Toni Sweeney, Crossing Genres

Official Bio
www.tonivsweeney.com

Toni V. Sweeney specializes in horror stories, though she has written in other genres as well. Her horror novel MURDER IN OLD BLOOD was compared to Anne Rice’s INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by reviewer Margaret Marr of “Nights & Weekends Online.” Toni currently has a vampire series, THE SECOND SPECIES, in the making and has 3 short stories featuring the Undead listed on Amazon Shorts. Her other novels includes a sword and sorcery series, THE CHRONICLES OF RIVEN THE HERETIC, a sci-fi series, THE ADVENTURES OF SINBAD, as well as several single romance novels. Writing as Icy Snow Blackstone, she has one romance, THE IRISH LADY’S SPANISH LOVER, published as an e-book and paperback by Double Dragon Press. She is a member of the South Coast Writers Association in Orange County, CA, and is one of the bloggers on the Pink Fuzzy Slippers website.

What I liked: I find Toni’s stories to be generally well written. She has a recognizable style that’s easy to read and that just hums along. I like the fact that Toni isn’t afraid of humour (THE BEST DENTIST IN ORANGE COUNTY). I’ve also read: Shadow’s Crossing, an interesting treatment of The Ferryman Myth, and ONE FOR ETERNITY, a vampire story all of these teenagers in love with Twilight should read. It’s denoument is a little more realistic.

Will appeal to: romance enthusiasts, people who like cross genre horror, fantasy and sci-fi stories.

Criticism: too many dashes, descriptive sentences tend to be consistently long and paragraphs, perhaps, a little too short.

Buy Now: Amazon.com
Just ebooks: Double Dragon ebook

Amazon Shorts (complete works): Amazon.com

Clayton Bye
Horror Editor

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

THE LOVER IN THE LAKE

“Well!  You’re up early,” Paul said cheerfully as Lisa appeared in the dining room doorway.

“Up late.”  Wearily, she dropped into the nearest chair.  “I’ve been out walking.  I couldn’t sleep.”

“That bad, huh?  Damn, I’m sorry, Lisa!”

Breakfast plate in one hand, Karen came through the kitchen doorway, looked at her younger sister and asked sympathetically, “Bad dreams again?”

She nodded.  “And I can’t ever remember, except to feel that it’s the same one, night after night.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s just bad dreams that are keeping you awake,” Paul picked up his cup.  “I’d hate to think it was because of what happened up there.”

“Paul–”  Karen shot him a warning glance, shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” Lisa asked quickly.

“You know–about the Cannons’ daughter.”

She frowned.  “The Cannons?”

“Yeah.”  Oblivious to his wife’s scowl, Paul went on, “The old couple who used to own this house.”

“W-what about their daughter?”

“You have what was her bedroom.  She died there.”

Karen set down the plate so abruptly that the bacon and eggs trembled.  Lisa looked at it.

“Nothing for me, Kari.  I’m not hungry.”

“I can’t imagine why!”  She was looking at Paul as she spoke.  “You need something, Lee.  Just a piece of bacon.”

Dutifully, Lisa selected a strip of bacon, stuffed it into her mouth and chewed.  It was tasteless.  All she could think about was what Paul had just said.

Swallowing with an effort, she stood up.

“I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“You just came in from a walk,” Karen protested.

“Then I’ll go and lie down.”  She looked up the stairs, suddenly did not want to be in that room where a young girl had died,  “On second thought, I’ll just sit on the porch,” and made her escape down the hall.

“I hope you’re satisfied!”  Karen turned on her husband so violently that he jumped.

“What did I do?”

“What did–?”  One look at his face told her he really didn’t understand. “Paul, sometimes you’re so dense!  You know the only reason Mom and Dad sent Lisa here was to help her recover from Mark’s death.”

His expression changed.  They both knew how devastated Lisa had been when her fiancé had died in that automobile accident.

“Her mental state is precarious enough right now without you adding to it with tales of people dying in her bedroom!   She didn’t know anything about the Cannon girl.  I deliberately didn’t tell her.”

“Damn, Honey.” Paul was all contrition and apology.  “I didn’t think–”

“No,” gently, Karen put a hand on his shoulder.  “That’s the trouble.  You usually don’t.”

***

Later that afternoon, Lisa found herself once again by the lake.

In the bright morning light, it had been quiet, almost peaceful, reflecting the sky’s blueness.  Now, as the sunlight faded, it became an eerie place shaded by high cottonwoods whose branches hovered protectively over the water, casting dense shadows into depths made murky by fast-moving clouds.

Usually, she found it calming to walk along the shore, but now, she felt uneasy.  Perhaps it was what Paul had said.

The evening mist was already gathering on the lake, swirling upward in little wisps from the solid blanket that lay upon the water.  Slowly, it began to creep toward the shore.

Lisa ignored it, thinking of her dream, trying to remember.

As now, she had been strolling near the lake.

The fog had rolled in too fast; Mark was standing just before her and she couldn’t even see his face.  He was walking slowly, eyes intent on the ground.

“What are you looking for?” she asked him.  “What have you lost?”

“My soul,” he answered, his voice hollow and terribly, achingly sad.  “I’m searching for my soul!”

He lifted his head and she saw the tears of blood streaming from his eyes and Lisa began to scream…and scream…and…scream…

She stopped at the water’s edge, looking down at her reflection, at her ripple-warped image.

Mother and Karen think I’ll forget him.  They can’t understand that I’ll never forget Mark, even if I live a thousand years!

The wind swirled the ripples into a small wave.  Lisa’s reflection disappeared, and was replaced with Mark’s dear face, his blue eyes meeting hers, his mouth smiling, and then–gone, obscured by the mist that suddenly surged over it. Without warning, there was a splashing in the water, something was struggling within the mist, a shape, twisting and convulsing.

Lisa staggered back, hands to her mouth as the thing rose from the shallows, lake weeds clinging to its hair, mud and slime dripping from its arms, arms that reached out to her.

She took a deep breath, ready to scream.

The setting sun struck the fog.  It evaporated in a swirl of white.  The surface of the lake was smooth and even as glass.

Lisa lowered her hands, staring frantically around her.

A single bubble rose to the surface and broke the calmed water with a high-pitched pop!

She turned and ran toward the house.

***

The wind blowing from the lake rattled the windows, sending the branches of the oak tree scraping against the glass.

Everything conspired to make her drowsy, but she couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking of what she had seen–or thought she had seen–at the lake, remembered how the water-blackened arms had opened wide, and how she had been ready to throw herself into their embrace.

Just before dawn, she finally drifted into sleep with the sound of the oak tree’s branches scratching against the window pane.

Now, the sound was soft.

Soothing.

Like the gentle beating of wings.

***

Once more, she was drawn to the lake, this time to prove to herself it has all been imagined, brought on by her lack of sleep and Paul’s ill-timed remark, and once more, she walked the shore, going in and out of the cottonwoods’ shadows, looking into the water.

All she saw was her own reflection, the setting sun reflecting on the water, and the jagged spears of light bouncing off the waves.

She stayed until the sun was down, not certain what she was waiting for, then finally started back to the house with a sigh.

She was trudging reluctantly up the slope when she saw the tall figure coming around the shoreline, head down, studying the bank, and she stopped, waiting for him to reach her.

Her heart began to pound, suddenly, furiously, as he came closer, still watching the ground before him.  There seemed to be mist everywhere, whirling about his knees, touching clammy, vaporous fingers to her bare arms, obscuring his body so only his head and shoulders were visible.

He stopped, raised his head and saw her.  He didn’t speak, just stood there, waiting.

“M-Mark?”

She couldn’t believe it.

He was standing before her.  Not dead, not slashed and mangled by the broken fragments of the windshield through which he’d been thrown, but whole.

Unharmed.

Alive.

He smiled and shook his head.  “Don’t jest with me, my darling.”

“You’re not Mark?  But you look–”

He held out one hand, and Lisa put her own into it.

“I love you, Christina!”

The hand tightened around her own, became ice-cold and damp.  Lisa tried to pull away.

The mist billowed and leaped onto the surface of the lake.

She was alone.

Lisa looked down at her hand.  Clinging to her palm was a water-logged cottonwood leaf, dripping with pond scum.

***

The next morning at breakfast, when Karen set the plate of flapjacks, bacon, and scrambled eggs before her, Lisa said, “Just coffee, Kari–that’s all.”

“But you’ve hardly eaten anything for the past week, Lisa. You can’t–”

“I’m fine, really. “ Lisa interrupted, leaning over and kissing her sister’s cheek. “Just coffee, please.”

Frowning and shaking her head, Karen took the plate back to the kitchen.

Lisa looked over at her brother-in-law, who was enthusiastically tackling his own breakfast.  “Paul–”

He stopped, fork halfway to his mouth.  “What is it, Lee?”

“About that girl who died–”

Immediately, he looked uncomfortable.  “Lisa, I’m sorry about that.  I shouldn’t have–”

“No, it’s okay.  You can’t soft-pedal everything you say around me.  That’s no way to help me get over this.”

He looked relieved.  “I’m glad you feel that way.  Wish your sister did!”

“Karen giving you a hard time?”

“Is she!”

“Paul, that girl, what was her name?”

“Name?” He shrugged.  “I don’t know–Carolyn, Carmilla…something like that.”

“W-was it Christina?”

“Christina?  I think it was!  Yeah, that’s right.  Christina Cannon.”

“What did she die of?”

“Lisa, that happened a long time ago, nearly a hundred years.  I don’t–”

”What did she die of, Paul?”  she persisted.

“Some blood disease or something, pernicious anemia, leukemia–I don’t know.  They probably didn’t know either, back then.  Lisa, why all the questions?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“She was sick a long time–invalid…  They say she used to wander by the lake a lot.  Probably walking in that damp air is what really did her in!”

“How did it happen?  Do you know?”

Paul set down his fork.

“Yes,” he said heavily.  “I do.  One morning, they found her lying on the window seat.  She used to sit there at night and look out at the lake before going to bed.  They figured she sat down, opened the window to look out, and…died.”

Lisa shivered.

“H-has anyone ever drowned in that lake?”

Paul looked at her.

“As a matter of fact,” there was the slightest hesitation before he plunged on, “in the past hundred years, about twenty people have died in or near it.  They nicknamed it ‘Dead Man’s Lake.’  It seems to be a favorite spot for suicides.  That’s why the house was vacant for so long–bad rep.”  He picked up his coffee cup and gulped down the last swallow.  “Then the present heirs decided enough was enough.  When they rented the place to me, they told me the whole story.  Guess they were afraid I’d hear it from one of the locals and back out.  And now–I suppose Karen will really be all over me for telling you.”

Lisa didn’t answer.

***

For days, she stayed away from the lake, but as the sun went down and evening crept over the landscape, she could feel it–Him–calling to her, begging her to come back.  At night, the wind blew even stronger against the window, the leaves making shadows move across the walls of her room, and as Lisa lay in bed, she thought that the shadows took man-form, seizing the window-frame and shaking it with angry fingers.

Sitting up, she looked toward the window.

In the clouds of mist gently roiling beyond the sill, she could see his face, hear him begging.

“Christina…Chris-s-s-ti-i-i-naaa…”

One pale hand struck desperately at the glass.

Putting her hands over her ears, Lisa rolled over, closing her eyes tightly, forcing herself not to listen.

***

At the end of the week, she knew she had to go back.  She could no longer endure his pleading, his begging to enter Christina’s room, though the one he wanted was no longer there.

It came to her the night before.  He doesn’t know Christina is dead! Once he knew, he–whoever he was–would leave her in peace.

That evening, she went to the lake, watching the sun go down, and walked the shore, waiting for the fog, waiting for him to appear.  The moon came up, the wind grew cold, and still she waited.  Then, just as she had nearly given up hope, she saw the column of mist rising from the lake, saw the vague body-shape within it.

It floated to the shore and he stepped from it, garments hanging in water-ruined shreds.

“Christina…”  It was a caress in sound, spoken by someone who had loved deeply.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, felt the dripping black curls wrap around her fingers.

“Mark?”

One frozen-cold hand came up to touch her cheek, stroking fingers of ice across her chin.

“I’ll be whoever–whatever–you want me to be, Christina.  I’ve already told you that.”

She wanted that, wanted him to be Mark alive again, but forced herself to say, “I’m not Christina.  She’s dead.”

Hands slid to her shoulders, drawing her closer, that beautiful face looming above hers.

For just an instant, it held disbelief and a terrible sadness.  Then, he smiled.

“But you’re so like her.  I’ve waited too long…you can take her place…”

She looked up at him, didn’t answer, and heard his voice inside her head, inside her heart.

You can come with me.  Leave this ugly place, walk the darkness with me.  It’s so lonely in the dark. Christina and I should have been together but then she left me… I couldn’t live without her–she found peace while I–I’ve tried to find her…through the others…but they’ve all been too weak–and I was alone again–don’t let me be alone any more…

She looked up at him.  “My name is Lisa.”

The chill of those hands was spreading, down her arms, through her breast.  If he held her long enough, it would take her over completely, a few minutes more, and she would be as stone-cold as he.

Kiss me, Lisa, accept what I have to give you…take Christina’s place beside me…let my long wait be over–you’re so strong…you can survive coming into the shadows.

She raised her face to his, eagerly, thinking, Yes, yes, that’s what I want! To love and be loved…forever!
The dark head bent toward her.  She looked into his eyes, Mark’s blue eyes, and saw the blood-red wash through them, holding her enthralled, keeping her from moving.

…and then, he smiled…

…and the cold moonlight sparkled off even colder eyeteeth, stark and serpent-sharp and bone-white…
Lisa hurled herself backward, out of his arms, out of the mist, running frantically, not looking back, trying not to hear his howl of torment and deprivation and longing.

***

“Karen, please!  I’ll sleep anywhere!  Just don’t make me go back into that bedroom!”

“We don’t have another bedroom.  There’s nowhere else for you to sleep.”

“The sofa–I’ll sleep in the living room!”

“It doesn’t make into a bed,” Karen answered reasonably.  “Lisa, don’t be ridiculous!”

“Please,” she caught her sister by the shoulders, shaking her.  “Please don’t make me go back in there!  He’ll be there–calling to me!”

Karen was staring at her, eyes wide and worried.  “Who, Lisa?  Not…Mark?”

“No!  Him–he…”  She shook her head, knowing that in a moment she would burst into tears.  “…from the lake…I–”

Karen turned to Paul.  “She’s hysterical.  We’d better call the doctor.”

“No!”  The sharpness in her voice made them both look at her.  “I– You’re right, Karen.  I’m being silly.” Squaring her shoulders, she sighed, “Of course I’ll sleep in my bedroom,” and managed a shaky laugh. “Where else would I sleep?”

Karen put a hand on her arm.  “Do you need one of those tranquilizers the doctor prescribed?”

She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t explain and that she would have to face him alone.

***

That night, the wind beat against the window, trying to force its way into her bedroom.  The oak flailed its branches against the panes, attempting to claw through the transparent barrier.   He floated outside, whispering enticements inside her head, invading her thoughts, and her heart.

Backing away from the window, hands to her ears, she tried to shut out the pleading anguish-filled voice.
Suddenly, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I won’t listen!  I won’t!”  Her voice rose, shrill with desperation.  “Stop it!  Do you hear me? STOP!”

All sound ceased.  The wind died down, the tree became still, he was no longer there.

With a sigh of relief, Lisa dropped onto the window seat.

She sat there in silence, a silence rapidly becoming overpowering.  With a sickening sense of amazement, she realized that she missed his presence, as threatening as it had been.

This is insane.  Why do I want him to come back?

She knew the answer. Because he looked like Mark.  Whether he actually did or didn’t wasn’t important.  Over a hundred years in the lake had destroyed his real features, wasn’t that why he had turned his face away from her in her dreams?

She wanted him back.  God help her, she wanted him!

When Christina died, so had he.  Weren’t suicides cursed to wander for eternity?  And so he had, spending the next century searching for the girl he had loved, luring others to their deaths to replace her, and always failing.

But that didn’t matter.

What was important was that he was as alone as she, he wanted her as Mark had, and all she had to do was open the window.

Open the window and bid him enter.  Take his hand and step from this miserable world into one of eternal love and desire.

Suddenly, she felt as if some terrible burden had been lifted.

It’s a frightening thing to be alone.

Smiling, Lisa stood up and reached for the window latch, pressed it down, and swung the sash outward.  Then, she stepped back and waited, heart beating so loudly she was certain everyone in the house would hear.

She could see the mist forming outside the window, his beautiful face peering out of it.  In a moment, he was solid enough to step over the sill onto the window seat and from there, to the floor.

When he held out his arms, she went willingly into them, breathing a deep sigh as he kissed her, on the lips, the throat–mouth cold and seeking.

His embrace tightened.  She felt the icy points as they grazed her skin, shuddered and experienced a sudden panic and a desire to struggle, then relaxed as he raised his head to murmur, “I love you, Lisa.”

Then the sharp tips were pressing deeper and deeper until flesh was pierced and blood flowed into that waiting, loving mouth and the ecstasy began that would unite them forever.

Mark’s image flooded her brain.

“No!”

With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Lisa wrenched herself from his arms, dodging as he again reached for her.

“Lisa?”  His voice was soft and coaxing, showing none of the anger he must feel at being rejected once more.  “Come to me, Lisa.   It’s Mark.  I love you!”

Had he spoken this way to the others, calming their fears, soothing their last-minute doubts?

“No,” she shook her head, backing away.  “You’re not Mark.  Mark’s dead!”

“Lisa–”  He took another step toward her, and she stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the set of fire pokers on the hearth.

“I don’t want you–stay away!”

The beautiful face twisted and became ugly, eyes glowing red, mouth open, fangs gleaming.  She had never realized anything could move so fast as he leaped the final distance between them.

She didn’t have time to think, just turned and seized one of the pokers with both hands, thrusting it out in front of her as he lunged.

It struck his chest, tearing through with a soft ripping sound.

For a moment, he was suspended on the metal shaft, disbelief, then pain, flooding his face, the bloodstained mouth crying out in anguish.  Seizing the poker, he began to struggle, nearly pulling it from her hands, and then–

He stopped.

His eyes met Lisa’s and in them she saw acceptance, and something even more frightening.

Love.

The pale hands released the poker, falling to his sides.  Slowly, his body began to tremble.

Become insubstantial.

Fading.

“Lisa…I…love you…”

There was a single flutter of light and he disappeared.

On the hearth lay a clump of cottonwood leaves, wet and black.  Lisa was alone, holding the poker upright in the air.

It fell to the floor as she staggered to the window seat and threw herself upon it.  Outside, the moon was shining on the lake and the water had changed, was quiet now, and peaceful.  The wind began to blow over the lake with a soft whispering moan, like a murmur of grief.  She thought she heard her name sighed once more in its quiet wail.

At the edge of her mind, she heard the pounding on the bedroom door, and Karen and Paul calling to her but she didn’t answer.

She had lost Mark, lost her one chance to have him back, had destroyed a being who also loved her.

Lisa sat on the window seat for a long time, crying quietly–for Mark, who was dead, for the Other, who had died not once, but twice, but most of all, she cried for herself, now condemned to the most cruel fate of all.

Life.

THE END

Copyright © Toni V. Sweeney

John Rosenman – Author

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johnrosenman.com

This author doesn’t know John Rosenman. Not at all. I was scouring the net for new talent, and I stumbled upon his website. After reading his bio, a portion of which appears below, I decided this is a writer people need to know about. Besides the accomplishments listed here, John has sold Horror, Science Fiction, Fantasy and even a little Poetry to over 150 magazines. In his own words…

I’ve served as the editor of Norfolk State’s litmag, The Rhetorician, as well as a contributing editor/reviewer of horror poetry for John Betancourt’s horror newsmagazine. I was also the editor of Horror Magazine, and an editor for Dark Regions. My pet project, an anthology of virtual-reality fiction, was published by Dark Regions Press. In 1992 I finally bought a PC and later got online (my internet address is jros...@cox.net.) I’ve sold electronically to Through The Corridor, Radius, Gothic.Net, Bedlam: Memoirs From Padded Cells, Chiaroscuro, At The Brink of Madness, Peridot Books, Winedark Sea, Alexandria Digital Literature, Outside, and elsewhere. Getting a computer, incidently, has completely changed the way I write. I no longer do it on a yellow legal pad while lying in bed, but type directly onto my monitor. Partly as a result of joining the computer generation, I became an active member of HWA and SFWA, and have been a guest at both Sci-Con and Balticon. For two years (1998-1999), I was Chairman of the Board of HWA (Horror Writers Association).

Need I say more?

Immediately preceding this post, you can find an example of John’s short fiction. It’s a story called The Blue of Her Hair, The Gold of Her Eyes.

Clayton Bye
Horror Editor

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

Tonya Moore – Dream Heart

“I love to write. I love the flexibility and weight of words and the infinite possibilities and magic that can be wrought by just the right combination of them. I’m a story-lover first and foremost. When I write, I endeavor to convey a story in a manner that would most inspire or move me if I were the reader, alas with varying degrees of success.”

So says Tonya Moore, a prolific author and—to my mind—a force to be reckoned with. This young woman writes with a beauty which amazes. Even when her work isn’t what she considers perfect, one finds it hard to look away.

Influenced by writers like Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Anne Mccaffrey, Larry Niven, Gene Roddenberry and Frank Herbert she also makes a real effort to connect with other writers online to share stories and ideas. Moore writes novels, short stories, abstract poetry, and flash fiction.

Born in St. Ann, Jamaica in 1978, she developed an early love for Science Fiction. She would watch re-runs of The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits and Star Trek (Enterprise), and her mind would swirl with wild imaginings of distant worlds and adventures. Even to this day, no TV hero has ever been as awesome in her mind, as Captain Jean Luc Picard.

Three years ago, Moore decided that she wanted to do more than just write stories and store them in a box somewhere. She joined a number of online writing communities and even created her own—all in the interest of sharing with other people who also liked to write and/or read great stories.

She’s since published four short stories, a novel, Fog Island Flowers (Buy now), a collection of abstract poetry, Seeking Grace (Buy now), and has accumulated a vast array of serials and poems on her website.

What an inspiring person!

What follows is a short story I asked Tonya to submit. Although the piece has a dark side, it isn’t really horror, so we’ve placed it in our Horrifiction section. I’ve polished it as little as possible; I want you to experience Tonya’s writing the way that I have. Enjoy…

Seeking Bones

Reina was suffocating. A shadow fell over her. The vision grew until it became a roar in her head. Paralyzed and terrified, she struggled against the weight of its cruel and bony fingers on her arms. She screamed, but there was no sound. Her heart slowed. The hag grew smaller and smaller, seeming further and further away as she finally surrendered.

She found herself inside a strange memory. She’d been six years old and kneeling over a puddle of murky water. It had rained that morning and the hem of her white church dress was caked with red mud. Her fingers gave a gentle push at the side of a paper boat she had built with awkward care. There was a ripple on the surface of the puddle, then two and more. They expanded into foamy waves. The paper boat capsized as the sky darkened. She gazed up past the side of a mountain that was gnarled like an old man. Dawn broke across the sky in glittering shards. The morning star winked at her from behind the mountain. A wolf was singing near her ear. It filled her with a sense of unease. It arrested her heart.

Someone was knocking at her window. She was halfway to her door when she woke up. She stood there trembling as a key turned in the lock and the door flew open. Her brother hurried in with a brown paper bag in the crook of one arm.

“I’m late. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Max.” she smiled and moved to touch his arm, but he edged away and went into the kitchen. She frowned at his retreating back and followed him. He set the bag down on the counter and stared at her. Still keeping his distance, she noticed.

“How bad was it?”

“Same as always,” she shrugged and tried to seem nonchalant. What the hell was he trying to hide?

He pulled a Styrofoam cup from the bag and pushed it toward her. “You’re bouncing back quicker these days. You were less shaky than usual when I came in the door.”

She turned to him abruptly. “What’s that?”

Max looked down at the cup he’d set in front of her. “Coffee.”

“What’s in the bag, Max?”

His fingers closed over the edges of the bag. He pulled it closer to his side of the counter.

“I’m hungry enough to fight you for it.”

“Okay,” he grinned and shoved the bag toward her.

Reina crowed with delight. “Raspberry scones!”

She popped a piece into her mouth and moved to the window. The cute guy who worked in the deli downstairs always showed up about now. It was a little ritual of hers to watch him walk down the street. She lifted the blinds and glanced at her brother. “So, is this what you’re hiding from me today?”

He tensed for just a fraction of a second, but then he smiled. “Well, you do have a tendency to ruin a surprise.”

She glanced over at him. “You know, you left your car unlocked.”

“Am I going to get robbed?”

“Not today.”

The sunlight was blinding. She hummed under her breath as the deli guy vanished around the corner. She frowned and looked askance at her brother. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He seemed so tired.

“Katrin left you?” Her revelation caught him off guard.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. ” He said it quietly, almost making her sorry she’d asked.

They must have fought about her again—because Reina was so dependent on Max. Because so much of his time revolved around keeping her safe.

“I’m sorry,” she began…

“Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’ve got to get to work. When’s your next appointment at the institute?” He chucked her chin playfully as he passed her by, for no other reason than he knew how much she hated it.

She grimaced. “Thursday.”

“I’ll give you a ride, okay?”

“Thanks,” she called to him as he went out.

Once Max left, Reina slipped into her daily routine. She had a long shower, watered her plants and went for a long walk. On the way home she stopped at the flower shop and bought another orchid. She whiled the rest of the day away reading a book that she’d found at the laundromat a week before. When it was time for her nighttime routine, she took her pills for headaches, pills for sleeping and the pills that kept her legs useless while she slept. She fell asleep wondering why she had bought that ugly orchid. It wasn’t even the one that she’d wanted.

She dreamed again she was a little girl, that day she had played hooky from church. She was six years old and kneeling over a puddle of water. It had rained that morning, and the hem of her white church dress was caked with red mud. Her fingers gave that gentle push at the side of a paper boat. Ripples expanded across the surface of the puddle. The paper boat capsized. The sky darkened. An old woman in a faded red shawl was sitting beside her. Her crooked, bare feet sank into Reina’s mud puddle. She stared through intent, hard black eyes.

“Well?” she demanded, “Aren’t you ready yet?”

Terrified, Reina backed away but the woman and her foul breath followed. She seemed to be expecting an answer.

“Ready for what?” Reina asked, hating the scared tremor in her voice.

“I don’t understand!” she gasped, just stammering the first thing that came to mind.

The hag grabbed at her arms in exasperation. The long skeletal fingers cut painfully into her skin. As cruel as steel, they were not at all the hands of an old woman. They weren’t human. Those malevolent eyes held her paralyzed. Reina’s heart ran wild with panic.

“I want to wake up now,” she whimpered.

The old woman backed away. And suddenly, they were in the present. Reina’s cautious eyes followed her as she paced the length of the kitchen.

“Who will take my place?” the woman asked mournfully. “Who will hear it when the thunderbird returns?”

Sullen, she reached over to the kitchen counter and broke off a piece of the new orchid and sniffed it. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” she grumbled.

Reina didn’t believe her but her breath had steadied and her heart had stopped its crazed hammering.

“Dreams lie.” She tried for a sneer but could only muster up a shaky half frown.

The crone tossed the flower to the floor in anger. For a moment, it seemed she would lunge at Reina again. Instead she sighed and shrugged. “So wake up then.”

Reina found herself alone in her bed. The air conditioning had filled the apartment with sweet orchid scents. An inexplicable sense of loss crept over her. She was filled with an insatiable wanting she couldn’t identify. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was somewhere she was supposed to be, or should have been a long time ago. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a very long time.

By the time Max came around to wake her, Reina was rushing to pack. She didn’t notice his shocked and confused expression. She was far too agitated.

Finally, she took notice of her brother, who was simply standing there and staring at her as if she’d grown a second head.

“When did I first start having the dreams?”

Her question took him by surprise. He didn’t see what relevance it could possibly have to whatever it was she thought she was doing. He decided to tread carefully and was slow to answer.

“I think it was about a week before Mom’s accident. Why are you asking me this?”

Her eyes flew to his. She smiled in an attempt to reassure him, but her excitement was still palpable. “I started having visions right around then too right?”

“No,” he said. “They came after…”

That gave her pause. “The dreams came first?”

She turned to Max. “Why would they would just stop for five years and then suddenly come back to haunt me? It doesn’t make sense does it? They weren’t supposed to be nightmares. I think the old woman is real.”

She paused in her task of struggling to close up an engorged backpack. “That’s why my dreams seemed so real. It makes sense doesn’t it? Anyway, the way I see it is the first time she came to me it was to help me, but it didn’t work.”

As she went back to tugging at the bag’s zipper her thoughts took another turn. “Or, maybe it did work. We were supposed to be with her that day, you know—Mom. But I had gotten my dress all muddy, and we had to stay home with Dad.

Her brother sighed. “Reina, not this again! It’s not your fault. Would it have been better if we’d gone to church and died with her?”

“I know,” she said. “It’s been six years, I might be too late but I have to find it. Help me with this thing will you?”

He was already gripping the sides of the bag together when he came to his senses. “No, Reina. Look at me. What the hell are you thinking?”

Her heart sank. She was hoping they could have skipped this bit.

“Max, I can’t spend the rest of my life letting you take care of me like this.”

Her life really was pitiful, as it was, spending no more than three hours a day outdoors. Any more than that and all the sensations drifting into her would start driving her insane. She couldn’t see herself spending the rest of her life like that, hiding away from what was inside of her.

“I know I’m the reason Katrin left you. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want that sort of responsibility either. Caring for a grown woman.”

He grabbed at her arm roughly. He needed to do something. Have her sedated and taken to the psychiatric ward again. Something…

Reina jerked his hand away, glaring at him accusingly. “Don’t you dare even think about it. I would rather die!” she yelled and, showing her fury, shoved him.

But he grabbed at her arms and wouldn’t let go.

“You’re my sister. I have to take care of you. That’s the way it works! Now, I don’t care what Katrin wants. She has no say in this!”

“But I do. Dammit, Max, I’m not an invalid!”

He paled at the determined light in her eyes. He tightened his grip.

“So what? You’re going to run away just to prove you can take care of yourself? Chasing after some phantom proves that you’re sound in mind? You need help. You need my help.”

His wounded mockery stung. Her eyes smarted.

“Why do we always end up right back at this place? Yesterday, everything was fine. What happened to make you want to ruin everything again? We have a good life, don’t we? I take good care of you, don’t I?”

This had been building up for a while, the sheer frustration that he’d never voiced before. His own doubts about her sanity. There was resentment there too. She made things difficult. Every time there’d been some sense of normalcy within reach, she’d turned everything upside down. His eyes were a little wild and mean. It was a side of him she hadn’t experienced before but should have known was always there. He was getting red in the face with fury, it poured out of him in waves into her. He was a big guy. He stood two feet taller and weighed almost twice as much as she did. She hadn’t been troubled by that before. For the barest instant she feared for her life as his grip tightened, bruising her arms. Shaken, she whispered, “Max, you’re hurting me.”

He let go abruptly and, shaking, backed away.

“Jesus… Reina. I’m sorry.” He moved away to sit down in a chair across the room.

She hefted her bag onto her back. For a moment she considered staying out of striking distance, but she went to him. She knelt before him, an amazing feat, since she felt like there was a ton of bricks on her back. His face was averted. She touched his cheek, her palm coming away soaked with tears.

“It’s okay. I think I understand. Don’t worry. I’m going to be fine, I promise. So are you.”

She kissed him, lingering perhaps a little longer than a sister should but she needed to see, if only to reassure herself… Katrin still loved him. He was going to be all right.

A horn sounded outside.

“My cab’s here.”

She sighed when he wouldn’t look at her. Her arms still hurt like hell but she managed to get herself on her feet and to the door.

“Don’t hate yourself for this Max,” she murmured, “I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

With a backward glance and a halfhearted wave she slipped out the door. She wondered if she would ever see her brother again.

It was still dark as the greyhound bus pulled out of the depot. The sleeping town was smoky and mysterious like a painted woman. She loved those moments when it was still dark, before the sun scrubbed away all the falsehood—before you couldn’t help but notice the nakedness, the sagging breasts and curved belly. She didn’t know where she was going. But for the first time in years, she closed her eyes and slept peacefully. She slept for hours. When she dreamed, it was of herself as a child staring across that puddle and into the eyes of an old woman with kind eyes and a motherly smile.

“We have to do this, you know.” The old woman whispered conspiratorially. “We are the Gatherer. We are the arms and legs of the earth. We collect the forgotten things. We are the spirit. We are the heart.”

A week later, Reina found the mountain from her dream—the one with the morning star behind it. Events were a whirlwind in her memory. The greyhound bus, like a clumsy beetle had trundled past wastelands and wetlands. She’d been entranced by gloomy swamps and lazy acres of drooping mangrove. She’d been bored to near death on the endless highways. Had laughed like an idiot when she saw her first honest to god tumbleweed rolling down a hapless Arizona street. Had sent Max a postcard from every city she visited. And now, farther from civilization than she’d ever been, had simply started walking when the car she’d rented two days earlier wheezed and died in the middle of Nowhere, USA.

She didn’t stop until she was finally standing in a spot where the earth smelled different, cleaner and more vibrant. The gritty dust hung heavy on her tongue but she didn’t care. She drank in the silence. There was no more chaos. No more of the alleyways and barely civilized multitudes and their troubles crowding in on her mind. Out here, she could even hear the earthworms under her feet. A flash of movement on the mountain slope caught her eye. She glimpsed a sliver of red weaving through the trees. The old woman? Abandoning logic, Reina gave chase. The earth crumbled beneath the toes of her sneakers. It was dark under the canopy of trees. The sun hadn’t yet come to that side of the hill. That didn’t bother Reina. She kept up the chase till she came to the mouth of a cave. Undaunted, she ducked into the dark opening. She laughed like a child who’d just found the most amazing treasure.

She called out, “Are you here?”

There was only silence. Her words reverberated along the cave walls. She fumbled around in her backpack for a tiny flashlight. She shone it around, a little confused by what she was looking at. There were bones everywhere. A chill ran up and down her spine. There were bones hanging from the walls in baskets made from twigs and bones tied together like marionette puppets with gossamer strings. She wildly cast the light about the ground to find partially reassembled skeletons of small woodland animals. There were even bones stacked in neat, perfect little cubes. Bits and pieces of Reina’s distress escaped form her lips. A ragged sigh. A strangled moan.

Something in another corner caught her eye. The outline of the old woman curled up asleep on the ground. For the moment, she decided to forget about the bones. She walked toward the sleeping figure.

“There you are,” she murmured. “It’s taken just about forever, but I finally got here.”

As she knelt to wake the woman, the sun dipped low along the hill and filled the cave with crimson light. Reina found herself touching the bones of someone who must have died almost a decade ago. She was too late. Six years too late, was her immediate guess. She smoothed the frayed edges of the red shawl and let the tears come.

When she had cried her fill she took a good look around at all the dead things. They weren’t so frightening anymore. In fact they seemed to make perfect sense, if one’s vocation was to preserve the forgotten things in the world. She almost laughed out loud at the sight of a red and black plaid coffee thermos, covered in cobwebs. The cave was cool and dry. It had probably been as good a place as any to live in.

“Well, I’m here,” she murmured again to the dead woman’s bones.

The light turned golden and started to fade. She went to sit at the mouth of the cave. It wasn’t so bad, she had to admit. Her head wasn’t full of voices anymore. That was good. There was a gray wolf with piercing black eyes standing outside, watching her. No room left for surprise, she simply sat and glared.

“Problem?”

The wolf stared drolly at her then hunkered down on its haunches with a resigned growl.

“Thanks, I guess,” she whispered as an afterthought.

Ever so softly she began to sing a wordless, timeless song. It was for the old woman, and for her bones. It was a song for herself, the girl who had just found herself—for what it was worth.

The road home is long and winding. It’s not endless. It is never that.

© Tonya R. Moore

The Speed of Dark

“I just read The Speed of Dark and it left me breathless.

A totally arresting and quietly horrifying story.

I’ll definitely be keeping a watch for more of your work.”

T.M

The Speed of Dark

Richard Bartholomew’s little brother sat on the bottom stair and studied the line bisecting the rock-walled basement.

“What’s the speed of dark?” he asked.

Trying to ignore the sudden knot of pain in his stomach, Richard answered. “Doesn’t have a speed, Tim,” he said. “Darkness is just the absence of light.”

Shadows, almost lifelike in their furtive movement, crawled a few more inches away from the walls. Richard pretended not to see them.

“Light moves fast?” Tim asked.

“Nothing’s faster,” Richard said.

Small windows atop the western wall glowed with that special golden light which always seems to be reserved for crisp, autumn evenings. These tiny glass squares of life cast beams of airy gold into the spreading gloom. Billowing ribbons of dust danced along the slender rays, entertaining the watching boys, distracting them until the darkness closed in, until the colour of the light changed and took on the hue of blood.

Suddenly, Richard heard his mother’s voice within his head. “Somebody’s got to go.” She’d stood as a rock in the middle of the hall, blocking the way out to the world. Had taken her purse up before speaking, dug out the keys to the old Motor Cart. Then, casually, as if instructing him to do something as mundane as washing the breakfast dishes, she’d made her wishes clear. “You decide,” she’d said. “But I want somebody gone by dark.”

Mother had locked them down—as she always did when going out. The rumble of the engine as she eased down their gravelled drive reminded Richard of distant thunder. A cold shiver walked up and down his spine. Bile rose in his throat.

Richard wiped the memory from his mind and joined his brother on the steps. He could feel the younger boy tremble. The cool, dry basement air was sour with the scent of Tim’s fear. A centipede scurried across the floor, its serpentine movements and glossy red skin the perfect harbingers of this night.

“How do we get out of this?” Richard asked himself. Action was required. Becky had proved that. Nobody gets to refuse mother. Not even once.

Tim had Becky’s eyes. Richard had been able to keep her alive in his mind because Tim had her eyes. Grey. With striations of blue and yellow.

“Wanna try busting a window, Tim?” he asked.

Tim looked up at Richard with their sister’s long-dead orbs and said, “Can’t bust those rocks. So what good is it gonna do?”

“We can’t just sit here and wait for it, Tim. She don’t take no for an answer. We gotta get out.”

“Windows are too small,” Tim said. “Ain’t no way to change that.”

Both boys allowed their gaze to follow the lines of the walls. The basement had nothing in it but the stairs on which they sat, four bare rock walls, a hardened earth floor and a couple of rows of six-inch windows. They’d already tried to force the door at the top of the stairs. Hadn’t managed it. Not even when there had been three of them.

“Can you make me not afraid, Richard? Can you make it so I don’t have to go into the dark?”

Richard started crying.

“Watch the windows, Timmy,” he said. “Let the sun fall on your face.”

Tim got up and walked over to one of the diminishing beams of light. He turned toward the window from which the beam originated, then stepped into the path of the reddening light.

“Richard!” he exclaimed. “It’s still warm.”

The older boy didn’t have the heart to tell Tim the warmth would fade, that there was no way to escape the darkness. Their problem wasn’t the speed with which darkness travelled, he thought, but one involving the very nature of darkness.

Richard hung his head, tears darkening the soil below. He didn’t know how to explain that the dark was already here. It had always been here.

Clayton Bye
Horror Editor

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009