DARK TALES T e s s
D u n n
Dark Tales
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Acknowledgments I do not know many things, but I do know how useful a good editor is. Thank you to Lewis for always being encouraging and noticing things I couldn’t. And to my dad, who’s edits could be harsh, but elevated my writing to what it should be, thank you. A final thank you to all those who keep fairytales in the modern imagination. I would not have written this without you.
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Copyright Tess Dunn 2020
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D a r k Ta l e s B y Te s s D u n n
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A Tumble Down, Down, Down. 8 The Lady of The House 12 Dirty Work 20 Reaching Hands 24 Rain-Stained Night 32 The Abandoned Room 42
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A Tumble Down, Down, Down.
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There was once a man who fell down the stairs. His head thumped and cracked and bounced and bumped until he lay broken below. His wife heard the clatter, ran in and tried desperately to put him back together. Later as the woman lay in bed she woke up to a loud sound. A bump, then crack, then bang, then thump‌then silence. But sadly, a human once broken cannot be fixed. She warily opened her bedroom door and walked to the top of the staircase. Still silence. She grasped the railing and leaned over the edge. Crack! The railing gave way. Thump then bump then crack then snap. Then silence. The couple had gone away.
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The Lady of The House
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The tub sat empty in the bathroom on the third floor. Its claw feet had scraped the tile black where it had once been blue. The patterned wallpaper peeled and cracked. The porcelain sink pooled with reddish, rusty water. If you had asked the bathroom what had happened it would have cried “the lady of the house.” If you had asked the servants why they didn’t clean the bathroom, they would sigh and say “the lady of the house.” If you would ask the cats who played with the mice in the walls they would meow “the lady of the house.” The lady of the house was tall and lean. She wore her long, ebony hair plaited behind her back. A pianist’s elegant yet bony fingers covered in rings. Her almond eyes did not smile, they beckoned. She was alone in this old house. Children had grown and moved away. Husband had passed away many years before.
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Lovers came and went without a trace. Just the lady, her cats and her mice, and the loyal servants remained. One night she lay in the pristine tub on the third floor. The blue tile gleamed with droplets of water. Bluebirds frolicking in the forest decorated the walls. The golden tap of the sink sparkled. If you had walked into the third-floor washroom that night you would have seen a crown of black hair peeking out of pink water. A hand loosely grasping a crystal flute of champagne. And the soft sounds of a single violin resonating from the record player beneath the window. The lady of the house bathed in the company of her music. What you would not have seen was why the water was pink. Or have heard the scratching of cat’s claws against the wooden door. Seen those beckoning eyes closing as she submerged into the bubbling water. An Ophelia in her own right. Her
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champagne flute then shattering on the tiles. The violin finished on a sorrowful note. The room was boarded up and left to rot. A memorial of sorts. The grown children bickered over who would keep the house. The servants sighed and continued their work. The cats still scratched at the door. And if you stood absolutely still at the top of the third floor, you might hear the faint strands of a sorrowful violin. Bidding farewell, to the lady of the house.
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Dirty Work
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The hot fire burned deep in the bowels of the furnace. The coal added created puffs of soot and ash, soiling the air. The worker wiped beads of sweat off his brow. He leaned on his shovel as he watched the body enter the flames. The flames curled around the box. Burning away and melding with its cargo. Before long all that remained was soot and ash. The tang of burnt flesh filled the air. The worker scowled. A job was a job, he would often remind himself as he shoveled coal for the next one.
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Reaching Hands
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That day on the lake could have been on a postcard. Sun bright and high in the sky. Cold clear water, jumping fish, buzzing flies flying low, and spiders skimming the lake’s surface. With hungry bull frogs at the ready to catch their next meal. The old man wasn’t expecting many more of these summers. He adjusted his grip on his old rod and pulled his hat lower to cover his eyes. The sun was unusually bright and hot that August afternoon. His old motorboat was one of the few scattered around on the lake that humid Sunday. His daughter had convinced him to get out of the house. She said he would waste away on a day this beautiful, were he to keep tinkering in his shed. His wife called her agreement from the porch, while sipping her sweet tea. The old man had muttered some misgivings at first and packed his things for the lake. Now here he sat. So far, he hasn’t caught much of note.
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Some salmon on the small side and a plastic bottle covered in algae. He turned on his radio to catch the last few innings of the game. Then a twang of his line. The old man sat up a little straighter in his seat. Planted his feet more firmly and gripped his rod tightly. He gave off a little more line. The pull came again, more insistent. He either had his catch of the day, or a stubborn rock had lured his hook. He leaned into the pull, reeling in slowly at first. His back hunched and his feet spread apart. Then the pull came more insistently. This is a heavy one, he grunted to himself. Starting to pull the line taught as the rod bowed. Bubbles quickly started coming towards the surface. Then the stench of rotten fish. The old man sniffed the air and scowled. A sudden crack and pop, and then a
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shape flew from the water, dangling from his line. The sun was directly in his sight. He couldn’t quite tell what kind of fish it was as it swung heavily on the line. He reeled it in excited to get a look at his catch. He lifted his hat as he grabbed it off the line and shouted. The cold rotten form of a human hand lay at the bottom of his boat. His hook caught in the tendons of the arm. He looked from the hand to his rod and back to the lake. He shakily started shouting to nearby boats for someone to call 911. That night as he sat in the kitchen, he stared at the TV. Man’s body found at the bottom of lake, an anchor announced. He was right, thought the old man. There wouldn’t be many more summer days like this.
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Rain-Stained Night
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The wind ravaged the trees as a car drove down a twisted road. The windshield wipers worked overtime against the rain. The man driving gripped the wheel with taught fingers. His son in the back seat drew pictures on the foggy windows. Chubby fingers cleaning away the cloudiness, only to be quickly covered again. The man glanced into the rear-view mirror looking for traffic. It wasn’t even that late, he thought. The road was empty. His only light source was his headlights flashing off the reflectors on the side of the road. His son hummed in the back seat, oblivious to his father’s anxiety. Then there was a figure to the right. What looked like a woman holding luggage taking refuge under a large willow. She waved the car down. The man looked to his son and back at her. He couldn’t let her in, not with his son in the back seat. A stranger was a stranger. But...he could stop and offer to call her a ride. The man eased his car to a stop in front of
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her and cracked the window. She hobbled over, her luggage causing her to stumble. She tried the handle. The man apologized that his son was with him, so he had no room for her. But he could call her a ride. The woman paused with a hand still on the handle. Her windblown, wet hair covered her eyes. Her bangs were so long and overgrown they left him feeling like she didn’t have eyes at all. She nodded and tried to look into the back seat. The man blocked her path. “Who can I call to come get you,” the man asked. The woman croaked, “My son. I am waiting for my son.” His own son stilled at the tone of her voice, his little hands clenching. The man laughed nervously, saying she must be angry at him. The woman said nothing. The man asked for a number and called. The phone picked up after two rings to a gruff hello. The man explained to the son that his mother was stranded. The son sighed, asked where she was, agreed
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to come get her, and hung up. “Well isn’t that good news,” the man said. Again, the woman said nothing. The man looked at his son once more. Then looked at the woman’s hand not leaving the handle. “You know what, we’ll wait with you until your son gets here,” the man said. It didn’t take long until a grey SUV arrived and parked behind his car. A large man in scrubs got out and led the woman to a seat in the back. He grabbed the luggage and knocked on the man’s window. The man rolled his window down a little more and looked at him questioningly. “Thank you for calling me, but next time keep driving,” the large man said. Confused the man asked him why. “I work as this woman’s personal care taker, she got out while the maid was cleaning her room,” he explained. “She has a fascination with little boys as her own son died an untimely death,” the large man said, glancing at the young boy in the back. “Nothing has happened yet but I wouldn’t put it past her,” the large
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man warned. With a pat on the roof he turned around. The grey SUV did a U-turn and was soon out of sight. The man watched the car drive away, then rolled his window up and started driving. His son now not as oblivious asked if he was all right. The man looked into the eyes of his son through the rear-view mirror with a plastered on a smile. “Fine son, sorry for the wait almost home now,� the man replied. He drove the rest of the way through the rain without looking back.
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The Abandoned Room
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As the door creaked open, a thin beam of light filtered into the room. It scanned up from the ground, showing first an old rocking chair, then a window overlooking the yard. The girl pushed the door open wide and stepped inside. The tinkling of chimes downstairs startled her. She slowly closed the door behind her. The young girl walked through the room, stirring up dust. She sneezed as she sat in the old rocking chair. She briefly closed her eyes to adjust them to the darkness. Opening them, she viewed her surroundings. It was a room in abandon. White shelves bare of books. A teddy bear could be seen at the bottom of an otherwise empty closet. A picture frame was barely visible under an old sheet. As she moved slowly back and forth the floorboards creaked below her. She waited for a parent to come rushing and sweep her away but
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nobody came. Gingerly, she slid off the rocking chair. She had a prize in mind. A reason for coming to this long-abandoned room. She walked over to the sheet covering the frame on the wall, and pulled at the corner. The sheet slid down with another puff of dust. The picture of a boy’s small face came into view. His black hair swooping across his forehead. His little blue shirt was haphazardly tucked into creamcoloured shorts. His tiny hands grasping a teddy bear. The girl looked once more at the bear in the closet. Turning back towards the little boy, she reached a hand to lightly caress his face. Crash! The frame came apart and fell to her feet. There was silence, then the thump of heavy feet on stairs. Matilda! An angry voice called. Turning around the girl tried to hide the mess.
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An elderly man entered the room and sighed. “What did I say about bothering your brother?” the man said. The girl got fidgety and showed the mess behind her. The man went over, and with the gentleness of a mother’s hand picked up the photo now loose from its frame. Nothing is lost, our boy is still intact, the man smiled. Taking the young girl’s hand, the man placed the photo of the boy on the rocking chair. The girl ran to the closet for the teddy bear she saw in the picture, and placed it beside him. “Now let him rest,” the man said. The two left the room, the man looking back at the chair before closing the door. The light coming from the door shone one last time on the rocking chair. The chair now seeming to rock slowly, trying to sooth its new inhabitant.
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