Spectral Tales by Jamie Campbell, Sarah Dalton, Susan Fodor, Katie French, M. A. George, Sutton Shields, Ariele Sieling, & H. S. Stone
A beam of light danced across the cavernous room. A flashlight.
Someone was coming.
Charlotte dropped to the floor. Her breathing was coming too hard and too fast. Whoever was coming would see her, and she'd be dead.
A voice of reason chimed in her head. Not dead. In trouble, probably. Whoever it was, a night janitor or the exterminator who came with the truck, would flip on the lights, spot her and shake his head. He'd call her mother. She'd be grounded for a month.
Then she heard the buzzing.
A deep droning began heading her way, gaining volume and momentum as she crouched on her hands and knees. It sounded like a terrible swarm was filling up the hall.
The beetles.
Charlotte pushed to her feet and ran.
She barreled through the dark, the droning following her. Her feet slapped on the tile as she streaked toward what she thought was the door. It was so dark, and she was so frightened. Her hip clipped a table and teetered to the side. The sound of winged insects was everywhere, disorienting her. Something pelted her cheek, and she screamed. Another beetle smacked into her forehead and scurried into her hair. She beat at it with her hands, staggering. More began to pelt her clothes and clung to her skin. She could feel their awful legs scurrying up and down her arms.
She screamed and flailed, cried and ran.
When she collided with a large shape, she hit the ground hard.
Terrified, she shot up, beating away the bugs, but there was a new terror now. She was almost certain the thing that she'd run into had been human.
A hand seized her arm.
"Ahhh!" she screamed, yanking away. The hand held on. Charlotte scrambled backwards.
"Charlotte!" the shape yelled. "What's happening?"
"Georgie?" She felt through the dark and found the shape of her sister beside her. "You came back!"
"What are these?" Georgie shrieked.
Charlotte could tell Georgie was batting away bugs.
But there were too many. A swarm. A host.
It shouldn't be a murder of crows, Charlotte thought. It should be a murder of bugs.
They ran across her scalp and under her shirt. She beat at them, but it did no good. Tiny, segmented legs scrambled up her face. Antennae brushed past her lips.
The bugs were everywhere. She'd go insane.
Suddenly, the room went quiet. Charlotte kept slapping, only? The bugs seemed to have disappeared.
Georgie sat beside her, panting. "D-did they leave?"
Charlotte shook her head, brushing her tattered hairdo out of her face. "I don't know."
Across the room, a light clicked on, illuminating the far side of the hall. Past the tables and chairs, a figure stood in the doorway. The shape was dark, humanoid, and writhing.
"He's covered in... b-b-bugs," Georgie whispered.
She screamed.
Charlotte lurched up, grabbing for Georgie. She found an arm and hung on. "Run!"
They sprinted to the door and found the handles, but no matter how they yanked it wouldn't budge.
"Why is this happening?" Georgie sobbed. She pulled and pulled. Then she began digging at the crack with her fingernails.
Charlotte whipped around in time to see the beetleman run at them.
He was a shape made entirely of insects. The black carapaces wove and spun on his body until every inch of him was a writhing black nightmare. There was no face, but there were holes for eyes and a big yawning mouth spilling over with bugs. The bug-covered legs propelled him towards them. The arms reached out with long, bug-covered fingers.
"Georgie!" Charlotte yanked on her sister, spinning her around.
Georgie's scream was lost in the awful droning.
It hit them like a wall of scrambling parts. Every inch of Charlotte's body was crawling. She clamped her eyes and mouth shut, but there was nothing to stop them from worming their way up her nose. She shook her head back and forth.
They'll eat their way to my brain!
She beat with her arms, kicked with her legs, but the bugs merely separated and swarmed around her again. It was like fighting the tide. An awful, creeping, biting tide.
Where was Georgie? Oh God, she'd gotten her sister into this, and now they would die. Charlotte's hand pushed through the swarm and found smooth skin. She grabbed her sister and held on.
A bright green light seared Charlotte's eyelids. Instinctively, she opened her eyes. Through the cracks between bugs, the light was needling its way in. The pulsing, green swamp light widened gaps like green shoots wriggling into cracks on the sidewalk. Charlotte heard a strange sizzling sound and realized that the light was scorching the beetles. Their bodies clacked on the floor as they fell and writhed their last movements on their backs, legs in the air. They fell away, covering the floor in black bodies. The girls panted and gasped and yanked bugs from their hair.
But the bugs left behind Darren Warzinski.
He stood in front of them. His posture was stooped. HIs eyes were on the floor. His hair and clothes were a disheveled mess like he'd taken a tumble down a very steep hill.
Charlotte and Georgie stared at him. Their minds had been short-circuited.
Darren's head snapped up. HIs eyes were vacant, but his expression was fierce. "You killed them." His voice sounded like the droning of dozens of insects.
Charlotte took a step back. "Darren. M-Mr. Warzinski, I don't know what just happened, but maybe we should get out-"
"You killed them." He took another step. A beetle slid out of his nostril and clattered to the floor.
"No, I-"
He charged.
He hit Charlotte hard, forcing her against the door. His hands were at her throat. They squeezed and squeezed. She grabbed his hands, wrenched at them, clawed them. They would not let go. He opened his mouth in a terrible grimace and she could see beetle carcasses between his teeth.
Her throat closed. Her air disappeared. It hurt so much. Splotches floated in her vision. Her arms sagged.
A loud thwack cut through the room. Darren's hand released. Charlotte fell.
***
When she opened her eyes, Georgie was standing over her, a chair in both hands like a medieval club.
She hit him in the head with that, Charlotte managed to think. My sister is a badass.
Georgie dropped the chair. "Come on," she said, lifting Charlotte up. "Let's get the hell out of here."
Georgie managed to help Charlotte through the door. When Charlotte looked back, she could see Darren Warzinski's shape, surrounded by his beetles.
But he's not dead.
"Let's hurry," Charlotte said to her sister.
Outside, Georgie shut the door and dragged the heavy hawk statue in front of it.
"Won't stop him, but at least it'll slow him down," she said as she dug out her cellphone. Charlotte watched as her sister dialed 911.
She had a sudden memory of Georgie carrying her through the yard. Charlotte had been six and Georgie seven when Charlotte had fallen headfirst off the top of the slide. When Georgie had realized Charlotte's ankle was broken, she'd carried her little sister all the way to the house. Georgie had held Charlotte's hand as Mom rushed them to the ER. That day Charlotte had thanked God for older sisters. Just like today.
Georgie was taking care of her.
***
Sitting in the ambulance with Georgie felt like deja vu. In fact, nothing about Charlotte's life felt real anymore.
The EMT explained to Charlotte about her bruised windpipe and told her to rest and be silent. As soon as their mother arrived, they'd transport her to the hospital.
Charlotte nodded, but even that hurt. She lay on the stretcher inside the ambulance and let Georgie rub her back.
When the EMTs were gone, Georgie leaned down and stared into Charlotte's eyes.
"Can you believe what just happened? All those gross beetles and then that guy Da
Charlotte nodded.
Georgie brushed hair out of Charlotte's eyes. "And what was up with that light? It sizzled the bugs like bacon. Where did it come from?"
Charlotte pointed to her throat to indicate she couldn't answer.
What she didn't tell her sister was she knew it was her dead friend-the terrifying, yet helpful ghost who'd led them there. She'd saved them.
Charlotte pictured the ghost and sighed. Maybe the good outshines the bad. And maybe the good doesn't look like an angel in white. Maybe the good is a dead girl taking matters into her own hands.
Did Darren Warzinski and his demon bugs kill that poor girl? Charlotte thought so. She hoped her ghost could rest in peace now.
As for Charlotte, she might need Aunt Wendy's therapy. She wouldn't rest in peace for a while. But that was okay if they'd helped get a serial killer off the streets. And she'd get over this with time. She knew she would.
In the distance, headlights sliced through the night. Charlotte thought it'd be her mother, but when she saw the Channel 4 camera crew van, she groaned.
Georgie's eyes followed the van and watched as they unloaded their gear.
A reporter jumped out and clomped on high heels toward the open ambulance doors. Charlotte rolled away. The last thing she wanted was to be on camera. She was sure Georgie would talk enough for the both of them.
When she heard the ambulance doors creaking closed, Charlotte rolled back over. Georgie was keeping the reporter out. Charlotte looked up with confused eyes.
Georgie shrugged and sat back down beside Charlotte. "I'm a hot mess, and besides, my little sister needs me."
Charlotte smiled.
Georgie was her big sister. Georgie would make sure everything was alright.
About Katie French
Katie French imagined herself an author when her poem caught the eye of her second grade teacher. It was about birds and frankly, it wasn't very good, but it sparked a love of literature. In middle school she spent her free time locked in her room, writing her first young adult novel. This thoroughly solidifying her status as a class-A nerd. She currently works as a high school English teacher, a job that she loves even when it exhausts her. In her free time she writes, reads great books, and takes care of her two beautiful and crazy children. Her young adult best selling series, The Breeders, is available now. You can find her at www.katiefrenchbooks.com.
Website
Tides
Sarah Dalton
She woke with dirty feet again. Salt in her hair. Sand under her fingernails. The bottom of her nightie was wet. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she felt the drag of tiredness pulling down her eyelids. When they closed, the whisper of a breeze brought the memory of the tide. She gasped, and forced her eyes open as the water bubbled. When she looked down at her fingers, they gripped onto the kitchen counter.
On the table in the centre of the room, there was a white envelope with the name Andrea written in cursive script. It leaned against a small jam jar filled with dying flowers. The petals littered the table, and there was a water mark from where the old water had evaporated. Andrea pulled the envelope out from under the flowers and tore it open.
Gone for a walk. Will be back for tea. Love always, Mum.
Why did she feel the need to put this note in an envelope? Andrea pinned the letter to the fridge with a magnet of a Welsh dragon. She'd bought it in Llandudno on holiday. There was a chip on it now, from one of the many times the magnet had been knocked from the fridge. Once she'd even prised it from the jaws of their Jack Russell, Sophie. Sophie left with Dad six months ago so there was no one left to chew the magnets to pieces.
There were many similar letters from Mum: gone out for milk, will see you after school, got a job interview, at last!, out for a walk. Where did she walk? The cliffs? Did she imagine Dad and Sophie were with her, walking by her side? Ghosts of the past kept in the present by a troubled mind. Andrea saw little of her mother since Dad left. At first she seemed positive and determined. But soon the job interviews, haircuts, and trips to the shop had been replaced by walks. Such long walks that she stayed out all day. Andrea cooked the meals after school. Beans, pasta, burgers, whatever she could find in the fridge or freezer. Mum barely ate a mouthful.
But now that school was over for the year, Andrea had the days to herself. At first she spent them reading on the beach. She'd found a secluded spot not known to the tourists. They stayed in holiday cottages in the village and went to South beach where colourful beach towels littered the golden sand. No, this was different. It was a little alcove where the sea lapped against seaweed covered rocks. She took sandwiches with her, and bought chips on the way home. Half of her chips she gave to Mum later in the day, but when she woke the next morning they were usually in the bin, hardly touched.
She walked along the cliffs one day to see if she could see her mum. That's where she picked the wildflowers and put them in the jam jar on the table. That was a week ago. She'd hoped the sight of them might cheer Mum up a little, put a smile on her worn out face. But it didn't. And then the flowers died.
Why did she put the note in an envelope?
It was when Mum started her long walks that Andrea noticed strange things happening. First, her feet. She woke up with them all dirty, as though she had been walking barefoot over mud. Then strange memories filtered back to her through the day. They caught up to her as she read on the beach, or made her stop and gasp as she cooked dinner. Always the same. The little boy.
The little boy had eyes dark like mahogany and hair like a copper penny. He crouched with his feet splayed apart and his backside close to the ground. He didn't smile so much, just like Mum. He didn't talk so much either. And yet, Andrea felt a strange connection between her and the little boy. He was small, no bigger than a five year old, and yet there was something wise about him. Perhaps it was his eyes: so calm and still like those of an old soul. There was a part of Andrea who felt like a big sister to this strange little boy, and a part of her who looked up to him as a wise brother.
The memories of him came rushing in a few moments at a time; snapshots of his face; the bowl of hair; the dirt on his face and hands; him dragging a stick through the sand. She was confused. Who was this boy and why was he in her dreams?
But then came the taste of salt on her lips, the wind-tangled hair, and the memory of cold feet. The sand in her bed. The broken fingernails. Then she remembered the moonlight on copper hair, and the shadows cast over his features. This was no dream. She had been there. In her sleep.
Most of the time, the memories were of her just standing and watching the boy as he dragged his stick through the sand. Sometimes she stood in the sea, letting the waves crash against her calves. There were conversations, too. The boy told her about his favourite shell: a pearlescent monster with deep grooves. He showed it to her and it sparkled in the moonlight, bright as a precious stone. She asked him about her mother and he said: "Grown-ups get scared when they hurt" then went back to playing in the sand.
"I'll come back tomorrow and we'll build a sandcastle," she remembered saying.
But when she went back to the beach the next day he wasn't there. She tried to talk to her mum, but she wasn't responsive again. Not even when Andrea insisted that a young boy his age shouldn't be on the beach at night on his own. She didn't seem to care. She didn't care about anything anymore, except walking, and sleeping so heavily there could be an earth
She stared down at the envelope. Such an odd thing to do. Then again, Mum was not in her right mind. Putting a note in an envelope was hardly as strange as walking all day and eating hardly anything.
When Andrea showered, she thought of nothing but the sea. And when she dressed, she noticed light scratches on her ankles, scrapes akin to slipping on rocks. Had she ventured further out than usual last night? Where did she go?
It was sun dress weather. The house was filled with sunshine, warming the cool, blue walls. Mum loved blue. Every room had something blue in it. Royal blue on the feature wall in the living room, duck egg blue in the kitchen, pastel blue on the walls in Andrea's bedroom, checked blue curtains in her parent's room. White walls in her parents room. It had always been the brightest room, with tall windows, the view of the sea, crisp linen. Mum was always a neat freak.
That was until Dad left and she gradually stopped caring.
As Andrea passed her parent's bedroom, she closed the door. The sight of it made her stomach hurt. It was too empty. Too quiet. The whole house was like that, but she couldn't shut it all out. That wouldn't be right.
The bread had mould on it, so she had to walk to the village. They lived in a small seaside village that lost most of the tourists to the larger resorts along the coast. It made for an idyllic, yet expensive, place to live, and Andrea hadn't been given any money from her mum for over three days. She had once made twenty pounds last a week by saving leftovers and heating them the next day in the microwave. But the five pounds she'd been given from her bewildered mother, who seemed to have forgotten the concept of paying money for goods, was almost done. The Queen's profile looked up at her from the palm of her hand. Twenty five pence.
She could get nothing for twenty five pence.
Her stomach growled.
Her best friend from school was on holiday with her parents. They had gone to Greece for two weeks. She had no other family in the area. There were acquaintances from school, two of whom she knew the address of, but the thought of turning up unannounced and eating their food seemed embarrassing and desperate. What if they started looking into her family life? What if they took her away from Mum?