By Felicity Bloomfield
Read by Donna Lynch
Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans.
She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin.
Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?”
I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?”
Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.”
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By Blake Vaughn
Read by Ben Phillips
The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting.
October 3, 1903
There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves.
By Orrin Grey
Read by Ian Stuart
I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a
mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead
folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’
haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ.
The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’
for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust
up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us,
Wolfe an’ I.
‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in
one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables
tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good
pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe.
‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta
me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a
barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too,
ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink.
By Mark Felps
Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy
Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age.
When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it.