Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection Read online

  It was her favourite book. In her book a little girl found a gem. Her mother took it from her and gave it to a lord…the lord had lost the gem, of course. By chance they fell in love and the lord took the little girl and the mother and they became his family…they were happy…

  It was just a story though, she thought, and her mood nearly dropped. But the night was magical. It was a night for a little girl to dream.

  *

  Ellisindre dismounted ungracefully and put her feet on the solid ground. Her rump was sore from the ride.

  Not for the first time.

  The squire had not spoken a word to her, but now he tossed her a gold coin which she snatched from the air and tucked away in her skirt with a smooth, practised movement.

  He slid from the horse and took her elbow.

  'Come, my lord awaits. His ardour is rare and he is impatient when the mood is upon him. Do not keep him waiting.'

  She said nothing but allowed herself to be led by the arm toward a grand door. She could see little else of the house but she got the sense that it was a large estate. They had passed the last house a few minutes ago, and headed through iron wrought gates onto a long paved road with carmillion blossoms on either side, their night blooms full and fragrant.

  The squire pushed open the door with one hand and guided her through perhaps a little roughly, but some of his rudeness seemed to have left him.

  'Through the door to the right. My master waits in the dining room.'

  She nodded and walked, brushing her damp hair away from her face. She put a smile on and tried to hide her disquiet. She felt more than out of place. The house was grand and full of artefacts. She was pleased that the squire had trusted her to walk through such riches without trying to plunder the hall and escape before he could find her.

  Somehow she had the impression, though, that she would not get far.

  She walked into the dining room and a small gasp escaped her lips. It was immense. But she was here to work, not gawp, and her gent was watching.

  She pushed her bosom out to its full advantage and walked toward the man seated at the end of a long table who was smiling at her. She watched his eyes. They seemed black at this distance.

  'Please, my lady. Take the seat at the end. I presumed you would be hungry at this hour and have taken the liberty of having a small repast prepared for you.'

  'My lord, such kindness!' she exclaimed breathlessly, pouting.

  'For such a beautiful lady…I would go to the ends of the earth.'

  Oh, she thought, at least he made the pretence of charm.

  'Might I have the pleasure of a name?' he enquired solicitously.

  'Ellisindre, lord.'

  'And I am Shawford Crale, my lady. Now we are friends. Please,' he waved a hand.

  She sat where he indicated, at the foot of the long table. She watched him over the candlesticks…gold, if she was not mistaken. The table, too, was the finest. It seemed to be made of some stone she did not recognise but it had the solidity of stone, even if it was finely polished and seemed to have flecks of gold within it.

  She happened to glance down and saw a strange design drawn below her chair. She pulled the chair in and returned her gaze to the man at the head of the table.

  He was watching her like a hawk. His eyes had not left her since she had entered the dining hall. She tried to regain her composure and keep her smile on her face, even though her heart pounded in her chest.

  The gent clapped his hands and a bent old man entered bearing a tray of delicacies, which the old man placed before Ellisindre.

  'Please, business can wait. You must be hungry…'

  She tried to pick but the food was delicious. There were sea oysters and plums, a fine strong cheese and a salty hunk of fish which she tore into. The servant returned and filled a glass with a deep red wine which she sampled and then gulped.

  It was a meal like she had never imagined. The flavours exploded in her mouth and she used the napkin to wipe the juices from her lips between mouthfuls, until she forgot all efforts at deportment and set to with a passion.

  The man seemed content to watch her eat. She watched him from under the cover of her hair which fell over her eyes, wondering that such a fine man could show one such as her such courtesy, a simple woman who made men happy when she could for a pretty.

  He smiled at her and motioned for her to continue eating.

  She gladly obliged, until she could eat no more.

  'Thank you, my lord. It was a meal like no other. It was the best I have ever had. I have no doubt, you too, will be the best…'

  The man laughed and his long salt and pepper hair fell across his eyes.

  'My dear lady, you are the sweetest thing. Please, allow me to pour you some more wine…then, perhaps, we can get down to the business of the night.'

  She smiled coquettishly at him and put a hand to her breast.

  He approached with a bottle of the fine wine in his hand. His other was hidden behind his back. Ordinarily it would have troubled her, but she was utterly disarmed and not a little drunk.

  *

  The little girl had taken a while to find the horse. It had fallen silent some time ago, but for some reason her senses seemed more alive than they had ever been. She could smell it in the night, now approaching midnight by her inexperienced reckoning.

  She stepped up to the horse and it whinnied at her and sniffed her hand. She stroked its nose and whispered gently to it, calming the beast.

  It was a beautiful creature. So large she could barely reach its soft nose even though it craned its head down for her attentions.

  Through the fog she heard her mother’s voice, startling her.

  What was her mother doing here, in a lord’s manor?

  Tonight was turning into some kind of adventure…perhaps her mother had met a lord…and they had fallen in love! Tomorrow they would come for her on this beautiful horse and they would all ride across the downs!

  A mystery to be solved. She crept on stealthy feet closer to the voices and peered through a misted window.

  *

  'So, my dear. To business? Shall we?'

  'Where do you want me, my lord? What do you wish?'

  'You look beautiful just where you are…no, no, stay seated,' he said, coming to stand behind her.

  She had been mesmerised by his walk. He was a solid man, well built and of middle years. He seemed confident…and more handsome than most of the gents she had known.

  His hand touched her shoulder and she sighed. His hands were warm, her shoulder cold. Always cold.

  'Such a beautiful neck, my lovely,' he said, and caressed her gently. She felt herself warming to him, a sudden rush of blood where she was barren. Her mind swam from the wine and his hands were so soft.

  She didn’t feel the knife that sliced through her neck. She was only aware of the blood when she felt its warmth flooding down the front of her dress.

  She tried to scream at the sight of all the blood but only a drowning gurgle came from her rent throat.

  Shawford Crale turned suddenly as a scream of rage rent the night from outside the window, bringing the knife to bear. Then the window shattered and Ellisindre’s daughter flew across the room…it was a leap no mortal could have made.

  Ellisindre heard a startled cry escape the lips of her murderer and then the man was thrown across the table. Her daughter jumped on top of him and like a nightmare she was at his throat, tearing it open with her teeth. Tearing his flesh and drinking his blood.

  She drank, Ellisindre aware only dimly of the slurping, gurgling noises coming from the table…then she felt flesh held against her lips.

  'Drink, mother. Drink.'

  She could do little else. She drank. The blood from his throat mixed with her own and came out through the hole in her throat…then the hole was closed and she was drinking the pumping warmth from the man down into her full belly. But his blood warmed her through like the food had not. Her throat felt better. The stin
ging pain subsided and her head cleared.

  Her daughter dropped Shawford Crale back onto the table, and for a moment Ellisindre marvelled at the strength it must have taken for her little girl to hold the man for her.

  But she was no longer the weak little girl who had been wasting in her room this last month. Her cheeks were ruddy again and her flesh full and plump.

  'I understand the sickness now, mother,' said her daughter. 'I feel it. I feel the life pulsing through me. Do you?'

  Shawford Crale’s blood trickled out from his torn neck, staining the light marble crimson.

  Ellisindre nodded and took her daughter in her arms. Tears dripped and mixed with the blood on her breast.

  'I understand now, sweetheart, but my god, how I wish I did not.'

  'Don’t weep, mother. I dreamt of this day. That my father would be a lord! That you would be his wife and you would no longer have to haunt the night for a penny.'

  'But you killed him.'

  'No, mother. I don’t think so,' said the little girl, new and frightening wisdom in her voice. 'I understand. He will be your husband. We have given him life! You will rule him and this house. I read it in a book, mother. The book you gave to me.'

  'This is no fairytale, daughter of my heart.'

  'But if we let it, it could be,' her daughter said, her eyes pleading.

  Shawford Crale’s blood dried. Ellisindre sat watching, her daughter eager on her lap, as the master of the house’s throat slowly healed.

  By morning the hole had closed. A new day dawned with dreams fulfilled and hearts full of hope.

  *

  And so, just like in the fairytales, a kiss brought the lord back to life, and they all lived happily ever after.

  Dreams do come true.

  And so, in the still dark hours of the night, do nightmares.

  *

  Sometimes my stories come to the page from dreams. The following is a dream I had, in fictional format, although the dream was pretty much this, from beginning to end. It was one of the few dreams I've had where I woke up refreshed instead of screaming for help.

  Rapture

  I am walking through the fields. Last night’s rain lingers in the earth and my feet are muddy. Stones irritate me, mud squelches between my toes. To the east the sun rises slowly. The dark still rules, but the hint of dawn is plenty to guide me in the field. Crows greet the rising sun with a cacophony of caws, a raucous song breaking the still night. An early car in the distance roars by on some assignation unknown. I stand for a moment and watch as a gentle breeze stirs the daffodils. It is a soft and sure spring morning.

  Walking slowly now, relishing the feel of the earth beneath my feet, even the occasional stone biting the tender skin, I head toward the centre of the field. It is where I am supposed to be. My house sits silent behind me, but I do not look back. It is a new dawn, a time for moving forward. Sleep, too, has been left behind and forgotten. I am more awake now than I have ever been before. The air smells of sweet flowery fragrances and damp. The sounds are crisp and clear and the roads fall still. It is a perfect morning and I cannot imagine being anywhere else. I cannot imagine another time.

  Wind flaps my fringe over my eyes. It tickles.

  There is a hint in the air. Something new. My heart leaps with expectation. I am not ready yet, but when the time comes I will be. This touch of earth has the feel of a dream. The clarity of the crows morning call has the timbre of a dream. Yet I am more awake than I have ever been in the middle of the day when the sun is high or the sky is a sullen grey and rain drizzles down. I am more awake than those nights when the moon is full, or when I am full of thoughts of sex, or when I eat seafood and listen to the sound of the sea but only in my head. The sea is a distance uncovered, from the heartland of the country an unimaginable journey taken on an empty stomach. But in my head the tides rise and the waves roar.

  In the centre of the field now and my feet are caked in mud to the ankles. There are people here, but I did not think this moment would be my own. I have had too many moments of my own. Sometimes a perfect thing is more so for the sharing. Only one of the people here is looking at me, a woman wearing a flowing white nightdress and a gentle smile. The rest lie still with glory on their faces staring at something unseen in the sky. No one else has thought to dress. I, too, am in my cotton pyjamas. I am not self-conscious. There is no one here to judge. Perhaps this moment is judgment itself.

  The woman walks slowly toward me. I step carefully over a spread-eagled man I knew before. He does not see me, just stares at the unseen moment in time that hangs waiting in the brightening sky.

  She takes my hand and with the other motions to the field of corn. Take some, she says, eat your fill.

  I am not sure if I can eat raw corn, but I pull free an ear and peel away the hairy husk. When I bite down it is juicy and sweet. It pops between my teeth and juice runs over my chin.

  Now, she says, eat the broccoli. The broccoli, she says, compliments the corn.

  But the broccoli is yellow, I say. I cannot eat yellow broccoli.

  You need it for the corn to work, she says, with a smile that shows small white teeth, like milk teeth in their tiny perfection, shaped like rows of corn on the cob.

  Now it has the cadence of a dream. Where there were daffodils there is corn, and she holds out a floret of broccoli and that, too, is yellow.

  So I ask her about it. I figure you cannot ask a woman in a dream if she is a dream, just the same as a time traveller cannot occupy the same space as his doppelganger.

  But it is spring, I say, by way of enquiry. If she can explain that then she cannot be a dream. A dream cannot reason.

  It is summer gone by and the corn is high, she says in a reasonable voice. The harvest is coming, she adds. It seems to me like a good explanation.

  I nod, and she motions for me to lie down among the corn.

  She kneels by my head and cradles me on her lap. She strokes back my hair from my eyes and her touch is tender. The promise is not hers, though, it is the sky.

  I stare as the others do. Now I can see the sky.

  It is a plain of swirling fire. The sky is burning and whirling in a vortex, like an upside down tornado pulling the sky down to the earth. In the shifting eye of the tornado the night sky is still visible. It draws the eye and pulls the heart. The stars in that eye stare back at me and seem impossibly large. The fire burns across the night sky and it is so bright but is does not burn, it soothes and warms and strokes my heart into a thudding ecstatic beat, pounding in my ears as the fire rages and spreads to the horizon and there is no corn anymore, just the umber sky and the eye of the storm and the stars within.

  My body arcs and I rise from the ground. I float toward the eye and my limbs are feather light.

  This is rapture, I think, and it is all I can think. It is pure pleasure, the promise of pleasure to come for eternity. This, too, is judgment and forgiveness and the eye of infinity staring down at you.

  I am no longer cradled, but held in the eye of the storm, rising toward the stars, through the fire.

  And the woman says, wake.

  Wake up.

  Wake.

  My eyes open suddenly and my body aches from heavy sleep. But I am, finally, awake. The air outside drifts through the open window. It smells of ozone and ash and there is a warm glow in the dawn sky. Spring or summer, it doesn’t matter.

  In my bare feet I run outside. I do not want to miss the rapture.

  *

  I won't lie to you...I haven't so far.

  My novel 'Vigil: Vampire Apocalypse' is, personally, my least favourite story. It is also my reader's favourite...which kind of goes to show you can't always be the judge of your own work.

  I don't like this following story. But other people do. Why? Beats me. Mostly, I think, because everyone's tastes differ, and that's that.

  So here it is, unabridged, unashamed, for what it is. I hope you like it at least. I think I've put it in here for balance. This
collection is about showing a full range of stories...this is just out of range, I think...an example (not terrible, by any means) of a writer just going that bridge too far.

  Fake Plastic

  Theresa nudged Dr. Hughes with her elbow.

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘What? Huh?’

  ‘You spaced out there for a minute. Come on, Ms. Fincher, remember?’

  Simon tore his eyes away from the newspaper his PA held. He always liked to sit beside Theresa. Since he’d worked on her, her profile was perfect.

  ‘Are you coming down with something? Because if you are, I’ll reschedule. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What’s got into you?’

  The paper, still open. That was what had got into him. Page five, a small paragraph, there, on the right hand page.

  Some days, you’ll think of something, like a word…maybe ‘caterpillar’, or ‘incise’, or ‘malpractice’…those strange words, that don’t crop up every day, but nonetheless, once thought of, they won’t go away.

  Simon had been thinking of one of those types of words. His mind, finely tuned, picked it out with a glance.

  The malpractice one, in particular…along with ‘Inquest,’ and ‘Unlawful Death.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Come on. You’re not right. I’ll cancel.’

  ‘It’s OK, Theresa. I’m OK. I’ll be fine in a minute, anyway. Send her through.’

  Theresa wasn’t often lost for words, but she could see he wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

  She wasn’t convinced, but then he was the boss, she was an employee. She shook her head, gave him one final admonitory look, and stood up, flipping the newspaper closed and tossing it onto the coffee table.

  Simon Hughes looked at the offending paper, scanning the front page quickly. He gulped and wiped his hand across his brow, suddenly slick with sweat.