Hi, friends! This is a story based on Stephen King’s book, The Shining. I submitted it to Views from the Overlook, edited by Jamie Flanagan, and it was rejected. I’m not gonna lie, it stung a little. But the chances of getting into this anthology were pretty slim. And, well, the criteria was that the story be set in King’s The Shining and not Kubrick’s, which my story 90% is, but as you can see by the cover, I’m a sucker for patterns.

I hope you enjoy this piece of fanfic. I wrote it the day it was due and in one sitting. (Please clap.) It was tough, but playing in King’s universe was loads of fun. Now, on with the show. - Shony.

The blood on the hanky is in the shape of a man fucking a goat, or a pig—no, a dog. Bill dabs at his lip, then looks at the hanky again; the man and dog are gone, now it looks like The Great Land. Alaska. Fitting. Bill’s lip feels the size of Anchorage.

He throws the hanky in the sink and pops out his bottom lip in the mirror. It’s the same mouth as his brother’s. Same mouth as his father’s mouth, a bit crooked. But that’s where the similarities end. All the men in his family have the Murphy nose, all but Bill, whose nose is—as a stranger back home once declared on a city bus loud enough for every passenger to hear—like that of a proboscis monkey. His mother calls him a handsome Durante.

Bill walks into the room and flops down onto the taut bed. His brothers are probably plotting a way to get him out of the hotel and back home, but he’s not leaving. He’s got just as much right to be at the reunion as any other Murphy—maybe more. He’s the one who supported the family and worked the box office while his brothers were in Japan, the one who helped organize the tire drive—he was the one who mowed their lawns, gassed and oiled their wives’ cars, fixed their kids’ bike tires, and trained their goddamn dogs.

Bill sees himself smashing Joe’s nose, feels the crunch. He laughs at the thought of Joe’s bloody Murphy schnoz. Joe with the limp from where a 6.5mm bullet just missed an artery—nothing better than a war hero with a flattened nose.

There’s a knock at the door.

Bill hops up from the bed and looks out the peephole. It’s Joan, arms akimbo. She’s going to tear into him.

“I know you’re in there, asshole—open.”

Bill opens the door a crack.

“What, Joe send you up here to finish the fight? Some tough guy.”

“Joe doesn’t know I’m here. Can I come in, or what?”

Bill is skeptical, but moves aside.

Joan struts to the window and pulls open the shades. “Why you sitting here in the dark? No fuckin’ way—you have a view of the topiary? We’ve got a beautiful view of the goddamn parking lot. Well, I guess we can have them switch our room, seeing how you’re getting the fuck out of this hotel and going home right now.”

Bill laughs, pulls on a fresh undershirt.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joanie. You really think I’m going to let that bully—”

“Bully? He told a sweet story about you and him as kids, and then you punched him in the nose.” Joan sits down on the bed.

“Listen, honey, I like you, but your husband…my brother, he told that story specifically because he knows it bothers me. He tells it because it makes me look weak, and it makes him look tough.”

Joan pulls a cigarette from a small case and lights it, the sulphur from the match momentarily overpowers the scent of Bill’s aftershave. After she’s exhaled a plume of tobacco smoke, she seems a different person, lighter, nearly zen.

“Okay, Billy-boy. Have it your way. But can you do me a favor?”

Bill sits on the bed, next to Joan. His ears feel hot. Maybe he should fuck her—that would show Joe who the bigger man is. “I don’t know, Joanie. Depends on the ask.”

“Can you steer clear of each other. For fuck’s sake—and for my sake, too.”

“For you, Joanie—but not for him. That asshole better stay out of my way.”

The smoke snakes around Joan as she rises and heads for the door. “You men are such babies, I’ll tell ya.”

After a shower and shave, Bill takes the two little cloud-white pills. The same pills he’s taken for years. The same pills that got him declared 4-F. He leaves room 218.

The scent of Windex and Clorox hangs heavy in the hallway. He doesn’t mind it. It reminds him of when he was a boy, helping his mother with the chores. Mommy’s Little Helper is what she called him. What did his dad call him again? Oh, yeah, a coward.

Bill walks down the corridor, lost in the orange and red geometric pattern of the carpet. He tries to find where the pattern breaks, as if it might be a maze, but it all ties together in a way that’s difficult for him to make sense of. Sort of like his own life. How did he end up in this pattern of otherness?

He walks past the elevator to the stairs, hoping the exercise will get those cute pills moving through his system faster. When he gets to the bar, he’ll order a scotch, maybe ask the bartender if there’s a place he could score something a little stronger. He feels woozy on the ride down. Feels…off. Maybe the pills are working after all. He hears music and laughter. Smells gardenias.

At the bar, Aunt Genie and Uncle Pete, well, Uncle Pete number two, the first Pete dying of cancer just before Joe had come back from the war, are sitting at one end of the bar, so Bill sits at the other. He orders a scotch, and stews; did Joe really believe the bullshit he was selling?

Dan Brown, Bill’s cousin, walks in, spots Bill drinking at the bar, sees Aunt Genie and Uncle Pete number two, decides to check on his smoldering cousin. He sits down at the stool next to Bill and nods to the bartender. “Hey there, I hear you’ve got the good stuff…” Dan squints at the bartender’s name tag. “Lloyd?”

“That we do, sir. Nothing but the best.” Lloyd takes a bottle from the wall and, without taking his eyes off of Dan, pours the caramel liquid into a tumbler. “I’m sure this will meet with your approval.”

“Ahh, you bet. Put it on Bill’s tab, Lloyd.” Dan lightly shoves his cousin. “Kidding, of course. These are on me.”

Lloyd takes his rag and wipes a drop of scotch from the bar-top. “Very well, sir. Very well.”

“Listen, Dan…now ain’t the best time. I’m not really—”

Dan waves him off. “Bill, you and Joe are always at each other’s throats—this is supposed to be a fun weekend. It’s a goddamn reunion, right? Let’s re unite. You and me, we’re gonna get nice and loose. Then we’re going to find us some ladies—”

“It’s a reunion, Dan. We gonna fuck our cousins?” Bill pushes his glass forward, Lloyd fills it.

“No, Bill, we’re not gonna fuck our cousins—Christ’s sake! No, I happen to know of a room with four of the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen who’re probably just itching for a good time. We go there, maybe bring a bottle of Champagne from the bar here—Lloyd, you can help us out with that, right?” The bartender smiles and nods. “And maybe we’ll see if a couple of these lovely gals want to come to the ballroom tonight, as our dates.” Dan looks around the room approvingly. “Now, if things go right, maybe the party lasts a little longer. But even if it don’t, we’ve had a better night than trying to hear Genie and Pete talk about their dog Pickles over Tommy Dorsey’s horn.”

It doesn’t sound terrible, Bill has to admit. He could use companionship. A night with a pretty girl in a fancy hotel room could be nice.

Lloyd hands Dan a sweating bottle and smiles. “This should do the trick, sir.”

Bill follows Dan to the elevator, but it never comes. “Must be stuck,” Dan says, rapidly pressing the call button. “Guess we’re going to have to earn our calories today, buddy boy.” On the way up they pass Joe and Joan on their way down for a drink. Joe’s nose is as crooked as his smile. And his shoulder supports the weight of an extra-large chip.

Bill smiles and winks at Joe, but Joan shoots a look that says, don’t try me, Billy Boy. He looks away without saying a word. But he’s feeling better already. Those pills must be working. Seeing Joe’s busted nose certainly helps.

Joe tugs in Bill’s direction, wanting to even the score, but Joan keeps a hand gripped tight on his wrist.

Yes, things are looking up, Bill thinks as they walk down the hallway. But the patterns are playing tricks on him, and he’s hit with a nasty bout of vertigo. He steadies himself against the wall.

“You okay, Bill?”

“Yeah, just…just a little thirsty.” Bill takes the bottle of Champagne from Dan and presses on. When they get to the room, Dan’s grin is about as wide as it could be.

Bill laughs. “Funny.”

“What?” Dan raises a brow.

“These ladies are staying in the room right across from mine?”

“You’re in 218?” Dan says, knocking on the door, and slicking his hair back with his palm. “Surprised you haven’t seen them. They’re gorgeous, Billy. You’re gonna—”

The door opens. Dan isn’t wrong; the woman who opens the door is stunning, with golden curls and bright green irises, almost as if colorized, like from a movie. Bill has forgotten all about Joe. About the vertigo and the pills—everything.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” The woman says between drags on her cigarette.

Dan looks at Bill, but the words aren’t coming. He wants to be smooth, tell how pretty she’s looking, but he has to focus to keep from falling over from the vertigo.

Dan jumps in, “My cousin and I have this bottle of sunshine, and, well, we were raised right.” Dan pokes Bill with his thumb. “My dad would roll over in his grave if he knew there were thirsty women that I hadn’t offered a glass to.”

The woman pauses, sizing up the cousins, then steps aside.

Inside, three other women are sitting around a small table playing gin. “What do we have here, Samantha?” says one of the women.

The night was off to a bang. The girls were as fun as they were pretty. Bill was particularly attracted to the curly blonde who’d answered the door. Dan liked the brown-haired heiress, Mary, who’d stolen him away to the bathroom once the Champagne was finished.

Bill felt uncomfortable when Samantha put her hand down his pants. The other two girls were at the table watching them make out. He wondered if this might be one of those situations guys dream about—maybe they’d all get together. But as he considered this, Samantha squeezed harder than was pleasurable.

“Ouch, honey. Delicate stuff down there—”

He pulls away and gasps. Samantha’s eye is drooping, like his dad’s eye drooped when he had palsy and had asked Bill’s mom to keep him away from him, afraid of what the steroids were doing to his brain. And now Bill couldn’t trust his own mind—this can’t be real. The pills. Maybe they’re not mixing well with the booze. He blinks hard, and when he looks again, her face is porcelain and perfectly symmetrical.

She giggles. “Don’t you like it rough, Billy? You’re so virile. You serve?”

Did he serve? No, he didn’t fucking serve. Someone had to stay home and take care of their dad, who chose the perfect time to get sick. Someone had to work so that their mother could eat. And the vertigo…the doctor said it was real, even if everyone else looked at him as though he was a coward.

“No, no, I wasn’t able to fight. I wanted to, but…” Bill feels his erection fading. He stands.

“Where you going, Billy? We’re just getting started.” She tugged on his arm. “Oh, unless the reason you didn’t serve was because you don’t like…”

Bill grabs his jacket and bangs on the bathroom door. “Dan, I’m heading out. Got a headache again. You staying here?”

No answer.

“Dan, you okay?”

A clank from inside the bathroom and a giggle. “Dan is indisposed. But I’ll take good care of your cousin.”

The girls beg Bill to stay a little longer, but he’s no longer interested in these people.

On his way to his room, directly opposite the room he’s just left, the pattern on the floor halts him in place. It makes him feel like he’s on drugs. But besides those little white pills the doctor makes him gulp, and half a glass of Champagne, he’s not on anything. He closes his eyes and pushes through it, and when he reopens them, the pattern invites him forward, its thick lines splayed like an open farm-gate.

Once inside his room, he hears the girls laughing across the hall. He puts his pillow over his head and grimaces. No, he couldn’t serve. But he wanted to, god knows. But the dizziness. The dizziness.

The reunion is likely in full swing by now, everyone standing around Joe, patting him on the back, Joan kissing his neck. But in here, in room 218, lies Bill: a dizzy, despondent, and flaccid little man.

Somehow, he sleeps, and when he wakes up, he feels like a million smackers. He’s never felt this good. No dizziness. And he’s hard as a rock. He’s got a mind to go next door with his cock out to show Samantha. To show everyone. Maybe he’ll go down to the bar and show good ol’ Lloyd. He wonders how the bartender would respond to that. Very good, sir. None better since Excalibur, sir.

Then he hears it. A little rumble. A little engine revved up beyond hot. There’s a wasp in the room behind the curtain, itching to get out into the night air.

Bill grabs the Good Book from the drawer next to the bed to smash it. It seems the last tenant had the same problem; there’s dead wasp ground into the maroon linen cover. Its abdomen has been exploded across the word Bible.

He walks over to the furious insect, but he doesn’t hit it. Its anger is too relatable. Bill opens the curtain, looks around for the latch to open the window, and when he finds it, he pushes it open. The night air is warm and smells of pine. Below, a man and woman are arguing. Bill can’t see them, but he knows who it is. It’s Joe and Joan. He smiles. Trouble in paradise.

Just on the other side of the couple, a giant rabbit-shaped bush looks ready to hop over the moon. But the dog is hungry. And the lion is grouchy. Bill shudders.

The wasp inches along the window, ramming its head into the glass with a clink, clink, clink. But just before it flies out into the dark Colorado night, it bounces off the glass one final time, and then flies down Bill’s throat. He gags, clutching at his neck. He feels it fight its way down his esophagus. It’s a strange, foreign feeling. Not painful, but awkward. And when it’s down, it’s down. The room is quiet. Bill looks down at the couple, still arguing, and drops the Bible out the window. He’s still hard, maybe even harder. He pulls shut the window.

Bill puts on his suit and runs a comb through his hair. He’s looking as good as he’s feeling. He’s thinking about Joan again. A night with his sister-in-law would put everything right. And they’d been fighting, Joe and her. So maybe the idea has legs. Legs that’ll open under the right circumstances. He takes two more little white pills, preemptively. Doctor’s orders. And heads out into the hallway.

At the end of the hall, the elevator door slides open, and—

Bill lets out a cry that shocks himself. There’s Bill’s dad, his left eye drooping. His dad, who’s been dead for over four years now. Still, there he is, with his crooked smile, wearing his spotless uniform. His dad raises a hand, salutes, and pulls a revolver from his jacket pocket.

“Dad?”

His dad puts the gun to his head as the door slides shut.

BANG.

Bill tries to get back into his room, but the door is locked, and he’s left his keys inside. He pounds on 217, but nobody answers. Thankfully, the door is unlocked.

He rushes in, closing the door behind him. He’s breathing fast. Too fast. The dizziness is threatening to consume him again. He tries to stay calm. Says the mantra, does the steady breathing—thinks of little clouds and birds and snowcapped mountains.

Clank. A sound from the bathroom.

Bill approaches the door and speaks softly. “Sorry, don’t mean to intrude. I’m just…I needed a place to duck into for a moment. There’s…um…I—”

Another clank.

“You okay in there?”

Bill reaches for the doorknob, but before he can touch it, the door swings open. There’s Dan, face down in the bath. He runs over and pulls his cousin out by the arm, but when he hits the tile with a wet slap, he sees his cousin’s face, frozen in terror. The flesh on his cheek is rent. His left eye, sagging, like a hard-boiled egg that’s been stepped on.

Bill stumbles back, nearly falling over the threshold of the bathroom door. He runs out of the room and out into the hallway, but it’s different—the walls are no longer cream, they’re brown, and the carpet, the geometric pattern, is now a solid orange. There are no doors—not his room, not even the door he’s just come out of. Brown walls and orange carpet. Nothing else.

He runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or what he’s running from, but he knows it’s here with him. It’s in this maze—and a maze is just what it is.

He turns right, straight, left, left, straight right—falling against the brown walls, swimming through turns and channels, until, until, until—he sees it. It’s a platoon. Standing in front of him with their rifles on their shoulders. Every one of them, a family member. Every one of them brave. Every one of them, steady and honorable.

And then his father steps out from the ranks, his eyes still drooping—forever drooping. And when he smiles at him, Bill feels his bones break and his teeth crumble and his mind…well, his mind is oddly still. He’s no longer dizzy. And the blood, gushing from the elevator from behind the familial platoon, down the doorless hallway toward him, is welcomed. Let the blood come.

Yes. Let the blood wash it all down—the shame, the regret, the pride—like a cute pill.

And then there’s an axe, just right there leaning against the creamy wall. Right there, can you see it? With its sleek head on the geometric pattern. And everything is so steady now. And Joe’s limp, from where he took that bullet helping to rid the world of that evil man, and in doing so, rid the world of all evil, will soon be gone. He’ll be restored. And in that restoration, they’ll be equal again.

The Murphy brothers will be equal again.

Thanks for reading! And if you think I didn’t get a fair shake for the Views from the Overlook anthology, please contact your senators!

All joking and tears aside, I’m 100% going to pick up Views from the Overlook. And then I’m going to print out my story and insert it into my copy of the book. YOU CAN’T STOP ME!!

Also, pick up my book Cherry Kills!

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Julie got out of bed and followed the sound to the opposite side of her new bedroom. The whistling was coming from within the wall, right behind the meadow of textile daisies, wallpaper her mother called “quaint.” Back in Gary, Julie would have minded cheery daisies, because in Gary, happy flowers would have clashed with her disposition. But here in Truckee, in this new life, they suited her just fine.

She ran her hand over the wall and squinted; there was a seam. With her index finger, she traced the indentation up, over, and then down.

A door?

Julie walked back to her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Tomorrow she’d ask her dad about the door. If she were lucky, she’d have more closet space by the end of the week.

Her eyes were heavy, her body warm beneath the comforter. The moonlight through the windowpanes made angelic hopscotch squares on the hardwood floor. Julie imagined getting out of bed and curling up in the magnificent pale light.

Her mind wandered until it landed on the Elk her dad hit the night they’d arrived in Truckee. It was a moment’s distraction while fiddling with the radio. Julie was the only one who saw the animal’s eyes just before impact; they were eyes full of fear, yes, but they were also full of something else that she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Relief? Inevitability? Her dad had told her to stay in the car, but she wanted to help—she wanted to save the poor thing’s life! Its panic-white eyes rolled in their sockets, and a low whistle came with each shallow breath, until finally it had gone still. Julie walked back to the car, but she hadn’t cried; maybe all new chapters need a sacrifice, she had thought.

When she finally slept, she dreamed a syrup-slow scene in which her dad handed her a shard of glass from the headlamp of their car, and said, “The bones are too heavy.”

When Julie’s alarm went off, the moonlight squares were now soft patches of sunlight disrupted intermittently by blah-gray clouds moseying across the sky.

Julie saw the move to Truckee as her opportunity to lose the reputation imposed on her by that asshole, Mark Darcie, back in Gary, who freshman year, told anyone who’d listen about how he fingered her during P.E. An unfortunate truth, and one Julie would have preferred to keep to herself. The following year had been one of social exile, so when her dad broke the news that they’d be moving to a new town on the west coast, and how that “unfortunately” meant leaving her nonexistent friends behind, she reluctantly accepted this terrible news like a team player, went to her room, and thanked God for hearing her prayers.

On the first day of school, a girl named Kelly asked Julie to sit with her and her friends during lunch. By the end of the week, she was part of their group. She’d met just about everyone in their circle except for one girl, Beth, who was away on a trip with her family at Pismo Beach.

That weekend, they all went to the lake for a swim. In the late afternoon, as Julie lounged beneath a shrugging willow, Beth pulled up in an old Nova with a boy named Ricky. She exited the car with a case of Modelo in her hand, walked straight up to where Julie sat beneath the tree, and handed her a beer.

“It’s not great, but it’ll do the trick.” Beth winked.

When Julie got home that evening, she hugged her dad and said, “Thank you for moving us here, Dad. Best decision ever.” Then she went to her room, put her head on her pillow, and thought about Beth. She was nice, funny, and kind. And she was Pretty.

Once autumn rolled around, the quaking aspen and maple trees of Truckee blanketed Julie’s world in a golden quilt. She worshiped the trees and prayed to the stars. And when her parents said they were going out of town for a few days, and would she mind being on her own for Halloween? In her mind she was already planning a party.

And of course the first person Julie told about the party was Beth, who grinned and said, “Hell yeah.”

Soon, that was all anyone in their group talked about.

One week before the party, Julie invited Beth over to help plan. They went to her bedroom and sat on the bed, laughing about Beth’s silly costume.

“You’re going to be Pee-wee Herman? That’s so random.” Julie reached over and touched Beth’s hair; it was even softer than she thought it would be. “You going to wear a wig or something?”

Beth looked skeptical. “Um, no. I’m going to cut it all off and dye it black.”

“No you are fucking not.”

“I am! And you’re going to help me. Let’s cut it the night of the party so that Kelly and everyone are super shocked.” Beth pulled back her long brown hair. “Do you think I’ll look weird with short hair?”

Julie looked down at her hands. “No. I think you’ll look pretty.”

“What are you going to be?” Beth wrapped an arm around Julie and squeezed.

Julie turned her head and looked at Beth’s petal-pink lips. The room felt warm.

“An angel.”

The night before the party, Julie heard the whistling coming from her wall again. She walked over and pressed her ear against the daisy-covered wallpaper. This time, it sounded different; it was like wind through the trees, an autumn whispering.

She leaned against the wall; there was a tearing sound as the wallpaper came apart in a straight line up the seam. Julie stood back and put her hand to her mouth—her dad was going to kill her. Only three months in and she’d already ruined her bedroom wall.

She stepped back up to the daisies, dug her finger into the tear, and carefully lifted the wallpaper away from the wall. Before she knew it, she’d torn away enough of the wallpaper to see a flush metal ring pull at the center of the door. She reached for the ring, then paused.

What am I doing?

She shook her head and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Julie looked in the mirror and wondered if Beth would take her up on the offer to stay the night. Beth had said it all depended on whether or not Ricky was coming to the party. Julie thought Ricky was nice, but he wasn’t good enough for Beth. He was a bore. His favorite band was Bush.

Julie spit in the sink. There were strawberry-pink swirls in the frothy mint toothpaste.

On her way to bed, she stopped to look at the mystery door.

Probably just a shallow cupboard, she thought. She hooked her finger through the ring and pulled; the door swung open.

A closet?

Her bedroom filled with a cold, earthy scent. It reminded her of the basement at her church back in Gary.

It was too dark to see much of anything in the closet. She went to the nightstand and took her flashlight from the bedside table. When she turned back around, the door was shut. She paused. Then she put the flashlight away and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the door until her eyes became too dry to keep open.

In her dream, she was the dying Elk looking up at herself and her dad, whistling for death. But who was that behind her dad?

When Julie woke up, her parents were already gone. She brushed her teeth, dressed, and was on her way out of the room when she remembered the door.

She hooked her finger in the ring and slowly pulled open the door.

The sunlight revealed a cramped, empty space. At the back of the closet, hanging on the dusty wall, was a mirror with a fissure down the center like a lightning bolt. It made Julie’s face look like it was split in two. She’d need to buy a new mirror.

The door creaked closed on its own, but just before it was completely shut, she saw fear in the eyes of her reflection.

When Beth arrived at Julie’s house, she was wearing orange shorts with a white stripe up the sides and a black jacket. Draped over her arm was a gray suit, white dress shirt, and red bow tie.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Julie. “We could just hide your hair beneath the back of the jacket.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound.” Beth grinned.

“What does that mean?”

“My grandpa always says it. It means fuck it.”

Julie slid a chair to the center of the kitchen and told Beth to take a seat.

Beth unzipped her jacket and threw it over the side of the chair. Then she took off her shirt.

Julie blushed. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I need to grab my scissors from the bathroom.”

When Julie got to the end of the hall, she turned to look at Beth sitting shirtless on the kitchen chair. Her skin was as pale as moonlight. Julie wanted to curl up in it. She swallowed hard.

As she walked past the yellow daisies, she pushed the closet door shut.

Julie pulled the shears from the bathroom drawer, set them on the counter, and raised her eyes to the mirror; she was covered in blood—the shears were stuck into the side of her own neck, and though her mouth was open as if she were screaming, there was no sound.

Julie recoiled, her back slamming against the wall behind her. Then she blinked, and the blood was gone. The scissors were back on the counter.

She picked up the shears and ran out of the bathroom, past the open closet door, and down the hall to the kitchen, where Beth sat eating an apple.

“Hope you don’t mind. I’m starving.” Beth looked Julie up and down. “You okay? You look nervous. Honestly, I don’t care if you fuck up. I’ve always wanted to shave the entire thing anyway.”

Beth looked out the living room window.

Julie was starting to feel like herself again. Maybe she’d been dehydrated. She blew on Beth’s neck to remove the last of the tiny hairs.

“That feels amazing. I should have chopped my hair off long ago.” Beth turned around to face her friend. “You’re not fooling anyone with this angel costume, babe.”

“I’m a good girl—I swear!”

“Sure you are, Julie. Sure you are. But do you think I look enough like Pee-wee?”

Beth got on the tips of her shoes and danced. “Tequila!”

“You’re such a dork.” Julie laughed until her gold halo nearly fell from her hair.

“They’re here!” Shouted Beth as two carloads of their friends pulled into the driveway. “I have an idea!” She ran over to the front door and cracked it.

“Quick—put on that creepy music!”

Julie did as she was ordered.

“Come on!” Beth grabbed Julie by her arm and pulled.

Julie was thankful her feathery angel wings and gold halo stayed in place as they darted toward her bedroom.

When they got to the doorway to her room, Julie stopped.

“Come on!” Beth pulled her toward the opening in the daisy-covered wall.

Julie resisted. “Fuck no.”

“Oh, what? You scared? You can hold my hand. We’ll only be in there for a few seconds. We’ll jump out and scare the shit out of them!”

“Don’t let go.”

“I won’t let go.” Beth’s freshly dyed blue-black hair accentuated her petal-pink lips.

Julie paused. “Promise?”

Beth smiled, grabbed Julie’s hand, and pulled her into the closet. “I swear on my life. I wouldn’t lie to an angel, right?”

The cramped closet was cold and musty. Julie could feel the warmth radiating from her friend’s body.

Beth moved closer, her suit jacket brushing against Julie’s arm and sending shivers up her back.

Julie squeezed Beth’s warm hand.

Beth squeezed back.

Out in the living room, Kelly and the rest of their friends were laughing and opening doors and shouting for Julie and Beth to come on out. “We know you’re here, assholes!”

Beth giggled.

Julie’s cheeks burned with passion and shame; she wanted to throw her arms around Beth and kiss her, but she wasn’t sure if Beth went that way. Hell, she wasn’t even sure she went that way. But maybe she did? Here in the dark, her body seemed to already know; it was just waiting for permission from her mind.

But now her body was done waiting. Now her body had teamed up with her soul, and tonight, here in this closet, the perfect opportunity presented itself. She would give in and lose her mind. She would find something new—something real.

She put her free hand on Beth’s hip and leaned in to kiss her.

Beth let go of Julie’s hand.

Julie stammered. “I-I was just…I thought we…”

It felt as if the weight of the silence might crush her.

“Beth? Beth, speak to me.”

In the dark closet, Julie wanted to believe the world had slipped into oblivion, and that she wouldn’t have to deal with the mess she’d just gotten herself into. Why was she sabotaging her life here in Truckee?

“I’m sorry, Beth. I couldn’t help myself. You’re beautiful, kind, and I’ve never met anyone like you. If you don’t go that way…”

It started low, the same whistling as before, only deeper.

“Do you hear that?” Julie turned around in the dark to face where the whistling was coming from, and although it was pitch-black in the closet, she could see the mirror clearly hanging at the rear of the closet.

“Beth, you see this?”

Julie saw her mouth move in the reflection of the mirror, but it seemed off, as if it were mimicking her. She raised a hand, and her reflection did the same, but again, it was…off.

The whistling stopped. The house was silent.

Julie reached out, expecting to make contact with the door and nearly fell over. There was nothing there.

“What the hell?”

The whistling started again. This time louder.

In the mirror, her reflection’s lips pursed, mimicking the sound of the whistling.

Julie reached out, searching for Beth in the surrounding darkness, coming up with nothing.

“Beth? Beth please talk to me. We need to get out of here! We need to get out now!”

She turned around, reaching for the door, coming up with nothing.

She stepped forward. Nothing.

Stepped forward again. Still nothing.

Then she was sprinting, looking over her shoulder at the mirror, which was no farther away than it had been a moment before. The darkness swallowed her screams.

Her reflection mocked her. It put its hands to its cheeks and opened its mouth wide enough for Julie to see it had no teeth, just a hole of despair and hatred—a hole of shame, lust, and longing.

Julie stopped running. “It’s not real,” she shouted and covered her eyes. I’m having a breakdown. Or was she being poisoned? Yes! A carbon monoxide leak! Any minute now, her friends would open the closet door and drag her out into the safety of her bedroom.

But then her reflection spoke; it was her own voice, only thin, only not quite right. Whispered like a church-child.

“Come inside, Julie.”

Julie opened her eyes. Her reflection was gone. In its place was an unfamiliar man wearing a dirty white dress shirt with a short collar, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His scraggly sideburns came down low, all the way to his chin, and his arms and hands were wet with blood. His eyes, distant at first, snapped to attention upon seeing Julie. He stared at her like the Elk stared at her, just before her dad hit it. Then, the man’s eyes became wild and desperate.

He reached out a shaky hand and touched the glass, leaving a rust-red smudge.

The world was in slow motion. Julie thought she could hear Beth calling her name.

“Beth?” she called. “Beth, I’m in trouble.”

Julie looked over her shoulder; it was another mirror, but in this new mirror, she saw Beth, shirtless, her pale breasts and pink nipples exposed. She opened her arms and tilted her head back in a silent laugh, but when her face came back down, she had branching antlers and lacquered-black eyes.

Julie put her hand to her mouth.

Then, in a mirror to her right, her dad grinned, his face rising from the steaming belly of the Elk he’d hit. Strands of flesh and fur hung from his teeth. He shook the dangling meat playfully.

All around the room were mirrors, each with a new horror, each terror customized for Julie.

She clawed at her own face! This was madness—this was insanity!

She turned back around to face the man with the blood-covered hands. It was him—he was doing this to her.

“What do you want from me?” she shouted.

The man was still speaking, but there was no sound. He looked at Julie with pleading eyes. She’d never seen so much sorrow and fear in a set of eyes before. She tried to read his lips. What was he saying? “Save me?”

She whipped around, witnessing each horror—each mirror. She spun around and around until she was dizzy and wild with fear. Her crown fell off her head to the floor.

Then, her eyes met her own eyes—it was her own reflection again. In the mirror, her angel costume was covered in blood, and she was holding a shard of glass in her hand like a knife.

Julie looked down; the shard of glass was in her hand, just like in her reflection. She considered using it to end this nightmare. She saw the recognition and delight by her reflection in this idea; but if hell was here in Truckee, then hell was everywhere. Hell was something inescapable and boundless.

The man with the bloody hands pulled off his boot, bashing the heel of it into the mirror repeatedly.

Julie felt the blood draining from her body. She was the Elk; her bones were too heavy to carry the distance it would take to leave this place. Her heart and soul and bones were all too heavy.

A light opened from somewhere behind her. An angel? A real angel? No—it was a new demon, this one with a red slit across its neck.

Julie gave in—there was no use resisting. She looked at the man in the mirror one last time. He was still screaming, trying to smash the glass with the heel of his boot.

It had been nice in Truckee for a while. Nice having a friend like Beth. And it had been a nice kiss, however brief.

The devil pulled her over the threshold and into a field of daisies.

No. No, it wasn’t a devil. And it wasn’t a demon. It was a girl wearing a red bow tie. A girl with petal-pink lips.

Chasm is a two-part story. Read the companion piece, by EJ Trask, here.

This story is based off of four prompts given by as part of the Stacktember 2025 contest. Thanks, Nico!

I intended to post four flash fiction pieces this month, but decided to put them all together …

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Ground squirrels dart from hole to hole, shimmying lizards disappear into fissures, and the sun is high in the big sky. Dirt and rock crunch ben…

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Bernard was a happy baby; no matter the weather outside or the mood of the house, he would look out from happy, if not docile, eyes. Pappa used to say that without Bernard’s cheerful disposition, our house would likely be swallowed up by our collective worry. He wasn’t wrong; many nights—even before Bernard died—I’d stare out the window at Abigale’s Promise, a catatonic watcher looming over our town from atop the south hump of Camel’s Back, and I’d imagine beasts skulking around its trunk, waiting for me to shut my eyes, to devour me while I slept. These days, I sleep with my back to the window, and even then, I sleep uneasily.

In the center of the tree is an iron door which opens to a hollow just large enough to place a baby inside. I’d never thought much about the size of the hole in Abigale’s Promise until the day Pappa put Bernard inside. Before then, I’d only seen offerings of grain, fruits, and vegetables on Prayer Day.

Two years ago, on Winter Prayer Day, I placed my hand on Abigale’s Promise and prayed for Mamma’s happiness. Three weeks later, she became pregnant with Bernard.

It was during this period of my life, when Bernard’s smile lit up our house, I began to realize how bleak the world is, and how every happy moment would one day be tainted by tragedy; how each ripe fruit would one day rot. I began to mourn our happy life even before Bernard got sick. I’m unsure what caused this dread, but the following years only reinforced my feelings of foreboding.

When Bernard died, Pastor Sharp brought coffee and donuts, filling our house with pleasant smells that would, from that day forward, forever be associated with intense sadness. The deacons sat in the den smoking their pipes, and I weaved in and out of gentle words and soft eyes, trying to get close enough to hear what the pastor was saying to Mamma and Pappa.

“I’ve prayed on it,” Pastor Sharp said, “and God has answered me. You’re to take Bernard’s body to Abigale’s Promise and place him inside.”

Mamma shook her head. “No, please, no. I can’t—”

“I know it’s difficult, but we must trust in Him.” The pastor held Mamma’s cheek and wiped a trailing tear away with his thumb. “Wrap Bernard in cheesecloth, place him in the tree, and soon your boy will be home. Soon, Bernard’s happy eyes will be filled with the light of the Lord once again.”

I followed my parents from the house and up the trail to Abigale’s Promise, then hid behind a rock, warming my hands on the sun-baked stone.

A crow hopped from branch to branch above Pappa as he pulled open the small iron door, the rusty hinges squeaking as it swung open. The crow above them cawed its displeasure at the noise and flew away.

Mamma shook her head, crying. She was holding Bernard’s tiny frame away from Pappa. I could see Bernard’s delicate features through the cheesecloth: his cherub nose, his angelic lashes.

Pappa took Bernard from Mamma by force, shouting, “My boy! Oh, my poor boy! I’m sorry! Please forgive me!” as he placed my brother’s body inside the tree.

Mamma fell to her knees, screaming for mercy; I bit my lip.

Pappa shut the door; Mamma wailed! Then Pappa fell to his knees, embracing her, stroking her hair and pleading with her to be well.

As they sobbed, I held my mouth shut with both of my hands.

Shortly after Pappa had placed him within the hollow, Pastor Sharp came up the hill. His brown suit blended with the surrounding hills, and he wore a crown of dried wildflowers atop his head. Behind him the deacons held their bibles in their hands, and sang hymns. When they reached the top of the hill, they stopped singing, finishing the verse as a hum.

Mamma and Pappa stood up, wiping the tears from their cheeks with their sleeves.

Pastor Sharp walked past them without acknowledging their grief, placed a hand on the iron door, and closed his eyes. Birds chirped.

The pastor began singing the harvest song; I’d only heard him sing it for the fruits and grain, but now he was singing it for Bernard. It was a pretty song, comforting. Bernard would have liked it, I think. It was in the old language, so I couldn’t understand it, not completely. But it was a song about the seasons; I remembered that much from school.

When Pastor Sharp had finished singing, he turned to Mamma and Pappa, embraced them, and said, “Your boy will be back in nine months.”

Mamma gasped; Pappa’s lip quivered.

The pastor crouched to pluck an undamaged acorn from the ground, placed it into Mamma’s trembling hand, and said, “Put this beneath your pillow, and read Genesis 1:28 each night before bed.” Then, the pastor turned to Pappa. “Sing to the womb nightly. Sing with all of your heart and soul, brother. Sing to Jesus, and sing to Frey.”

“God is good,” my parents replied.

“God is good,” I whispered.

The pastor motioned for everyone to walk back down the hill. Mamma reached out to the iron door—to her boy—but Pappa pulled her down the trail.

As they went, Pastor Sharp said, “You are not to open the hatch for nine months. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” they replied.

“Yes,” I said to myself from behind the rock.

That night, I dreamed of my brother Bernard, bizarre dreams filled with family and friends whose faces were unfamiliar and an orchard with babies growing from trees like fruit. On one such tree, I saw Bernard. He looked at me with those big brown eyes of his and smiled. “Bernard,” I said, “silly boy, why are you hanging from the tree like one of Mamma’s persimmons?” But when Bernard opened his mouth to reply, a fly crawled out from between his lips and flew down my throat, choking me until I woke up clutching my neck.

Each sleep held a new terror, but it wasn’t as bad as the waking moments, those moments filled with grief. Mamma and Pappa were husks of their former selves, and I was forced to become both caretaker and cook of the house. Not that anyone ate, not more than enough to survive, and certainly not with any desire or pleasure. Bread was eaten without butter, potatoes without salt.

Mamma only left her room for the essentials, and only when nobody was around. We thought she might stay in her room the whole nine months, but one early morning, before the sun came up, I saw her walking up the trail toward the tree, her rucksack slung over her shoulder. I waited for her to come back down, watching the trail leading up to Abigail’s Promise, but soon my eyes grew heavy and I fell back into my restless sleep.

Later that morning I found Mamma sitting on the porch in the early morning sun, drinking coffee, stroking Bernard’s stuffed rabbit. Her hands looked as if she’d been gardening. After that, she often sat outside on the stoop, looking up at Camel’s Back.

Life went on. There were no smiles, but life went on.

When I was at school, while the other boys played ball or chased girls, I’d climb to the schoolhouse roof and look up at Abigale’s Promise. I thought only of Bernard’s body, rotting behind that iron door. More than anything, I wanted to pull it open, and to look inside, but I resisted. But did I resist out of respect for my parents? For Pastor Sharp? God? No—I resisted because, as much as I wanted to see Bernard’s body, to mourn my baby brother’s life, I was also afraid he might not be within that tree.

Then, three weeks later, I woke up to the sound of Mamma singing a lullaby in the kitchen. I ran into the room, half expecting to see my brother cooing in his highchair.

“There’s our boy,” Pappa said to me. “Your mamma is making a special breakfast for us this morning.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Bernard is coming home!”

Mamma turned around, nodding in confirmation. She leaned her back against the kitchen sink, rubbing her belly. She was smiling, but the pancakes stacked on the plate beside the stove were burnt.

“God is good,” she said. “God granted us a mercy.”

I embraced her, but when I opened my eyes and looked out the kitchen window, Camel’s Back was covered in a blanket of fog, and I thought, Bernard’s cheesecloth won’t protect him from this damp.

As Mamma’s belly grew, so did my desire to open the iron door, to look inside the hollow. I tried to keep myself busy, cleaning, praying—I’d even taken up knitting, though Pappa called it women’s work. Nothing helped. I imagined what it would be like to be trapped in darkness for nine months and to hear wild animals sniffing at the seams of that iron door.

I had good intentions: I wanted to make sure the door was still closed and that nobody had disturbed my brother’s body. And I’d knitted a scarf to tie around Abigale’s Promise to keep Bernard warm. As I walked up the south hump of Camel’s Back, I thought I heard a baby crying, so I ran the rest of the way, but when I got to the top of the hill there was only silence.

I walked up to the Prayer Tree and stood before the iron door. Above me, a crow hopped from branch to branch, cawing.

“Have you been protecting my brother?” I asked the crow.

Caw! Caw!

“Well, thank you…if that was a yes.”

There was a piece of the cheesecloth sticking out from the seam. My mind went back to that day Pappa placed Bernard in the tree. I covered my mouth.

“Stay with me, crow, please.”

Caw!

Slowly I pulled open the iron door, and when it was agape, a thousand fruit flies blew out of the hollow and into my face as if the tree had been holding its breath.

I stepped back in shock, shielding my face. The smell was overpowering. I pinched my nose and stepped forward.

Inside, the cheesecloth was brown and filled with wet flesh. I slammed the iron door shut and backed away, but the crow called to me, frantically jumping from branch to branch.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

“It’s him,” I said.

Caw!

A yellow liquid was dripping from the bottom seam of the iron door.

“It’s him,” I said again. “It’s him and he’s dead.”

Caw! Caw!

I stepped forward, pulled open the iron door, and peeled back the hem of the cheesecloth: it wasn’t my brother’s decaying body—it wasn’t a body at all. It was a pile of decomposing persimmons.

As the congregation departed from the church that Sunday after worship, I stayed behind to speak with Pastor Sharp.

“Pastor?” I said.

“Yes?” The pastor smiled and approached. “Everything alright?”

I nodded. “Everything’s fine…it’s just…well, I have a confession.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Pray directly to your Lord and Savior, boy. He—”

“I was there when Pappa put Bernard in the tree I was…I was hiding.”

The pastor cocked a brow, then put a hand on my shoulder. “That must have been difficult for you to see. But tell me, and this is important: did you open the door?”

I looked into Pastor Sharp’s eyes, searching for my answer. “No,” I said. “I heard you say not to.”

“Good,” he said. “Good boy—smart boy.”

“Pastor, what would happen if someone were to open it?” I was looking out the vestibule doors at Mamma, who was outside on the church lawn, smiling and holding her belly, chatting with the pastor’s wife.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.”

The pastor patted my back, and opened the door to leave the church. “Bernard wouldn’t come home. We wouldn’t want that, right?”

“No sir, we wouldn’t.”

On the day Bernard reentered our world, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, looking out the window at Abigale’s Promise, when a small but healthy cry came from Mamma and Pappa’s room, immediately followed by sounds of joy and laughter. After a while, Pappa came in and asked me if I wanted to see my baby brother.

As I walked down the narrow hall to my parents’ room, I ran my hand over a sprig of singed rosemary Mamma had hung from the wall, smelled my fingers, and said a silent prayer.

When I entered the room, Pastor Sharp shook my hand. “You probably missed your baby bother. I’m happy to see you two reunited.” He ushered me toward the bassinet.

Mamma wasn’t smiling, and she looked weary.

“Is he okay?” I asked, looking from the nurse to Pappa.

“He’s perfectly healthy,” said the nurse, leaving the room to fetch clean towels.

“He’s your brother!” Pappa said. “There’s no doubt about it! He even has the freckle right below his left eye. Mamma is…Mamma is a little tired.”

I stepped up to the bassinet and peered over the top and there was Bernard, smiling back at me with those happy brown eyes. It was him. I reached my hand in the bassinet, and he took hold of my finger, wrapping his little hand around it. A tear fell from my cheek onto his forehead.

“Bring him to your mamma,” said Pappa. “Go on, big brother.”

I lifted Bernard from his bassinet; he was heavier than I’d expected. When I handed him to Mamma, she held him loosely.

“It’s him, Mamma,” said Pappa. “It’s our boy.”

Despite Mamma’s lethargy, I felt like I might explode from joy; Bernard was home! And he was healthy! I leaned against the bassinet and laughed at the funny noises he was making as Mamma moved him from her lap to her breast.

Then, I felt something tickling my back.

I turned around, and the blood drained from my face. Within the bassinet, scarabs swarmed over Bernard’s stuffed rabbit. Outside, a crow cawed.

Persimmons was edited by .

Books:

• Blood in the Yolk: Bird Horror

• The Midnight Vault: Twilight Zone Inspired

• Beneath the Valley Oak: Dark Westerns

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