Douglas L. Wilson's Blog
December 21, 2017
Prologue
Hello all, I'm posting the prologue to my next book, the sequel to Affinity's Window. It's called Awakening. Any thoughts?
AWAKENING
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
PROLOGUE
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The chair’s runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and greeting the day in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head caused a second scarlet drop to fall, landing on the doll and soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker pools between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar as a girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against the image, Marie beheld the truth. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Tearing her gaze away from the looking glass, Marie looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. Again, she turned toward the mirror, and again she saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she’d held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying gore she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blue jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris.
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to ask, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, and unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of the family mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
AWAKENING
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
PROLOGUE
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The chair’s runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and greeting the day in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head caused a second scarlet drop to fall, landing on the doll and soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker pools between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar as a girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against the image, Marie beheld the truth. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Tearing her gaze away from the looking glass, Marie looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. Again, she turned toward the mirror, and again she saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she’d held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying gore she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blue jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris.
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to ask, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, and unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of the family mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
December 19, 2017
My short story
Hello friends. Back in October I posted on this blog the first three parts of an eight part short story I wrote called ESCAPE. If anyone out there has read the first three parts and would like to see more, please let me know. Otherwise, I won't worry about it anymore.
Thanks, Doug
Thanks, Doug
October 10, 2017
Escape- Part 3 of 8
Looking down for the first time since letting his eyes adjust to the weak yellow glow from above, he found himself standing not in a pile of kindling wood, and not amid a sea of broken glass, as he’d originally considered most likely, but in a pile of bones, human bones. Every bone in the human body lay crumbled and crunched around him, and many times over as far as he could tell. Some were old, ancient even, and crumbled to dust at the slightest pressure, while others were newer and still held their original shape and color. Sweeping his hands down the back of his pants, he felt the remnants of the bits that had been drilling into his skin fall to the floor.
Turning his attention to the walls surrounding him, he forced himself to focus through the fog currently shrouding his thinking. Shuffling his feet through the bones, their clattering and scraping only serving to set his nerves further on edge, he heard an odd tinkling sound from beneath, like someone jingling a ring of keys.
Dismissing the seemingly out of place noise as pain induced nonsense, he placed his back against the smooth stone wall and reached forward. The pit was too wide. He’d hoped to force himself upward, using his feet and his back as leverage against each other, but it was just too far across. Standing in the middle he could rest his palms comfortably against the smooth stone on either side of him, but there seemed no way to climb.
Looking back down into the eerie pile of rubble, an idea occurred to him. Maybe there was no way to use his body alone as leverage, but there might be a way to make use of the dried human remains he seemed to have in abundance.
Reaching down into the remnants of humanity, he swatted aside the smaller bits to dig for the larger, newer, and less decomposed of the lot. Again that odd tinkling noise came to his ears, and again he dismissed it. Empty skulls stared accusingly up at him, their hollow eye sockets black against the surrounding yellow tinged darkness. His fingers finally wrapping around one of the bones he sought, he shuddered as revulsion gripped him. Forced by survival to use that which seemed repulsive, yet sacred, he lifted a severed tibia from the heap. The end had broken off perfectly, leaving a jagged yet lethal point.
His dizziness beginning to abate, and the throbbing in his temple easing just enough to loosen that particular vise, he reached back down into the fell pile for the remaining bones he needed. One more tibia, severed like the first yet not quite as new, and a half dozen rib bones to press into service as pitons. It was time to climb.
Turning his attention to the walls surrounding him, he forced himself to focus through the fog currently shrouding his thinking. Shuffling his feet through the bones, their clattering and scraping only serving to set his nerves further on edge, he heard an odd tinkling sound from beneath, like someone jingling a ring of keys.
Dismissing the seemingly out of place noise as pain induced nonsense, he placed his back against the smooth stone wall and reached forward. The pit was too wide. He’d hoped to force himself upward, using his feet and his back as leverage against each other, but it was just too far across. Standing in the middle he could rest his palms comfortably against the smooth stone on either side of him, but there seemed no way to climb.
Looking back down into the eerie pile of rubble, an idea occurred to him. Maybe there was no way to use his body alone as leverage, but there might be a way to make use of the dried human remains he seemed to have in abundance.
Reaching down into the remnants of humanity, he swatted aside the smaller bits to dig for the larger, newer, and less decomposed of the lot. Again that odd tinkling noise came to his ears, and again he dismissed it. Empty skulls stared accusingly up at him, their hollow eye sockets black against the surrounding yellow tinged darkness. His fingers finally wrapping around one of the bones he sought, he shuddered as revulsion gripped him. Forced by survival to use that which seemed repulsive, yet sacred, he lifted a severed tibia from the heap. The end had broken off perfectly, leaving a jagged yet lethal point.
His dizziness beginning to abate, and the throbbing in his temple easing just enough to loosen that particular vise, he reached back down into the fell pile for the remaining bones he needed. One more tibia, severed like the first yet not quite as new, and a half dozen rib bones to press into service as pitons. It was time to climb.
October 9, 2017
Escape- Part 2 of 8
I feel silly posting these short story excerpts if no one is reading them, but I've got nothing else to do right now. It's a rainy Monday, my cats are miserable because they're stuck inside, and I'm blogging to myself. That's about the size of things today.
Reaching around with hands outstretched, he felt the curved walls of the pit surrounding him. Smooth rocks, the size of ripe winter melons, were stacked one atop the other, staggering their way up and around and held in place by decaying mortar that poured from the gaps at his touch like sand through an hourglass. Slivers of whatever littered the hard-packed floor still bore hungrily into his legs and butt. Fighting the dizziness sweeping through his head in waves, he forced himself to stand, the sounds of crunching and breaking beneath him echoing loudly up the shaft like a string of firecrackers.
Shuffling his feet in an attempt to burrow down through the wreckage beneath him to solid ground, he lost his balance and fell sideways against the wall of the pit. His skull erupted in fresh pain, practically begging him to stop this insane idea of righting himself.
Reaching up a trembling hand he felt the gash and the welt along his right temple, he felt the dried blood and the bruised flesh, and he knew that someone had hit him. Most likely the same someone that had thrown him down here.
Pushing himself slowly away from the wall, he re-centered himself in the pit, and that’s when he heard the wail. It drifted down from above, down through the circle of light that was his only escape, and its anguish made him shudder. Another sound followed the first, a blood curdling scream that caused him to cover his ears and duck as if expecting a physical blow. Panic welled within him.
Reaching around with hands outstretched, he felt the curved walls of the pit surrounding him. Smooth rocks, the size of ripe winter melons, were stacked one atop the other, staggering their way up and around and held in place by decaying mortar that poured from the gaps at his touch like sand through an hourglass. Slivers of whatever littered the hard-packed floor still bore hungrily into his legs and butt. Fighting the dizziness sweeping through his head in waves, he forced himself to stand, the sounds of crunching and breaking beneath him echoing loudly up the shaft like a string of firecrackers.
Shuffling his feet in an attempt to burrow down through the wreckage beneath him to solid ground, he lost his balance and fell sideways against the wall of the pit. His skull erupted in fresh pain, practically begging him to stop this insane idea of righting himself.
Reaching up a trembling hand he felt the gash and the welt along his right temple, he felt the dried blood and the bruised flesh, and he knew that someone had hit him. Most likely the same someone that had thrown him down here.
Pushing himself slowly away from the wall, he re-centered himself in the pit, and that’s when he heard the wail. It drifted down from above, down through the circle of light that was his only escape, and its anguish made him shudder. Another sound followed the first, a blood curdling scream that caused him to cover his ears and duck as if expecting a physical blow. Panic welled within him.
October 8, 2017
Escape- Part 1 of 8
I've had a couple of short stories on my laptop for a few years now. I've never done anything with them. I'm going to share them on this blog, beginning with Escape, a horror tale of roughly four thousand words.
If you would like to see more of this story, please let me know and I'll continue to post.
ESCAPE
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
He awoke with a start. Blinking up into the yellow tinged darkness, he had the briefest of moments to wonder just who and where he was, and then the pain came. His back and legs burned like fire, like a hundred glowing cigarettes being crushed out against his skin. Turning his head ever so slightly, the tiniest of movements really, caused a whole new realm of pain to erupt along the right side of his skull. Forcing himself to sit up, lest the sting against him bite deeper than it already had, he was greeted by the sound of crunching and the shifting of what felt like shards of glass settling beneath his weight.
Pallid light, dismal and weak, vaguely lit his surroundings from above. Craning his neck to look upward, a movement that practically trebled the pain along his right temple, he saw a halo of black surrounding the dim yellow circle that was the entrance to the pit. He was at the bottom of this hole, whatever it was, and he needed to get out. He might not remember who he was just now, but he knew with certainty that time was of the essence.
If you would like to see more of this story, please let me know and I'll continue to post.
ESCAPE
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
He awoke with a start. Blinking up into the yellow tinged darkness, he had the briefest of moments to wonder just who and where he was, and then the pain came. His back and legs burned like fire, like a hundred glowing cigarettes being crushed out against his skin. Turning his head ever so slightly, the tiniest of movements really, caused a whole new realm of pain to erupt along the right side of his skull. Forcing himself to sit up, lest the sting against him bite deeper than it already had, he was greeted by the sound of crunching and the shifting of what felt like shards of glass settling beneath his weight.
Pallid light, dismal and weak, vaguely lit his surroundings from above. Craning his neck to look upward, a movement that practically trebled the pain along his right temple, he saw a halo of black surrounding the dim yellow circle that was the entrance to the pit. He was at the bottom of this hole, whatever it was, and he needed to get out. He might not remember who he was just now, but he knew with certainty that time was of the essence.
Here's one
When I was a kid, I sang the wrong words to Helen Reddy's I am Woman. In the line, "I'm still an embryo", I sang "I'm still a limbery oak."
Here's another. There was a song that came out when I was in high school called "The Night Chicago Died" I sang the title lyric as "The night she called me guy."
I won't even tell you how much I butchered Elton John's Rocket Man lyric "burning out my fuse out here alone." Too embarrassing.
Here's another. There was a song that came out when I was in high school called "The Night Chicago Died" I sang the title lyric as "The night she called me guy."
I won't even tell you how much I butchered Elton John's Rocket Man lyric "burning out my fuse out here alone." Too embarrassing.
September 25, 2017
I don't know
What does one write in a blog? I could keep talking about my writing career, my struggles to understand this industry, but that bores even me.
The guy that cuts my grass is here. He's running the blower right now. Exciting huh? I'm retired from thirty five years in construction. The excessive noise has left me with a wicked case of Tinitis. My ears ring constantly. Wish I'd have used some noise protection.
Wouldn't it be nice to go back in time and warn yourself about such things? Would you live a different life, or would you fall right back into your old self, like a well worn glove?
My wife is on her tablet in the family room. She's looking up recipes. Both of our cats are asleep, one of them on the chair beside me. Exciting, huh?
Well, it's been a marvelous break in my day sharing these random thoughts with whomever might read this. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have something more profound to say, but I doubt it.
The guy that cuts my grass is here. He's running the blower right now. Exciting huh? I'm retired from thirty five years in construction. The excessive noise has left me with a wicked case of Tinitis. My ears ring constantly. Wish I'd have used some noise protection.
Wouldn't it be nice to go back in time and warn yourself about such things? Would you live a different life, or would you fall right back into your old self, like a well worn glove?
My wife is on her tablet in the family room. She's looking up recipes. Both of our cats are asleep, one of them on the chair beside me. Exciting, huh?
Well, it's been a marvelous break in my day sharing these random thoughts with whomever might read this. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have something more profound to say, but I doubt it.
September 19, 2017
B and N musings
I realize that I'm relatively new to the publishing game, but there is something that totally perplexes me about Barnes and Noble. They bought forty copies of Affinity's Window from my publisher. Their site now shows my book as Temporarily out of Stock, meaning they've sold all the copies they had on hand. They won't reorder anymore copies. When my publisher asked them about this, they replied, quite tersely I might add, that there wasn't enough interest in the book to generate a reorder.
They ran ads of Affinity's Window on facebook, and other social media outlets, and they sold out their warehouse stock, but they're not ordering anymore for lack of interest?
I see that no one really reads these blog posts, but if you happen across this one day, and have any idea why B and N does what they do, give me a hint, would you? I'll never understand certain aspects of this business.
They ran ads of Affinity's Window on facebook, and other social media outlets, and they sold out their warehouse stock, but they're not ordering anymore for lack of interest?
I see that no one really reads these blog posts, but if you happen across this one day, and have any idea why B and N does what they do, give me a hint, would you? I'll never understand certain aspects of this business.
September 13, 2017
Awakening Sample
Here's the prologue to my next novel, and sequel to Affinity's Window. It's called Awakening. I'd love any thoughts.
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and demanding breakfast in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head, a second scarlet drop fell onto the doll she was holding, soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time she screamed, like a crow returning to the same decaying piece of road kill every time a car passed by. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker parts, the gorier splotches between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar when she was a little girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against image, begging her own mind to please not let her scream again because she knew that this time she wouldn’t be able to stop, Marie beheld the carnage. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Marie turned away from the mirror and looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. She looked back into the mirror and saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying blood she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blood-soaked jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris. Where were the girls? Shouldn’t they be up by now?
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More bloody footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to say, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye, and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, another hand-me-down from her grandmother, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of her mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and demanding breakfast in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head, a second scarlet drop fell onto the doll she was holding, soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time she screamed, like a crow returning to the same decaying piece of road kill every time a car passed by. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker parts, the gorier splotches between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar when she was a little girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against image, begging her own mind to please not let her scream again because she knew that this time she wouldn’t be able to stop, Marie beheld the carnage. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Marie turned away from the mirror and looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. She looked back into the mirror and saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying blood she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blood-soaked jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris. Where were the girls? Shouldn’t they be up by now?
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More bloody footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to say, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye, and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, another hand-me-down from her grandmother, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of her mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
September 12, 2017
Hello
Hi there blog land. I'm trying to find a new agent for my second novel. My original agent left the business, so I've gone back on the query train. You'd think that agencies might want to give me a look because I'm already published, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. I've sent out about twenty in the last six weeks, and received four rejections and lots of dead silence. But I'll keep trying. Eventually I'll find someone. It's a long process.
Affinity's Window has two more sequels, the first of which I'm trying to sell. It's called Awakening, and I think it's pretty good. So I'll keep sending out queries, and I'll keep let you all know how it's going.
Affinity's Window has two more sequels, the first of which I'm trying to sell. It's called Awakening, and I think it's pretty good. So I'll keep sending out queries, and I'll keep let you all know how it's going.
