Now and Forever

“I’m going to go on home, Carly,” said her boss to the young woman.

Mrs. Saxman had owned the Gamble’s store in town since the space in the theater building had been vacated by the newspaper. Her husband had died of a heart attack the year before, and the kids had long married and moved to various cities across the country. She wasn’t ready, by any stretch of the imagination, to throw the towel in on her life. So she’d opened a department store and everyone including her had benefited from it.

“I’ll close everything up,” replied her sales clerk absent-mindedly.

She’d been worrying about the girl for the past few weeks. Usually so sharp and ready for any chore, she’d been a little foggy and distracted. No doubt daydreaming about that fly-by boyfriend of hers. There was trouble with a capital “T”…. or H as the case would be. Young love. It could be such a wretched thing. Betty Saxman felt sorry for the girl. (Reminds me a bit of myself, poor lass.)

“So you have to walk home, dear?” asked the older woman.

“No, Harley is picking me up when he’s through with work.”

Betty turned and hid a frown from the young girl. No need to show disapproval. No doubt everyone else in the girl’s life had already tried plenty of that and to no avail. The inexperienced heart never heard the voice of wisdom. Only experience, which never came cheap.

“Well, be sure the lights are out and I’ll see you in the morning.”

She turned to walk out the door just as Harley Lutenberg walked up. He’d left his motorcycle parked on the sidewalk, a typical swipe at town authority. She couldn’t help but think that being drafted into the Army might do that boy a world of good. Knock some of the rebel out of him at boot camp, and maybe he would amount to something. He was certainly a good-looking kid. Small wonder sweet little Carly had fallen so hard for him. It couldn’t’ have happened to a nicer girl, sad to say. She was an angel straight through to the core of her being.

“Hola, Mrs. S.,”grinned the biker. “Done for the day?” As though it were any of his business.

“Try to get Carly home at a decent hour, Harley,” she responded intentionally ignoring the question. “She has an early day tomorrow, here at the store.” She left it at that.

“What a witch,” complained the boy.

“Harley! That’s a dreadful thing to say about her and it isn’t true,” replied the shocked girl.

She rather like her boss and was grateful to have a regular income. Especially now that she and Harley were getting married. No one knew yet, but he had asked her just a few days ago. They’d tie the knot when he got back from Vietnam.

She could hardly stand the thought of him going there. What a dreadful war. All war was dreadful, even if men thought they could justify it. But this one was really bad and tearing the whole country apart. She didn’t say much about it, but she’d go to Canada with Harley in a minute if he’d consider it.

But, it had all happened so fast and now he was leaving in a few days. He just laughed it off. Like he laughed about everything in that irreverent way. Nothing could touch him he said. Well, not in a bad way. She could, he said, in the best way…. And then he’d get that wicked sparkle in his eyes and he’d look at her in that way that would make her burn from the inside out. She blushed just thinking about it.

“I can tell what you’re thinking just by the pink in your cheeks, Babe,” teased her beau. "You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?"

“Go on, you conceited thing. You think I don’t have anything better to think about?” She dashed up the stairs, her bell bottomed jeans brushing the carpet. “I have to put these clothes away first, and then I’ll be finished.”

He followed her upstairs, taking advantage of the view. She might be short, but she was proportioned just right as far as he was concerned. Not the best looking girl he’d ever known, but different in another way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was just her innocence that turned him on. Completely unblemished. He grinned to himself. (At least for now.) She was like a Madonna, he thought to himself. Like the Virgin Mary in a Christmas card.

Carly swung the door open in the room upstairs, and piled the armload of clothes onto the back of a chair. In the corner stood the steamer and the clothes rack. She had several boxes of new ladies clothes to steam out tomorrow in between customers. Some cool things, too. Mrs. S. was good about staying up on the latest fashions, and she was always really conscious of buying things for the younger girls. She had even bought some really cute mini-skirts. That would get the gossips going in town. Especially if someone showed up at church in one of those leather hip hugger skirts.

Harley picked up the corner of one and whistled.

“Now that’s something more your style, Babe. I’ll bet you look hot in this number.”

Carly felt the heat rising up her neck to the roots of her hair. Her heart began to pound. And she didn’t have a clue what to say, even if she could have found her voice. She turned to hang the skirt on the clothes rack, not really paying attention to what she was doing. Who could concentrate with that man in the room?

His strong arms slid around her waist lifting her off the ground against his hard chest. He whispered into her hair, “I want you so bad, Carly. I can’t leave without having you. Please just once before I go.”

They’d had this conversation before. More than once. A hundred times. And each time Carly felt herself weaken. Each time she begged for the strength to say no and then cursed herself afterwards for not having the courage to say yes to him. What would it matter anyway? He was leaving for a whole year. Then they would marry and then it wouldn’t matter. Oh, please heaven, let him come back unharmed. The thought of losing him in a godforsaken war was too much. They were too young for that entire nightmare. They should be thinking of work and a home and raising kids, not praying for mercy against an enemy half way around the world.

She pulled herself away from him and walked around the table and sat down on the little couch where she ate her lunch. It was nice to have a quiet and private place to get away from customers especially during the holidays. She liked working here. It felt safe and secure. Usually. Having Harley here in the room with her hardly felt safe. It felt downright dangerous in an exciting sort of way. He slid down next to her and draped his long arm over her shoulder. She crossed her arms over her breasts, protecting her heart, herself. From him, from his pull, his strength, his heady magic that left her weak. She swallowed. Not one word came to mind.

He pulled her toward him and kissed her lips. First softly, then with a hunger that she couldn’t resist. His hands slid down her back and he leaned his weight against her, against the couch. She shouldn’t do this, but she couldn’t say no. His entire life held her down, the whole of what he was that was also hers and nothing inside of her could turn him down again. She gave in to him. The room tilted as she closed her eyes and blocked out any thought of anything except now. Now and Harley. Now and forever.

By Penny Dreadful

P is for Refrigerator

Oh, thank God! We’re finally stopping. I should have known better than to let Mike drive. Before we left home, he assured me that we could stop and see the sights at any time. “Just let me know if you see anything that looks interesting!” Yeah, right.

We’d gone about two hundred miles before I thought a stretch of the legs would be in order. “Hey, there’s a wildlife park up ahead; why don’t we get a few pictures?”

“Mmm, no. I want to get there before dark.”

Sigh. Fine. We kept going.

Some time later, my twenty-ounce coffee caught up with me. “Uh, Hon? Any chance we could find a gas station?”

“I’ll look, but I want to get there before dark.”

“There’s one!”

“Too far off the road.”

“Twenty yards is NOT too far off the road!”

“I want to get there before dark.”

I gritted my teeth. “My kidneys just blew up. Could we at least stop for some paper towels?”

“Very funny. I want to—“

“Get there before dark, I know, I know.”

He smiled, knowing I would forgive him anything. “We’ll stop on the way back and look at everything then.” Hah! As if. The last time he pulled that line, we ended up driving south for two states and coming back via a completely different route.

I alternated window-gazing sulks with rounds of sock knitting. I’ve heard of people who can finish entire sweaters on road trips, but I’m not one of them. For one thing, I tend to get carsick if I spend too much time staring into my lap. For another, the roads we always end up on are atrocious. I’m just as likely to get a swift poke in the eye from a needle as manage a few respectable stitches.

By the time we fetched up in front of the hotel, the only sight I wanted to see was a shower. I was in the middle of a nice neck stretch when I chanced to spy the sign advertising the various hotel amenities. Along with free “Wi-Fi”, there was a Jacuzzi and in-room refrigepator. Wait, what?

“Mike, look at the sign. They have refrigepators here!”

“RefrigePATORS?”

“Yeah. Must be for keeping your head cool.”

That did it. In a flash, Mike had jumped up on the low retaining wall that ran along the length of the parking lot and was letting loose in best medicine-show fashion.

“Step right up, folks, and witness the amazing refrigepator! Keep your cool and please your pate in the privacy of your own room! Yes, friends, you can toss in your toupees, wad up your wigs, and heave in your hairpieces. The super handy-dandy refrigepator will dress your tresses with the cool, cool breezes of Old Man Winter. Soothe your scalp in the sultry summertime with the one and only refrigepator!”

A couple on their way to the check-in office paused. After a brief but heated discussion, they decided to rent a room anyway.

“Come down, nut job. I want a shower before dark.”

Mike grinned, then hopped down and reached for our bags.


By Penny Dreadful

A Change of Focus

The pile of papers from the desk was now spread out across the table, leaving only a small window of workspace. Sheila sighed as she surveyed the mess. Summer was supposed to be a time of fun, of memory making. But all those spontaneous camping trips and meals out, long bike rides and road trips made it quite difficult - no, make that impossible - to keep up with the daily running of a home.

Thanks to her husband's playful scheduling, the mortgage payment was late, the bank statement was unreconciled, and the bill drawer was full. Laundry was threatening to take over the basement, dust bunnies were staging a coup on the kitchen floor and the hamster cage smelled like a neglected barn. So much to do - and now the kids were hovering around her, hungry little nestlings begging for food.

Sheila got the kids a snack, fixed herself a cup of tea, then sighed again and tried to focus on the bills. Focus. That's what she needed to do. Outside birds sang and the sweet breeze drifted through the windows. A hummingbird zipped up to the feeder on the porch. Then another male bird appeared and the two engaged in fast paced battle for territory. Suddenly, the pleasant scents from outside were clouded by the hamster cage "aroma". Sheila wrinkled her nose and pattered over the stove to reheat the kettle. She'd downed a whole cup of tea and had only managed to write two checks!

She plopped down in front of the computer while the water heated. After she checked her email she could design the invitations for her inlaws' 50th wedding anniversary. She steeled her will to stay focused. Focus. No social networks or blogging or forums. Just the necessities. Be productive. Catch up!

The phone rang. Sheila was toying with fonts for the invites, so she let the answering machine take the call.

"Hi Sheila, did you miss my message earlier this week? I hadn't heard back from you about the tea party today. It's at noon in the garden gazebo. I'm really hoping you and your girls can come. It'll be really sparse without you!"

Tea Party? No, Sheila told herself. Today you are staying home and focusing. Today you are getting things done.

But, the garden gazebo...It was so beautiful there. Breezy, fresh, cool and green. And the weather was so lovely, it did seem a shame to be all cooped up in the house.

No!! FOCUS! Sheila spun her chair toward the table and started a check writing frenzy. She just slapped the last stamp on the last envelope when both her girls slumped into the room. They were bored. They were hungry. They were whiny. Sheila looked from her precious little ones to the paperwork and back again.

To heck with bills, she thought, let's make some memories!

"Girls," she smiled, "Go put on some fancy dresses and hats. We're going to a tea party!"

By Penny Dreadful

Retribution

Brenda Roper sits alone in her family pew, her silver predator’s eyes focused on me. I feel their rage searing my heart. Each pierce, bangs in my ears as I ignore her vindictiveness. A church must give no sanctuary to a Jezebel who preys on the innocence of men.

Damn. I am condemned. As we rise to do our final duty for Alvin Bishop I respond to her sinful allure, to the Magdalene who dared to tempt our lord. I hide my shame behind the casket as we carry it to its final resting place.
She stands as we pass. The grey gauze of her sleeve darts across the coffin. A flash of steel as she snips a bud from the family spray and sticks it in my buttonhole with the familiarity of my wife. She knows my torment and smiles her acknowledgment of my disgrace. She places Bishop’s death at my door like her own in an accident I don’t remember.

I’m without blame. They brought it on themselves by their actions, not mine. He died of a heart attack, not by my hand. His wife requested I be a pallbearer when we stood by his bedside as Bishop passed. I forgave him for his presumption to tell me how to conduct my business. The old goat sought to alter my course when I was chosen by my peers to oversee the finances of the church.

People are packed around the walls; the vestibule is so crowded it is difficult for the procession to pass. Outside the sun dances off the spectacles of old fools, like Bishop, blinding me as they stand with uncovered heads while we proceed down the walk to the burial yard.

I stagger to my car when the interminable internment ceases and the crowd opens before me. She has the audacity to hide her wicked self in the backseat of my car. I can see her sitting there when I pull away as if I am her chauffeur. Her slate-colored eyes on my neck send streams of icy sweat down my back, soaking my fresh shirt.

I must get home where I’ll be protected from her provocative glare. I look straight ahead. I will not recognize this interloper from my youth who refuses to know she is not tolerated. She doesn’t blink when the damn teenager blows his horn as we cross the intersection.

My steering wheel jumps as a tire bounces in a chuckhole in my driveway. The city should make the repairs. My car could be damaged from their negligence.

I leave her sitting in the car and rush to the backdoor. The phone is ringing, but the lock will not remain in one place for me to insert the key. Mary should be here to open the door for me. I told her to oil the lock before I left to do my duty.

Her gloved hand covers mine and I shrink in disgust, but she sets the key in the cylinder. Her touch is like lifting a block of ice making my fingers tingle. I slam the door in her face and shoot the dead bolt. The phone shrills in my ear.

"Who are you?"

"I didn’t run over your dog. Don’t be a fool."

I bang down the receiver. The phone begins to ring again. To silence it I pull the cord from the wall and seek the medicine cabinet. The woman’s vulgarity has given me indigestion. I must find Mary’s Tums.

She is standing outside the window, but she can’t get to me with her evil ways. I cannot open the Tums. I need a hammer. Where does Mary keep her tools?

What am I doing on the floor? It’s dark outside. Why hasn’t Mary come home?

I get my hand on the leg of the chair to pull myself up, but my arm is numb. A vise is crimping my chest. The pain is squeezing the breath from me while my knees wobble, refusing to support my weight.

The harlot is standing by the sink. She is smiling when she hands me the phone. The dirge from Bishop’s funeral pounds in my ear as I dial 9…1…

By Penny Dreadful

Feet

She was sitting, legs crossed, her bare right foot swinging with hypnotic grace, waiting expectant, knowing that I would come near, and so I approached and knelt in front, taking the one milky white foot in my hands, so light, so delicate that I thought it would break with one careless move.

I stroked a finger along the instep, and was rewarded when a frisson shuddered its way through her, wriggling from the waist to the shoulders with a suggestion of mingled delight and that half-welcome distress which is the companion of the sole.

I grasped the foot more firmly and bent my head in a helpless attitude of worship,nearly, oh so nearly kissing her toes one by one; Market, Home, Roast Beef, None, Wee, squared nails dressed proudly in their shiny red coats, trying to suggest something other than what they were. Up close I was distracted by a tiny chip off one, a small imperfection born of the summer and the wear of the street, marring their otherwise unnatural smoothness.

My breath rebounded soft and damp against my cheek, tainted, no, fragranced with the intimate fragrance of her, mixed with the countless other tired scents of the day; a musty organic smell from her shoes, the ghosts of flowers from her morning wash, faint oiliness from the car and over all, above all, the sweaty essence of her, loved to the point of distraction.

I'd do far more for her than what I was about to do, and I ran my finger gently along the top of her foot, from toes to ankle, watching her flesh submit in peristaltic obedience to mine. I saw anew its fragility, the delicate bones scarce robed in a skin so transparent that the tiny blue rivers veiled within throbbed in my mind as well as in my sight.

I took out my tape and measured, round the ankle, heel to toe, round the foot, and sat down to work out how many stitches I'd need for the first ever pair of socks I'd make for her.

By Penny Dreadful

A Tale to Be "Toed"

As I launched into the home stretch, I scanned the rapt faces before me. I always fine-tune my stories to my audience, and I always have a “victim”, someone on whom to focus. The person whose reaction I most want to see.

“In the distance, he could see the flags fluttering from the Big Top.” Ah, Shari’s eyes got wider. My victim, then.

I pitched the story like an infomercial host, mustering as much vivid detail as I could cram into the telling of what should have been a three-minute tale, but had now lasted seventeen minutes and counting. Shari’s expression invited comparison to an owl receiving an ice-cube enema: huge-eyed and slightly horrified. With the tension mounting, I offered the punch line. “The young man looked that old clown in the face and said…”

I dropped the last few words into silence and waited. One person laughed outright, one gave a shocked giggle, six stared blankly, and one stomped off muttering in disgust. “That’s it? I sat through twenty minutes for that?” This is the beauty of The Clown Story. The fun belongs solely to the teller of the tale: crafting the details, building the anticipation, and watching the rather crestfallen faces when the final zinger fails to zing.

As the last of the crowd moved away, I turned back to my ever-present knitting. Socks again. Why not? The sock provides endless possibility for detail and experimentation. Much like The Clown Story. This pair was gonna be a doozy. Bubble-gum pink and lime green. For a friend. As I pulled a double-pointed needle from behind my ear, a shadow fell across my work-in-progress. Shari, owner of the shocked giggle, had decided to stick around. “I’m probably risking my life, hanging around you after that story!”

I waggled my eyebrows at her. “I keep telling you, take up knitting. Pointy sticks keep sore listeners at bay.” A snicker, followed by silence. It was several minutes before she spoke again.

“So… Which do you like best? Knitting or storytelling? Every time I see you, you’re doing one or the other.”

I regarded the gaudy bit of ribbing in my hands. “Well, they’re both kind of the same thing, actually.”

“How do you figure?”

“Look here: a story needs a setup, that’s your cast-on round. Then comes the leg, that’s the buildup. As much or as little detail as you want, for as long as you want. Then comes the heel, that’s your unexpected twist. The gussets, that’s where plotlines get drawn together and focused, then comes the foot. The home stretch. Finally you get to the toe, the punch line. You can’t leave an audience hanging, or a sock, so you cut the… ahem, “yarn”, and weave in the ends. Socks, stories; they’re the same thing.”

Shari laughed again and shook her head. “I’ll never be that good at either one; you can own those hobbies!” She started to head on toward her camper, then turned back. “Hey, maybe you can make some clown socks!” Off she went.

Hm. Clown socks. A new opening line? “Once, there was a boy in hand-knitted socks who loved clowns…” Yeah, that might work!

By Penny Dreadful

The New Movie Theater

"The whole damned lot of them can go straight to Hell!"

His son looked up from the kitchen table where he sat with newspaper and a cup of coffee. His heart stopped at the sight of his father’s red face the veins bulging at his neck.

"Calm down, Pop, you’ll give yourself a heart attack! What’s wrong anyway?"

The man loosened the top button of his shirt, then took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the wooden chair. As he rolled up his sleeves, he answered his son.

"That blasted Baptist Church wants to stop movies on Sunday night. The theater renters caught wind of the griping and will back out of the lease if they can’t play the movies on Sunday."

The man shook his head as he poured a cup of coffee for himself.

"They’re going to ruin this whole building deal and cost us a lot of money if we can’t run that movie house. Dan, I don’t know what we’ll do if they pull the rug out from under us on this one."

His son frowned and thought of the thousands of dollars they had invested in the projectors, the maple floor, and the artist from nearby Arlington who would paint the murals on the theater walls. That was just the tip of the iceberg. The town newspaper planned to lease the adjacent business space, special engineering had been required for the floor underneath their huge presses, and people were waiting for the upstairs apartments to be finished. His Dad was right. It would cost them a fortune, maybe all their fortune, if the theater deal fell through.

Just then his mother walked in the back door, packages tumbling from her arms. She was a tall and shapely woman, dressed to the details in feathers and the finest in fashion courant. The well-tailored suit skimmed over her shapely hips and her shapely stockinged legs ended firmly on the ground in fine blue leather pumps. She dropped the remaining boxes on the kitchen table.

"Speaking of rugs," she quipped, "I found a nice blue Persian in Denver, but it was priced a bit too high even for my pocketbook. In the mood you’re in, it’s a good thing I didn’t buy it."

"It’s a good thing you didn’t for other reasons," replied her husband, running a hand through his graying hair. "We might have to sell the rugs we already have to survive if this deal falls through."

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" she asked. "You don’t’ mean the new building, do you? What could possibly go wrong? I thought you were on schedule and we planned to open with the first screening the week of Christmas."

She sat down with a worried frown. Life could be so tiresome. Just when things seemed to be rolling along fine and dandy. It had been such a grand trip to Denver, too. It was so nice to be able to shop and actually have some choices. Not like New York mind you, but certainly better than the little town of Banner here on the high country plains. She wished there was just one good department store nearby. Not that she minded driving to the city, especially now that she had her new car. A beauty it was, complete with whitewall tires that flashed in the bright Colorado sun. It had cost a pretty penny or two. She was a head turner before, but now eyes did a double-take when she passed. The idea quite pleased her.

Her husband’s stern voice cut through her musings.

"Leona, for heaven’s sake, pay attention. This is important to you, too. If this deal falls through, we’ll be out on the street and not in that fancy car of yours. Blast it all, woman! How much money did you spend on your finery today?"

His glance had just slid to the pile of store boxes piled on the table. All the major Denver stores were well-represented judging by the labels. The thought of the subsequent bills made his heart pound. The room was getting warmer by the second.

"Charley, sit down for mercy’s sake, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. You know the doctor told you not to get upset for every little thing," Leona calmly replied.

"Every little thing," he thought to himself. "The woman could drive a man to drink."

Still he bit his tongue. She was a beauty. His pride and joy. No man in this county didn’t wish her for himself and she was all his. Not won easily either, he’d had to work for her hand. She wanted everything good in life and felt she deserved it and then some. It was the "then some" part that was wearing him out.

Only the thought of losing her to someone else kept him going.

By Penny Dreadful

Hands

Hands, that's what Ernest saw all day long at the library returns counter. Hands pushing, sliding, dropping, tossing books towards him over the granite-topped surface. He rarely looked up at the person, just noticed the hands propelling the books. Scarred knuckles, gnarled joints, achingly smooth skin to leathery weather-worn, night-black to albino-gleam, hairless to furry, manicured secretary's nails to dirt-encrusted gardener's, and then—a slim, tanned hand missing a wedding ring.

That was what led Ernest to look up from his work to behold a lithe young woman, in a sleek azure dress, silk scarf casually thrown over her shoulders, hair the color of wheat, green eyes of deep ocean. She kept her slim-fingered hand on her book a slight moment too long, but long enough for Ernest to see the thin, untanned line where a wedding ring once was.

Time stood still while he looked into her eyes, as if he'd been struck by lightning, electricity buzzing through him, between them.

Then, the woman withdrew her hand; the murmuring sounds of the library returned to Ernest's consciousness. The woman abruptly turned and left the library. Ernest could see her through the window boarding a bus that was just about to leave the stop. In a flash, she was gone.

If it had been a movie, Ernest would have leapt over the returns counter—job be damned—rushed out the door, given chase to the bus until it pulled over, found the woman—who'd be ready and willing when he dropped down onto one knee in the aisle, took her slim hand in his strong book-slinger's hands, and proposed to her in front of forty-some strangers.

Unfortunately, life was not a movie.

Another book was plopped on the counter and shoved towards Ernest, this time by a puffy, sunburned, bug-bitten hand graced with a well-worn gold wedding band.

Ernest didn't look up.

By Penny Dreadful

Actually written by By Barbara DaCosta
Visit her Blog

My Neighbor, The Vampire

When they said they were from “Cluj”, you know, I didn’t think a thing about it. I mean, who thinks “Cluj…Transylvania,” right? I mean, I thought “Cluj…rhymes with ‘rouge.’” Like I did when I was in college, you know, I just thought of something that rhymed with the word, so I wouldn’t forget it in case anyone asked, “So, where are the new neighbors from?”

I mean, I didn’t want to look stupid or rude.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have found all that creepy stuff if I’d minded my own beeswax. What on earth made me think it was a good idea to go poking around someone’s house while they were away for the weekend? Good grief. I’m such an idiot.

Well, actually, it started out innocently enough. I mean, I was really just looking for some cat food. Man, their cat can eat. Have you seen that thing? Loads and loads of Meow Mix or whatever it is they give him. But I didn’t think that I was going to go from kibble to coffin so fast, you know?

I mean, if you’re going to keep a coffin in the first floor guest room, put a lock on the door will ya? That kinda sight can give a gal a real fright. Yeah, I know there are those new eco-friendly caskets that they make into furniture you can use until you croak, but c’mon. Isn’t that a bit much?

Of course, now I know that the environmental thing is just a cover for the coffins-turned-coffee tables biz. The truth is that vampirism is on the rise. Heck, it’s practically an epidemic in some cities. You can find a bunch of them on Twitter and MySpace, if you know the right keywords. There are even Meet Ups. Oh, and as for the coffin furniture scheme…all it took was for a couple of clever, artsy Danish vampires to start marketing coffins-in-waiting as eco-chic and…voila!

I still think it’s creepy to keep a coffin visible like that. But, hey, that’s just me.

And gosh, I have to say that they seemed like such a nice older couple…I just had no idea how old they really were. They always stacked their recycling by the curb so neatly. Now that I think about it though, he was a little too excited about dressing up as Varney the Vampyre for the neighborhood Halloween-in-the-Park-after-Dark party. And she knew an awful lot about European history. No wonder. She lived it.

Good grief. How could I have been so clueless?

Funny but even as a kid I was fascinated with bats and vampires and stories about Vlad the Impaler. I used to wad up the electric blanket around my neck, just in case one snuck into my room and wanted a nibble. I thought he’d get a shock, which would buy me a little time. The way kids think…funny, huh?

Oh, yeah…so, there are a couple of myths about vampires. First, they can in fact go out in daylight. I mean, they have to make a living somehow. They’re really pretty normal seeming, you know. Second, they don’t really drink all of your blood…just enough to make, well, a conversion of sorts. Third—and most importantly, they don’t really bite you on the neck. It’s really closer to the clavicle. Kinda looks like two moles…come closer…see?...they look just like these right here.

By Penny Dreadful

End of the Road

From where I lie, one can hear the tugboats chugging up the Mississippi. How on earth did I wind up here? A stone’s throw from an old plantation house ablaze in the wee hours, the arsonist long gone?

We started coming out here, to meet…the professor and I…years ago. The house nearby had been in his family for generations, though he and his wife had moved into town years ago. It was a beautiful relic, a tourist trap. They shot a movie here once, with Clark Gable. I think I saw it with my Aunt Dolores at the Bijoux.

No one will think to find us out here…no one will suspect a thing. Trust me.

Except, of course, my neighbors down in New Orleans. They’ll figure out something, put two and two together. My oddly timed trips, the front porch light left on until morning. Tonight, when it’s still on…and the afternoon papers carry a story about a woman’s body found near the blaze…they’ll know it’s me. A couple of them will recall seeing a tall, graying gentleman in the alleyway once or twice…and how I’d fumbled at explaining his presence.

Gee, I make a terrifically lousy adulteress. Which is surprising given how long I’ve been at this. Miss McGinley, allow me to introduce Professor Reeves. He’ll be supervising you in the lab, at least until early ’58, when he returns to Louisiana. Reeves, you’ll remember how impressed we on the Admissions Committee were with Miss McGinley’s application?

That’s over now, of course. The ensuing love affair, the lies, the lusty, clandestine weekly rendezvous. All done.

Now, I’ll be just one more ghost story tied to the old plantation house. Me, the old caretaker, the specters from the steamboat explosion who were rolled in flour to stop the burning…perpetual residents on the river’s bend.

Except, of course, the steamboat survivors and me…we were real.

The jury will forget that, of course, in their rush to acquit him. And, to tell the truth, I’m not sure it was him…it was dark, cold…we were supposed to meet here. The car was certainly his…wasn’t it? I saw it pull up the allée…but I never really saw a face. I lacked courage to tell him that I was ready to break it off, to call it quits at last. I kept my back turned to him in the drive. I didn’t want to look.

When I heard the gun’s pop, I turned…but too late. The car backed away as I fell.

That’s how I got here. That’s how I wound up dead.


By Penny Dreadful

House For Sale

Income Property for rent, sale, or rent to own. 10 bedroom, 4 bath, double car garage, zoned residential or commercial.

I don’t know what made me go to look at the property. I didn’t need a property. I already had a property, a lovely little organic farm with the sweetest little country cottage anyone could want. I’d long dreamed of just such a place and when my husband and I found it online, we both knew this was our final home. It certainly was his, since he died planting heirloom seeds in the garden plot that he’d cultivated for far too few years.

He was too young to die. I was too young to be widowed. We were barely over fifty and finally had earned and saved enough to buy the little property of our dreams. And now he was gone and I was alone on The Perfect Place. That’s what we called it.

After six months of widowhood, I’d talked my nephew Tyler into coming out to live and running the place. I’d leave it to him in my will. He jumped at the chance. He and Mick had always had a special relationship. Ty was like the son we never had. Well, maybe not quite, but he was different from other youngsters of his day, and my husband liked him. They had a nice rapport.I had no clue Tyler had picked up so much from Mick on his few trips out to visit us. But, watching him run the little farm and the organic farm-stand, I knew he’d soaked it up like a sponge. He didn’t need me around once he’d gotten the hang of the accounting and marketing which I'd handled. I was excess baggage. I needed to get a new life.

I suppose when I saw the ad in the classifieds for the big rambling bed-and-breakfast-wannabe, I had some vague idea that I might live upstairs and put some sort of business downstairs. I hadn't really nailed down just what that business might be. I wanted something to keep me occupied, but where I could also retreat when I needed to crawl under the covers and give up for a while.

That didn’t happen as much anymore, but there were still days when some little thing would set off a memory and the loss and ache would run so deep, I thought I would collapse from the pain of it. The only thing to do then was to crawl away, to wallow in the tears and drown in the ache until I was washed clean of hurt for a little while. Numb, I could go on until the next wave of heartbreak crashed into me.

As I drove down the gravel road on the outskirts of Hugo, I searched for the county road marker. The realtor had said the big rambling Victorian was almost at the edge of the town, within walking distance of all the Main Street businesses. I wanted to be close enough to everything so that I could walk to my errands. I was enough of a nazi environmentalist not to jump into the car for every little chore. Mick and I had both been adamant about minimizing gasoline useage and planned our car trips so that we did at least three errands whenever we went anywhere.

And we walked a lot, too. For exercise if for no other reason. I wasn’t about to change that good habit just because he was dead.

Dead. It was so short and final. How could it have happened? One second I was whole, the next, half of me had gone to the great beyond with my better half. Only the bitter half remained. I blinked away tears.

The house suddenly appeared before my eyes. It wasn’t just a big rambling painted lady. It was a flippin' castle surrounded by a stone wall! I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had a moat. No way did I need a place like that! What the hell would I do with it?

I should never have gotten out of the car.

By Penny Dreadful