Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Accent

by

Brown floorboards
Photo by boris misevic on Unsplash

Woohoo! We’ve reached blog post 100! To celebrate here’s a little story, which will throw some light on some of the trials an author has to go through to get these things ready on time. It’s not all MacBooks and coffee shops, you know.

Enjoy!

There was no one else in the house, of that I had no doubt.

The voice spoke again. “Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

What else could it be, other than a ghost? If it had been a real murderer, she’d surely have made good on her threat to come kill me.

I had rented the little cottage for the summer, in order to finish my book. Instead, I spent the days dreading the nights when, as soon as the sun had dwindled outside, I’d hear the floorboards above my head and the spiteful ghost – the dead wife of the cottage’s owner – call out her warning. The spot over my head, through the plaster ceiling: I could feel her standing there.

It was a ridiculous situation, made worse by the fact that I wrote horror and ghostly stories: I should be delighted to make the acquaintance of a ghost.

“Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

***

“One, two, three, …”

She had never counted before.

Footsteps moved to the bedroom door, down the short hallway. To the stairs.

There was no one in the house, I kept telling myself that. I was overwrought by lack of sleep, imagining footsteps slapping down on the steps, getting closer and closer, now just outside the living room.

There was no one else in the house, I told myself again.

Which meant that she must be coming for me.

Cheers! See you next week for post 101!

Corruption

by

A piece of sacking
Photo by Alona Po on Unsplash

I don’t even remember writing this one, that’s the great thing about writing every day (it probably helps that I write them first thing in the morning, when I’m not always properly awake—)

Yes, well, that certainly helps explain things!

BUTANYWAYSHUTYOURFACE! and I hope you enjoy it!

The last delivery of the day, and his favourite. But when he dropped the bag of corn outside the chicken coop and knocked on the door for Mrs Byrne, she had no kisses or tender words for him. She was in a right state.

The thing was, he liked their little arrangement, how they went back to their families afterwards. She hadn’t said that with her husband dead, she’d expect him to marry her. But you couldn’t run a farm without a man. Even the chickens would get uppity, if there was no man about.

And here he was, carrying the man of the house over his shoulder to his cart.

He had enough sacking to cover it, and he ki-yahed the horses until he got to the river. He let them graze along the banks. The back of the cemetery lay through the trees on the other side. He was lucky. There was nobody else there, though it was a popular spot on nice evenings like this. He wouldn’t even need to think up an excuse to tell his wife. She knew he came back late on Fridays. He was just missing out on Mrs Byrne’s affections. Oh well, nothing came for free.

He flipped back an edge of sacking. Mr Byrne’s face was bruised and blood caked his lips. She’d really given it to him this time. Poor bugger, he’d never known how to handle his wife. Not the way she liked.

He hefted the body over his shoulder. Once he had dropped it over the wall into the cemetery, it would no longer be his problem, the priest would have to take care of it. He’d hide it under the coffin next time someone was being buried, same as usual. There was sometimes such a stink with so many bodies in one hole!

He decided to stop off at Mrs Byrne’s place on the way home. She might need some comforting. He certainly did. And he could stay as long as he liked, now that there was no chance of her husband coming in and finding them.

Her lights were off. That was no good. She should keep up the pretence that everything was normal until her husband was found. That was the way things were done. He tripped over Mr Byrne’s boots in the dark hallway.

“Annette?” he called. She was crying in the bedroom, snuffling. He made his way towards the sound. There she was, wrapped up in her blanket in the dark. “All taken care of,” he said.

The priest threw back the covers, and whanged his head with a shovel.

He woke when his body dropped into the narrow hole, landing on something soft: Mr Byrne. He turned and opened his mouth to ask for help. The priest threw a handful of dirt into it, choking him. Annette started shovelling dirt while the priest put his arm around her. It looked like he knew how to handle her.

Changed

by

Hi all, here’s a little bit of late-night paranoid insomniac fiction for you. Please wipe your shoes before entering my head.

Enjoy!

He couldn’t sleep with the light on in the flat. Unfortunately, the flat was across the road, and the tenants had moved out several weeks ago. Most likely they had simply forgotten to turn the light off in the bedroom. But what if they had done it on purpose?

What if there was someone in the flat? What if – and this might sound paranoid – but what if they hadn’t moved out at all? Perhaps they had got some kind of opaque adhesive sheets printed with an image of an empty flat, and stuck them on the windows, because they were sick of him staring at them? Perhaps a dark adhesive sheet for during the day, and a bright one for during the night. What if they had scratched off little eye-holes in the sheets, so they could watch him?

He waited at the window to see when they would swap the two sheets, but he never caught them. Perhaps they were blinds. One quick pull to swap day for night. Blink and you’d miss it. As he always did…

They must be watching very closely indeed, if they were able to anticipate his blinks. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he took a step away from his window, refusing to blink until he was out of sight.

Someone knocked at the door. When he looked through the spy-hole the man on the other side, his face distorted by the lens, looked like the neighbour who had moved out. Or one of the removal men: he definitely looked familiar. He waited for the man to go away, but of course he had a key. There were other men with him. These were the removal men.

It was time to go.

Across

by

A dark shelf full of identical dolls
Photo by takahiro taguchi on Unsplash

Hi all, here’s another little fiction gem, which I’m going to have trouble categorising. Write in with your suggestions (or, naturally, your complaints!) if you have any. Let’s go with humour. Enjoy!

Betty was nice, but it was Cathy he married. She knew what was best for him and insisted she could take better care of him. Betty moved in across the road, so they were neighbours anyway.

They all visited each other regularly. Sometimes he’d visit Betty, or Betty would visit Cathy, or Cathy would visit him, and so on. They had plenty of time for visits. One Sunday, the doorbell rang while he was with Betty. Unless he was with Cathy? There were two young men outside, each with identical smiles on their faces that reminded him of someone. “Hello, Father,” they said. His sons, of course. That’s why they looked familiar. And they were naked, and small, and bald. Possibly they had only this minute been born.

He was delighted, of course, but it did mean he was kept busy for a while. They didn’t look like Betty or Cathy, so he kept them secret. He named one Kentucky and one Tennessee, and paid a woman from town to come and be their wet nurse.

“Wouldn’t you like two strapping sons?” He’d ask Cathy, and she’d say she would, but she already had him, and he was all the cuteness she could handle.

“How about it, two fine young lads?” he’d say to Betty, and she’d squeal and tell him he was a very naughty man.

So he raised them both himself. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Cathy to look after Betty’s children, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask Betty to look after Cathy’s children. Once they were properly grown up, they looked just like him. One visited Cathy and one visited Betty, and he was free to move in with the woman from town who had been their wet nurse.

Second

by

A pigeon standing to attention
Photo by Fuad Obasesan on Unsplash

Hi all, here’s a little story about someone who thinks they’re it. Don’t worry, they’ll get a chance to learn something. Enjoy!

Pop.

Another one bagged. I lay my feet on the tiger-skin upholstered foot rest and sip at my gin and tonic. I love summer.

I wait for the starlings to settle, then strain my ears for the sounds of the servants rustling through the trees.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t enjoy shooting the servants. But it’s a tradition. Survival of the fittest, and all that. That’s an expression I rather like.

Of course, you have to be a sport about it. That’s why I’m upset to find my eyesight getting dark, and the gun slipping from my fingers. Poison in the gin, of course. Hardly fair. But underlines my point, I think? Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile, and all that.

Who’s shooting at me? How can a butler be such a bloody good shot? I dive further back into the trees, running for my life.

It’s not fair!

Pockets

by

Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

Hi all,

it’s grey and cold outside (although only about -9 degrees at the moment so not bad for January). I fancy a cup of coffee. You coming? Good, let’s go in here. I like this place, there are always interesting people around.

Let’s ask the waiter what we’ve missed.

“Could I get a spoon, please?”
The customer looked respectable in a suit, with soft, fuzzy hair. An economics professor perhaps, or the owner of his own small business. But I’d already brought him two spoons. On top of the one that had been on the table already, when he sat down.
I brought a spoon, but I made a big thing of it. Everyone in the café watched surreptitiously to see what would happen.
He stirred his coffee with it, put it down on the table, and looked out the window onto Bridge Street. Nothing happened. Then a hand reached out of the bag he’d brought with him and sneaked the spoon away. He was stealing the spoons! Or at least aiding and abetting their theft.
“Can I have another cup of coffee?” He asked when I went to clear away the cup. “And a spoon?”
The cheek! “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any more spoons.” Just then my colleague came past with a coffee and Bircher muesli for table eight.
“That man is getting a spoon!” he said.
“That’s the last one.”
“Ah? Well… maybe a fork,” he said after looking into his open bag.
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have forks either. There is another café just down the road. Or a Starbucks in the other direction.”
“I see.” He threw some money on the table, hoisted his bag – still open, but I couldn’t see what was inside – and left.
I’m glad he didn’t make a scene. I hate it when they do that.
It was only after he’d gone that I noticed the little pile of silver coins under where the bag had been. Disgusting!