Three Drops from a Cauldron: Samhain 2016 by Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Samhain 2016

Three Drops from a Cauldron Samhain 2016

Edited by Kate Garrett, Amy Kinsman & Grant Tarbard

Three Drops Press Sheffield, UK

First published in 2016 by Three Drops Press Poems copyright ÂŠ individual authors 2016 Anthology copyright ÂŠ Three Drops Press 2016 All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. Kate Garrett, Amy Kinsman & Grant Tarbard have asserted their rights to be identified as the editors of this book in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. Three Drops Press Sheffield, United Kingdom www.threedropspoetry.co.uk Cover image is used under the terms of the CC0 Public Domain license.

Samhuinn – Summer’s End

Hengefall

The Color of Mourning

Hallowe’en Party

Ghosts

Ouija

Exposure

Corn Dolly

Dead Stars

Twins & Portents

At an Apothecary in New Orleans

Salem

Grandmother

The First Witch

Banshee

The Midwife

A quiet evening in the debriefing shed

Three Haiku

The Last Mountain

The Apparitions

Edinburgh Spectre

Who Died?

Drama Lessons

Cat

To Owl – a verb

39 8

The Red-Cap

Long Lamkin

Moonlight magic

Close on Claudia

Halloweâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;en

All Saints

Visiting Mrs Hughes

Shining Pans and Clean Equipment

The Visitors

Previous Publication Credits

Samhuinn – Summer’s End Summer’s King lays to rest As Winter’s Queen ascends Upon the Throne of Seasons But Autumn’s reign begins In the twilight of rule As ancestral spirits Return home for a single night. Nico Solheim-Davidson

Hengefall I could have been the meter to your rhyme, for when season and time spill into each other, leaving a carnage of clashes; the balance on your scale, rainfall to your parch, grass for your desert, the shine to your shade. But your festival of fire set light to the scrub of our foundations, until bluestone stained black; and with the sun at my back, the shadow of the henge groaned and leaned west, until all that was left were cracked pagan tales of the house that fell apart. Harry Gallagher

The Color of Mourning The colour of morning in a San Diego autumn: you displaced here twelve years note sunlightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silent taint and fade trees stained not with the blood of a slain midsummer god but with the knick of his finger. Dressed in the hues of fallen leaves you fill kitchen corners with apples and acorns corn husks and pine cones brew cauldrons of thick chowder and beer dropping hints that August has outstayed its welcome. This is the time of spiders gossamer-veiled doorways thresholds scorched by the shadows of scarred tattooed pumpkins eyes spooned out in grief over summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s supposed passing. From here you scry distant clouds of smoke: seasonal wildfires fuelled by desert sage and dried brush that will touch many hands before put out like the sparklers once waved around a bonfire as if casting a spell lights danced off your fingers before extinguishing. Charles G Lauder Jr

Hallowe’en Party (Don III) When you said “I might be dying” truth lay between us like an unsheathed sword wet with your blood and I turned away in my head smiling caringly and lighting another cigarette fear metallic in my mouth along with the wine and a mouthful of pumpkin pie – libations to the spirits who howl (with us) in this dark corner of the room where rain bites the window and pale cobwebs clutch us as we talk our (now) shared secret isolating us here where Jack O’ lantern faces scream terror their flesh – like yours – gouged out with sharp knives: where will your soul ride tonight? I am already in black as if for mourning. It is not enough. Christine Vial

Ghosts Caught in the twining of history, names pinned to stories told without truth or texture, they hide themselves in the corners of our dreams. When we wake from the warm envelope of sleep, they crowd our senses and through the card-tricks of memory, shuffle us into regret. We scour the tattered hallways of our past for a coat or missing shoe, errant vowels dropped in conversation. Anything to suggest a second chance, conceal the knife or, when summoned by the king, reveal a different name. Maurice Devitt

Ouija For our first and sole Ouija session, we locked ourselves in the attic. You recited a list of strict rules to obey before transgressing the laws of natural order. “Do not solicit spirits for earthly matters. If two persons participate, only one can communicate with the dead – the other assists and remains silent. You must ask three times if they’re sent by God: they’re forced to tell the truth the last time. Ghosts lie a lot: they are utterly unreliable. Never conjure them when you’re depressed, in a bad mood or during the fool moon because they’ll try to manipulate and upset you. You shall only invoke what can be banished: do not call up something malicious. Avoid wearing silver, they can’t stand it, or jewels, they’ll try to strangulate you. Don’t let animals in the room because they perceive spectres’ presence and will attempt to escape. The golden rule is not to summon someone who had a tragic death.” My ten-year-old sister had disappeared and you could guess my intentions. We drew a circle, washed our hands in a basin, lit incense stick and white candles for innocence. Curls of smoke emerged, a flood of cursed forms, dragons and soldiers on battlefields rolling over. When you asked my sister if she’d suffered a lot the planchette moved erratically, like a hectic radio interference. Suddenly your head bowed as you received a cold slap from behind. You addressed her one more time: “Where are you buried?” The candles all extinguished despite the lack of any breeze – everything was shut and locked.

“Where no one will ever find me.” The planchette slipped away and pointed “Goodbye” before we had time to ask who the killer was. Julie Irigaray

Exposure My sleep pattern has turned the way of the weather; cold and wet, broken, disturbed with an encroaching frost that slowly taps at the windows before the first light, but my sleep is turning into a madness that runs for days and the nights are becoming one. I cannot trust my body to know what is best anymore. Living under this roof that seems as thin as paper, a frosted sheet separating us from the stars, I exhale steam in a constant fog, watching the roof pull and billow in the wind. The weather lives in this place, the clouds are gathering in the kitchen. Ice is forming in the bedrooms, on our faces and arms as we sleep, unfurling across our skin like forest ferns. I cannot escape the turn of the seasons. They are just a room away, settling, gathering, collecting force. I live like my ancestors, primed and knowledgeable about the subtlest changes in temperature, knowing instinctively my land, my country and the skies. I cannot survive forever, living like this. I could die of exposure on the wet boggy floor of the living room, with the walls painted in a grey midnight rain and the elements bearing down on me, all the colours leaking out into the sky. Jade Kennedy

Corn Dolly I am the last of harvest, limbs blonded brittle by the late late sun. I am hollow-boned at All Hallows; reedy, yellow-piped, stick-arms flung cruciform open in an embrace of gold. I am stiff-skirted, wide legged, fecund and pregnant with homespun magic. I am a threshing of seasons, the safe-guarding of plenty preserved in my effigy. I am all the reaperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rewards, cut from the final sheaf, bundled and twisted into promise. Sarah Doyle

Dead Stars close your eyes float through the musty air the drifting spores of pink lawns the exploded fruit of pumpkins like a happy happy drunk swoon the dew grass sing the dead stars Gareth Writer-Davies

Twins & Portents The twins were born on Halloween, at 6.16pm. 616 is the real Number of the Beast. St John’s Revelations had a typo. On this particular All Hallows’ Eve, twins had just been born. They looked angelic. All babies do look angelic to their mothers, of course, but these babies had an almost other-worldly quality to them. James was the eldest by a few seconds; he emerged crying and screaming. There was barely a pause before Andrew started to emerge. The midwife – Sister Clara – felt a brief panic at Andrew's silence. She instinctively thought the worst and, with the instinct of over 20 years’ experience, brought a hand down on the newborn’s backside. She almost jumped when the baby’s head turned – actually turned – to face her. Andrew’s vivid green eyes were staring straight at Clara. He looked affronted by the slap. “What is it?” the mother asked, picking up on the unspoken tension filling the room. “What’s wrong?” As Sister Clara carried the twins over to the sink, she ran her eyes over their small bodies. Nothing seemed amiss; they looked ordinary. She had been a sister of her order long before becoming a nurse, so she understood the truth behind All Hallows’ Eve. That was why she had been sent here, four years before, to this isolated Dorset village. At the time, they hadn’t known when the moment would occur, but they had known it would be soon. “It’s arrived,” she muttered to herself. “It’s time.” A sudden bolt of fear ran through her – there were two babies. Twins were increasingly common, but it had never occurred to her or the Order of the Righteous that they would need to make a choice. She had resolved herself, long ago, to do what must be done to stop the Saviour’s return to Earth. Her Satanic order had given her clear instructions. Ignoring the pleas of the mother from the bed, Clara reached inside her blue tunic, muttering a prayer to the Dark Prince as she did so. A deep, angry growl distracted her, and she looked round; she gasped as she saw the twins’ mother sitting up on the bed, her eyes now a deep blue and focussed entirely on her. “No ...” she whispered. But she knew it was too late. The mother had been possessed by the Ultimate Enemy. She had barely time to react before a bolt of lightning cracked, hard, into the room, and struck her where she stood. Her last thought, before she lost consciousness, was: Prince of Darkness, forgive me. The mother slumped back against the bed as she was released from her possession. She blinked, took a breath, and pushed herself up again, looking over the scene of destruction before her. 20

Her heart skipped a beat as she saw her twins, squirming around and seemingly unconcerned by the destroyed roof above them. She looked again at her two children. The second coming had arrived. But whose? Matthew Munson

At an Apothecary in New Orleans She wore a silver dollar around her neck, had the bones of a muskrat in her purse when she laughed people looked our way she’d spit in their direction and wink Are you sure this is what you want? Promise you won’t hate yourself come morning? I wore a whiskey grin and seven silver rings, had the dreams of a junkie in my back pocket when I spoke it sounded like wet ash slapping gravel I’d cough and often cry from the right side of my face Give me the magic, devil woman I already hate myself in the mornings— That ain’t gonna change. She tasted like coffin dust and rose petals had the shakes of the snakes in Congo Square when she touched me I felt a bleeding a puncturing in my palms and eyes Walk straight to the Mississippi Don’t speak, don’t touch no one, you hear? I tasted like last chances and bitters had the chills of a woman half-past her death when I touched her I felt a passing a soft whisper in the space between my ears Everyone who’d listen to me is dead I got nothing but the river to look forward to But I’ll be back missus, I’ll show em’ all then Stephanie M. Wytovich

Salem Betty Parris I don’t want to play this game. The room is dim. My father said in the cemetery there are graves for naughty children who forget to say their prayers. In the moving shadows Indians and witches lurk. The big girls hold a glass up high, egg yolk floating in the water, peer into its depths to find out who they’ll marry. Their voices flicker, dart. In the candlelight, I peek around their elbows see the spectre of a coffin, run shrieking from the room try to flee the rising darkness. George Parris My greatest fear was what parishioners would say, when the girls choked and writhed, shouted foul blasphemies. When I came here, they did not want me. They failed to see my eminence, their own luck. When my Betty foamed and gibbered, And niece Abigail screamed that she was pricked by needles none of us could see, I feared they’d blame it all on me. Still: if the Devil targets me makes these silly girls shudder, shriek, grab burning brands straight from the hearth and throw them in the air, all this is evidence of my sanctity, my godliness. I am their pastor, leader of God’s Chosen People, Satan’s worthy foe,destined to build the glowing City on a Hill, here in this darkest wilderness. Cotton Mather When they tried the wizard Burroughs and then sentenced him to hang, they brought him in a cart to Gallows Hill. He said a perfect Paternoster with the noose around his neck. The crowd murmured, 23

shifted, said he could not be a wizard, nearly set him free. But I rode up on my pale horse, said his ruin was for the greater good, that he was chief of the dark forces swarming in the air, sent to bring about our ruin. So they muttered, slunk away. I nodded to the hangman to complete his task, smiled as Burroughs danced his final jig, prayed for his blackened soul. Martha Carrier They called me Queen of Hell. What do they know, these grim black scarecrows gathered at my feet. Why would I blight their crops, send plagues to kill their cattle, freeze the blood within their veins? I laugh as they put the rope around my neck, look down and say if you want to behold evil twisted bubbling black thing spawned by Satan, gaze into your own hearts, look deep into each othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; eyes. Susan Castillo Street

Grandmother A hare crossed my path the other day; paused, amber-flecked eye holding the sun. I said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hello, grandmotherâ&#x20AC;?. The hare said nothing. Her silence speaking volumes. Lizanne Henderson

The First Witch The first witch, a demi-goddess by dilution, surveys the familiar beach and sees the portal opening. Once a human year it opens; she prepares to feed. Her bare feet on the cold, slimy cobbles takes a bit of getting used to as the gargoyles on the college building scream at her for mercy, her father is in situ with the world on his shoulders and the martyrs stay quiet, for they are happy their purpose was served. She salutes them. A young man appetiser approaches and when she taps him on the shoulder he looks surprised, like they always do. Where to put him? she muses. She takes his clothes off, but leaves a sock behind so someone will wonder how it got there, fits him with a laurel crown and spirits him to an art gallery. No one will look twice. She spies her sisters the water nymphs watching females dancing round the fire and smoking something around a fire, all the blood thirst bred out of them by men. She shakes her head. The women should dance, practice majic, but they’ve forgotten the anger. Peace and love are wonderful but without anger and violence the balance is incomplete, this where she takes up the slack in the world. Back to business, she heads back into the crowded city streets, for an island outpost this city is rich with bloodlines; Attila, Qianlong, Nero and the so-called fictional Beowulf. All here for the taking. One by one she finds her smorgasbord and leaves a trail of one shoe, one sock, a pair of underwear the men now sport these days to the new tribe called Instagrammers. Spent for the night, she looks around for the final tribute ‘mankind’ can sire her. There he is – tall, beautiful, eloquently spoken and puking down the side of a kebab van. He follows her willingly back through the veil, her food, her chattel for the year. She laughs as he holds her hand, the gargoyles fall silent. Maybe next year she’ll set them free. Yeah right! She is the first witch, the one who made the sirens, the one who tried, the one who got tired after a millennium of waiting. You can still here her songs in the Caribbean, played out on steel drums, she likes the irony of it. When you see an odd sock or shoe abandoned, lying in the street, she was there. Andie Berryman

Banshee Shuffling dissatisfactions like my pack of cards, I comb my hair. It is white, fills the night like a vapour. I arise with a cry like an owl, like a child, like a woman, who is not a woman, quite, but the bones of your future. In a silence that brims with shadow, that quivers like water, I unreel myself on the skein of my voice, my keening. I am washing your bloody linen will it never be wholesome? I am calling to warn you. I frighten the birds from sleep but I fear you do not listen. Kitty Coles

The Midwife They’ve given the human midwife some ointment for the eyes of the babe she’s just delivered. So, she’s smoothing out his cries, and she’s smeared a drop on her own eyelids, and seen, in some surprise, that the birthing room’s in a mouldy hole beneath the Hill of Sighs. They’d come to her in the smallest hours, and banged upon the door a coachman and a flighty maid, to urgently implore that she come within their carriage bold across the boggy moor to the cavernous halls of a shadowy manse she’d never seen before. The master who greeted them on the path was wild, with eyes a-glare and a beading of froth upon his lip, a mouth hung with despair, and he’s pulling her into the shadowy manse and up the dizzying stair, to a drenchéd bed and the dreadful screams of a young girl rolling there. Now she’s sending them all for water, and she’s sending them for a knife, to ease the woman, and cut the cord, and save the baby’s life, a tendering hand upon her face to calm her in her strife; the delicate gentleman storming about, a-grieving for his wife. She’s sent them all into the yard, and brought the mother to peace. She’s coaxed the baby out of the womb and laid it on a fleece. The cord is tied in double knots and cut, at last release from the strains of birth for Ma and boy, in quiet and surcease.

Except this wild young master, with his face and hair aglow, thrusts a glistening ointment in her hands: “Anoint him with it, now!” A dab upon each of the baby’s eyes, but wiping of her brow smears a drop or two on her own eyelids, and this is how she knows that the birthing room’s a mouldy hole, the drenchéd bed’s a mere, the mother is strung around with rags, the maid’s a toothy sneer upon two legs, the coachman looming high is half a man, half-bear, and the lion’s smile in the master’s mouth is biting at the air. And the mother new upon the bed, she holds her with a stare! Do not reveal the things you see, but smile, if you dare. Make calm escape in quiet haste allow no look of fear to betray you see what you can see within the darkness here. With quick and measured step she walks, stifling her cries with her fist, and with the other wiping fiercely at her eyes, stepping over gleaming bones to reach at last the skies, and she’s stood now at the cavern door all on the Hill of Sighs. Math Jones

A quiet evening in the debriefing shed Listen. I’m going to explain everything. They come in threes, like Souzhong tea, sloe gin, and belladonna. We’ve been subject to a slip of reason. They walk among us already. The malediction bureau is not to be trusted, the distant early warning tapeworms are no longer under our control, and a fair number of surveillance subs have transmogrified into turnip lanterns. Just because we cannot see them, it doesn’t mean they’re not there. And we’ve had reports of inexplicable disappearances: riverboats that sail off into nothingness, travellers who vanish while crossing a field. What you see depends on what you think you’re seeing. Take for instance the ballroom upstairs. It’s the kind of place where things go out of hand after midnight. This is going to be a filthy job, at odds with the drip and drone of humanity, demoralized until the crack of doom. Even in our sleep we emit radio signals. There’ll be no patience for evolutionary chaos down the line. We must imagine the things we cannot see. Emeralds, lemons, and blood everywhere. We all have our own secrets to keep. Jane Røken

Three Haiku Half girl, half magpie. She will steal your heart for her house of broken things. * In the dark they reach for each other. Teeth bared, they drink blood like whiskey. * Do not fall in love with Old Gods. If you let them, they will eat you whole. P. Edda

The Last Mountain Olaf killed my family, then died in some battle before I could get my revenge. It is said, and it is known, that a man must avenge his family. High upon the last mountain on the tip of Scandinavia, at the top of the world, the Valkyries nest in their eyrie. With frost clutching my beard and my cheeks red from the burn of the Northern wind, I venture to those who can take me to Valhalla, so I can complete my vendetta. I searched for the man who murdered my wife and son, killing those in my way. When I found his corpse, I was given no serenity. With no means to relinquish my anger, hate drove me in a fury of destruction. Riding the harsh waves in a war-tempered longboat, the Gulf of Bothnia’s ice waters boiled from my rage. Sea-monsters’ black blood oozed in puddled from my iron axe to the wood underfoot. I yelled and pounded my chest, swearing to the gods how I shall not go impede on my quest for vengeance. From the sea to the forest, I hunted the elk and slew the beasts. The trees shed their needles as I approached, and the weeds grew in my wake. In remote villages, the townsfolk hid in their longhouses as I passed through. The autumn harvest turned to rot, and the dirt roads became mud. Endless vistas of mountains, from the horizon to the world’s limits stretched in all cardinal directions. I ignored the burn in my legs as I conquered each crag. Waist high snow melted and avalanches retreated away. Peaks crumbled, kneeling to my odium. Before my very eyes, the last mountain rose to scrape the heavens. The black rock trembled as I drove pickaxe into the cliff and assented to the Eyrie. Unfathomable height laid below me as that above faded into the grey sky. With strained muscles, my arms heaved me atop of the precipice. Jagged stone pierced through blankets of virgin snow. I stood upon the peak and bellowed out a roar of primal wrath. No nest rested before me; I pulverized stone to pebbles with bleeding fists. Cursing to the gods a shadow passed over me. With my neck stretched to the sun, I saw an eclipse as a winged creature descended upon me. With talon clutching my biceps, I was lifted. Jordan Altman

The Apparitions That was the year the apparitions came, cold ember phantoms, arising each dawn to trail through ash groves and wild country lanes. Ghosts in the wheat fields were shaking the grain and children’s voices called over bright lawns – that was the year the apparitions came. High in the elm trees the rooks cawed their claim. The sweat of the river lay in long shrouds dripping round ash groves and wild country lanes. Bone-leaves tumbled to earth. The Autumn rain drummed on the rusty sheds housing the cows. That was the year the apparitions came. Something was taken I won’t have again. The wind rattled into the ripened copse, dropping the hazels down wild country lanes. Death plays Hangman, like a child at its game, completing the scaffold, drawing the corpse. That was the year my apparitions came, blowing the ashes down wild country lanes. Marc Woodward

Edinburgh Spectre Lochrin Basin secrets a thousand ghosts. On All Hallows Eve Rope Walk Ironworks clatters with pow and thud, the dragging of Creamery milk-carts. The water speckles ice, inviting skates, summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end, end of a marriage too. A shadow-man reels on the canal bank, his fist stinging from a camera-wobble punch to a tripod at his studio. His painterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye shutter-winks through the darker half of northern light. The bonfire flares on Calton Hill. Summer glances, the slanted parasol, a Links picnic, were proof of her withered love. Her spirit coloured the sepia, blackened hearts. He wills her return with murmur chants. Maggie Mackay

Who Died? Won’t you tell me why you weep? What did you choose, of all the sadness? Of all the sorrow which surrounds us? Weep away, weep away, no need to tell. Were you close…? Too close. Oh, believe me, I understand. Let me just console you, darling, With me you’re not alone. Oh my love, who died? Who died? * I would share your sorrow, child. We grew together, oak and ivy, Through many tears, so gently watered Inseparable, as if we ever chose. You are mourning, you are mourning. A loss that only those foregone can know. Don’t worry, my love, fear not, Soon you’ll smile again. Oh my love, who died? Who died? * You’re not looking well today. Do you know this feeling, darling? Are you feeling something missing? That sensation, pulse and breath. You’re paler than you were. Has the stiffness passed yet? Can you open your eyes? They cannot hear you ask, who died? * You’re holding on too tightly. Can’t you let your grip relax, just a little? Hang on for dear life. How dear is life? How dear, my dear? You are mourning, you are mourning. Just lie still and let it go. 35

Don’t worry my love, be calm. These burdens are no longer yours to bear. Oh my love, who died? Who died? * Who… who else can see this? Mourning is a private matter. No need to make a scene. We have all the audience we need. No light can enter, as no light can exit. No life will enter, save the louse and maggot. Scant comfort, they tried so hard. We are safe here now, it’s over. Oh my love, who died? Who died? Who died, my love? Who died? Oh, my love, who died? Who died? Keira James

Drama Lessons I stole that skull after the play and lit its sockets with candles to kindle a mind. I mumbled to be or not, and got my answer: a grin as happy and drunken as my dad’s. Don’t mess with dark matter He’d preach. His whiskey breath spooned bile in my head. I played with ouija boards. Gran said we’re taught to forgive the dead, the ghosts, the drunks. I lost dad’s ashes on that number forty-two bus. Phil Wood

Cat Neither of you wanted the usual tourist fare of steel bands, fire eaters and belly dancers so the ‘guides’ had promised to take you to bars that were frequented by the locals. Cara was wearing her silk palazzos and you were in a white dress against a perfect tan. The air was perfumed with anticipation as you walked arm in arm with your hired beaus along a beach of crushed coral. The drinking had started earlier in the day with bottles of vodka, then straight on to beers at the pavement cafes followed by cocktails; pink and orange sunsets, blue lagoons, fronded arrangements in tall fluted glasses like a 5-a-day’s worth of fruit. Now, you were on your way to the east side where the atmosphere was chilled, the music acoustic, the wine thickened with sun-ripened flavours that seeped into every pore. “I want something that will remind me of this moment, for ever,” you’d said to Jafar. “I know the perfect thing,” replied the escort. The walls of the room behind the bar were covered with tissue-fine prints of intricate designs. The artist showed you his inked panther, its outline filled with elliptical moons, flowers, butterflies that spread across his back and arms and legs. He was a living gallery, a moving work of art. Only his face carried no sign of his trade. Cara asked for an anklet of birds so that when she titled her foot, the wings would spread. It was getting late. You couldn’t decide but one more drink and you were mewling like a kitten. The laser treatment has removed the whiskers leaving macabre lines on your cheeks but the soft flesh at the end of your nose is still caught in a bluish circle. Alison Lock

To Owl â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a verb I laid my longing on the surface of a lake as the old moon performed his conjuring trick. From a star-embellished sleeve of water, he drew out an owl to fly close in to my head. Wide wings skimmed all the wishes in there, as nervous creatures shivered in the reeds. How easily, surprisingly, I took on the graceful instincts of night bird, finding no time, in flight, to be fearful, no troubles, or ill will, to store for tomorrow. The rest of my night was air stroking through feathers; the lake breathing deeply in the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crescent. Susan Taylor

The Red-Cap By the dim light of torch mounted on the wall, the creature lay in wait. The rags he wore, stretched over his short frame, had somehow endured the ages of this earth with him, bound by some sinister power. His skin was worn, wrinkled and brown and thinning like an ancient animal hide. The demon was small, no larger than a toddler with a similar temperament, his power was great. As his soul grew more evil, his frame changed to accommodate its twisted and malevolent form. His eyes were a dull red, the colour of dried blood, matching his foul red cap that sat on his head like a demonic little crown. He bided his time, in the dungeon of the castle, the bones of his victims stacked in a splendid and gruesome architecture, decorating his blood stained dwelling. He inhaled. The scent of aged lifeblood infused his ancient bones. His thirst and need grew stronger day by day, and soon there would be another target for his viciousness. He sat quietly; sharpening the black talons that tipped each finger on a nice piece of rock his master had gifted him. The nails scraped loudly, with the sound of steel against steel, sparking as he did so. He smiled to himself, if you could call the aperture that was stretched to breaking point a smile. The corners of his mouth were splitting, the teeth in his head cracking and rotting, worn away to diminutive stubs. Due to his thirst no doubt. He heard a noise; a creaking from above in the castle. The heavy front doors openingâ&#x20AC;Ś and laughter. It was the finest laughter, laced with innocence. Innocence meant purity; it meant greater power and a greater yield from his prey. His iron clad feet sprung lightly from his heavy, bone framed cradle and he stopped before the large silver basin that held the precious ruby life force of his last casualty. He lifted his felt crown from his head, carefully removing lint and down with his sharp talons, taking care to not rip the fabric. He submerged the hat, along with his hands, soaking it in the blood. He stood, dipping and stirring and swirling until the hat was saturated, then he placed it back on his head. The blood rained down over his face in long, thin trails, the beads lightly coloured by the light. He closed his eyes, his mouth slightly agape as he absorbed the essence of his slaughter. Fresh blood waited; ripe for the plucking and more than enough to satisfy his blood lust. He felt his masters pull, beckoning him to come forth from his tomb. He needed to be at full strength and he had just enough left to fulfil this task. Raising his hands, he brought the leathery palms to his mouth, and quickly passed his brown tongue over every crimson crease, then the torch was snuffed out and the being vanished. Caroline Raggett

Long Lamkin Pin the windows closed my love, that no pale man whose long legs fold under the gorse-flowers might enter. Shut tight the thick wood door and the thin wood door, draw the red curtains that no finger pale and bewitching might beckon. But the baby cries, spits, as the lord rides to London and downstairs, the maid, sharp as a new-mint pin, grows cool in the long pale evening, cracks her knuckles, counts her wages, comes up short. Whistles wet fingers, lets a long arm through the kitchen window, kisses at its open palm. Sweet pale faced creature, shaking in delight grasping a silver bowl like a hunting moon, as if it might grow. His spangled hiss would make a woman weep: ‘is the lady of the house asleep?’ He crouches over the cradle, low: ‘i’ll need its blood to make me whole’ He spans her thigh with his bony fingers, bends her near to hold the filling bowl. Out on the moors, the dark hangs still. The lady of the house comes down lit in the gloom by her silver hair, sees the long, thin, bloodied arms and wonders if there’s comfort there. He smells of gorse. ‘You will not heal from this’, the lady of the house certain in her burial dress, speaks to the crouch-legged creature. Out on the moors, the darkness lifts.

Knife like a white bolt, quick, true quick, and all is blood. Her silver hair is dimmed. Out from the moors the light comes in, makes sunrise runnels on the reddened floor. Fat from blood, he will not fit out the small window. The nurse finds his face in the morning harsh and plain as unwashed stone. The light from the windows makes him moan, the white-legged, quivering thing. Out on the moors, the lord rides home. They hang, or burn. Red in the flagstones never lifts. The lord boards up the castle, pays his servants over-well, retreats to London. Out on the moor the gorse-flowers make their stink. Alice Tarbuck

Moonlight magic The cool night breeze floats in through my open window It reaches out to caress my pale, naked flesh as I wait For the moment when the full moon is at the right angle So its rays bask my bed in its cold glow, I will have you I want your heart to yearn for me so I cast a spell on you Using the curve of my flesh in the light of the moon I twist And show you what you want, what you need, me I drive you to the edge of reason and still further until You are enchanted with me completely Now under my spell I need only say the word and you will Jump Ray Garner

Close on Claudia Being transformed. Becoming white yet robust, bright-eyed but crazed. She shakes her beautiful curls and dust falls from them. She stands before the dressing table, holding her long hair with both hands, screaming and screaming. Cathleen Allyn Conway

(Lines from the second draft screenplay of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice and Neil Jordan) 44

Hallowe’en Under this flickering blue light, in this sea of tapers and taffeta, saccharine bite of toffee and floral pattern of too-sweet wine on my tongue, I am indifferent to the hollow faces that cackle, jolt their heads like dolls. It is hot in this room, another place I have to be: there is nowhere else to go. The empty road is a release, the car a coffin where we breathe out of sync. On the petrol station counter pumpkins leer and when Hotel California enters my head I know it will loop too long. The man steaming the floor in a zombie mask says ‘have a good night’ and I totter in high heels to the car, the sky, no stars, locked up in clouds. Jane Frank

All Saints With the earlier arrival of dark And days when the Sun’s heat Is too weak to tweak the mists, We can see ghosts. Especially, Here in Belfast where almost all Our corners have had corpses laid. This shop, I see my cousin the milkman, This pharmacy, my sister in her white coat. This restaurant, aunts, nieces gone Shopping for bargains never bargaining For the bang, blood and blare of sirens. All related. Even the cousins from Blighty. The season of Trick or Treat, Forever bloodied in the Rising Sun, Bullets were tricks given equally, Life trickled to wash tables and floors, Sticking as an obscene masque. The soldiers here for a piece soon yearning. Hoping for a Christmas home going, Never knowing which Christmas. Santa, in Newry bloodied, dead. His children finding new meaning, It’s not the gift, it’s the present. Here in this growing dark, ghosts gather. Patrick J. Dorrian

Visiting Mrs Hughes Sometimes when you follow a black Labrador it leads you to a gateway, then runs off. So through you go, and find yourself within a whisper of her place, but nothing’s numbered. Faced by row on row of back to backs, a glut of happy families, Greenwoods and Sutcliffes, local stone, it’s hard to visualise her plot – so many gone to grass, the willowherb in seed. Dog-walkers disappear when you bellow at the holly bush as one might call a disobedient wolf to heel: Syl-vi-a! Listen for the wind chime echo. Sorry, not at home. Sue Kindon

Shining Pans and Clean Equipment Marje Evans house was clean to the point of excess. Neighbours would often say, ‘It’s very clean’, and ‘Nothing out of place.’ Marje would simply smile and give a nod of appreciation. Ma Williams had tried to catch her out; calling round uninvited, using the act of surprise as a weapon, but had gleaned nothing from these visits. When Marje died, it was Ma Williams who discovered her secret. In Marje’s very tidy cloakroom was a black pointy hat, a cloak, and propped against the wall, a broom. Ma Williams smiled. Picked up her black cat and walked back home. Margaret Holbrook

The Visitors Behind each child is the ghost of crippled time, the spider shadow stapled to cracked heels, the catseye regret of lost lives, lived without light or poetry, where the only muted sound is a harpsichord struck by rats and crows, fresh from the graveyard. This is why we knock at doors, sick in lantern-light, collecting stones to weight the corners of our moth-tattered wishes before stumbling back, beyond the streetlamp pools, beyond the house where you were born, beyond your unread family Bible that gathers dust in the room you are still afraid to enter. But now: let us in. Oz Hardwick

Previous Publication Credits ‘Hengefall’ by Harry Gallagher first appeared in his pamphlet Chasing the Sunset (Black Light Engine Room Press, 2016). ‘Hallowe’en Party’ by Christine Vial was first published in Manifold magazine (1999). ‘Exposure’ by Jade Kennedy first appeared in the author’s collection Alchemy (2015). ‘Cat’ by Alison Lock was first published by Myriad Editions Quick Fictions (2012). ‘Banshee’ by Kitty Coles was first published in Monkey Kettle. ‘A quiet evening in the debriefing shed’ by Jane Røken was first published in Phantom Kangaroo (December 2010).