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| Hyena reality |
The piece I finally started was going to be a submission for this anthology, but I already know it's going to rocket past the word limit. I'm really enjoying writing it though, so I'm going to finish it up and see what can be done with it. And since I'm enjoying it, I thought I'd share a teaser with you all. What's it about, you ask? The picture is kind of a clue...
Happy reading!
The Tevershams were the perfect couple. Rich, superstitious,
and dripping with gullibility. I’d known that before I even walked through
their front door, but if I hadn’t it wouldn’t have taken me long to figure out.
There was an old horseshoe nailed into the door frame, rusted, weatherworn, and
made from real iron. Iron warded off evil spirits – supposedly – and an upright
horseshoe was supposed to gather luck for the homeowners. I liked seeing such a
countrified tradition kept alive in a big city like Lacebark. It was so sweet.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was thick with the pressure
of restless spirits – but I’d known that already too. Cool air ruffled loose
strands of my braided hair as I stepped across the threshold, and the whispers
of the departed filled my head. Pleas, threats, cries, croons, they swirled
around me, plucking with cold, invisible hands at my coat sleeves. I pushed
them away with a mental hand of my own and focused on the Tevershams. Mrs
Teversham was toying with a locket round her neck and chewing her lip. Mr
Teversham, gaunt and grim, clutched a walking stick as if it was some kind of
defence against the phantoms filling his home. They both looked desperately
relieved to see me.
If I was a different kind of woman, that might have made me
feel guilty.
“Ms Robertson, so good of you to come,” Mr Teversham said,
stiff and formal.
“When can you start? What do you need?” Mrs Teversham, full
of nerves, rushed towards me with grasping hands and I fought the urge to step
back. Instead I painted on a compassionate smile and took her hands in my own,
squeezing them gently.
“Why don’t we get comfortable and have a chat first?” I
suggested. “Before I can decide how to proceed, I need the facts.”
“Your assistant took quite detailed notes on her visit,” Mr
Teversham said as his wife started tugging me down the hall. “Don’t you have
the facts already?”
“It’s one thing to have someone else’s notes,” I said,
letting myself be dragged. “It’s another to experience it for yourself. I’m a
very sensitive psychic, Mr Teversham, and I knew before you opened the door
that your home is possessed. But deciding which ritual will be most effective
for exorcising it is a complex process.”
“Of course,” Mrs Teversham said. She all but pushed me into
a plush lounge that would have been beautiful if it weren’t haunted. A crying
girl sat in the pale marble fireplace; a man swung from ceiling beams that were
no longer there, neck snapped at a sharp angle. His ghost moaned, low and
pained. The Tevershams probably couldn’t hear that, but they would feel something.
Something deep in their bones knew that death lingered here and the knowledge
would leave them restless, paranoid, and always chilled.
The ghosts’ presence, and the cold it brought, permeated the
tasteful room and turned it from a place of comfort and indulgence to a psychic
nightmare. I gave a mental flick to the girl and sent her running through the
wall. The hanged man stared at me, his eyes deep, black pits of despair. He’d
been handsome in life, and far too young for such an end. Chestnut curls tumbled
artfully around his angular face and his pouting lips must have driven girls
and boys alike mad with curiosity. What did they taste like? How did he
kiss?
Go away, Archie, I ordered him. Go and play with
the electricity or something. Nothing too dramatic.
You never let me do anything dramatic, he complained
as he drifted down from the ceiling. His neck straightened and his eyes returned
to their usual hazel. If I’d known this job would be so boring, I’d have
stayed in my grave.
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