Friday Flash: The Madness of the Ancient Mariner

"With my crossbow/ I shot the Albatross..."


We had been a month at sea when the helmsman began to see things in the shadows that weren't there. We chalked it up to the days and nights at sea, the staggering chill of the Southern Sea, the lack of food that wasn't salted beef. 


How were we to know that he  had been slowly losing his mind? He gave no sign of it so far as we could tell: siting watch when it came his turn, pronouncing the time by his knowledge of the stars, the sun. If he too often looked to the horizon and shuddered, if he too often called out that he had seen something that was not there, what were we to think? 


After the Albatross came, our great symbol of hope that flew round the mast and perched in the shrouds, who shared our food and answered to the name of God, all of our spirits lifted. The Albatross was such a jolly companion; an enormous white banner that flew pure and beautiful against the sun, leading us through the ice and bringing a stiff wind.


If after it arrived the mariner grew more unsettled, how were we to look at him and say "madness of the mind" and not "madness of the sea"? When we knew, alas, it was too late! 


The mariner, armed with his crossbow and standing watch, stood over the gleaming white corpse of our good omen, our ocean friend, with a feral smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 


"I have killed it," he said his eyes wide and vacant, "the demon that has dogged our steps and whispered such evil into the night." He grinned and it was a dead man's smile, a grimace without any humanity in it. "Here it lies," he called, "Dead at last, thank the Lord!" 


And such a cry did rise from the assembled, but what were we to do? There it lay, the last tie we had to land and all of the good things it brought, and standing over it the mariner with his arrow dripping red.

Ghoul Hunting (Friday Flash)

The night is moonless.

Sean’s breath hangs frosty in front of him as he pants, breaking out in goosebumps as he presses his back to a cold gravestone.

There is a susurrus of sound, and then Mary is crouched next to him, her hair pulled back from her face, a sawed-off shotgun in her white-knuckled grip.

“Do you see anything?” Sean asks, his voice quiet.  Mary glares at him and shakes her head sharply.  With her free hand she points to the clip above her ear, her eyes narrowed in anger.  Sean grimaces in apology.

Sorry, he says through the telegrapher, I’m out of practice.

Of course they’re out there, Mary says, even her mental voice coming out clipped.  She turns her back to Sean and peers around the gravestone.  Four in shooting distance, who knows how many more over the next hill.

Is this it, then? Sean asks, putting his hands on Mary’s back to try to see around the grave with her. Did we find the nest?

Probably, she says. There’s only one way to be sure…

With a tight exhalation of breath, Mary moves the shotgun until it is against her chest and rolls from behind their grave to the shadow of the neighboring mausoleum.  Sean gasps, a short choked sound then scrambles for the pistol in his shoulder-holster. 

Around the edge of the grave, the ghouls are moving, their feet barely touching the ground as they dart around stones, slip over branches… The only time they make even a little bit of noise is when they go underground, the sound of their unnaturally long fingers pulling at the dirt the only thing that can alert you to their presence.

They’re not like the zombie’s he’s hunted before. Zombies are slow. Stupid. Easy to kill.  And the biggest difference about zombies? You can hear them coming.

If you hear a ghoul coming up through the dirt behind you, it’s already too late.

Sean! Mary hisses through the telegrapher, and he locks his knees to keep from jumping and alerting the ghouls to their position.

What?! He says, shifting the pistol to his other hand to unsnap the knife at his thigh.

They’ve stopped moving, Mary says, her mental voice tight and controlled.  When he looks over, her eyes are huge, the cat-slit irises open as wide as possible.

What do we do? He asks, tightening his grip on the pistol.

Try not to die, Mary says, deadly serious.

There is literally no sound in the cemetery now. The trees are not rustling, the grass is not moving. The night birds that usually dog their footsteps all through the night are silent.

Sean risks peeking his head around the edge of the gravestone he is crouched behind and is greeted with nothing – just the dark on dark shadows of the clouds that are passing over in a breeze that cannot be felt on the ground.

Sun up is three hours away, Mary says finally.  There is a sound like a shot and Sean tries not to jump as he watches Mary open the barrel, check her ammunition then close it again. Apparently she has decided that silence is no longer necessary.  With trembling fingers, he checks his own gun, loosens the strap around his knife, pushes his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.  Mary nods at him and stands, her finger against the trigger.

In the distance, the low howl of a ghoul is joined by another. Another. Two more. Six. A dozen. Behind him, Sean can hear the unmistakable sound of rock and dirt being scrabbled at by long, demonic fingers.

Sean stands and backs up until he feels his heels press against Mary’s. She is barefoot in the graveyard, her neon toenail polish completely at odds with the rest of her utilitarian outfit.

“When the sun comes up, I’m buying you pancakes,” Sean says out loud.  Mary pulls the clip from her ear and puts it in the breast pocket of her vest.

“If the sun comes up,” she says.

The ghouls’ howling escalates until it is the only thing Sean can here.  They are all around them now and through the gloom he can see them, their long arms trailing against the ground, mouths gaping open, needle-sharp teeth as long as his forearm. 

Mary raises the shotgun to her shoulder.

The leading ghoul charges.

Hush - FridayFlash 10/15

Sometimes people just don’t wake up.  Sylvia tells herself this as she stumbles down the hall, scissors slipping from her fingers.  Sometimes people just sleep and sleep and there’s nothing to stop it.  She turns the corner, her socks sliding against the cold floors.  She takes the steps six at a time, short hops that leave her breath shaking from her and her hands stretched against the railings.

Behind her, the stairwell fills with a static-y shhhhhhhh, white noise sweeping up the walls, stalking her steps as she staggers through the door to the second floor.

The scissors in her hands are stuck there, slivers of plastic sticking to their sides, heralds of what she has done. No one will notice, she says. Sometimes people sleep.

Shhhhhhhhh

When she accepted the job, the oppurtunity, Sylvia was thrilled.  It was a paying job, it had great benefits, it was fun. The pamphlet had big bold letters emblazoned on the cover: “Help Insomniacs” it pronounced. “Good people helping Good people get a Good night’s rest.”

It looked fun.  It looked interesting.  

It wasn’t.

They gave her the scissors in a red plastic bag - an innocuous gift presented with a grin. “These are your tools,” they grinned.

When she took them out, they glowed, brilliant red light bursting from the pin that held the blades together.  Sylvia cocked her head and asked for an explanation.

“Don’t worry,” they laughed, “it’ll make sense soon.”

Shhhhhhhhhh

Sylvia slips, crashing to the ground with a stifled scream as her shin hits a stool on her way down.  She does not search behind her. She knows what sweeps after her with a horrible swiftness.

Shhhhhhhhh

They directed her to a hospital, her first time out on the job.  The mark’s name was Roger Richards and he was trying to rest on the sixth floor in the sleep ward.

“Go in, find him. They’ll know what to do,” they told her, motioning to the scissors with hands encased in red plastic.

“What? The scissors?” Sylvia asked, confusion obvious in her gaze.

“They’ll know,” they hissed.

Shhhhhhhh

Silence reigns behind her.  Sylvia cannot hear the slide of her socks against the floor, the strained wheezing of her breath as she swings around the second landing and sprints for the next stairwell.

The sick sit up in their beds, mouths stretched wide in silent screams as Syliva strides past them, trailing the soundlessness behind her.

The scissors in her hand start to tremble, shaking as they strain to escape.

Shhhhhhhh

Sylvia did not figure out what was going on until the fifth time she was given an assignment.  The first victims had sighed and settled deeper into their beds, sleeping peacefully, smiling.  Sylvia had smiled to herself and slipped out of the room, pocketing the scissors and jauntily going home.

The third time, as the scissors did their work, the alarms in the room went off.

A cacophony of noise came crashing into the quiet that accompanied the careful work of the scissors.  The alarm clanged above her head, calling into the halls of the hospital that there was a code, a code.  The pounding of feet came next, nurses and doctors careening around corners, stethoscopes around necks, voices all together asking what had happened.

Sylvia stood there, the scissors slipping from her limp hand, and saw the monitors display nothing. A straight line. Eternal sleep.

She threw the scissors in the nearest trash can, trembling as she walked home in a daze.

When she woke the next morning, the scissors were slipped into her fingers.

Shhhhhhhh

Sylvia shouts, the sound a whisper in the Silence.  

“Stop!” she says, her voice stretching the sibilants.  The static swirls around her, a hiss that has ambient sounds seeping into the floors.  “Stop,” she says, a whisper, a small sound that sinks to the floor.

The not-sound hangs in the air, swirling around her, steeping her in silence.  

“Sssssleeeeeppp...” the static hisses.

Sylvia’s breath stops in her throat.

“No,” she sobs, the sound a slight ripple in the silence.  The static is all around her, sliding through her skin, settling in her soul.

“Ssssseventhhh,” it hisses.  “Sssssleeeeeeppp.”

Sylvia’s eyes are heavy, the scissor slippery in her hand.  She tries to speak and is stopped by the slime of silence streaming down her throat.

She slips to the floor, the scissors shining in their red curse-light.

Shhhhhhhh