“Billy’s Garage”

by Richard Dansky

Billy was a weird kid.

I don’t mean he was weird in the sense that he liked roleplaying games or heavy metal or anything like that. He wasn’t really into that anyway, and the kids who were, well, they were only nerds of one stripe or another.

Instead, he was just kind of creepy. When you talked to him, you got the feeling he was focusing on a point about an inch inside your skull instead of making eye contact. He talked about weird stuff, too, if you could get him to talk, which wasn’t often. Mostly he kept to himself, and mostly the rest of us liked it that way.

But I drew Billy as a lab partner in biology, which meant that he and I had to talk on a regular basis, and I guess that got him thinking we were friends. We weren’t, but I at least tolerated his conversation, which made me closer to him than anyone else.

One day we were supposed to dissect frogs. A bunch of kids in the class begged off, claiming it was against their religion or something when really they were just afraid it was going to be gross. But not Billy. He was totally into it, at least until the dried-out frog carcass we were supposed to take apart landed in front of us.

“Shit,” he said.

“Watch the language in front of Mrs. Stamper,” I said. “She’ll send you to detention.”

“Oops,” he said, and then “Thanks.” He prodded the frog with the scalpel we had been provided with. The frog, being long dead, did not react.

“It’s a shame,” he said. “All these frogs have been dead for ages. They’re dried out. Their ghosts are gone.” (Continue Reading…)

The Lodger

by Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes

“THERE he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Mr. Bunting’s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

“I can’t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week’s fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.

“Well, it’s none of your business—now, is it?”

“No; that’s true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet—”stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till to-morrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again——” (Continue Reading…)

The Lodger

by Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes

“THERE he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Mr. Bunting’s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

“I can’t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week’s fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.

“Well, it’s none of your business—now, is it?”

“No; that’s true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet—”stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till to-morrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again——” (Continue Reading…)

A Box of Hair and Nail

By Geneve Flynn

Little Sister clipped the last nail from Big Sister’s slender toe and carefully placed it in the carved rubberwood box. She made sure she had twenty clippings and, although her club foot made it difficult to crouch, she checked that every piece of hair she had trimmed from her sister’s head was accounted for.

Big Sister snorted, not unkindly. “You don’t still believe that old tale, do you?” She examined her reflection in the pocked mirror on her bedroom wall. Even with the window open, both sisters were covered with a sheen of sweat: at least, Little Sister perspired; Big Sister glowed. “Bapa was only trying to scare you into behaving.” The young women shared a sorrowful glance. Their mother had passed six years ago from tuberculosis. Last month, their father had been killed in a logging accident in Sabah. Another piece of their shrinking family gone.

“No, it’s true,” Little Sister said, pushing the ache in her chest away. “If a man steals your hair and nail clippings, he can take it to the bomoh and have him cast a spell on you. Then you’ll be under the man’s control. You’ll have to be his wife forever.”

“I will be no one’s wife,” Big Sister said with a sniff. “I don’t care what magic the shaman does.” She shrugged out of her slip and pulled on the brightly coloured top and skirt of her kebaya. It was much more form fitting than their father would have allowed. She swept her thick, glossy hair up into a bun and applied a slick of lipstick. She grinned and headed for the door. “My life is going to be only kissing and fun.”

Little Sister watched as Big Sister walked along the path that led to the village, her hips swaying with each step. Any number of suitors would be awaiting her presence at the dance. Little Sister never went; no one could see past her deformity. She only ever left the house to visit the wet market or to buy fruit and vegetables.

As Big Sister rounded the bend and disappeared from view, the bushes behind her parted. Little Sister stared, breath held. There had been wild boars in the area lately. They could be dangerous if meddled with.

A thick-set, bow-legged man emerged.

The bomoh.

Little Sister frowned. Had she summoned him with her talk of love magic? What if he had overheard Big Sister’s disparaging words? She watched as he crept after her. Prickling cold ran down Little Sister’s spine. Even from her position at the window, she could see the avarice on his face. (Continue Reading…)

Nymph Of Darkness

By C.L. Moore & Forrest J. Ackerman

The thick Venusian dark of the Ednes waterfront in the hours before dawn is breathless and tense with a nameless awareness, a crouching danger. The shapes that move murkily through its blackness are not daylight shapes. Sun has never shone upon some of those misshapen figures, and what happens in the dark is better left untold. Not even the Patrol ventures there after the lights are out, and the hours between midnight and dawn are outside the law. If dark things happen there the Patrol never knows of them, or desires to know. Powers move through the darkness along the waterfront which even the Patrol bows low.

Through that breathless blackness, along a Street beneath which the breathing waters whispered, Northwest Smith strolled slowly. No prudent man ventures out after midnight along the waterfront of Ednes unless he has urgent business abroad, but from the leisurely gait that carried Smith soundlessly through the dark he might have been some casual sightseer. He was no stranger to the Ednes waterfront. He knew the danger through which he strolled so slowly, and under narrowed lids his colorless eyes were like keen steel probes that searched the dark. Now and then he passed a shapeless shadow that dodged aside to give him way. It might have been no more than a shadow. His no-colored eyes did not waver. He went on, alert and wary. (Continue Reading…)