Haunted MTL Original – Wicked Pieces – Mary Leoson
Wicked Pieces by Mary Leoson
The crone’s skin sagged like a melting candle. It hung in drips rolling off her face—molten, dying. The eyes were marbles peeking from sockets, pale and glassy. They faded more each day, dimming windows to the outside world. Her lips, once blood red, had given way to pale pink and yellowed at the edges like old paper. Crevices reached out like branches, tears in smooth fabric, worn with time.
This was what Melissa saw when she looked in the mirror—a shadow of what once was beautiful. She’d sit for hours, gazing into the surface, haunted by a distorted reflection. Her beauty stared back at first, poised beneath a layer of powder, lashes curled, lips stained. But the image morphed before her eyes. The color faded. Flawless skin wrinkled. The sand slipped through the hourglass, grain by grain.
Each heartbeat was a wish not granted, a dream escaped to the cobwebs in the corners of the room. They clung there like flies meeting their doom, thrashing about as a spider came to feed. Life’s poison pulsed through her veins, sucking away vitality, seeping in through the cracks in her face.
There was a time she longed to be older, to feel freedom and a man’s affection. The foolish girl was still trapped inside her somewhere, clawing to escape the fleshy prison. She thought she’d be an actress, embodying drama and moving her fans to tears. Or, she’d be a lawyer, righting wrongs with her wits. Maybe she’d be a homemaker, nurturing children and a husband, making warm meals, followed by chocolate chip cookies and bedtime stories before sweet kisses goodnight.
The hag’s mouth turned up at the corners, remembering a simpler time, a hopeful one. But reality leaked in through the edges, drawing the smile downward, tugging on the loose skin, too tired to argue. None of these plans had manifested according to her dreams. Her mind tumbled, looking for someone to blame. Her mother should have warned her better—made her go to college. Her father could have supported her—given her the push to pursue law. And her husband, the ghost of the man she’d fallen in love with, might have shared the spotlight. Now she was nothing but the failed actress. The college drop-out. The aged mother, only called when a bill is overdue.
Her gaze hung low, focused on a hairbrush that held too many loose cast-offs, graying and forgotten. When her eyes returned to the mirror, she was met with a pointing finger. It hung there like a fire iron, ready to stir her ashes. The nail had grown out, the remnants of what had been a lovely manicure, now chipped and uneven along the edge. The knuckles were swollen, worn from cracking under pressure, angry and defiant. The finger blatantly accused her, egged her on.
“Don’t you point at me,” she whispered. “I gave up everything for them. I am a goddamn saint.”
Her nose rose in the air as she spoke, her ego inflated. But she did not look dignified. Her nostrils flared and her eyes became slits, threatening, venomous. And the finger pointed.
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice louder. But the finger didn’t falter. In fact, it inched closer. At first, she thought it was her imagination. She blinked. She rubbed her eyes. She even sat up straight, shook her head. But it kept moving, crawling toward her.
It touched the surface of the mirror and bulged out, a bubble of reflection intent on grabbing her. Melissa jumped, tensing in alarm. She tried to stand but fell backward and off the dainty dressing stool. She struggled to her hands and knees, then took a breath. Surely, her eyes were playing tricks on her. She shouldn’t have mixed that Xanax with the wine. At this realization, she rolled her eyes, laughing at her silliness. Of course, it was the medication. The hilarity took her until she giggled and tears streamed down her face.
As the laughter dissipated, she looked up to the ceiling where the shadows crawled with the setting sun. It would be time for bed soon, and she’d put these demons to sleep. For now, she indulged her buzz, wondering what life might have been like had she made different choices.
Her lips were still spread in a smile when she heard the cackle. It came in a delayed echo, bouncing around the room, growing louder with each pass. Had the laughter ever belonged to her? It was dark—sinister. Cupped hands covered her ears, tighter, harder, but brought no relief. She shut her eyes and opened her mouth to scream but then the silence came suddenly. It engulfed her in perfect quiet, empty and haunting.
Melissa hesitated, then crawled on her knees toward the dressing table. Graceful, young hands reached up to steady herself on its edge. She rose slowly, peering over the polished surface, past the perfume bottles and makeup brushes, to the looking glass. Within was only gray, a dull reflection of the fading wallpaper on the other side of the room. As her knees straightened and she stood slowly upright, the image adjusted, and her young face emerged.
The woman was beautiful, though her eyes were wet with tears. The wrinkles were gone, like an eraser had rubbed them away. Her red lips were pouty, her neck creamy and smooth. She dared not breath. She wanted to look like this forever. She wanted to freeze time.
Without her permission, her hand reached out to touch the image, so beloved. She was an angel, a promise, a muse. To her surprise, the reflective surface was warm, but she didn’t want to question it. The likeness moved with her in perfect choreography, swishing this way and that. She was enraptured
The hum started slowly, like a flapping of wings. Not one pair, not two, but thousands, moving together, keeping the time at bay. She stood taller, prouder, reveling in what she saw. She could do anything when she looked like this—young, beautiful, ideal. People would listen to her now. Men would do her bidding. Women would envy her. It was everything she wanted. It was power.
Her chest swooned with hot breath, her pride growing, her smile spreading. And she focused on the irises that peered back, vibrant and determined, filled with life. But they flickered—a small shift that brought with it a memory. And the doubt snuck in between joy and ecstasy—feelings of regret, fear, worthlessness. The edges of the mirror turned rusty and the hum dimmed, making way for a scream that held the power of her youth—the collective dreams she should have released long ago. Her hope had been locked in a cage, rotting. It made one last bid for freedom as vanity.
The lovely smile morphed into a wicked grin. It was seductive, unforgiving, determined. White teeth flashed between rich red lips, the edges pointing toward charming dimples. They danced, taunted, whispered, “come hither.” Melissa froze and the smile was no longer hers. Before she could pull her finger away from the surface, a gnarled hand grasped her wrist. It tightened, twisted, burned.
The scream exploded from her like a shrieking cat, high and sharp. It scorched her throat, strangling her from within. She pulled away desperately, but the harder she yanked, the stronger the vise became. It drew her toward the mirror like a black hole, slowly, steadily, until she came face to face with herself. Her nose crushed against silver, breath fogging the surface between screams, until there was a crack.
Shards pierced her skin. Liquid dribbled onto the table, covering the lipstick, the powder, the delicate perfume bottles in sticky crimson. Skin peeled like an onion layer, and what was once pristine became marred with gore. The blood glittered with diamond debris, a last light for a dying hope. The actress sighed dramatically, the lawyer swore revenge, and mother grieved what once might have been. And the last thing Melissa saw before the darkness took her was her beautiful face in pieces.
Leoson teaches composition and psychology courses at the college level in Cleveland, Ohio. She loves to write with her dogs at her feet and somehow survives on decaf coffee and protein bars. She holds an M.A. in English & Writing from Western New Mexico University and an M.S. in Psychology from Walden University. Her writing has been featured in the Twisted Vine Literary Journal, TWJ Magazine, The Write Launch, GNU Journal, The Gyara Journal, Genre: Urban Arts, Obra/Artifact, and on NPR’s “This I Believe” series. You can learn more at www.maryleoson.com
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.
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.
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.
Call and Response
Edith: Now I’m trying to contact her…
Edna: …beyond the veil.
Simultaneous:
Edith: Edna, do you hear me?
Edna: Edith, do you hear me?
Together (In Unison):
If you hear me, knock three times.
Narrator:
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Call and Response:
Edith: I miss you terribly.
Edna: I miss you so much.
Edith: Do you remember…
Edna: … the car crash?
Edith: We rolled…
Edna: … over the median.
Edith: There was fire.
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.
Edith: So far…
Edna: … away….
Simultaneous:
Edith: Are you okay?
Edna: Are you hurt?
Together (In Unison):
Knock three times for yes. Knock once for no.
Narrator:
Knock
– pause –
Knock
– pause –
Together (Syncopated):
What’s it like, on the other side?
– long pause –
Simultaneous:
Edith: I miss you, Edna.
Edna: I miss you, Edith.
Together (Syncopated):
It’s so lonely here.
Call and Response:
Edith: There’s no one here.
Edna: I’m all alone.
Edith: Without you…
Edna: …the spark of life…
Edith: …is gone…
Edna: … so far away.
– pause –
Together (Entirely Out of Sync):
It’s so dark.
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.
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.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
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.
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.
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.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
