"Really? You time-slotted our bathroom breaks?"
Okay, maybe I was going a bit overboard but, hey. It gave us room to fail a little bit and still win. The mad sciences were all about fail-safes and back-up protocols. Sometimes, it was hard to separate the woman and the career.
I spent the next three days making helpful suggestions. Several. Then, I bit my tongue, backed off, and kept to myself. It was maddening. On day one the dishes got half-washed before Enyo lost interest and sneaked off to find her laptop. Loki was marginally better but the kid is deliberate and careful (read: slow poke.)
He was absolutely horrible at completing tasks on time and, as a result, ran over into free time. That resulted in extreme frustration and a disturbing muffled boom emanating from his bedroom when he stomped off to get ready for bed.
But I did not nag. I smiled, a forced twist of lips, and gently reminded my dear children that it was time to move on to the next step in the daily routine. On day three, the dishes were washed completely and I spent ten minutes praising and hugging and making the child squirm under the strange show of celebration. I cheered Loki on through the last of his math homework as he finished almost on schedule.
The next week, the kids started their chores without a word. I actually got an extra half-hour to myself down in the lab before I had to come up and break up a loud argument over who got to play with the PS3 first.
By the time the teeth-pajamas-bed sequence rolled around, I was exhausted from all the miserable holding-back. Routines sucked. However, if we were going to be a happy family, we had to stick with it.
Even if it meant--ugh--more gentle smiles and helpful suggestions.
I was a mad scientist, dammit. My passions fueled my imagination, my drive to create things that should not exist and my desire to one day rule large parts of the planet. Sometimes the passions spilled over in the form of nagging and yelling. It was difficult to hold it all back.
"Wife." My husband watched TV late that night after the kids went to bed. "What is wrong with your face?"
I glanced over at Joe. "What kind of question is that?"
"Your face is lopsided. Mouth is crooked. What…" He rumbled as he searched for the right word. "What expression is that?"
Sometimes I forgot golems didn't use facial expressions to display their feelings. Joe loved me so much he'd learned what my faces meant. This one was a new one for him, I suppose. It was a new one for me, too.
"I'm anxious," I admitted. "I feel like I have to sit on my hands."
"No sit on hands. Sit on bottom."
"It's a figure of speech, hon."
"Will that strange expression go away if you sit on hands?" Puzzlement changed his voice and I couldn't help but smile.
"No. The expression will go away when I figure out how to get the kids to cooperate without me wanting to scream them in the right direction."
"It is natural order of things. Sometimes not good to interfere with nature."
I nodded. He was right. Sometimes, it wasn't good to interfere with nature. However, it was something I did on a daily basis to get the things I wanted. This was just one more thing.
#
The whole routine thing lumbered on with halting unsure steps. Sometimes, homework got done. Sometimes, I had to redirect (see how mature my vocabulary is becoming?) a child to their desk or to the vacuum cleaner. Most of the time, I hovered, my need to nag building and building and threatening to blow.
I ran to the lab a few times to burn off the extra energy, drawing schematics for a new device that would ultimately be named something that ended in -inator or spending time out in the garage tinkering with a new zombie. I made a vow I would not nag. The least I could do is get something productive done with all this ventable passion.
This might work, I thought. Then Thursday happened.
Thursday started bad. Enyo was not happy about being made to gain consciousness and even unhappier about being made to forsake her supine position. Too bad. We all have our trials. I once faced a mob of villagers holding pitchforks and torches. She could drag her behind out of bed and go to school.
Apparently, things didn't get any better at school. She came home with a black cloud over her head that actually rained on the carpet before I found and dispelled it. Damn things were worse than dogs.
She took things out on her brother, of course, and our carefully constructed routine went right out the window. I separated them and they yelled from room to room at each other. I sent them to their rooms. Thinking they were busy with homework, I stuck my head in and found her on her laptop, playing Webkinz.
Cute animals and constructive games? Hell to the no. Not in this house.
I blew it. The scream came out in a long, unbroken shriek of frustration and I yelled. I yelled about the state of her room, the unmade bed, the sloppy drawers, the homework lying forgotten in the other room. I slapped the wall and made things rattle and scurry away inside. Loki crept down the hall to see what the ruckus was about and I started on him. I yelled and I stomped and they stared at me in shock and awe.
And they smiled.
Wait. Not cowering in fear and restitution? Smiling?
"Wow." Enyo was the first to speak. "That was awesome."
I looked at her as if she had two heads. "Really? The yelling is awesome? Is this what you want? Me nagging and screaming and acting like a complete monster?"
"You're not a monster," she said. "You're our mom. And we love you."
Loki ran to me and strangled my waist in a hug. "Thank God you're back."
"What?" I was confused. "I don't--"
"Please, Mommy," he said, looking up at me with wide eyes. "Don't do that again."
I was on the verge of tears. "I told you. I hate yelling."
"Not that, the other stuff. The weird smiles and nicety stuff."
"Wait a second." I sat down of the bed and looked hard at them. "You mean, you guys didn't like when I wasn't yelling?"
Enyo whooshed out a breath. "Oh, Mom, it was so creepy. I thought you were possessed again."
"Are you really our mom again?" Loki reached up and put his hand on my cheek. "Cause I missed her."
What could I say to that? I opened my arms and drew them to me in a tight hug. I guess sometimes, nature will prevail, even if we don't want it to. The scientist in me was hugely disappointed but, right now, the mom was relieved and terribly happy again.
#
Later, the kids did their homework--without my having to remind them, thank you--and were staving off a chore or two before supper. Cosmic balance, I guess. I poked my head into the parlor. "Anyone seen your father?"
Loki didn't even look up from his video game. "Outside doing the yard."
Thank goodness for my husband. At least someone was doing what they were supposed to be doing.
"Honey?" I called as I stepped out onto the porch. "Don't forget, the belladonna needs to be cut back before the deer get at it again. It really messes with their eyesight."
However, the lawn mower stood abandoned on the side walk. I couldn't hear the weed whacker, either. Intrigued, I went to look for him.
I found him in the side yard, deanimated again. I noticed he had his ass-end pointing its unmistakable stony crack at the neighbor's house.
Sigh. Men are impossible.
Instead of summoning him, I just draped my wet dish towel over his rear and went back inside. He's lucky I didn't leave a target. I'm sure that hawk was still around somewhere.
#
Late that night, I crawled into bed and snuggled up to my still-warm husband, laying my head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to him in a warm, cocoon-like embrace. Ahhh. No indigestion tonight. I loved spring evenings.
Dishes were done, laundry was clean, another flesh golem was on its way to a new owner. Kids were asleep, house was in order, and my PayPal account was as stretched full as my gastro-intestinal tract. Boy, I was beat. I uttered a contented sigh and felt the heat seep into
my body, causing lazy tingles of happy to float like motes through my skin.
"Good day today, wife?"
"Hmm-mmm." I snuggled closer. "I guess."
"You worked hard. Good work."
"Yeah." I pressed a kiss to his bare chest, feeling it rumble when he breathed. The vibrations were soothing. I guessed it was the reason why the kids always fell asleep in their car seats when they were little. "Work was hard and good."
"Good wife. Good mom. Good work."
I smiled and drifted off to sleep. All three words--wife, mom, work--were the same to me.
And all three were, indeed, good.
Dr. Calotes-Golem completed her doctoral studies at the University of Romania and Fellowed at Frankenstein's Institute for Undead Advancement in Budapest. She has earned the Mary Shelly Distinction for Inspirational Women Scientists and has finaled in the International Zombie Awards for the past four years. She's a member of AZS, TZS, and the United Golem Association Women's Auxiliary. She resides in Northeast Pennsylvania with her family, their German Shepherd Dog, and whatever she can animate in the garage.
***
Ash Krafton is the author of paranormal romance Bleeding Hearts.
Discover more by Ash Krafton at https://AshKrafton.com
Southern Hospitality
from Undead Dixie Debs, a collection of Southern Gothic Horror
by Claudia Lefeve
July 8, 1863
The Nashville Dispatch: “… has given notice to a large number of women of the town that they must prepare to leave Nashville.”
Lucy was hungry.
It had been awhile since she’d eaten a proper meal. The war had left her without much to get by on and it was taking its toll on what felt like both her mind and body. Lucy could hardly even remember that she was at one time considered beautiful.
She sat on the worn sofa and closely observed the Yankee soldier that occupied the chair opposite her. He looks so young, Lucy thought. It seemed like such a waste of life, men having to die in war. Lucy’s own husband had died. Shortly after, Lucy’s sisters came to live with her in the house they grew up in. In the years they lived together during the war, they did what they had to do in order to survive.
But Lucy wasn’t bitter. She and her sisters were proud to serve the Confederacy, doing whatever they could for the cause – even if it meant dealing with the occasional Yankee. It was the price they paid in order to keep themselves fed. With precious little, the sisters relied on obtaining food and goods by way of visitors, house guests, and whatever else came their way.
July 17, 1863
The Cincinnati Daily Gazette: “The Idahoe came up, bringing a cargo of 150 of the frail sisterhood of Nashville, who had been sent north under military orders… the poor girls are still kept on board.”
Lucy stiffened. She could feel the soldier staring at her for a better look at her face. With kerosene in short supply, the parlor was lit with just one lamp. Lucy hoped the dim glare was enough to obscure her disheveled appearance. It was rather fortunate for her that he and his men had chosen to appear at her door after dark, so it was difficult for him to see how ghastly she really looked. For this, among other reasons, she chose to sit across from him.
July 26, 1863
The Nashville Dispatch: “We are informed that a dozen of our Cyprians were sent to Louisville a few days ago… back to Nashville.”
The soldier shifted in his seat. “Now, I must ask and I do not mean to offend such… uh… beautiful lady such as yourself, but are you and your sisters healthy?”
Lucy was taken aback by his boldness, but not surprised by his question. “Yes. In fact, we go to the clinic every week,” she said.
The war saw many soldiers, on both sides, ravaged with disease that spread among the states. Generals began to regulate and control the rampant contamination. In Nashville, the Confederacy mandated regular screenings of its residents to control the outbreak of diseases in order to shield her Rebel troops.
August 5, 1863
The Nashville Dispatch: “…the arrival of the Idahoe with her cargo of 150 women just returned from Louisville… The Idahoe has now become famous.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you and your sisters,” the soldier said.
For a brief moment, Lucy wondered if he and his men were here to seize their family home. She smiled warmly towards the man. “Only good things I hope,” she said.
“Yes, of course. That’s why we stopped for a visit. We couldn't pass up the opportunity and miss such…” The soldier paused and looked around the once beautiful parlor, “…grand southern hospitality," he finished.
“How kind of you to say,” Lucy said.
“May I request permission for me and my men to take a look around and meet with your sisters?”
“Certainly,” Lucy said.
The soldier retreated outside and signaled to the others that it was safe to enter the house. His private visit was either to make sure the sisters didn’t pose a threat or to ensure the house was not occupied by local men, Lucy thought.
Grabbing the lamp from the mantle and making sure she stayed several steps ahead of the men, Lucy led the soldiers up the winding staircase to the hallway where the bedrooms were located.
“Please, make yourself welcome and approach any room you wish,” Lucy said.
The eldest of the group, as far as Lucy was able to tell, was the first to knock on one of the doors and went into the room taken by Lucy’s sister Joanna. Almost immediately, they heard a gasp and what sounded like a moan. The soldier turned to her and smiled. Then one by one, the soldiers continued to enter beyond the closed doors. The only room that remained was Lucy’s. The soldier stared at her and beckoned her into the bedroom.
“After you,” Lucy said.
He entered the room and she closed the door behind her. With their bodies only a few inches away, the soldier could see Lucy more clearly as the lamp she carried illuminated her face.
“You know I –”
“Shh,” Lucy said. She licked his neck.
From down the hallway, Lucy could hear the screams coming from the other rooms.
* * *
The prevalence of venereal disease ran rampant in Nashville and other parts of Tennessee. By special order, the disease-ridden prostitutes of Nashville were forced aboard the Idahoe for passage to Louisville. The ship’s precious cargo was rejected at both Louisville and Cincinnati ports, prompting their return to Nashville. No one could have foreseen that during the thirteen days the sisters and their brethren lay anchored on the Ohio River, fouled with disease and with no food on deck; the women would develop a unique lust for flesh.
July 15, 1863
The Louisville Daily Journal: “The Idahoe arrived yesterday evening… A few of the girls escaped.”
***
Claudia Lefeve is the author of unDead Dixie Debs, The Fury, and the best-selling Travelers series of YA books, including Parallel , Paradox, and the upcoming Paradigm.
Get to know Claudia at https://ClaudiaLefeve.com
Lucian's First Trick
by Red Tash
“I don't know about this one, Dad. The light's not on.” He stood on the sidewalk looking up at the porch of the house next door. Unlike every other house on the street, it was dark, same as every night. Not once from his bedroom window had the boy seen the glow of a TV, or a light in the bedroom. “Let's just go home.”
“Lucian, it's your last year trick-or-treating,” his father said. “You said you were going to hit every house on the block.” A glowing iPhone illuminated the man's face.
Lucian shrugged. He took a step toward the house, then froze, as he heard the sound of voices shrieking from across the street.
“Hey, Lucy-N! You got some 'splainin' to dooooooo!” It was Elmo Jenkins, threepeat douchebag champion of the world, doing his best Ricky Ricardo.
Lucian looked to his dad. His dad looked to his phone, now held sideways, thumbs typing awa
y, frowning vaguely.
“'Sup, Peanut Boy? You get me any Reese's Cups yet?” Elmo raised his fingers to his mouth in a crude gesture, wagging his tongue at Lucian and rendering his costume a sudden obscenity.
How many years had Elmo threatened Lucian because of his peanut allergy? Lucian did the math. He was eleven now, so...four years?
Lucian held up four fingers in Elmo's direction. As the bully's face registered delighted surprise, Lucian lowered each of three fingers, except for the middle one. He danced it around in the air, merrily for a moment, before putting it away as his dad looked up from the phone.
On the porch of the house next door, the light flickered on.
“Go on,” Lucian's dad said. “Light's on now.” In a whisper he added “Maybe we'll finally see what the old recluse looks like.”
Elmo grabbed his crotch and made lewd gestures from across the street, his cronies snickering.
Lucian stole up the steps to the front door before he lost his nerve. The door creaked open as Lucian approached.
“Hello?” he said. No answer. “Trick or treat?” This time he whispered, and looked over his shoulder to see if he'd just given Elmo more ammunition for making fun of him. Who says “trick or treat” anymore?
“Come in, child,” the old lady said, her bony hand grasping Lucian by the wrist and pulling him inside, before he could whip his head around and register her appearance. A confluence of teeth and darkness, the smell of smoke like a million cigarettes and Grandma's church at Christmastime. He pulled away from her grasp, but she was quick and powerful and he felt himself fly forward with a jerk, like that time his dad had taken him to the Harry Potter theme park, and they'd ridden the 3D ride.
Lucian caught his breath, stumbling away from the woman and landing hard on his bottom, his trick or treat bag spilling onto the grimy hardwood floor. As much as he wanted the candy, he didn't dare scoop it up from the mess of ooze and sticky goo.
“What the hell?” he said. “What was that?” He stood and tried to take a look around the dark room. It was candlelit, but just barely. They were deep into the house now—somehow the old crone had pulled him inside. She was cloaked in a black flaxen robe, the kind he'd seen in a number of boring Halloween specials every year.