Tag Archives: dark fiction

Betty’s Bridge

Betty first saw Hell through a car window as they sped down the Interstate. Outside, the trees turned to ashen husks as the cornfields became desolate dustbowls. The sky hollowed out to an empty darkness that swallowed all the twinkling stars whole. She began crying and her mother pushed her Mr. Teddy at her while her father turned up the music. The more she cried, the louder her father turned up the music.

In time, Betty learned not to cry, but it would only be much later.

After that first sighting, she started progressively seeing Hell everywhere. At first, it was hiding in dim corners, dancing in the shadows down the bottom of the garden and lurking in underground parking lots. At the beginning, it was only in those sorts of places but, eventually, it was everywhere. Eventually, Hell was on their farm and in their house. It was in their kitchen, climbing up the stairs to her bedroom and waiting for her in bed.

It was like Betty was seeing across two worlds, superimposed on each other. She explained this to Mr. Teddy. The one world was our world and the other one was the worst possible version of our world. Both worlds were there, both were real and both existed at the same time: our world and Hell.

Well, she called it Hell. Mr. Teddy said that it was a parallel dimension. He called it the Bad Place.

Mr. Teddy was a better listener than Mommy, who would smile at Betty, carry on sipping her drink and reading her magazines and tell Betty to go play in her room. Daddy was always at work or reading his newspaper with a whisky in hand.

At least Mr. Teddy listened. Mr. Teddy reassured her that the Bad Place could not get her. No matter how bad the Bad Place looked, no matter how hellish its nightmare, Mr. Teddy cuddled Betty back and told her everything was going to be fine. They would be safe together. Always, because Betty was special.

***

“Ma’am, could you please go over that again? Please. Just nice and slow, I just want to make sure that I understand you correctly.”

The speaker was a slightly overweight, balding small-town cop. He was narrowing his eyes and scrunching up his face. Perhaps he thought it would help him understand whatever was being explained to him by the sobbing, hysterical woman from the arms of her pale-faced, trembling husband.

“For years, B-betty always told us the stories, but–you know children?–we, you know, did not listen,” she sputtered amidst streams of tears, “We should’ve listened, honey, should’ve known, but how could we? For years now! Jus-just thought it was a game, or she was seeking attention, you know, each time she told us that she sa-saw–it. Them–there!”

And with that, Betty’s mother broken down into an incomprehensible heap of tears and regret. He husband coughed–pale as a ghost–and, his lips quivering, tried to finish his wife’s tale.

“And, uhm, officer,” he began lamely, looking away and trying to pick the words best suited to civilized conversation, “And she–uh, Betty, was right. They were there the whole time and, like she said, they crossed and took her. She walked across to them. Her and Mr. Teddy. Taken.”

The cop had not written a single word on his notepad. He sat frozen, staring at the hysterical mess that was the couple.

Eventually, he sighed, leaned back and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“And,” he began slowly, “And who is Mr. Teddy?”

At these words, the wife buried deeper into her husband’s arms, manic sobbing wrecking her whole frame. Her husband barely held himself better. His colour moved from pale-white to near-translucent as his eyes opened and hands dug into the quaint, floral couch they were sitting on.

“H-he! That beast, in our house the whole time!” the cop nodded dutifully as this stream of terrified consciousness began to pour out the husband, “Mr. Teddy w-was one of them. Mr. Teddy was the one. You don’t want to know who he was. What he was, but I will tell you…”

The cop leaned closer as the husband motioned to him. The husband looked quickly around as if the walls in their lounge had ears and hoarsely whispered two short words to the cop.

“Liberal Democrat.”

***

“Hello, Betty,” Ted said, carefully, “I’m Teddy. Mr. Teddy. In fact, it has been my robot you have been playing with all this time. It is so good to finally meet you.”

Betty stood there blinking, clutching Mr. Teddy in her arms.

“She seems fine after crossing!” a stranger exclaimed, checking strange dials and screens surrounding them in some sort of laboratory, “Incredible! No human could withstand stepping between dimensions yet this little girl did it without a scratch and on her own!”

The man who had identified himself as Teddy stepped forward and crouched down to look at Betty in her eyes. He had a warm smile on his face and reached out and squeezed her arm.

“Thank you, Betty, for walking to our world. I always knew that you were the one that could do that, it just took a while for me–Mr. Teddy–to show you how to do it. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure how to do it. I’m not special like you, Betty. I am very glad that you are here and I will keep you safe.”

Still clutching Mr. Teddy, Betty blinked and asked in a small, frightened voice, “Where am I? Why did Mr. Teddy want me to come here?”

“Betty,” Teddy started, still smiling reassuringly, “You are in a parallel dimension. While your world is fine, our world is about to end and we need a way to escape. We have built Bridges into other worlds but organic matter cannot survive the energy transition. So, we began sending robots to explore these other worlds. In this process, we encountered more and more legends of Walkers, rare living beings that could Transition at will. You, Betty, are first and only Walker we have ever found. You are special. You are the only one in all the Multiverse that can save us.”

“And how can I do that, Mr. Teddy?” asked Betty, more curious than scared anymore as she adjusted to what seemed a friendly situation. Walkers were always easy with change. That was how they were built to transition between worlds across an infinite multiverse.

“You remember how I showed you how to walk across the bridge to get here?” Teddy asked Betty and she nodded, “Well, I need you to do that again and take us with you. Do you think you can do that?”

Betty smiled. She now knew how to do that. It was easy. She could save all these nice people. She was sure mommy wouldn’t mind if they stayed at their house. Before they had left, Mr. Teddy had spoken to her parents about where she was going and what they were doing.

She was sure they would understand.

Buying a Soul

“Souls! Souls! This way, sir!” the enchanted shadow calls, his form is pitch-black except for the white shirt indicating that whoever he was stolen from was wearing a suit, “Souls, souls, souls! Big ones, small ones, angry ones, loving ones… This way, sir, we have them all.”

I nod and step into the well-lit store. This is not the Dark Ages anymore. We have electricity and modern amenities, like this shopping centre hidden in plain sight. There is a booming economy that spans the globe, but there are also the nine layers of the Underworld that tuck into the roots of the World Tree as its swaying branches far above hold Mount Olympus and Valhalla.

“What are you looking for?” the shadow assistant standing next to me asks. His form is completely black. I cannot even make out a mouth or where his voice is coming from.

“Yeh, I’m looking for a good worker for the house. Something chore-related, perhaps?”

He nods and leads me to a back shelf in the shop. Bottles and lamps and other containers are everywhere on the shelves with labels like ‘Strong Warrior – 10gc’, ‘Wiccan Lover – 15gc’ and ‘Malchavian Assassin – 100gc’ written on them in old Arcane scrawl.

“Here’s the ‘Old Housekeeper’ product, sir,” the Shadow says, handing me a small glass bottle with a swirling green mist in it. His touch–or the bottle–is cold. I peer inside and there is a being swirling in and out of shape in there. It looks like an old lady.

“What’s her story?” I ask, intrigued. You have to vet these sort of transactions carefully. No one wants to buy a bad soul.

“Quite standard, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary,” the Shadow says cheerfully. I get the impression that it is smiling: “Sold her soul for long-life and magic, mixed potions and the like from her old house in the woods. She can cook, clean, has good basic knowledge and is not dangerous. Answers to ‘Merve’, but we can alter her Contract with any special requests you may have?”

“Great,” I nod, “I’ll take this one as she comes,” I reach into the hidden pocket in my robe for the fifteen gold coins it will cost.

Back in the castle, I read the instructions and then open the bottle. There is a soft gust of wind that sighs from it and the ethereal form of an old woman slowly materialises in front of me.

I’ll cut you and cook you, I’ll kill you and clean you–” a distant wailing begins to emanate from her as her face distorts and she starts to advance upon me.

I calmly lift the dusty, old scroll that came with the bottle in front of me. She stops dead, her wailing dying out.

“Merve, do you remember your Contract?”

Yes, yesss,” her form blinks and hazily shifts a little in front of me, like a hidden wind was blowing through it, “Yes, I remember the wicked little man and the blood on the page. Yes, yesss…

“Great, Merve,” I smile at her, “The demon’s Contract that gave you power during life was ceded to another and I have bought it. That means that your Contract now lies with me.”

I was met with silence. Sometimes the souls need a little time to adjust.

“Merve, you work for me now,” I try to smile welcomingly to her. It is always better if they accept things willingly.

Yesss, Master, how can I serve you?

I smile and lean back in my armchair. Life is good.

Three month’s later, the banshees are wailing outside the castle and the black candles are lit through the chamber. My family is there in all their oddity as well as close friends and even a couple strange, silent observers of the Arcane Lore scratching away in their old, leather-bound notebooks.

“I have lived a long, rich life,” I rasp, on my deathbed, “but–Merve, will you write this down–” Merve appears through a wall in my crowded bedroom and floats over to my desk for a scroll, quill and ink, “I have lived a long, rich life, but all things end…” this time I am interrupted by a fit of coughing. I wipe the blood away and continue. So this is how it ends, I think, strangely disappointed.

“In this order, here is my final will and testament: To my brother, I leave this castle and all that is in it, save those items I mention now. To my sister, I leave my spellbook, wand and I cede all my Contracts. To my nephew…” and so I continue until all the hordes are satisfied, including myself.

Later that night, I find myself staring at my body on the bed. Around it sit, slump or skulk the few family members that remained overnight. Many of them are asleep and the couple that are awake do not seem aware that I am no longer sleeping, but dead.

Yes, you are dead.

The slightly high-pitched voice by my side startles me. It is strangely familiar and as I turn to look, it all makes sense.

You. So this is happening after all,” I state looking down at my ethereal hands rippling in a hidden breeze.

“Yes, of course, this is happening. What else would be happening? Here is the Contract, please verify that you are happy with it,” and the wicked, little man with pointed teeth hands me a page written in my own blood. It is a page that I signed a long, long time ago when I was a lowly apprentice of a lowly wizard. It is a page that offered me a way out of the destitution of my family and a way to fill my life and me with great, history-changing magic.

“Yes, that is the Contract,” I sigh. It really is time. There is nothing I can do, because he has the Contract and I can feel the inescapable tug of its words on me.

I have a last look at the room with my body in it. My family still has not realised that I am gone. Suddenly, I am being pulled down. The room is getting bigger, or am I getting smaller? Glass walls spring up around me, and then a glass ceiling slams shut.

No one hears me start screaming.

***

“Come on, this one is worth a couple hundred, at least?” the wicked, little man with pointed teeth pleads in his high-pitched voice with a shadow.

“I am sorry, sir,” says the Shadow; they are sitting in the back office of the store with a glass bottle with a dark, purple soul flickering in it, “Demand and supply.”

Exactly,” hisses the wicked, little man, “Exactly. And there aren’t many great wizard souls these days. Worth a lot, no?”

“No,” sighs the Shadow, “because there aren’t all that many people who want a powerful soul that can curse them with magic to help around the house or the office. You got to invest in protection spells and so on. Those dark souls get expensive to maintain. People don’t like them anymore. 50gp, or nothing. Your call, Agares.”

The wicked, little demon, Agares, glares murder at the Shadow, but its form is so black that not even he can see its expression.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take fifty, but you are robbing me. Back in the day, these were worth something. Bloody electricity and technology; all this bullshit is ruining the old economy and none of them run off souls!”

The Shadow stands up, walks to a chest and take outs a little bag of gold coins for the demon Agares. Outside, the shopping centre is opening and the store doors are swinging open. Soon there will be hordes of people–some aware and some oblivious–crawling all of this place.

The Shadow flicks the bag of gold to the demon, Agares, and picks up the glass bottle with my soul in it. I am no longer screaming, but rather I am contemplating my escape. Before turning and walking out into the shop floor, the Shadow pauses and–perhaps in a show of sympathy–offers the dejected demon a final thought, “Come on, Agares, it’s not all that bad. The future offers opportunities too. Perhaps you should consider a career change? We’ve started stocking iPhones and iPads. The kids love them. Perhaps, instead of selling souls, you should sell some Samsung gear? I hear that Azazel is making a killing with Android stuff or something…”

The dejected, little demon snorts, and that is the last I see of him. My round, glass prison is carried by the Shadow and put on a shelf surrounded by other souls that signed similar Contracts.

In my little, glass bottle, no one hears me screaming bloody vengeance and plague over all the living.

Secret Recipes

Dark Forest

Deep inside a dark forest, hidden at the end of a secret path lies a little house all covered in ancient vines and cast in the shade of a large mushroom. Inside this mysterious dwelling, lives a little old lady, whose actual age is only known by the stars and things that move without a sound under the moonlight.

There are many candles flickering inside the house. The candles’ sputtering wicks cast dancing shadows all over the eerie interior of the room. A strong, knee-quivering smoke swirls through the air in this dark room, as the little old lady leans menacingly over a large, black pot that is quietly bubbling over smouldering coals.

“And a pinch more of the Tears of the Sea,” she rasps to herself, reaching across the table for some powder that she sprinkles into the cauldron. The cauldron bubbles contentedly in answer to her, its thick smoke swirling from its clinging embrace to dance through the dark room.

She stirs it thrice and leans forward, breathing deeply.

“Aaah, yes,” her cackling continues, “more Dust of the Desert Fire, definitely more Desert Fire…”

She grabs for a blood red powder and casts a healthy spoonful of it into the concoction bubbling just below her warty, wrinkled nose. She stirs the thick goop bubbling there with an ancient old spoon as the red powder becomes part of the mixture.

Suddenly there is a loud knock on her front door, sending candles flickering and shadows dancing across the dark room.

She turns and smiles, though across her wrinkled, aged face it is hard to tell if it is menacing or not. She gives her cauldron a final stir before grabbing an old, gnarled walking stick and hobbling to the door to open it.

On the other side is standing a fair, young lady. Her pale skin emphasises her blue eyes and dark hair, framed by a beautiful, ornate dress and flowing overcoat. She cover eyes as the sharp smoke blows out of the dark room into the night beyond, and she coughs as she breaths some of it in.

The old hag’s face cracks into a smile.

“Come in dear, come in dear,” she cackles, “the curry is almost finished cooking.”