PseudoPod 1024: Flash on the Borderlands LXXVII (77): The Only Enemy You Can’t Live Without
Show Notes
From the author of “Visit Seahaven”: “This story was inspired by a real vacation town I stopped in briefly in the Pacific Northwest that was so eerily perfect the experience of spending even a couple of hours there unnerved me.”
“More salt on the places that never healed” ? Holly Green
Witchcraft
By Arthur Machen
‘Rather left the others behind, haven’t we, Miss Custance?’ said the captain, looking back to the gate and the larchwood.
‘I’m afraid we have, Captain Knight. I hope you don’t mind very much, do you?’
‘Mind? Delighted, you know. Sure this damp air isn’t bad for you, Miss Custance?’
‘Oh, d’you think it’s damp? I like it. Ever since I can remember I’ve enjoyed these quiet autumn days. I won’t hear of father’s going anywhere else.’
‘Charmin’ place, the Grange. Don’t wonder you like comin’ down here.’
Captain Knight glanced back again and suddenly chuckled.
‘I say, Miss Custance,’ he said, ‘I believe the whole lot’s lost their way. Don’t see a sign of them. Didn’t we pass another path on the left?’
‘Yes, and don’t you remember you wanted to turn off?’
‘Yes, of course. I thought it looked more possible, don’t you know. That’s where they must have gone. Where does it lead?’
‘Oh, nowhere exactly. It dwindles and twists about a lot, and I’m afraid the ground is rather marshy.’
‘You don’t say so?’ The captain laughed out loud. ‘How awfully sick Ferris will be. He hates crossing Piccadilly if there’s a bit of mud about.’
‘Poor Mr Ferris!’ And the two went on, picking their way on the rough path, till they came in sight of a little old cottage sunken alone in a hollow amongst the woods.
‘Oh, you must come and see Mrs Wise,’ said Miss Custance. ‘She’s such a dear old thing, I’m sure you’d fall in love with her. And she’d never forgive me if she heard afterwards that we’d passed so close without coming in. Only for five minutes, you know.’
‘Certainly, Miss Custance. Is that the old lady there at the door?’
‘Yes. She’s always been so good to us children, and I know she’ll talk of our coming to see her for months. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘I shall be charmed, I’m sure,’ and he looked back once more to see if there were any appearance of Ferris and his party.
‘Sit down, Miss Ethel, sit down, please, miss,’ said the old woman when they went in. ‘And please to sit down here, sir, will you be so kind?’
She dusted the chairs, and Miss Custance enquired after the rheumatism and the bronchitis, and promised to send something from the Grange. The old woman had good country manners, and spoke well, and now and then politely tried to include Captain Knight in the conversation. But all the time she was quietly looking at him.
‘Yes, sir, I be a bit lonely at times,’ she said when her visitors rose. ‘I do miss Nathan sorely; you can hardly remember my husband, can you, Miss Ethel? But I have the Book, sir, and good friends too.’
A couple of days later Miss Custance came alone to the cottage. Her hand trembled as she knocked at the door.
‘Is it done?’ she asked, when the old woman appeared.
‘Come in, miss,’ said Mrs Wise, and she shut the door, and put up the wooden bolt. Then she crept to the hearth, and drew out something from a hiding-place in the stones.
‘Look at that,’ she said, showing it to the young lady. ‘Isn’t it a picture?’
Miss Custance took the object into her fine delicate hands, and glanced at it, and then flushed scarlet.
‘How horrible!’ she exclaimed. ‘What did you do that for? You never told me.’
‘It’s the only way, miss, to get what you want.’
‘It’s a loathsome thing. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself.’
‘I be as much ashamed as you be, I think,’ said Mrs Wise, and she leered at the pretty, shy-faced girl. Their eyes met and their eyes laughed at one another.
‘Cover it up, please, Mrs Wise; I needn’t look at it now, at all events. But are you sure?’
‘There’s never been a mishap since old Mrs Cradoc taught me, and she’s been dead for sixty year and more. She used to tell of her grandmother’s days when there were meetings in the wood over there.’
‘And you’re quite sure?’
‘You do as I tell you. You must take it like this’; and the old woman whispered her instructions, and would have put out a hand in illustration, but the girl pushed it away.
‘I understand now, Mrs Wise. No, don’t do that. I quite see what you mean. Here’s the money.’
‘And whatever you do, don’t you forget the ointment as I told you,’ said Mrs Wise.
‘I’ve been to read to poor old Mrs Wise,’ Ethel said that evening to Captain Knight. ‘She’s over eighty and her eyesight is getting very bad.’
‘Very good of you, Miss Custance, I’m sure,’ said Captain Knight, and he moved away to the other end of the drawing-room, and began to talk to a girl in yellow, with whom he had been exchanging smiles at a distance, ever since the men came in from the dining-room.
That night, when she was alone in her room, Ethel followed Mrs Wise’s instructions. She had hidden the object in a drawer, and as she drew it out, she looked about her, though the curtains were drawn close.
She forgot nothing, and when it was done she listened.
How I Turned My Little Brother Human
by D. Matthew Urban
When the air went bad, everyone fell asleep except mama and me.
For a while it was just us two, drinking the river, eating whatever came up. Nice, quiet. Then mama said she had another me in her tummy.
“I don’t know how it happened,” she said. “A miracle from God.” I never met God but mama always said how he gave us miracles, the sun and stars and all.
Mama’s tummy grew and grew. I brought her river water when her head got hot.
One day mama screamed and I got so scared I fell down. When I got up, mama was asleep and my little brother was born. He wasn’t human yet. Just a lump, no arms or legs or nothing, lying all gray and bloody on the floor.
I rolled him to the river and cleaned him up. I stuck in sticks for arms and legs, black stones for eyes, white stones for teeth. Green leaves for hair, red flowers for lips.
I took him back home and sat him in a chair next to mama. “Look, mama,” I said, “a miracle. Our baby’s human now.”
“Buzz buzz,” said the flies on her lips. What I think that means is, “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Visit Seahaven
by Courtney Farr
You’re driving up the Pacific Coast for a family vacation. Your son asks about lunch and your daughter won’t stop fidgeting. Your partner needs to pee. You desperately want to stretch your legs. Your right leg aches, the way it always does on long drives like this. You see a sign for the town Seahaven, founded two years ago. “Where Friends Become Family.” It’s painted a tasteful coral and mint green. You don’t see it on your phone’s map. Maybe you need to update the app. You don’t think much of it.
As you pull into the town square, you drive by a series of signs. EAT. DRINK. STAY. You notice the coloring feels off on the signs somehow. Before you can take a closer look, you’re distracted by your family oohing and awwing at a bed of blooming blue columbine surrounding one of those giant adirondack chairs, a staple of coastal tourist towns. SEAHAVEN is painted across the top of the chair’s wooden slats. Every where you look is a picture perfect vacation photo. The family piles out of the truck. You catch the salty scent of the sea in the distance, along with something sweet you can’t quite name, like candy and popcorn.
You notice a child’s shoe and a toy sitting on the garden wall. It’s a Spiderman action figure.
Your daughter almost trips over a loose shoelace. You kneel down to tie it and tell her she doesn’t want to lose her shoe like that other kid.
The family gushes at the sights around them. They marvel at the wrought iron street lights with vines and leaves curling up them. The town hall looks just like the one from your spouse’s favorite period TV show. You can imagine a barbershop quartet singing in the gazebo as people lounge in the grass around it.
It looks like a perfect New England village has been transported from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Your mind briefly drifts back to those idyllic summers you spent reading Stephen King novels on the beach with your family as a kid.
Your partner shivers in the late spring evening. You pop into a little everything store. Even the firewood they have for sale looks too pretty to use. Your partner picks up a hoodie with a tasteful rendition of the town hall on it. They try it on, their eyes beaming at you from the hood as they snuggle into it. You buy it and get the kids pints of ice cream. You’re shocked that everything is reasonably priced, it doesn’t have the hundred percent vacation markup.
You decide to walk down to the beach and let the kids eat their ice cream watching the setting sun. On the way down you pass two beautiful blonde twin children in matching teal wet-suits carrying comically large fishing poles. An elderly gentleman follows them with the rest of their fishing gear. You ask the old man how the fishing was. He says they’ve never had a day like today, caught something on the first cast, they could barely keep up. They tossed them all back though. Oh, these aren’t his grandchildren he says, he’s just a lonely old man and sometimes he takes the neighbor kids out to fish. It helps, he says. You wish the trio well.
Your partner curls up under your arm as the kids alternate between their ice cream and chasing tiny crabs around the beach. Clouds colored peach and blue shift in and out of one another after the sun drops below the edge of the water. It’s a view everyone will remember for the rest of their lives.
Couples and families dot the beach, not too many. No one intrudes on anyone else. The kids collect cute rocks and find the roundest sand dollars you’ve ever seen. As it gets darker, the chill sets in and everyone is ready to move on.
As you walk back through the town square, you spot a beer garden. It’s lit with torches and small fire pits built into every table. A lone musician sits with a guitar on stage singing pop beach hits. The shadows dance to his songs. How could you not stop in for a drink?
You take a sip of cider, your eyes widen and then close. Bliss. You’ve never had cider this good. The kids drink hot chocolate and your partner smiles, weary, but happy after such a long day.
The garden is full of small groups of people, the babble of content folks enjoying the evening surrounds you, a sonic blanket warming your soul against the dark of the night.
You had a hotel booked a little further up the road, but after a drink you think it wise to not drive further. The bartender tells you he’s sure the local bed and breakfast has room. And it does.
You help your daughter get ready for bed while your partner reads to your son. You take off her pink sneakers and tuck her in with her favorite doll. You tell her tomorrow will be another adventure as good as today. Your heart bursts at the joy you feel being able to share these lazy days with them. You feel a couple of tears roll down your cheeks. You almost never cry from happiness.
The next morning your partner says it’s the best night’s sleep they’ve ever had. You pack up the few things you brought in and head for the truck.
Near your parking spot, you notice a single pink shoe and a doll. Some kid must have lost them. They look intentionally placed, perhaps some stranger set them out in hopes the family would find them. A town full of kind people you think.
You buckle your son into his car seat and take off. As you drive out of town, you notice each lamppost has a sign.
Eat. Drink. Stay.
Such a beautiful little town. You’re so happy the three of you found it.
Get Nourished
By Chelsea Davis
I was the only cousin who ever stayed sober long enough to visit my grandma in the memory care unit. That was why I was pretty sure that she hadn’t told anybody else about the tuning fork. The fork was the subject of an Alzheimer’s loop she’d developed only recently, and my triumvirate of fail-cousins—Manny and Donny and Mel—had long ago retreated into loops of their own. Tweaker shit, y’know? Bugs in the walls. Bugs under their skin.
Where is my tuner? Grandma would ask me in her silver voice. Its chime will bring me peace. Its sound will nourish you, my babies. Though she’d go on to repeat these words dozens of times in the weeks to come, testing the rather exceptional limits of my patience, I’d felt sick with excitement the first time I’d heard her say them. There had always been talk of hidden family assets. But by the time I was old enough to act on that information, Grandma’s brain had already gone blurry. Whenever I’d tried to ask her about the secret LaRue treasure, she’d crease her brows in a show of confusion.
Little matter, now. I could feel it in my bones: this tuning fork had something to do with the loot. Maybe the fork was the loot, wrought of solid gold; maybe it sang a secret message when you sounded it; or maybe it would act as a dousing rod of sorts, pointing me towards a chest overflowing with jewels. Whatever the case, I was Grandma’s most deserving baby. And I was long overdue to get nourished.
You see, I’d found the most recent version of Grandma’s will on her dusty computer one day while packing up her old crap to move it to storage. The Word .doc revealed that she planned, in the tragic event of her passing, to divide up her estate in a frankly irrational manner. She was going to give almost the whole inheritance, money and property alike, to Manny-Donny-Mel. She obviously had some kind of Stockholm Syndrome-induced nostalgia for the years she’d more or less had to raise my Cro-Magnon cousins herself. My screw-up aunt and uncle couldn’t be bothered to actually care for their own brats back then; they were too busy trying to salvage their failing gator farm in between benders. Look, I’m sorry my dearly departed mother got it together and worked three jobs so I could go to college. I’m sorry I was now fucking killing it as a dental hygienist and still made time in my busy schedule to visit the drooling family matriarch every Sunday.
But now that I knew Grandma was going to help me find the really good stuff, I felt the bitterness leaving my body like tears. With a few well-placed questions and a lot of buttering up—“Mm-hmm, oh, yes, but I’m sure you were the prettiest girl at the dance, Grandma”—I got the intel I needed.
As it turns out, she’d buried the tuning fork in her backyard. Kind of basic. But whatever. Her old property was out by the swamp, and hadn’t been sold yet, but I drove there under cover of night anyways; I didn’t want one of her “libertarian” (as in, “paranoiac”) neighbors spotting me and calling the cops. Headlamp trained downwards, I used my rusted shovel to dig directly beneath the birdbath that Grandma’s ramblings had mentioned. It wasn’t long before I hit paydirt. A rotting shoe box held my prize: a small U-shaped object made of steel. Or maybe it was aluminum. In any case, it definitely didn’t look like precious metal. My heart sank a bit.
But hey, chin up! There were still lots of other ways this sucker might help me get what I was owed. I took the instrument out and reflexively flicked it with my pinky. “Ow!” I yelped. The thing was hard. I’d practically broken my fingernail off, and it hadn’t even made a sound. I thought for a minute, sucking the end of my pinky, then struck the instrument gently on the closest side of the bird bath instead. A thin, silvery chime sounded, and sounded, and sounded. That was more like it. It was the sound of opulence; it was the sound of angels’ wings; it was the sound of God’s cash register ringing up a large purchase, just for me.
As the chime reaches the end of its breath, it’s replaced by another sound. Splashes and squelches. A whole slurpy orchestra of them. Something is moving through water and silt. I swivel my head towards the place where the lawn becomes mud, and my headlamp’s light reveals gray, flat forms, close to the ground. They’re lifting themselves out of the swamp and heading towards me. I realize too late what they are; turns out alligators are pretty goddamn fast on land, too. I drop the tuning fork. It had never been a treasure map. It had always been a dinner bell.
