#FridayFlash - The Woman On The Bed

A cough rocketed through Sarah's chest. Her throat burned, and her body trembled with intense cold. Having strep throat as an adult was much worse than getting it as a kid. This was the last thing Sarah needed. She'd come to her parent’s old farmhouse to escape the realities of life, and now she was confined in her room.

And not even her room, but the guest room. Her old room had been taken over by her mother a long time ago.

Another hacking cough dredged its way through her body. Sarah clutched her chest and covered her mouth, half-expecting to see part of a lung on her hand.

Exhausted, Sarah fell back against the pillows. She'd barely slept in two days. Her body felt like it was coming apart.

The alarm on her phone went off; time for more medicine. She shoved the antibiotic in her mouth along with two Tylenol and then sucked down the cold water. It was the only relief for her suffering throat.

She shifted trying to find a position that wouldn't make her cough more. She stared at the ceiling fan and willed herself to sleep. Rest would do wonders for her misery. Round and round the fan went, wobbling on its old base. Sarah's eyes drifted shut, and her mind slowed as numbness began to creep up her limbs.

The bed sagged, and she could feel the weight of another person next to her.

"Mom," she slurred. "I was just dozing off."

Her mother said nothing. Cool hands brushed over her face. Her tense arms slipped from her chest to the bed. A sound rustled through the air, like the gentle blowing of a summer wind. Sarah shivered and pulled the blanket closer to her chin.

"Remember when I was a kid and got sick? You used to tell me nursery rhymes."

Another cool shift in the air, but no sound of her mother's soothing voice.

Sarah pried her eyes open. Her vision blurred and then cleared. A woman sat on the side of the bed, but she was not Sarah's mother. This woman was smaller, gray-haired, and wrinkled. Her dress was old-fashioned and covered with an apron. Sarah could see the wall clock through the woman's shimmering, transparent torso. The woman smiled.

Fear shot through her. Sarah forgot to breathe until a rattling cough forced its way out of her chest. Body heaving, Sarah covered her face. Tears squeezed from closed eyes.

It's not real. It's not real.

She opened one eye and peered through her trembling fingers. The woman was gone.

#FridayFlash - The Gathering

Stuck somewhere between deep sleep and grogginess, Sarah could feel the atmosphere in the room changing. The air thickened until it felt heavy. She shivered beneath the blanket. Every breath she drew was strained and loud. Silence popped in her ears.

The sense of unease prodded her subconscious, forcing her to wake up. Sarah didn’t want to. She knew what the gathering tension meant. She put her hand over her eyes, determined to ignore the pressure.

The dark room wouldn’t be ignored. An invisible presence rushed over Sarah, its energy skimming across the blankets and wrapping itself around her head. Its weight pressed her down, and she couldn’t move. The thing she could never name hovered, unintelligible words ringing in Sarah’s ears.

Then she was released. Sarah sat up and screamed. She fumbled for the light switch, her heart hammering and her stomach turning with nausea. Light flooded the room, and she searched for the source of the intrusion.

There was nothing. Her mother’s quilt rack, laden with colorful quilts that were never used, sat in one corner, a rocking chair in another. An antique school desk served as a bedside table. A glass lamp sat on a top, along with the book Sarah had discarded hours ago.

“What’s wrong?” Her father’s voice called from across the room. Her parents lived in the country, surrounded by farms and kind neighbors. An intruder was the last thing her dad would be worried about. He was used to Sarah’s ‘episodes,’ as he called them. They happened every time she visited.

“Something moved across me,” she answered. Her voice sounded ominous in the quiet guest room.

“Probably the cat,” her mother answered. “You know he roams around all night.”

Sarah glanced at the bedroom door. It was open an inch, nowhere near big enough for her parent’s eighteen-pound black and white cat to squeeze through.

“Little Bit?” Sarah called. “Come here, kitty, kitty. Come snuggle with me.”

No answer. The cat wasn’t in the hall. The only thing Little Bit liked to do more than eat was talk. He would have chattered back.

“He’s probably downstairs,” her dad said. “You scared him. Go back to sleep.”

Sarah kept her mouth shut. The cat wasn’t downstairs. He would have been lounging in the hallway, complaining about Sarah making so much noise.

She pulled the blanket up to her nose. The room was still, benign. That meant nothing. Whatever visited her came and went as it pleased.

Sarah had sensed the presence of spirits in the old farmhouse since she was a child. It was nothing to feel the bed sag as though someone were sitting on it only to find there was no one. During a miserable bout with the flu, a woman wearing an old-fashioned gray dress had sat with Sarah. She didn’t speak, but her company was calming. Sarah’s mother insisted the woman had been a fever-induced dream.

But this was different. Whatever this energy was wanted Sarah’s attention. It grew bolder with each visit, gathering more energy and leaving the room a suffocating tomb.

Tonight was the first time it had touched Sarah. She knew it wouldn’t be the last.

**based on true experiences**

Comments welcome!

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Friday Flash Favorites!

I wasn't able to post any of my own Friday Flash today, but I've read some really good ones this morning and wanted to share them with you.

I'll update the post later in the day as I read more. Happy reading!


Kate's Wings by @FARFetched58

Unsweetened Murder Part 3 by David Robinson @DW96

Displacement Anxiety by Jeffrey Hollar @Klingorengi

The Journey by Janelle R. Jensen @Janelle_Jensen

Second Chance by Tania Dakka @TaniaDakka

A Dutiful Gardener by LM Stull @LMStull

Immaculata Dentata by @dijeratic

Sinful Flash Fiction: Lust by Rebecca Clare Smith @jocastalizzbeth

Xeric (a poem) by Anne Michaud @annecmichaud

Caldera Rats by Aidan Fritz @Xeroverse

Jane The Ripper

Note: Yesterday's post was so popular I had to play with the idea. This was just an option I came up with. Hope you enjoyed, and happy Friday!

Genre: Mystery/Historical Fiction

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Nari pushed open the trap door and climbed the last steps into the attic. Afternoon light filtered through one of the old windows, illuminating the inches of dust. The smell of mothballs assaulted her.

Ten years had passed since she’d last been in her grandmother’s attic. Nari had won a game of hide and seek with her cousins by sneaking into the forbidden area and accidently locking herself in. She’d been too scared of her grandmother’s wrath to ever return.

“How in the hell did I not fall through the floor?”

The attic had never been finished, with several floorboards missing and insulation exposed. Nari wiped her forehead. The cool fall air outside did little to cool the unsealed room.

She crept around the junk, hopping over the dirty insulation. The old chifferobe should be in the corner, unless one of her greedy cousins had already pilfered it. Nana James had only been buried a few days, and the twins were eager to snag everything they could before anyone could sort through Nana’s effects.

The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, and she didn’t see any footprints. Hers would be the first.

“Mom’s just going to have to deal with it. I’m not looking for shit to sell,” Nari muttered. She’d spent the morning reassuring herself she wasn’t like the boys—all she wanted was to find the thing that had haunted her since she was fifteen.

Still, she felt like a thief. But she wasn’t stopping. Nari had waited long enough.

A set of old, mahogany French doors lie in the middle of the room. From their faded appearance and the tarnished brass fixtures, Nari guessed they were original to the old farmhouse. She stepped around them. A black spider scuttled out from underneath the doors and scrambled to decayed cardboard box.

Nari shivered. God only knew how many of those little bastards were hanging out up here.

The dark corner was blocked by boxes and copious amounts of junk. Nari was amazed at some of the things her grandparents had kept: faucet fixtures, a worn out set of fireplace tools that still stunk of ashes, half of a Lionel train set. Grampy James had even stashed a rusted Radio Flyer wagon up here.

She began clearing a path. Within minutes her shirt was damp with sweat and her hair hung limp. The humidity was almost unbearable.

But she could see her quarry.

The chifferobe had been in Nari’s family for generations. Grampy had said it had made the journey from England with her great-grandfather. By the looks of the large piece, she could believe it. Made of solid oak, the chifferobe’s finish was faded. The bottom had several scuffs, and the wardrobe door didn’t latch.

This was the temptation that had caught her eye as a teenager. What sort of treasures could have been hiding in there?

Now she knew there were no treasures, just a frightening mystery. Or the ramblings of an old man.

Nari pulled open the sagging door, praying no creatures would emerge. The box of letters remained where she’d left them, the lid still on.

She knelt down and pushed it aside. Dust swirled in her face. Her eyes watered and she pressed her nose against her forearm. Last thing she needed was to sneeze all over the letters. They were yellowed with age and brittle to the touch. A sneeze would probably destroy them.

The thing she sought was all the way at the bottom, right where she’d stashed it. The leather journal had originally been at the top of the pile, but Nari had feared the twins would find it. They didn’t deserve to know the family secret.

“It’s probably bullshit.” She gently moved the letters aside and felt around for the journal. “Carson James was ninety when he died. His mind was probably mush.”

But she had to read more. The journal’s first entry had rattled in her brain for ten years. She needed to know why Carson had believed such a heinous thing.

Nari felt the soft leather beneath her fingers. She pulled the journal out and carefully opened it. Carson James had died in 1956; the journal was over fifty years old and the binding had torn.

She didn’t bother to read the first entry again. Nari looked only at the last sentence, the one she’d never forgotten.

My mother was Jack the Ripper.

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Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet

Post Three - Denial

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content

Jaymee Nichols had some attitude, Nick Samuels thought as he watched the petite woman stand defiantly against his Impala, arms crossed and lower lip jutting out.

His mother had always warned him a pouty lower lip made a great place for a bird’s toilet. Somehow he didn’t think Jaymee would appreciate that nugget of wisdom.

“The prophet?” She said. “That’s biblical.” A sour expression twisted her pretty face and darkness clouded her eyes. “What’s the good book got to do with this fucking mess?”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” Nick said.

She flushed. “Only when I’m nervous.”

“Nothing to be nervous about. I know you’ve had a terrible experience and just want to get away from the scene.”

“Can’t go too far.” She pointed to the east. “My trailer’s just over there.”

Jaymee’s trailer looked more like the old too shed his father had torn down when the roof caved in. Dingy white on top and ugly, disco-gold on the bottom, the trailer looked like it had been sitting in the lot since the seventies. Two cracked concrete steps led to the front door, and wilted petunias clung to life in their dilapidated wooden box beneath a small window. Although the grass sported patched of brown, her lot appeared tidy. Jaymee’s place was four-star quality compared to most of her neighbors.

Nick wanted to ask her what a girl like her was doing in a place like this. He’d been an agent for ten years. Experience and instinct told him Jaymee was no working girl, no druggie or petty criminal. She was a decent person stuck in a bad situation—one that had gotten much worse today.

“Who’s the prophet?” She pushed her dark blonde hair out of her face. Jaymee couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Her skin still had the fresh glow of youth. The fine lines and wrinkles hadn’t yet surfaced.

“A serial killer we’ve been tracking the last few months,” Nick answered. “He started in downtown Minneapolis. Killed a prostitute and left her in a dumpster. Same M.O as the scumbag who killed your friend. Same signature.”

“What’s the difference?”

“M.O. is how they do it. A perp will change it if necessary. A signature is part of their ritual. The killer is driven by an inner need to complete the task. He can’t enjoy the experience if he doesn’t.”

“So what’s this douchebag’s signature?”

“He’s got two. One’s the reason for the nickname. You can think the Star-Tribune for that. He leaves a proverb with every body.”

“I suppose he’s doing God’s work,” Jaymee snapped. “Typical upstanding churchgoer.”

Nick wondered what made her detest the church, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Maybe,” Nick conceded. “He’s organized, methodic. Leaves very little trace evidence.”

“What’s the second signature?”

The mark of sick individual, Nick thought. “That’s confidential. It’s one detail we’re keeping out of the press, but I’m told it’s visible at this crime scene.”

Jaymee winced at the words and sagged back against the Impala. Her small shoulders slumped, her mask of bravado slipped. “I always knew Crystal was headed for disaster.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nick said. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She was wild. Drank too much, smoked too much. And I’m not talking about cigarettes. She was also a good friend and a shoulder to cry on.” She pursed her lips as she clung to her emotions.

“You said she wasn’t a hooker. Where did she get her clients from? The strip club?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she ever go down to the Cities to earn some extra cash?”

“I have no idea,” Jaymee said. “There were times she’d be gone a few days, and I’d look after Mutt, her dog. She never said where she was going, and I never asked. Guess I didn’t want to know.”

“Interesting,” Nick said.

Jaymee’s blue eyes flashed to his. “Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out why our serial killer traveled four hours north of his hunting grounds. I’ve got four other victims in Hennepin County. Every one met the same fate as Crystal. Every one was a known prostitute.”

“Crystal wasn’t hooking.” Jaymee’s voice jumped half an octave. “She had a specific clientele of guys she trusted. That’s it.”

Nick knew he had to tread carefully. He needed Jaymee to trust him. “I’m just trying to figure out what brought him here. You said yourself she left for days at a time and you had no idea what she was doing.”

He waited a few seconds to let the words sink in. “Is it impossible she went down to the city for work?”

“If by work you mean walking the streets, then yes, it’s Goddamned impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because she wasn’t stupid,” Jaymee gritted out. “She knew how to work smart.”

“She also had a drug habit,” Nick said softly. “Coke or meth?”

Jaymee flinched. “Meth. Coke was too expensive.”

“Meth’s not cheap either. It also messes with your head, makes you lose control and make bad decisions.”

Jaymee looked down at the ground, digging the toe of her canvas sneakers into the dirt. His words made sense, Nick thought. She just didn’t want to accept them.

“No,” she finally said. “Not Crystal.”

Her jaw was set, her gaze defiant. She’d made up her mind.

“All right,” Nick said. “Can you think of any time she was afraid? Worried she might have a stalker? A guy at the club who got too handsy?”

Jaymee shook her head. “No. She never complained. Life was all good and all about the next high.”

Nick couldn’t understand why Jaymee didn’t believe Crystal would hook in the Cities. The girl had a serious drug habit and little fear. The combination didn’t make a cautious person.

Adams waddled toward them, sweating through his polyester shirt. His round belly suffered from serious dunlap disease, hanging so low over his belt Nick wondered how he could see to fasten it.

“Samuels,” Adams huffed. “Something you need to see.”

“I need to go home,” Jaymee said. “Please.”

“Go,” Nick said. “But expect to hear from me soon.”

She waved him off, moving across the lots with her arms clenched tightly around her waist and her shoulders hunched.

With a sigh, Nick headed for Crystal’s trailer. What fresh hell awaited him today?

The Prophet Post 1

The Prophet Post 2

Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet

Continuation of last week's post, now titled The Prophet. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for the feedback:)

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content

Flies swarmed in her face. Attracted to the rotting horror in the trailer, the annoying insects had come in droves. Cops and stone-faced forensics people surfed through the trash, picking apart the garbage like prospectors digging for gold. Jaymee watched as a steady stream of techs wearing contraptions resembling full body condoms carried evidence out of the trailer into an official looking white van.

“When was the last time you saw the victim?”

Jaymee’s eyes flickered to the detective called Adams. Short and pudgy, he appeared to be on the other side of forty and sliding full speed down the hill. Wrinkles lined his eyes, and sweat shined on his forehead. He dabbed his face with a dingy hanky and waited for her response.

“Few days ago. After work.”

“And what did the victim do for a living?”

“Her name was Crystal,” Jaymee snapped. “She stripped at local shit-hole in Grand Rapids.”

The detective raised a grayed eyebrow. “Her income limited to stripping? No side jobs?”

“She did what she had to do.”

“Don’t we all.”

Jaymee clamped her lips shut. Typical old school cop. Didn’t give a fuck about the people living below the poverty line unless he could do something to bust their chops. “Can I go now?”

“You’re a witness.”

“I didn’t see a damned thing! She was dead when I got here!”

Dead for a while, by the looks of it. If Jaymee lived to be a withered old lady, she would never forget the sight of Crystal’s body. Wrists and ankles tied down, dried blood pooled around her lower region, her private area slashed open, dark bruises everywhere. Slashes on her breasts and arms. The white sheets had been stained red—Crystal had bled out from the gaping wound in her neck.

Jaymee had heard a cop say her injuries were sustained pre-mortem. Which meant Crystal had suffered unimaginable pain. Her eyes were wide open in death—had she been conscious until the knife slit her throat?

“You discovered the body,” Adams said.

“I’ve told you everything.”

He ignored her. “Crystal have any enemies? She do her extracurricular work on her own or did she have an employer?”

“She didn’t have a fucking pimp.” Jaymee’d had enough of Adam’s prejudice. “Crystal wasn’t a streetwalker. Sometimes she did the guys favors for extra cash—that’s it.”

“Nothing unusual in the past week or so?”

“No.”

“Adams!” A deep voice called from the left. Yet another car had arrived on scene, this one a shiny, black Impala. A man stepped out, stylish black sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sun. His jeans hung loosely around his hips, and the dark, green shirt he wore complimented his tanned skin.

Jaymee watched his approach. He didn’t look like a cop. Reporter? No press badge, just a Blackberry and a bag slung over his shoulder. He had an air of cool confidence that set her on edge.

“Samuels,” the detective sounded less than pleased at the other man’s arrival. “Not sure why you’re here.”

“Your boss just called me,” the newcomer said. He towered over Adams by several inches.

Adams scowled. “What for?”

Jaymee rolled her eyes at the pissing contest. Why didn’t men just greet one another by whipping out their dicks and measuring? Get the ego bullshit over with.

“Same M.O.”

“Not exactly. Couple of new things.”

“Same signature.”

Adam's face turned puce. “Says who? I haven’t heard a damned thing about it.”

“Check with your boss. He’s inside while you’re conducting interviews.”

Jaymee raised her hand. “Can I go now? I have nothing else to say.”

Tall, dark, and annoying turned to smile down at her. “Agent Nick Samuels, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

The big boys. No wonder Adams was ticked. Cops hated having their turf invaded.

“Jaymee Morris. Waitress at The Wall-eyed Bar, greasiest food in Grand Rapids.”

“And the person who discovered the body,” Samuels pointed out.

“That, too.” She cut Samuels off before he could speak again. “I’ve already told your buddy everything.”

“Of course, but I’d like to ask you some different questions. We have reason to believe your friend’s murder is related to a string of others near the Twin Cities.”

“You know how far we are from the Cities?” Jayme scoffed. “Don’t murders tend to stick to a favorite place?”

Samuels pushed his sunglasses onto his head. Green eyes stared intently down at her. “Serial killers can be unpredictable. There are stressors that can make them alter their procedures.”

Jaymee felt dizzy. “You think this is a serial killer?”

“There’s no evidence of that yet,” Adams sputtered. “None that I’ve seen, anyway.”

Samuel’s eyes didn’t leave Jaymee’s. “You haven’t seen the proverb yet.”

“Proverb?” Jaymee asked.

“Ms. Morris,” Samuels said, “Have you heard of The Prophet?”

Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet

This is my first attempt at Friday Flash. It's an idea that's been churning in my head as I finish my suspense novel, and I wanted to share it with others. Hope you enjoy it!

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
Adult Content

“I don’t understand.” Jaymee slapped the pink paper onto the manager’s desk.

Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glared up at her. “What’s not to understand? You’re a month late with the lot rent. Now you got two weeks to come up with the money or get out.”

“But my boyfriend paid you,” Jaymee argued. “I gave him the money three days ago.”

Mr. Shaw crushed his Marlboro Light into an overflowing ashtray. “I didn’t get it.”

Jaymee frantically dug into her bag. “I can post-date a check.”

Shaw laughed showing his yellowed teeth. “Right. Then it’ll bounce. Cash or money-order only.”

She didn’t have it. Jaymee was barely able to put food on the table let alone replace rent money. Furious, she grabbed the pink slip and stormed out of the manager’s office.

That bastard. Wade had promised he’d pay the lot rent. What had he done with the cash she’d given him? Spent it on hookers? More drugs? Probably both.

She trudged down the winding dirty path grimacing as her worn heels began to fill with sand. Fawn Lake Court was much less beautiful than it sounded. Forty or more dilapidated mobile trailers lined the park. Children played in the empty lots and neighborhood dogs roamed free along with raccoons and other night bandits.

Jaymee’s trailer was at the south end of the park. One of the “newer” models, the paint was only moderately chipped and the tiny back deck was only partially rotted.

Her life was never going to change. The child of a factory worker and born-again Christian, a pregnancy at sixteen had killed Jaymee’s dreams of becoming a lawyer, and her righteous parents had thrown Jaymee out when they heard of her condition.

“Good Christian girls don’t get themselves in trouble,” her mother shouted. “How could you do this to us?”

Her father had clutched his Bible to his heart. “You’ve shamed this family, girl. There’s no place in God’s house for whores.”

Jaymee wondered what her father would think if he knew his own brother had fathered her child in the backroom of his dingy laundromat, holding Jaymee down while she fought in vain against his considerable weight.

Good ole’ Christian Joe would probably still find a way to blame her.

The hot August sun bore down on her soaking the roots of her shoulder-length brown hair in sweat. A single bead of perspiration trickled down her neck and into the crevice of her bra.

So much for northern Minnesota not having any humidity. Today was miserable.

Suddenly, a rotting stench wafted through the summer air. Jaymee gagged and covered her mouth. Two doors down from her trailer, her neighbor’s trashcans were knocked over, debris spread everywhere.

“What the hell did she put in her garbage?” Jaymee muttered.

All the windows of the trailer were open—couldn’t the woman smell that? “Crystal, you in there?” Jaymee shouted. “You got a big ass mess out here, girl!”

Loud barking was her only answer. Crystal’s dog, an ugly stray mixed-breed she’d name Mutt, stood at the back window, yapping urgently.

“Shit. Crystal must’ve forgot to let him out.”

Jaymee sidestepped the trash, holding her breath as the smell grew worse. Thick and putrid, it seemed to be emanating from the trailer. “Mutt, did you crap in there? I’m not cleaning up after you.”

She shoved her spare key into the flimsy lock and pulled open the door. “Holy fuck!” Bile rose in her throat as the stink intensified. Mutt scrambled past her with a yelp and made a beeline for the empty lot.

He’d made a mess of the trailer, knocking chairs over and digging at the flimsy door.

But he didn’t leave those cabinets standing open.

On edge, Jaymee stepped further into the small trailer. A kitchen drawer lay on the floor, mismatched silverware scattered around it.

Survival instincts told her to run; she was getting herself into something she wanted no part of. But something propelled Jaymee forward. She reached the closed bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.