We sat down with Kurt Phillips to talk about horror and his latest story, Chalk Marks (which was the first ever story to be accepted by us). There may be minor spoilers ahead.
Q1. I love what you’ve done by tipping an exorcism story on its head by moving it to a different setting. How did you come up with this?
I had just watched Black Hawk Down for the 4th or 5th time and had become a little obsessed with the story. I read Mark Bowden’s book and several others about the Battle of Mogadishu, but then my horror writer brain took over and all I could think was, “How can I make this situation worse?” And the answer at the time was to make the soldier’s place of refuge more terrifying than the battle that was taking place on the streets.
This presented me a lot of great decisions to make. For instance, one tried and true trope of exorcism stories is that the possessed are speaking in languages they couldn’t know. Well, what if that language was English?
I also loved the idea of this frail, old woman pushing the buttons of these hardened, disciplined Army Rangers until they finally break. So, as soon as I came up with her character, I just turned her loose on them. I let her ratchet up the tension until something or someone exploded.
Q2. What’s your favourite excorcism story and did it have any influence on this tale?
I love Paul Tremblay’s Head Full of Ghosts and Grady Hendrix’ My Best Friend’s Exorcism, but I have to go with the queen mother of all possession stories, Blatty’s The Exorcist. But, more specifically, the scene where Regan/Pazuzu is tormenting Father Karras by imitating his recently deceased mother. That scene fascinated me and creeped me out more than any of the others. Just the idea of the priest’s dead mother speaking to him through Regan, tormenting him about being abandoned to die alone, still gives me chills.
I honestly didn’t make the connection between that scene and Chalk Marks until I had finished writing it, but I’m sure it informed my take on the story.
Q3. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?
In January of last year, I decided that 2025 would be my year of the short story. I had written plenty of them prior to last year, but I made the conscious decision to woodshed my short fiction chops for 12 months. Most of the short pieces I’d written up to that point was around 10,000 words, so I gave myself the arbitrary parameters of 5000 words or less.
Short stories require a different set of writing muscles, and last year was a workout. It was a lot of fun but it was very eye opening. Oh, I was still writing way more than 5000 words to start with, I just had to force myself to edit. I had to learn to whittle, and cut, and prune. You have to lean in to economy and eliminate everything that doesn’t directly add to the story. Then distil that down until it’s as lean and mean as it can possibly be.
I also focused on reading anthologies and collections over the last year, which helped a lot. Hailey Piper’s Teenage Girls Can Be Demons and It’s the End of the World As We Know It (ed. Brian Keene & Christopher Golden) stand out.
I have to admit though, I got antsy toward the end of the year and started working on some longer stuff. I’m slowly making headway on that right now.
Q4. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?
I’m actively working on a follow-up to Noise Ordinance a.co/d/hutoMgi, a novella I published in 2024. It’s not a sequel necessarily, just some further adventures of Nolan Priest, a retired CIA special forces operative with ADHD and some preternatural reconnaissance skills.
Folks are also free to check out The Hand of the Archer a.co/d/1FN2itN, that came out in 2023. It’s about a parks and wildlife ranger who does a 5-MeO-DMT (toad venom) journey that goes horribly wrong. After his trip, he experiences a series of disturbing flashbacks and nightmares, finally setting out alone into the national forests of Colorado to deal with the frightened, confused, and violent entity he may have brought back with him.
By the way, congratulations on the inaugural season of A Midnight Kind of Place! I’m honored to be a part of it. Here’s to many more!
Dr. Rankin was a large and rawboned man on whom the newest suit at once appeared outdated, like a suit in a photograph of twenty years ago. This was due to the squareness and flatness of his torso, which might have been put together by a manufacturer of packing cases. His face also had a wooden and a roughly constructed look; his hair was wiglike and resentful of the comb. He had those huge and clumsy hands which can be an asset to a doctor in a small upstate town where people still retain a rural relish for paradox, thinking that the more apelike the paw, the more precise it can be in the delicate business of a tonsillectomy.
This conclusion was perfectly justified in the case of Dr. Rankin. For example, on this particular fine morning, though his task was nothing more ticklish than the cementing over of a large patch on his cellar floor, he managed those large and clumsy hands with all the unflurried certainty of one who would never leave a sponge within or create an unsightly scar without.
The doctor surveyed his handiwork from all angles. He added a touch here and a touch there till he had achieved a smoothness altogether professional. He swept up a few last crumbs of soil and dropped them into the furnace. He paused before putting away the pick and shovel he had been using, and found occasion for yet another artistic sweep of his trowel, which made the new surface precisely flush with the surrounding floor. At this moment of supreme concentration the porch door upstairs slammed with the report of a minor piece of artillery, which, appropriately enough, caused Dr. Rankin to jump as if he had been shot.
The Doctor lifted a frowning face and an attentive ear. He heard two pairs of heavy feet clump across the resonant floor of the porch. He heard the house door opened and the visitors enter the hall, with which his cellar communicated by a short flight of steps. He heard whistling and then the voices of Buck and Bud crying, “Doc! Hi, Doc! They’re biting!”
Whether the Doctor was not inclined for fishing that day, or whether, like others of his large and heavy type, he experienced an especially sharp, unsociable reaction on being suddenly startled, or whether he was merely anxious to finish undisturbed the job in hand and proceed to more important duties, he did not respond immediately to the inviting outcry of his friends. Instead, he listened while it ran its natural course, dying down at last into a puzzled and fretful dialogue.
“I guess he’s out.”
“I’ll write a note — say we’re at the creek, to come on down.”
“We could tell Irene.”
“But she’s not here, either. You’d think she’d be around.”
“Ought to be, by the look of the place.”
“You said it, Bud. Just look at this table. You could write your name — ”
“Sh-h-h! Look!”
Evidently the last speaker had noticed that the cellar door was ajar and that a light was shining below. Next moment the door was pushed wide open and Bud and Buck looked down.
“Why, Doc! There you are!”
“Didn’t you hear us yelling?”
The Doctor, not too pleased at what he had overheard, nevertheless smiled his rather wooden smile as his two friends made their way down the steps. “I thought I heard someone,” he said.
“We were bawling our heads off,” Buck said. “Thought nobody was home. Where’s Irene?”
“Visiting,” said the Doctor. “She’s gone visiting.”
“Hey, what goes on?” said Bud. “What are you doing? Burying one of your patients, or what?”
“Oh, there’s been water seeping up through the floor,” said the Doctor. “I figured it might be some spring opened up or something.”
“You don’t say!” said Bud, assuming instantly the high ethical standpoint of the realtor. “Gee, Doc, I sold you this property. Don’t say I fixed you up with a dump where there’s an underground spring.”
“There was water,” said the Doctor.
“Yes, but, Doc, you can look on that geological map the Kiwanis Club got up. There’s not a better section of subsoil in the town.”
“Looks like he sold you a pup,” said Buck, grinning.
“No,” said Bud. “Look. When the Doc came here he was green. You’ll admit he was green. The things he didn’t know!”
“He bought Ted Webber’s jalopy,” said Buck.
“He’d have bought the Jessop place if I’d let him,” said Bud. “But I wouldn’t give him a bum steer.”
“Not the poor, simple city slicker from Poughkeepsie,” said Buck.
“Some people would have taken him,” said Bud. “Maybe some people did. Not me. I recommended this property. He and Irene moved straight in as soon as they were married. I wouldn’t have put the Doc on to a dump where there’d be a spring under the foundations.”
“Oh, forget it,” said the Doctor, embarrassed by this conscientiousness. “I guess it was just the heavy rains.”
“By gosh!” Buck said, glancing at the besmeared point of the pickaxe. “You certainly went deep enough. Right down into the clay, huh?”
“That’s four feet down, the clay,” Bud said.
“Eighteen inches,” said the Doctor.
“Four feet,” said Bud. “I can show you the map.”
“Come on. No arguments,” said Buck. “How’s about it, Doc? An hour or two at the creek, eh? They’re biting.”
“Can’t do it, boys,” said the Doctor. “I’ve got to see a patient or two.”
“Aw, live and let live, Doc,” Bud said. “Give ‘em a chance to get better. Are you going to depopulate the whole darn town?”
The Doctor looked down, smiled, and muttered, as he always did when this particular jest was trotted out. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “I can’t make it.”
“Well,” said Bud, disappointed, “I suppose we’d better get along. How’s Irene?”
“Irene?” said the Doctor. “Never better. She’s gone visiting. Albany. Got the eleven-o’clock train.”
“Eleven o’clock?” said Buck. “For Albany?”
“Did I say Albany?” said the Doctor. “Watertown, I meant.”
“Friends in Watertown?” Buck asked.
“Mrs. Slater,” said the Doctor. “Mr. and Mrs. Slater. Lived next door to ‘em when she was a kid, Irene said, over on Sycamore Street.”
“Slater?” said Bud. “Next door to Irene. Not in this town.” “Oh, yes,” said the Doctor. “She was telling me all about them last night. She got a letter. Seems this Mrs. Slater looked after her when her mother was in the hospital one time.” “No,” said Bud. “That’s what she told me,” said the Doctor. “Of course, it was a good many years ago.” “Look, Doc,” said Buck. “Bud and I were raised in this town. We’ve known Irene’s folks all our lives. We were in and out of their house all the time. There was never anybody next door called Slater.” “Perhaps,” said the Doctor, “she married again, this woman. Perhaps it was a different name.”
Bud shook his head.
“What time did Irene go to the station?” Buck asked.
“Oh, about a quarter of an hour ago,” said the Doctor.
“You didn’t drive her?” said Buck.
“She walked,” said the Doctor.
“We came down Main Street,” Buck said. “We didn’t meet her.”
“Maybe she walked across the pasture,” said the Doctor.
“That’s a tough walk with a suitcase,” said Buck.
“She just had a couple of things in a little bag,” said the Doctor.
Bud was still shaking his head.
Buck looked at Bud and then at the pick, at the new, damp cement on the floor. “Jesus Christ!” he said.
“Oh, God, Doc!” Bud said. “A guy like you!”
“What in the name of heaven are you two bloody fools thinking?” asked the Doctor. “What are you trying to say?”
“A spring!” said Bud. “I ought to have known right away it wasn’t any spring.”
The Doctor looked at his cement-work, at the pick, at the large worried faces of his two friends. His own face turned livid. “Am I crazy?” he said. “Or are you? You suggest that I’ve — that Irene — my wife — oh, go on! Get out! Yes, go and get the sheriff. Tell him to come here and start digging. You — get out!”
Bud and Buck looked at each other, shifted their feet, and stood still again.
“Go on,” said the Doctor.
“I don’t know,” said Bud.
“It’s not as if he didn’t have the provocation,” Buck said.
“God knows,” Bud said.
“God knows,” Buck said. “You know. I know. The whole town knows. But try telling it to a jury.”
The Doctor put his hand to his head. “What’s that?” he said. “What is it? Now what are you saying? What do you mean?”
“If this ain’t being on the spot!” said Buck. “Doc, you can see how it is. It takes some thinking. We’ve been friends right from the start. Damn good friends.”
“But we’ve got to think,” said Bud. “It’s serious. Provocation or not, there’s a law in the land. There’s such a thing as being an accomplice.”
“You were talking provocation,” said the Doctor.
“You’re right,” said Buck. “And you’re our friend. And if ever it could be called justified — ”
“We’ve got to fix this somehow,” said Bud.
“Justified?” said the Doctor.
“You were bound to get wised up sooner or later,” said Buck.
“We could have told you,” said Bud. “Only — what the hell?”
“We could,” said Buck. “And we nearly did. Five years ago. Before ever you married her. You hadn’t been here six months, but we sort of cottoned to you. Thought of giving you a hint. Spoke about it. Remember, Bud?”
Bud nodded. “Funny,” he said. “I came right out in the open about that Jessop property. I wouldn’t let you buy that, Doc. But getting married, that’s something else again. We could have told you.”
“We’re that much responsible,” Buck said.
“I’m fifty,” said the Doctor. “I suppose it’s pretty old for Irene.”
“If you was Johnny Weissmuller at the age of twenty-one, it wouldn’t make any difference,” said Buck.
“I know a lot of people think she’s not exactly a perfect wife,” said the Doctor. “Maybe she’s not. She’s young. She’s full of life.”
“Oh, skip it!” said Buck sharply, looking at the raw cement. “Skip it, Doc, for God’s sake.”
The Doctor brushed his hand across his face. “Not everybody wants the same thing,” he said. “I’m a sort of dry fellow. I don’t open up very easily. Irene — you’d call her gay.”
“You said it,” said Buck.
“She’s no housekeeper,” said the Doctor. “I know it. But that’s not the only thing a man wants. She’s enjoyed herself.”
“Yeah,” said Buck. “She did.”
“That’s what I love,” said the Doctor. “Because I’m not that way myself. She’s not very deep, mentally. All right. Say she’s stupid. I don’t care. Lazy. No system. Well, I’ve got plenty of system. She’s enjoyed herself. It’s beautiful. It’s innocent. Like a child.”
“Yes. If that was all,” Buck said.
“But,” said the Doctor, turning his eyes full on him, “you seem to know there was more.”
“Everybody knows it,” said Buck.
“A decent, straightforward guy comes to a place like this and marries the town floozy,” Bud said bitterly. “And nobody’ll tell him. Everybody just watches.”
“And laughs,” said Buck. “You and me, Bud, as well as the rest.”
“We told her to watch her step,” said Bud. “We warned her.”
“Everybody warned her,” said Buck. “But people get fed up. When it got to truck-drivers — ”
“It was never us, Doc,” said Bud, earnestly. “Not after you came along, anyway.”
“The town’ll be on your side,” said Buck.
“That won’t mean much when the case comes to trial in the county seat,” said Bud.
“Oh!” cried the Doctor, suddenly. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“It’s up to you, Bud,” said Buck. “I can’t turn him in.”
“Take it easy, Doc,” said Bud. “Calm down. Look. Buck. When we came in here the street was empty, wasn’t it?”
“I guess so,” said Buck. “Anyway, nobody saw us come down cellar.”
“And we haven’t been down,” Bud said, addressing himself forcefully to the Doctor. “Get that, Doc? We shouted upstairs, hung around a minute or two, and cleared out. But we never came down into this cellar.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” the Doctor said heavily.
“All you have to do is say Irene went out for a walk and never came back,” said Buck. “Bud and I can swear we saw her headed out of town with a fellow in a — well, say in a Buick sedan. Everybody’ll believe that, all right. We’ll fix it. But later. Now we’d better scram.”
“And remember, now. Stick to it. We never came down here and we haven’t seen you today,” said Bud. “So long!”
Buck and Bud ascended the steps, moving with a rather absurd degree of caution. “You’d better get that . . . that thing covered up,” Buck said over his shoulder.
Left alone, the Doctor sat down on an empty box, holding his head with both hands. He was still sitting like this when the porch door slammed again. This time he did not start. He listened. The house door opened and closed. A voice cried, “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! I’m back.”
The Doctor rose slowly to his feet. “I’m down here, Irene!” he called.
The cellar door opened. A young woman stood at the head of the steps. “Can you beat it?” she said. “I missed the damn train.”
“Oh!’’ said the Doctor. “Did you come back across the field?”
“Yes, like a fool,” she said. “I could have hitched a ride and caught the train up the line. Only I didn’t think. If you’d run me over to the junction, I could still make it.”
“Maybe,” said the Doctor. “Did you meet anyone coming back?”
“Not a soul,” she said. “Aren’t you finished with that old job yet?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take it all up again,” said the Doctor. “Come down here, my dear, and I’ll show you.”
Look at me. Don’t look at me. Look at me. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me.
If you look, you’re mine. I both love and hate that moment. It hurts my feelings when people scream. The hurt makes me feel justified when I eat their eyeballs and their tongues. Rude jerks. I’m not that ugly. My eyes are just like goats’ eyes. Nature made our eyes this way. Goats aren’t evil. I… might be evil.
You take the last bus from the city, the only bus I ever meet. It’s easy in my long dark coat to slip into the hurried commuter crowd. You’re the one who stands out, with your blue hair and your hoodie, among the suits. Everyone else heads to the parking lot to hide away in their cars, their recirculated air. They rush back to their houses and families. Only you walk alone. Or as now, with me beside you.
You’ve taken this bus twelve days out of the last thirteen, human I think of as Soft Hair. I don’t know what your face looks like, because your head is always bent over your phone, half covered by a fall of straight hair. I only see the outline of your nose and small chin.
I follow you from the first time you step off the bus at night. Or at least the first time I spot you. I suppose you could have been around before. People I don’t see don’t exist for me. People behind walls, in moving vehicles, far off places, sunshine—they aren’t real. Only lonely night people live in the world I walk through.
I trail behind you for the first week. You seem tired and sad. Your shoulders droop and you listen to sad music through little strings that connect your phone to your ears. If you glanced over your shoulder at me, I’d move closer, gradually closer and closer behind you. Maybe I’d catch up with you the first night, maybe I’d drag the process out. The anticipation is more fun than the actual eating of eyeballs, which honestly are not especially yummy. Sometimes people don’t come out the next night, and escape me, and that’s all right, too.
But you never turn around. It’s frustrating. You look tense when I see you through the window of the arriving bus. Your shoulders hunch if people crowd you. You relax once you’re alone, walking the packed-earth road to your house. I suppose you can’t hear me with your music-things in your ears, but do you not feel my darksome aura? Does my ominous presence not make your spine tingle with crawling dread?!
You are insensitive.
On your unlucky-number-seventh night of bus-arrival, I start walking beside you. You tense a little, but don’t look up. I know where you live, an old house that I never paid attention to before because whoever else lives there doesn’t come out at night. The third time I pass your house I say, “Bye,” as you turn aside, but you don’t look around. Maybe you can’t hear me with the music in your ears.
The following night I say more loudly, “See you tomorrow,” and you make a vague, surprised noise like a goat snorting. The pace of your steps changes for a second, as if you hesitated.
The night after that, I tell you, “Good-night,” and you mutter, “…night” in return. Your voice is soft, like your hair. But you still don’t look at me. I make myself keep walking. I don’t want to rouse your suspicions, not yet. It’s novel, drawing the hunt out as long as this.
Your sixth time walking beside me, halfway between the bus stop and your home, you say suddenly, “What music do you like?”
This flummoxes me, as I’m not expecting you to speak—you haven’t acknowledged my presence at all the other nights, except when I spoke first—much less ask a question about me. One I don’t have an answer for.
Of course I’ve heard music. Through open car windows mostly, snatches of melody whisked away on the wind. Sometimes in summer people play music outside in their gardens, although less and less often. Now more people listen to those little machines in their ears, like you have.
I have keen hearing. I can hear your music, faintly. A woman with a high, small voice sings about being sad and alone. Your music makes me uncomfortable.
“Not this kind,” I say, and you twitch, one hand raising toward your ear before dropping back to your phone.
You scroll through a list of some sort before unplugging your ear device.
A voice washes over me, rich and warm as summer shadows. Oh, this is much better. This is… nice.
I’m not used to nice things. Warmth, softness. Suddenly I want to reach out and touch your hair. I want to know if it’s as smooth as it looks. I want to see your face.
But then this would be over. No more walks, no more music. Anyway, touching you before you look, before you scream, that’s against the rules. Although now that I think about it, I don’t know where those rules came from. No one told me; I just know.
“I like this,” I say, and the sentiment sounds too big.
“Allison Russell,” you murmur. “I love her voice. And her lyrics. They’re like poetry.”
“I don’t know what poetry is,” I tell you, and you stumble. I’m not sure if the little surprised sound you make is a response to my answer or to tripping.
“Well, it’s words arranged in a certain way to… to have rhythm, or images, or, like, layers of meaning? It’s a way to express feelings or ideas that are hard to get into words. I guess that’s why it’s hard to define.” You make a sound, a tiny crumbled-off fragment of a laugh. I don’t hear laughs very often, and never from you.
“I’m not very good at explaining stuff like this,” you say, as if concluding. But then you add, “I’ll bring you some poems tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” I breathe.
We don’t say anything more until we reach your house. As you unlock the front door, you repeat, “Tomorrow.”
As if I would forget.
The next night you say, “Hi,” without waiting for me to speak first.
“Hi,” I echo. It’s not a word I use. It’s a word I know, a word I’ve heard, often, but never directed at myself. It’s small and friendly. Hi.
You take out your ear things. Tonight your music has no voices, no words. It sounds a bit like rain.
“I made you a little book.” You take a small rectangle of folded paper out of your pocket. “I copied some of my favorite poems. You can tell me if you like any of them, then I can pick more. If you want.”
You hold out the book. As hesitantly as I’ve ever done anything, I put out my hand and take it. My nails are heavy and black but yours are blue and torn and you don’t comment.
I touch the little black marks, the soft paper. I’ve seen letters on billboards and magazines, but I’ve never touched them. “I don’t know how to read.”
“Oh.” You sound pained. Not in the way people sound pained when I eat their eyeballs. This sound is new to me, yet the pain is familiar.
“I can read you a couple, if you want.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please.” I’ve seen people reading, but never close enough or long enough that I figured out how it worked. I hand the paper back to you, a little reluctant because I like the way it feels on my fingertips, and the way it smells like paper and ink and your skin. You smell of cinnamon and tea.
You walk until you’re standing under a street lamp. The lamps are far apart, so the circles of light they cast don’t overlap. No one walks at night around here and all the drivers have gotten home. For the first time I wonder, what is it like in the daytime, this neighborhood? Are there people out gardening and walking dogs? There aren’t so many houses in this area at the edge of the city: a few old places like yours, and some new construction occupied by people who only go places in cars. It’s a little peninsula of the city poking out into the woods where I hide in shadows.
I stand just outside the circle of light. If someone does drive past, they won’t see me. Only you, with your head bent and the yellow light turning your hair violet, like evening. What would a human think of you standing there, alone in the night?
“Okay, this poem is my favorite one.” You clear your throat. “I won’t be offended if you don’t like it, though. Poetry is subjective.”
I don’t know what that means, but I say, “Okay.”
You clear your throat again, shift your weight. Then you read.
“In our eyes, the tears are always there
Waiting to be spilled again
Wanting to flow afresh as if
any flood could wash away our grief.
Could transform, transmute—
Transfigure yourself, alchemical heart
Replace your tear-dimmed eyes
With eyes of hope and gold
Calcine the stagnant tears…”
Thinking about eyes of hope and gold, I lose track of your words and only catch hold of them again as you finish, “Joy cannot be nourished on tears. Replace the fear-dimmed human eye with gold, with animal iris amber fierce, and we shall make sweetness from this.”
“Animal iris amber fierce,” I whisper to myself, trying to trap the words in my mouth so I can lick them later. Words are delicious; how did I never know this? No wonder humans use so many.
“So you liked it?” you ask.
I’ve been staring blindly into the night (I can see in the dark, but right now I’m not looking) and as I turn my attention back to you, your head dips as if you were watching me through your hair.
But you don’t scream so I must be mistaken.
“I should go,” you say. “My granny—I moved here to help her—she’ll worry if I’m late. Next time I’ll tell her I might come home a bit later.”
“Next time,” I say.
I walk beside you to your house. When you crack open your front door, you pause and turn a little and for a moment, with some unfamiliar sensation that hurts my chest, I think you’re about to look at me.
But your hair still veils your face as you tell me, “Have a good night.”
“You, too,” I murmur. “You have a good night, too.”
Night fourteen. One day out of every seven, there is no bus. Nothing for you to walk home from. I don’t know what to do with myself.
It’s stupid. Of course I don’t wait at the bus stop every night. I can go other places, went other places before I met you. A week ago there was no bus and I went to a place deep in the woods, where men in a shed were making things with strange chemicals, and when one of them came outside to eat some of the chemicals, I followed behind him closer and closer until he turned and his mouth fell open, teeth all dirty and rotted, and I gobbled his tongue before he could scream.
If I ate your eyes and your tongue you would always be with me. But you wouldn’t be able to read to me then. You wouldn’t say “hi” or “tomorrow.”
I hate this thought, you not speaking to me again. I hate that I don’t know what to do tonight without your music, your poetry, your voice.
I never minded quiet before. I say aloud to myself, “I like poetry.” It sounds like, I like you.
Maybe I will find some of those dark glasses people wear in sunlight. Then if you looked at me, if you ever did look up, it wouldn’t count. You wouldn’t see my eyes, you wouldn’t scream, you wouldn’t hate me.
I could know what your face looks like, and maybe I could touch your hair.
Editor’s Note
Writers often go straight for the scary stuff when writing a tale, but people forget that horror and darkness can be used to show the light. This tale is so well done and so hearty. It speaks of the heart-stopping power of words and poetry. There’s a lot to love here (and such a subtle wee twist of distress at the end).
We spoke to horror writer, Mir Rainbird, about our latest story, Don’t See Me Again Tomorrow. There may be minor spoilers ahead so we recommend you read the story first.
Q1. This story really hit a note with me, purely because I don’t see very many horror tales that talk about love and light (and poetry). How did this tale come about?
I’m not sure how the poetry got in there! You might think, given how apt the imagery is, that I wrote those poetry fragments for this story, but in fact they’re from an unfinished piece I started years ago, and I’d forgotten them until I was writing that scene in “Don’t See Me” and needed some lines. I found them in an old notebook.
I can tell you the specific genesis of the story, though: horror author Gemma Files sometimes posts sketches of strange creatures or cryptids. There’s one with a person who looks mostly normal except for having slit-pupiled eyes. I saw it and started thinking about eye contact and how it is normalized—or not; lots of cultures or individuals find it uncomfortable. And of course as a writer I communicate with people who don’t see me. These eyes/eye contact/communication themes are where I started and the other elements appeared as I wrote.
This source of inspiration is a bit funny because Files writes extremely intense and well, horrifying, horror, and mine is much softer. So if you come away from my story disappointed that it didn’t cause you visceral revulsion or give you nightmares, do try Gemma’s work!
Q2. Do you have any favourite poets?
This is like being asked my favourite author or artist or film — I could keep going indefinitely. I’ll mention a few who’ve been most influential: St Vincent Millay, Emily Dickinson, John Donne, Dylan Thomas, Rubén Darío, cummings, Miyazawa, Hopkins, Hafez, Neruda, Szymborska, Poe, Yeats…
Q3. How would you describe your writing routine?
I start writing after I feed the cat and make tea, but before I check email. I make myself write for at least ten minutes so that I don’t get to the end of the day and feel badly that I’ve written nothing. I’m a freelance researcher and editor so sometimes I’ve very busy and other days I have extra hours for my own writing.
Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?
It’s been increasing over time! I used to write some nonfiction, and work on novels (which I rarely finished because I’d get a new idea halfway through) and only write short fiction if I saw a submission theme that really inspired me. Then it was split about 50/50 between long and short fiction for a while. The past year or so I’ve been mainly writing short fiction and poetry. If you’re interested in writing but haven’t really tried, I think drabbles (stories of exactly 100 words) and structured poetry are good exercises. There’s an anthology titled Poisoned Soup that asked horror authors to write about their morbid childhoods and trying to distil childhood and family and first experience with death into so few words was challenging.
Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?
I have a short piece coming out in Old Moon Quarterly Volume 10 (March or April, I think) that I’m really proud of. It was inspired by Irish mythology, and I wanted it to have a rhythm reminiscent of a certain type or oral story-telling. It probably took longer per word to get right than anything else I’ve written.
I’ll also have a short story in the horror anthology “The Shadows That We Carry”, which is a fundraiser for charity MacMillan Cancer Support, in honor of author Matt Mason, who passed away late last year. This should be available in April.
After posting the chilling story, Into the Blizzard and Out of the Cold, we sat down with R.P. Serin to pepper them with our questions. You can read and listen to the full tale here. There may be minor spoilers ahead!
Q1. Where did the idea come from?
The initial idea came from thinking about what might happen in the moments directly after an unexpected, little understood, apocalyptic event. I wanted to focus on someone as they go about their everyday life and explore how they react to such a sudden cataclysmic change. It didn’t occur to me at the time – I had the initial idea in 2023 – but I’m sure the whole Covid/Lockdown thing is in there somewhere. I remember, at the start of the first lockdown, watching reports of people fighting over bog rolls in the supermarkets. Some even snatched them from the hands of elderly shoppers. It shocked me, at the time, how quickly things began to break down. Sadly, it doesn’t shock me so much anymore.
Q2. How did you decide on your character? Did they just appear intuitivly?
When I tried to find my preparation notes for this story and was quite surprised to find that I hadn’t actually done any, so there wouldn’t have been much of a process of character development beforehand. The only things that I had looked at were a range of articles about county lines gangs in the UK, and the way they exploit children to carry out various illicit activities, so I think that the idea for Chloe must have come to me intuitively, prompting me into further research.
With this story the character and the narrative developed together as I wrote. Sometimes I have an idea of how each will turn out before I start writing, but I mostly like to start with a rough sketch and see where the story takes me.
Q3. I love what happens on the underneath of this story. I found there to be a lot of theme and meaning, etc. Do you focus much on this when you write?
With Chloe, I knew that she possessed a strength that would help her navigate the catastrophic event while those around her fell apart, and I really wanted to explore the idea that even the end of the world can be an opportunity for new beginnings, that life can start anew. Hope is word that often gets misused, distorted, and diluted. It often appears on banal ‘positive affirmation’ type social media posts, but it’s not the vacuous totem of emotional insincerity that it often presented as.
Hope doesn’t mean that everything is going to be fine, and it isn’t permanent. It shifts and changes as conditions dictate. A hope based on blind optimism can be harmful, even deadly, but a hope based on more grounded expectations, a hope that can adapt, can be a powerful force for change. This kind of hope is not the easy option, it takes courage. I’m not sure if any of this comes through in Chloe’s story, but it definitely formed part of its creation.
Some people who have proofread this story have expressed frustration at not knowing what happens next, that the story is unfinished. I always try to take feedback on board, and often make changes based on what people say, but I feel quite strongly that any exploration of what happens once Chloe has reached the station completely misses the point.
Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?
It’s quite a sporadic process. I am always thinking of ideas, and jotting them down, but the actual process writing varies. This is partly because working shifts in the NHS, and being a dad takes up quite a bit of time and energy. Being autistic has some impact on this too – when I get the urge to write I go all in, when I don’t it can be very hard to get motivated. I am trying to remedy this though, by setting aside a set amount of time each day during which I sit down with the intention to write. If nothing comes, then nothing comes, if it does then I write. At the end of the period I stop, even if I think I’m writing something really good. I can’t remember where I got this method from, but I like it. I only set aside 20 minutes each day at the moment, but so far it’s been quite effective.
I’m also learning to play the Irish tenor banjo, which has been a great way for me to feel more connected to my Irish roots. At the moment I spend more time practicing this than I do writing, but I intend to gradually start extending my writing time, so this could flip at some point.
Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?
I do have a novel planned, which I’ve written a lot of notes for and completed a tentative chapter, but this is very much a work in progress and could well turn into the mythical novel that never appears. I nearly have enough short stories to put into their own anthology, which might be a more realistic prospect for the short term, if I can find a publisher who will be interested. I’ve also got a couple of completed short stories that haven’t found homes yet, and I’ve got several ideas lined up to start.
Linktree (www.linktr.ee/rpserin) is the best place to find my work, but I’m not on many social media sites. I am fairly active on Bluesky (@rpserin.bsky.social), and also have an Instagram page (https://www.instagram.com/r.p.serin).
They had stopped in the arse end of nowhere. All Chloe could see from her window was an unceasing expanse of desolate moorland. The unseasonal lack of rain and relentless heat had left it looking dehydrated and burnt. Isolated trees provided the occasional lift to the flattened landscape, twisted and gnarled by decades of assault by unhindered winds, though they were perfectly still in the motionless air. Thick tracts of thorny vegetation grew out of the scarred land.
Fucking trains!
They wouldn’t let her get away with being late again. If there was no announcement, or if the train didn’t start moving soon, she’d have to call Nate.
And he wouldn’t like that.
She’d delivered the package and she had the money, all of it. Though until he had it in his own hands she would be under suspicion, and even then, there would still be consequences. She shouldn’t be so fucking lazy. She should have caught a different train. Or even worse: She shouldn’t be such a lying bitch.
A group of football fans, who had been lubricating their livers since they’d boarded several stops back, started to grow impatient. Their unspoken anxiety at the prospect of missing the match reflected in the changing tone of their chants. An elderly woman, sitting across the aisle, smiled at her, and when Chloe didn’t return the gesture she turned back to the book she’d been reading.
Time stuttered on. No announcement. No sign of a conductor.
The sense of agitation grew, rippling through the carriage. The old woman had put her book away and was now staring into the screen of her phone, jabbing impatiently at it. She wasn’t the only one having trouble.
Most of the other passengers were staring into their phones too, with a variety of expressions that ranged from bemusement to barely contained rage. Chloe pulled out her phone: a throw away burner that Nate had given her specifically for this job. The one number stored on it was only supposed to be called in an emergency, but even if she wanted to use it, there was no signal.
She squeezed her thumbnail, pushing down until it blanched white, until the pain was strong enough to reset her thoughts, to give her space to think.
Outside, tree branches were swaying gently. A breeze started to blow. In the distance, clouds started to form. Perhaps it was going to rain, though for now the white sun continued to shimmer in its own heat. Chloe squinted, trying to look directly at it. It seemed smaller than usual.
Her head began to spin. Looking away from the sun and back into the carriage she was unable to focus. A series of cramps rolled across her abdomen. She bent forward and cried out, clutching her belly with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. Acid burnt her throat as it crept from her stomach and into her mouth. Beneath the bitter, sting she could taste the bacon flavoured crisps she’d eaten earlier. Lumps of half-digested food were collecting at the back of her tongue, making her cough and gag.
There was retching and groaning, coming not from her, but from others in the carriage. Whatever was affecting Chloe was also taking its toll on them. People were shuffling out of their seats, fumbling around for the exit. Some were doubled over. Some were crawling on their hands and knees. Others were vomiting. Panic set in.
It was then that the shockwave smashed into the side of the train. The noise was deafening. Metal crunched, glass smashed, heavy luggage launched from the overhead racking. People started to scream.
The temperature drop was instantaneous and savage. Flurries of feathered sleet swirled around the passengers, who were now surging towards the exits like frightened animals fleeing a threat that none could understand. They appeared to be acting in instinctive unison, though this was just an illusion. A woman who was wearing a top that read In a World Where You Can Be Anything, Be Kind slammed her elbow into the side of another woman’s face, shoving her terrified daughter into the luggage rack as she pushed her way past. The blood from her mother’s face was dripping into her hair.
One man, neatly trimmed beard, salmon pink chinos, clambered for the broken window, trampling over anyone who got in his way. Some tried to help those who were struggling, though they were soon jostled aside, becoming victims of the herd themselves.
Chloe was willing to bet that these people hadn’t experienced much fear in their lives, not like she had. She was still scared of Nate, and the rest of them, though rarely for herself. Whatever they could do to her had already been done. She knew she could do what was needed to survive. It was what they would do to her family if she didn’t do what they asked, that was what she really feared. That was what kept her there, what ensured her obedience, long after she’d realised that her acceptance had been a one-way ticket. Non-refundable. Terms and conditions apply. The safety of your family may be at risk. Even the knife that she carried was intended to protect Nate’s interests, not hers.
A thick fog had descended on the moor. Chloe could barely see beyond the edge of the track. Some of the passengers were running into it, many of them staggered and fell as they faded into the veil of white. Others were shuffling around the side of the train. Many continued to vomit. Sleet turned to hail, then snow. Nobody was dressed for the occasion, yet they continued to venture into the outdoors. The inside of the carriage was cold, but it was surely worse out there.
The temptation to escape was strong, but what would be the point? Taking on the wilderness would be an obvious mistake. Following the track would be a better bet, though not with the weather as it was, and not dressed like this. Best to wait.
A blast of wind rocked the carriage. Snow continued to pour in through the smashed windows, covering the seats, soaking into their tired chewing gum adorned upholstery. There was nobody left except for her and the lady with the book who had smiled at her earlier. She was still in her seat, holding her arms across her chest, shivering. Her head was bent forward, her eyes closed.
Despite the nausea, Chloe was hungry. She could go for long periods without food, but she also made a habit of taking it whenever she had the chance. Her mouth was ashtray dry. There was a catering trolley that had passed by several hours ago; she’d thought about swiping a chocolate bar, but the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself. It might have been raided already, but judging by the levels of panic there was a good chance that it had not.
She eased herself from her seat, hoping not to wake the old lady.
Standing was an unexpected challenge. She felt her eyes roll as her legs gave way. Grabbing the headrest of the seat was the only thing that stopped her collapsing into a heap.
Without warning, the woman reached across and grabbed her hand. Chloe pulled it back. ‘What the fuck.’
The woman smiled, folded her arms again, and shuffled into her seat.
Chloe turned away and started moving along the aisle, clawing the headrests as she went, like she was taking part in a horizontal climbing contest. Her legs felt hollow, her body insubstantial. What was this? Terrorism? Global warming? An act of God? Nothing made sense. The carriage shuddered again as the winds howled around it; a frightened animal, confused, cowering from the elements. She stumbled several times before reaching the next carriage, and the catering trolley, which had been abandoned, along with everything else. Jackets, newspapers, children’s toys. People had even left their laptops behind.
In more ordinary circumstances Chloe would have made the most of the opportunity, taking anything that could be transported easily and sold quickly, though all she wanted now was something to keep her warm. There were no coats that were thick enough to do the job on their own but there were plenty of items to layer up with. A couple of t-shirts, a thin jumper, and a jacket from the kind of suit that smarmy city boys working in finance wore. If you’re going to make a living on the misfortune of others, you might as well look good while you do it, right? Though Chloe never really thought they looked good at all, just banal and insincere.
Biting into a tuna and cucumber sandwich, Chloe was transported back to when she still lived with her parents. Whenever it was sunny, her mum would make tuna and cucumber sandwiches to eat in the garden on a blanket she’d laid out on the lawn. Even as their relationship started to breakdown, they continued to do this together. A refuge from the escalating chaos. Her mum never really had a clue what Chloe had been up to, or the company she kept. She had suspected the drugs, but the stealing, the violence, the things she would have to do for Nate – she was in the dark. Maybe she worked it out once Chloe had left. Maybe not.
She’d never dared to go back, for their sake as much as hers.
There was a sudden commotion from the previous carriage. Chloe thought she could hear the low murmur of a man’s voice. The woman was shouting. She sounded scared.
Instinct urged her to move quickly, away from the noise. Sandwich still in hand, Chloe started towards the next carriage. The dizziness continued but wasn’t as debilitating as before.
‘Get your hands off me!’ Hearing the woman plead awakened a part of Chloe that she’d kept buried for a long time. Why, of all the things she had seen and done, was it this simple cry that broke through? Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation, the otherworldly isolation that had descended with the icy flurries and freezing mist, the irrational responses of the other passengers.
She turned back. The woman was still in her seat. A man stood over her, holding her down with one hand while the other tried to prize the handbag from her frail hands. It was clear she had no intention of letting go.
Chloe reached down and pulled the knife from her sock, keeping the blade retracted. ‘Hey!’ The man turned to look at her. ‘Why don’t you leave her the fuck alone?’
The woman struggled to pull the bag towards her. The man tightened his grip, glaring at Chloe.
‘That’s my jacket, you scutty little thief.’ His left eye twitched. An inexplicable hate bursting at the seams, let loose as the new object of his focus compelled him to charge.
Chloe flicked the blade and held it up. She warned the man not to come any closer, but he kept his course, swinging towards her face.
The knife sliced neatly through the sky-blue fabric of his shirt and into the flesh of his forearm, stopping as it met with bone. The man jerked his arm away, widening the wound, trailing blood across the floor. He looked at Chloe in horror, cradling the injured limb across his chest. He staggered away from her. ‘Filthy whore,’ he spat, muttering more feeble obscenities as he turned to run, conviction wilting with each uttered word. The woman flinched as he passed. He fled out into the fog.
The wind showed no sign of abating, and though it could be no later than two in the afternoon, the daylight was rapidly vanishing. Soon they would be plunged into darkness.
‘Thank you.’ The woman placed her bag on the table in front of her and smiled again. She seemed to have shrunk. ‘I don’t know why I fought so hard to keep it. There is little in here that will be of use to me anymore, and he could have taken any number of things that the other passengers left behind. Luckily, I gave up trying to understand people a long time ago.’
This made Chloe smile. She felt as if her whole short life had been nothing more than a futile effort to understand people, to understand herself. She wiped her blade clean before putting it away. If it bothered the woman then Chloe couldn’t tell. She just pulled a hip flask from her bag, took a long swig and offered it. Chloe hesitated.
‘I wouldn’t normally offer my scotch to anyone, especially one as young as you, but given the circumstances… Obviously, if you don’t want any then I’m not going to insist. More for me.’
Chloe took the flask and drank. ‘Thanks.’ She handed it back and then reached into the jacket pocket. ‘Do you want these?’ The small packet of custard creams felt measly in her hand, she felt foolish for offering them, but they were greeted with the warmest smile to have come her way for a very long time.
‘That’s really very kind of you, but I don’t think I will be making it off this train.’ Her smile didn’t falter. ‘You should have them, and then you should search for as many useful items as you can carry. Torches, food, warmer clothes. That jacket will be no good out there.’ She shivered incessantly, voice wavering as she spoke. ‘I’m sure it was summertime when we boarded, and it should be still.’ She smiled, eyes glinting despite the cold. ‘But it looks like winter now.’
Chloe took the jacket off and laid it over her new friend. A presumptuous move, but one that met no resistance. ‘You’re a very kind young woman. But please, don’t worry about me, you should go and find help. I doubt there is any coming this way. Follow the tracks to the next station.’
Nodding, Chloe headed to the main luggage rack at the end of the carriage. She was more likely to find useful items in the larger cases. It paid off. A few holdalls in and she’d found a decent looking torch and an array of Skiing items. They were too big but would do the job. She put them on and stood by the open door, looking out into the swirling darkness into which the vast landscape had been concealed. It was full dark now. The sun had vanished completely.
One of the football fans was lying beside the track, curled into a foetal position, bare arms wrapped tightly around his chest. She shined the torch on him. His pale skin, mottled and purple, was becoming lost beneath a thickening layer of snow. His eyes were open. His lips slack and blue. She doubted his companions had managed to get much further.
Chloe glanced towards the lady. Her eyes were closed, and she was huddled into the jacket, shivering. Chloe looked outside again. What was the rush?
It didn’t take long to find a couple of decent blankets. She rolled one into a pillow shape and positioned it under the woman’s head, tucking her in with the other. She opened her eyes and pushed at the blanket. Chloe nearly took it away until the woman whispered ‘hand.’ In just this short amount of time she had grown too weak to free her arm from the loosely fitted covering.
Chloe eased her arm from the blanket, taking care not to expose too much of her shuddering body. The woman’s hand clasped her own. No more words were spoken, and the woman soon fell into what, as far as Chloe could tell, was a gentle sleep. The intensity of the shivering lessened and eventually her breathing slowed; her hand remained clasped around Chloe’s until it finally loosened and fell away.
Chloe covered the woman’s body before finally leaving the train. She hadn’t realised how much shelter the carriage had provided until she stepped into the biting wind and turbulent blizzard. She was thankful to the person who had left the skiing gear behind, though didn’t dwell too long on what their fate might have been.
Walking was difficult. Her legs and body still felt ineffective and weightless, though if she thought about it too much, the nausea would begin to return. The weather conditions didn’t help.
Chloe didn’t know what she’d find once she got to the station. She doubted the emergency services would be prepared – whatever had happened, happened fast. Perhaps there would be less panic, people working together, helping each other out. Perhaps not. Either way, Chloe knew that there was no going back. Everything had changed, and yet somehow it felt familiar.
Misery might change its face, but the smile stays the same.
The struggle would be hers, it always had, regardless of who tried to shape it. It didn’t really matter if she froze to death before the day was out, or whether she miraculously made it to old age, her life – like her fear, like her hope – would be hers and hers alone.
Editor’s Note
What’s strong in this story is the challenge that the events pose on the protagonist. She’s in a bad way, in with some bad people, and yet we see her trying to do the right thing. She’s also a bit of a bad-ass, and that’s very easy to route for.
Before you read this interview with writer Lena Ng, we suggest reading her tale, A Day with Horrible the Clown. The interview may include some spoilers.
Q1. I love the playfulness of this story. How did you come up with it?
I saw a prompt for clown stories – it’s hard to be original when creepy clowns are such a popular horror trope. But aren’t clowns supposed to be funny? I’m scared of them even when they are being funny. Humour can be aggressive and violent, while on the flip side, horror can be hilarious. I laugh at jump scares, the unexpectedness and silliness of them. I can’t help myself.
Q2. There are a lot of famous clowns out there. Did any particular clowns form the inspiration for this story?
Horrible the Clown admires Pennywise and the Killer Clowns from Outer Space. I like the thought of clowns having their own code and culture, and dreadful magic behind the laughter. They are not people under the makeup; they are something else, something sinister. They don’t understand why you’re not laughing.
Q3. One of the things I love is when you can tell that the author enjoyed themselves when writing, and that comes across here. Was that the case? Or was the end result a lot of hard work?
I had a great time writing it. It was like being in a room with friends and throwing jokes around, each one more gruesome than the next.
Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?
I tell myself I will write longer projects, but I never do. I’ve written one novel which didn’t get published, but have over a hundred published short stories. I don’t have the stamina to commit to longer works, though I have low-key ambitions to do so. Short stories are fun, but novels are work, and I like to have fun when writing.
Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?
I have a checklist of stories to complete. I surf websites for calls for submissions, see which ones interest me, and add them to my checklist. Then it’s the challenge to get as many of them done by the end of the month. For more of my stories, “Under an Autumn Moon” is my collection on Amazon.
Hi Pal! I’ve heard you’ve run away to join the circus. Aren’t you lucky you’ve got a day with your favourite circus performer, Horrible the Clown. Come spend a day behind the scenes to learn all about clowning. You will get to see the insanity that goes on behind the makeup. If you follow my lead, you’ll be a success. I’ve done so well for myself, I can freelance on the side. I’ve built a nice, big house, deep in the backwoods. Not everyone can appreciate a clown for a neighbour. Last house I had in town was burnt to the ground. I can take a hint.
First, it’s time to wake up. Nothing like getting hit in the face by an oversized rubber hammer. Boing! Ow, that hurts! Funny, eh? You laugh when I’m injured. That’s okay, it’s funny to see others get hurt. At least until they start vomiting blood.
Now it’s time for exercises like stretches. Gotta keep limber for all the mischief in store. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, pull and twist, bend and bounce. Stretch your arm in a stabbing motion, move your body in a clubbing motion. Now for some cardio: jump rope, shadow boxing, butt kicks. We need to be fit in case we get run out of town.
Next is getting ready. First, I choose the wig. I like to pick the colour based on my mood. Red is for angry, orange for stab-y, green is for jealous, blue is for short-of-breath etc. Easy to remember, right? Once the wig is stapled to your head, it’s time for makeup. It’s okay to apply a fresh coat of paint over the cracked layer from yesterday. Like rings on a tree, more layers mean another day alive. Get the brush, dip it into the lead-free paint, and slowly move it down the side of a cheek, letting it drip down the neck. White paint stands for the innocence of youth. Paint on a red nose and round red cheeks in honour for the master we serve. Brightly coloured costumes to hide the filth. If the teeth look dull, I give them a thorough sharpening before I leave the house.
Next, a hearty breakfast. Can’t have a good day without a good breakfast. I chow on a full clown breakfast of rusty nails for iron, black mold to prevent scurvy, and swallow it down with the tears of lost children. Then I prepare a breakfast for my pets. They live in cages in the basement. They are on a strict diet so they can’t get too big or too strong. Dog Boy gets a gnawing bone and Cat Girl gets a mouse. Technically, they are not kids any more. I’ve had them for a long time. They’ve been house-broken and trained to behave so they don’t scream as much, just whimper once in a while. To make them feel better, I tell them their parents are coming to rescue them. When they don’t, to ease their disappointment, I tell them their parents couldn’t make it because I ate them. It’s such a funny joke. That’s how I gather their tears for my breakfast.
I go through my agenda for the month’s jobs, to see if I need to pick up any supplies. Balloons to make animal figures, a Ruger, arrows with steel tips. Don’t want to be accused of being an amateur. Swords for arm-cutting, axes for head-cutting. Each clown has their own set of skills, but the more things you can do, the more jobs you can book.
Today’s job was a six-year-old kid’s party on Rich Folks’ Lane. They wanted a pony, a bunny, and a couple of turtles. I made some balloon piranhas and grizzly bears. The kids had a great time seeing their parents mauled. Can never tell with those balloon animals. They’re wild and unpredictable. One time, I thought the shark was going to behave. Don’t know why I thought that. Spoiler: it didn’t.
The pony reared up and stampeded over the toddlers. The bunny bit the mom on the bum. The fire-breathing turtles burned down the shed. To escape, they dug a big hole. One kid fell in and they’re still looking for him.
It’s funny to see people getting hurt. Clown magic is a bit on the crazy side. It only wants to get laughs. There is no right or wrong. The floppy shoes trip the old ladies, the honking squeezy thing gives people surprise heart attacks, the plastic flowers shoot acid. Hope you weren’t too attached to your eyes.
I like to juggle grenades. Why not? Danger is the fun of it. I’ve only blown up a couple of faces. Skipping with pythons is also a great act. I told them the snakes weren’t real, but they stopped believing me after one swallowed the rabbit. I squeezed the python to regurgitate it back up, but the rabbit wasn’t the same. I had to ditch that party early and hide in the storm drain. I rather liked it down there.
Sometimes, I bring other props. Chainsaws, mallets, spears, whatever the job needs. I’m great at clean up as well and a pro with bleach. Blood stains are not a problem for me anymore.
After the job, I go back home for dinner. Dog Boy and Cat Girl never seem too happy to see me, though I feed them pretty regular. I’ve tried to teach them some tricks, but they rock and cry so much I’ve all but given up.
If I’m not too tired, I’ll go back to hide in the sewers. I peek through the drain cover and give ‘em a big smile. I love to add to my collection of arms. I’ve got all kinds of sizes. When I need to curate my collection, I feed the ones I no longer want to my pets. They’ll eat them when they get hungry enough.
Anyway, you wanted to run away and join the circus. Since it’s late, come stay over in my basement. No, I insist. I’ll show you a trick. You’ll laugh so hard, you’ll cry. It’s funny when we get hurt, isn’t it?
Editor’s Note
Who doesn’t love a clownish tale? I loved the playfulness of this one and I hope I did it justice when narrating it.
There wasn’t much to the room: a narrow bed, a desk and a chair. An alcove with an accordion door that hid a toilet, a cramped shower stall, and a tiny sink. That was okay. I didn’t need much. I wouldn’t be here often. Sleeping, mostly.
Ducts and pipes criss-crossed the high ceiling. Two walls were painted white, two were exposed red brick. The room even had a walled-off fireplace with a narrow mantelpiece, its decorative scrolls and swags reduced to amorphous blobs by countless layers of paint. The hardwood floor was scuffed and scarred. A horizontal window sat above the door, with glass that had clouded and gone blue-green around the edges.
“Is that painted shut?” I asked the landlady, a tall, gray-haired woman wearing a purple tracksuit.
I’d already forgotten her name. My stomach sank with the looming embarrassment of having to ask it a second time.
“The transom is locked,” she told me. “Not like anybody could get in through a window that high up!”
She chuckled at her own little joke. But, she was right. The ceiling was high, the door was taller than I was used to, and the transom over it was a good eleven or twelve feet from the floor.
“There’s a nice cross-breeze, if you open both windows,” she told me.
A pole with a hook on the end leaned in the corner next to the door. The landlady grabbed the pole and used the hook to flip the lock lever, and swing the transom open. I searched my brain for her name, and came up empty.
She added, “The lease is for the academic year. September to June. You can hold the room over the summer for two hundred dollars. The security deposit is also two hundred.”
I laughed. “Pretty cheap. Supposed to be haunted, right?”
Her expression chilled.
Mrs. Perriman,I remembered. Her name was Mrs. Perriman.
“I should be used to the jokes and the eye-rolling by now,” she said. “Somehow, I’m not.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry. Truly. I don’t believe in any of this supernatural stuff, but I heard the rent is so low because a student who lived here hung himself.”
“Why would that matter, since you don’t believe in ghosts?”
“So, it’s true?”
“No,” she said stiffly. “This room is inexpensive because it’s barely more than a closet. If you must know, astudent did fall from the second floor landing last year, and he did pass away. This was not his room. He lived upstairs. It’s the building that’s haunted, and it’s been haunted for decades. Anything else you’ve heard is nasty, tasteless gossip.”
“Oh,” I said. “I see.”
I was surprised that Mrs. Perriman still wanted to rent the room to me, after I’d made our first meeting so incredibly awkward. But she did. Once I’d moved all my stuff in, the room was surprisingly cozy. Even though the old building groaned and rattled and clunked in the night. Even if my two small lamps didn’t shine all the way to the shadowy ceiling.
After I climbed into bed, the light from the lobby shone through the high transom window, and cast a friendly yellow glow over the opposite wall.
One night, I was curled up under my purple and gold Lakers comforter, scrolling on my phone, when somebody knocked on my door. Soft and tentative. My friends always texted before coming over, since the outside door of the building was locked. I checked my texts. Nothing new.
“Who’s there?” I called.
Silence. The ceiling was even higher in the entryway, soaring up into the stairwell. Everything echoed out there. I heard no breathing, no shuffling of feet. Maybe I’d heard someone knock on a door upstairs.
Half an hour later, the knocking came again. This time, I got up and opened the door. There was nobody in the entryway. I stepped out of my room, and craned my neck to look up into the shadowy stairwell.
Nothing. No one.
The building was silent except for the faint, rhythmic churning of the washer in the laundry room at the end of the hall.
If that dumbass knocked on my door a third time, I wasn’t going to bother getting up. So, when the knocking came again, I sat and listened, and I realized it was coming from above me.
From the transom window.
I couldn’t see anything in the dark glass. A soft rasping followed the knocks, as if someone were scraping their fingernails down the door. It saw me. It could see my upturned face, wide-eyed with fear.
“Stop,” I whispered.
I didn’t know if I was talking to myself, or to that thing.
To myself. There was no thing outside my door. No unseen face watched me from the shadows, because ghosts did not exist. I was letting my imagination run away with me.
The silence stretched so long and so taut that I picked up my phone again, so I could go back to mindlessly scrolling, but my finger hovered over the play button on the next video. Every nerve in my body crackled with tension.
Into the quiet fell a long drawn-out sigh that ended in a phlegmy gurgle.
Nothing else. No sounds but the nightly creaks and rattles I’d gotten used to. I crawled under the covers and lay awake telling myself I hadn’t heard anything except the building settling. I hadn’t seen a dim face floating outside the transom, and I absolutely had not felt the weight of eyes staring at me from the darkness.
I didn’t remember falling asleep, but a furious banging on the door jolted me awake. The familiar fuzzy bar of light slanted across my room through the transom, dimly illuminating the room. I could see the door shaking as the thing outside pounded and pounded on it.
Then it stopped, leaving a ringing silence behind. No one came rushing down the stairs. No one called out, asking if I was okay. Everything was still, as only the dead of night can be.
Another loud thump crashed against the door, hard enough to make it shudder. I shrieked and clapped both hands over my mouth.
A dark shape glided past the transom, and I cringed down, making the smallest shape I could. The shadow passed in the opposite direction, as if it were swinging slowly back and forth. How could this be happening? How could the ridiculous stories I’d heard around campus be true? Even as it passed the window again, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Then it stopped. It pressed against the transom glass, revealing a face with bulging eyes, and a nose like the edge of a butter knife. I screamed again, and this time it was the long scream of a doomed character in a slasher movie. This was no sad, lingering shade of a student who’d failed all his classes. This thing wasn’t even human. The word rose unbidden in my mind… Monster.
I pressed my fists hard against my mouth. Those eyes, each one the size of a softball, rolled in their sockets. Rakes of pink tendon gripped the edges of the eyeballs, and a tiny black pupil perched like a fat tick at the center of each one.
We stared at each other for an eternity, then the thing whisked out of view. Furious rattling at the door latch followed. Battering hands, scrabbling nails, huffs and gasps of breath, until it fell silent once more.
Huddled under my comforter, I waited for the banging to start again. I felt like a child, terrified of the half-open closet door, or the slumped silhouette of a jacket on a chair. I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again, much less fall asleep that night. I knew the moment I drifted off, the thing would come crashing and banging and scrabbling at the door again. Yet, somehow I did sleep. I woke in the gray glow of almost morning, crusty-eyed and drained.
With trembling hands, I crammed my laptop and my books into my backpack. I stood for a long time at the door of my room with my hand on the latch, feeling nausea crawl up my throat. Finally, I yanked the door open.
In the dawn light, the shabby entryway looked unreal, like a dream palace. I turned to lock my door. There were no marks on it that hadn’t always been there. Nothing fresh. I shuddered at my own choice of words. Fresh, like meat. I lifted my head and looked up at the transom. It looked like it always did. Just a pane of glass. No fingerprints. No greasy smears from those eyeballs.
In the late afternoon, I came back. I marched through the entryway with my gaze held straight in front of me, refusing to turn and look at the door of my room, as I headed up the stairs toward Mrs. Perriman’s apartment.
Yet, when I reached the landing of the second floor, I had to stop. After a long day of classes, and barely any sleep the night before, the weight of my backpack felt unbearable.
I laid my hand on the railing of the landing. It was painted the same shiny black as every other railing, but under my palm, it didn’t have the bumpy, crackly feel of old paint.
Maybe he fell from here.
I snatched my hand back. Then I looked down. From my high vantage, I realized I could look right into my room through the transom. I couldn’t see much. Just a dull orange shadow across the foot of my bed, and one corner of the rickety desk by the window. That was all.
Wait. That wasn’t all. A shadow drifted at the far edge of my view. The long window in my room didn’t have a curtain, only vertical blinds, so what was that?
I leaned out over the railing, twisting sideways to get a better look, gripping the slick new paint with both hands. The shadow glided past the transom, dimming my view of my room. Then it glided back again. A chill rushed over me.
It was that thing. That horrible thing that I’d spent all day trying to convince myself was a nightmare. It sensed me looking, and it turned, fixing its huge eyes on me. Lifting one hand, it scratched its nails down the transom.
The door of my room banged violently. I jumped back, and felt the contents of my heavy backpack overbalance. My textbooks and my laptop tilted over the railing, dragging me with them. I couldn’t scream. Not with my belly jammed against the railing. All that came out was a whistling wheeze. I clutched at the slippery paint, kicking at the air, and managed to jam my sneaker between two balusters.
Below me, the thing pounded and pounded on the door. Flecks of paint drifted down from the door jamb like snow. Teeth clenched, I shrugged my backpack off one shoulder, then the other, and let it thump onto the landing. Gingerly, with my teeth clenched, I pushed myself back. My knees gave out and I crumpled onto the scuffed carpet. I sat there for a long time, my heart pounding in time with the thing behind my door.
It fell silent, eventually, like it always did. I stood up on jelly legs, grabbed my backpack by the strap, and tottered unsteadily up another flight of stairs to the third floor. I knocked on Mrs. Perriman’s door. No response. I knocked again, harder.
Maybe she wouldn’t answer. Maybe she thought I was that thing.
The door opened to the length of a chain, revealing Mrs. Perriman’s face, pinched tight with… was that fear? Her expression slumped into worry when she saw me. She unlatched the chain and swung the door wide.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
I took a deep breath. My voice came out almost calm. “May I come in for a minute?”
“Of course. What’s happened? Is there a leak?”
“It’s not a maintenance issue,” I replied.
Mrs. Perriman’s apartment was crammed with cozy furniture. Knick-knacks covered every flat surface. Framed photos crowded the walls. A forest of pillar candles sat in the fireplace. A microwave tray steamed on a small table next to a tumbler of wine. I set my backpack by the door.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
She waved my apology away. “You look awful. Can I make you some tea?”
“No, I…” I’d stomped across the entryway full of fury and purpose, and it had all withered away into exhausted dread. “I believe you. About the building being haunted.”
Mrs. Perriman raised her eyebrows.
“I saw it,” I said. “Last night. A face in the transom window.” I gestured above and behind me at the door to Mrs. Perriman’s apartment, even though her door didn’t have a transom. “And just now, I saw it inside my room, as I was coming up the stairs.”
“You saw someone in your room?” she asked sharply. “Just now?”
I shook my head. “I saw the thing. The — the ghost. I know you told me the other student fell by accident, but —”
“Daniel didn’t hang himself.”
“Well, someone did. I saw a face. Swinging back and forth. Why is the railing on the landing newer than the other railings?”
“I heard it happen,” Mrs. Perriman snapped. “I heard the railing break. A metal scream, and then Daniel screamed, and then I heard his body hit the floor down below. A crash like a cannon firing. Poor thing. A piece of the railing hit the tiles after him. Just one piece, and it rang on the marble like a church bell. I’ll never forget it. I ran out. Everyone came running out. I saw the railing gone, then I saw Daniel on the floor with his head broken open. Blood was everywhere. He didn’t kill himself. No. If he’d wanted to kill himself, he wouldn’t have screamed.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled through cold, numb lips. “I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Perriman’s face had gone as gray as her hair. “I told you the building was haunted. You said you didn’t believe in,” she raised both hands and jabbed her fingers down in brittle air quotes, “ supernatural stuff.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then what would you like me to do?”
I hadn’t anticipated that question.
“You can break your lease,” she said, “but, there will be a penalty.”
“I didn’t expect… I thought it would be…”
Her mouth twisted in derision. “A story I made up?”
“No. Just… the noises an old building makes. Maybe a cold breeze. Or a weird feeling every so often. Have you seen it?”
Her eyes flicked away from mine. She shrugged. “I’ve only heard the tenants talk about it.”
“Did Daniel talk about it?”
Had Daniel leaned on the railing of the landing and looked down into the room on the first floor the same way I had?
“If he did talk about it,” Mrs. Perriman said, “he didn’t talk to me.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the microwave dinner congealing on her table. The conversation was over.
“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said.
Mrs. Perriman watched me pick up my backpack and step into the hallway.
“Let me know what you decide,” she said.
Then she shut the door in my face.
The dim yellow sconce lights had come on in the hallway. I shouldered my backpack and headed down the stairs to the landing. Below me, the entryway lay in deep lavender shadow.
I couldn’t spend another night in that room. Not if that thing could come and go as it pleased. It could bend over me while I slept. Stare at me with those huge, colorless eyes. Brush my face with those fingers that had scratched against my door. Maybe it had already done all those things.
I decided to sleep in the library that night. Tomorrow I’d figure out what to do about the room.
At the landing, I looked down on the transom window again. I couldn’t help myself. But, the glass was inky black, and I couldn’t see anything. Thank God.
I continued down the stairs, and a sharp tug on my backpack almost yanked me off my feet. I must have caught myself on some protruding piece of railing. I swung around with an irritated sigh.
It was behind me.
Looming up the stairwell.
Twelve, maybe fifteen feet tall. Its huge face tilted down to stare at me, its insane eyes glowing like twin moons in a column of gray smoke. I could see the staircase through its body, distorted as if through dirty water.
It held one strap of my backpack pinched between two spindly fingers with ragged nails. Under each nail was a dark smile of filth.
I screamed. The sound rushed up the stairwell. Echoes flew into my face again and again as I recoiled, and my foot slipped on the stair riser, and I felt myself tilting, overbalancing. The strap of my backpack jerked me to a halt, and I hung suspended.
My hands paddled the air, too far from the railing, and too far from the wall. Beneath me yawned the void of a very long fall. I looked up into the thing’s face.
“Please…” I whispered. “Help me.”
A long, thin mouth unzipped across the thing’s face, revealing gray-blue gums and a row of tiny needle teeth.
It let go.
I fell, arms pinwheeling. One of my flailing hands smacked the railing and for an instant I thought I’d halted my fall, but I couldn’t hold on. My back slammed the edge of a stair riser, and I lost my breath in a startled whuff. Something in my backpack broke with a loud crack. Oh God, my Macbook. All that money gone.
Still, I was falling, sliding and bumping down the stairs as the thing watched me with avid glee, its tongue waggling out of its laughing mouth like a gray worm. My foot struck the wall and I went tumbling, rolling over and over, propelled down and down by my heavy backpack. I hit my knees, hit my elbows. The back of my head cracked against something hard enough to make stars explode all around me. I landed in a heap at the bottom and lay stunned with my pulse roaring in my ears.
All around me were shouts and cries, slamming doors and running footsteps. A dark form bent over me. I shrieked, shied away, and pain rocketed up my back. Hands shoved me down.
“Lie still!” It was Mrs. Perriman. “Just lie still, for God’s sake! Call an ambulance!”
“It’s there! It’s right there! On the stairs!” I gibbered. I couldn’t make myself shut up. “It’s on the stairs! It’s behind you!”
Mrs. Perriman swung her head around to look. “What? What’s there? What did you see? Did you slip on something?”
Behind Mrs. Perriman, a circle of other tenants stood over me, their faces crumpled into identical expressions of worry and fear. One of them raised a phone to his ear and turned away. “Yes, hello. I need an ambulance.”
In the gap the man left behind, I saw the towering gray thing still floating in the stairwell, its unblinking eyes still fixed on me.
But, it was no longer smiling.
Editor’s Note
I love the power of the descriptions in this tale. They are absolutely spot on, and add so much to the experience. The descriptions of the eyes especially make me sick all over (in a good way).
Q1. Where the hell did the idea for the entity come from in this story, and how can I banish it forever?
The Transom was actually inspired by an episode of The Dick Van Dyke show, in which several characters plan to sneak into a locked office through a transom window over their boss’s door. I thought how creepy it would be to glance up and see someone peering down at you through a high transom. That person would either have to be standing on a ladder, or be ridiculously tall.
To banish this entity forever, make sure you keep the curtains closed at night. And always take the elevator.
Q2. Do you tend to plot your stories out, or do you let them flow and just see what happens?
A mix. I write the beginning pages, and at that point I know if the story feels like a story. It’s very much a gut instinct thing. Sometimes, I will realize it’s a cool concept with no plot. Or, I’ve got the wrong angle of approaching the idea. Or I need to wait for additional inspiration to drop out of my subconscious. If the beginning passes the sniff test, I’ll make a rough outline of the rest. Usually, I’ll stick to that, unless I get a really good idea.
Q3. I’m awed by the level of your descriptions in this story. Is that something you purposefully focus on? Any tips to share on how to nail vivid descriptions?
I’m a visual person (I also draw and paint), and my writing process is basically transcribing the movie that I’m watching in my head. I do focus on descriptions deliberately. I’m a fan of onomatopoeia and subtle rhymes. I also love words that sound spooky. Lugubrious. Spine. Cloying. Abyss. Glower. Visceral. Fun stuff like that.
My best advice would be to choose your descriptive words carefully, read your story out loud, and don’t be afraid to add a little purple prose here and there.
Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?
That’s a tough one to answer, since I usually have multiple projects going at once. I’ll work on something until I get stuck, then I’ll switch. A few years back, I wrote a novel, which I’m now shopping around to literary agents. (Wish me luck!) But, I’ve been in short story mode for a while. The longest thing I’ve written recently is a novelette of 15k words or so, which I finished last year.
I do go through periods where I don’t want to write at all. That’s when a lot of my artwork happens.
Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?
I’m in the upcoming anthology Suffering the Other from Dim Shores Press (slated for March/April of 2026). All the profits from this anthology will benefit two charities: Transgender Law Center and the National Immigration Project. I’m very proud to be included in the project, and I encourage everyone to check it out.
I’m planning to release a few ebooks on my Ko-Fi page, as soon as I finish editing them. (Soon!) One is a novella titled Quahogs, about giant mutant clams attacking a sleepy Massachusetts beach town.
You can find me at https://marigoldrowell.carrd.co, which has my latest news, plus links to my social media.
