Nightscript volume 3, p.1
Nightscript: Volume 3, page 1
Nightscript III
Edited by C.M. Muller
Tales © 2017 by individual authors. All rights reserved.
First e-Edition
Cover: “Madonna” (1895) by Edvard Munch
Additional proofreading by Chris Mashak
This anthology is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Nightscript is published annually, during grand October.
Chthonic Matter | St. Paul, Minnesota
www.chthonicmatter.wordpress.com
Contents
Preface
The Flower Unfolds | Simon Strantzas
A Place With Trees | Rowley Amato
What Little Boys Are Made Of | Malcolm Devlin
Grizzly | M.K. Anderson
Might Be Mordiford | Charles Wilkinson
Palankar | Daniel Braum
The Gestures Remain | Christi Nogle
House of Abjection | David Peak
The Undertow, and They That Dwell Therein | Clint Smith
Downward | Amar Benchikha
The Familiar | Cory Cone
Liquid Air | Inna Effress
The Beasts Are Sleep | Adam Golaski
The Witch House | Jessica Phelps
On the Edge of Utterance | Stephen J. Clark
Homeward Bound Now, Paulino | Armel Dagorn
The Affair | James Everington
When Dark-Eyed Ophelia Sings | Rebecca J. Allred
We, the Rescued | John Howard
Twenty Miles and Running | Christian Riley
Something You Leave Behind | David Surface
Young Bride | Julia Rust
The Other Side of the Hill | M.R. Cosby
About the Contributors
Preface
Year three finds this compendium of “strange and dark-some tales” in mighty fine spirits. My open reading period this past January lured a bounty of talented scribes, tempting me yet again to consider tilling additional furrows in an already expansive field. As it stands, I have limited this year’s offerings to twenty-three original fictions (two more than last year), and I am proud to report that a few of these mark their author’s debut. Enough gratitude cannot be expressed to those who have not only given this anthology their attention, but who have been gracious enough to promote (through reviews and word-of-mouth) this “strange” and ever-unfolding event. With each passing year, it is my fondest hope that Nightscript continues to thrive through increased readership. It is an honor and a privilege to publish this anthology, and I have a feeling you will be well-pleased with this year’s offerings. Thank you and enjoy.
While I’ve shied away from dedicating previous volumes to any one individual, it strikes me as a small but meaningful gesture to honor my beloved and sorely missed sister-in-law, Amie Marie (Dahl) Muller, who died earlier this year after a valiant struggle with pancreatic cancer. Amie, you will never cease to inspire.
C.M. Muller
The Flower Unfolds
Simon Strantzas
There were three things Candice knew about herself: she looked every day her forty years; she would one day die alone, her body undiscovered; and she would never escape her job. She was stuck there forever. Some days were bearable, when the rest of the office staff, all fresh from college and eager, forgot she existed in her tiny cubicle near the rear exit, and she was able to fall into her head while her hands did their work automatically, but the rest of her time was a struggle to avoid dealing with any of them. Each had the same look when they saw her—pity, irritation, a hint of disgust. They did not want her around, and though they did nothing about it, the message was quite clear. She was not like them. She was not one of them. She would never be welcomed by them. If there was any salve at all, it was that most of them would not last beyond the first four weeks, and fewer still beyond the first twelve. By the end of the year, they would be replaced by an entirely new group while she remained a permanent fixture at the back of the office.
At least the elevator was close to her. Sometimes she heard its drone as it crawled up and down Simpson Tower, delivering loads of people to and from their offices. From her desk she heard every jump of gear and slip of cable. The elevator sometimes ground, sometime squeaked, and always shuddered and hummed, but it was a reminder that everything moved, everyone went places. And she could too. It was as easy as pressing a button. Sometimes imagining going made it easier to stay.
When her telephone rang, Candice jumped, unprepared for the sound. The small LED on its face reflected a series of zeroes in an aborted effort to display the caller’s number. Instead, all Candice knew was it came from inside the network.
“Candice Lourdes. May I help you?”
“I need you in my office,” said Ms. Flask.
As Candice stood, her knees wobbled. They had started complaining only a few months before, but it had taken her some time to realize it was not because they were injured, but because they were no longer young. It caused her to shuffle slightly down the corridor, and though the effect would last no more than two minutes, it was long enough that the front office staff had a chance to watch her pass. Most simply ignored her, treated her as invisible, and as difficult as that was to bear, it was better than the alternative, which was a series of scowls. She felt her appearance wordlessly judged: her hair was too flat, they’d whisper, too oily; she didn’t wear enough makeup, or fashionable clothes; her nose was too crooked, her jaw too square…She had never been more than average, but she had once been able to coast on her youth. But those days had passed her by, and the woman that remained felt defeated and disappointed whenever under someone else’s glare. She did her best to skirt the bank of cubicles and remain invisible to the lot of them. But it was hopeless.
She knocked on Ms. Flask’s door and entered. Her manager sat behind a large oak desk, the only piece of permanent furniture in the office. Her ear was to the telephone receiver, and she motioned for Candice to sit. Her face was red and alive with complicated political maneuvering.
Candice waited patiently. Flask’s desk was covered in baubles and photos of her and her overweight husband, her overweight children. Candice could not stop herself from staring. The family was on a trip somewhere warm, though each was dressed in long sleeves and a hat. Sand was trapped between folds of her youngest’s arms. When Flask addressed her, hand over the end of the telephone’s receiver, Candice tried to react as though she’d seen nothing, as though there weren’t any photographs at all, but feared she’d failed.
“Candice, I need you to bring these forms up to seventeen. Silvia needs them for payroll.” She then uncovered the receiver and spoke angrily into it. “You tell him he better unless he’s looking for a big change.” It took too long for Candice to realize she had been silently dismissed. She stood again and picked up the stack of pages. Flask scribbled furiously on her legal pad, then paused before unleashing a tirade of profanity upon whomever was unlucky enough to be at the other end of the line.
Candice slunk through the glass doors at the front of the office. The receptionist did not bother lifting her head as she passed. Candice did her best to put it out of her mind as she walked across to the elevator and pressed the call button, pleased to be the only one waiting. The glass between her and the office acted as an impenetrable barrier, and having passed its threshold she began to feel somewhat better. Any break from the deadening office atmosphere, if only for the time it took to deliver files to another floor, was heartening and helped replenish her reserves.
There was the normal hum and clanking of metal as she waited, and when the elevator arrived and the doors parted Candice’s heart skipped. The car was empty. She exhaled the breath she’d been holding and stepped inside.
No sooner had she done so, when there was a call from down the corridor, instructing her to hold the doors. She did nothing, but a giant, suited man appeared before her just the same. Well over six feet tall and smelling faintly of rosewater, as he slipped into the car he smiled through the curls of his beard, then pressed the top button for the roof. Candice ceding the car’s space, pushing herself into the rear mirrored corner in hopes she might vanish, all the while keeping her eyes trained on a quarter-sized stain on the carpeted floor. The large man spoke without looking at her, but she could not hear him. In the trap, all sound was muted and distant. She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down. She could ride the elevator two floors. Two floors, and then she would have the elevator to herself. Two floors to freedom.
But the trip was endless. She waited an interminable age, hugging the files to her chest, her lungs throbbing beneath, desperate for air, and when she finally heard the gentle chime she worried it was her ears playing tricks. The car slowed, then shook to a stop, and the opening doors flooded the car with brightness and the odor of soil and flowers. Candice opened her eyes a crack as her giant companion disembarked, certain her floor had been missed—then opened them wider when she saw her destination.
The Botanical Garden spanned the entire roof of Simpson Tower. Stepping into the faceted glass enclosure was stepping into paradise. The rooftop garden was divided into rows of plants and flowers, a cascade of colors and scents that overwhelmed Candice, wrapped her in warmth. With uncharacteristic abandon she walked the aisles, past small benches set out to rest upon, ignoring the handful of other people that milled about the greenery, and looked at a variety of plants in turn. It was impossible, she knew full well, but still she was convinced she felt a breeze brush her face, tickle the small hairs on her forehead.
The sun caressed her skin through the many windows, and she turned toward it and closed her eyes. Dots appeared behind her lids, a flutter of colored lights dancing in strange patterns. When she finally turned away and opened her eyes, she wondered for a moment where she had been transported. Everything appeared unreal, hyper-colored, all except one section of the garden that lay beyond. It was trapped in the shadow of a neighboring building, and at the end of the aisle an archway stood, wrapped in clinging vines.
“It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?”
Candice jumped. Beside her stood the large man from the elevator, his checkered blazer reflected in the wicker baskets hanging above. Sunlight haloed his soft creamed hair, his beard hinted with gray. She collapsed in on herself, shrank from his scrutiny, pulled the files once more close to act as a barrier. But he would not be so easily dissuaded.
“I’ve been coming up here for months. Usually, I have my lunch just over there.” He pointed lazily across the roof. “Why would anyone want to be anyplace but here? It’s a mystery.”
Candice would not look at him. She wanted to flee, but was too terrified and self-conscious to do anything but remain perfectly still. Only her heart moved, and it pounded.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you up here before. I’m Ben Stanley.”
Candice stared at the ground.
“Lourdes,” she whispered.
He leaned his enormous bearded face toward her.
“Come again?”
“Candice Lourdes.”
“Well, it’s nice meeting you, Lourdes, Candice Lourdes. There’s some lovely lilies over on the south side of the garden you should smell before you go. They’ve really opened up in this air.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder gently, briefly, before walking away. As he did she marveled she’d let him touch her at all. Her body did not rebel. Nevertheless, once she was certain he had gone, Candice moved as quickly as she could to the elevator to escape the garden and deliver the wrinkled files crushed like petals between her fingers.
By the next day, Candice had promised herself two things: the first was to never return to the top of Simpson Tower; the second was to stop thinking about Ben Stanley’s hand on her shoulder. Yet neither was as easy as she’d hoped. In the morning haze that accompanied her sleepless night, she had unthinkingly selected her nicest skirt to wear despite it being tight across the back, and tried to wrestle her hair into a style that did not appear damp. Her mind idled on the subway, taking the elevator up to the roof to meet Ben Stanley among the flowers, and the smile it brought to her face evoked strange glances. Yet when she arrived at the office the only comment made was by a young temp who asked, aghast, “What are you wearing?” Candice did not speak. As soon as she was able she snuck off to the fourteenth floor washroom and wiped off her makeup. She then retreated to her office and put on an old sweater to cover her bare arms.
When Candice’s lunch hour was at hand, she found herself defeated before the elevator doors, finger hovering over the buttons, unable to decide which direction she wanted to travel. She felt the gentle draw of the flowers and plants on the rooftop, yet knew also the danger the visit posed. Taking the elevator down was safer—she knew what to expect. Her heart raced as she watched her finger drift toward the familiar and practiced route. The safer route. But found she could not press the button. Her body was betraying her. Instead it drove her finger into the other button, the UP button, summoning the shuddering box from the depths of the tower so it might propel her skyward.
When the doors opened, she felt an uncomfortable relief and unbearable disappointment. The car was empty. Completely and utterly empty.
She closed her eyes and inhaled. Perhaps it came from the elevator shaft, perhaps from the building’s ventilation, perhaps it was mere imagination, but Candice smelled the summer flowers, felt the warm breeze, tasted happiness as it wafted past. It lasted forever. She opened her eyes and stepped into the empty elevator. It quietly hummed as it ascended.
The rooftop garden was busier than Candice remembered. Men in pressed suits spoke with women in blazers and pencil skirts, walking, sitting and laughing, while elderly ladies in neon colors inspected the plant life, small white purses hanging from their scooped shoulders, faces unfathomably loose. Candice stood on her toes and scanned the crowd but saw no one of unreasonable size, no one with a beard so thick it was like a bush. Sweat was cold at the base of her spine, and a hinted dizziness unmoored her—both multiplied by the mixture of floral scents.
As she explored the rooftop garden she realized every sound was distorted. The giant windows overhead reflected noise in odd directions, bouncing it off the floor or metal struts, causing some corners to be so quiet they might be miles away, and others so loud it was as though people were yelling in her ears. The echoes stretched and bent around the aisles of flowers and greenery, intersecting with the potted autumn clematis and the reed grass that gathered around their warted stems. But Candice did not mind any of it. In that space, she was free in a way she was not inside the office, or on the street awaiting her relay of buses. Or even at home, alone in her cramped studio apartment. Every moment of every day was planned out for her, controlled. But there in the garden, she felt unburdened. And after a few minutes, she could not remember having ever felt different.
“I see you’re back,” said the amused voice behind her. Ben Stanley stood there, barrel chest near her face, dark beard hugging his chin. Perhaps she imagined some shadow dancing there.
“I—I just wanted—I mean I only came—”
He waved his hand to silence her.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We are all up here for the same reason. We all deserve to explore ourselves whenever we’d like.”
Candice nodded, though she did not understand what he meant.
“Would you like to join me?” he asked, and pointed to the bench on which he’d been sitting, a bench she had somehow overlooked. Along the seat was an unfolded blanket and a plate of green olives and cubes of yellow cheese. “I have more than enough for two.”
Candice didn’t speak, and Ben Stanley did not wait for her. He swooped his hand to indicate she should follow, then took a seat. His tiny glazed eyes poked out over round cheeks as he looked up at her, and all she could smell were the lilacs from two aisles away.
She fought her urge to flee. His smile curled around his temples.
“Grapes?” he asked, opening a small cooler hidden behind the bench. A pair of ladies in their seventies strolled by, sagging heads pushing out of their chests, and Candice waited until they were gone before taking some grapes with a polite smile. She held them over her trembling hand and ate them one at a time. She blinked slowly, then swallowed, and immediately regretted it. They tasted gritty and bitter, and left her feeling ill.
“So, Candice Lourdes, tell me: Do you work in the building?”
She squeaked, her throat constricted from terror. She coughed to clear it, but only managed to loosen the muscles enough for sound to squeeze through.
“Yes,” she said, her voice tiny, her eyes trained on the shadows.
“Well, don’t make me guess. I imagine its on the fifteenth floor? Where we first met in the elevator?”
Her face flushed with fire and she had to turn away in case she wept. She saw aisles of flowers all bent towards her.
“I’ve always thought of the fifteenth floor as ‘our’ floor—we’ve had such good times there.”
She looked at him, forgetting her fears in her immediate confusion, and he bellowed a laugh. All the glass above rattled.
“You’re a joy, Candice. A joy. Here, have some cheese.”
He held up the plate for her, but she didn’t feel like eating anything more. It smelled as though it had gone off. She felt overwhelmed by the heat, by the muted sounds, by the stream of people passing by, by the omnipresent floral smell, and by the sheer mass of Ben Stanley, who impossibly grew larger the longer she stayed.
“I—I have to go.” She attempted to stand but her legs buckled, and before she knew what had happened Ben Stanley had her in his arms. She wondered idly if she might also fit in his palm.
