nathanielcollumbooks

[nathanielcollumbooks]

Fire works

Growing up, we had two rules:

Always follow the instructions

Never go upstairs after dark

We pulled into the driveway around 5:30 pm. It is a long gravel path, now overgrown, just far enough from the two-lane county road to be entirely hidden by the oaks that lined the property. I'd forgotten the rumble of tires over rocks and was surprised by how much that feeling reminded me of home.

Just beyond the trees, I see it for the first time in twenty years. My childhood home is a two-story colonial with a big wrap-around porch and a grand double-door entrance. In my memory, the house was a glossy white that would reflect the sun so brightly you could see it through the trees from the road. It looked diminished now in the evening light. Perhaps it is natural for houses to turn grey and wither when left alone. People do the same.

Nadine put the car in park but left the engine running. Then her hand was on mine. "Just say the word, and we'll go," she promised, and I knew she meant it. I felt so small for wanting to take her up on it. But I shook my head and looked at her, and before I could say anything, she kissed me, deep and long. The fear washed away and did not return.

"I believe you," she said. "Do what you need to do to say goodbye. I'll be right outside."

If there's a word for the kind of love you feel when your partner steps out of their comfort zone to support you, I don't know what it is. It made me feel brave, though, and that's what I needed tonight.

I unzipped the backpack in my lap and pulled out two plastic egg timers. My watch told me it was twenty minutes until sunset. I set the timers, gave one to Nadine, and put the other in my bag.

"If I'm not back when this goes off, call my phone. Do not come inside under any circumstances. I love you."

"Love you too," she said, and then she pew pewed me with finger guns, and the cuteness of that made me laugh.

"Twenty minutes," I promised. Then I scooped up my backpack and half-jogged to the house.

I was nine when my mom remarried. Up to that point, it was just the two of us, and we'd always rented an apartment near Mom's work. So I was excited to have a proper Dad (finally) and to move into a great big house with so much land.

The sellers were an old southern couple who'd outlived the need for so big a house. They made Mom and Dad uneasy, though. They stipulated in the sale that we all had to meet with them and promise to follow two rules:

Always follow the instructions

Never go upstairs after dark

Our realtor suggested that we play along for the sake of the sale, so we did. We smiled politely and promised to follow the rules. I wish we'd asked more questions, though. If we had, Mom might still be alive.

I stepped into a shallow foyer and closed the door. It was dark, but enough light came through the windows to show me dust-covered picture frames - our family of three, forgotten in time. I kept my eyes on the floor and waited by the foyer table.

You hear them first.

They flutter toward you like moths to a flame, and you must remember not to panic or scream. That only makes it worse. Just keep your head down and wait for the instructions.

The notecard slid into view:

1. Keep your eyes down

2. Stay out of the kitchen

3. Do not make a sound

PS: Follow me. She is up stairs.

Then it took me by the hand and led me into the house. Its hand was cold. Curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked at its face: raven black curls framed a stern looking middle-aged woman. She squeezed my hand so hard that my knuckles popped, and with her other hand, she held up a single finger. Got it. I kept my eyes down.

My guide led me upstairs to Mom's sewing room. That's where I found her body. She was still wearing her blue dress with yellow sunflowers and a single shoe. All that remained in those old clothes was a bright, white skeleton. It almost looked like a Halloween decoration, if perhaps too real.

I put the egg timer on the floor nearby: ten minutes. Then I got to work. I dumped the contents of my backpack so that I'd have somewhere to put Mom. The little cylinders inside fell at my feet and rolled around on the floor. Then I reverently gathered my mother's skeleton into my bag.

Something shuts off in your brain when you have to do something like that. You don't think about the details of which bone you're touching or who it belonged to. I had to pry a piece of charred firewood out of her right hand. Looks like we came to the same conclusion, Mom. I'm nearly finished when I hear Nadine's voice downstairs.

"You have to leave now," I yell.

"My timer went off," she called back. "Like, five minutes ago. I have been calling you nonstop."

There's a reason we always followed the rules.

Topsy had the body of a person, but with too-long arms and great claws that scratched the old wooden floors when it prowled the upstairs rooms. Its skin was yellow brown like cigarette-stained paper. And its face was upside down. That's why I gave it that name all those years ago. All that was left of my egg timer fell from Topsy's hand and landed with an offkey "ding." Still crouched near the place I had gathered Mom, I grabbed one of the cylinders by my feet and slowly unscrewed its cap.

I spent the last twenty years trying to make sense of this place. I made lists for everything and followed rules obsessively. But there's no therapy for downstairs ghosts and upstairs ghouls. There's no treatment for a monster putting mommy in the fireplace.

One night Nadine gently suggested that conquering my fears would help me move on. But fear is not an enemy to be defeated or a mountain to be climbed. Fear is a house. In my house, there are things dark and scary and unexplainable. Drinking myself senseless did not work. Therapy did not work. Even finding love, real love, did not work. Those things cannot hurt a house made out of wood and stone and ghosts and Topsy.

No, for this house, only fire works.

I pulled the string on the cylinder in my hand. The flare burst to life, and Topsy screamed and recoiled. I popped another flare and another until it was surrounded. The room was well aflame by the time I left the house.

Nadine and I stood in the tall grass of the front yard and watched the fire spread. We did not leave until the house collapsed in smoke and burning embers. I refused to move until I could no longer hear Topsy's screams.

We buried Mom on a hill about a mile from the ruined house the next morning. I said a few words and marked the grave with sunflowers. Nadine cried, and I felt like I should have, but I did not feel sad. I felt relieved. It was finally over.

We got back to the car a little after noon. It was my turn to drive. I made a u-turn in the yard and headed back up the gravel driveway. I couldn't resist one last look at the smoking ruins in the rear view mirror. My eyes stayed on it until it was no longer visible through the trees, and then I turned onto the paved road and headed home.

I pretended not to hear the distant wailing cry. So did Nadine.

[nathanielcollumbooks]

Beware the Ooga

It is hard to sleep to the sound of crunching bones.

I am trying, though.

I don't know why this keeps happening to me. Every time they put me in a new home, somebody gets eaten. Miss Flora was so nice to me, too - she wasn't like the others, who would smack me for being too loud or messy or in the way.

Miss Flora was kind. She gave me a room to myself, with new toys, a desk, and a closet full of clothes that still had tags on them. She brought me medicine every night, too. She said I was sick from all the house hopping. I didn't feel sick, but it was nice to be noticed, kissed goodnight, and tucked in.

The medicine hurt my stomach, and I threw up the first two nights. I cried when she came in to clean me up. This is usually when the punishment starts. I braced for the worst. Miss Flora just smiled, wiped my face, changed my sheets, and promised that I wasn't going anywhere.

But now she's hanging midair in the darkness of my bedroom.

Her body floats just off the ground, no longer struggling or screaming, just quiet and very, very still. Her pink shoes fall to the floor as it lifts her to its mouth. I hate this part. The head is always the loudest bite. I dive under the covers, shut my eyes, and wish for this to be a dream. But it's not. There really is a monster in my bedroom eating my foster mom.

I think about the next morning. The police will come and ask questions. They will throw my stuff into a trash bag and call Joanna, my caseworker. Everyone will look at me with sad eyes, and I will look at the ground and wonder where I'm going next. Joanna will buy me a toy and tell me this is not my fault.

No one will ask about the Ooga. That's what I call it.

I call 911 when the sun comes up. The police are there in minutes, and so is Joanna. A friendly policewoman asks me to tell her what I remember, but I lie that I was fast asleep. I don't think she believes me. Then she notices the plastic medicine cup on my nightstand.

"Are you sick?" she asks. I just shrug.

She smells the cup and frowns. The next thing I know I'm in an ambulance with Joanna and the sirens are so loud I think my head will burst.

My hospital room doesn't have a TV, so Joanna gives me her phone to watch a show. Nurses come in to check on me - some bring me food, some ask questions, and then some just type away on their computers. One of them pokes me with needles. It hurts so bad that I try to rip it out but they hold me down and tie me to the bed. I hold Joanna's hand and cry until I fall asleep.

I wake up when I hear it.

The room is so dark now. Somewhere in the room, a faint red light blinks on and off. On and off. On and off. I can see Joanna asleep in the chair beside me. I try to reach for her, but my arms are tied. I am about to call out when I see it move. It is big and black and hanging from the ceiling. Its many eyes shine in the red light.

"Please stop," I whisper. "You are scaring me."

The Ooga doesn't move. It sits perfectly still suspended above me. Then it does something it has never done before - it speaks.

"I have come to say goodbye, dear changeling," it says with a voice so deep you can feel it in your chest. "My promise has been kept. Your enemies on this plane are dead, so I will return to my home in the Darkwood. Joanna will adopt you and raise you like her son. But remember this, child of twilight: you are not her son. You are a noble of the fae wild, and your kingdom is the stuff of nightmares. Beware the Ooga!"

Then it was gone.

Joanna woke when the first nurse came in to check on me. I pretended to be asleep until the nurse left the room. Then I felt a kiss on my forehead and opened my eyes.

"Hey, buddy. I think you're getting out of here soon. How do you feel about coming home with me?"

"Forever?" I asked.

"Forever."

[nathanielcollumbooks]

Good night’s sleep

The kids keep waking me up in the middle of the night.

Thing is, we don't have kids.

Every night is the same. I wake up to two little boys at my bedside staring at me, flashlight in hand, with looks of absolute terror on their faces. It freaks me out, man. Kids can be so creepy. But I'm half asleep and disoriented, so it doesn't seem weird to walk them to their room and put them to bed.

I somehow know their names, too: Luke and Jack, eight and six, two cute black-haired boys with pale skin and blue eyes, just like their Mom, my wife. Man, this is weird. I tuck them in, assure them that everything is fine, and then shuffle back to bed.

This has happened every night for two weeks. I'm starting to lose my mind.

My wife sleeps peacefully through this. She's always been a heavy sleeper, and lately, I've noticed an extra glass of wine at dinner and prescription sleeping pills on her nightstand. I don't judge. She has a high-stress job in the city. Her caseload must be insane because the house is practically filled with boxes. Her firm works her far too hard for what they pay her.

No, I can't bring this up to her. She has enough on her plate. We're not religious. We don't believe in the supernatural. If I bring this up, she'd have me in Dr. Moore's office talking about wish-fulfillment or my mother, and honestly, I just need a good night's sleep.

At first, I thought it was sleepwalking. So I tried locking our bedroom door, but that made no difference; the boys still came. I tied my ankle to the bedpost but must have wriggled free in my sleep. I even put a bowl of water in the hallway, hoping something cold and wet would startle me awake. Nothing worked.

I recently found an old security camera in the attic. We bought it for our first apartment together as a precaution. The camera is pretty simple - it uses an SD card to take a picture every thirty seconds. It stops when you turn it off or the card is full. At least this will show me if I'm getting up at night or if it's all in my head. I set it on my nightstand with a good view of our bedroom door.

Like clockwork, the boys come again.

I wait until my wife leaves for work before looking at the files.

There are hundreds of pictures, mostly of absolutely nothing — just my empty bedside in grainy black and green night vision. Then, finally, one looks different - our bedroom door has opened slightly. I feel a tightness in my chest, the kind you get at the top of a roller coaster.

[Next photo] The bedroom door is fully open in this one, and I can make out two faint and grainy shapes in the doorway.

[Next photo] It's Luke and Jack. There they are, in full closeup. Two little boys that do not live in my house are showing up clear as day.

I take a deep breath.

[Next photo] The boys look scared and sad, like they always do, night after night in what I really hoped was just a dream.

[Next photo] The boys turn away from me now, heading to "their room."

I know I'm in the next one. This will be photographic proof that I'm reacting to something real and physical in our house. I feel like I'm going to be sick.

[Next photo] Jack and Luke are farther away now.

[Next photo] Nearly out of sight, too far away from the camera to see anything.

[Next photo] The door half closes behind them.

[Next photo] My empty bedroom again.

I cycle back a few photos and rewatch the stills. The boys come in, stay for a few moments, and leave. I have proof now.

I just don't understand one thing.

Where am I?

[nathanielcollumbooks]

The in-betweens

All paths to success have highs and lows.

It's the in-betweens you have to watch out for.

They are the spirits of lost time. Patient as ever, for they are always comfortable, they wait for you in the soft sunlight of your favorite chair. They invite you to sit, take a load off, and bask in the good life.

Take a break. Treat yourself.

And, you do because they are quite persuasive. They remind you of the work it took to reach your latest high or the despair you felt at your recent low.

It is better to stay here, they suggest, where you are safe and stable, and nothing can surprise you.

So you do.

Then they eat you.

Moment by moment. Chance by chance. Until they are all but sure, you will never again try anything that might disrupt the comfortable life you have. They grow fat on your unwritten books, untraveled trips, and everything you leave unsaid.

But the in-betweens are forgetful spirits.

They don't remember the last time you got bored of it all and rushed off to a new job in a new city far away from your family and friends. Mad as hell they were when you chased the girl of your dreams to a foreign land.

So they are quite surprised when you go for a walk this morning.

You return sweaty and sore (it's been a while), but instead of stuffing your face, you take a shower. Then you do the dishes and the laundry and start sorting through the old mail on the counter. At the bottom of the pile are the papers that started this all. Your signature is all that is left.

It's weird to see her handwriting in the house again. Such a strange thing to miss, but you do. You miss the weird left-handed way she held her pen. You miss her laugh at your mentioning of it. But, most of all, you miss the nights when you two spoke face-to-face without anger and regret.

You pick up your pen.

The in-betweens are nervous now. One of them knocks a box of donuts off the counter, but it hardly registers. Another glitches your phone, playing the song you danced to in that Spanish café. Then, in a final act of desperation, a spirit sends the faintest scent of her perfume.

They watch in horror as you sign the papers and walk them to the mailbox.

The house is emptier when you return.

Maybe the in-betweens will be back. Maybe, not.

That's up to you.

[nathanielcollumbooks]

I am excited to kick off a writing project today.

Flash horror fiction every weekday. Each story will be about five hundred words and take less than five minutes to read.

I have put creative writing off for about eight years. There are a dozen half-started projects in the archive now. This flash fiction project is the most progress I've made towards regularly finishing pieces in almost a decade. I am excited and a little scared.

My stories are *generally* PG-13. But to be clear, they are for adults. Please don't email me about little Timmy's nightmares. Keep Timmy off my website.

The work might not be your cup of tea. That's okay. To quote Ted Lasso, "Tea is pigeon sweat."

If the work is for you, I'd love to hear from you.

See you soon.