The Tale of Storm Raven

THE TALE OF STORM RAVEN Steph Minns Nick, a London musician and bookstore manager, falls for a goth beauty he meets online. However, Suzy has a problem. No one believes a ghost is gradually taking over Suzy’s life, until Nick and his friend Zac start to investigate. But is it too late though for Suzy, who is gradually spiraling into a sordid decline?

Praise for The Tale of Storm Raven “The Tale of Storm Raven is a hair-twisting, Koji Suzuki-style tale of the macabre that reminds us identity is fragile…fans of Japanese horror, don’t miss this one!” ~ Kristi Petersen Schoonover, author of Bad Apple

Dark Alley Press

THE TALE OF STORM RAVEN I’d arranged to meet Niagara Falls, as she called herself on the London Goth forum, outside the U Noir club in Wardour Street, Soho.

We’d chatted online for some time now and seemed to click, so I’d suggested we meet here. Rain fell relentlessly out of the London sky, drizzling down under the collar of my leather jacket, and crisp packets sailed like boats along the dirty gutters of the road. Yeah, a pretty dismal autumn evening in all. I was chatting to Zac, the security guy on the door, when a petite, willow-the-wisp Goth girl dodged out of the rain into the club’s doorway, almost running into me. She glanced at me from under a rain-spangled mane of black and purple hair, her dark outlined eyes catching the reflection of the neon sign above the door as she slipped the hood of her coat down. Could this be Niagara Falls? She looked like her forum picture, just different hair, so I decided to introduce myself.

“Hi, I’m Storm Raven — well, Nick. I’m guessing you’re Niagara?”

The wary brown eyes narrowed a little before expressing recognition, and she stuck out a purple-nailed hand.

“Hi. Yeah that’s me. Nice to meet you, Nick. Call me Suzy though as that’s my real name.”

I shook the hand with what I hoped was a gentlemanly flourish but thought better of raising it to my lips, first meeting and all that. She might just think I was being a bit creepy. Besides, this wasn’t really a date so much as a forum chat buddies meet up.

“Let’s get inside and warm up. I’m soaked through,” I said.

“Yeah, me too.”

I was impressed with the hourglass figure she revealed as she shrugged off the velvet coat and handed it to the cloakroom guy.

Underneath, she wore a red satin and leather dress that showcased her curves, and spiky buckled boots. I complimented her on the dress, and she replied with a pleased smile.

“Thanks. I finished my fashion design course last year, and I’m working for a small fashion house now. Nothing big, but I’ve got plans.

This is one of my prototypes.”

A rush of warm, beer-soaked air hit us as we stepped through the glass doors and the industrial thrash beat of the band on stage almost punched us backwards. I started to speak, then realised she wouldn’t be able to hear me so steered her gently towards the far side of the bar. It was quieter there, and I’d spotted an empty table.

“What can I get you to drink?” I offered.

“Just a white wine please.”

Her manner was quite formal and proper, and I sensed a little shyness, which intrigued me. As we chatted, she began to open up, her laugh genuine and cute, even though my jokes to break the ice were pretty naff, admittedly. After a couple of hours, we were getting on like old friends. She seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my bookstore manager’s life and the music I was into, even my ramblings about the pretty rubbish thrash metal band I played guitar (badly) with. I was surprised at just how much we had in common. She’d actually heard of some of my favourite books, underground classics from cult fringe writers that I still kept on the shelves at the shop, even though they sold very few copies. With certain books I had a sort of misguided affection.

When the bar closed and the main lights came on, stabbing our eyes, we made a move for our coats.

“Shall I walk you back to the station?” I offered.

“That would be good,” Suzy smiled.

We strolled, still talking enthusiastically about art-house films, through the rain to Holborn tube. At the ticket barrier, she gave me a quick peck on the cheek before scampering onto the escalator with a wave and a grin.

“See you soon, Nick.”

“Yeah, that would be good.”

Maybe my mundane life was about to take a turn for the better.

Suzy and I met up again the following Friday. She’d sent me an email and had included her mobile number, so I figured she was keen for the

friendship to grow too. It was a clear, sharp evening, and we wandered along the Southbank, watching the river life and talking about all sorts.

“My parents are divorced now,” she sighed, breath misting on the air.

“My mother runs a small hotel near Malden, on the estuary. She’s convinced it’s haunted.”

“And is it?” I ventured.

She shrugged, rolling her brown eyes at me and teased, “Who knows?

But it brings in the ghost-hunter crowds at Halloween. We’ll have to go visit, on a spooky night like tonight when the fog rolls in off the marshes!”

I think I was beginning to fall for her, even on the second meet-up.

We saw each other regularly after that. Suzy struck me as a sensible, business-minded young woman, far more together than the girls I usually dated on the Goth scene, raving hedonists who could just about hold down a job. Then came the first night she stayed over with me, and I was certain we’d turned a corner in our friendship.

On one occasion, about two months into the relationship, things didn’t end so well. We’d spent the evening at the club, mixing with my band friends. Suzy had turned up in one of her creations, a figurehugging black dress, classically Gothic but very elegant. She wore a long, black wig and looked amazing, a real head-turner. Her first dress collection had been nominated for review by some big guy in the London scene, and all evening she was like an excited child, giggling, ordering champagne.

I remember we walked the half hour back to my flat near Tottenham Court Road, holding hands. Suzy was full of plans, talking seriously about her career. As she was checking her make-up in the bathroom mirror, I snuck up behind her and affectionately tugged at her hair, just a playful gesture.

Or rather I tugged her wig. She had a thing about wigs and must have had about a dozen of them, all various lengths and styles. I’d never seen her take the wigs off, even for bed, but I’d not thought anything of it. I suppose blokes don’t. I’d assumed underneath her own hair was fine, but

the damned thing came off in my hand where she hadn’t fixed it properly.

Suzy spun round and slapped my face hard, shrieking.

“Why did you do that! Why did you have to fucking do that!”

She stood glaring at me, eyes filling with tears, and under the blue glow of the bathroom light, her own dark brown hair appeared thin and downy, sticking up in surprised sparse tufts all over her head, while her scalp peered through in large pale patches. She was almost bald.

Snatching the wig furiously from my hand, she dragged it back onto her head and stormed for the door.

“I’m sorry, Suzy. I didn’t realise,” I managed, shocked.

“Save it!” she threw back at me and slammed the door in her wake.

I could hear the clack click of her spike heels rushing down the landing and thought I should go after her. Feeling an idiot, I wandered the night time streets in the direction I assumed she’d have taken, down to Piccadilly Circus to catch a night bus home. The centre of London during the early hours on a weekend was still busy, and there were plenty of people about, clubbers and tourists, so I felt reassured she’d be alright.

On reflection, she’d always been careful to keep her wigs in place, even when we were in the throes of mad love making. Now I knew why.

She didn’t just wear them for effect but to cover up what looked like a bad scalp condition. I didn’t find her and returned home, despondent. I was still up on the laptop, unable to sleep, when an email from Suzy popped up about 2.30 in the morning, titled ‘Soz I freaked!’ and signed with a blushing smiley face. I called her at once, and she answered, voice a little subdued, but brightening when I apologised for my thoughtlessness.

“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have slapped you, but I just panicked at you seeing me like that.”

“Hey, come on! It’s only hair!” I joked.

“I’ve got a form of alopecia, but it is getting better slowly, the specialist says. Not that it seems that way sometimes,” she explained.

“Look, it really doesn’t matter, Suzy. Wigs look great on you, and think of it this way, you get as many new looks as days in the week.

What’s so bad? And if it’s getting better, then it’s not forever, is it? One day you’ll have your own hair again.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m not that shallow it’s such a big deal, honestly. And I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just didn’t know.”

“No, I know,” she murmured. “I should have told you. I was just scared it would put you off me.”

Her voice became suddenly enthusiastic, and I sensed an upswing in her mood.

“I’ve actually just bought a new wig off the Internet. I ordered it ten minutes ago. It’s from a company in Bangkok called Supreme Heads, and it’s made from real human hair, but much cheaper than ones you get in the UK. It will look much better than the synthetic things I usually wear.”

That sounded a bit creepy to me: real human hair from a stranger on your head. Better keep my thoughts to myself though, I decided. If it made Suzy happy and helped boost her confidence then that was fine by me. We chatted on for a while, and eventually I managed to crawl into bed at 4 a.m., reassured she was over the upset about my discovery and all was well between us again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steph Minns has been a keen reader, writer, and artist since childhood.

Her professional career has predominantly been in publishing, website, and print design, including positions as publications manager and commissioning editor. She has also worked as a freelance illustrator for Talking Stick and Pentacle magazine. Visit her online at http://stephminns.weebly.com.