why must he always do this? He's like that little dog that nips at your heels when you're just innocently trying to check the mail, and you want to secretly see him get crushed by the garbage truck. Twice.

"I've only had two passings today. I'm just a little aggravated."

"Hmm, I guess life has taken its fair share today. I've had 6 savings."

I mocked his braggart statement. "Then you have plenty of other people to bother."

"I like to check on friends from time to time."

I stop in my tracks, my shoes letting out a loud squeak on the tile. I face him, angrily, and I can feel the smoke of every underworld rise in my chest. "Listen, Jones. I am not your friend. As much as I appreciate your contribution to this world, I'd much rather appreciate you from faaaaar away. Got it?"

He smiles and bows his head as if he was in a yoga class. "I shall leave you be, innocent Reaper." I grab his linen suit. My fingers clutching the material cause it to start burning it immediately to ash. At that moment, despite my tall stature, I feel myself grow up to his height, then towering over him. I can feel flakes of ash chipping off of my face.

"That's an insult, Miracle. If you can't appreciate another by their true form, then you have no business being on this plane of existence. I am Death. My reapers do my bidding, but I am here on my own behalf. Don't forget that." I let go of his jacket arm and watch the material return back to its smooth, untouched state.

"I meant no degradation, Dee. I sincerely apologize." While his face and slight smile reeked of sarcasm, his eyes were genuine. Mine were filled with fire. I really did detest this guy.

"Get out of my face, Jones. You know where to find me if you need me." I shrink back to my original form, and turn my back to him.

"Dee," he called before I could completely walk off. "I really would like for us to be friends. We've had countless centuries to fight...we are in the same cause despite the manner in which it happens, can't we at least agree on that?"

"Jones," I pause to think. Yes, we've known each other since...well...the beginning of time, but the fact that he was so....perfect made me absolutely sick. And yes, we were in the same cause--to relieve those of pain. But little did he know that while he thought he was practically a god, I had the real power. I let people leave this forsaken place for their utopia. Or hell, sometimes. That's all in their head, though. I just give them the ticket to ride. Everything else was karma, baby. I wipe my sunglasses on my shirt and place them back on my face. I smile and give him a casual military salute. "I'd rather suck a nut."