The Unholy Trinity

By L .Marie Wood

 Dive into the terrifying worlds of L. Marie Wood. These stories range from quiet horror, hinting at the things buried there in your psyche - the thing that will come out to play after dark, and visceral horror that leaves no doubt what lies in a bloody heap in the middle of the floor.

The Unholy Trinity combines L. Marie Wood's horror collections, Caliginy, Phantasma, and Anathema into one frightening volume of quiet, extreme, and dark horror, psychological thrillers, and rousing suspense that will keep you teetering on the edge of your seat.


Strap in.

You're in for a wild ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press
• Release date: Apr 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224888511

Book preview

Praise for

The Unholy Trinity

[L. MARIE WOOD’S] PROSE IS THE INK-AND-PULP EQUIVALENT OF A WHISPER IN THE DARK, AN ICY TALON CLUTCHING THE THROAT, A DEAD MAN’S KISS UPON YOUR LIPS AS YOU SLEEP.

To say that her greatest strengths lie in her ability to compose breathable atmosphere that rises from every page of any composition of hers, or that her deft characterizations lend tangible dimensions to the people and places of which she writes, does not begin to describe the art with which she constructs the worlds that we as readers are privileged to experience.

- Scared Naked Magazine

L. MARIE WOOD OFFERS HORROR READERS REFRESHING SLIVERS OF GORE AND PALATABLE PORTIONS OF FRIGHT THAT NOT ONLY SUSTAINS HER READERS BUT SATISFIES THEM.

As her acclaim soars, we predict, her readers will swarm the book sales and magazine racks to sate their craving for more of her work, devouring her tales as readily as she writes them. 

- AlienSkinMag.com

…SUPERB HORRORFEST…

L. Marie Wood’s exquisite new collection, ANATHEMA, is a superb horrorfest that will satisfy dark appetites with truly disturbing short stories of the highest order.  Wood’s flash fiction, in particular, slashes to the bone and resonates in the reader’s mind long after the volume has been replaced on the shelf.

- J.L. Comeau, Count Gore.com

L. MARIE WOOD’S ‘ANATHEMA’ IS HER CHEF-D’OEUVRE IN THE WORLD OF DARK LITERATURE…

…a work that true fans of horror fiction have been waiting for.

- Tracey Hessler, Somniloquy.com

L. Marie Wood continues to be a force in the world of horror with her unique writing style and her ability to spin a tale that will stay with you long after you have read the last sentence.

- Midwest Book Review

[CALIGINY] IS CHOCK-FULL OF THE MOST DELIGHTFULLY DARK SHORTS I HAVE SEEN GATHERED IN ONE PLACE.

Writing a short story that is both, full and entertaining is quite an art and one that L. Marie Wood has totally mastered. This collection is filled with story after story of dark delightful prose dredging up emotions that toggle between fright, disgust, humor and even erotic tension. The author has shown here that she can stretch her writing vocal chords to many different ranges with ease.

- Midwest Book Review

[THE] STORIES ARE SO LYRICAL AND INTERESTINGLY STRUCTURED.

[Caliginy] is an absolutely stunning collection.

- Creature Feature Tomb

L. MARIE WOOD IS A WRITER WHO FEELS COMFORTABLE AND CONFIDENT WITH HER CRAFT.

Her work gives one the feel of traditional storytelling with a touch of poignancy, believable settings, and a persistent sense of the uncanny. Her characters emerge from the written script, and you find yourself with a genuine enjoyable read.

- Paul Melniczek Author of Restless Shades,

Frightful October, and A Halloween Harvest

L. MARIE [WOOD] IS A TOP-NOTCH WRITER!

- Stephanie Simpson-Woods, Castle Dracula

THIS IS AN AUTHOR WHO HAS FULLY GRASPED WHAT IT MEANS TO DISTURB HER READERS.

She knows the fine balance of detail versus story making her pacing superb.

- Midwest Book Review

WOOD HAS EARNED HER PLACE AMONGST THE GREATS…

- Jeff Menzise M. A., Clinical Psychology, Howard University

FULL OF DARK HUMOR, HORROR AND JUST PLAIN OLD-FASHIONED SCARY TALES…

L. Marie Wood’s short story collection, Caliginy, has something for every speculative fiction fan. Caliginy is an incredible collection that should take its rightful place on any true horror lover’s bookshelf.

- Melanie Billings Editor of Allaboutghosts.com

WHEN IT COMES TO SHORT HORROR, WOOD IS A UNIQUE AND BRILLIANT WORDSMITH.

The art of writing a short story is hard to master, but when done well, the result is fantastic. L. Marie Wood has proven to her readers time and again that she has mastered that art. In [Phantasma] she shows once again, her range in emotion knows no bounds.

- Midwest Book Review

PHANTASMA IS AN EXCURSION INTO TERROR THAT READERS WILL NOT WANT TO MISS.

[Phantasma] includes stories that are varied and intriguing, ranging from supernatural terror to erotic horror to mystery.  Each tale showcases a different aspect of this talented author’s skill. Her fertile imagination and fresh approach are winning her countless fans in the horror genre.

- Southern Rose Productions

PHANTASMA IS ANOTHER TRIUMPH!

Great stories told in what has become [the] very recognizable L. Marie Wood style. 

- Creature Feature Tomb

The Unholy Trinity

L. Marie Wood

A close up of a logo Description automatically generated

Rock Hill, SC

Copyright Notice

The stories contained therein are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-962353-08-3

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-962353-10-6

Copyright ©2024 L. Marie Wood

Cover Art by Lynne Hansen

Editor: Nicole Givens Kurtz

Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws, you cannot trade, sell or give any e-books away.

A Bat out of Hell, ©2003, first published in Carnival of Horror Anthology, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

A Nice, Sunny Day, ©2003, second published by Something Scary podcast as Watching You

Baie Rouge, ©2003, second published in Castle of Horror: QUEER DREAD. Castle Bridge Media

Dead and Gone, ©2003, first published by The Dark Krypt webzine, Mar/Apr 2004 issue

Dear Monique, © 1998, first published as a free e-book short story on L. Marie Wood’s website

Last Request, © 2003, first published in Deathgrip 3: It Came from the Cinema, Hellbound Books

Love Nest, © 2003, first published in Chimeraworld #1, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

Of Body and Blood, © 2003, first published in Erotic Fantasy: Tales of the Paranormal Anthology, Erotictales Publications

Ole Hallows Eve, © 1998, first published by AnotheRealm, November 2002, second publishing in the Free Halloween Anthology, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

The Dance, © 2002, first published in The Black Spiral, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing, later published in SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire, Mocha Memoirs Press.

The House on the Corner, © 2003, first published by Horrorfind, July 2003

The Salacity of Death, © 2003, first published in Be Mine, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

The Properties of Blood, later published in The Horror Writers Network Presents: New Voices in Horror Anthology, Cyber-Pulp Books, pp. 61-67. 2004

Q & A, later published by Project M. Zine, Edition 0.06: Afrodite, 2004

The Wind © 1996 by elle wood

Abstract, © 2004, first published by Sinisteria 2004

Blue Sally, © 2004, first published in Hell Hath No Fury Anthology, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

Congratulations on your Wedding, © 2004, first published by Nocturnal Ooze, February 2004 issue

Day By Day, © 2003, first published in Hauntings Anthology, Cyber-Pulp e-Publishing

Everything She Wants, ©2003, first published by Project M. Zine in Edition 0.08: P-A-N, August 2004

Issue, ©2004, first published by Lighthouse Media One in Maelstrom Volume 1, April 2004

Moonlight Kisses, ©2004, first published by Naked Snake Press, February 2004 issue

Noon, ©2003, first published by IDW Publishing comic books

Nouveau, ©2004, first published by Lighthouse Media One in Dark Elation Volume 1, April 2004

Old Friends, ©2004, first published by AlienSkin Magazine, February 2004 issue

Shadows, ©2004, reprinted in The Dark Krypt, Jan. Feb. 2005 issue

The Blackout, ©2004, first published in Demons and Shadows 2 Anthology

The Black Hole, ©2004, first published by Mocha Memoirs Press, 2022

The Gift, ©2004, first published by Naked Snake Press, March 2004 issue

Things That Lovers Do, ©2004, first published in Scared Naked Magazine, March 2004 issue

Word of Mouth, ©2004, first published by Nocturnal Ooze, June 2004 issue

What the Mirror Sees, © 2004 later published in Mid-Atlantic Horror Professionals Presents: The Greatest Chapbook Ever, Cyber-Pulp Books, pp. 27-31.

The Visitor, ©2004, later published in Project M. Zine, Edition 0.07: Hadez, 2004

What Voice Does Speak ©2003 by elle wood

A Glimpse, ©2004, first published in Visions Magazine

Detour, ©2004, first published by Nocturnal Ooze, August 2004 issue

Forever, © 2004, first published by Blood Lust UK, June 2004

Skin, ©2004, first published by Project M. Zine, Tantaloz Edition

Somewhere There’s a Love Just For Me, ©2004, first published by AlienSkin Magazine, second published by Snarled’s Something Scary Podcast, 2023

The Experiment, ©2004, first published by Naked Snake Online, December 2004

Worthington Court, ©2004, first published in Enter the Realm

Temptation and Consequence ©2003 by elle wood

Verity. ©2003, first published in Obsidian Tales, Cedar Grove Publishing, 2022

Vices ©2012, later published in Trickster’s Treats #3: The Seven Deadly Sins, Things in the Well Publications.

Other L. Marie Wood titles

The Realm Trilogy

The Realm

Cacophony-The Realm, Book 2

Accursed-The Realm, Book 3

Other Titles

12 Hours

Mars, The Band Man, and Sara Sue

Crescendo

Telecommuting

The Black Hole

The Open Book

Tales of Time

The Promise Keeper

About Horror: The Study and Craft

Aknowledgements

Thank you, Sean, Bree, and Mike, for helping me find pockets of time to do this thing I love.

Thank you, Laura Fasching and MaryAnn David, for your keen eyes along this journey.

Thank you, readers, for travelling along this road with me.

Dedication

For SAW, BKW, and MDW – always.

Table of Contents

Copyright Notice

Other L. Marie Wood titles

Aknowledgements

Dedication

Table of Contents

Foreword

Caliginy

A Bat Out of Hell

The House on the Corner

Flowers

The Message

The Dance

The Inn by the Cemetery

Q & A

A Nice, Sunny Day

Betrayal

The Salacity of Death

Dead and Gone

The Black Hole

What the Mirror Sees

Reflection

My House

The Woman in the Sepia Picture

The Interview

The Properties of Blood

One

The Keeper of Souls

Ole Hallows Eve

Section F

Dear Monique

The Awakening

Of Body and Blood

Moonlighting

Love Nest

Carrion

Baie Rouge

The Last Port

Room 3708

Island Girls

To Die A Fool

The Visitor

Last Request

Phantasma

Everything She Wants

Nigh

Blue Sally

Verity

One Night Stand

The Shower

Issue

11

Things That Lovers Do

Congratulations on your Wedding

Malady

Jezebel

The Bathroom Door

Office Visit

Shadows

The Coming

Noon

Patty

The Blackout

‘Tis the Season

Hell

Idol

Day By Day

Another

Maybe

Old Friends

The Gift

Word of Mouth

Cerulean Blue

Bored

Moonlight Kisses

3rd floor window

Voices

Abstract

Anathema

Green in Brown

Skin

Spinning

Inheritance

Worthington Court

Vices

The Color of the Day

In the Morning Light

Somewhere There’s a Love Just For Me

Forever

The Experiment

Detour

The Proposition

Hidden

The Moment Between

By Prescription Only

Hindsight

Eternally Yours

Her

Sweet Tooth

Aftermath

The Joy of Gardening

A Moment in Time

The Morning After

Hangover

Peculiar

All in a Day’s Work

A Glimpse

Soulmates

Afterword

About the Author

More from L. Marie Wood

About Mocha Memoirs Press

Foreword

by Linda D. Addison

Some people think that writing a short story is easier than writing a novel. The fact is that it’s not just a matter of how many words are written, it’s about holding a reader’s attention from the beginning to the end. L. Marie Wood has published novels, short stories, as well as other forms of the written word (screenplays, essays, poetry, etc.). This collection reveals the many ways that she can write short stories, and not just with one style/voice. I had to remind myself this was written by one author.

One incredibly skillful storyteller!

Well-written stories grab the reader from the very beginning, those first lines pull you in, no matter how long the tale. Wood’s first line in these stories hooked me immediately, made me need to know more about what was going to happen next, whether they were 50 words, or pages long.

The Wind, a poem, opens the collection, and sets the mood for the upcoming journey.

There is wind, dancing and blood!

As the title of the collection hints, there are monsters (human/supernatural), ghosts (friendly/loving/vicious/wrathful), vampires (sensual/familial), and other collectors of souls.

Some character motivations are bred from love (scorned/found/imagined), like the story Love Nest, where intense jealousy has monstrous results. In The Dance a provocative dancer at a night club inspires desire in one who watches; the dangerous seduction and surrender that follows births a transformative kind of love.

The settings authentically varied from city to small town. Various facets of life are twisted by Wood until unexpected shadows leak out: church, funeral homes, day/night adventures, old/new houses, range of ages, racism and religion.

The story, A Bat Out of Hell, begins with Carly excited that Trent invited her to an amusement park in the middle of the night, not for the phantom roller coaster, but for the ultimate romantic moment. Needless to say, romance isn’t what they and others on the ride experience that night. Note to self: no riding roller coasters at midnight.

Some stories shift and slide reality, like What the Mirror Sees, where Janice intends on spending a sick day home alone, watching television, but her plans break down when she sees something startling reflected in glass that ultimately changes her belief of the real world. My kind of trippy!

Wood expertly changes point of view, creating fascinating storylines. In A Nice, Sunny Day a woman drives home from work, enjoying the weather after a week of rain when she sees a creature in her car that quickly ends any joy and niceness the sunny day promised.

Outside of the usual fiction form, Wood has tales told as letters, interview Q&A,

answering machine messages. Some of her stories used dialect wonderfully transporting me to other cultures.

I took my time reading this collection because each piece left me with a different flavor of unsettling chills, from the very short flash fiction that created bold images to the longer stories that spanned generations.

Now it’s your turn.

—Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.

Caliginy

Watch the wind blow

whirling ‘round her ankles like a gypsy’s patchwork skirt.

She spins so gaily

as though basking in the sun

even when night falls around her

and the moon hides out on the other side of the world

Watch the wind blow the hem of her skirt

as she spins in the dark

The blood from her wrists

coloring it black under the stars

The Wind by elle wood

A Bat Out of Hell

Tonight? Carly couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice. It wasn’t the idea of going to an amusement park in the middle of the night—the County Fair had been in her town before. She used to go with her father. They would eat cotton candy and candy apples until her stomach felt queasy. They rode all the rides, even the Rotor which made her father’s face turn a sickly green. They raced plastic horses powered by water shot precisely into a hole from the guns they held, tossed rings on top of bottles, dumped clowns into the drink. Her dad was pretty good at that game, the clown dunk. He always won her a stuffed animal. It was always just the two of them. Carly’s sisters didn’t enjoy the rides as much, didn’t like the electric atmosphere of an amusement park and her mother never stepped foot into one. So they went together, the two daredevils in the family. They turned it into a game. Their summer jaunts became special missions, ones that only they knew about and only they could complete. Carly and her dad went to every Fair and amusement park within a fifty-mile radius each year until she was sixteen. Until her father died in a car accident on his way home from work. She hadn’t been to a Fair or amusement park since then. The rides, the games the atmosphere had lost their luster.

But she was going that night. Trent had just told her about a Fair two counties over that had a phantom roller coaster, one that started off outside at the top of a huge drop. Then, it ducked inside a haunted house, hitting loops and splashing into water. Neat, but that wasn’t what excited her. Trent was finally going to ask her to marry him! She could feel it in her bones! Trent was the kind of guy who did everything as a surprise. On their first date he had blindfolded her and taken her to dinner on City Island, bypassing the regular places that lined Rte. 59 and driving 45 minutes away. Flowers made their way to her office for no other reason than to brighten her day. Going to a Fair in the middle of the week was a surprise that seemed right up his alley. Carly was ready. After three years of dating, she was ready to ink the deal. Her mind drifted, fantasizing about a proposal on a Ferris Wheel, underneath the stars.

This ride sounds awesome. I thought it might be a nice night out, Trent said, trying to coax Carly into going. He knew how she felt about amusement parks and Fairs, but that night would be different. He was going to ask her to marry him after they got off the roller coaster. He had it all planned. He would win her a stuffed animal at one of the games, plant the ring on the toy, and trick her into finding it. He wanted to make the night special, different than anything she had ever experienced. The news that a Fair was in town couldn’t have come at a better time.

So, what do you say? Trent gave her his best puppy dog face, hoping it would work.

It did.

Sure. Let’s check it out.

The parking lot was full of cars with license plates from as far away as Maryland. Carly turned to look at Trent, trying to get a hint of what was to come. He was suppressing a smile; she could see that much. What she didn’t know was whether the smile was because of what he was planning or from excitement.

The phantom coaster was off in the distance, the stairwell leading to the top visible over the trees. The frame, unpainted metal with a winding staircase, reminded Carly of a ride she and her father used to love. Every year they would drive to the amusement park up the turnpike, talking about the drop the ride possessed for the three hours it took them to get there. They would walk around the park, sampling the other rides until dark. Then they would get in line for the ride they had been waiting for, a monster coaster with dueling cars. A steep drop on either side led to one mammoth loop in the center. The car would stop at the top of the hill opposite where they started, the loop behind them. A red light was mounted at the top of the stairs. Carly could remember staring at that light, watching it, knowing that when it flashed, she would be in for a treat. The night wind would tousle her hair while she waited in her car at the top of the hill, waited for the red light to flicker. She could see the black tops of the trees from that height, could see the span of the park and the rolling hills behind it. The darkness of the night before her was impenetrable, save for that red light. She felt as if no one else was around. The heavy breathing, the whimpering, the pleas to be let off the ride around her fell on deaf ears. It was just her and the light – not even her father existed. The light was her beacon, her only connection to earth in those moments. The feeling of solitude was immense. And Carly liked it.

But it was always short lived. The red light would flicker and the ride would take off fast – faster than any other coaster in those days. The car would descend the hill at top speed, heading toward the loop backwards, sending people’s frantic screams into the wind and lifting their stomachs into their throats. Carly screamed along with everyone else, but something was empty about it. She had the distinct feeling that she had left something up there at the top of the hill. Something that had been a part of her for a time.

Seeing the ride peeking out above the trees made her heart leap. She urged Trent on to find a space so that they could hurry up and go into the fair. She was sure she would find what had been missing up there, although she didn’t say it. She wanted to see the red light flicker again.

Trent and Carly entered the Fair and zigzagged around people toward the coaster. She was a step ahead of Trent, her excitement taking over. Trent smiled as they hurried along, happy that his soon-to-be fiancé was loosening up.

The coaster was at the back of the park, a good distance away from the other rides. The attendants were dressed in black robes, adding to the mystique of the ride’s name: A Bat Out Of Hell. Huge wings shot out of both sides of the building that housed the bulk of the ride. Red eyes that seemed to glow as though a fire raged behind them looked out at them from within a large replica bat head.

Spooky, Trent said, looking over at Carly. She was grinning from ear to ear. She loved it! Horror movies, Halloween, anything scary, she ate it up. The ride was right up her alley.

Let’s get in line, Carly said and started walking toward the tall stairwell before she finished her sentence.

"There is no line," Trent said, picking up the pace to catch up to her. The line for the ride was almost nonexistent. There were six people waiting at the top of the stairwell and they were the only people around. No one milled around to look at the ride or to wait for friends and family to get off, no people from the last car stood around talking excitedly about the ride.

There was no one else out there.

A hooded attendant wordlessly ushered Carly and Trent toward the stairs, urging them up. Carly turned to Trent, shrugged her shoulders, and started up the stairs.

Once at the top, Carly and Trent caught their breath from the steep climb. Carly was fidgeting, eager to get in the car and ride. The people in front of them were acting the same way, excitement etched all over their faces. Trent was excited too; he just didn’t feel completely right about the ride. He didn’t know what it was. There was something just below the surface that seemed off. He didn’t say anything, didn’t want to bother Carly with it. She obviously didn’t feel the same way he did, and he didn’t want to ruin it for her. It was probably just pre-roller coaster jitters. He got those sometimes, especially when a coaster was his first ride of the day.

The car came out of nowhere from the darkness on their right. It was moving fast, like the bat out of hell it was named for. It stopped on a dime though, right in front of the platform. Carly sucked in her breath as she looked at the ride. Gargoyles headed each car, linked together with serpentine tales. Each seat was crested with a skull patterned from metal. The seat cushions were blood red and the shoulder harnesses were fashioned from chains with padding affixed to them. Scentless smoke emitted from the sides, another part of the illusion. It was better than she had ever imagined a ride could be. She and her father used to construct their dream roller coaster while waiting in the long lines customary to every good amusement park ride. Their coaster had a horror theme with ghosts painted along the sides and chains rattling somewhere off in the distance. If ever there was an embodiment of a dream, the Bat Out of Hell was it for her. She just wished her father were there to see it.

Trent had to admit, the car was cool. Roller coasters usually weren’t his thing. He liked them all right, but there were other things at an amusement park that tickled his fancy. He was a fan of the Spider and the Battering Ram. He even liked the bungee cord drop better than coasters. But this one was different, had a distinct personality. He started to think the ride would be all right after all.

Carly turned to Trent and squeaked, This is awesome! before taking her seat. Trent laughed and got in after her. The chain harnesses lowered over their heads and they looked at each other one last time before the ride began. Carly’s smile was brilliant. Trent thought to himself that it was all worth it, everything was, if he could see her smile at him that way.

Carly looked around for the red light. The feeling she had on the coaster with her father so many years before was back, and she knew the light had to be there somewhere. The night was silent. Even the chatter of the excited riders had ceased since stepping off the platform. Only the trudging feet of the hooded attendants could be heard as they locked this and checked that. Carly’s heart was in her throat. She was excited and a little frightened – she hadn’t been on a roller coaster, or a ride of any kind in years. But there was something else. Something else that frightened her. She couldn’t put her finger on it in the beginning, but as they sat waiting for the ride to begin, as they waited on tracks suspended high in the air over the trees and houses below, it came to her. Carly was starting to fear the light. What she had wanted most she was becoming afraid of. The light was not a beacon anymore. It was something more, something evil. Her hands felt clammy in her lap.

The trudging feet stilled, leaving the night soundless. No leaves rustled in the wind, no voices muttered, the sounds of the Fair below them so quiet, she wondered if there had ever been any at all. It was though no one dared speak. Carly wanted to break the silence just because, but she couldn’t come up with anything to say. She sat, staring ahead, in silence like everyone else.

And then the red light flickered.

The eyes of a skull on the outside of the building below flickered red. Panicked, Carly turned to her right and saw a hooded attendant standing on the access stairs. His face was partially exposed, revealing blistered skin, darkened by fire. The one visible eye socket was devoid of an eye. Instead, a black forked tongue licked out from the orifice, tasting the air and her fear upon it. Before she could scream, the coaster took off with a roar, pushing into the night with incalculable speed.

The drop was steep, as though they plummeted into hell itself. Carly couldn’t catch her breath. Her stomach had dropped and her heart beat dangerously fast in her chest. She turned her head to see Trent, to connect with him. She was frightened, more scared than she had ever been, and she needed to touch Trent, to know that he was beside her.

Trent’s head was turned away from her, lolling to the side at an odd angle. Carly forced her hand over to him, fighting against the pressure from the velocity of the coaster and touched him. The coaster hitched as they entered the haunted house and Trent’s head bobbed in her direction, limp on his neck. His open eyes were lifeless. His mouth hung open, as if he had tried to scream at his end.

Carly’s wild eyes scanned the front of the coaster to find the heads of the other riders at impossible angles. At least, the ones she could see. Some were perpendicular to their necks, others were pressed so tightly against the headrest, they had destroyed the skin and bone. All of them were dead.

A moan from behind her, made Carly wrench her eyes away from Trent, his head bouncing on his neck as though it was elastic. The man behind her had been cut across his face with a sharp object, his countenance nothing more than a mass of open, bloody wounds. One of his eyes laid on his cheek, the iris already smeared with blood.

The coaster rose into a loop like the one in the roller coaster in Carly’s memory. It crested and fell… and crested and fell, and crested and fell, caught in a cycle of going up and coming down, going round and round.

The man behind Carly dislodged himself from the chain harness to reach out to her as her mouth opened into a soundless scream. With a bloody hand, he touched her hair, used it to pull himself closer to her. Carly recognized him by his good eye. It seemed to speak to her from his soul, showing her love and loss, and worse: excitement. She looked into her father’s soul and saw glee. They were together once again on the coaster built from their dreams, the roller coaster from hell. And it was as it should be. It was just the two of them.

Carly’s father’s breath was thick with rot, the stench wafting to her nose in torrents. He spoke using damaged vocal cords, the sound produced more scratchy than tuned. Even as his discolored lips formed the words, Carly knew that she was dead. With a smile that ripped the paper-thin skin of his checks and jaw, her father asked,

Enjoying the ride, baby?

The House on the Corner

The house had always been there, standing on the corner of our street, its windows still adorned with the handmade drapes fussed over by a woman who had long since passed away. When I was little, it was the point where I had to turn my Big Wheel around and head back home. When I was nine, I rode my bicycle by it, cresting the hill on the property, perfecting my jump. When I was sixteen, I made sure I had passed the house before I roared off into the night in my new car. And now, at age thirty, I’m driving by it for what seems to be the last time.

My mother still lives in our house, the same one I grew up in, the same one I was born in. She had lived there for at least ten years before I came along, moving in just after she and my father were married. She remembered the woman who lived in the house on the corner well, often musing about her sitting in her rocking chair and looking out of the window while she knitted. I had memories of my own, though by the time I was old enough to know, she had been dead for six years.

What’s happening with the house on the corner? I asked Mom when I came in. My interested was piqued, so much so that the back of my neck was hot. My subconscious had seen it again, but my conscious mind fought it back, not allowing the visage to form in my mind.

Hello to you too, Charlie, Mom said as she lifted her head to kiss me on the cheek. I returned the kiss and waited a beat. I was too preoccupied with the house to indulge in pleasantries.

Sorry Mom. So, do you know what’s going on with it? I took a can of soda out of the refrigerator and sat down at the table in the kitchen nook.

Mom sighed under her breath and sat down with me. I didn’t know if the sigh was because I came in and didn’t say hello first or because I insisted upon talking about the house. The question stuck in my mind long after I left and made my way up the street, long after I laid eyes on the house again.

I don’t know. I guess they’re taking it away. Why do you care so much about that house anyway?

What do you mean? I’m just asking about it. The street will seem weird without it. It’s always been there.

Longer than we thought. I found out the house is more than one hundred years old.

No way!

Yes, she said as she got up to get some coffee. Pouring it into her mug, she continued, Alma’s father built it. You wouldn’t remember Alma, though, would you? You were just a little boy when she died.

I just nodded, keeping my face noncommittal. I only had one memory of Alma Vincent, one that I had never shared with anyone.

They moved here from Maryland and bought the land. Apparently, her father built the house with the help of his brother and a small crew. He moved his wife in and soon they had a little girl. Alma. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father never remarried. Alma never married nor had any children. So, the house has been empty ever since she passed away. Mom stirred sugar into her coffee and shook her head. She was a sweet old woman, at least when we moved in. She was the first one to come by and bring us a cake. They used to do that in the old days, come by and welcome new neighbors. Now people move in and out without ever knowing the people that live around them. It’s a shame, how impersonal people are now.

I know my neighbors. I said it just to keep the flow going. I figured that she’d have to get back to the house at some point.

Sure, that’s because they’re all women. There’s an ulterior motive there, I’m sure. My eyes urged her to continue through her chuckle. There was something uneasy in her face. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but something had changed from when I had come in the house.

Then Alma withdrew. She stayed in the house most of the day, only coming out to get her mail or to tend to her garden. What little visiting she did stopped. We never went to the house to see her, of course. She was much older than us. You know what I mean. I nodded, waiting. Mom fell silent then, seeming to drift away, caught in the swirl of the stirred coffee. And then she died, she finished, her voice cutting through the silence suddenly.

So, what are they going to do with the house now? I tried to sound casual, unconcerned. But I wasn’t. I needed to know.

I don’t know, Mom said as she sat down across from me, smoke rising from the coffee mug. Demolish it, I guess.

They don’t have to take it anywhere to do that. They could bulldoze it where it stands.

True. I don’t know. She sipped her coffee loudly. So, what have you been up to Charlie? How’s that new girl you’ve been seeing?

The rest of the conversation was muted. I participated, answering her questions as they came void of enthusiasm or conviction. I was too busy thinking about the house. Thinking about Alma.

I left my mother’s house a half hour after having gotten there, begging out of the visit early. I drove up the street and pulled in front of Alma’s house, just out of my mother’s sight.

Alma’s house was off the ground, sitting on the bed of a house mover truck, its big tires tattooing grooves in the Virginia clay. I got out of the car and stood before it, looking at the relic from my past, the thing that haunted my childhood dreams. What Mom didn’t mention was that Alma’s body was found in the house days after she died, sitting in her rocking chair facing the window. She had gouged out her eyes with her knitting needles. All the kids in the neighborhood talked about crazy old Alma and how she’d pluck your eyes out if you trespassed on her property for years after that. She was our very own ghost. It made our neighborhood popular in school.

No one really believed the stories they told, pieced together with slivers of truth over time. Like the one about the kid who went into the house and walked upstairs to Alma’s bedroom. He was goofing around, looking for something cool to take out of the house to prove that he’d been inside. He was fiddling with a hairbrush on her dresser when the room fell cold. It was mid-summer and the heat was raging outside. When the boy entered the house, it was hot and stuffy, stale from stagnant air. But as he stood in front of the oval mirror attached to the dresser, it felt as if someone had turned on the air conditioning.

The boy’s grip on the brush loosened and it fell to the floor. The sound of it hitting should have been muted by the carpet that covered the hardwood, but instead the brush crashed against it loudly, splintering into pieces. The boy turned to run out of the room, but found the door was blocked by a woman. She was staring at him from the doorway, her countenance more transparent than solid. A smile spread across her lips as she regarded the boy. She walked toward him, her feet never touching the ground, her footfalls not making any sound. The boy tried to back away but found himself pinned in place, unable to move a muscle. As the woman approached him, he could see that her eyes were missing, gone. Empty sockets stared back at him as she leaned forward, bringing her ghostly face closer to his. She reached a hand gnarled with arthritis toward him while her other hand remained behind her back. She caressed his face, the sensation of tiny pin pricks cascading beneath his skin.

With a voice that seemed to come from all around him, she said, Such a pretty boy. I have a surprise for you. Do you want to see it?

The boy could do nothing but whimper under the sightless gaze of the woman, his entire body in the grasp of some unseen force. Smiling grotesquely, her teeth long gone and her gums blackened by death itself, the woman brought her hand from behind her back. In it were knitting needles, their points filed and sharpened.

No one believed that story nor the countless others spun over the years about the house and the crazy old lady who had lived there long before they were born. Stories like that were made up all the time about eccentric people and abandoned houses. But I believed. I knew the stories were true because I was that boy who ventured into the crazy old lady’s house.

I was the boy she touched from the dead.

Standing in front of the house, lifted off its foundation to be taken away, I could feel the tingle of her touch on my skin as I had every day since our first encounter. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the house, red clay mussing my shoes as I went. I climbed the mammoth tire to take a look into the window of the house.

Alma sat in her rocking chair staring out at me with a smile on her face and knitting needles in her hands.

Flowers

Why not? Danny asked, picking up the flowers that adorned his Aunt’s casket. They’ll just die anyway.

He tossed them in the trunk and