A cracking sound filled the room as the glass hardened. Two shadows passed beneath the surface before the reflection of the living room settled.
***
Tom stood at the front door, attempting to ward off the rain with a damp newspaper. His two loyal removal men stood at the front gate, ready to be sent forth to collect the mirror. They stood like burly statues, completely unmoved by the drizzle soaking them through.
The front door swung open, and Tom found himself looking at an empty hallway. A small cough directed his gaze downwards, and he realised Sara had opened the door.
“Good morning, young Sara. Where’s your mum?”
“I don’t know, Uncle Tom. She told me to go out and play yesterday afternoon, and when I came back in she was gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I looked all over for her but I can’t find her.”
On cue, Sara started to cry. Tom knelt down to hug her, wondering what had happened to his sister after they agreed to sell the mirror.
“Well I’m here to collect that ugly old mirror of yours. Your mum wants a new one,” said Tom.
He looked down at Sara, expecting some kind of reaction. When she gave none, he waved to his removal men. Suddenly animated, they strode up the path and into the house, pausing to wipe their feet.
Tom followed them into the living room. The mirror stood in the corner. He couldn’t understand Wendy’s sudden disappearance. Still, she wanted him to take the mirror out of the house. At his signal, Danny and Will lifted the mirror, leaving behind nothing but deep dents in the carpet.
“I can’t leave you here by yourself...you can come to work with me. I’ll leave a note for your mum in case she comes back. Would you like that?” asked Tom.
“Yes, Uncle Tom,” replied Sara.
Tom never noticed that Sara wore only one sandal.
The Stairs
Misfit magazine
She pulls the door back a fraction of an inch; just enough to peer outside. An unearthly chill, more than just the bone-chilling cold of November, seeps through the crack. The landing outside is dark; the peculiar concentration of shadows by the railing defies even the strongest moonlight. She shivers, her breath forming frozen clouds in the still air.
There’s no one there there’s no one there there’s no one there
The words run together as one as they tumble through her head. She swallows hard, and bites her lip to ground herself through pain. Mustering a handful of tattered shreds of courage from some forgotten part of her psyche, she throws open the door. The landing is still empty, but she darts across to the opposite wall. She slams her fist against the switch, and impassive electric light floods the space. She can see nothing out of the huge window above the stairs, but she senses a flicker of movement in the mirror to her left. She descends before the timer kicks in and the light snaps off.
She isn’t quick enough. The light goes out and the stairs are plunged into darkness. She hears the creaking of an old rope swinging from the railing above her, and once again the sad blonde woman fills her thoughts. She freezes, her hand gripping the banister. Half of her wants to run back upstairs and throw herself into the warmth of her room. The other half longs to go downstairs, to reach the next light switch.
One word races through her mind.
Suicide…
Cold
Tomlit Quarterly
Cold. Horrible, insidious, bone-chilling cold. Sandra blew on her hands in a futile attempt to keep them warm. Her breath puffed into the air in small fluffy clouds.
“You still not got your heating sorted?” Steve lounged on the threadbare sofa, still clad in his DMs and parka. The fur-trimmed hood obscured most of his face.
“Clearly not,” replied Sandra.
“Why?”
“Costs money, doesn’t it?”
“So? Get your landlord to do it. That’s what you’re paying him rent for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but it costs him money.”
“Yeah? And?”
“He doesn’t have any.”
“What about your rent?”
“He pisses that away at the Four Bones.”
“What?”
Sandra refused to answer any more questions. It took too much effort, and she wanted to conserve her energy for keeping warm. Steve moved slightly, peering out from inside the hood. All Sandra could see was his Roman nose, thin lips and wide jaw peppered with stubble.
“Ah well. I’m not surprised, really. There’s a barmaid in there with the most amazing cleavage. Still, it’s a crap name for a pub.” He idly scratched his chin with a bony index finger.
“Eh?”
“I said, it’s a crap name for a pub. You know, the Four Bones? Whose bones are they on about then?”
“I dunno. Patrick did tell me once, but I’ve forgotten. I think Cecila said it was something to do with the Church.”
“Isn’t it always?” Steve almost sounded wistful.
Silence descended, broken only by the steady drone of traffic outside. Sandra tapped her fingers against her novelty Simpsons mug, struggling for something to say. Steve’s presence unnerved her.
“Was there something you actually wanted?”
“Not really. Why do you ask?” Steve moved again, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. She could hear him fiddling with something; she guessed it was his lighter.
“Well you came over twenty minutes ago, and so far all you’ve done is complain it’s cold. Did you want something?”
“Just thought you might need the company.”
“And why would I need or want company?”
“You know, after...after Jake left. We all heard about it, and we were worried.”
Sandra glared at Steve’s hood for a second, before dropping her gaze to her mug of tea.
“I don’t want to think about Jake. Why do you think I would want someone around just because he isn’t here anymore?”
“I thought you might be, you know, lonely. You might want a man around.”
“You mean you wanted to fill his shoes.”
“His shoes, your knickers, it’s all the same to me.” Steve shrugged; the sound of the nylon against her sofa made Sandra want to scream.
“You’re such a charmer, Steve.”
“I know. So you don’t want any company?”
“Not from you.”
Steve sat up. He pushed back the hood and ran his hands through his oily black hair. Sandra wished he would get it cut; it was forever flopping over his face. Steve thought it was cute; Sandra found it irritating.
“Guess I’ll be going then.”
“I think you should.” Sandra took a sip from her mug, but the tea had already gone cold. She grimaced as she slammed the cup down on the table, slopping cold tea into the saucer.
“Ooh, someone’s testy. You sure I can’t do anything to alleviate that tension?” A sly grin crept across Steve’s face, never quite reaching his dark eyes.
“You could start by going home.”
“You’re about as cold as your flat.” Steve stood up. He looked down at Sandra, but she refused to meet his gaze. Rolling his eyes, he left the living room. Sandra listened to his heavy footsteps thud down the hallway.
She waited until she heard the front door slam before she allowed herself to cry.
The Dead Do Listen
Everyday Weirdness
“I can’t believe you made me do a tour of a catacomb. It’s morbid. No, it’s sick, that’s what it is.” Celia stepped over a small puddle on the cobbled floor. Her foot skidded on the thin layer of moss spreading across the stones.
“Shut up, it’s interesting,” replied Kaye. She hurried to catch up with the small group further down the corridor.
Four thick shelves ran the length of both walls; each held a row of coffins in various states of disrepair. Iron grates or concrete slabs covered some of the loculi. Celia shuddered to think what lay inside the makeshift tombs.
The guide
stopped beside an iron grate on the second shelf down. Beyond it lay a narrow coffin. Rot had chewed through the outer oak shell, leaving the lead lining exposed at the end nearest the bars. An illegible plaque hung above the lock.
“This here is the final resting place of Lord Theodore Mountrose. He was a right nasty bugger, according to the gossip of the day.” The guide rapped on the rusty iron grate.
“Really? What did he do?” asked the woman nearest the guide.
“What didn’t he do! He came from a very wealthy family, and was the youngest of four. Some say he was spoiled by his mother, who refused to acknowledge anything he did,” replied the guide. “He fathered his first bastard aged fourteen, with one of the house’s scullery maids. Six months later, she and the child were found dead, drowned in the lake behind Mountrose Hall.”
“Did he kill them?” asked Kaye. Celia elbowed her; it was bad enough she’d had to come on this tour, she didn’t want Kaye drawing attention to them.
“The locals certainly believe he did. By the time the maid died, two more of his father’s maids were in the family way. Both of them died before they could even give birth.”
“What happened to them?” asked a tall bald man. He clutched a dog-eared map of the cemetery.
“One of them jumped off the roof of the house, the other one mysteriously tripped and fell onto a pitchfork. After those scandals, he just got worse. He went from school to school, causing trouble wherever he went. He tried to force his older sister into an incestuous relationship, and she ended up poisoning herself. And-”
A loud knocking interrupted the guide. Soft at first, the gentle rap became an impatient thump. The group looked around the corridor, trying to locate the source of the noise. The guide started back towards the central tunnel. She called to the catacomb warden. Only Celia stared at the coffin behind the grate, her mouth agape.
“Excuse me, you out there! Excuse me! I really do beg to differ!”
The lead lining muffled the voice, but there was no escaping the fact that Lord Mountrose wanted to set the record straight.
Afterword
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About the author: Icy Sedgwick was born in the North East of England, and lives and works in Newcastle, where she teaches graphic design and illustration. She has been writing for over ten years, and had her first book, The Guns of Retribution, published in 2011. Its sequel, To Kill a Dead Man, was released in 2016. Her horror fantasy, The Necromancer’s Apprentice, was released in March 2014. She spends her non-writing time working on a PhD in Film Studies, considering the use of set design in contemporary haunted house films. She is also a secret evil genius who enjoys good chocolate cake.
Find me online!
My blog: https://www.icysedgwick.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/miss.icy.sedgwick
Twitter: https://twitter.com/icysedgwick
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