What Happened to Annabell?: Monday Night Anthology, #3

By Kristina Horner, Maria Berejan, Katrina Hamilton and 7 more

"Quirky, wicked, morose … an inspired, surprising anthology." - BookLife

"From shadow selves and horrible beasts to casual culinary reincarnations and the bureaucracy of heaven, these writers tumble into afterlife premises and discussions of mortality with grace, creativity, and wit." -Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★★

What happened to Annabell?

She left poor instructions.
She outgrew her manufacturing specs.
She defrauded an international brewing company.
She burned down her house.
She sold her soul to vengeance.
She sent herself to the future.
She never existed in the first place.
She was too stubborn to die.

Annabell should have died long ago—and often did—but there's more than one way to be immortal.

Monday Night Anthology presents the many possible lives of Annabell Doyle as told through occult humor, speculative feminism, historical fiction, and even a touch of cozy mystery. Perhaps she joined a satanic cult, or maybe she ran away from a society that didn't yet value her skills. She could be stuck for eternity cooking for her descendants, or solving murder mysteries in a fantasy world with a talking cat at her side. She could have built a new life in the aftermath of the Great Depression, or quietly died, forgotten by everyone she once knew.

Or, perhaps she's just the oldest woman in the world.

Featuring stories by Liz Leo, Sunny Everson, Stephen Folkins, Katrina Hamilton, Rachael Sterling, Amy Piedalue, Kristina Horner, Shay Lynam, Tara Theoharis, and Maria Berejan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 84th Street Press
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781956273083

Book preview

Knell

by Liz Leo

Here lies the girl who never heard the knell

Of reaper’s toll to bring her soul to rest.

We wait ‘til home she comes, dear Annabell.

From high a bough that snapped she might have fell,

Yet down came none save startled sparrow’s nest.

She vanished ere the squab could crow its knell.

Or pushed into a stony-sided well,

‘Cept no dull splash resounded in address.

We hold for echo’s call, dear Annabell.

Mayhaps she sailed into a stormy swell,

And lightning cracked the mast upon a crest,

The siren’s song her sole sepulchral knell.

Perchance a curse or mesmerizing spell

Has cast her in hypnotic sleep’s arrest.

We dream of when she wakes, dear Annabell.

Entombed in verse to pay our last farewell,

This ode in rhyme is slab and shroud to bless.

You read our words and thus exhume the knell

That strikes the spade to dig up Annabell.

Stay Down

by Stephen Folkins

WHEN NEWS GOT OUT THAT Annabell Doyle had finally keeled over, most of the town nodded solemnly and spat. She would not be missed.

The funeral was a lively affair attended by many ill-wishers, chief among them Annabell’s surviving children, well into their sixties and still aching from the twin lashes of her vicious tongue and, of course, her actual lash. 

There would be no money, they knew. Annabell had told them as much all their lives, that they’d never be getting any money from her. That wasn’t to say she didn’t have quite a bit put away, but she’d bequeathed it all to her peculiar social causes: The Society for the Preservation of the Barber-Surgeon, The Vagrant Delousing Brigade, and an exclusive sororal order known in mixed company as The Dog Squashers.

Three of her erstwhile Sister Squashers attended the service, bottles safely concealed within paper bags, speaking ill of the dead at high volumes. Misery loves company, and they would miss tormenting and being tormented by their antagonist and accomplice of so many years.

Father Carmichael sprinkled a bit of dirt over her coffin and lied through his teeth about the probability of her finding peace with her Lord in Heaven. The guests made their rounds, expressing their condolences to her surviving family with varying levels of sarcasm. The now eldest Doyles put on brave faces to hide their joyous ones, and the event petered out inside of half an hour.

Mr. Hodgekiss, the town mason, sidled up some hours later, setting his bag against the headstone Annabell would now share forever more with her late, long-suffering husband, Clarence Doyle. 

Hodgekiss chalked out the appropriate date, placed his chisel to start the numbering, pulled his hammer back, took a breath, and...

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

A brisk, impatient knocking was coming from inside the still open grave in staccato whole notes.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

It was a simple knock, but one reserved for Annabell. The entire town knew to pretend not to be home when they heard it. It meant she was there and that she had complaints.

He put his tools down, and the knocking stopped. He waited for a full minute, until he could plausibly tell himself he’d imagined the sound.

Hodgekiss pulled the hammer back once more to start on the death date.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Much harder this time.

Jesus Christ, Annabell, Hodgekiss shouted. Is that you in there?

Who else would it be, Hodgekiss, you mincing piglet? You’re the one who put my name up there. 

Hodgekiss would be lying if he said that he’d never heard her voice more frigid (that was reserved for his suggestion of a poker night at the community center) but it was a near thing, and the muffling of the coffin lid could have been making the difference. 

Now get me out immediately! her voice rang up from the pit.

I should probably get Mr. Fallow. He’ll have a ladder.

Oh, yes. Good idea, Hodgekiss. Shall I just lie in state while I wait for you?

Excellent thinking, Annabell. I’ll be right back.

Hodgekiss ran for the undertaker’s cottage while Annabell’s curses echoed behind him. Hopefully she’d go back to being dead by the time he returned.

It was not to be, though.

Fallow extracted the old biddy—with much injury to both his dignity and person—while Hodgekiss ran through town breaking up parties.

No one even considered feigning relief at her untimely return, and they all went about their business, bracing for when Annabell decided it was their turn to pay for celebrating too early.

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE shy, they say. True enough, but the town was much reassured some years later when Annabell was struck and fully run over by the milk truck. No one really blamed rheumy Mr. Barkus, nor really saw any reason he should stop driving his usual route going forward. In fact, a few people offered to buy him a drink, but he demurred, saying, It’s reward enough on its own, thanks. No one inquired further.

Her second funeral was even better attended than the first. They kept it open casket and did only minimal reconstruction on the corpse, just so everyone could be sure. Ms. Thurbald of the Dog Squashers even gave Annabell a good poke, nodding in satisfaction at Annabell’s first instance of passivity since they’d met.

It was less celebratory than the first time, but there was also less pretense. Many jokes were shared on the theme of And Stay Down, and a few made morbid suggestions as to how to prevent another resurrection.

Father Carmichael’s invocation of the Lord taking Annabell to his bosom sounded more like a reminder to the deity than the congregation, and he put special emphasis on the to dust you shall return.

Mr. Hodgekiss had an unnamed but pressing appointment on the day of the funeral, so he did not reach Annabell’s grave until the next day, after the grave had been fully filled in. A few teenagers had set up a picnic nearby as some kind of dare or mocking vigil, and they returned the mason’s wave cheerfully.

Hey, Mr. Hodgekiss, a boy called out. Do you get paid twice, or did the first one not count? 

Mrs. Doyle paid in advance, with the purchase of the plot, Hodgekiss said, setting up the stool he now needed to do his work. I’m on the hook for as many times as it takes.

The kids laughed and toasted with whatever they were drinking, and Hodgekiss got to work cleaning the surface for engraving.

No surprises this time, right, Annabell? he said to the freshly sodded-over grave. It did not respond.

He sketched out the proper date and got ready to chisel it in.

As he pulled his hammer lightly back, the knocking began, muted through the earth but distinct.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

He paused.

You’re kidding me, Hodgekiss said. He waited a moment and pulled the hammer back again.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

He nodded thoughtfully and packed his tools back into the bag. He picked up his stool and walked over to the picnicking teenagers.

No, said one of the girls as he approached.

Hodgekiss handed her his tool bag and stool and said, I quit.

ANNABELL WAS IN HIGH dudgeon when she got out and miraculously knew exactly who had been having a picnic fifty feet away and six feet up, even though they’d sensibly cleared out well in advance of her exhumation. After a suitably lengthy haranguing, she decided a proper punishment for their disrespect would be for them to be her gophers in her post-milk-truck loss of mobility.

There was no denying that her body now bent forward a full ninety degrees at the waist, but she seemed to get around just fine with only the aid of a carved walking stick—not even a medical cane. She had also maintained her ability to appear silently behind anyone talking about her.

So it was clearly out of spite that she kept the poor kids getting groceries for her until they graduated high school. It hadn’t seemed that most of them were college-bound, but within the year of Annabell’s second escape from the grave, they all managed to get scholarships out of state. They did not visit on holidays.

IT WAS SEVERAL PRESIDENTIAL administrations before Annabell ended up back on the slab. This time there’d been a winter storm, and she’d frozen solid in her easy chair in front of the television. Her power hadn’t gone off or anything, but she’d evidently refused to turn the heat on in her house, trusting her usual expedient of a good sweater to keep the chill at bay.

It hadn’t, and by the time anyone worked up the nerve to check on her, she’d been iced over for three days. Even after thawing, the undertaker had to strain to get her into a position to fit back in the familiar old coffin. As he sat on her knees to get them to straighten out, worrying snaps and the cracking of bones rang through the basement of the funeral home. 

It was still snowing when time came for the funeral, and Mr. Fallow did his best to shovel out a big enough clearing for the crowd that had gathered. Annabell’s funerals were now something of a civic event, and the atmosphere was nearly festive. Cups of cocoa were passed around, and toasts were made to Annabell’s imminent resurrection in the queasy, half-joking manner of people who don’t know what to expect but won’t be made to look foolish again.

Barely anyone was dressed for mourning. Heavy coats and parkas and rubber snow boots covered any sartorial deference that might have been paid, so no one really bothered. Some of the Dog Squashers still wore embroidered black veils for the look of the thing, but their behavior was nowhere near somber.

Annabell, for Christ’s sake, if you’re alive in there, do us all a favor and pop out now! Freezing my tits off out here! Eugenia Krutz banged on the casket. When no answer came, she spat tobacco juice on the ground and walked away grumbling.

Father Carmichael kept the liturgy going by rote, unbothered by his being totally drowned out by the general chatter. He threw some dirt over the casket as it was lowered in, made the sign of the cross, shouted Amen! loud enough for the crowd to take their cue to respond, and then shuffled off to get himself some cocoa and watch the show.

After Mr. Hodgekiss’ impromptu resignation and move to Florida to live with his daughter and son-in-law, the job had fallen to Mr. Juarez, who admitted under pressure that he could do engraving in a pinch, but he was really more comfortable with tile and stone laying.

Juarez gave the crowd a shy wave in response to their cheers of support and trudged through the rising snow to the headstone. It had been agreed that they wouldn’t fill in the grave until everything was official. They’d noticed that the attempted inscription of the death date had immediately preceded all of Annabell’s rude awakenings, and all were eager to clear that particular milestone.

A hush fell as Mr. Juarez knelt by the open grave.

Okay, Mrs. Doyle, he said to the casket six feet below him. I’m getting started.

The audience gave a nervous chuckle, but Juarez was being dead serious. He took Annabell’s silence for assent and pulled out his hammer and chisel.

Crazy is trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results, he’d been told, so he’d thought about how to change up the process. The easiest change was to forego the chalking out of the date. That would get it all over faster, and he’d been privately assured no one would inspect the quality of this particular inscription too closely.

He placed the chisel where the 1 would start and, softly as he could, tapped with his hammer, too lightly to even make a groove.

It was enough, though.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

Matteo Juarez, is that you making that racket up there!? came Annabell’s voice, ringing clearly from the hole in the ground.

A great sigh escaped the congregation, and carafes of cocoa were quickly hidden behind backs as Mr. Farrow, ladder at the ready, went down to fetch Annabell Doyle.

ANNABELL DIDN’T SEEM any worse for the freezing, except that she now kept the heat in her home cranked as high as it would go and complained bitterly if your home or business was not heated likewise upon her arrival.

She was as unpleasant as ever, but having had a live audience for her most recent exhumation raised her mystique considerably. Even while she was berating the poor bag boy at the supermarket for putting her bread in horizontally instead of vertically, people stopped to gawp at her. She chased them off viciously when she caught them staring, but it was a rude departure from what she was used to. People had avoided her eyeline for decades, but now they would tilt their heads at her, like a dog, as if they were trying to figure her out. It was discomfiting, but her aggression was more than equal to the challenge.

ANNABELL’S FOURTH DEATH was never officially recorded.

In her quest to feel truly warm again after her last sojourn into the dirt, Annabell had taken to frequenting the sauna at the local health club. Between her running commentary on her fellow bathers and her constant attempts to turn up the heat even further, she had the place to herself after only a few weeks.

As the club regulars and staff stood over her body, they assured each other that, had they been there, they would have helped Annabell when she fell, reaching to crank the heat control well past the recommended level. Presumably if Annabell had called for help, someone at the front desk would have heard her, but no one mentioned hearing anything.

Annabell hadn’t taken particularly great care of her skin in daily life, but three hours on the floor in the overcharged, dry heat of the sauna left her almost fully baked upon discovery.

It was a real shame they’d have to deal with arranging and then abandoning a funeral the same weekend as the county fair, but Trish at the front desk had an idea. Matteo Juarez had recently purchased a new Nokia cellular telephone, and when she called, he was only a ten minute drive from the cemetery. Trish told everyone to go back to what they had been doing before Annabell was discovered, and everyone scattered. She stayed on the line with Matteo until he made the first light tap on the headstone. The sauna door was flung open, and the smell of beef pot roast suffused the lobby.

Okay, we’re good. Thanks, Matteo. Trish hung up the call.

Annabell approached, a mummy from the crypt. Her face was pulled back in a rictus, her mouth unable to close around her teeth. She shuffled up to Trish and pointed in her face.

You veople vinally vixed that lousy sauna, she rasped from her unmoving lips. Diss is the vest I’ve velt in years.

I-I’m so glad to hear that, Mrs. Doyle, Trish said, taken aback. Would you like any moisturizer, by any chance?

Annabell demurred, but did offer the sage advice of Your nakeup nakes you look like a whore. 

A FRIGHTENING NEW VITALITY came over Annabell. It was the first time she had come back from across the veil feeling physically improved, and she took full advantage. She made her rounds every day: striking bag boys with her walking stick, speculating on the sexual history of baristas, and displaying her uncanny memory for the past humiliations of everyone she encountered. She waged a one-woman campaign to prevent the high school from staging a production of Jesus Christ Superstar and came out victorious. She didn’t even enlist the help of any remaining Dog Squashers, as there were none. She had outlived them all. She would stalk the night, banging her stick against cars she suspected were being used for canoodling. She was so vigilant in this pursuit that she even struck empty cars sitting in well-lit driveways and covered carports, just in case.

Meaningful looks started going around in Annabell’s wake. A busboy, having just survived a vicious haranguing, would make eye contact with the dishwasher, and a nod would be exchanged. Sooner or later became something of a catchphrase around town. Mr. Juarez was visited by most of the townsfolk, their casual conversation suddenly becoming hushed.

All were in agreement. Except Annabell. She had become complacent with the constant extensions to her lease on life, and she took risks. She began riding a scooter around town and, though no one actually witnessed it, they were sure she was knocking over mailboxes with her stick as she drove by. She started shooting dice with the young men behind the pool hall downtown, which wasn’t dangerous in itself, as long as you could cover your bets. She inducted several young women into a new cohort of the Dog Squashers, but those who washed out of the trials fearfully refused to tell the emergency room doctors anything. 

Smoking, drinking, exotic street drugs: Annabell went on a tear of earthly depravity, confident that she would persist despite it all. 

Anyway, she died from a bad fall in the bath.

THE NEW PASTOR, FATHER Nguyen, presided over the funeral, with old Father Carmichael having been laid to rest just a few plots down. Annabell’s grandchildren were in the front row, their parents long since buried. The new Dog Squashers stood in the back, often taking each other’s hands and whispering words of comfort, such as, We survived. 

Father Nguyen read the benediction, sprinkled dirt on the coffin, and got out of there. He had never been told the plan explicitly, out of ethical considerations, and he was grateful to leave with some measure of deniability.

The service over, all eyes turned to old Matteo Juarez. He stood and took in their regard for a moment. Then, he put a finger to his lips, lifted his granddaughter into his arms, and turned and walked away. A great sigh of relief went up from the congregation, and they filed out of the cemetery, all chatting happily about anything other than Annabell Doyle.

Years down the line, newcomers to town might remark on the gravestone missing a death date. Some of the more inquisitive ones—you might call them busybodies—were curious enough to ask around as to whatever happened to Annabell. The school principal, Ms. Juarez, would casually say that she’d had her ashes scattered in Tuscany, if she remembered right. If the new arrival was just moving in, their real estate agent Trish might say that Annabell had eloped and run off to Albuquerque in her golden years. Father Nguyen would hem and haw and change the subject.

The most persistent of investigators were quietly directed to the Dog Squashers. The curious outsiders would nervously sidle up to the back row of the bingo hall and ask the black-clad women there why the Doyle grave was incomplete.

Oh, old Annabell, one or the other would say. She’s still around. Best you stop looking or you might actually find her.

And they would all rap their knuckles on the table: Knock, knock, knock, knock. Over and over until the nosy interloper got the hint and scampered away.

On that note, stranger, perhaps you’d better be on your way.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, knock. 

Strange Hydrangeas

by Sunny Everson

She dreamed about hydrangeas . She’d always liked how a fairly mundane-looking bush could produce flowers in an absurd, fluffy ball. There was something lovely about how each simple, little flower huddled with the ones around it to make a whimsical puff of color.

She dreamt of a pair of the plants, one in white and the other in periwinkle, grown so close next to each other that their roots intertwined and their flowers formed what appeared to be a single bush with alternating polka dot flowers.

Hattie was dreaming when Annabell woke her.

The house, shadowed at night and stately in its mid-nineteenth-century architecture, was a stark contrast to the whimsical flowers in her sleeping mind. Hattie had thankfully always been a deep sleeper. Once she closed her eyes for the evening, she didn’t want to open them again until sunlight had spread back over the house.

Hattie, please, wake up. Annabell’s voice called her away from her surreal hydrangeas.

Hattie had said, on several occasions actually, that waking to Annabell’s voice was the gentlest of alarm clocks. She would wake that way every morning for the rest of her life, if she had any say in it.

It was not morning, though.

She sat up, sleep reluctant to let her go. Annabell?

Annabell was kneeling on the floor