Fiction River: Superstitious: Fiction River: An Original Anthology Magazine, #32

By Fiction River, Annie Reed, Ron Collins and 15 more

Superstitions pervade every culture and belief system. Often, the origins of such superstitions elude their practitioners. The seventeen authors in this latest volume of Fiction River create their own superstitious tales in fascinating stories ranging from dark and moody to light and fun, from introspective and thought-provoking to high-ratcheted tension. Distinct and realistic elements of humanity, love, fear, family, friendship, life, and death provide unforgettable experiences that prove we all practice some form of superstition, whether we admit it or not.

"…fertile imaginations take these ideas to wild and wonderful directions."

—Astro Guyz

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Oct 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393704492

Book preview

Fiction River: Superstitious

Fiction River: Superstitious

An Original Anthology Magazine

Edited by Mark Leslie

Series Editors

Kristine Kathryn Rusch & Dean Wesley Smith

WMG Publishing, Inc.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Mark Leslie

Thirteen

David Bruns

Salvage

Kari Kilgore

The Worry Trap

C. A. Rowland

8 Seconds

Joslyn Chase

Rough Musick

Jonathan Kort

Knuckleheads

Dayle A. Dermatis

Umberto Scolari and the Ill-Fated Marriage

Sharon Kae Reamer

Grave Decisions

M. L. Buchman

Sweet Tooth

Ron Collins

The Robin Club

Jamie Aldis

Offerings

Ryan M. Williams

Sweet Sixteen

Lisa Silverthorne

Three Breaths

Annie Reed

The Perils of Taking Table Selfies at a Con

Michael D. Britton

Unsavory

Michael Kowal

Rosemary

Michael Warren Lucas

Shattered Canvas

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Puckish Behavior

About the Editor

Foreword

Not Superstitious. Not At All

Superstitions make me nervous. I like to pretend I don’t have any, but I throw spilled salt over my shoulder, and I worry that bad luck comes in threes. I hate acknowledging the good in my life because I worry that something will overhear and negate that good immediately. I knock on wood, I never say the name of the Scottish Play in a theater, and I always, always, always stop to let black cats choose whatever direction I’m going to walk in next.

Yeah, I’m not superstitious. Not at all.

In fact, I wondered, as I looked at the table of contents for this issue, why Mark Leslie decided to have three stories in a row written by a Michael. Is that a superstition I don’t know?

And I half expected him to put only thirteen stories in the volume, but that was tempting fate, wasn’t it? Instead, he deals with that particular number in a rather spectacular way.

This volume of Fiction River is fun, and not as dark as I expected when Mark proposed it. It’s also a lot more inventive and a bit more rational than I expected as well.

There are lots of good stories here, and a few extra superstitions to make the (non)superstitious among us even more nervous.

So, brace yourselves and settle in. You’re in for an enjoyable, if unsettling, night.

—Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Las Vegas, Nevada

March 15, 2019

Introduction

Knocking on Beliefs

The word superstition is a pejorative term that is used to describe any belief or practice that is considered irrational; that is, beliefs and fears that are arrived at from blatant ignorance, a misunderstanding of causality or science, or a preference of belief in the supernatural, magic, or fate.

The term superstitious nonsense is often also used by people to refer to a religious belief that they do not subscribe to. For example, to Christians the original pagan beliefs were superstitions. But to the Protestants, praying with a rosary was a form of superstition. And to the Puritans, decorations such as mistletoe or holly at Christmas were part of a superstition-based ritual. From the 1400s to the 1700s, witchcraft was seen as an evil and dangerous superstitious belief system. And so the merry-go-round continues.

Chances are that if a mannerism, custom, or ritual is seen as other or from an origin that is not the same as ours, it has the possibility of being described as coming from a superstitious belief.

Regardless of their geographic or cultural source, superstitions are typically grown from some specific action, or activity, that was accompanied by some sort of desired or undesired result.

Somebody had to be the first to have broken a mirror and experienced resulting bad luck. Somebody had to have a black cat cross their path, or hung a horseshoe the wrong way up, or spilled salt, or opened an umbrella inside the house.

Somebody had to be the first, someone had to have noted the event before it became a common local knowledge or belief. And somewhere in there, the stories shared about the event and the perceived result are what led to the superstitious legend.

Superstitions, of course, aren’t just things that we laugh about in others. They are things that we engage in without even realizing it.

Have you ever wondered if you had woken up on the wrong side of the bed?

Have you ever felt a little nervous about doing anything considered risky because it happened to be Friday the Thirteenth?

Have you ever avoided stepping on a crack?

Have you ever tossed spilled salt over your left shoulder?

Have you ever purposely avoided walking under a ladder?

Even if you don’t consider yourself a superstitious person chances are you’ve either felt a bit cautious, avoided a particular activity or situation, or maybe voiced your concern, because that feeling of you never know ever lingers.

That’s one of the most interesting things about the hundreds of different common daily activities that have some sort of root in what we might consider a superstitious belief.

And the way that they can affect people, the way people interact with, believe in, or disbelieve in them, makes for truly fascinating tales. Tales that you are about to read from the seventeen incredible authors whose stories fill this collection. These tales all have moved me in different ways. They have made me smile, grimace, whimper, hold my breath, sigh in relief, laugh, speculate, and wonder. They range from dark and moody to light and fun, from introspective and thought-provoking, to high-ratcheted tension.

But among them you will find, always present, distinct and realistic elements of humanity, of love, of fear, of family, of friendship, of life, and of death.

Perhaps you’ll regard some of the tales with a skeptical scoff, wondering at how the characters could believe the silly things they believe.

Or maybe you’ll feel a chill run down your spine at the mere thought of encountering a similar fate yourself.

And maybe, when you finish all the tales and put the book down, you’ll think back to some of the stories that stuck with you and refused to leave, reminding yourself that these are just fictional stories, after all.

These things couldn’t happen, you say, and then, so as not to tempt fate, you gently knock on wood.

Just to be safe.

—Mark Leslie

Waterloo, Ontario

March, 2019

Thirteen

Mark Leslie

As I was compiling the stories for this collection, I had been expecting that I’d receive multiple stories involving the number thirteen. As it turned out, while this collection does include numerical-based superstitions, there wasn’t anything about the unlucky thirteen on its own.

I was a bit surprised, because the origin of that unlucky number can be traced back to many different sources and remains pervasive in western culture today.

For that reason, I thought it would be interesting to begin this anthology with a poem about the number thirteen. I figured it might be a nice, light warm-up or palate-cleanser prior to getting to the amazing tales you are about to read.

As I like to when I experiment with poetry and different forms of prose, I began this poem by lining up the letters to spell thirteen down the left-hand column and let the muse play.

As you’ll see, given my own minor affliction of triskaidekaphobia, I couldn’t just leave it at that.

There are so many subconscious things we do for luck, both to — prevent bad luck from

Happening or to conjure positive — and good things

Into our lives.

---

Rituals, beliefs, talismans, prayers, patterns, balms, chants, habits, phobias — all of them

Terrorizing us in ways so intimately we have absorbed them into — our very

Essence without even recognizing they are there. — They become

---

Essential for success, for preventing tragedy, failure, for freeing positive spirits and they are

Never going away no matter how much science we learn — or rationality we possess.

---

And yes, they even occur in such places as this final stanza, placed merely as a cautionary measure to dispel the bad luck associated with the very number — this poem is about.

Salvage

David Bruns

David Bruns says he writes contemporary military thrillers, futuristic spec fiction, and everything in between. You’ll find that a tale like the one you are about to read is one of those magical moments in between.

A former US Navy nuclear-powered submarine officer and former corporate high-tech fixer, David, who lives in Minnesota, has been a full-time writer since 2014.

In addition to appearing in Fiction River: Broken Dreams and Pulphouse, David’s short fiction has appeared in Compelling Science Fiction and multiple issues of Beyond the Stars, including the 2017 Best of BTS collection.

His longer works include The SynCorp Saga, a sci-fi series about a corporate takeover of the solar system, and The WMD Files, a political military thriller series based on current events. In June 2019, St. Martin’s Press released Rules of Engagement, a novel about North Korean cyber warfare and the first book in a new national security thriller series.

Visit www.davidbruns.com for a complete catalog and a free sampling of his writing.

As a former US Navy officer, I can attest to the superstitions of sailors, David says about this story’s theme. When building a ship, we still place a coin under the keel and we still christen our ships by breaking a bottle of champagne across the bow, to name a few of the more common practices.

But David’s story is much more than a simple retelling of an old sea tale or the exploration of a nautical curse. This moving tale contains both minor and major examples of what Dean Wesley Smith called a flip moment, an instant when your entire worldview is reconfigured.

Come along with me as we head over to Charleston in the summer of 1969 to meet up with Bit Preston and you’ll see what I mean.

Despite the calendar saying October 1969, summer had not loosened its grip on Charleston just yet. I peeled my limp, blond ponytail off my neck and draped it over the back of the wooden desk chair. Outside the shop, beyond the decaying dock where the salvage ship Hook was tied up, the sun turned the flat water of the Cooper River into a sheet of beaten gold. The heat of the South Carolina lowlands shrouded my body like a barber’s towel.

The only thing to do in heat like that is remain perfectly still. I lounged behind my father’s ancient wooden desk, feet propped on a stack of unpaid bills, dreaming of New York City in October. The nights turning cool, the leaves changing, the brisk wind whistling down the streets between the skyscrapers. I should have been back at NYU, but the world had conspired against me. Instead of a stylish wool jacket, matching scarf, and high heels, I wore grimy overalls, a sweat-soaked T-shirt, and scarred work boots.

Bit? Nana’s voice sang across the dusty yard in a quavery tone. I cracked open one eye. Maybe she would stop if I ignored her. Half the time, I wasn’t sure I was even needed for a conversation with my ninety-year-old grandmother.

Bit? You have a visitor.

I opened both eyes in time to see the silhouette of a tall man step into the golden blast of reflected sunshine. I dropped my feet to the floor and stood.

Bit? Did you hear—

I got it, Nana, I shouted back. My voice rang in the high-ceilinged shop.

I’m terribly sorry to barge in like this. The man had a British accent. I waved at him to come in, still squinting against the bright backdrop.

The heels of his shoes clicked against the cement of the shop floor as he approached, the way high-end dress shoes sound. May I speak with Mr. Prescott, please? he said.

I blinked. He was a handsome dark-skinned man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and strong, chiseled facial features. Despite the heat, he wore a dark gray suit with matching striped tie and expensive leather shoes. The subtle musk of his aftershave clashed with the oil and seawater smell of the shop.

His appearance made me painfully aware of my own outfit. His brown eyes met mine and I automatically bristled. He’s not here.

The man rubbed his hands together and offered a soft smile, no teeth. May I ask when he will return?

I plopped back in the chair. He’s dead.

The sign outside says Prescott and Son. Is the son available?

Dead. Vietnam. Haven’t gotten around to changing the sign.

I see. May I presume you are the proprietor of this establishment?

I crossed my arms. Bit Prescott’s the name.

Bit? he replied, his accent emphasizing the letter T.

Short for Elizabeth. They like to shorten things to the point of nonexistence down here. He seemed unruffled by my rudeness.

I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Elizabeth. He extended his hand. My name is Redi.

My hand was lost in his for a second, then I gestured to the only other chair in the room. Please have a seat, Mr. Redi.

His body filled the rickety wooden chair. No, Mister, please. My name is Redi, just Redi.

Okay, Redi, what can I do for you?

The soft smile returned. I am seeking the services of a boat. To visit a nearby wreck site.

You a diver? I don’t do any SCUBA.

No, I just need transportation to visit the site of the wreck. He hesitated. I have tried all the other boats in the area. They were not interested. I must admit, Ms. Prescott, I am desperate.

I stared at him. I knew what had happened, of course. None of the other boats in Charleston would take work from a black man, so he’d come to me. I wasn’t the best negotiator in the world, but I knew enough not to tell the other person I was desperate. My eyes flicked over his suit, lingering on the shoes. Whatever his race, this guy had money, and I needed money, so everyone else’s loss was my gain.

Tell me more about this job, I said, resting my elbows on the desk.

Redi pulled a chart from his inside pocket and unfolded it on the desk. I recognized the Charleston peninsula between the Ashley and Cooper Rivers, and the channel to the Atlantic Ocean bracketed by Fort Sumter on one side and Sullivan’s Island on the other. He pointed to a spot about fifteen miles into the open ocean. I want to go here.

It took me a moment to find my voice. "That’s the wreck of the Wanderer. Sank just before the Civil War."

Redi nodded. Exactly. You have been there? You have seen this sunken vessel?

I stared at the chart. I never dove on it, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve seen it. People say it’s haunted, you know. Inside, my mind was racing to the black and white picture on our living room wall of First Mate William Prescott with his arm around his eight-year-old brother, the cabin boy, Josiah Prescott—both crewmen on the Wanderer. I pushed the chart away and stood up.

What exactly are you asking me to do, Redi?

He folded up the map. I will pay you fifty thousand dollars for one day’s work.

I snapped my jaw shut to stop from swallowing my tongue. Fifty. Thousand. Dollars. With that kind of money, I could pay off the family’s debts, sell the boat, and put Nana in a nice place with enough left over for tuition at NYU. By Thanksgiving, Charleston would be a humid memory.

Is it legal? I said.

Redi smiled, his white teeth a gleaming slash in his dark skin.

Who was that man? Nana asked me as I cooked dinner. Nana was a genuine Southern belle, back from a time when they still had those things. But times had changed—as had our family circumstances.

From the earliest days of Charleston, the Prescotts had made their living from ships as traders, but when Daddy and Mama married after the war, he started the family salvage business. With a loan from the bank, he bought the World War II vintage Hook and our diving suit, which we called Robby the Robot after Lost in Space, the show Daddy and I used to watch together on our old black-and-white TV. In the Prescott family drama, I was the black sheep, always bound for something bigger, something beyond our life in Charleston. On the other end of the spectrum was Nana, flitting in and out of our lives like Blanche Dubois from Streetcar.

My brother, Trey, was the best of us, the center of our family orbit. He was always going to take over the business from Daddy, but he had a job to do for his country first. Tall, blond crew cut and flashing blue eyes, he was Captain America with a Southern drawl. No one was surprised when Trey joined the Marines to fight in Vietnam, but everyone was devastated when two Marines in uniform showed up at the shop on a beautiful morning last June.

And the family quietly fell apart.

I came home that summer to help Mama and Daddy, but there was really nothing for me to do. My parents were heartsick. Day by day, I watched them waste away until one day Daddy didn’t get out of bed. Mama followed a month later, leaving only me and Nana with an ancient house on the water, a rotting dock, and an antique salvage operation.

But life was not done with me yet. We were broke. Beyond broke, thousands of dollars in debt, far more than we could ever raise by selling the Hook. The bank account told an awful truth: there was no New York in my future and certainly no college.

Bit? Nana interrupted. I asked you a question. Who was that man?

I took a pull from my Bud longneck. Just a job, Nana. Someone who’s offering a paying job.

Nana’s hands fluttered like the wings of a white dove. Well, he certainly dressed well, I’ll say that for him. I do like it when people take pride in their appearance. She side-eyed my overalls.

Yes, he had on a nice suit, Nana. I wiped my hands on my overalls with a flourish and spooned out a dollop of rice and beans. And a British accent.

Nana’s hands came together in prayer, staying that way until I joined her.

"He wants to go to the Wanderer," I said after grace was said and we’d started in.

Nana’s fluttering hands stilled. She got up and walked to the picture on the wall. Your great-grandfather was on that ship, Bit.

I sighed. I’d heard the tale of the Wanderer a hundred times in my youth. The beginning of the family downfall from prominent trading family to penniless salvage operators relegated to the fringe of Charleston society. All because they crossed a silly seaman’s superstition. Her quavery voice floated on about poor William Prescott and his little brother.

After my first year of college at a Yankee institution of higher learning, I tried to remind Nana that a little thing called the Civil War had happened, but she insisted the downfall of the Prescott family was all due to some hateful act of marine mystery. I tuned her out.

After dinner, I took a plate out to Joe, my sole remaining deck hand. Joe was the only reason I hadn’t thrown in the towel on Daddy’s business after his death. He was a shrimper’s son, not much younger than my Daddy, with a sunburned pate and full white beard that made him a hit with the kids at Christmastime. Mama used to say Joe was a few fish short of a school, but there was no one in the entire world who could keep the Hook running like Joe.

That a payin’ job? he asked between bites. For such a big man, he had a high voice like a squeaky toy. The man who came by this afternoon.

I nodded and drank the last of my beer. Good pay. I didn’t mention that fact that I was planning to put old Joe out of a job and Nana in a home with the proceeds of our upcoming employment.

I’m glad, Joe said, scraping the last bits of rice off his plate with the edge of his spoon. You deserve a break, Bit. You’re good people.

Without a word, I took the plate from his hand and went back into the house.

The next morning, I was awoken by the growling of a heavy truck in our driveway. I opted for a fresh T-shirt but donned the same grease-stained overalls before I stepped onto the porch.

Redi was dressed in a pair of obviously new canvas trousers, a short-sleeved print shirt, and a Panama hat. He removed the hat when he saw me. Good morning, Elizabeth. I hope I did not wake you. I have something that needs to be loaded on the boat.

I eyed the tarp-covered bulge on the back of the truck and started for the dock. Joe didn’t have the Hook’s engine running yet, so I used the block-and-tackle. I hauled on the rope. What do you have in here, Redi? Bricks? This thing weighs a ton.

May I? Redi grasped the rope and heaved. The pallet lifted easily. This has traveled a long way. I do not want to damage it now.

As Redi paid the driver, I followed Joe belowdecks to begin the engine-starting ritual, praying today would be a good day. I fretted as Joe tweaked valves and tapped on bits of the incomprehensible hunk of machinery. Finally, he turned to me. You watchin’ me don’t make this go any faster, Bit. I’ll git her started, she just needs some love.

I went topside to find Redi engaged in deep conversation with Nana. My grandmother wore her very best muslin dress and waved a fresh handkerchief in the Charleston humidity. Her favorite parasol was hooked over her gloved wrist.

I’ll take you back to the house, Nana, I said. We’re just about to go.

I thought I’d ride along today, Bit, she said as if that was something she did all the time.

I stared at her, but she seemed not to notice.

Redi intervened. Please, Elizabeth, Ms. Prescott’s knowledge of your family’s history is quite extensive. I would enjoy talking with her.

No, I replied with steel in my voice.

Redi excused himself from Nana and drew me aside. I will pay you extra, Elizabeth.

How much?

Two thousand dollars.

I acted like I was considering his offer even though I would have done it for an extra twenty.

It is all I have, he said, his voice anxious. Please. I think this could be very special for her.

The deck rumbled underneath my work boots. Joe had worked his mechanical magic yet again. All right, but you need to talk to her. I go to sea for the peace and quiet.

And the money.

The Atlantic was like glass and the sea empty of other boats. It was afternoon by the time we cleared the channel between Forts Sumter and Moultrie and I put the Hook on a heading toward the wreck site. The sun hung in a cloudless cobalt sky, reflecting off the flat water like a mirror.

I saw Nana head down to the bunkroom and Redi joined me in the wheelhouse. He watched as Sullivan’s Island drifted down our port side.

For some of my ancestors this would have been their first view of this country, he said quietly.

I looked at him sharply. You had slaves in your family.

He nodded, a faraway look in his eye.

With the accent, I assumed…

I was educated at Oxford. He gave me his soft smile. I read history, with an emphasis in maritime trade. I have an interest in archeology.

I nodded, focusing on the horizon. Sullivan’s Island had been the quarantine site for the slave trade, something many in the Charleston elite had conveniently forgotten. I longed for New York again, for the simplicity of Yankee life.

Your grandmother is a fascinating woman, Redi said after a long silence. She has many insights on the history of your family.

Yeah. I pretended to study the oil pressure gauge. I was not about to be drawn into another one of Nana’s family fairy tales.

You should listen to her, Elizabeth.

I wheeled on him. You hired me to take you out to the wreck and get back to port safely, Redi. You’re paying for the company of my crazy Nana. Don’t include me in your little afternoon tea.

He stared at me, unruffled, the soft smile never wavering. As you wish. He put on his hat and stepped outside.

When we got close to the site, I had Joe take the helm as I took bearings from the barely visible landmarks to make sure we were at the right spot. At my call, he dropped anchor and cut the engines.

The warmth of the afternoon sun felt good on my bare back as I hoisted myself out of the water onto