Behind me, Lucas was sobbing, high pitched and panicked.
I pulled as hard as I could, screaming into the dead air, but I only had a grip on three of Clem’s fingers. Slick with sweat they slipped from my grasp and disappeared inside.
Just before the door slammed shut I saw a slice of something unspeakable. The elbow of a rough kitchen counter, mildewed and thick with filth. Knives. Meat hooks. Long bones, gnawed and cracked.
I almost passed out then. I would have, if Lucas hadn’t hit me, hard, across the face. I realized he’d been shouting in my face, words I hadn’t heard.
I don’t remember running through the woods. I don’t remember anything at all until we reached the underpass, and Lucas and I have never spoken of it since. We must have taken the dropped newspaper with us, as I do remember waving a car down with it. I remember how a few of the pages drifted away in the wind, tumbling over themselves in the false wind of the passing traffic.
The police never found Clem. They came to my parent’s house every day for a week, told me that there was no shack in those woods. Told me that the woods were very small, that we could only have been walking in them for ten minutes or so in any direction before we’d have come to their edge. Wanted to know what had happened to Clem. That’s what they kept asking me. She was missing, where had she gone, when had we last seen her, why had we made up a story about a cannibalistic tramp.
I wasn’t allowed to see or speak to Lucas. The local adolescent mental health service was called in. My parents, grey-faced and close to tears, sat on either side of me on the sofa, day after day, as the parade passed me by. Only part of me was present to witness it, which was a relief.
The police never found a body, and so Clem was put down as a missing person. The police were sure that Lucas and I had been instrumental in her ‘running away from home’, but had nothing to charge us with and so eventually let us be. Clem’s parents, equally believing Lucas and I bore some blame (which I guess we did) turned up at my house a couple of times and screamed at my parents, and we moved away not long after.
These events happened a very long time ago. You may remember the missing person appeal for Clem in the newspaper; it went nationwide, I think.
I’m writing this in my car. I’ve come back, you see, after all this time. The estate has grown old now, like me: it sags in places, it doesn’t stand as straight as it used to. It’s whole, but stained and faded. It’s become disillusioned; it’s seen its acolytes peel away to newer towns and to fashionable city refurbs.
The engine’s off now, and my breath steams in the cool interior.
I picture myself walking across town to the park; I imagine pulling my unwilling bones up that landscaped slope and walking, crablike and careful, down the other side. I wonder how the underpass will look. I picture the brittle dunes of skeletal leaves that will line its innards. I think of the path through the forest, and how I will follow it into the tomb-like dark of the trees.
I know that I’ll walk for an hour or more, and will not come to the wood’s outer boundary. Instead, I’ll come across a clearing, where a shack lurks. Today’s newspaper will poke from its mailbox.
I came here believing that, having seen it again, I can turn around and leave. I’d be satisfied that I am, and always have been, sane, but I know that I will not. Because that contaminated place has been waiting for me.
It’s hungry again.
M.A. Smith
About the Author
MA Smith writes from Gloucestershire, UK, where she lives with her family. Her short fiction is published regularly in magazines that include Dark Moon Digest, Gallery of Curiosities, Andromeda Spaceways, Mythic and The British Fantasy Society’s ‘Horizons’ anthology. Smith’s novella, ‘Severance,’ is a sci-fi/dark fantasy re-working of the classic fairy-tale ‘The Little Mermaid,’ and was published in 2018 by Fantasia Divinity.
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Interference
Matthew A. St. Cyr
The sunlight was starting to sink, and had turned a deep gold by the time Samantha and Patrick reached the summit of Mount Wixatonic. Sam put her backpack on a large, smooth rock on the ground. She pulled out two water bottles and two granola bars, tossing one of each to Patrick. They sat together in silence, looking out at the vista that splayed out before them. From this vantage point you could see all of Harper below them, and as far as Worcester. The two sat, with their backs to the sun, watching seemingly microscopic life go about their daily routines beneath them.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately,” Patrick said. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as a tech in the emergency room.”
Samantha swallowed the last of her granola bar, taking a large swig of water before answering. “Okay. Well, what did you have in mind?”
“Nursing school.” He said softly, not turning to meet his gaze.
“Nursing school. . .” Samantha repeated thoughtfully. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while?”
“For about a year.” He said quickly, quietly. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to bring it up.”
“Well,” Samantha took in a deep breath and held it for a moment, returning her gaze to the world below. “I think that’s an absolutely absolutely amazing idea.” She smirked when she saw his head suddenly whip around in surprise.
“Really?” He almost shouted.
“Of course! Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” She grabbed his hand, letting their fingers fold together.
Patrick shrugged, feeling a little self conscious. “Well, first we bought the house, then there were all the repairs that had to be done. I know you need a new car, and we
