I take a step out the
door, and my foot sinks about an inch into the grass. We’ve had night and day
rain for the past week, but a man’s still got to do chores— I can already hear
Bessie mooing. I pull my jacket tight around me and trudge around back to the
shed. Pulling open the tall red door, I grimace at the sight in front of me.
“Oh,
Bess, you’ve fallen down again,” I rush over to her, “now just stay still, and
we’ll have you right back up.” Bessie’s been a bit ill as of late, so I’ve
rigged up a jack with a sort of platform that helps me put her right whenever
she falls. She’s certainly a bit too heavy for me to lift on my own (though
she’s been losing weight as of late) so I just thank the Lord for simple
machines. I prop her against the side of
her stall, so she might have a bit of assistance for her weak legs. We used to
keep her outside before she got sick, but now I’ve outfitted a stall all nice
for her, hay and water and nice and warm. There’s a smell I can’t seem to do
anything about, but cows don’t mind smell much. It’s hardly worth trying, but I
pull out a milking stool and bucket next. As expected, Bess is bone-dry— she
hasn’t given milk for a long time. She’s an old cow, though, and certainly far
out of her heyday, so it’s no surprise to me. I pat her flank and smile. “Sorry
‘bout that, Bessie. Bye now.” I squelch my way over to the chicken coop, and
climb inside. We’re twelve chickens strong, and they’re all fast asleep this
morning. It’s funny, actually— I was sure I heard clucking, but perhaps one
woke up and then fell right back asleep. I carefully pick up the first hen to
check for eggs. Nothing. The next eleven hens sadly yield the same result. I
nuzzle each one as I pick them up— I’ve heard that that can help them lay, and
besides, I’m just much more sentimental than any self-respecting farmer ought
to be. I’m not sure they’ll ever lay again, though. Truth be told, I’m
beginning to suspect that whatever keeps Bess from producing is the same thing
that keeps the hens from laying. Even might be what effects that terrible
weakness in Fannie and the kids. Speaking of Fannie and the kids, I realize
suddenly that the sun’s rather high in the sky— I must’ve spent a bit too long
helping Bessie up this morning. I pull my hood over my head and slide through
the mud back to the house, making sure to wipe my feet before I walk in—
Fannie’d kill me if I tracked mud in.
I
pull off my work boots, and then head upstairs to wake Fannie first. She’s
beautiful when she sleeps. I stand for a second, watching her, and then walk
over and press my lips to her forehead.
“Mornin’
darling,” I whisper. I lightly brush her eyes open. Fannie and the kids, like I
mentioned, have been awful ill lately, and greatly weak. I have to do
practically everything for them.
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“Morning,
pumpkin,” she responds, and I feel just terribly sad for her— she’s so weak her
lips barely even move. I help her dress, and then I pick her up bridal style to
carry her down to the kitchen for breakfast. Her head falls against my chest
and her eyes drop shut. I laugh.
“C’mon,
now Fannie, you’ve got to wake up!” She doesn’t move, but instead softly sighs.
We reach the kitchen, and I carefully put lay her in a chair. She sags to one
side, and I dive to catch her before she falls and right her.
“Thanks,
hon,” she says quietly. Fannie’s always quiet, now, ever since she got sick.
It’s a wonder that I’m such a picture of health while they’re all so afflicted.
Though, I think it quite possible that the Lord left me be so I could care for
them. Which, of course reminds me I must be getting the kids up too now. Jack
greets me with “Morning, dad!”, and his voice so bright reminds me of when he
used to run around the farm with the other local boys. Fannie used to have to
holler for fifteen minutes at least to get him to come in for supper. It’s sad
to see him like this, even more than the others. I carry him down too, and set
him next to his ma, and leave them to talk while I wake Beth.
She just groans when
I wake her— sick or no, she’s a teenage girl. I carry her down, too, and then
set myself to making breakfast. It’s a shame, Fannie used to make eggs like
nobody else could, but her household duties fell to me when she fell sick.
Doesn’t matter, anyway— there’ve been no eggs from our hens, and the general
store’s been abandoned, so there’s no chance of eggs there. Luckily, no illness
could make the crops stop growing, so I start water boiling to boil some
potatoes. I carry on with Fanny for a couple minutes while the potatoes cook,
as she seems to think I should’ve sliced and fried them. Frying isn’t good
without butter, though, and even if Bessie was giving milk, I barely have time
for all I have to do without churning butter as well.
The breakfast is as
good as any, although you wouldn’t think it from the potatoes left on the rest
of their plates. Beth has always been picky, and lately she’s just been a bit
too good for boiled vegetables. Fannie’s told me she’s much too frail to eat,
although I think she just doesn’t much like my cooking. Jack, I’ve no explanation
for except the affliction. It’s terrible sad to see a boy so weak. When I was
his age, I ate no less than four eggs for breakfast each morning, and he can’t
even stomach a bit of a potato. It’s no worse than normal, though, so I set
them each in their typical spots.
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I carefully lift
Fannie and take her to her favorite chair. It faces a window, so she can look
out and see Jack play. She loves to watch out of windows. She’s always been
quiet-like. Part of why I love her. I set her down gently, and then pick up
Beth the same way and set her next to her mother. They’re thick as thieves–
like to gossip about the other villagefolk and gad on and such. I pull out an
embroidery hoop for each of them and carefully place them in their hands. Well,
least, I’m careful with Fannie. Perhaps Beth is feeling a bit more frail today,
or mayhaps I was a bit too harsh with her, because as I bend her wrist to give
her her embroidery, her wrist snaps clean, and I’m left with three hands and
her with one. She shrieks, and I go to get our medical kit.
Pulling out bandages,
I reposition her wrist and pull a needle and thread from the kit. She squeals
as I begin to stitch, but I steadily continue and soon the job’s done. Her
blood’s dry from affliction, so it’s fairly clean. I’ve been getting better
with stitches. Beth always shrieks and squirms when I have to sew her up– but
then, she’s been calling me to kill spiders since she was six, so I s’pose a
bit of squeamishness isn’t surprising. I wrap it with bandages to prevent
infection, and then kiss her forehead and let her be.
I’ve been improving
my mending. The first day of the ailment, I was terrible. I was down in the
storm cellar, putting away some cured meats for the winter, when I heard a
horrible commotion upstairs. I ran up, but I’d locked myself in by accident. By
the time I was up, it was all quiet. I came up to the house almost levelled. I
believe a whirlwind must’ve stormed through while I was down there. And there
they were, all so sick. Fannie was in the kitchen, lying as if dead. Peaceful
like, but a big gash on her forehead that slowly dripped red. I mended her up
first. Frantically. I knew I couldn’t lose her. I dug through rubble for the
medical kit. Pulling up beams, I found Beth, probably the sickest of them all.
She was just red, red, red, too red to see where the injuries were. I scooped
her up too, and set her by her mother, and then I stitched, big uneven stitches
straight into Fannie’s forehead. The bleeding stopped, but she was sick for
good. Then Beth. I ran to get water, to try and wash her off, and there was
Jack. He was pinned down by a big wooden beam that’d fallen from the house. He
almost looked asleep, but he was the first one to talk to me. I saw him, and I
called out his name. I can still hear it, crystal clear.
“Pa! Come help!” I
reckoned he’d been running in to tell his ma about the tornado when it hit the
house, from the way he was facing. I lugged the beam off him, hauled some
water, and then brought him in. It took hours to fix them up. I wasn’t much
handy at it at first, and they were badly sick then. I put them back together,
though.
I’m thinking about
all of this as I pick up Jack. I always take him out to his spot last. He likes
to sit on the front stoop and whittle. I always sit a couple minutes with him
and whittle. I’ve rebuilt our whole home from the ground up, and I made sure to
put in a good stoop for sitting and whittling. I gather knives for us both, and
find two sturdy bits of wood, and start carving a whistle. He just looks at his
wood. Sometimes, he tells me, he’s a bit of trouble starting a carving.
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Sometimes, we talk while we sit. Other times, we just sit like this, quiet. Today’s a quiet day. I look out on rolling fields, the road that leads to a town decimated then abandoned. I look at my son. A mop of blonde, lazy blue eyes, and a wound stretching ear to forehead looking as fresh as the day he got it. It hurt him, surely, but I like it. It reminds me of the family I reconstructed from the brink of death. The blacksmith couldn’t save his family from the affliction, and neither could the cooper. But here I sit, whittling with my son, alive and well.
Hello! My name is Emma Parrella. I’m a senior in high school and I’m submitting a short story I’ve written for publishing. I’m from New Jersey, I like to read and knit, and I also like writing. I typically write fantasy and some horror, specifically short stories. I’m also not sure what else goes in a biographical statement. I hope you like my story!
I wrote this script for Beyond the Veil awhile back, exploring the bond between two twin sisters, Edith and Edna, who had lived their lives together. There was a terrible car crash and someone didn’t make it. The other is trying to contact them beyond the veil…
Beyond the Veil Setting:
Two women reach out to one another individually in a séance setting.
One sits on one side of a dining table. The other sits at the other side. Each studies a candle just beyond her reach; there is darkness between the two candles. The long table is barely hinted at in the interstice between the two but it is clearly present.
The camera is stationary showing both in profile staring through each other.
The women are both portrayed by the same actress who is also the voice of the narrator, who is unseen. All three voices are identical so that it is impossible to tell which of the two women the narrator is supposed to represent.
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Both women are spliced into the same scene. They are together but apart. The two candles remain for the duration of filming so that the two halves of the film can either be overlapped (so that both women appear incorporeal) or cut and sandwiched in the middle between the candles (so both women appear physically present). It is possible to set the scene thusly using both methods in different parts of the story, with both women seemingly flickering in and out of being, both individually and apart.
Script:
I. Black, audio only.
Narrator:
I was riding with my twin sister.
We were in a terrible car crash.
The car drove over the median and rolled.
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It spun off the road where it caught fire.
There was smoke everywhere.
My sister didn’t make it.
II. Fade in to the long table with two lit candles; flames flickering.
Two women are just sitting at either end.
They stare blankly through each other.
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Call and Response
Edith: Now I’m trying to contact her…
Edna: …beyond the veil.
Simultaneous:
Edith: Edna, do you hear me?
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Edna: Edith, do you hear me?
Together (In Unison):
If you hear me, knock three times.
Narrator:
Knock.
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Knock.
Knock.
Call and Response:
Edith: I miss you terribly.
Edna: I miss you so much.
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Edith: Do you remember…
Edna: … the car crash?
Edith: We rolled…
Edna: … over the median.
Edith: There was fire.
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Edna: There was smoke.
Edith: I could hear the sirens.
Edna: They were coming…
Edith: … to rescue us.
Edna: But they were so far away.
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Edith: So far…
Edna: … away….
Simultaneous:
Edith: Are you okay?
Edna: Are you hurt?
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Together (In Unison):
Knock three times for yes. Knock once for no.
Narrator:
Knock
– pause –
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Knock
– pause –
Together (Syncopated):
What’s it like, on the other side?
– long pause –
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Simultaneous:
Edith: I miss you, Edna.
Edna: I miss you, Edith.
Together (Syncopated):
It’s so lonely here.
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Call and Response:
Edith: There’s no one here.
Edna: I’m all alone.
Edith: Without you…
Edna: …the spark of life…
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Edith: …is gone…
Edna: … so far away.
– pause –
Together (Entirely Out of Sync):
It’s so dark.
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III. Fade out to black
Narrator:
I was riding with my twin sister.
We were in a terrible car crash.
The car drove over the median and rolled.
It spun off the road where it caught fire.
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There was smoke everywhere.
I didn’t make it.
I had planned to actually turn this into the video for which it was written, but quickly discovered that my plans for recording required a space that was too drastically different from my new house (and new large gaming table) and that my vision for filming could not be well-fully executed or realized. So now it exists as a script only.
Yeah yeah, the insects tend to get ALL the attention here on Nightmarish Nature. But honestly, this one takes the beefcake. It’s the New World Screwworm Fly, and it’s as terrifying as the name suggests. And they aren’t limited to the Americas, there is an Old World version as well, as they can be found pretty much anywhere tropical or seasonably suited.
Revolting Little Buggers
The Screwworm Fly is a parasitic fly larvae that burrows into its host to feed, named because it seems to screw deeper and deeper into the flesh over time. This process is called myiasis and do NOT look it up online, you WILL regret it. They blur those images out for very valid reasons, trust me (and not because of pornographic content). And these maggots will continue to burrow en masse, rather than staying put as a botfly larvae would.
Do Not Do an Image Search on Screwworm Myiasis, Like Seriously – You Will NEVER Unsee That
The female Screwworm fly lays her eggs on an open wound or orifice of her chosen host… And not just one egg or a couple of eggs, no – hundreds, even thousands of them. Let’s let that sink in a bit, shall we? Or screw in as it were. Although any warm-blooded animal is a prime target, cattle are a fly favorite, costing millions of head of cattle to this sick and disgusting horror annually. And if beef isn’t on the menu, Fido or even yourself might be.
The Great American Worm Wall
In fact, this particular feature here on Nightmarish Nature is so terrifying that the United States has made agreements with all of Central America, even including countries that do not generally share its interests, in order to create a “Great American Worm Wall” to prevent them from spreading back into the United States. I’m not going to go into all of the creepy and juicy details of this bizarre science fiction freak fact, you’ll just have to watch it here on Half As Interesting’s YouTube channel.
Essentially, the Worm Wall is a complicated byproduct of scientists studying radioactivity on the flies’ maturity as well as the flies’ sexual lives and using this information against them to nearly eradicate the species and banish it from much of its former range. So, Peter Parker, if you thought everyone was messing with your love life before, be glad you weren’t bitten by a radioactive Screwworm.
If you’ve enjoyed this segment of Nightmarish Nature, feel free to check out some previous here:
Like I said before, I’m really getting into the spirit of the season this year. So reconsidering The Mourners yet again, and haunting the faith a bit, I decided to share a poem that I wrote thinking about All Hallows Eve as a preview of more things to come this month of October.
On Becoming Hallowed
Holy. Holy. Holy. Light the candle. Chant the hymn.
For now the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
Fingers held to lips in silence; lies beneath their skin.
Family found, ancestral ghosts return to haunt their kin.
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Skeletons in closets, grotesque yearnings trapped within.
A bleached and bony face flashes a slightly knowing grin.
It’s not the shadows but the darkness that we fear therein.
Bless this Church whose saintly bodies live and dwell herein.
Unto Death, they claim to sanctify our souls from sin.
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Those familiar faces shame; this fight we cannot win.
Come what may, they betray. Pray/prey and heads will spin.
Forevermore and evermore to nevermore… Amen.
I thought this poem really captured All Hallows Eve, in some of the same sentiments as the movie High Spirits, which I loved almost as much as Beetlejuice back in the day.
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