How long does it take
for a heart to no longer feel?
For the blood to coagulate
and harden?
How long does it take
for the heart to beat against itself-
its soft tissue slapping a relic
of an unfortunate past,
a pulse with no flow,
alive yet dead,
pounding on the door of an empty house?
There is no one home.
After forty-six years
its tenant has left.
Let’s resurrect the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas. On this episode of STRANGE & SCARY STORY TALK, I discuss the long history of this tradition and explain why the Victorians took a particular interest in the dead and their relationship with the living. I also talk about why Christmas is the perfect time to welcome ghosts to our holiday celebrations.
Trees lurch from an icy wasteland,
their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,
hoping for something to grab hold of,
but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.
Their roots reach too deep into the ground.
There is no way to loosen earth’s grip
unless, of course, I chop them down.
But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.
The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.
I can fly-away
-in a plane.
Or, perhaps, not.
Perhaps only in my mind.
But they can’t.
And so I think they are afraid.
I understand.
Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.
Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt
and we will all drown.
flailing and choking on the last of our breaths
until we quiet and sleep
and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss
so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies
salvation.
I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor
and I think of my mother on Sunday morning.
It is not a pleasant sound.
It is the sound of church
and an endless four o’clock when the sun glares low and unrelenting,
insisting that we learn to understand the length of a day,
a day that begins with the clacking of heels and ends in silence
if not for the ringing in the ears and the hum of electric appliances.
I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor.
I think of my mother.
I am startled the sound is mine.
My heels banging-
banging out the dirge of an eternal Sunday
like an inmate, banging a tin cup upon bars of his prison cell.
There is no sunlight.
He does not know when the day ends and begins
It is one day.
It has all been but a day.
It will all be but a day.
One day.
One eternity.
I didn’t plan to discuss poetry on the show, but two weeks ago I listened to a reading of Sylvia Plath’s The Moon and the Yew Tree, a work that is startlingly haunting and beautiful, and I just couldn’t let go of it. This week I talk about not only the poem but the importance of broadening the lens by which we view Plath.
This week on STRANGE & SCARY STORY TALK I discuss E. Nesbit’s ghost story-or should I say corpse story-In the Dark. Nesbit is best known as a British writer of children’s fiction. She channeled her darkness into her lesser known stories for adults. In this episode we also explore Nesbit’s demons, the infantilizing power of fear and the importance of the ghost story in helping us grapple with what most terrorizes us.
This floor, I do not mind.
It is not impenetrable.
I can still feel the quake beneath my feet.
Despite its lacquer finish that attempts to hide the worm holes,
I can still hear the buzzing
and feel the vibration of insects
swarming underfoot.
I quite like it, really
the sound of all that chaos.
It is a welcome reprieve from the mortuary silence within these clean white walls
and this pretty floor that, try as it might,
cannot hide from me all that clamors for my attention.
But this ceiling
this ceiling is a problem.
It too shines as if no spider ever dare crawl across its surface.
I could lie here naked upon this cool, smooth floor looking up into the eternal void of this antiseptic ceiling.
I could lie here and feel the rumble of armies storming forth from the core.
I could press my back into the wood just to feel the pummels of the invading marauders.
I could enjoy it.
I would enjoy it
if not for this ceiling.
This clean, white ceiling
that keeps me safe,
that keeps me here.
It’s Devil’s Night, Mischief Night, Halloween Eve, the perfect time to discuss one of the greatest scary, short stories ever written-Marghanita Laski’s THE TOWER! I do not understand why this story is not included in the short literary fiction canon along with Shirley Jackson’s THE LOTTERY and Flannery O’Connor’s A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND. Please check out the latest episode of STRANGE & SCARY STORY TALK, my YouTube channel where I discuss dark and twisted short fiction, and share your thoughts. Is this story as great as I think it is? Also, if you like what you see, be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss an episode.
Happy Halloween!
Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com
A short story by Heather Nanni
“Hannah,” my mother said, watching me through the rearview mirror. “Think of a name, but don’t tell me what it is. Okay? Did you think of one? Ready?” She waited a minute, glancing back at me and smiling, and then she said, “Blaire.”
I wondered how my mother did it. “Yes, Mommy! Yes! Yes! Do it again. Let’s play again.”
“Okay, Hannah, now remember not to tell me. And be sure not to move your lips. As a matter of fact, why don’t you look out the window? That way I can’t even see your face. All right. Think of a name.” She waited a moment. “Did you think of one? Are you ready?”
“Ready, Mommy.”
“Okay. Here goes.” She made her silly drumroll sound-the one I tried to mimic but couldn’t. “Cindy!”
“Mommy! How do you do that? Again! Again!”
And so the game continued, until my mother had enough. “All right, Hannah. That’s it. Mommy’s tired.”
“Mommy. How did you do it? Tell me how you did it? Is it magic?”
“Hannah, you know there’s no such thing as magic. I’m disappointed at you for even asking. It’s God’s special gift to me.”
“Mommy, do you think God will give me the gift too?”
“No Hannah. Like I said, it’s a special gift from God to me. You have gifts, right? Like the doll I gave you for your birthday? Did Mommy expect a doll too?”
“No Mommy.”
“Well then you can’t expect this gift either.”
That’s how it started. I was six years old when Mom first played the game with me. And, although Mom told me I didn’t have her gift, once, when I was a few years older, I tried to see if she was right. We were having tea together and I said, “Mom, think of a name.”
“Why Hannah?” she asked.
“Because I want to see if I can do what you do.”
But, rather than think of a name, she reached across the table and slapped me in the face. “I told you already! That’s God’s gift to me. You greedy thing!” With that she threw my teacup against the wall, tea and ceramic pieces flying everywhere. After I cleaned the mess, she sent me to my room where I remained until the next morning when she took me to her minister so I could confess my sins. I was eight years old then, and it would be years before I tried my hand at mom’s gift again.
As I got older, mom developed her skills and expanded her repertoire. By the time I was about ten, she no longer limited herself to guessing names. She read my thoughts.
“Hannah, did you like the chicken Mommy made for dinner?
“Hannah, do you like Mommy’s new outfit?”
“Hannah, did you pay attention during today’s sermon?”
My answer was always, “Yes, Mommy,” and her response was invariably, “Oh Hannah. When will you ever stop lying?” Then she would continue with either a reprimand or a beating.
When I was a teenager, I realized my mother was paranoid.
“Hannah, did you tell Kathy about what happened here last night?”
Kathy was my best friend. Of course I told her about what happened the night before. How my mother rolled on the floor and begged God to expel the demons from our house. How she prayed over me, dragged me by the hair and locked me in my bedroom. My mother didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead she punched me on the side of my head and took me to her pastor’s office where they decided it was best to take my phone away and not allow me to see my friends any longer.
Being without friends or any life outside of school gave me a lot of time to study my mother. I learned the only thing that calmed her down after working herself into a frenzy was watching religious videos-mainly of zealot preachers yelling at congregations to repent. One night, she woke me from my sleep and yanked me out of bed. “Did you say your prayers?”
I hadn’t. I had fallen asleep. My mother raised her hand to strike me, and when she did I just closed my eyes and pictured her walking out of my room and going into the living room to watch a video. To my surprise, she lowered her arm and left, and, like a sinner’s sudden realization that Jesus is their Lord and Savior, it came to me-if I could hold a thought with an image rather than with words, my mother would receive the message without even realizing.
It took a lot of practice and a lot of beatings to perfect my skill. I started small-envisioning a roast chicken rather than asking my mother to make one. It was tricky though. If I allowed the words to slip in-I hope mom makes a roast chicken for dinner-she would hear them.
After about three months, I decided I could put my gift to good use and help my mother manage her meds. She took all sorts of pills-for arthritis, migraines, her heart condition. I got pretty good at visualizing her not taking some, taking too many of others, swallowing entire bottles. One day, in fact, I walked into her room and found her lying on the floor, an empty bottle of heart meds next to her. I never felt so strong in my life. I finally had God on my side.
Of course, I’m nothing like my mother. I would never abuse my gift. Anyway, I’ve got to go and take mom to day care now. She’s never been the same since her unfortunate incident with the pills. She really needs round-the-clock assistance. Looking at her through the rearview mirror, it’s hard to imagine the person she once was.
“Hey Mom. I have an idea. Let’s play a game.”
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com
I believe that most artists have one question that drives their work. Through their craft they strive to find the answer or explanation to that singular uncertainty which haunts them.
Does God exist?
Does the devil?
Who is my father? My mother?
Am I a monster?
Are you?
What did happen that night?
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with the world? What did he mean when he said___________?
What did she mean?
Was it all a mistake?
Did I do the wrong thing?
Did I live the wrong life?
For me, I write to find the answer to this question: Is it real?
Is it real? Is his love real? Is her love? Is this person my loved one claims to be real? Was it all real, all those beliefs and principles? Are your feelings, your affections, real? Are mine? Are you real? The person you assure me you are, are you real? Is everything my life is built upon real? Is all I hold dear real? Is the deer I just saw in my lawn real? Is that color of my lawn, the verdant green of the grass, real? Is that black speck I see out of the corner of my eye real? Is something really there? Those voices I hear as I lie in bed, are those real? That person that I see standing in my doorway as I drift off to sleep real, is she real?
Is it real? This is the most terrifying of questions because it is followed by-if it is real, what then? And, if it is not real, what was it?
Is it real? The answer to this question can be the most assuring or terrorizing of responses, but, more frightening than the answer itself is the uncertainty which drives the question. The uncertainty of what truly is. The terror lies in the not knowing.
I wrote Fade Into Another Place as I witnessed my mother succumb to the horrors of dementia-a disease that damns its victims to an eternity unknowns. An eternity of wondering, is it real?
Fade Into Another Place
Out of the corner of my eye
I spy
a flash.
It is black.
Perhaps a cat?
Not my cat.
He has long since departed.
But another,
I imagine,
who has found his way inside
this place where I reside.
Funny though.
Not too long ago,
I had a visit from a friend
who everyone tells me
has long been dead.
But oh so real
as we sat and had a cup of tea.
“Don’t you see?”
I asked.
“She is here,
as plain as can be.”
Is it something that haunts this place?
I contemplate
as I sit
and wait
for another friend to arrive.
But, I know.
I know.
This is an empty place,
and I must journey alone.
No friends to accompany me
as I make my way
past faceless strangers who talk and whisper.
I listen,
and I try to hear.
Will they confirm my deepest fear?
Their voices rise-
a cacophonous symphony
as they chatter
chatter
chatter
“Stop!”
Silence is what I need
to concentrate and discern
what is real
and what is make believe.
And so I go
and go
and go
until I fade away
into another place
where, perhaps,
I will be young again.
