Magnus Stanke's Blog - Posts Tagged "halloween"
A Horrorweek Story
'Mindfulness' is the name of my short story that orginated in a chapter I cut from my upcoming book 'Murder in the Comfort Zone' for reason of pacing.
It was painful though necessary to discard it, and I'm glad I've found a way to give it a second life here.
Happy Halloween/Horror Week!
Mindfulness by Magnus Stanke
‘People are natural time-travellers. Either we pine for the future, ponder the possible consequences of our next decision, or we recall the past, try to remember long-gone moments. We’re hardly ever in the Here-and-Now.’ Monica had forgotten who’d spoken the words, but was reminded of their message -- if you could call it that -- on the morning after the day she couldn’t remember.
Not thinking about what happened before appeared to be convenient advice just then.
The smell of stale smoke lingered in the building, increasing the need for fresh air. She stepped out the plush elevator, hurried along the unfamiliar marble corridor and exited through the revolving glass doors.
Last night doesn’t matter, is done with. Be in the moment. Be Now. Can’t be that hard. Well then, what’s now, or rather -- what is now? Breathing, in and out, for starters, that’s what. And, one foot in front of the other, that’s also Now. And Here. Good. That’s it. Always ahead, straight on, all the way until you get home, or at least to the nearest underground station. Let your feet guide you, however inappropriate your footwear might be on this chilly morning.
She balanced down the few concrete steps onto the sterile looking pavement and started to walk as well as she could. See, you can do it, even in these here high heels! She cleared her mind forcibly and tried hard to ignore the questions that threatened to break through the surface of her conscience. Stay in the Now.
Without contacts, looking at her feet was easier than looking ahead. She wasn’t particularly tall, and consequently, within the moderate range from eye to shoes, nearly everything remained reassuringly in focus. Left foot in front of the right, right in front of the left, and over again she went, disregarding her aching lobes and pulsating temples, and the jittery vein in her left eyelid that probably looked like a nervous tick, visible to any onlooker.
But there weren’t any onlookers. She was quite alone.
Something’s not quite right. Is it me?
A shudder went through her body. It lasted until she reached a signpost. Information at last.
My feet are mistaken. They don’t know diddly-squat about the way home, just like me. However, unlike my feet, I can read. The sign says ‘go back to where you came from’ – in not so many words. It’s just an arrow. I have to retrace my steps, back to the smelly building with the revolving door and the concrete steps. The futuristic looking one. That’s where the DLR sign is pointing.
The Docklands Light Railway was a fully automated, driverless overland train that would take her to central London, and from there onwards. There was no tube line at Canary Wharf back then, though a couple of posters claimed that the Jubilee line extension was under construction, to be completed ‘by 1997’. That was still a few years away.
What’s strange is that there’re no people around. Very strange for London. Have I missed, what, an atomic meltdown or something? Am I like Charlton Heston in the movie where he is the only human survivor in post-apocalyptic New York?
Any time now she expected to be attacked by zombies. Any time Now. She pinched herself and jumped. Yikes, the pain is also Now. I got to keep it together.
The DLR ran from inside One Canada Square, the large tower, ran straight through the building, albeit in an orderly fashion, on specially mounted rails. The latest architectonical gadget. She’d heard about this from some Londoner friend, but had never actually seen it before that day.
After what felt like a long hike she found the station. A nearly deserted train was sitting there, waiting to depart. More awake now than before, she took a seat at the back of the carriage, looked up at the tower through a mash of corrugated, arched windows and watched it recede into the distance when the train started to move.
She felt somewhat better. Deceptively so.
This is Saturday, right? Monica knew that the buildings in the area were mostly offices that were closed for the weekend; few people actually lived there, plus, it was quite early in the day. Still, for a Saturday she’d expected more activity, and some tourists, maybe.
Nearly deserted?
Another shudder went through her body, and she pulled her skirt over her knees repeatedly and looked around. Nearly deserted meant she wasn’t alone. Was somebody watching her?
The man in a grey trench coat at the other end of the carriage, when did he get on? Is he familiar looking? Without her contacts she couldn’t make out his features, but that didn’t stop her from wondering. What happened to my contacts, anyway? And, had he followed her here? But why would he, or anybody?
Relax. Most likely he’s just going somewhere, like everybody else, minding his own business. Enough already with the paranoia.
Monica contemplated getting up and moving closer to the front of the train, but then she remembered there was no driver to turn to for help. She forced herself to look away from the man, and she almost jumped when she saw a woman looking back at her from the opposite seat, a woman who hadn’t been there before.
I must be tripping still.
The woman’s grey hair was wild and unkempt, her fingers yellow with tobacco stains, and her stocking showed a long run from her ankle via the front of her calf muscles all the way up to her knee. Her luggage suggested she was on her way to an airport. Strangely it was brand new, an expensive brand while her clothes were neither.
According to tube etiquette, direct eye contact with strangers was to be avoided at all cost. It was considered rude to stare, and nobody wanted to be rude. ‘Rude’ was worse than ‘guilty’ on the local moral compass. The stranger across from her, however, had no qualms about staring. She looked Monica right in the eye with a gaze intensive enough to make her flesh crawl.
Okay, you win. Monica turned her head back towards the man in the grey coat. Only he was gone. The seat he had occupied a moment ago was empty, though the train hadn’t stopped.
She was now totally alone with the staring woman.
Her neck strained. Monica knew she wouldn’t be able to remain in this position much longer. She wanted to cross her legs and she wanted to turn her head to find out if the witch was still opposite her, still looking at her.
At this point Monica didn’t even question the twenty-twenty sharpness that she perceived the world with. She pulled herself together and jerked her head back towards the woman.
What’s there to be afraid of, anyway? Right?
Their eyes met. The woman’s expression hadn’t changed.
Okay, you can do this, Monica. Don’t blink. As long as you don’t blink she won’t come any closer. Keep your eyes peeled.
Sure enough, the old woman stayed in her seat, kept staring at Monica from milky blue-white pupils, didn’t move forward.
Wouldn’t it be funny if she can’t even see me? Bingo. That was it, probably, the poor old woman is merely sightless, not rude. I must be in worse shape than I thought, terrified of the blind now.
Only then it happened.
The woman demonstratively brought up her right, yellow-fingered hand to her face, sucked her index and middle fingers and then proceeded to place her palm flat against her stomach. From there she slid her hand into her nether region. A wild smile appeared on her face, revealing black tooth stumps and gaping gaps among her upper incisors. The hand disappeared in the woman’s clothing between her legs and the smile intensified. The milkiness in her eyes turned red. A moment later she pulled her hand out again and produced a dirty, off-white knickers.
There were Monica’s, a least they looked identical.
When the woman mouthed the words her voice sounded like a man’s. ‘People are natural time-travellers. They’re hardly ever in the Now.’
Monica felt naked and defenceless.
She opened her eyes with a fright. Had she nodded off?
The woman opposite her was gone and an automated voice recording on the Tannoy announced Bank was the next stop. Things were out of focus again, a reassuring sight under the circumstances.
Monica got up and approached the door. When the train stopped at the station she got off and glanced around one last time.
Maybe it’s time to stop being merely in the Now and start remembering what happened last night. Soon as I get home.
That would be the way to do it. The decision improved her mood immeasurably.
The man in the grey trench coat was getting off two doors down. He was not part of the dream.
It was painful though necessary to discard it, and I'm glad I've found a way to give it a second life here.
Happy Halloween/Horror Week!
Mindfulness by Magnus Stanke
‘People are natural time-travellers. Either we pine for the future, ponder the possible consequences of our next decision, or we recall the past, try to remember long-gone moments. We’re hardly ever in the Here-and-Now.’ Monica had forgotten who’d spoken the words, but was reminded of their message -- if you could call it that -- on the morning after the day she couldn’t remember.
Not thinking about what happened before appeared to be convenient advice just then.
The smell of stale smoke lingered in the building, increasing the need for fresh air. She stepped out the plush elevator, hurried along the unfamiliar marble corridor and exited through the revolving glass doors.
Last night doesn’t matter, is done with. Be in the moment. Be Now. Can’t be that hard. Well then, what’s now, or rather -- what is now? Breathing, in and out, for starters, that’s what. And, one foot in front of the other, that’s also Now. And Here. Good. That’s it. Always ahead, straight on, all the way until you get home, or at least to the nearest underground station. Let your feet guide you, however inappropriate your footwear might be on this chilly morning.
She balanced down the few concrete steps onto the sterile looking pavement and started to walk as well as she could. See, you can do it, even in these here high heels! She cleared her mind forcibly and tried hard to ignore the questions that threatened to break through the surface of her conscience. Stay in the Now.
Without contacts, looking at her feet was easier than looking ahead. She wasn’t particularly tall, and consequently, within the moderate range from eye to shoes, nearly everything remained reassuringly in focus. Left foot in front of the right, right in front of the left, and over again she went, disregarding her aching lobes and pulsating temples, and the jittery vein in her left eyelid that probably looked like a nervous tick, visible to any onlooker.
But there weren’t any onlookers. She was quite alone.
Something’s not quite right. Is it me?
A shudder went through her body. It lasted until she reached a signpost. Information at last.
My feet are mistaken. They don’t know diddly-squat about the way home, just like me. However, unlike my feet, I can read. The sign says ‘go back to where you came from’ – in not so many words. It’s just an arrow. I have to retrace my steps, back to the smelly building with the revolving door and the concrete steps. The futuristic looking one. That’s where the DLR sign is pointing.
The Docklands Light Railway was a fully automated, driverless overland train that would take her to central London, and from there onwards. There was no tube line at Canary Wharf back then, though a couple of posters claimed that the Jubilee line extension was under construction, to be completed ‘by 1997’. That was still a few years away.
What’s strange is that there’re no people around. Very strange for London. Have I missed, what, an atomic meltdown or something? Am I like Charlton Heston in the movie where he is the only human survivor in post-apocalyptic New York?
Any time now she expected to be attacked by zombies. Any time Now. She pinched herself and jumped. Yikes, the pain is also Now. I got to keep it together.
The DLR ran from inside One Canada Square, the large tower, ran straight through the building, albeit in an orderly fashion, on specially mounted rails. The latest architectonical gadget. She’d heard about this from some Londoner friend, but had never actually seen it before that day.
After what felt like a long hike she found the station. A nearly deserted train was sitting there, waiting to depart. More awake now than before, she took a seat at the back of the carriage, looked up at the tower through a mash of corrugated, arched windows and watched it recede into the distance when the train started to move.
She felt somewhat better. Deceptively so.
This is Saturday, right? Monica knew that the buildings in the area were mostly offices that were closed for the weekend; few people actually lived there, plus, it was quite early in the day. Still, for a Saturday she’d expected more activity, and some tourists, maybe.
Nearly deserted?
Another shudder went through her body, and she pulled her skirt over her knees repeatedly and looked around. Nearly deserted meant she wasn’t alone. Was somebody watching her?
The man in a grey trench coat at the other end of the carriage, when did he get on? Is he familiar looking? Without her contacts she couldn’t make out his features, but that didn’t stop her from wondering. What happened to my contacts, anyway? And, had he followed her here? But why would he, or anybody?
Relax. Most likely he’s just going somewhere, like everybody else, minding his own business. Enough already with the paranoia.
Monica contemplated getting up and moving closer to the front of the train, but then she remembered there was no driver to turn to for help. She forced herself to look away from the man, and she almost jumped when she saw a woman looking back at her from the opposite seat, a woman who hadn’t been there before.
I must be tripping still.
The woman’s grey hair was wild and unkempt, her fingers yellow with tobacco stains, and her stocking showed a long run from her ankle via the front of her calf muscles all the way up to her knee. Her luggage suggested she was on her way to an airport. Strangely it was brand new, an expensive brand while her clothes were neither.
According to tube etiquette, direct eye contact with strangers was to be avoided at all cost. It was considered rude to stare, and nobody wanted to be rude. ‘Rude’ was worse than ‘guilty’ on the local moral compass. The stranger across from her, however, had no qualms about staring. She looked Monica right in the eye with a gaze intensive enough to make her flesh crawl.
Okay, you win. Monica turned her head back towards the man in the grey coat. Only he was gone. The seat he had occupied a moment ago was empty, though the train hadn’t stopped.
She was now totally alone with the staring woman.
Her neck strained. Monica knew she wouldn’t be able to remain in this position much longer. She wanted to cross her legs and she wanted to turn her head to find out if the witch was still opposite her, still looking at her.
At this point Monica didn’t even question the twenty-twenty sharpness that she perceived the world with. She pulled herself together and jerked her head back towards the woman.
What’s there to be afraid of, anyway? Right?
Their eyes met. The woman’s expression hadn’t changed.
Okay, you can do this, Monica. Don’t blink. As long as you don’t blink she won’t come any closer. Keep your eyes peeled.
Sure enough, the old woman stayed in her seat, kept staring at Monica from milky blue-white pupils, didn’t move forward.
Wouldn’t it be funny if she can’t even see me? Bingo. That was it, probably, the poor old woman is merely sightless, not rude. I must be in worse shape than I thought, terrified of the blind now.
Only then it happened.
The woman demonstratively brought up her right, yellow-fingered hand to her face, sucked her index and middle fingers and then proceeded to place her palm flat against her stomach. From there she slid her hand into her nether region. A wild smile appeared on her face, revealing black tooth stumps and gaping gaps among her upper incisors. The hand disappeared in the woman’s clothing between her legs and the smile intensified. The milkiness in her eyes turned red. A moment later she pulled her hand out again and produced a dirty, off-white knickers.
There were Monica’s, a least they looked identical.
When the woman mouthed the words her voice sounded like a man’s. ‘People are natural time-travellers. They’re hardly ever in the Now.’
Monica felt naked and defenceless.
She opened her eyes with a fright. Had she nodded off?
The woman opposite her was gone and an automated voice recording on the Tannoy announced Bank was the next stop. Things were out of focus again, a reassuring sight under the circumstances.
Monica got up and approached the door. When the train stopped at the station she got off and glanced around one last time.
Maybe it’s time to stop being merely in the Now and start remembering what happened last night. Soon as I get home.
That would be the way to do it. The decision improved her mood immeasurably.
The man in the grey trench coat was getting off two doors down. He was not part of the dream.
