Issue 85 October 2020 Flash Fiction Online October 2020

I’m not exactly sure what Larry does.

I’ve worked in this office building eight years now and haven’t figured it out. Larry was here when I started and he still appears. Not all the time. Not every day. Sometimes I’ll go a week without seeing him. But he always pops back up. By the coffee maker usually, putting something that’s not coffee grounds in. I mean, they’re black, sure, but they don’t smell like coffee. They smell like dirt.

I bring my own coffee into work now.

Anyway. No one else seems to know either. Or, they do but they’re not telling me. Or, they think they know but they don’t. I asked Stacy what Larry did and she said, “Oh, Larry? He’s in management. You know.”

I didn’t know, but Stacy was already talking about the next report she needed to turn in, so I let it slide. Management. I couldn’t really dispute it—I have no idea what management does. Other than manage things, I mean.

It was after I watched Larry climb in through the fourth-floor window that I asked again. I tried Ramone this time.

“Who, Larry?” he said. “He’s the custodian. You know.”

This I did know. I had been a custodian for a little while. I don’t remember climbing in through any fourth-floor windows, but it was a long time ago, and maybe the job had changed.

So I believed the custodian one for a while. I’d see Larry in odd places. The bathroom at the end of the hall that’s been closed since August. Supply closets I don’t remember being there.

Thing is, though, Larry doesn’t wear a custodian’s uniform. He doesn’t have any keys on his belt but gets into every room anyway. Half the time I don’t notice him till he’s right behind me. He doesn’t have a name tag. I’m not even sure how I know his name is Larry. I just… know. Everyone knows Larry. But I still don’t know what he does.

I thought I might try one last time, and went to my boss, Maria.

“Oh, Larry?” she said. “Larry’s in security. You know.” Then she told me she needed my report by Thursday, not Friday, so I got back to work.

I left the office late. The place was empty—I’ve never seen anyone else stay even a minute late. Eager to get home, I guess. I was walking down the halls, thinking about take-out, when I ran into Larry.

There was this shuffling ahead of me, a thump and then a drag, thump and drag, from around the corner. It was a little weird, sure, but sometimes heating vents are just like that. I got around the corner though, and there was Larry. His shadow made a hulking shape on the wall, unclear on the edges because of the dimmed lights. His actual body kind of looked like that too—fuzzed all around.

I jumped about a foot, because when Larry glanced up, I swear his eyes flashed like a raccoon when you catch it rooting around your garbage. Only for a second though. He smiled, the way he always smiles when he passes me or anyone. He’s got a sharp smile. Straight, ludicrously white teeth. I once told him he should have a toothpaste commercial and he smiled even wider, wider than I thought possible, but I’m no anatomy expert.

The night he smiled at me, he was carrying something with him. A huge trash bag, lumpy in some places and sharp in others. It smelled like rotting moss and bubblegum. There must have been a hole in it or something, because a trail of liquid wound all the way down the hall. Larry noticed me noticing and bobbed his head up and down. Not a nod, but not not a nod. Sort of like he saw the gesture on television and it was the first time he decided to try it out.

I figured it was as good a moment as any, so I asked him what exactly he did.

Larry tilted his head and the motion made a skittering sort of snap. His smile curled, digging into his cheeks until it seemed to reach the hinge of his jaw. He had an abundance of teeth. More than one person ought to.

There were more snapping sounds, like things clicking in and out of place. His shape expanded beyond my peripheral vision, blocking the hall lights, but it didn’t matter because his smile seemed to glow, a crescent of white in a black hole, twisting and coiling, and when he spoke, his voice did the same. Folded in on itself, until I wasn’t sure how many smiles and how many voices he had, everything about him all tangled together.

“You know,” Larry said, smile spiraling. I couldn’t remember what I had asked him. Did I ask him anything?

“You know,” he repeated, the whole of him receding, fitting back into my sight. “You know.”

And he continued on down the hall, pulling the bag behind him. Thump and drag. Thump and drag.

* * *

I’m not exactly sure what Larry does.

Sometimes I see him twice a day, sometimes not for weeks, until I run into him in the break room as he’s putting something that looks like coffee grounds but isn’t into the machine, and he turns to smile at me, all friendly, with maybe a few too many teeth. Sometimes when I drive past him on my way out, his eyes flash in my headlights like reflectors. His shadow doesn’t always match his shape. I don’t ask anymore. Larry’s been here since I started this job, and I have a feeling he’ll be here long after.

I don’t leave the office late anymore either.

* * *

The new guy pulls me aside a week after he’s hired.

“Hey,” he says. “What, uh. What does Larry do?”

I look at him.

Then I shrug.

“Larry? He’s in management. You know.”

He wakes before dawn to prepare her breakfast. The spoons and pot-handles are clumsy in his curving claws, but the servants all left long ago, and so he has learned to make do. The breakfast is not what he would wish it to be; getting supplies is difficult these days. He found two eggs in a lark’s nest yesterday, though, that he cracks with painstaking care, scrambling them because anything else requires more dexterity than he possesses. There is meat, as always, and bread he stole for her.

The claws of his feet click against the stone as he hurries from the kitchens, tray balanced in his enormous hands. The sounds echo off the walls where the tapestries have long since fallen away. It took an army of servants to maintain this place, once; he cannot manage it on his own. Even the small areas he keeps are almost too much for him. The kitchens; one of the parlors; her bedroom, of course. The garden. Everywhere else has been given over to dust and neglect, surrendered to the dominion of spiders and mice. But he makes these few places as pleasant for her as he can.

He tiptoes into her bedroom, comical in his caution. She does not stir at the sound. Laying the breakfast tray on the bedside table, he averts his eyes from her motionless form. It would not be proper for him to look. She should have a lady’s maid; she did, for a time. But the woman had been the first of the servants to leave. Now they are alone.

Drawing back the brocade curtains, he says in a gentle voice, “Beauty, it’s time to rise.”

He helps her dress, eyes shut tight as he fumbles for buttons and sleeves, moving her like an overgrown, listless doll. The gown is one he purchased for her, when he had servants to go into town for him. The figured muslin is decorated with a delicate embroidery of roses. She was a village girl, before; he had to teach her the distinction between day dresses and evening ones. But he spared no expense on her behalf: she had lovely gowns, expensive furnishings, everything she might desire. Before the servants left, her food had been exquisite to match. But they could not live with her, they murmured, and one by one they fled.

She does not touch her breakfast, again, and it worries him. Guiding her from the room, he apologizes for the fare; he apologizes, though he cannot think what he might do to improve it. He would move heaven and earth to make her happy, but he cannot leave this castle or its grounds, the woods that lie to the south. The villagers would kill him on sight. He must make do with what he can hunt or gather, or occasionally steal from the nearest houses. And if she continues in this manner, she will simply fade away. When was the last time she ate?

He leads her to the parlor, where he sings for her entertainment. Harp strings snap under his claws, and piano keys are too slick, but he has a fine bass voice. When noon comes, he slips away to capture and devour a plump rabbit, then returns to her with an offering of ripe cherries. She does not touch these, either.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow she will be hungry.

In the afternoon, they go to the rose garden, where she sits quietly in the sun. He has a new book of poetry to read to her today, one he has been saving for some time. He judges—he hopes—that now is the time to share it.

Turning the pages with careful claws, he reads the romantic poems to her, one by one, in a rich growl that holds a wealth of emotion within.

In the hot summer sunlight, she sits without a word. A fly lands on her cheek, and she does not brush it away. A stench fills the air that the roses cannot mask. The servants did their best for her, trying to make her happy, praying their master could be delivered from his curse. Some of them stayed even after he drew her from the pond at the base of the garden—but not for long. Their hopes died with her.

But his live on. The truth cannot be borne. And so, day after day, the Beast cooks meals she does not eat, sings songs she does not hear, and reads poetry to her in the rose garden, waiting for Beauty to love him.

Originally published in Apex Magazine #39, August 2012. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

I started a new job a few weeks ago.  I’m working as a personal assistant to a friend of mine who runs a handful of small online business ventures.  One of her shops sells holiday-themed home decor.  Being October, she’s just wrapping up her Hallowe’en sales.

I’ve been prepping, packaging, labeling, and mailing bats.  Lots of bats.  Thousands of bats.  Felt bats and vinyl bats, gloss and matte.  I’ve come to loath the sound of packing tap stripping off the roll.

But I love bats.  I love skeletons and jack-o-lanterns and black cats. Hallowe’en at our house is almost as fun as Christmas.  My daughter has been buying us holiday decorations.  We’ll start decorating this weekend (but we’re not allowed to put anything up until my daughter gets home from work).  We’re looking forward to pumpkin shopping at a nearby 10-mile section of highway regionally known as Fruit Way.  My oldest two have been exchanging Hallowe’en memes and gifs since the first color started showing on the leaves.

We’re not quite sure what Hallowe’en will look like this year.  We may not have any trick-or-treaters, and it’s unlikely we’ll have a houseful of friends sipping hot spiced apple cider and munching on our homemade donuts.  We’re debating exactly how many donuts we should make this year.  The kids, of course (all adults, mind you), are trying to convince us to make a full batch.  Guess how many donuts that is.  Go ahead.  Guess.

Two hundred.  That’s right.  Two-zero-zero.

Not happening.

We’ll almost certainly watch one of our Hallowe’en favorite films.  Arsenic and Old Lace, or Young Frankenstein.  Maybe a new favorite?  The Quiet Place, or 10 Cloverfield Lane.  (We’re not into the jump-scare gore kind of stuff.)

But, for me, one of the best parts of Hallowe’en is saving up a few good horror/ghost stories for the October issue of FFO.  And do we have some great ones this year!

On the super creepy uncanny-valley side, “Larry,” by Elsa Richardson-Bach.

On the heartbreaking father-of-a-werewolf side, “Fences and Full Moons,” by Corey Farrenkopf.

On the sweet ghostly-acceptance side, “Ghost Collecting,” by Sheila Massie.

On the darkly twisted-fairy-tale side, a reprint from FFO alum, Marie Brennan, “Waiting for Beauty.”

Enjoy, and stay safe this Hallowe’en!

Suzanne

The Craig’s List ad read: For Sale or Trade. Rocking chair: vintage, lightweight, sturdy, haunted. Purchaser should feel comfortable with otherworldly companionship. Ghosts attached to chair do not appear to be hostile or dangerous. No warranty. Final sale. No return. Serious inquiry only. $25.

There was a photograph attached. The chair was ugly. Mud-colored roses with decaying green leaves on a dirt background.

There are only two reasons why anyone would answer an ad like that. One. They don’t believe in ghosts and they want to get a spectacular, maybe even collectible, vintage chair for cheap. (Nothing about this chair was spectacular or collectible.) Two. They collect ghosts.

Yes, there are people who collect ghosts. I happen to be one of them.

I responded to the ad with an inquiry. Would the owner permit me to interview the ghost before purchase?

The owner responded with an inquiry of her own. What would be the purpose of such an interview?

I answered truthfully, mostly. One. To determine compatibility with myself and my other ghosts. (Six of those.) Two. To inquire as to the ghost’s needs and ensure I could provide for them. Three. To assess for malicious intent.

There was another reason, which I chose not to share just yet. To recruit the owner as a ghost collector. Too few of those in the world. Too many ghosts.

The owner replied that she would grant an interview.

I thanked her and arranged a time of meeting.

On the appointed day, I arrived politely on time and announced my presence by ringing the bell. The chair sat on the front porch, rocking gently in anticipation. The owner must have told the ghost to expect me. Very kind of her. I nodded my respect to it. And I thought I felt a shudder of pleased surprise.

The owner was a young woman, newly independent, I guessed. I inquired as to how she had taken possession of the chair. She informed me that she had purchased it at a garage sale. She had been furnishing her very first apartment. The chair had been cheap. She had not been informed of the resident ghost, which wasn’t unusual, given that most people were oblivious to the presence of ghosts residing in mundane objects.

I asked how many days it took before she was aware of the ghost.

Days? She questioned. Try hours.

This was excellent news. The owner would be highly sensitive to ghosts then, and this spoke well of her ability to provide for them and form a bond.

I asked the owner what sort of luck she had been having since obtaining the chair. Any lucky coincidences? Ill-luck averted? Happy unexpected occurrences, though seemingly coincidental? She couldn’t recall anything, either way.

Finally, I asked her why she wanted to get rid of the chair. She didn’t like ghosts and didn’t want one in her house. I had to hope I could change her mind.

I asked if I could sit a moment with the ghost. The owner waved her permission. The ghost swayed hers.

The chair was cool, in a comforting iced tea on a hot day sort of way. She welcomed me with a companionable creak of her rockers. There was no malice in her. A curiosity. A hint of cheekiness. A touch of stubborn. She was securely attached to the object itself and wasn’t at all inclined to wander. She liked to sit in the sun. She wanted a porch from which to watch children play and lovers walk hand in hand. She would be perfect to add to my collection. And a perfect first ghost for a new collector.

I told her about my other ghosts, out loud, so the owner could hear. The mischievous boy in the toy soldier, who was rather fond of rolling off the table and under the sofa in a game of hide-and-seek. The Irish grandmother in the ceramic pitcher, who corrected me when I mis-measured a recipe. The musician in the wooden flute, who whistled when no one else was about. The impatient young man in the old rusting bicycle that leaned against my own porch. The sisters in their matched silver candlesticks.

The ghost rocked excitedly. I suggested she might come stay with me. She paused. Stopped rocking in mid-motion. I could not move her.

The owner stood warily in the doorway, watching. She reminded me the ad was still running and she was sure someone would buy the chair eventually. Then she shuddered and insisted ghosts were creepy.

I gave the chair a little reassuring pat on one of her arms and stood.

The idea of ghosts was indeed creepy. I had thought so myself at some time in the past. But ghosts make wonderful companions. I told the owner so. I explained some of the little ways they brought luck or helped around the house and the way they comforted you when you least expected it.

I told her I wouldn’t be able to take the chair, not today. She seemed disappointed before I told her why. She wants to stay with you.

The owner glanced at the chair, which remained rigidly motionless, as though holding her breath.

Then the owner told me quietly, eyes wide with wonder, that she had suddenly remembered to check the pockets of an old pair jeans before she donated them and found a ring she thought she had lost. And last week, inexplicably, she decided to check the wiring of the used TV she had bought, and it was frayed and bare.

I smiled.

I turned and left, the money still in my pocket. I was disappointed myself, for it was a very pleasant ghost to leave behind. Until I turned back and saw the owner, companion now, there on the porch, looking at the chair, intently, as though trying to say something or hear something. And then she sat and smiled the faintest of smiles. And the chair rocked.