Terrye Turpin's Blog

An NYC Midnight Short Story Photography by the author

I don’t remember the prompts for this one. I think the genre must have been Adventure or something like that. I do remember thinking this ended up a hot mess, and looking back at the feedback I received the judges agreed. It didn’t advance, and it has languished in my files since February 2023. Here it is now, for you to enjoy. (Or not)

The Shy Lady’s Treasure

In the boat’s prow, Jenny Simon leaned into the salt spray. A glance behind revealed the mainland’s shrinking, mangrove lined shore, while ahead Shy Lady Island’s rocky outline grew from the sea. The island’s most famous structure, a historic lighthouse, stood outlined in the sun. The lighthouse had been in operation until the 1920s, when a newer structure was built on the larger island to the south.

She curled her fingers around her heavy packs’ strap and tugged it closer, imagining the slip of paper tucked inside—the permit that gave her permission to explore for the next twenty-four hours. Precious little time, but she planned to find what she’d come for and be gone before it expired. In two days, the land’s title would revert to the state and Shy Lady would be closed to visitors. Now, access to the island was difficult and overnight stays were not allowed. You had to have the right credentials even for a day trip.  

One of her fellow passengers—a middle-aged woman wearing a fluorescent yellow life vest stood gripping the rail at the stern. A large canvas backpack rested at her feet. She wore khaki trousers and brown, thick-soled hiking boots. The woman turned and met Jenny’s gaze. Purple shadows like inky fingerprints underlined the woman’s eyes. A gust of wind caused her jacket to flap open, revealing a holstered pistol at her waist.  

The boat rose in the water, then slapped in the trough of a large wave. “Sorry!” The captain smiled as he called over the growl of the engine.

Jenny fumbled with her phone. Soon she would have no signal. The last text from the previous night was displayed on the screen.

where r u?

She turned off the phone and returned it to the pack. By the time Claire found the note she’d left, it would be too late to stop her. It would be easier to ask Claire to forgive her once she had the treasure in hand. Selling the copper scroll would solve so many problems for them. They could pay off Claire’s graduate student loans and have money to buy a house. There might even be enough for Jenny to finish her degree. She loved Claire, but her girlfriend had grown up comfortably upper middle class. Jenny couldn’t help but imagine the wealth ancient artifacts might bring. For Claire, it was all about history and knowledge.

At last, they reached the pier. She gathered her things and made to depart. The woman strode past, followed by the other two passengers, a pair of young men. The men carried heavy packs with shovels and picks strapped to the outside.

“I’ll be back this evening at six, before sundown,” the boat’s captain told them. “There’s a storm coming in, so don’t be late.”

She followed the others off the boat and before they left the dock, the woman turned to her and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Peggy Horton. I was glad to see your name on the roster,” she said. “I knew your father. I was in his antiquities class when he taught at Central Tech.” Her smile faded,, and she pulled Jenny closer. “I’m sorry for your loss. But it’s good to see you following in his footsteps.” The woman cocked her head and her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Jenny nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” She pushed past the woman without another word. Better that she think her rude than risk further conversation.

“We’ll see you at the midden tomorrow,” Peggy called after her.

“Sure.” Let them wait for her to show up. She had better things in mind than digging through an archaeological garbage dump. That was the sort of thing Claire would love, and any other time, so would she, even if she always had to go as an unpaid volunteer. Despite Shy Island being less than an eight-hour drive from their home, they’d talked about it but never ventured here. Jenny marched toward the lighthouse.

Lit by the sun, the structure towered before her, perched on a rise overlooking the beach. Broken stones from the façade littered the ground below it. From the top of the building, she would have a good view of the area. Also, the delay would allow the others to wander out of sight. She squeezed through the arched opening and into what had been the lightkeeper’s quarters. Cracked masonry covered the walls. Shadows darkened the space, and it smelled of mold and damp. A small room to the side must have held his sleeping space. Jenny peered into that room, noting a square of metal bolted to the wall. The surface, once polished, now spotted with age, had probably been used as a mirror. Bits of a wooden frame enclosed the square. The wood was carved to resemble tree bark wrapped in vines. The frame had rotted away except for two sides. 

Jenny slipped past the yellow caution tape to climb the stairs. At the top, she eased past the giant glass lens in the center of the floor to look out the opening. She spotted Peggy and the two men hiking into a stand of trees before the woman split off from the pair. The men must be heading to the dig site, a trash pit dating back to the 1600s, when Spanish pirates had used the island as an outpost. It was in a clearing in the middle of the grove. Over the past ten years, portions of the midden had been excavated.

She knelt on the floor and pulled from her pack a small leather journal. It was wrapped in cloth, then zipped into a plastic bag to guard against moisture. Carefully, she turned the pages to the section she had memorized. Here, in the lightkeeper’s tidy hand, he described finding the relic—a copper scroll. He must have known it was valuable, but he couldn’t read the Spanish words printed on the scroll. Alone on the island for so many years, it must have been a precious possession. He’d hidden it during the Civil War. Almost two hundred years had passed since he’d written those words, but no one after had found the scroll, although many had speculated about its existence.

Turning to the journal’s last words, Jenny read the lightkeeper’s clue to where the scroll had been hidden.

I will rise and face my treasure each morning. Clasped in the embrace of her roots, she will keep it safe until this danger has passed.

Standing, she gripped the binoculars she’d brought and studied the landscape, searching for the highest point on the land. He would have wanted a place far from shore, where the rising tide would never reach. Some place he would see from the lighthouse and reassure himself the scroll was safe. There, at the edge of the horizon, stood an oak tree. It towered over the canopy by at least twenty feet.

It took Jenny an hour to wend her way through brush and over rocky outcroppings to reach the hill that held the oak. Whenever she’d caught her breath and unwind the brambles that clung to her clothes, she swore she heard the echo of footsteps behind her. Now she stared at the ledge thirty feet above. The base of the hill held a dry creek bed. Run-off from heavy rains had carved the soil, leaving a shelf of dirt less than a yard deep and extending out six feet overhead. Halfway down, the side roots poked like fingers from a shallow grave. She trod the creek bed until she found a spot that sloped more gently and would be easier to climb.

At the top, she kneeled beside the tree and brushed at the dirt. She would dig here, on the side opposite the drop-off. If her luck held, she’d find the scroll without having to risk the ground collapsing under her. She began lifting clumps of soil with her folding shovel, scraping off the clay-like dirt into a pile next to the hole. Sweat ran from her brow and she had to pause every few minutes to wipe it away. When the rain began, she was at first grateful for the cool drops. The wind rattled the branches and leaves overhead, and combined with the patter of raindrops, it hid the crunch of footsteps until the woman spoke.

“Who are you?”

Jenny flinched and rose, clutching the short-handled shovel. She faced the woman from the boat, Peggy Horton. She held a dull black pistol, aimed at Jenny. 

“What do you want?” Jenny stepped back against the oak.

“You are not Claire Emerson.” The woman lifted the gun. “I saw her at a conference six months ago. Her and her father, Dr. Emerson, right before he died.”

Jenny’s mouth went dry, and she trembled. She didn’t think Peggy would shoot her if she stayed silent, and she didn’t want to speak the truth. Her face flushed with heat, remembering how she’d applied for the permit using Claire’s name and her credentials. They had found the journal boxed with her father’s papers. Based on ship’s logs he’d discovered and antique correspondence between Spanish explorers, Dr. Emerson had proposed that the missing copper scroll describing the location of Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth had been stashed somewhere on Shy Lady Island. How they had fought over that journal! Jenny wanted to travel immediately to the island and look for the scroll. Claire, too distraught over her father’s death, didn’t want to even discuss it.

Jenny shifted her weight, preparing to swing the shovel and jump behind the oak.

“Stay still!” Peggy lifted the gun until it was pointed at Jenny’s head. Lightning zipped in a jagged white line, followed by a drum beat of thunder. The gun never wavered. Peggy smirked. “I know why you’re here. If you’re pretending to be Dr. Emerson’s daughter, you must be searching for the lost scroll.” She motioned with the pistol. “Go ahead. Keep digging.”

Jenny scraped at the soil until blisters rose on her hands. Cold rain continued to fall. The sky grew darker by the minute and below, water ran through the creek bed. At last, the only place left to dig was the ledge.

“Go ahead. Don’t stop.” Peggy nudged Jenny with her foot.

Carefully, Jenny scooted to the far side of the tree and dug. Rainwater filled each divot she removed. Finally, her shovel clinked against something hard. She brushed at the dirt, but mud kept sliding into the hole.

“What is it?” Peggy stepped beside Jenny.

Another crash of lightning and clap of thunder sounded. Rain pelted Jenny’s skin and the earth beneath her shuddered. She looked up. Peggy held the gun at her side, pointed toward the ground. If Jenny gave her a shove, the woman would tumble off the edge into the stream below.

Before she could act, the earth shifted again. Peggy cried out and waved her arms, trying to grab hold of the oak. Jenny flung herself past the tree to the solid ground behind. With a wail, Peggy fell.

Lying flat, Jenny held onto the oak’s roots and peered over the outcrop. Peggy lay half-submerged in the rushing water. Her eyes were closed. One leg was bent at an odd angle. A line of blood oozed from her scalp. Jenny backed away. If she left her there… but no, she couldn’t do that.

Later, she would remember the next few hours as a series of scenes, like slides in a presentation. The first one showed Jenny pulling Peggy from the creek and securing her high on the opposite bank. She found the men at the midden site. Together, they used the tarp that had been strung over the dig to carry Peggy to the lighthouse. None of them had phone service on the island, so they would have to wait for the boat to return that evening. One man had a first aid kit, and they cleaned Peggy’s wounds and stabilized her broken leg.

From her perch at the top of the lighthouse, Jenny was the first to spy the boat arriving. She hurried to the dock and waved as though she would speed the arrival. As soon as it landed, a familiar figure stepped from the boat. Claire.

Jenny longed to rush forward, into her arms, but she hung back. Her fears were soothed when Claire pulled her into her embrace. “What the hell, Jen. What were you thinking?”

Jenny shook her head. “It was stupid and I’m sorry.”

“Why would you risk this?”

The words spilled out, how she searched for the scroll, how finding it would have changed their lives for the better. “But it’s too late now,” Jenny said. “I didn’t find it.”

The boat captain radioed for a helicopter to take Peggy to the hospital. Shock and pain had turned her skin pale and clammy, but she would survive. After it left, Claire, Jenny, and the men prepared to leave with the boat.

“Where did you think you’d find the scroll?” Claire asked.

Jenny described the words in the journal, and how she’d searched for the tree from the lighthouse. “He would face it every morning and…” Jenny froze. She grabbed Claire’s hand and swung her pack onto her back. “Please wait a few more minutes,” she called to the captain.

Together, Jenny and Claire jogged to the lighthouse. “He must have spent so much time here.” Jenny crossed into the small room and stood before the metal square. “This,” she said, “is what he faced each morning. A mirror. Not a tree, but made to look like a tree.”

“You think it’s behind there?” Claire ran her fingers across the rotted wood frame.

“Only one way to know.” Jenny pulled a pry bar from her pack and bent one section of the metal away from the wall, revealing a flat, faded, muslin covered object. Jenny sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to damage it.”

Claire tugged at a corner of the cloth until a section of a rust-colored tablet appeared. Jenny made to pry the rest free, but Claire grabbed her hand. “No. We should have witnesses and document the find.”

“It’s ours, isn’t it? Finders keepers? The land doesn’t belong to the state until tomorrow.

Claire shook her head. “No. They’ll close the island tomorrow, but the title passed last month. We can’t claim it, Jenny.”

Jenny dropped her hand. “You should be the one to find it, Claire. The discovery belongs to you, even if the money doesn’t.”

“But I’m not here on a permit. I begged the boat captain to let me ride out here and back to find you.”

“You’ve been here with me all along. It’s your name on the permit, not mine.” Jenny strolled outside to ask the captain to hold the boat a little longer, as they had something amazing to share.

The End

A Short Story Photograph by the author

I wrote this story for the NYC Midnight Fiction Contest way back in 2021. The genre had to be “Ghost Story” and I decided to set it at the Excelsior Hotel in Jefferson, Texas – rumored to be haunted. I published a copy of the story on the Medium site but it didn’t get many views, so here it is again, for anyone who didn’t read it back then.

The Message

The day before her twentieth wedding anniversary, Doreen Clark traveled alone to the Excelsior Hotel, where ghosts were rumored to roam the halls. The hotel, built in the late 1800s, had wood floors that creaked and moaned at night, as though the place were filled with spirits burdened by ghostly pains.

“Welcome,” the chipper clerk greeted her. “Have you stayed with us before?” The woman wore black cat-eyed glasses around her neck, suspended on a rhinestone studded cord.

“Years ago.” As the clerk confirmed her reservation, Doreen stepped over to study the photographs arranged on the lobby wall.

“Fascinating, aren’t they?” The clerk gestured to a gilt-framed photo of a seated woman garbed in old-fashioned, dark, mourning clothes. A translucent figure, a man with a drooping mustache, hovered behind the woman, one hand resting on the carved wooden back of her chair. “Are you familiar with the history of spirit photography?”

“Oh yes,” Doreen replied, “my husband was an amateur photographer. He loved the stories behind the photos.” Spirit photography dated back to the late 1800s, when enterprising photographers used long exposure to create ghostly images transposed onto the pictures they captured. The enterprise proved profitable, as grieving relatives longed to see their beloved again.   

“They’re interesting, but I feel sorry for the folks who believed they could connect with their dead loved ones.”

Doreen smiled and shrugged. “I’m sure they got some comfort at least, the true believers.” If she told this woman the real reason she’d journeyed back to this particular hotel, on this date, Doreen wondered if the clerk would pity her or think her crazy.  

After she dropped her bags in her room, Doreen texted her daughter, then carried a book to the courtyard, to warm herself in the late October sunshine. Fragrant crimson roses climbed the brick walls. Had there been roses back then? The novel, a gaudy romance, couldn’t hold her. A nap would suit her better.

She woke at dusk and rose, wishing for a candle. Houdini’s widow, she’d read, kept a candle burning for him every night for years. Doreen placed her palm on the frosty glass of the French doors, looking over the courtyard. Something moved outside, a wisp of white that could have been a bit of gauzy cloth batted in the wind.

She remembered her wedding day, so many years ago. They had danced in this courtyard, Doreen’s white lace dress sweeping the cobblestones. What are ghosts? Doreen believed them to be the echo of memory, suspended in air like motes of dust. When Houdini died, he promised to contact his beloved. His widow waited years for that signal.

Her fingers clutched her phone as she unlatched the door leading into the courtyard. The modern equipment lacked the romance of the long exposure on glass photographic plates, but maybe it would do. Lifting the phone, she centered her image in the screen and focused on the wall of roses behind her. She snapped a shot, then another, and another, turning to capture all of the courtyard until she felt faint and dizzy.  

Back in the room, Doreen scrolled through the digital images. The phone’s camera had done a fine job of capturing the splash of red roses and the moss-dotted stone of the courtyard, even in the fading light. Nothing else. No outline or familiar face, no time-worn hands resting on her shoulders.

Leaning forward, her lips a finger’s width from the panes, Doreen breathed on the cold glass of the French door. “Oh Bill, I miss you so.” The pane fogged, and she lifted a finger to scrawl a heart. She turned her back to drop the phone on the bed’s quilted coverlet. All those photographs -they couldn’t all be fake, could they? She vowed to return next year, and every year after that, as long as it took.

On the courtyard side, a shape appeared on the pane then quickly faded—the imprint of a kiss, as though tenderly etched on a photographic plate.   

The End

Oh look! A bookstore! (and a short story) Photo by the author

Last week, my friend Cathy and I drove up to Denison, Texas intent on finding a new bookstore I’d seen on TikTok. Despite the downtown construction that blocked a large portion of Main Street, we had no trouble locating our destination – Sundrop Books.

Sundrop Books – photo by the author

Inside we each found an armful of novels we couldn’t live without. The store sells both used and new books, plus there is a table filled with one of my personal favorites – the brown paper wrapped “blind date with a book.”

Interior of Sundrop Books – photo by the author

As we were leaving, the owner told us about another bookstore just down the street. A bonus store!

Pen and Page Weathered Books – photo by the author

Inside we each found more books that had to come home with us. Pen and Page stocks both nearly new and used books, plus original artwork by the owner.

Interior of Pen and Page Weathered Books – photo by the author

It was great to find not one, but two bookstores to add to my list of nearby places to visit. The City of Denison is remodeling the park in the middle of downtown, and when that is finished I will certainly need to visit again!

If you’ve made it this far in the post I hope you’ll stick around a bit longer and read the short story below. This one is posted in all its unedited, ugly glory, having been cobbled together over 48 hours for the second round in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest this year. I was not surprised to find out I hadn’t made it to the final round. Writing this one was actually painful. My assigned genre was suspense, and the required setting was a martial arts studio. The final indignity came with the last prompt. Somehow, I had to include CAT FOOD in the story.

Gentlefolk, I present to you:

The Shadow Way

With each step, Mia Dalton tightened her grip on her umbrella, weighing the possibility of using it as a weapon. Had the strange man following her been on the bus? Impossible to tell in the dark and the rain. She hated winter, when night fell by five o’clock. It meant trudging the three blocks from the bus stop to her apartment while imagining danger behind every doorway. Despite what her therapist said, it wasn’t that unreal a fear. Mia had the scars to prove it.

The rain fell harder. As she quickened her steps, the stranger did the same. Was she leading him to her home? Then, twenty feet in front of her, a black cat appeared on the sidewalk. It pivoted to face her, yellow eyes reflecting the streetlights, then scampered across the street.

Mia groaned. A black cat crossing your path was the worst of luck, but maybe this time it was a warning. The animal sat under the awning of the convenience store on the other side, as though waiting for her. Weighing her decision, Mia changed direction, jogging toward the lighted store. If the man did the same, she could duck into the shop.

Once she made it to the storefront, Mia steeled herself and turned to look back. The stranger faced her. He waited outside the circle of light from the streetlamp, his features in shadow. Was this the man from the robbery? It had been almost a year. If he meant to track down the only witness to the murder, he would have done it sooner.

“Go away,” Mia whispered. As though he heard her, the man strode off, vanishing out of sight at the next corner. Beside her, the black cat rose and sauntered away. On impulse, Mia followed. She would circle back to her apartment complex after she was certain the man was gone.

They traveled toward the bus stop, and then turned down a side street lined with quaint, older houses. The rain stopped, and drawn by the warm light spilling from the homes, Mia tagged after the cat until it ran up onto the porch of a pale blue, two-story, Victorian-style house. She paused on the steps. Stained glass windows framed the doorway, and a sign over the entrance read “The Shadow Way: Aikido.”

The door opened, and a woman with hair the color of iron filings greeted Mia. “Hello.”

“I’m sorry.” Mia retreated. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Is this your cat?” She pointed to where the cat had curled up on a corner of the porch.

The woman smiled. “He’s a stray, but we welcome all kinds here.” She held the door wider and motioned to Mia. “I’m Yuna. Please come in.”

“I’m Mia.” Noticing her host’s bare feet, Mia slipped off her shoes and socks and stashed them in a cubby in the entry. Inside, candles in glass jars lit every corner. A royal-blue mat covered the floor. Yuna wore a white wrap-around jacket and loose wide-legged black cotton pants.

“We don’t practice with the katana.” Yuna pointed overhead, to a polished sword hanging on the wall. “Instead, we use the wooden practice weapons. But they are just as useful when learning.” She took Mia’s arm and led her to a rack of wooden rods.

“I didn’t come for lessons. I should leave.”

Yuna tilted her head, studying Mia. “Chance brought you to me, a teacher without a student.” She handed Mia a short wooden stick from the rack.

“I’m not a fighter.” Mia hefted the rod. The weight of it felt good in her hand.

“Aikido is not about fighting, but about overcoming your fears and confronting your shadows.”

Mia nodded, thinking of the night of the robbery. She had stopped at the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine. While waiting behind one other customer, a masked man had entered. Shouts, cries, and gunfire had blended into an awful cacophony. The robber shot the cashier, the other customer, and Mia. Pain had flared in her shoulder, where the bullet had entered. She had fallen forward, as though to embrace her attacker. Her hand, scrambling for hold, had yanked away his mask. For an awful moment, he had stared into her eyes. Certain she would die, Mia had closed her eyes, but the man had left her there, with only the dead for company.

Now, Mia handed Yuna back the practice rod. “Okay. I’ll learn.”

“Good. Come back tomorrow night.”

Over the next three months, Mia visited the dojo every night. She brought expensive gourmet food for the cat until he trusted her enough to roll over at her feet. She named him Chance, and with Yuna’s blessing took him home with her.

The lessons progressed. Mia practiced with the short staff, the jo, and then with the longer bokken. The movements soothed her. Inside the dojo, she could leave her fear behind. Winter thawed, and the days grew longer until the evening of the first day of spring, when Mia saw the masked man again.

He followed her from the bus. This time, she spotted him right away, remembering the angle of his jaw and his gray eyes. At first, she thought to lead him to The Shadow Way, and Yuna’s help. That felt wrong, to bring violence to a place that had brought her peace. Instead, she marched down the sidewalk, one hand inside the tote at her side.

The streetlights flickered on when he grabbed her arm. She spun, clubbing him with the jo she had hidden in the tote. With a practiced move, she swept his feet. He fell.

The clerk at the convenience store across the street raced over. “I called 911,” he said.

Later, after she gave her statement at the police station, Mia decided to stop by the dojo and tell Yuna what had happened. But when she walked down the street, she couldn’t find the blue house. Like her fear, it was gone.

THE END

A short story from the 2022 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest Photograph by the author

In November 2022 I made it all the way to the final round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. The story I submitted didn’t land on any of the prize levels, and I filed it away until in 2024 when I reworked it into a tale that was accepted and produced for the Drew Blood’s Dark Tales podcast. Writing is often like that, we take scraps of ideas and piece them together like a quilt. This story changed quite a bit from the original, but one thing that stayed was the object that had been one of the NYC Midnight prompts – a cloche.

Here is the original story, in its unedited glory. Once again, I hope you like it, but if you don’t – don’t tell me.

The Price of Guilt

Beth pulled up the email with the instructions for the rental cottage’s lock. Assured a late arrival would be okay, she grabbed her bag and the half-empty wine bottle from the passenger seat. A single yellow bulb illuminated the porch. In its glow, she studied the damage to her car. A crack zigzagged down the front bumper. Clots of dark red liquid were smeared across the damaged running light.

Hurrying to the front door, she imagined the crunch of steps behind. Inside the house, a tiny fireplace took up one wall, bookcases on either side. Scattered among the dusty books were dozens of cloches. The bell-shaped covers reflected the light, concealing their contents until Beth stood close enough for her breath to fog the glass.  

Each cloche held a tiny woodland tableau, filled with moss, twigs, and stone chips—scenes from fairy tales. The old stories, where starving children wandered lost in the woods and maidens had their hearts carved out by jealous witches. Desiccated butterflies, with their tattered wings, clung like fairies to miniature branches. Scattered within the greenery of one were the delicate, yellowed bones of a small animal.

She found the bedroom at the end of a short hall, across from a bathroom no larger than a closet. The antique door knob turned with a squeal as the door opened on rusted hinges. Beth dropped her bag on the bed and gazed at the four walls. There were no windows in the room.

The metal framed bed took up one wall, and a scarred oak dresser rested across from it. Another cloche sat atop the dresser. This one held a miniature replica of the cottage, and a screen of tiny trees. Minuscule bits of rock trailed along the inside front of the glass, circling to the tree line.

She pressed her palm to the rough texture on the blank wall, then tapped across the area with her knuckles, expecting to hear a hollow sound. When she realized the missing window would have faced the edge of the forest outside, she shivered, grateful to have missed that view.

The pipes in the bathroom groaned and rusty liquid spun down the drain, the color like bloody water. Gagging, she retreated to the bedroom to undress and snuggle under the heavy patchwork quilt. She took one last check of her phone. No messages. 

She woke from a dream that drifted from her memory like smoke. Cavernous darkness surrounded her. Beth fumbled for the bedside table and her phone. Her hands met open air. She stood. Sweeping her arms out, her fingers brushed across the textured wall. She traced her steps back to the bed, but somehow missed it. Her back thumped the far wall.

Her heart thudded. The taste of sour wine rose in her throat. She scooted sideways to the next corner, then to the next, and the next. Finally, her hip bumped against the dresser. She brushed her fingertips over the cloche’s cool, rounded glass. For a second, she closed her eyes and when she opened them, a window appeared in the wall.

The moonlight streaming through the opening revealed the dresser as the only furniture remaining. No door, no bed, no table, no purse, no luggage, no phone. A sound escaped her, half-gasp, half-laugh. Taking a breath, she shook her head. Cool air brought the clean scent of pine and juniper. The walls and ceiling of the room pressed upon her, as though they shrank with each breath she drew. Outside, the open expanse called to her. She climbed through the window.

Ahead, the tree branches dipped in the wind, waving her forward. When she came to the road, she strolled on, despite the bite of gravel under her bare feet. Tire marks dug into the soft earth of the shoulder. The accident had been miles back, but here, dark blotches dotted the grass. A path of flattened weeds led into the brush, as though something large had dragged itself from the road. The tree trunks at the edge of the forest held strange symbols carved into their bark. Runes, scratched into the pale inner wood. The hair rose on her arms.

“An animal,” Beth chanted. “It was an animal.” Her mind recalled the stooped figure rising in her headlights, two black shapes like horns sprouting from its head. A deer. Wouldn’t a person have cried out? It happened so fast – in the time it took for her to glance at the phone in her hand.

A strangled cry sounded, half moan, half growl, like no animal she had ever heard. Beth jumped and raced back to the cottage. If she didn’t look, she wouldn’t know.

The space was back to how she’d found it. Door straight ahead, bed to her right, with the covers thrown off as she’d left them. When she glanced behind her, the wall had closed. No more window. Rushing to the door, she jerked it open. Down the hallway, through the living area, to the front door and then outside again. She didn’t stop until she crashed into a solid barrier. Knocked off her feet, she moaned and crawled forward, one hand held out. Stumbling upright, she banged her fist against the hard, clear surface. Glass.

“No!” She crawled to the cottage and inside to the windowless room. The dresser top sat empty—the cloche gone. Her world tilted, the floor beneath her swaying like the deck of a ship. She fell. Scrambling to her feet, she spilled from the room, rushed down the hall and out the front door. A huge red eye stared at her, distorted by the curve in the glass. It placed the cloche, her world now, on the shelf, then left. At the doorway, the thing crouched and lifted its horned head. The silhouette was exactly how it had appeared in her headlights. Beth stumbled backwards into the cottage. She stretched out on the bed in the windowless room and closed her eyes at last.

The End

If you’d like to hear the story inspired by this one you can listen to Drew Blood’s podcast on YouTube here.

Another NYC Midnight Story Obviously this image is AI generated.

This week I have a treat of a tale from one of my entries in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. For this unfortunate assignment, I received the challenge of writing a spy thriller story in 1,000 words or less. To top that off, the story had to include a flamethrower. I have forgotten what the third prompt was – just reading the story again brought flashbacks of the trauma induced by having only 48 hours to churn out something resembling a thriller. With a flamethrower.

I did not advance in that round, and the story stayed buried deep in my electronic files until now, when I have recovered enough from the embarrassment of writing it to allow it loose upon the world.

Ladies and Gentlefolk, I present to you:

Facing Fire: An undercover agent accepts a dangerous assignment to prove herself. When an unexpected threat occurs, she must face her fears in order to survive. 

When I left the Navy, I swore the next time I set foot on a ship, it would be to cruise to some exotic location. I got the exotic part, but there’d be no poolside margaritas. Three weeks until Christmas, I stood on the dock in the Port of Santos, Brazil, and stared up at the 40,000 deadweight ton freighter that would be my home for the next twenty-six days.

The ship carried a crew of 25. In the time we would travel from Brazil to Baltimore, I had to determine which of them had ties to a terrorist organization, and which of the 9,000 containers on board held ten tons of cocaine they would sell to finance their operations. I would share a bunk with the only other woman on board—the medical purser, a petite black woman who spent her free time cross-stitching flowers and Bible verses on tea towels. She was either the most unlikely suspect or the one with the best cover.

I met Captain Burke my first day aboard. He was the only person who knew I belonged with the organization with three initials and not the merchant marine union.

“You’re here against my will, Miss Leary. I can’t afford an untested officer.”

I pulled at my sleeve to better hide the burn scars on my arm. “With all due respect, sir—for my last four years in the Navy, I served as Navigator. I can do the job.”

“Fine. As Third Mate, you’ll have the 4-8 watch when you’re not in the control room.”

Night watch meant 4:00 am. Not a problem—I hadn’t slept all night since before the accident that landed me at a desk. I’d fought for this job to prove myself capable of active duty again. I owed it to the ones who hadn’t survived that day.  

A week passed, and I didn’t get any closer to identifying the terrorist or finding the drugs. Only one in ten of the huge metal boxes was searched in port, so the chances of its being picked at random were low. International maritime law ruled at sea. Domestic law enforcement had their hands tied until the ship docked. Not so for my group.

Halfway to Baltimore, I stood alone in the pitch-black early morning. Bundled against the cold, I shivered as the frigid salt spray hit my face. I gripped the handrail on the bridge and let my gaze roam over the white-tipped waves below. The stink of diesel didn’t cover the ocean’s saltwater scent. I turned at the sound of footsteps. The Chief Mate, Mark Simms, stopped beside me.

“Quiet night?” He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it.

“So far. I thought you weren’t on nights. Why the early stroll?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check, see if you needed help.”

I opened my mouth to ask why I’d need help when a noise sputtered through the silence. An outboard motor. Spotlights lit the gray water, illuminating a tiny craft zipping alongside the ship.

“Pirates!” Simms flipped his cigarette over the rail and took off. I thumbed my walkie-talkie and radioed the bridge. A klaxon alarm blasted. I imagined the crew stumbling like ants whose nest someone had kicked.

I jogged toward the stairs. Unarmed, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter any of the pirates. Halfway to safety, the ship went dark. Protocol— something we’d drilled on just the week before. The alarm died with a moan.

Footsteps pounded behind me. I spun to face a pack of men. One of them held a machete. These weren’t my fellow crew members. The lead guy had something strapped to his back, and the long, stick-like contraption he pointed at me wasn’t a rifle. I dived behind the nearest container. The night exploded in heat and orange light. The pirates were armed with flamethrowers.

With my back pressed against frost-covered metal, I shivered and let out a fog of breath. The cold reassured me I wasn’t on fire.   

The pop of gunfire sounded. Someone screamed. I eased out from behind my cover. Five feet away, a body lay stretched on the deck in a pool of dark blood, flamethrower still strapped to his back. Ahead, the pirates had taken cover behind a stack of metal drums. Bullets pinged past. At any moment, the bad guys might turn and run for the stairs and the control room. I reached a hand to grasp the flamethrower and slip it from the body.

Motion in the cargo stacks drew my eye. Captain Burke crouched beside one container. He tugged on the straps holding the box, then startled when he noticed me. He should have been locked down in the control room.

Burke crept over to whisper, “What are you doing?” He reached to his side and drew out a pistol.

I shouldered the flamethrower, and before the pirates could charge, I aimed a burst of flame at the metal straps holding the nearest stack of containers. The straps glowed white hot, then snapped as the boxes tilted. They tumbled onto the deck, blocking the pirate’s escape.

With no way out, the bad guys surrendered. Captain Burke appeared at my side. He studied the collapsed containers with a look of relief. Once we secured the pirates in the freighter’s brig, I used my satellite phone to call in my suspicions.

Homeland Security and the DEA met the ship in Baltimore and arrested Burke. His first duty should have been to the crew. Instead, he fled to check on the cargo. One stack of containers in particular, and his look of relief when that load wasn’t the one that fell, gave me the idea that the drugs would be in the one he’d checked. Turns out I was right, and he was glad to exchange his testimony for immunity. He’d only been in it for the money.

Me, I’m booked on another ship. This one sails from Galveston to Cozumel. Warm sand, cold margaritas, and not a flamethrower in sight.  

A stitch to the past Spools of thread – edited with the Waterlogue app

I belong to a Facebook group called We Pretend it’s Still the 1970s. The rules are simple – post personal photos from that decade and comment on them as though whatever is pictured has just happened. No past tense, no mentioning the future. It’s an exercise in time travel that is both humorous and poignant.

I have yet to post anything on the page, but I’m a loyal lurker. The images remind me that I lived through that era. Scrolling through Olan Mills family portraits, prom snapshots, and polaroid pics of smiling girls with that Farrah Fawcett shag haircut – I can indulge in happy memories uncluttered by the anxious reality of my teenage years.

The past seems so far away, as though the events of the 1970s happened to a different person, not me. In a way, that’s true. I’m far from that teenager now, but sometimes I come across things that bring the memories back so vividly that I can touch them and feel their weight.

We’ve been organizing our household, trying to clear some of the clutter and decide which items are worth keeping, donating, or selling. As I sorted through decades of sewing supplies, I set aside anything I wanted to keep. I’ll hang onto the thread – wooden spools either inherited or bought at antique stores and plastic spools sporting the small green Walmart price stickers from before the age of UPC tags. There are at least two dozen spools of turquoise blue thread that Mom bought on clearance. It was a really good deal.

Me and my mom circa 1970s – I’m wearing a dress I made

My mother taught me to sew. First by hand with needle and thread, and then on her classic black Singer sewing machine. A junior high school home economics class rounded out my seamstress education. Throughout the 1970s I sewed dresses, skirts, peasant tops and anything else that could be whipped up over a weekend.

I don’t sew much now, although I do still own a sewing machine. Recently I took up quilting and I’ll hand stitch together the pieces while I’m watching television. It’s a relaxing hobby and it gives me an excuse to hold onto the boxes of thread. Eventually I might even use the turquoise color that my mother found so lovely. I think she would have liked that I found some use for it.

Patterns from the 1970s

A short story

I submitted the story below to a contest recently. It didn’t place so I’m sharing it now. In this one the genre was open and I was assigned two prompts that had to be included: career advisor and mosaic. I went with fantasy/magical realism with a humorous touch. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, please don’t tell me.

Afterlife Positions Available

An hour and ten minutes after Ellen Tyler collapsed into the koi pond at the Dallas Arboretum, she woke in a sterile white room. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Was this a waiting room, in a clinic or hospital? She hoped they took Medicare. Puzzled, she patted her chest. Her clothes – the same cargo pants and matching shirt she had dressed in that morning – were dry and clean.

Right before splashing in the pond, she had felt nauseous and dizzy. She had leaned over, snapping a photo of an orange carp, until a sharp pain in her arm made her drop her iPhone into the water. When she reached to retrieve it, she blacked out. Afterwards, blue and red flashing lights, shouting, and her sister Trina’s shocked face filled some of the blank spots in her memory.

The door on the other side of the room swung open and a tall, wide man filled the doorway. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and had the pleasant, smiling expression of a television weatherman predicting sunny weather.

“Hello! Sorry about the wait. We weren’t sure when you would arrive.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Ellen. I’m Milton.”

Ellen squeezed the man’s hand. Then, not knowing what else to do, she followed him into his office. A dull metal desk filled one half of the room. Files, folders, and yellowed paper covered the desktop and overflowed onto the floor. Milton stooped and removed a cardboard box from his chair, then pulled over a wooden chair for Ellen. 

The white walls held two posters—one had a photo of a kitten clinging to a clothesline and the words “Hang in There” scrolled across the top. The other sign featured a montage of at least thirty images. A sheet-covered cartoon ghost held the center square, surrounded by several other pictures that looked like they belonged on the covers of horror novels. There was a gnarled being with knife-sharp nails, a thin man with solid black eyes, and a transparent, shrouded figure. As she stared at the poster, one of the images, a woman clothed in a long black dress, waved at Ellen.

“Where the hell am I?” she asked.

Milton’s face turned red. “You’re not in…” He coughed, “…that other place.” He shuffled a stack of papers and pulled out a glossy brochure. Handing it to Ellen, he said, “This is the Career Placement Agency for the Afterlife.”

“Wait.” Ellen fanned herself with the flyer. “I’m dead?” How could this be? She had celebrated her 71st birthday last month, but she had also received a perfect checkup from her doctor.

“You expired this afternoon.” Milton laced his fingers together. “Heart attack and drowning.”

How embarrassing. Ellen always assumed she would pass quietly in her sleep at age 101. What a ruckus she must have caused. Trina would never forgive her for insisting on tromping around in the summer heat instead of enjoying an afternoon matinee in an air-conditioned movie theater. Her sister loved the movies. Trina would have to find someone else to share her senior discount pass at Movie Plex.  

“I thought the afterlife was filled with harps and angels, not work.” Ellen held up the brochure. The cartoon ghost from the wall poster graced the cover. The title, written in Comic Sans font, read “Guiding Your Choice for Eternity—A Mosaic of Diverse Opportunities.”

“These experiences are designed to bring purpose to your life after death. I’m here to guide you in choosing which form your spirit will take.” Milton pointed behind him, to the collage of images. “Each afterlife represents at least one of our six core skills—comfort, entertainment, education, inspiration, caution, and remembrance. For example, you could choose Lady of the Lake or ectoplasm entity.”

“I drowned in the damn koi pond, Milton. I can’t imagine haunting knee-deep water for the rest of my time. And that ecto thing just looks like a blob of green goo.”

“You have leftover anger issues. Maybe a spot as a poltergeist?”

Ellen huffed. “Spend eternity chunking pots and pans in someone’s kitchen?”

“It’s not just pan chunking.” Milton sat up straight. “It’s entertainment.” When Ellen didn’t respond, he continued. “Do you like travel? I have an opening for a Vanishing Hitchhiker.”

“Can I give it a trial run?”

Milton clapped his hands. “Of course! I’ll see you back in a week.”

After the first three nights of waiting on a desolate country road for a car to pass by, Ellen wished that time would pass more quickly in the afterlife. The fourth night, a farmer in a rusted pickup with bad shocks gave her a ride. Grateful for the company, she forgot to vanish, and rode with him into town. She had to walk the six miles back to her post.

When the week was up, she met with Milton again. Her past wasn’t dark enough to qualify her as a revenant. She wasn’t deeply melancholic, so wraith would not be a good fit. She would end up a ghost orb, floating over a swamp and being mistaken for a ball of gas.

“What else is there?” Ellen pointed to the cartoon ghost in the collage. “How about that one, but without the sheet?”

Milton sighed. “I hoped to place you in an entertainment or inspiration position. Most of the other careers require a commitment to a static location.”

“That’s fine. And I know a perfect place.”

Ellen floated along at Movie Plex, creating cold spots in the ladies’ restroom and leaving the scent of popcorn in newly cleaned theaters. Her sister bought a ticket the second week, for the new Tom Cruise flick. Ellen settled in the empty seat next to her and whispered, “Hello.” When Trina turned her head to peer at the vacant spot, Ellen waited until the air conditioning kicked on with a burst of cold, then brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s face.  

“Well. Hello,” Trina said, and smiled. 

THE END

This week I continue with my list of Texas independent bookstores and a story at the end. Wild Detectives Bookstore in Oak Cliff, Texas

Last Friday my friend Cathy and I continued our tour of local bookstores. In Texas, “local” can mean anything within a three hour drive, but that day we only had to venture to Oak Cliff, about a thirty minute drive from home. This neighborhood, the Bishop Arts District, is filled with quirky boutiques, cozy restaurants, coffee shops, and of course – bookstores.

Poets Bookshop in the Bishop Arts District

Lucky for us the streets were mostly shaded, proving relief from the hot Texas sunshine. We trekked from Wild Detectives to Poets Bookshop and then on to Blush. This last store features romance titles and my companions wondered if I, a horror writer and reader, would find anything to tempt me. I did see some witchy stories, but they were all books I already owned.

Blush Bookstore, Bishop Arts District

After lunch we abandoned the sidewalks for Cathy’s Subaru, and drove to our last two destinations. We stopped first at Whose Books, where I made up for the lack of romance titles by discovering three new horror books.

Whose Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

Our last stop was at Lucky Dog Books, a used bookstore. We all left there with our arms filled with new to us titles.

Lucky Dog Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

There is no more perfect way to spend the day than in the fellowship of other book lovers.

Interior of Lucky Dog Books

This week I’m sharing a flash fiction piece I wrote for one of the NYC Midnight Contests. I think the genre might have been historical fiction and the object that had to be included was a rocking chair.

Love Makes Lighter Burdens

Mattie Ferguson would forever mourn the things she had left behind. No porcelain plates, no beads nor bells—she traded these for coffee and bacon, for shovel and scythe.

“Oregon! A new start, Mattie.” Her husband, Jonas, swept her up in sturdy arms and swung her round. Dizzy, her old life spun past.

Released, she sat in her beloved rocking chair and gripped the smooth oak. Built by her father, she imagined his worn hands as he sanded the wood, pictured her mother seated by a fire as the rocker soothed a fretful baby.

“We’ll find room,” Jonas promised.

They toted the rocker through flood-swollen rivers, and grave-marked desert. They trod beside their struggling oxen, past piles of treasures, discarded in hopes of a load lightened enough to last the journey.

In Idaho, they lost an ox. With meager possessions carved down to essentials, Jonas could not meet her gaze.

“No!” Mattie spread her fingers across her rounded belly. “I’ll carry it.”

Jonas smiled and lifted the chair. He’d bear it for her—a burden made light by love. The last mile slipped past. The trek became a story for their children and their children’s children.

A century later, a young couple pushed through a beaded curtain to wander a dusty shop. Janis Joplin wailed from the radio as smoky incense wafted through the air. The woman stopped beside an antique rocker.

“We need this,” she told her lover. “It’s boss.” 

“It won’t fit in our car.”

She pouted.

“Okay, our pad’s close. I’ll carry it.” He lifted the chair, surprised at how light the load was.

The End – Thank you for reading!

At the Fabled Bookshop in Waco, Texas

Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.

We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.

https://fabledbookshop.com/

Inside Fabled Bookshop

We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.

Birdhouse Books, Austin

There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.

https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/

Birdhouse Books – the welcome bear

The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.

Inside Black’s BBQ, Lockhart

While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.

https://www.colossusbooks.com/

The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.

We heeded the warning and did not exit through this door.

Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)

https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks

The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.

Don’t be scared, he doesn’t bite. Much. Did they mean to spell out “Hello?” Maybe they ran out of balloons. Don’t be suspicious. I picked up some books while waiting for the movie to start.

Yes, even the horror store has a children’s section. Gotta start them young.

If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.

I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.

A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin

The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.

“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.

“Yep. Enjoy the party.”

“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.

My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”

“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”

“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”

“I’ll dust off my black suit.”

“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”

“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”

“Hollister requested you.”

Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.

As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.

I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”

“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”

I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.

Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.

Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.

“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.

“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.

“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”

“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”

I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.

Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.

“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.

“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.

Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.

In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.

“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.

“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.

“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”

Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.

Searching for safe places Shelves at Recycled Books Denton – photo by the author

If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my childhood self that one day I would have enough disposable income to purchase any book I desired. When I was in elementary school, I loved thumbing through the book fair flyers, circling the books I couldn’t live without. And the day the orders arrived I couldn’t wait to bring them home.

I had a library card, but those books were only visitors to my shelves. The loaned books I had to handle with care so I could return them in the same state as they were when borrowed. I couldn’t read them again and again, until the spines cracked and pages fell from the bindings.

Now I love collecting books. Recently I went with my friend Cathy to Denton, a nearby city with three lovely bookstores on the town square. All within walking distance of each other, providing you stop by your car and unload the heavy purchases before venturing to the next stop. First on our agenda was Recycled Books – a three story treasure house of used books.

Recycled Books Records CD’s in Denton, Texas – photo by the author The horror section at Recycled Books – photo by the author

Our second stop was at Denton’s newest bookstore – The Plot Twist. This shop is a cozy stop just off the square. They are a combination book store and bar, so you can unwind with a glass of wine while you browse the books. The Plot Twist is a romance bookstore so I was skeptical about whether I, a horror writer and reader, would find something. But I am also a fan of anything paranormal or witchy so I left with three books. I don’t think I’ve ever left any bookstore without buying a book or two or three or four.

The Plot Twist in Denton, Texas – photo by the author

Around the corner we found Patchouli Joe’s Books and Indulgences. Not only did I find a book or two, but because I signed up for their free newsletter during my birthday month, I received a free bar of their scented soap. (Part of the indulgences for sale in the shop.) I would have subscribed without the soap, but it was a nice reward.

Patchouli Joe’s bookstore in Denton, Texas – photo by the author Books at Patchouli Joe’s – photo by the author

No matter the size of the store, I can spend hours searching for the perfect books. It’s not so much the hunt as it is the desire to linger in the safe space. Libraries and book stores serve as doors to different worlds. There, I can travel safely no matter what horrors the outside world contains. I can exchange battling dragons, evading zombies, and conspiring with witches for worrying over whether National Parks, Social Security, and basic human decency will continue to exist.

The books I purchased – photo by the author

I own what some might describe as a book hoard but I have named the ever-growing piles of unread tomes “my library.” Never mind that said library has spilled out of my office, into the living room, onto the floor of my bedroom, and occasionally can be found on the dining room table. The simple solution would be to stop buying books until I’ve read them all, but there is something so comforting about the stacks. The world outside is dangerous, but inside my home I have a fortress of books.

A cozy read – photo by the author

Links:

Recycled Books

The Plot Twist

Patchouli Joe’s