Short Stories in the Rain Bothered Universe
Little Black Dress
Cobwebs drooped from the wooden latticework of the basement ceiling, caught cloud white in the ray of my flashlight. I directed the beam down to the pillars, toward the collection of tarp covered sofas, cabinets, statues, and lamps. My hands tensed as I watched the shadows dancing. “Miss Mary?” I called. “Are you down here?”
I walked toward the half-hidden furniture, to a couch, and knelt to lift the covering. I heard swaying of fabric from behind. The air shifted in the basement, kicking up dust into the light. My instinct, to turn around and look, threatened to overwhelmed me, but I kept facing toward the dilapidated sofa as I lifted the tarp. Rotting wood and moldy sofa cushions stared back at me, and a centipede crawled away from the eye of my flashlight, vanishing into a crack. I grabbed the porcelain doll’s arm from the sofa cushion, and pushed it into my jacket pocket.
“You haven’t been keeping in touch,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We’ve been getting worried. And She wants to know what you’ve been doing down here.”
In reply, recollections of snow falling under a grey sky swarmed my mind. How does she know I’m here? Miss Mary’s voice was soft, childlike, the sound of an ancient and out of tune violin, and it didn’t exist in anywhere but my head. I knew she was standing behind me, between me and the stairs, and in my mind her little black dress fluttered with the rushing air. I had to remind myself the memories weren’t mine.
“Speak out loud next time, please,” I said, struggling to sound authoritative. “And I know because I stopped by the Thomas’ place, and you weren’t there. So I told Her. That’s how She knew.” I paused, Miss Mary’s presence drifting over my train of thought. “No, Miss Mary. Out. Loud.”
Her irritation filled the room like the smell of rotting flesh. I heard the flapping of the little black dress, snapping with the shifting air pressure. “I was trying to get away,” she whispered. “I couldn’t produce enough this month.”
Sighing, I stood. “She was afraid of that,” I said, tensing, reaching into my jacket pocket. “I’ll need a renewed contract from you, do you understand?”
Ice gathered on the back of my neck. Her dress brushed against the back of my shoes.
“No, then?” I asked, pinching the doll arm in my pocket. A wet hand brushed the side of my cheek, and though I shuddered, and her white face filled my vision, and I saw her die, and I saw her father as he held her under the snow, I snapped the porcelain arm in two.
The hand, her face, and the sound of her fluttering little black dress vanished. I caught my breath, struggling through my now ragged, raw throat.
I managed to suppress the first sob, but the second came freely. My tears would have frozen on my face.
I walked toward the half-hidden furniture, to a couch, and knelt to lift the covering. I heard swaying of fabric from behind. The air shifted in the basement, kicking up dust into the light. My instinct, to turn around and look, threatened to overwhelmed me, but I kept facing toward the dilapidated sofa as I lifted the tarp. Rotting wood and moldy sofa cushions stared back at me, and a centipede crawled away from the eye of my flashlight, vanishing into a crack. I grabbed the porcelain doll’s arm from the sofa cushion, and pushed it into my jacket pocket.
“You haven’t been keeping in touch,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We’ve been getting worried. And She wants to know what you’ve been doing down here.”
In reply, recollections of snow falling under a grey sky swarmed my mind. How does she know I’m here? Miss Mary’s voice was soft, childlike, the sound of an ancient and out of tune violin, and it didn’t exist in anywhere but my head. I knew she was standing behind me, between me and the stairs, and in my mind her little black dress fluttered with the rushing air. I had to remind myself the memories weren’t mine.
“Speak out loud next time, please,” I said, struggling to sound authoritative. “And I know because I stopped by the Thomas’ place, and you weren’t there. So I told Her. That’s how She knew.” I paused, Miss Mary’s presence drifting over my train of thought. “No, Miss Mary. Out. Loud.”
Her irritation filled the room like the smell of rotting flesh. I heard the flapping of the little black dress, snapping with the shifting air pressure. “I was trying to get away,” she whispered. “I couldn’t produce enough this month.”
Sighing, I stood. “She was afraid of that,” I said, tensing, reaching into my jacket pocket. “I’ll need a renewed contract from you, do you understand?”
Ice gathered on the back of my neck. Her dress brushed against the back of my shoes.
“No, then?” I asked, pinching the doll arm in my pocket. A wet hand brushed the side of my cheek, and though I shuddered, and her white face filled my vision, and I saw her die, and I saw her father as he held her under the snow, I snapped the porcelain arm in two.
The hand, her face, and the sound of her fluttering little black dress vanished. I caught my breath, struggling through my now ragged, raw throat.
I managed to suppress the first sob, but the second came freely. My tears would have frozen on my face.